"The spider waits, if you change your mind," he told her.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Aye, lord, I know. I will not." Her voice was dead, empty, devoid of emotion. Her tongue crept out to lick dry lips. At the gesture, Garith was quick to ladle some water into her mouth. She gulped thirstily, then continued. "Listen
… you must get me… these materials."
Bhakir could barely restrain himself. For the first time, he could truly see his plan coming together. He'd been able to maneuver here and there, such as working on Zhael's behalf and negotiating the treaty with Captain Cutter; and, of course, keeping a sharp eye and heavy hand on the troublesome king. But those were each separate pieces of a vast, complicated puzzle. Now, finally, Jemma was going to give him the tool to hamstring his enemies and emerge triumphant.
Garith had asked for a Healer, but Bhakir had deemed it too great a risk. The torturer would have to content himself with what healing he himself knew. Still, when Bhakir returned a few hours later bearing all the strange and mysterious items Jemma had requested, he was surprised at the change in the old woman.
She had been transferred to another, more comfortable cell, though this one was still subject to the dampness and vermin that were common to all the prison cells. But at least there was a small brazier now to cut the cold, and a bed that was adequate if not much more. Jemma was dressed and her wounds tended. She sat erect on the bed, her useless lower extremities covered with the blankets, and regarded Bhakir steadily as the guard opened the door to let him enter. The counselor realized with a start that if he had set out to break Jemma's spirit, he had failed. It was of no matter, he told himself; as long as she was willing to cooperate, she could keep her precious dignity.
"I have the items you requested," he said without preamble, indicating the bag he carried. "You will have to be my assistant," she said with equal coolness. "Your torturer left me my hands and voice, but neither you nor he remembered that I must be able to walk to cast a circle."
Bhakir broke out in a cold sweat. Jemma was about to embark on a ritual that, he of all people know, called upon some of the darkest, most evil powers in existence. He had planned to reap the fruits of her labor, not assist her-and thus perhaps be subjected to danger. He licked thick lips with a moist tongue.
"I will assist where I can, but this is your ritual, Blesser."
Now she cringed, as if with his words he had hurt her as badly as Garith had with his instruments. "Do not call me by that title," she said. "By what I am about to do I am proving myself no Blesser- nor a Healer. I am Jemma. That was the name given me, and that is all I have left now. As for the limits of your assistance," and fire seemed to return to her, "it would be meet and right for you to suffer for the evil thing you demand. But I accept that this is my burden, my debt to the gods for the blasphemy I have agreed to perform."
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."