Xylina's mother, when she first realized she was with child, had scoffed at such superstitious drivel as a curse, and had refused to give the thing any credence. And while she lived, she had sheltered Xylina even from the knowledge that it existed.
But when Xylina's mother had been crushed by a fall of stone during an earthquake-and when the family fortunes had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, as the earthquake turned what had been productive farmland into an arid desert by turning the course of a river and stopping up a spring-and when a plague had killed most of the slaves in the month following-that was when the whispers of "curse" had surfaced again, and not even Marcus, her faithful steward and protector, could keep her from hearing them.
"...curse..."
The word rang out amid the babble, as Xylina turned towards home again; as did the reply, spoken loudly enough that she could not avoid hearing it.
"We'd better hope the curse takes only her!" said an age-harshened voice. "Or hadn't you heard the whole of it?"
"Only the part about child of the fifth generation, ill-luck touches all who touch her,'" replied the original speaker.
"Not just those who touch her-" the second said, grimly.
Xylina forgot about politeness, and simply shoved her way through the crowd to escape the hateful words. But she could not erase them from her memory, where they repeated in a pitiless refrain. She remembered the first time she had seen the words-on a sheet of paper pinned to her door one morning, paper that proved its conjured origin by dissolving into mist by noon.
I send you doom in your own seed, twisted monster of depravity. I send you a child of the fifth generation. Ill-luck touches all who touch her; those who dare to love her see their doom in her eyes. Child of the tempest, child of the whirlwind, destined for the teeth of the dragon; fate casts his dice at her feet. As death follows the child, upheaval follows in the woman's wake, and nothing is the same where she has passed.
She blinked stinging eyes, determined not to show the tiniest bit of emotion. If ever there was a reason to think she was the cause of every bit of the troubles that had dogged her heels all her life, there was the confirmation of it. Her mother had ignored the warning.
And she died, said the insidious little voice in her mind.So did Marcus. So will anyone else who cares about you. You're better off dead, you know.
She reached the sanctuary of her home-a stone building of two rooms in the poorest quarter of town, with a tiny paved court in the rear and a high wall around the whole. That wall, and the pump and trough in the courtyard, showed what it had originally been: the stable attached to her mother's larger townhouse, where they had kept her mother's horse and her own pony. Originally, the "rooms" had been two large box-stalls. Her mother's horse had been a nasty gelding, inclined to bite; hence the partitioning of the stable into two rooms with a wall between them. Later the doorway had been cut in the wall, when she and Marcus had moved into the building.
Now the townhouse lay on the other side of two walls: the original wall that had hidden the sight and smell of horses from those in the garden, and a wall that had been put in place three years ago, when the freedmen had been given permission to expand their quarter.
Xylina's mother had been dead for several years at that point, and there had been no one left but herself, Marcus, and two other slaves she'd had to sell. She had wanted to free them-but she had no choice. The value of property in this part of town plummeted as soon as house-owners learned what direction the expansion would take. Xylina had been planning to sell her mother's house anyway, but suddenly she found she would be getting much less for it than she had hoped. What had been a valuable townhouse had dropped to a tenth of its original price.
She had sold it, nevertheless. She and Marcus had needed the money from the sale of it and the other two house-slaves because Marcus had been terribly ill, the wasting disease that would take his life when she was thirteen. A consortium of freedmen had bought the house, and once they had bought all of the property they could afford, the Queen ordered the new wall erected to seal off their quarter from the rest of the town. The new wall, to confine the freedmen within their own place after curfew, then rose a full arm's-length above the rear section of the old, head-high wall that had surrounded the little stable-yard.
She and Marcus had taken what was left of their belongings to the stable. Then she had encountered unexpected kindness from a source she would have never believed. The wall was built by the freedmen themselves-and some of them, it seemed, knew Marcus. On the very day they were to move out of the townhouse, a round dozen of them had appeared from the quarter, scrubbed the stable down to the stone inside and out, contrived a little outdoor kitchen in the courtyard, and cut the doorway between the two rooms. All that was left was for the two of them to move in. The freedmen had worked in haste and silence, as if afraid they might be caught in their charity, and would not stay for thanks. Xylina had been too young to feel anything but gratitude.
For that reason, when from time to time the sound of coarse revelry drifted over the wall, Xylina chose to ignore it. This afternoon was one of those times. Hoarse male voices shouted at one another, slurred with drink. Utensils clattered, and the savory smell of rich foods wafted in on the breeze.
She winced at the clamor, but there was no point in getting upset about it. There was nothing she could do. Had she been wealthy and powerful she could have sent her own slaves into the quarter to enforce the rules of silence, or demand that the Queen do so. She was neither wealthy, nor powerful; she had more rights than a slave, but no way to enforce them.
And besides, some of those men might be the ones who had helped her.
Instead of wasting her energy in anger, she used it in conjuration. If this was to be her last night-if she died in her trial-by-combat-she was determined to enjoy it to the best of her ability.
Half the bread and cheese went into the tight wooden box that served as a pantry, to be saved for breakfast. The rest, with what was left of her barley and the squash she had bought, would be her supper.
But not alone...
She gathered her concentration and her power, and began to conjure. Magic flowed from her hands, visible and glowing in the dusk like a misty rainbow. It swirled and danced, sparkled with a joy she could not feel, until it finally solidified into whatever her will directed. As one object materialized, she moved it aside, and went on to the next. While she was conjuring, she would not, could not, think or feel. She could not feel and concentrate at the same time.
When she was done, the sliced squash had been joined by rare mushrooms, crisp baby carrots and peas, a lump of fine beef, garlic, ripe olives, and little heaps of expensive herbs, including saffron. The barley had been augmented by superb olive oil in a simple (non-conjured) pot. The best honey and creamiest butter had been conjured up into two more little pots, to spread on her bread with the damsons. The cheese had been joined by two more kinds, both costing far more than the original goat-cheese at the marketplace. By tomorrow night, these delicacies would be gone, of course-but by then, her trial would be over. And she would probably be dead....
And in any case, she was getting her nourishment from what she had purchased; the conjurations were only to give her a fleeting illusion of lost luxury.