32

 

The two brides met early the following morning. Three or four times each day now they called on Sojim, and always together. Niad was certainly an Ivielscath, because she had demonstrated her powers on Balion and Philion after their fist-fight, but she seemed unable to help Sojim unless Gwin was present also. The old lady was recovering steadily. She was alert and free of pain; the lump in her breast had shrunk until it was barely detectable. To jeopardize her progress with further experiments was unthinkable, and thus Gwin still did not know if she, too, was an Ivielscath or whether her presence merely gave Niad confidence.

Sojim sat like a little bundle of dry twigs, holding her visitors’ hands, chattering excitedly, and insisting that their double wedding had been the finest she had ever attended. Niad sparkled, more like a porcelain doll than ever. Her long nightmare of fear and captivity had ended; she was in love; marriage obviously agreed with her.

 The wedding celebrations resumed right after the healing session, when Gwin and Bulion went to the new house to offer formal congratulations to Niad and Polion. They arrived burdened with gifts of tools and a spice chest, imported luxuries that could not be produced within the valley.

Polion was considerably less exuberant than his wife. The crimson of his eyes did not flatter the greenish pallor of his skin. He tended to flinch at the crash of falling sunlight. Possibly marriage did not agree with him, but more likely the problem was just weddings.

Then Gwin and Bulion returned to their own home and sat outside the door to accept gifts from all the other couples. The astran was head-splitting bright, with sun glaring off the white walls. It was also cluttered with extra seating and tables of refreshments. Needless to say, it was awash with excited children. Although she felt sadly deprived of sleep, Gwin found the staged formalities amusing. The first visitors to arrive were the other junior couple in the clan, Niad and Polion.

Polion watched in glum silence as Niad presented Gwin with a jar of preserved peaches. He declined food and drink with a shudder. He hardly spoke a word until he and his bride were invited to choose a return present from the selection available and Niad blushingly selected a small wooden bowl. Then he brusquely told her not to be so stupid, she was supposed to take the best. The two of them departed laden with crockery.

One down, forty-eight to go. The next household to arrive were Bulion’s daughter Gaylim and her husband, very recently wed. Gaylim undoubtedly gave her father the most pleasing gift of the day when she informed him that he was to become a grandfather yet again.

And so it went. Soon the couples arriving were accompanied by gaggles of new-washed children. Eventually the riches Bulion had provided ran out and the visitors began to depart with the minor items that the first-comers had brought, but that had been anticipated. The whole procedure would end with old Himion and his wife of many years, who might even be stuck with Niad’s peach preserve. It was a calculated redistribution of wealth within the clan.

At one point Bulion observed his wife smothering a yawn. He frowned.

“All your fault,” she muttered, just loud enough to be overheard. “You should not have consummated your marriage with such astonishing enthusiasm.”

Bulion puffed out his considerable chest and frowned no more.

Big Jukion arrived about halfway through the proceedings, accompanied by the diminutive Shupyim, two toddlers, and one baby. As soon as the congratulations were over, though, he said:

“Father, you have a couple of visitors. They say their business is urgent.”

“So is mine. Anyone I know, or just peddlers?”

“One you know, Father. That man Ordur who came to the hostel. He has a woman with him.”

“See they are given hospitality,” Bulion said gruffly. “This matters more.”

Gwin was hearing no disembodied voices, but anything concerning Raragash blew bugles now. “Darling, why don’t you have Wosion talk with them and see how urgent ‘urgent’ is?”

Bulion glowered. The family was sacred to him.

She raised her eyebrows about as high as they would go. “Well…?”

He grimaced, which was a horrible sight. “Oh, all right. Tell Wosion when you leave, Juk. We can take a few minutes’ break if it’s really important.”

Jukion and Shupyim departed; Thiswion and his family were next. As soon as they were gone, though, Wosion ushered the strangers into the astran. He also brought Tibal, Wraxal, Zanion, Jukion, Polion, Niad, Thiswion, and Ulpion—everyone assigned to the Raragash expedition.

Wraxal Raddaith was a surprise. Smartly groomed, dressed in clean clothes, he was transformed from the dirty, unshaven disgrace he had been the previous evening. He looked like a different man altogether. Gwin did not understand that.

A couple of hours had produced almost as great a change in Polion. His eyes were bright again; he was affectionately attentive to Niad, so marriage was not the problem, only weddings.

Gwin knew by now that family councils were not a Tharn tradition—the Old Man made the decisions. Nothing minor would have moved Wosion to assemble this group. Bulion invoked the Curse of Poul on the lot of them, then took them into the house.

The interior was dim and marginally cooler than the astran. It would not be truly private, but real privacy was a rarity in the valley. There was no shortage of seating. Twelve people easily found seats on the beds around the walls—lots of beds. Here Bulion Tharn had fathered sixteen children. Two had died; three still lived at home; eleven he had sent out into the world. He had retained all their beds. Gwin assumed that she was now expected to fill them again.

When everyone was settled, he growled, “Strangers, you are welcome, but you interrupt my wedding celebrations. Pray state your business quickly.”

Both newcomers were travel-soiled and haggard, as if they had ridden far. Gwin knew the man—Ordur, the large, shambling, and lugubrious Tringian who had arrived at the hostel with Labranza Lamith. He combined notably slow wits with an unpleasant surliness. His companion was an ugly, swarthy woman of around thirty, who seemed naggingly familiar, although Gwin could not place her. A face so regrettable ought to be memorable.

Wosion alone remained standing, leaning against the doorpost and smiling disagreeably. He did not seem worried that he might have interrupted the gift-giving with something trivial. No one else yet knew what the newcomers’ business was—except Tibal Frainith, of course, and his smirk was about as reassuring as a charging bull.

Ordur launched into a confused account of a place called Bad Cove. Gwin had heard of it, but knew only that it was somewhere on the coast to the south. None of the Tharns seemed to be aware of it at all. Apparently several Cursed were in trouble at Bad Cove. What did that have to do with Tharn Valley?

Then the woman snapped, “Oh, shut up, Ordur! Let me tell them.”

Male Tharns frowned in the gloom. The big man pouted and fell silent.

She fixed Gwin with a beady stare, the calculating eyes of a crow. “We met a few days ago, Gwin Saj. I was a man then. My name is Jasbur.”

The hunchback? Gwin recoiled in shock and felt Bulion react at her side. The webbing of every bed creaked simultaneously and several voices said, “Fates!”

The woman seemed to find perverse satisfaction in the effect she had provoked. “Fates indeed! Ordur and I are Awailscaths.”

“Say what brings you here!” Wosion’s ferrety face was shadowed against the light from the door, but Gwin suspected that his menacing smile was camouflage for fear. There had never been Cursed in the valley before, and now there were six of them.

Jasbur’s voice took on a pathetic whining tone. “Ordur and I were sent from Raragash to seek out survivors of the star sickness. We met with scant success until two days ago, when we reached Bad Cove. There are six Cursed there, and they are in dire difficulties.”

“Come to the point,” Bulion said. “Why does this concern us?”

Wrinkles writhed over Jasbur’s unsightly face, contorting it into a semblance of a smile. “You already have an Ivielscath, do you not? In Daling there was talk of enlisting a Jaulscath also. And do I not see Tibal Frainith over there?”

“Tibal, do you know these two?”

“I can’t remember my own mother, Bulion Saj, and no one can recognize an Awailscath.” The Shoolscath turned to Jasbur. “Who sits in the seventh seat?”

“Death.”

“She’s from Raragash,” Tibal said. “Definitely.”

Bulion scowled, as he did whenever he met something he could not understand. “So what are you asking of us?”

Jasbur wrung her hands. “At the very least, Saj, some food and clothing that we may take back for the children. I know the Zarda worship no gods, but you do have a tradition of charity to the unfortunate, do you not?”

“We do,” Bulion agreed, nodding solemnly.

“Beyond mere survival? We have found six desolate people. To be Cursed is a devastation! It takes months or years to adjust, if one ever can. These wretches are hungry and friendless. I always understood that the Zarda revered the Cursed?”

“We do,” Bulion said again.

“We got some money,” Ordur offered hopefully.

“Oh shut up, you great oaf!” Jasbur snarled. “Leave this to me. Bulion Saj, I assume you will be sending your own Cursed to Raragash to be succored. Is it so very much to ask that you let these unfortunates accompany them?”

A slick performance, Gwin decided. She caught Tibal’s eye and saw in it a reflection of her own cynical amusement. Everyone waited to hear the patriarch’s response.

He said, “Hrrumph!” and ran fingers through his beard. “Well, it’s true my wife and I were thinking of heading that way on our whadjucallit, honeymoon. Understand it’s only a couple of weeks to Raragash on a good horse.”

“Oh, if that, Saj!”

“Well, I don’t suppose a few more hangers-on would hurt.”

Jasbur pulled a hideous smile of relief, and began to gush thanks.

A new and surprising voice intervened. “Pardon me, Saj,” said Wraxal Raddaith, “but a few more may make a lot of difference. You and your wife and four Cursed—”

“And me!” Polion shouted.

“Making seven. How many supporters are you thinking of taking?”

“Five.”

“For a total of twelve. Six more from Bad Cove, plus these two Awailscaths, will bring our party up to twenty.”

“There’s safety in numbers!” Bulion said stubbornly.

Gwin noted some fleeting grins—Bulion Tharn believed very strongly that there was safety in numbers.

Wraxal shrugged. “But it becomes a major expedition! Local authorities in Wesnar and Nurz may question a group of that size. It will include children, who will slow it down. One or two travelers may be granted a bed and a meal, but a large party must provide for itself. It must carry its own supplies, or gold to buy them, and may therefore attract the attention of the lawless. Ordur looks capable of swinging a sword around, but how many of the six are able-bodied men?”

Jasbur was scowling hideously at him. “Mandasil’s a husky young fellow and Vaslar Nomith was a soldier.”

“Vaslar? I know him! Yes, he’s a fighter.”

Ordur sniggered. “He’s a woman at the moment!”

“Oh, will you be quiet?” Jasbur screamed.

Bulion tugged at his beard with both hands this time.

“If the children travel in a cart,” Gwin said, “then there will seem to be eighteen of us. Five women… If we wear men’s hats, then from a distance we ought to look like men. Not many troublemakers will dare to meddle with a party of eighteen men!”

For a moment Bulion’s face took on its wooden, you-are-meddling look, but then he beamed at her. “Like I said—safety in numbers!” He frowned suspiciously at Wraxal. “You’ve decided to come then?”

“Jojo Kawith wants to go and I have agreed to escort her.”

Aha! Again Gwin glanced at Tibal. He winked. Now the mysterious change in the Muolscath began to make sense. Gwin herself had sent him to Jojo last night. How did Jojo feel about whatever had ensued?

“You would defend her in case of danger?” Bulion demanded.

Wraxal considered the question for a moment. “Probably.”

The Jasbur woman had been watching the conversation intently. Now she leered. “That’s one of the treatments Raragash has learned—Jaulscaths are always paired off with Muolscaths.”

In this case the arrangement had happened spontaneously, but if it helped both parties in Raragash, then Jojo was probably benefitting also, and Gwin need not worry too much. She would have to screw up her courage to visit the Jaulscath, though, and make sure that Wraxal was not molesting her.

Bulion was still pondering. “How long would it take for you to go back to Bad Cove and fetch them?”

“If you provide the food and clothing we need,” Jasbur said quickly, “with horses and a wagon for the children, then we could be back here in three days.”

“I don’t want any more Cursed in the valley! We should have to meet you outside and then proceed together. And I won’t trust you with my precious horses. Zanion, how soon could you organize a rescue for these people—you and a couple of others, plus a cart and spare mounts?”

Zanion was his fourth son, after Brankion, Wosion, and Glothion. He was not much more than average big, which made him seem small in that family. He had a reputation as a thinker, although Gwin suspected that he had gained it merely by not talking very much. Now he scratched at his beard for a while.

“Half an hour,” he said at last.

“And by the time you get back, the rest of us could be ready to join you. We could meet up at Cold Ford, say.”

“This is wonderful!” Jasbur cried. “May the fates smile upon you and yours, Bulion Saj!”

“Just a minute!” Wosion said. “This isn’t any overnight hunting trip we’re planning. We’re not just trotting over to Daling to sell a few hides. We should take supplies for at least three weeks to be on the safe side—plus something for the return, because we don’t know what sort of welcome or assistance we’ll get in Raragash. We’ll need tents and gold and weapons and victuals and fodder. Inevitably, we’ll discover that we’ve forgotten something, or that some of the horses aren’t up to snuff.”

“That’s true,” his father said. “What’re you thinking?”

“Let’s all go. Let’s use Bad Cove as a rehearsal. By the time we come back this way, we’ll know what we’re lacking.”

Amazingly, Bulion laughed aloud. “Good idea!”

“Better allow two hours to get ready,” Zanion suggested.

Alarms began to ring in Gwin’s head. The Raragash expedition seemed to have taken the bit between its teeth. She had not expected these deliberate, slow-spoken farmers to initiate such a headlong charge into the unknown. It must be their Zarda blood showing. Her disembodied prompter had told her to leave as soon as possible, but she could foresee at least two major objections. She waited to see if Bulion would think of them on his own.

Bulion, though, had caught the infection of excitement. He was grinning like a kid, as eager as any of them. He slapped a massive hand on her knee. “Well? Ready to start this honeymoon thing of yours right after the gift-giving?”

“Um, I’m not sure. What about Sojim? She’s progressing very well, but I don’t think Niad and I ought to leave her yet. She might have a relapse.”

Bulion’s face fell as if she had asked for a divorce. Then he brightened. “But she should be all better in another three days?”

“At the rate she’s going, I think she may.”

“Well, you and Niad stay here. We’ll send substitutes! I don’t suppose we’ll lack for volunteers. I’m sure Kilbion or someone can ride Thunder in my place too, because I need to go over things with Brankion. The three of us can join in when the rest come back from Bad Cove.” He peered at her curiously. “What else?”

“The hostel,” Gwin admitted. “I have to settle the sale of the hostel.”

“Oh.” Bulion frowned uneasily. He glanced around the crowded room. “We can talk about that later.”

He always reacted strangely when she mentioned the hostel. Did he dislike the idea of his wife being rich in her own right? She would not have expected that of him. She had told him she intended to share her wealth with the family.

“That’s settled, then,” he said. “Gwin and Niad and I stay here until you return. The rest of you leave for Bad Cove as soon as you’re ready.”

He stood up. Everyone else began to rise…

“Hey!” said Polion.

All around the room, surprise melted into grins. Somebody snickered.

“You don’t want to come after all?” Bulion asked innocently.

Polion’s face had turned bright red and his black coxcomb seemed to be standing up straighter than ever. “I want to come to Raragash! But you expect me to go to this Bad Cove place and leave my wife behind when we’ve only been married—”

“Didn’t by any chance have too much cider last night, did you, Polion?” asked Thiswion.

“Oh, it’s only a couple of nights,” Jukion said. “You’ll catch up, Runt.”

Snickers became guffaws. Spluttering incoherently, Polion was swept out of the house in a mob of male relatives, all cheerfully offering advice: “The exercise’ll do you a world of good!” “Perk you up tremendously!” “Got to go easy at the beginning, you know!” The comments grew more personal as they dwindled into the distance.

Gwin found herself alone with her husband, who was red-faced and choking with laughter.

“You won’t really do that to him, will you, love?”

Bulion caught his breath. “I won’t interfere! Polion’s always been a baneful practical joker and for the last couple of years he’s been a girl-eating predator. Zanion isn’t the only one with a score to settle!” He went out to the astran, still chuckling.

Men!

Gwin saw that there was still one visitor remaining—Tibal was sitting on a bed, staring at the empty doorway with a tragic, pained expression on his bony face. She realized she had rarely seen him not smiling.

“Tibal?”

He shivered and seemed to drag himself back to the present. He rose, unfolded himself like a blanket. “Gwin?”

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Oh, no! Nothing! Just a slight hangover from last night. Nothing at all.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Sure? Well, what was all that about Death in the seventh seat?”

He brightened at once. “There are seven chairs around the council table in Raragash. One is always left empty. There are seven fates, but only six of them Curse in the star sickness, right?”

“I’d wondered about that! No Poulscaths?”

Tibal grinned and shook his head. “Wrong! Poul also Curses. But Poul is giver of death, as well as giver of life. The Cursed of Poul are the ones who did not survive. The empty chair is a reminder to us if we ever start feeling sorry for our lot.”