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.
Jemma began to rock back and forth, seemingly ignoring the agony that ripped through her broken lower body. "What was pleasure is pain: and bringing pain is pleasure." She closed her eyes and, incredibly, a smile spread across her face.
"Jemma," said Bhakir sharply, his eyes flicking from the rat to her. There was no response. "Jemma!"
She began to croon, and Bhakir recognized it as a child's lullaby. He could not rely on her further for aid.
That was just as well. He had what he wanted. He rose, and walked over to the rat. It fixed him with its beady eyes for an instant, then returned to its ceaseless pace.
Good. It was contained, for the moment, at least. Bhakir left, taking care that the guard locked the door securely behind him. He would need to acquire a special box to contain the rat; it wouldn't do for the curse that had cost him so much to escape. Jemma had used a sacred circle to contain the creature. Bhakir's mind was already working as he hastened up the stone staircase as fast as his enormous bulk would permit.
Behind him, in the locked door, Jemma did not notice his departure. She sat and rocked, singing softly to herself. But part of her still clung to sanity, and knew that there was only one way to escape this dark path upon which she had set her feet. She spared a glance toward the door, but did not see the guard looking in on her. Good. She said a silent prayer to Health, the cheerful, benevolent goddess whom she had just betrayed, and thanked the deity for causing Bhakir to make his exit so quickly. He would be pleased with what she had done. He would want her to do it again; use her goddess-given gifts to hurt and destroy other innocents somewhere else. But in his haste, he had overlooked one important thing-within the confines of the sacred circle, he had left Jemma with access to a knife.
Alone with the rat that bore the dark burden of a curse intended for an entire country, Jemma reached and gripped the dagger. Slowly, so as not to attract the beast's attention, she raised the dagger. She could do it; could kill the foul thing now, before it ever got to Byrn.
But as she moved, it stopped its movements. It sat up on its hind legs and fixed her with a steady, red gaze. It knew. Dear gods, it knew.
Crying out, she lunged for it, but the creature was quicker. Again she tried, and again it danced just out of reach. With her ruined legs, she would never be able to move fast enough to reach it, and it knew it. Safely out of reach, it seemed to taunt her.
She could not undo the damage she had done, but she could prevent further grief. It would work. Even if the guard saw what she had done, neither he nor anyone else would be able to violate the circle to stop her as long as she still lived. Still humming insanely, she now positioned the knife just below her ribs, its sharp point aimed for her heart. It would be swift. Time enough, then, for her to fall forward and press the knife deep inside.
Time enough for one old woman to die.
Many miles away, separated by land and by water, Vervain bolted wide awake. The tears were wet on her face, and her heart beat a rapid tattoo not of terror, but of apprehension. "It has begun," whispered Vervain to the dark silence of her room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When the rat is big and the cat is small, then perhaps Puss won't come home.
"Surely it is not much to ask," said Captain Porbrough, more widely known as Captain Cutter. The most hated pirate of the oceans seemed very little like a threat now as he sat across from Bhakir. He was not a big man, barely over five feet, and much softer and rounder than his reputation would have one believe. But he had eyes hard as flint, and a grim set to his mouth that promised he would brook no disobedience. Few survived unharmed who dared oppose him. His voice was nasal and grated on the ear, but Bhakir paid attention as if the man's voice was sweet as music.