Bhakir was, for once, at a loss for words. Instead, he plopped the bag on the straw and began emptying it. Though he was confused by the strange assortment Jemma had instructed he obtain, he had managed to get, through a variety of means, every item on her list. A map of Byrn. A sharp knife. A stoppered jug full of milk. A handful of wheat. A small, but fresh, cut of raw meat. A small ceramic bowl. A sack of ground bone powder. And an intimidating amount of herbs and other bizarre items: hemlock, nightshade, bat's blood, sheep's fat, monk's hood, lily of the valley, soot, mugwort. A mortar and pestle, presumably for grinding the ingredients.
Jemma watched him in silence. At last she spoke. 'You are mad,' she said in a conversational tone, 'to think the gods will let you curse an entire country of innocents.'
Bhakir spared her a sharp glance. 'I would not advise trying to undercut your efforts in this curse,' he replied. 'My mercy will depend on how well I am satisfied with what you produce.' 'Then the gods save us all,' she said softly. 'Clear a space in the center of the floor. Place all the items inside it, and then set me down there.'
He did as she instructed, pushing the scattered straw to the sides of the room, then moving the strange items to the center. Even this little exertion was difficult for the obese man, and he was panting by the time he lumbered over to pick up Jemma. Fortunately, she was as light as a pile of twigs. Gently he set her down, then stood back. Sweat gleamed on his high forehead.
'Take the bowl and place some hot coals from the brazier inside it, along with a little straw to keep the flame alive.' He obeyed, handing her the warm container. Carefully she set it aside, then reached for the herbs and other items. One by one they went into the pestle. She lifted her head. He stood ready to jump to her next command, excited by the fact that victory was so close at hand.
'Take the bone powder and make a circle, enclosing us both within.'
He laughed at that. 'I will make the circle, Healer, but I will seal it from the outside.' Her eyes narrowed. 'What a coward you are, Bhakir.'
'Ah, but a victorious coward, thanks to your efforts on my behalf.' This close, he had no desire to be angry with the woman. She was, after all, doing his bidding, and if she tossed a few barbed comments his way, what did it hurt him?
'When Lady Death's spirit wolves come for you, I hope they tear your fat body to pieces.' The hate in her voice gave him pause, but only for an instant. Holding the bag open with one hand, he spread the bone powder with the other, walking in a circle as Jemma worked to combine all her ingredients into a thick, greasy paste. He closed the circle, then sat on the bed, safely away, watching. Bhakir heard a skittering sound beneath him-the rats that so often found their way into the cells. Reconsidering his position, he drew both feet up onto the bed.
Jemma muttered to herself as she prepared the ointment, moving her long, thin fingers in complex patterns over the bowl. Then, using the two fingers of her right hand, she scooped out a small amount. Still chanting softly, she rubbed the ointment into the skin behind her ears, along her throat, under her arms and, grimacing, in the bends of her broken knees and useless feet. For several long moments she sat, her eyes closed, breathing slowly.
Bhakir became impatient. He was just about to speak when her eyes flew open. He gasped, instinctively drawing back.
The eyes that looked out of Jemma's face were not hers. They were completely black, with no trace of pupil or iris or white left. And they were as cold and unfeeling as that of a snake, or a rat. Her body began to convulse, and gibberish spilled out of her mouth.
Dear gods, Bhakir thought, she's poisoned herself. He watched, wondering what in the Nightlands he would do if this plan didn't work, when suddenly she seemed to recover herself.
Quickly, precisely, Jemma — or the thing that had assumed her body, Bhakir didn't know which- began to lay out the rest of the items. She spread out the map of Byrn, anchoring it with the containers of milk, wheat, water, and meat at each of the four corners.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bhakir caught movement in a dark corner of the room. His nerves strained taut, he whipped his head around, fearful that some sort of Nightlands Demon had been conjured by the Healer and now waited to pounce. But it was only a rat, scuttling about on some rodent business. Bhakir closed his eyes in relief, aware that his pulse was racing. He again turned his attention to Jemma.
'May the purity of water become as acid; may thirst in Byrn never be quenched; what was used to cleanse, now pollutes.'
As he watched, fascinated, Bhakir saw the clear water suddenly begin to cloud, as if Jemma had poured in ink from an unseen vessel. A shudder racked him. By the gods, it was happening! 'May the wholesomeness of meat become as filth; may hunger in Byrn never be sated; what was used to nourish, now poisons.'
She impaled the knife to its hilt in the fresh meat. The meat began to rot before Bhakir's eyes. Its stench floated out of the circle and threatened to make him vomit.
'May the goodness of the crops be as straw; may the fields be as barren as an old woman's womb; what was used to earn riches for the kingdom, now breaks its spirit.'
As had the water and the meat, the wheat began to spoil. It withered as if it had been suspended over hot coals, its berries blackened and useless. Bhakir could barely contain himself. 'May the breasts of the women of Byrn become as old bones; may the children perish, may the milk of human kindness sour; what was used to nurture a people, now betrays.'
The jug of milk began to froth. Sour chunks floated to the surface as the milk spoiled from the power of Jemma's work. Now the old woman reached and gathered up the map, crumpling it in her hands.
'The land is cursed. The people are cursed. Their own natures shall rise up against them; their own land shall betray them. When this map has been destroyed, so shall the land it stands for be destroyed.'
She moved to drop the crumpled parchment into the small, coal-filled bowl. Before she could do so, something small and black scuttled into the sacred circle, leaping gracefully over the lines of ground bone and landing squarely where it clearly wished to be-beside the putrid lump of rotting meat, upon which it began to feast.
Jemma drew back, then lashed out at the intrusive creature. Her hand sent it sprawling, knocking over the milk and water and scattering the kernels of wheat. Undaunted, it hissed at her and continued to feed.
Suddenly Jemma began to laugh — a robust, deep, rumbling sound that had no business issuing from the slender throat of an old woman. 'So be it then!' she cried, and seized the rat. It squirmed and twisted in her grasp but she did not release it. Frantic, it bit her fingers; she ignored the bright blood that began to drip. Now the creature wanted nothing to do with the fouled meat and grains, but mercilessly Jemma crammed its writhing body into each item. 'Be thou the vehicle!'
Suddenly the rat froze, its four little limbs and tail sticking straight out as if galvanized. Almost scornfully, Jemma released it, and it fell heavily onto the crumpled map of Byrn.
Bhakir watched, horrified. The curse had been interrupted by a foolish rat! His plans, his dreams… all for nothing. Clearly the rite had driven the old woman mad. He half rose, an angry protest on his lips, when what happened next ripped all thought of protest from him.
The rat began to grow.
As if inflated, it grew larger, until it was nearly the size of a cat, a small dog. Its coat moved like waving grain in a windswept field, moved as if it was crawling with an unholy life of its own. The color of the fur deepened from dark, dirty gray to an inky black. Its eyes brightened, as if suddenly filled with a glorious good health. It ceased struggling and sat up on its back legs. Bhakir was reminded of the one glimpse he had ever gotten of the Ghil, the dreadful, almost humanly intelligent creatures that were the plague of the northern parts of Byrn, as the unnaturally sized rat looked about, its ears flicking, its gaze observing.
Jemma gasped, then sagged, as if all the energy housed within her fragile frame had bled from her into the filthy beast. When she spoke, her voice was once again that of an old, tired woman. 'It is done. You have your curse. May you reap nothing but ill from it.'
Bhakir stared, enthralled, his small, piggish gaze never leaving the rat, which now began to run the circumference of the circle. 'But… the rat?'
'It has taken the curse into itself, and will spread it to all those it comes into contact with,' explained Jemma heavily. She reached up a hand to brush her gray hair out of her face, and that hand trembled as if palsied. 'It will take good and turn it to evil. It will take what is wholesome and turn it to poison.' She watched the evil creature skittering about, its nose twitching. It reached out one clawed paw and tapped at the ground bone, then jumped back as if stung. Cluttering angrily, it resumed its search for an exit.
