The Curse of Chalion

Cazaril's brows rose. "You look happy—what, man, is Umegat awake?"

He nodded vigorously.

Cazaril grinned back at him, faint with relief.

He spoke a mumbled sort of gargle, of which Cazaril made out perhaps one word in four, but enough to gather he was on some urgent errand. He motioned Cazaril to wait outside the silent, dark menagerie, and returned in a few minutes with a sack tied to his belt and clutching a book, which he brandished happily. By which Cazaril understood Umegat was not only awake, but well enough to want his favorite book—Ordol, Cazaril noted with bemusement. Glad of the stout little man's company, Cazaril walked beside him down into town.

Cazaril reflected on the fellow's stigmata of martyrdom, displayed with such seeming indifference. It was silent testimony of horrendous torment, endured in the name of his god. Had his terror lasted an hour, a day, months? It was not quite possible to be sure whether the softened roundness of his appearance was the result of castration or just old age. Cazaril couldn't very well ask him his story. Just attempting to listen to his badly mouthed ordinary exchanges was a painful strain upon the ears and attention. He didn't even know if the fellow was Chalionese or Ibran, Brajaran or Roknari, or how he had come to Cardegoss, or how long he had served with Umegat. Doing his daily duties as they came to him. He stumped along now with the book under his arm, eyes bright. So, this was what a faithful servant of the gods, heroic and beloved, ended up looking like.

They arrived at Umegat's chamber to find him sitting up in bed against some pillows. He was pale and washed-out, his prickly scalp puckered along its stitches, remaining hair a tumbled rat's nest, lips crusted, his face unshaved. The tongueless groom rummaged in his sack, pulled out some shaving gear, and waved it triumphantly in the air; Umegat smiled wanly. He stared at Cazaril, not lifting his head from the pillow. He rubbed his eyes, and squinted uncertainly.

Cazaril swallowed. "How do you feel?"

"Headache," Umegat managed. He snorted softly. Finally, he said, "Are all my beautiful creatures dead?" His tongue was thick, his voice low and a little slurred, but he seemed coherent enough.

"Nearly all. There was one little blue-and-yellow bird got away. It's back safely in its cage now. I let no one make trophies of them. I saw them cremated like fallen soldiers yesterday. Archdivine Mendenal has undertaken to find their ashes a place of honor."

Umegat nodded, then winced. His crusted lips tightened.

Cazaril glanced at the undergroom—yes, this man had to be one of those who knew the truth—and back to Umegat, and said hesitantly, "Do you know you've stopped glowing?"

Umegat blinked rapidly at him. "I... suspected it. At least you are much less disturbing to look upon, this way."

"Your second sight is taken from you?"

"Mm. Second sight is redundant to reason anyway. You live, therefore I know perfectly well the Lady's hand still grips you." He added after a moment, "I always knew it was only lent to me for a time. Well, it was quite a ride while it lasted." His voice fell to a whisper. "Quite a ride." He turned his face away. "I could have borne it being taken back. To have it knocked from my hands... I should have seen it coming."

The gods should have warned you...

The little elderly undergroom, whose face had drooped at the pain in Umegat's voice, picked up the book and held it out consolingly.

Umegat smiled weakly and took it tenderly from him. "At least I have my old profession to fall back on, eh?" His hands smoothed the pages open to some familiar spot, and he glanced down. His smile faded. His voice sharpened. "Is this a joke?"

"Is what a joke, Umegat? It is your book, I saw him bring it from the menagerie."

Umegat struggled awkwardly to sit upright. "What language is this?"

Cazaril advanced and glanced over his shoulder. "Ibran, of course."

Umegat paged through the book, fingers shaking, his eyes twitching over the pages, his breath coming faster through lips open in something like terror. "It is... it is gibberish. It's just, just... little blotches of ink. Cazaril!"

"It is Ibran, Umegat. It's just Ibran."

"It is my eyes. It is something in me..." He clutched his face, rubbed his eyes, and cried suddenly, "Oh, gods!" and burst into tears. The tears became wracking sobs on the third breath. "I am punished!"

"Get the physician, fetch the physician," Cazaril cried to the frightened-looking undergroom, and the man nodded and sped away. Umegat's clutching fingers were tearing the pages in his blind grip. Awkwardly, Cazaril tried to help him, patting his shoulder, straightening the book and then taking it away altogether. The coolly resisted breakdown, having breached Umegat's walls in this unguarded spot, poured through, and the man wept—not like a child. No child's sobs were ever this terrifying.