The Blood Curse
THE
BLOOD
CURSE
Also by Emily Gee for Solaris Books
Thief With No Shadow
The Laurentine Spy
The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy
The Sentinel Mage
The Fire Prince
More fantasy from Solaris Books
The Chronicles of King Rolen's Kin
Trilogy
by Rowena Cory Daniells
The King's Bastard
The Uncrowned King
The Usurper
The King's Man
(ebook only)
King Breaker
The Macht Trilogy
by Paul Kearney
The Ten Thousand
Corvus
Kings of Morning
The Chronicles of the Necromancer
by Gail Z. Martin
The Summoner
The Blood King
Dark Haven
Dark Lady's Chosen
First published 2015 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
ISBN: 978-1-84997-914-6
Copyright © 2015 Emily Gee
Cover art by Larry Rostant
Maps by Pye Parr
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
THE
BLOOD
CURSE
EMILY GEE
SOLARIS
A big thanks to Moss and Jo,
who read this trilogy before anyone else.
Guys, I value your comments and insights.
Thank you!
CHAPTER ONE
I
T TOOK A
week to walk out of the steaming jungle. There was no path that Jaumé could see, but Bennick rarely hesitated. Sometimes he used the compass, but mostly he used his eyes. “See here? A boot print.” Or, “Look at the way those leaves are bent.” Those were the only times Bennick talked. He was sour that the witches had saved Prince Harkeld’s life. There had been honor in killing the prince, but none now that the prince was alive again.
Jaumé was glad the prince wasn’t dead, but he didn’t let Bennick see it. His relief was a soundless hum inside his chest. With the prince alive, the Ivek Curse could be broken. Bennick said that dead was dead, and it didn’t matter when or how people died, but Jaumé knew he was wrong.
On the first day, Bennick found the pony Jaumé had ridden. Even Jaumé could see her hoof prints in the boggy ground. The pony came to their calls, pushing her way through the twisted trees and fleshy-leaved vines. She butted her nose against Jaumé’s shoulder and snorted in his ear. When Bennick wasn’t looking, Jaumé hugged her.
After that, he rode and Bennick walked. “Sleep,” Bennick told him. “You’ll need to watch for breathstealers tonight. Bastards will want to suck me dry.”
Jaumé slept in the saddle, and stayed awake all night, guarding Bennick, but no breathstealers came floating in the mist.
Two days later, they came to the clearing where Odil and Steadfast lay dead. Jaumé woke in the saddle, and wished he hadn’t. The pool bubbled and steamed, and the stink was more than just sulfur. He averted his eyes and hurried past on the pony. That night, he watched tensely for breathstealers, but still none came.
They passed Maati’s body the next day. Kimbel’s was gone. “Something’s dragged him away to eat,” Bennick said. It didn’t appear to bother him, even though Kimbel had been his Brother.
Dead is dead. Doesn’t matter when or how
.
They found four of the horses they’d left behind, and the saddles and bridles and half-f saddlebags. Bennick rode, too, after that. The ground no longer steamed. The stink of sulfur faded behind them. “You can sleep tonight,” Bennick told Jaumé. “Breathstealers can’t reach me here.”
The further they travelled, the less sour Bennick became. By the time they reached the river, he was whistling again. “I’ll get him yet, young Jaumé,” he said, slinging his pack down at the water’s edge. “You’ll see.”
Jaumé said nothing. He didn’t want Bennick to kill Prince Harkeld. But that was what Bennick did: kill people. He was a special type of soldier. An assassin. He did the All-Mother’s work for her.
The river was wide and brown, turning slowly over on itself like a giant serpent. “What now?” Jaumé asked.
“Now we wait for the next boat. Upstream or downstream, it doesn’t matter. Either way, we’ll end up in the same place.” Insects swarmed in a cloud around Bennick’s face, but he didn’t seem to mind; he whistled a few bars of a tune.
“Where’s that?”
“Wherever the prince is.” Bennick hunkered down and opened his pack. He rooted in it, pulled out a flask, slapped oil on his skin. The smell of cat’s piss was strong. The cloud of insects thinned. “Let’s hope this lasts us.” He tossed the flask to Jaumé.
T
HEY SPENT THREE
days at the river’s edge, surrounded by the buzz of biting insects. Bennick seemed as strong as he’d ever been. When he practiced with his bow, his hands moved almost too fast for Jaumé to see. It was as if the breathstealers had never sucked the life from him.
Jaumé practiced, too. He could throw his bone-handled knife twenty paces, the blade flipping twice before it sank deep into its target, and he could hit a tree trunk at fifty paces with his bow and arrows.
“I’ll start you with a sword next,” Bennick said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Later that day, a boat came into view, laboring up the river, sail full-bellied, oars working like centipede’s legs. Bennick grinned. He stood and stretched. “Time to go, lad.”
CHAPTER TWO
P
RINCESS
B
RIGITTA CAME
slowly back to consciousness. Her limbs were numb. Her eyes wouldn’t open. Thoughts lurched in slow, confused circles inside her head. It took long minutes to realize what had happened: she’d been drugged again. All-Mother’s Breath.
Time crawled past. It became easier to think. Sensation returned to her fingers and toes, to her face.
Britta kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Where was she? The surface she lay on seemed to dip and sway, but she was sure she was no longer aboard the assassins' ship. The sound the ship had made—a creaking, thrumming sound, as if the vessel lived and breathed—was gone.
She strained to hear.