Charyon's Curse

Author: (USA) Lois McMaster Bujold / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: This is one of the representative works of the renowned American science fiction and fantasy author Lois McMaster Bujold. The protagonist, Kazil, was originally a minister in the Chalion Kingdom but was betrayed in battle and became a slave. After enduring countless hardships, he escaped back to his homeland and became the private secretary to the princess of Chalion. From then on, he was drawn into a series of intricate political conspiracies alongside the princess, involving plots, betrayals, curses, and murders. The Curse of Chalion is the second fantasy novel by Lois McMaster Bujold (Lois McMaster Bujold). The book tells a beautiful story, filled with unique talent and style in its narration, and it has won the World Fantasy Award. Unlike traditional fantasy novels, this one focuses primarily on court struggles while overcoming the common practice in fantasy works of prioritizing plot over character development, emphasizing instead the portrayal of characters. The protagonist, Kazil, returns to his homeland after a narrow escape from death, already weary and disheartened. But under the weight of reality, he eventually emerges from the darkness and rises up in rebellion, becoming a hero who saves his country. In addition to Kazil, this "anti-hero" protagonist, the princess Isolde and the antagonist, the Minister Giranel, are also vividly portrayed. The Curse of Chalion is one of the representative works of the renowned American science fiction and fantasy author Lois McMaster Bujold. The protagonist, Kazil, was originally a minister in the Chalion Kingdom but was betrayed in battle and became a slave. After enduring countless hardships, he escaped back to his homeland and became the private secretary to the princess of Chalion. From then on, he was drawn into a series of intricate political conspiracies alongside the princess, involving plots, betrayals, curses, and murders. The Curse of Chalion is the second fantasy novel by Lois McMaster Bujold (Lois McMaster Bujold). The book tells a beautiful story, filled with unique talent and style in its narration, and it has won the World Fantasy Award. Unlike traditional fantasy novels, this one focuses primarily on court struggles while overcoming the common practice in fantasy works of prioritizing plot over character development, emphasizing instead the portrayal of characters. The protagonist, Kazil, returns to his homeland after a narrow escape from death, already weary and disheartened. But under the weight of reality, he eventually emerges from the darkness and rises up in rebellion, becoming a hero who saves his country. In addition to Kazil, this "anti-hero" protagonist, the princess Isolde and the antagonist, the Minister Giranel, are also vividly portrayed. Kazil glanced around at the desolate scenery. Aside from the bare, charcoal-gray branches and thorns under the smoky sunlight of the distant riverbanks, there weren’t many large or small trees. The only place he could find shelter from wind and rain was an abandoned mill on the small hill to his left. The roof of the mill was sagging, and the windmill blades were broken and beginning to rot. Nevertheless, just in case. Kazil stepped off the main road and began to climb the hill, dragging his heavy steps with difficulty. Compared to the mountains he had crossed a week ago, this was merely a small hill. But climbing it still left him breathless; he nearly turned back. The wind on the hill was strong, sweeping over the ground, lifting clusters of silvery or golden dry grass. He hurried a few steps to escape the cold air outside and entered the dark mill. He saw a rickety staircase that only reached halfway up the inner wall. He climbed the stairs and looked out through a window without blinds. A man riding a brown horse was on the road below—it wasn’t a soldier; it was a servant, holding the reins in one hand and a sturdy stick in the other. Could it be his master sending him back to secretly retrieve the coins the beggar had hidden by the roadside? The man rode around a bend and then turned back a few minutes later. He stopped by the muddy stream, riding back and forth, looking around at the empty slopes with a disdainful shake of his head, before galloping off to catch up with the main group. Kazil realized he was laughing. His shoulders trembled—not from the cold, not from shock, nor from extreme fear, but from something strange, something he had never felt before. And that strange, false lack of something? Harmful envy? A? He didn’t want to follow behind the soldiers, didn’t want to guide them anymore, didn’t want to be one of them. He wanted to watch them march in formation like a person watching a mute play at a market. Oh, I must be tired! And I must be hungry too. It would take six more hours to reach Valenta, where he could exchange his gold coins for more useful copper coins. Tonight, thanks to the grace of the Lady Saint, he could sleep in a small inn instead of in a cowshed. He had money—he could eat a hot meal, get a haircut, shave, and take a bath. He turned around and looked at the dimly lit space inside the mill. Then he saw a person lying on the stone floor in a large X shape. He froze but quickly regained his composure. It was impossible for a living person to bend their back like that and remain motionless. Kazil wasn’t afraid of dead people. No matter how they died, the bodies were still motionless for now, but just in case, he picked up a loose stone from the floor and held it in his hand before approaching. It was a man, fat, and from the neatly trimmed, grayish-white beard, likely middle-aged. His face was swollen and purple. Strangled or throttled? But there were no marks of strangulation or throttling on his throat. He was dressed in solemn but elaborate clothes, though they were too tight and restrictive. A brown cashmere robe, a black sleeveless coat embroidered with silver thread—his attire suggested he might be a wealthy merchant, a modest small landowner, or an ambitious scholar. In any case, he wasn’t a farmer or a craftsman, nor was he a soldier. His hands were swollen with purple spots, but his palms had no calluses or signs of injury. Kazil looked at his own left hand—the tips of two fingers had been torn off in a struggle with a hooked rope, proving how foolishly he had acted at the time. The man wasn’t wearing any jewelry—no necklace, earrings, or signet ring to match his elaborate clothing. Could it have been a ragpicker who came here before Kazil? Kazil gritted his teeth and bent down to get a closer look, but this movement made his body hurt again. Not because his clothes were too tight, nor because the man was fat—as with his face and hands, his body was also unnaturally swollen. But the stench of any highly decomposed corpse should have long filled this desolate mill, and when Kazil entered through the broken door, the smell should have been strong enough to make him choke. There was no perfume here—only musk or incense, the fumes of animal fat burning, and cold sweat. Kazil examined it closely and noticed only the spot where the man lay was clean, while the rest of the area was covered in thick dust. He then ruled out the possibility that the poor fellow had been robbed, killed on the road, and dragged here to hide the crime. There were five candle drippings, now pooled into puddles, in blue, red, green, black, and white. Piles of herbs and ashes were scattered everywhere. In the shadows, a pile of broken black feathers still made it clear that it was a crow, its neck twisted. Kazil searched further and found a dead mouse companionship with the crow, its throat cut open. The mouse and the crow were sacred to Bastard, the god of untimely disasters: tornadoes, earthquakes, droughts, floods, miscarriages, and murder. You tried to dominate the gods, did you? From the surface, this fool had attempted to cast a death spell, and according to custom, he had paid the price. Was he alone? Kazil didn’t touch anything. He stood up and looked through the entire dilapidated mill. No bundles, cloaks, or personal belongings were piled in any corner. Horses or several horses had been tied across the road, but from their droppings, it was recent, but now the horses were gone. Kazil sighed. It didn’t concern him, but leaving the dead unattended and allowing them to rot without any religious rites was impiety. God knows how long it would take before someone else found him. It was obvious he was wealthy—someone would surely come looking for him. He wasn’t the kind of ragged beggar who could disappear without a trace and without anyone caring or remembering. Kazil abandoned the thought of pretending not to have seen the man and sneaking back to the main road. P4-5