31

 

The wedding celebration was well underway and would undoubtedly go on for hours yet. Bonfires threw sparks up into the summer night. Various small groups of Tharns took turns at providing music, while dozens of others leaped around on the threshing floor like performing fleas. Chairs and benches had been set up in the shadows for those who wanted to catch their breath or take on refreshment. Long tables were heaped with food: hams, baskets of fruit, piles of rolls, jars of soft butter, cakes and pies, pickles, carp from the fish pond, and many other things that Wraxal Raddaith had not bothered to investigate.

He had found himself a seat in an inconspicuous, apple-scented corner near the cider barrels and was watching the proceedings with weary contempt. Perhaps there was a little disappointment mixed in with it, although he should have known better than to expect the party to awaken any interest in him. Nothing did anymore. He ought to have known that. His main concern was a mild regret that he had not chosen a more private location, but his dissatisfaction was not strong enough to prompt him to move. He had been experimenting with the cider, to see if it was any more effective than wine at making him drunk. It had merely made his head ache. Intoxication was a form of emotion, and Muolscaths were immune to emotion. If he drank himself into a stupor, he would gain no pleasure from it.

The bands of screaming children were another nuisance, but he could not even raise enough anger to swat at them as they went by.

Adults coming for drinks were constantly stopping to speak with him—flushed, sweaty, out-of-breath people grinning like apes, urging him to come and join in the fun. He consistently refused. If they had any idea how ridiculous they looked out there on the floor, they would not indulge in such antics. The music neither pleased nor irritated him, although once he had enjoyed music. Before he caught the star sickness, he had often felt his soul soar to the heavens while listening to music, or had been wounded to the quick whenever a singer hit a note even slightly off key. He still possessed perfect pitch and knew that most of the notes squawking into the night were only rough approximations of what they were intended to be, but they aroused nothing in him at all. They were just the noise of wood striking taut cowhide and horsehair scraped over catgut.

He had been a good dancer, too. How nonsensical such cavorting seemed now! Women had become equally meaningless. He had been very successful with women. His wife and daughter and mistress had all died in the star sickness. By that time he had been already Cursed, so he had felt no sorrow. The funerals had bored him.

Now buxom country maidens kept asking him to dance. Most Tharn women were shaped like oversize ragbags, but some of the younger ones had the sort of physique that would once have interested him greatly. They had shiny black eyes and soft dark hair. In their present condition—happy, flushed, excited—they would have ignited the old Wraxal like tinder with one smile. He told them to go away and find some other idiot.

They would not have wanted him so much if he had allowed them to get close. He had not shaved for two days, not washed either. His clothes were starting to smell, even to him. Why did it matter? He had been warned that lifelong habits like hygiene would begin to fade, and the process had started. So what?

His uncle expected a report on these people. He would not get one. Perhaps the prophecies were correct, and the long-hoped-for Renewer was going to emerge from this unlikely rustic backwater. Wraxal Raddaith did not care one way or another. The empire had died a hundred years ago. Why waken the dead now?

The only really important question was suicide. Was there any reason at all to go on living? He would die eventually, so why postpone the inevitable? Life seemed like a pointless waste of time. Pain was unpleasant, but perhaps one short, sharp pain would be preferable to extended suffering. He was still trying to decide. One advantage of being a Muolscath was that suicide would be extremely easy. He had confirmed the truth of that the previous evening.

“Hello!” said a familiar voice. “Why aren’t you out there, joining in the fun?”

It was the second bridegroom, the boy, clutching a couple of tankards, streaming sweat, and grinning from ear to ear. He was also sufficiently intoxicated to appear slightly blurred in the firelight.

“Because I don’t want to.”

Polion blinked. He wiped an arm across his forehead. His stand-up hair was wet and lank, his face bright red. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”

“Yes I do. I also know what you’re looking forward to, and it isn’t worth the work involved.”

The kid scowled with disgust. “That’s not real-man talk!”

“It’s sensible talk. I take it that you decided not to run away and become a mercenary soldier?”

Polion glanced around uneasily, checking for listeners lurking in the shadows. “You talked me out of it.”

“I just gave you the facts. You didn’t ask me about the alternative. It’s a messy, sweaty, transitory business and you have to give up your whole life to pay for it.”

Conflicting expressions flickered across the boy’s fuzzy face—doubt, fear, lechery. “I’ve never found it so.” Walking carefully, he went off to fill the tankards.

It was curious that Polion Tharn had gained a reputation as a lady-killer. His rustic relations might be deceived, but Wraxal was not. He had much a wider experience of lechery than they did, and he viewed the world with the stark, objective insight of a Muolscath. He had just seen a boy terrified he might fail to consummate his marriage adequately. The potent cider was certainly not going to improve his chances, and his friends probably knew that, even if he did not. Once upon a time, that incongruity would have struck Wraxal Raddaith as amusing, although he could not for the life of him now imagine why—nor, indeed, recall exactly what amusement felt like.

“You’re Wraxal!” proclaimed another voice. “Visitor!”

Wraxal did not know this one’s name. He was older than Polion, and much bigger. He had a badly swollen face and a missing tooth. He was even drunker.

“So?”

“Ought to join the fun!” the boy opined solemnly. He weaved away toward the barrels.

“That was your doing, wasn’t it?” Tibal Frainith said, sitting down on the end of Wraxal’s bench.

Wraxal regarded him warily. He had not yet come to terms with the concept of a man who knew the future and yet continued to function. “What was?”

Tibal took a drink from his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Balion and Philion went for each other last night like mad dogs. They’ve never been unfriendly before, and they can’t explain why they took such a sudden dislike to each other, but today Balion looks like a meatloaf and Philion can barely walk, even after the Ivielscath did her best for him.”

“That was yesterday. How do you know anything about it?”

“Because in a few minutes Gwin Saj is going to ask my opinion about it. Go ahead and answer my question—I won’t remember what you said.”

“Then why ask?”

Tibal sighed. “Don’t ever ask a Shoolscath why he does anything. You provoked those two to hatred, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

The thin man glanced curiously at him. “You were experimenting, trying to see if you could induce passion in others, as Muolscaths are supposed to be able to? You inspired them to senseless fury and watched to see what would happen?”

Wraxal shrugged agreement.

“Why? Did you hope you would manage to feel some of it yourself?”

“I didn’t, if you’re interested.”

Tibal took another drink. “Do you want to feel emotion again, or are you happier the way you are, a human icicle?”

“Emotion seems an unnecessary complication, a cause of infinite problems. Why should I want it?”

“But you do. Well, there’s a way, you know. At Raragash… There is a way.”

Just for a moment, Wraxal felt a strange stirring of interest—just intellectual curiosity, of course. What more could it be? “How?”

“Aha!” Tibal grinned and took another drink. “Wait and see. You’re contemplating suicide. That’s how Muolscaths kill themselves. They pick out an armed man and rouse him to murderous fury. It’s tough on the other guy, who has to live with the memory. Oh, fates!”

“What?”

The Shoolscath shook his head in silence. He had screwed his face up in an expression that Wraxal recalled as implying distaste, or disgust, or pain. He wasn’t sure which.

A loud hiccup came out of the shadows, followed by Polion, now bearing two full tankards. “’Lo there, Shoolshkash!”

“Hello, bridegroom.”

Cider splashed as Polion came to a halt. He peered uncertainly at Tibal. “You going to tell me how many sons I can breed?”

“No.”

“Then how—hic!—long I’ll be married?”

“I told you I never make prophecies.”

Polion scowled and took a drink. “’Sall fake!” he proclaimed. He wove away into the dark.

Tibal doubled over with his face in his hands.

“Something troubling you?” Wraxal inquired.

Tibal did not reply.

“Been drinking too much?”

“Be quiet!” The thin man’s voice cracked.

Which merely confirmed that Shoolscaths truly did go insane. Tibal Frainith was just better at concealing his madness than most, that was all.

After a few minutes Tibal sighed and straightened up.

“Why wouldn’t you answer his questions?” Wraxal asked.

“What questions? Whose? Ah!” Tibal sprang to his feet.

“Wraxal Saj!” Out of the darkness floated Gwin Tharn.

Gwin favored him with a smile and then peered more closely.

“Have you been weeping?”

Tibal rubbed his eyes. “Just smoke.”

“Oh.” In her simple white wedding gown, she bore a striking resemblance to some of the classic frescoes in the Daling palace. Wraxal wondered if the Zarda had stolen the style from the empire just as they had looted everything tangible. If so, they had been misinformed, because white had denoted mourning to Qolians.

She held a small basket dangling from one hand. Her dark hair was set high on her head and decked with white rosebuds. She radiated a glow of contentment that contrasted strongly with the sweaty excitement he had observed on all the other women. She was no skinny maiden, but she had not swelled into pillow plumpness as the Tharn women did. He could recognize beauty just as he could still recognize music, and it moved him as little. Noting Tibal’s worshipful expression, he sensed the effect she would have had on him once. Now he felt nothing.

Almost nothing. He noted a certain authority in her that he could not quite place. She was unofficial queen of the valley perhaps? Or was it that this was her night, that this raucous celebration was being held in her honor? Presumably that pleased her and gave her confidence.

She turned her smile on him. “Will you come and dance with me?”

“No.”

She pouted. “Are you going dance with me again, Tibal?”

“Indeed I am! Beautifully! I only step on your feet once.”

She laughed. “That’s a prophecy I won’t believe! You are the finest dancer I have ever met. And since we have already danced together, we both have happy memories at the moment, don’t we? Wraxal, you are sitting here like a warty toad, souring everyone else’s fun. You obviously aren’t enjoying yourself, so you may as well run a small errand for me.”

Wraxal did not see why that followed. He said nothing.

Gwin held out the basket. “Poor Jojo must be sitting in that tent of hers out in the woods, hearing all this jollity and weeping her heart out. The least we can do is share the feast. That’s all we can do, I’m afraid, but here’s some treats for her.”

Incredulous, Wraxal gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. “You want me to go and call on the Jaulscath?”

She raised her eyebrows archly, but her eyes glinted. “And why not? You can’t be afraid of her, like the rest of us. She can’t uncover your secret lusts and throw them back at you, because you haven’t got any. If she did, you wouldn’t feel shame.”

“I don’t want to. Why should I?”

“Because, if you don’t,” Gwin said sweetly, “I shall ask my husband, my nine sons, and my thirty-something grandsons—not to mention nephews uncountable—to run you out of the valley with whips.” She regarded him thoughtfully, head on one side, as if planning her next threat. Then she smiled, so she must be using humor. “You don’t have to go close. As soon as you draw within range, she’ll know who you are and why you’ve come, and you’ll know she knows, and then you can just lay the basket down and run like a rabbit.”

Wraxal considered the matter. He did not like it, but he did not know why. Fear of the Jaulscath? Anger at being ordered around? He was immune to such frailties. To reveal one’s innermost thoughts was dangerous, though, and his mind was still capable of being logical.

He noticed that Tibal was grinning broadly, but that was probably just a display of masculine hunger provoked by the proximity of a nubile female.

Wraxal did not have to do what that female wanted. He was a Muolscath. Without moving a finger, he could project enough passion into her to make her fly at Tibal Frainith and try to rape him. He could fill her with terror, so she ran screaming into the woods. But why bother? He might as well do as she demanded.

A little exercise might help him sleep. He rarely slept well now. He dreamed a lot—cold, passionless images of his youth and childhood and marriage, of the Tolamin war and people he had known before he was Cursed. The dreams never moved him, and yet he awoke from them lying in puddles of icy sweat. He did not like that.

He rose and took the basket with a poor grace. A walk in the woods could not be any less entertaining than the wedding had turned out to be. He stalked away into the trees.

Then he remembered the Shoolscath predicting that he and Gwin would be discussing him, Wraxal, about now. He hesitated, wondering if he should sneak back and listen. But why? Curiosity was really just another emotion. He did not care what they said, or thought, or did. He did not care about anything.

He trudged along the road. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. The way was smooth; Awail gave enough light to show the way, although she was close to setting. Muol’s red eye shone bright in the south—the Passionate One, who had Cursed him, but yet had also blessed him, cleansing his life of emotional distractions. He would feel grateful to her for that, if he could feel anything.

Suicide was the only question that mattered. Why go on living? On the other hand, why bother dying? Looking back on his previous existence, he could see that it had been a constant turmoil of worries—fears, lusts, sorrows, desires, ambitions. He was free of all those now, thanks to Muol. There had been joys, of course, although he could not recall exactly what they had been like, and in retrospect they seemed to have been very rare and transitory by comparison. Life was a guaranteed defeat, long-continued decay followed by death. What use was it?

He was spending less and less time with other people. They seemed so erratic and unpredictable. In some fashion he could not quite analyze, he was slipping away from humanity. Not bothering to shave was part of it. Soon, if the reports his uncle had found in the palace library were correct, he would wander off by himself and become a hermit, a hairy, naked ghost haunting the woods. When hunger became a problem, he would just lurch up to a house and induce pity in the inhabitants so they would throw food to him. Then he would go away again. That was the usual pattern, according to the old imperial documents. Dogs and wild animals were the only hazards a Muolscath need fear. People could never hurt him.

Who is that?

The thought stopped him in his tracks. The question had not come from him, had not been directed at him. He had arrived within range of the Jaulscath.

A man alone? What can he want? Rape? The meaning was strangely distorted.

“I brought some food from the feast,” he said aloud, preparing to drop the basket and leave.

Why should one man come here alone?

Wraxal hesitated, puzzled. Apparently he could hear her thoughts and she could not hear his. The weird distortion he had detected was emotion—fear. How very unpleasant! Well, if he went closer, perhaps she would read his thoughts, or he could just speak to her in words. He walked forward again.

The thoughts streamed out in a blizzard: Rape—pain—hurt—naked bodies—degradation—hurt—shame…

Fates! “I brought you some food!” he bellowed into the night. “I don’t want to hurt you! Stop being afraid!”

Hatred! He hates me because I am making him afraid!

Making? Suddenly Wraxal realized that he was shivering. Yes, that was fear he was feeling! Fear! He could feel it!

He remembered Tibal’s cryptic remark: “There is a way.” A Muolscath had no emotions of his own, but of course he could feel those broadcast by a Jaulscath. How absurdly simple!

It worked both ways—she was reading his icy objectivity, finding it alien, spiraling into panic and taking her with him, He certainly did not like this gut-wrenching, spine-freezing terror. It brought back memories of the battle at Tolamin, when so many of his childhood friends had died around him. The unbearable loneliness was almost worse. It felt even more familiar, although he did not know why it should.

Don’t be frightened! Stop it!

She was struggling to escape from her blankets and the tent. She was about to flee out into the woods to escape him, and she would certainly injure herself in the dark. That would not do.

Wraxal reached deep into her mind, down where the emotions lurked. As a musician might gently finger a string and adjust the tension until it yielded the note he wanted, so he tested until he found what he sought—calmness, serenity. He struck that chord. Her terror stopped, and so did his.

In its place came relief, and wonder. What? Who are you? What have you done to me?

I am Wraxal Omrath Raddaith. I am a Muolscath. He walked slowly closer, picking his way through the undergrowth. He continued to sound that note of peace in her mind, and savor the reflection of it in his own.

This is wonderful! I am Jojo Halla Kawith. You have taken away my fear!

He spoke aloud now, seeing the vague shape of her tent before him, but the thoughts themselves were faster. It was troubling me. You have nothing to fear from me. Do you wish me to stop?

No! No! I am so grateful! People fear me, and I fear them. This is wonderful.

Tentatively he changed the note slightly, raising the emotional temperature. He heard her gasp of surprise and joy.

That is even better!

It did feel good. Forgotten desires stirred in him—and in her also.

He chuckled, feeling the temptation, knowing that she must feel it also. That would be a sort of rape!

But not one I should mind.

Are you sure?

I think so. Try a little more.

How’s that? Better?

Oh, yes! Wait—come into the tent. I will light my candle.

Don’t! It will be better this way. He knelt and fumbled with the flap, his hands shaking wildly as he raised mutual desire to fervor.

 

 

 

The red eye of Muol shone amid the stars and the Passionate One shed her blessings on the valley. She began in that lonely tent among the trees. Later, as the celebration in the village faded, she visited the couples in their houses—and especially in one of the oldest houses of them all, to which Bulion Tharn had led his new bride amid the cheering of his vast family. Many a wife later remarked wistfully what a wonderful wedding it had been; many a husband then detected an opportunity that should not be passed up.

But in the newest of all the houses, one still scented by the smell of fresh-cut lumber and heaps of flowers, a band of young men had delivered a certain bridegroom and then departed in hoots of laughter. Polion Tharn, alas, had been persuaded too often to partake of the potent cider, and lay snoring on his bed, oblivious of his duties. Having discovered, despite her best efforts, that the healing powers of an Ivielscath did not extend to curing a drunken stupor, his new wife went sadly off to sleep at his side.