The other lodge brothers looked sick, too: pale, sweaty, and unsteady on their feet. Only Cera and Jet looked well, presumably because they hadn t set foot on the mound.
Her eyes narrowing, the sunlady peered at her comrades. It can t be the venom, she murmured. The healing neutralized that. It has to be a curse.
A curse? a warrior echoed, an edge of shrillness in his voice.
Yes, Cera said, but don t worry. The Keeper has granted me the power to lift curses before. Everybody, gather in again.
When they did, she recited another prayer. In fact, she recited it thrice. Each time, the sun shone brighter, and its warmth soaked into Vandar s body and made the aches and nausea fade. But only for a heartbeat or two, after which the malaise returned as strong as ever. He looked around and could tell that it was the same for everyone.
Cera could tell, too. Brushing a blonde curl out of her eye, she said, Let me meditate for a while. Then I ll try again.
We need a real hathran, a warrior said.
So we backtrack to Mulptan, said the fellow next to him. Or better yet, Urling.
No, Vandar said. If we do that, news of our whereabouts could reach the Halruaans or the Shou. Besides, our allies are expecting us to join forces with them.
But even berserkers can t fight sick, said the man who wanted to go to Urling. Or at least, we won t fight and win.
Here s what we ll do, rasped Jet, shaking out his wings with a snap. Give Cera another chance to break the curse. If she can t, I ll fly to the top of the mound and make the fey or whatever it is release you. Or I ll kill it and see if that helps.
No, Vandar said.
Jet s red eyes glared. Don t you think I can do it? he said.
I think you might, Vandar said, but only if you can find the fey. They re good at hiding, and at the moment, you don t have Aoth Fezim s eyes to look through.
You have a point, Cera said, resting her hand on Jet s neck as though to calm him. But do you have an alternative?
I hope so, Vandar said. We Rashemi know the fey and spirits. We know how to make peace with them after we ve given offense. So if you haven t broken the curse by moonrise, I m the one who ll go to the top of the mound.
Not by yourself, said Jet.
Yes, and unarmed, Vandar replied. We don t want to give the creature any reason to suspect that I might be trying to draw it out to attack it.
You realize, Cera said, frowning, that for all we know, the entity protecting the mound has thrown in with our enemies. Or it could be dark fey, and so full of spite that nothing can placate it.
Vandar shrugged. I still think my way is best, he said.
Jet snorted and turned away, seemingly abandoning the humans to their folly.
The griffon s doubts actually mirrored Vandar s own, and he prayed that Cera would be able to break the curse. But he was the master of the lodge, and if she couldn t, it was his responsibility to set things right.
And though she tried until she had exhausted her ability to channel Amaunator s might, she failed. Maybe, Vandar thought, the sun god was weak in a realm where neither he nor any masculine deity received much worship. Or perhaps he had trouble manifesting his power in the north in the dead of winter.
Or maybe the guardian of the mound was so formidable that even an accomplished cleric, fully initiated in the mysteries of her faith, was no match for it.
Whatever the problem was, it left Vandar with no recourse but to lay aside his javelin, broadsword, and dirk, and climb back up the slope when Sel ne appeared, just as he d said he would. By then, a catarrh had set in to augment the misery of his headache and cramping guts, and as he sang his song of appeasement, of praise and apology, he had to pause repeatedly to cough. Behind him, his friends were hacking and snuffling, too.
He could see nothing above him but gray, gleaming snow, trodden up to the point where he and his brothers had hiked before and unmarked beyond. He supposed that was better than if the insects had come buzzing forth again. Maybe their absence meant his hoarse, phlegmy song was actually doing some good.
Even when he clambered to the crest of the mound, the snowfall masked anything that might have warned a traveler that it was more than just a patch of high ground. After singing his song to the end one last time, Vandar shrugged off his leather backpack, opened it, and brought out a straw-wrapped bottle of firewine and a little loaf of oat bread. He looked for someplace to set them up out of the snow and opted for the fork in the trunk of a black alder.
It s good, murmured a cold, dry voice behind him, that you at least know how to behave when someone forces you to do so.
Somehow Vandar managed to refrain from jumping and so revealing just how badly the voice had startled him. He took a breath, then turned around.
The entity before him was somewhat easier to make out than the flickering shapes he d glimpsed when the insects were attacking, but not a great deal more so. It seemed composed of glimmer and shadow smudged together like a spoiled charcoal sketch. Vandar discerned long, slanted eyes under a high, broad forehead, something that might be embossed leather covering the apparition s lanky torso, and the implication of a knife hilt on its hip. But he had no idea whether the creature was a spirit of nature, a living fey protecting the resting place of its ancestors, or a ghost standing watching over its own remains. He only sensed that it was old and uncanny. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck in a way even the undead durthans hadn t.
He bowed low. I apologize for our rudeness before, he said. My friends and I couldn t tell we were walking where we shouldn t have been.
Why, I wonder, the being answered, did the highest powers make mortals as they did, without eyes, wits, or memories, either? How can it be anything but mercy to send you into the dark whenever the opportunity presents itself?
Vandar swallowed. I can only tell you, my lord, he replied, that our lives have value to us. Even we berserkers, who give up all thought of our own safety when we charge into battle, hope that our very recklessness will overwhelm our foes and bring us through alive.
And where are you charging to now, in the middle of winter, across country most mortals have sense enough to avoid?
The Fortress of the Half-Demon, Vandar said. He waited for a response, but none came. Do you know it?
Not by that name, the apparition said. Perhaps by some older, truer name your kind has forgotten. But I know you, berserker. I know your mind. Those who garrison the stronghold have raided your squalid little settlement, and, full of wrath, you race to retaliate. Or else you are the marauders, thinking yourselves the cleverest folk who ever drew breath because you will fall on your foes in winter, when they won t expect it. Either way, it s all the same. Just ants snipping one another to pieces when their swarms come into contact. The murky figure turned away.
Vandar hesitated. Though the guardian s scorn rankled, a prudent man would leave it unanswered rather than risk annoying the creature any further, except that he didn t know if the phantom had lifted the curse, or if it intended to. So far, he certainly didn t feel any better. His head was still clogged, and his nose made a wet, rattling sound when he breathed.
Wait, he said.
The apparition pivoted and said, Do you think it s your place to give orders, to me, here, under Sel ne s mournful eye?
No, Vandar said, and I apologize again if it sounded that way. But you truly don t understand. My friends and I aren t chasing bandits, ice trolls, or any of the foes our fathers and grandfathers fought before us. There s something new happening in Rashemen.