The curse of the jewels, book 1 - The Peasant Queen

X - Chabawck twenty years earlier.

Deirane obeyed the Bawck's injunctions, she dared not move. The Bawck was too far away; she tried to focus her gaze on him until her eyes hurt. He finally reappeared in her field of vision.

The shaman placed a stove at the height of her head. He placed a clay cup full of water above the stove. While chanting incantations, he poured a few drops from a small colored glass vial. Immediately, a heady-smelling vapor spread around them. It had a soothing effect on Deirane. All fear gradually left her, she relaxed, her muscles loosened, then softened completely. She felt like she was floating in the air.

With his index finger, he began to draw magical symbols on the girl's body. If it weren't for the drugs he had made her breathe in, she would have flinched. As she was, she paid no attention to the contact itself. Instead, she tried to identify the signs. Her muddled mind stumbled over them. She had the false impression that she knew them, at least some of them.

She felt the Bawck's rough hands on her body, one on her lower ribs, the other on her groin. His claws pricked her skin but didn't go so far as to scratch her. Jalia's softer hands did the same to his right side. He spoke words in an ancient language, intended to induce the curse that held the stones to loosen. He repeated the litany several dozen times. This had a soothing effect on Deirane, who seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. Yet she still felt the same, the golden weave showing no sign of loosening.

The final phase was about to begin. The Bawck would try to extract the first gem. He had explained to her before that he would have to proceed one by one and that it might be painful. With a piece of ochre, he drew a circle around the emerald he had selected. He had chosen a stone on the forearm so as not to kill his patient if the spell turned against her. Normally, the mark would indicate the area where the spell would be applied, preventing it from spreading throughout the body. But one never knew.

The Bawck stood up. He went to get a glass rod. He rubbed it with a silk handkerchief for a long time. Then he stood next to Deirane, eyes closed, head raised to the sky, arms slightly apart, wand in his left hand. Jalia hadn't moved. She had kept her hands on her friend's body. She hadn't understood the Bawck's explanation of her role, but the Stoltzin had understood that if she moved, Deirane might die.

Raising his arms very slowly, he began his incantations. As they became imperative, the area around him became cloudy. His image trembled, became blurred. When his hands met above his head, it was as if he were standing over a fire. He gave the final order and pointed his wand to the stone he had selected.

A discharge formed between the glass tip and the ruby. Despite the drug, Deirane let out a howl in pain, her body arching in pain. Jalia screamed with her, but in fear. However, she held on, keeping her hands where they needed to be, not moving a fingernail. The stone, too, didn't move. The Bawck intensified the magical discharge as much as the girl could bear. Watching Jalia's mind like a probe, he continued to pour his power on his patient.

Festor was indeed carrying a whole cellar in his casts. He and his drinking companion had just started their third bottle. This one came from the Kushan Plains, a green steppe area in the northern half of the province of the same name, straddling the border with the Sangarren territories. From this region was born a variant of blue mead with little alcohol and a slightly resinous taste, mead of which the two men were finishing a bottle.

Festor had just finished talking about the history of the richest province of Helaria when the screams reached them. Jensen was immediately alert.

"What's that?" he asked.

"The treatment has begun," he replied.

The soldier was discreetly watching the peasant. The latter was agitated. He glanced frequently at the tent and made an effort to get up. It wouldn't take much for him to run up to his daughter and interrupt everything. Festor poured him a drink of alcohol.

The intensity of the screams suddenly increased; they expressed a violent pain. They only calmed down to give the girl time to catch her breath.

"I'm going," cried Jensen.

He jumped from the cart and headed for the shrine where the shaman was officiating. Festor caught up with him faster as the drunkenness made his gait uncertain. He grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Can't you hear her screams?"

"Of course, she's in pain, what did you expect? The spell that holds her curse in place was created by a gem. He certainly has what's needed to protect his work from degradation. Deirane has diamonds and gold threads embedded in her skin. In her skin! What you should be worried about is what he has planned to protect all that wealth she's wearing. Don't tell me you didn't know it would happen like this."

"He's going to kill her!"

"No, he won't. I'm a soldier, I've seen many horrors in my career. I've heard a lot of screams. These screams are about pain, nothing else. There is no panic in it. Nor are they the cries of someone at the end of their tether about to give in. She can take more. Much more than you think. You humans underestimate your women. You take them for fragile creatures, that's a mistake. They are more exposed to suffering than we are. With each birth, they endure far more than any warrior. The worst pain you can inflict on them isn't physical."

"She isn't your daughter. You can't understand."

"I don't? In Helaria, soldiering is a mixed profession, unlike other kingdoms, which have an all-male army. Do you have any idea what the enemies do to our female prisoners? What Deirane is going through is nothing in comparison. She can end it whenever she wants. She just has to get up and leave, the shaman doesn't hold her down. She endures this suffering by her own will. Don't spoil it for her by interfering inopportunely."

Jensen hesitated. What Festor said stood. A lull in the shouting made him give up. He followed the soldier, returning with him to their enclosure.

The screams started again, with more force. Jensen's resolve collapsed. He shrugged off his shoulder and ran towards the source of the screams. Festor caught up with him and barred his way, one hand on his chest, face to face. The two men glared at each other. They were about to come to blows. The peasant was heavy and massive. Festor was a trained soldier. He had the rank of grandmaster of the warriors' guild. And he seemed to hold his own better than Jensen, who was having trouble staying on his feet.

It was then that an explosion threw them to the ground. A light rose ball above the shrine, eclipsing Fenkys' glare. A strong wind knocked them to the ground, preventing them from getting up. Festor screamed in terror and helplessness. His companion was in the midst of this turmoil and there was nothing he could do. The blast went on for what seemed like months. The dust hit their skin, giving them a monumental slap. Various objects passed over them, like a tornado in reverse.

They could only wait for what seemed like an eternity.