Old Dark Things

BEFORE THE VELD

  "Perhaps," said Kveldulf, "it would be better for you to judge." Although he had no reason to mistrust this man, he had been tricked by charlatan healers and fake curse-breakers before. It was always better to let self-proclaimed sages prove their own insight.

  "Yes," said the ruinous skeleton that stood before him, a sough in his voice. "Yes. Perhaps that is best." Auxentios scuffled closer, and reached out for Kveldulf, placing one of his boil-covered hands gently against each temple. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself, eyeballs flicking and moving behind closed lids. Then, with a shudder, he removed his fingers and recoiled. Auxentios looked terrified as he backed away. "Not that," he said, "I'll not take that curse on myself. I cannot." He was trembling.

  "I couldn't ask you to," says Kveldulf. "I would not."

  Auxentios was panting now, trying to catch ragged breath in his ragged lungs. "Then what do you want? What can I do?"

  Kveldulf could feel his head bow forward a little under weary weight. He breathed a sigh. "I don't know. You are spoken of, in story, in song. I hoped... I don't know what I hoped, but I had hope for something."

  They were both silent for a time before Auxentios replied. "Let me sit. Let me think." As slow as a risen corpse, Auxentios shuffled over to a huge, carved-wood chair that looked as if it might have once served a king for a throne. He sat down in it with a weary out-breath. "There are some other magics about you too. Small, but hard and flinty. I had a sense of them when I toughed you."

  "Yes. I know a little sorcery."

  "As witch-hunters often do," said Auxentios.

  Kveldulf nodded, and took out his bundle of small charms. He spread the materials out on the floor in front of the hierophant, the chalk and the stones, the iron amulet, three balls of amber.

  The diseased old man huffed at them. "Nothing but heathen magic, and weak at that. Do these actually do you any good? Do they suppress the curse?"

  "No," admitted Kveldulf. "Or, only sometimes. The wolf that follows me is mostly quiet when I perform the rites, chalk the runes and circles, but not always. I don't have any real power of my own. I can draw a little essence from my own blood and life, but that is all."

  Auxentios deliberated then. He rolled some guttural, mumbling noises around in his throat, then rose and fetched a sandalwood box from one of the shelves. He held the box in his hands a long time before saying, "I suppose the time has come to part with this. I am reluctant. It has been a powerful charm of aid for me, time to time, but I have also grown to know when someone else needs one of my humble treasures more than I do." He opened the box and took out a single gold-purple-red feather. It shone with its own light. With a sigh, he held it out for Kveldulf to take. "It is a feather from the wing of the arch-godling Israfel, lady-in-waiting and sword-champion of the White Goddess herself. Or so I was told when I acquired it. Regardless, it has burning and brightness and power in it. Keep it close to your skin", said Auxentios, "and it will ward away shadows. In your case, not totally. Not completely, but it will help. And, it will put a warmth of power into you too. Your petty charms," he waved a withered hand, "you may find they have more strength with this fragment of old potency to give you succour. A whisper of breath came from the man. "It's all I can do, I'm afraid, master wanderer. I wish I could do more, but, well, I cannot. I'm sorry. I always knew I would find the level of my weakness, my fear, and here it is. I cannot take your curse onto my own self. I dare not. Look at me tremble just thinking about it. I am too afraid."

  Kveldulf reached out and took the feather. A beautiful warmth trickled through his fingers. He looked at the play of light and colours, saying, "This is a gift beyond measure. You give too much just with this." He then considered the feather for a time, and asked, more softly, "Auxentios, could you teach me a little of your healing magic? Teach me how to take other people's curses and ills. I know too many of the bleaker arts. I can send night-spells over the moors, raise dead men's wraiths, or put them to rest. But I know little of the kinder magics. I think I would like to be able to heal as efficiently as I can kill."

  Auxentios laughed. "No. Please, do not mistake me for being rude, but I will not. For mine is no 'kind' magic, I am afraid. No. I will not teach you my art. I will not teach anyone my art."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, though I choose to take on the illness of those who come to me, the art I weave allows a person to take anything from another. Health. Beauty. Artful skill. A good voice. Love. A whole life. It is only in the choices I make, that my arts are good and not ill."

  "I see," said Kveldulf. "Much as with life, then. I can see how such a thing could be turned to unpleasant ends."

  "Unpleasant, yes, indeed yes. Unpleasant indeed." He bustled over the carven chair and sat down again. "Now, if I could ask you a favour?"

  "Of course. I need to pay you something for the feather."

  "And what could you possibly pay me that was of equal value? No. Don't talk nonsense. A gift given is not to be haggled over after the fact. But, on the other hand, my pantry is low, and I would enjoy having some bags of beans, beats, some flour, milk and butter. For obvious reasons," he gave a mottle-gummed, largely toothless smile," the local food-merchants do not much like me fingering the produce."

  "Very well," said Kveldulf with a smile, as he slipped the feather away. "I will go to the markets and buy whatever you want. But I will also come back tomorrow morning, and the morning after, if I have to, and ask you again what I can do. The gift demands something more than a few sacks of flour."

  "Good master wanderer, I suspect you have never gone often without your dinners."