Curse of Magic

by Michael Brightburn

  Not only that. My encounter with the grogen had made me realize just how unpracticed I was.

  If it hadn’t been for Sienna, I would have likely died from the poison. Not to mention Alva’s bite.

  No, I needed a true mage if I was to defeat Orathar.

  “Oh, it’s not far,” Elanos answered. “It’s just outside the city. Not even a quarter-day’s walk. It’s for Varthek. He’s the silaren you saw last night.”

  Well, we didn’t have any other way to pay for the clothing.

  Entering into politician mode, despite the fact I was dealing with a divine, I said, “That’s a half-day there and back. How about these clothes, and ten standards.”

  The divine smiled. “You drive a hard bargain. Fine. But you’ll have to take crowns. Half now, and half when you get back.”

  Right. Crowns. Each kingdom made their own, unlike standards, which were made in the Este Mint. Standards were smaller than crowns, forged of a crystal metal which no one but the Mint knew where to get or how to smith.

  Impossible to counterfeit, as far as I was aware, unlike crowns.

  And they teleported well, with any small loss there might be being reimbursed by the Este Mint.

  But most kingdoms still weren’t willing to give up control of their currency to Este, and indirectly—or directly—to the Order of Priests—and so continued to mint their own crowns.

  I’d advocated for the use of standards in Elaria, and most kingdoms in our federation by now had switched over, melted down their crowns into tools, weapons, jewelery, and other various items which benefited from being made from fine a metal.

  And why wouldn’t I have? Orathar had explained their usefulness, and superiority to crowns, and I’d agreed with him.

  I’d had no reason to distrust him, or Este, nor even the Order.

  Orathar had been my father’s friend and advisor, and my regent after my father’d died, and he’d been a good one.

  How was I to know he’d betray me? How was I to know he’d kill my—

  “Is everything okay?” Elanos asked.

  I shook my head, unclenched my fists. “Yes. What were you saying?”

  She looked at me for several long moments, then said, “That I’ll pay you half now, and half when you return. Is that acceptable?”

  I shook my head. “No. You can pay the full amount when we get back. I’d rather not travel an unfamiliar road with that much coin.”

  “As you say. I’ll give you some pennies. Best to have something should you encounter bandits. Though I doubt you will. Not on the road you’ll be taking.”

  Pennies were made from an abundant but tedious to gather hard blue metal called thasdium. It was difficult to impossible to get to bond with any other metal, and turned white if it came into contact with another. It also glowed faintly with heat, so you could rub one with your thumb to see if it was genuine.

  Thasdium was too abundant to bother counterfeiting, anyway, but did make good weapons, as it was easy to smith as long as you didn’t mix it with any other metals.

  It, however, did not teleport well at all, which many of the strange and dangerous weapons now stored in Serekthal’s royal armory could attest to.

  I nodded at Elanos. “That sounds fine.”

  “Good. Wait here.” She went through the door behind that middle table with its quill and stacks of parchment into the back of the shop.

  When she came back a few minutes later she held a wrapped package.

  She set it down on the table, then raised a finger. “I’ll get you a bag as well. You can keep it.”

  I nodded slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

  We got dressed in our new clothing as she packed the silaren’s armor in the satchel.

  She also put a couple handfuls of pennies into a smaller sack, which she had me tie to the belt at my waist.

  The belt was woven, not leather, but she claimed she’d made it herself and that it was stronger than any hide.

  I believed her.

  My boots were similarly woven, and the most comfortable thing I’d ever had on my feet.

  Everything she’d made for me was very fine indeed, but it was what she’d made the others that impressed me most.

  The outfit she’d constructed for Vi included an elaborately embroidered tight black sleeveless top which ended at her ribcage and pushed up her small pert breasts into a pleasing display of cleavage. The skirt was also black, made simply but elegantly of two flows of fine black cloth trimmed with red that draped freely between her legs, the skirt’s waist dipping in the back to accommodate for the lycanthrope’s bushy tail.

  The dryad’s clothing was a dress spun from fabric in bright greens and blues, whirls of lighter and darker shades woven throughout suggesting roots and vines. It left her shoulders bare, as though Elanos knew Alva would be sitting on her throne of vines—perhaps she had.

  It clung enticingly to her breasts in a similitude of roots, only barely covering her nipples, and draped from there to a hem which stopped just above her knees.

  For the little vampire, Elanos had made high-heeled black boots, purple pants, and a blood red jacket with a high collar that went to her chin. The clothing was tight around her butt, hips, stomach, and breasts, but made of a stretchable fabric to allow for expansion when she feasted on blood, though at the moment her attributes had shrunken from their previously swollen state.

  The outfit covered her head to toe, including gloves and a hat with dark cloth mask that could drape in front of her face to shield her from the daylight.

  A good thing, as she’d grown ever more lethargic as we’d walked the short distance from the layhouse to the tailor’s shop, complaining about the sun, despite its rays being weak this early in the morning.

  Elanos studied us once we were all dressed, a broad smile on her face. She nodded. “Perfect. Are you pleased with what I’ve made you?”

  “Oh, yes!” Sienna enthused, holding out her arms and spinning, the skirt of her dress flying out. “It’s beautiful!”

  Vi grunted. “It will do.”

  “And you, little pretty one?”

  “It’s… Yes, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. Now, are the four of you ready to make that delivery for me?”

  22

  She gave us directions to the silaren’s home, since it was outside of the city and had no address.

  We left the shop and headed toward the north gates, not the east gates we’d come in through.

  The city was slowly waking up, its nighttime inhabitants going to sleep, the earliest-risers of its daytime ones coming out to meet the new day.

  Gone were the groups of people laying together in the open. Now young children played, kicking balls or throwing returning disks back and forth. Old people strolled slowly but steadily. And those in between the age of old and young who were up at this hour moved purposefully about, attending or heading to their work.

  With the appearance of the sun, it’d become much like any other city.

  Though there were still hints of its more lawless nature. Young women of all races standing in doorways looking at men as they passed, attempting to draw them in with their eyes.

  Weapon stalls that would not be allowed in any other city, selling explosives, poisons, and other potions.

  There was even a spell vendor, but I imagined most of his wares were fake.

  Spell vendors weren’t generally illegal, as magic wasn’t as easy as just reading from a spell scroll—though it seemed many people thought it was.

  Certainly the spell vendors never seemed to go out of business.

  Even now out of all the stalls, this was the only one with a line of more than two people. I counted eleven.

  My interest piqued, I decided to stop a moment and investigate, see what the vendor—a plump man with meticulously styled hair and dressed in expensive clothing—had for sale.

  Someone selling scrolls—especially fake ones—might kn
ow of just the type of mage I was looking for.

  And with our new clothing, I would have an easier time convincing such a mage I’d have the means to pay them.

  I certainly did not look the part of a king, but even with my shorn head, I no longer looked like a lowborn either.

  And with my retinue of women of different races—of wilds—all outfitted in fine clothing themselves, I looked quite highborn indeed.

  Once I made this delivery, I’d have ten crowns. I’d expected the tailor to haggle, so I’d started high. I hadn’t shown it, but I’d been surprised when she’d accepted right away. Ten crowns was a good amount.

  Which itself was good, as it would make a suitable down payment for a certain type of mage.

  “What are we doing?” Sienna asked. “Am I not enough?”

  I was again amazed at her perception. “It’s not that. It’s I who might not be enough.”

  “These are almost never real,” Vi said.

  “I know. That’s why I’m interested.”

  “Interested in fake spells?” Alva asked.

  I looked at the little vampire, perched on her throne on Sienna’s shoulder.

  My eyes were drawn to her breasts, the jacket clinging tightly to them, and in turn my mind back to earlier this morning, and what we’d done together in bed.

  Who would’ve thought our two species could have any productive type of laying.

  I blinked at her, having forgotten what she had said, my lust testing the confines of my new pants. Something about spells not being useful, I thought.

  “What?” she asked me as I continued to stare at her.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “He’s kind of a weird king,” I heard her whisper to Sienna.

  The line moved up, a young man excitedly making off with his new spell.

  “Careful you don’t start a fire, lad!” the vendor called out to him with a laugh. “Tis a powerful fireball.”

  The young man waved happily and hurried to a group of friends who seemed eager to try out the purchase.

  Sometimes a person got lucky, and they’d have an Inclination for the type of spell they’d purchased.

  Perhaps this customer who bought that fire spell had an Inclination toward being an Igniter, someone who could take energy from something else, or even the very air itself, and manipulate it into a burst of flame or an explosion of fire, and would be able to cast it.

  Or perhaps he was dedicated enough to work his way up from nothing, force the magic out of the ether to do his bidding by sheer will.

  But that kind of grit was much rarer than an Inclination.

  My wife, Lyra, had had it.

  She’d been no natural, but she’d practiced and slaved and worked herself to the bone to get magic to do her bidding.

  And eventually, after season upon season of trying with no results, she’d succeeded.

  The next customer moved up and the vendor smiled broadly at her, rattling off a list of spells he had that he thought she might like before she could get out a single word.

  I studied the spells on the display he had set up behind his cart. They all looked suitably old. One was even framed.

  Nearly any true spell scroll would be old, as few bothered to make actual new ones, since it was somewhat pointless. For one, there were already so many out there that most any spell you might want to cast would already exist on a scroll. And two, if you had an Inclination, there were easier ways of learning than laboring over scrolls and trying to translate words into action, especially when those words were written in the old language. Much easier to apprentice yourself to someone and learn by example, which also had the benefit of teaching you how to harness the raw magic and shape it as you desired rather than using some premade spell.

  Much safer, too. With scrolls written in the old language—which was nearly all of them—you could never be certain what spell they might contain. The old language was notoriously imprecise, and what you thought was a spell to control fire might instead be one to become it.

  Perhaps when people actually spoke that dead language, back when the gods were alive, back when the world was different, the outcome wasn’t so uncertain. But even those of us schooled in that language for our entire childhoods—and indeed, adulthoods—might argue endlessly over the meaning of this word, or that turn of phrase.

  The ones this well-fed vendor had for sale were almost certainly not originals, but copies of copies of copies.

  Which made the outcome even more uncertain, because as hard as the old language was to read, it was even more demanding to scribe, being so unlike the writing of our current language.

  You might not control fire, nor become it, but instead be transformed into a newt because the person who copied the spell copied the word for fire with a slightly more severe curve to it, or an extra stroke, and what was meant to mean fire instead is the name of that water-laying reptile.

  And yet, people didn’t let this stop them from trying. I wondered again, as I often did—especially when dealing with kings whose kingdoms had managed to survive through no fault of their own—where the line between determination and stupidity was.

  The women moved off without buying anything—smart—and another took her place, this time buying three different spells.

  Determined.

  Another moved up, and another, and another, and another.

  Soon it would be our turn.

  I glanced behind me and saw that the line hadn’t shrunk, but grown as more had filed in behind us, more hopefuls seeking to solve all their problems with magic.

  Yes, spells always sold well. The promise of riches and power, no matter how unlikely, often did.

  Sienna was talking to Vi about the grandeur of trees.

  Vi seemed less than enthusiastic about the subject.

  Alva had fallen asleep on Sienna’s shoulder, snuggled up in her little throne, face covered with the fabric drape from her hat.

  There were only four people in front of us now, and I realized those in line behind us would hear my questions to the vendor about where I might find a mage of a certain disposition. This made me uneasy, though in Silaris, I supposed I didn’t need to worry about that. No laws against it, not here.

  Still, better to be cautious and keep my voice low as to not draw attention.

  Hopefully the vendor would lower his boisterous voice when he saw I was trying to be discreet.

  He was currently loudly explaining to a young girl how to use a spell scroll he’d sold her to talk to trees.

  Sienna had stopped rambling to Vi and was listening intently to what the vendor was telling the girl.

  She said nothing until the girl was happily going away with her spell, then grabbed her by the arm.

  The girl started, but relaxed when she saw Sienna.

  Her antlers were gone, but the throne of vines on her shoulder gave her away to anyone paying attention. And of all the wilds, dryads were among the kindest. Respected rather than feared.

  Though that didn’t stop some from enslaving them. Made it easier, in fact.

  “You want to listen to the trees?” Sienna asked the girl.

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Let me see that spell then.”

  The girl handed it over without hesitation.

  Sienna unrolled the scroll and studied it. Could she read the old language?

  I didn’t know how, not if she’d lived in those lesser cursed woods all her life.

  Maybe her sisters had taught her.

  She shook her head and rolled the scroll back up, returning it to the girl. “I don’t see anything about trees here.”

  The girl’s face fell. “But the vendor said I could talk to them with it.”

  “Then the vendor must’ve lied to you. I don’t know what that is, but it’s not for hearing the trees.”

  The girl turned and glared at the vendor, who was now helping another customer, explaining an enchantment spell.
r />   The customer was a very rotund young man with a receding hairline or a very unfortunate haircut, I couldn’t quite tell which. His clothes were fine and high quality, though rumpled and dirty.

  “Now I’m gonna have to get back in line just to get my money back. If he’ll give it back at all.” She looked to the end of the long line, her face set in a scowl that was cute on her child’s face.

  Sienna pulled the girl to her. “You can wait with us. We’re almost up.”

  The girl smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

  Wonderful. I hoped Sienna didn’t plan on picking up a kid to add to the lycanthrope and vampire we already had.

  Now was not the time to become a father.

  The girl looked up at me. “You’re ugly.”

  “Thanks. You’re candid.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I think you’d be handsome, if you had hair. Why would you cut it off? It makes you look lowborn.”

  “Sometimes we make mistakes.”

  The girl scrunched up her face. “Strange mistake to accidentally cut off your hair.”

  I nodded. “Indeed it is.”

  The line moved up again. There were now only two people in front of us. A thin, shortish man immediately in front of me who was cloaked in a hood, and then the one in front of him: a tall man with a very large sword at his hip.

  “That one,” he said, pointing, before the vendor could start his spiel.

  “I’m sorry sir?”

  “Don’t call me sir,” the man growled. He was human, but that growl wouldn’t have been out of place coming from a lycanthrope or troll.

  “I’m sorry si— I’m sorry, what is it that you want?” He looked over his shoulder in the direction the man was pointing.

  “Right there, the framed one.”

  “Oh, that’s just for decoration. It’s not—”

  “I want it.” The man slammed down a hefty sack of coins.

  The vendor pulled open the sack with thumb and forefinger, his other three held out daintily, and peeked inside, then looked from it up to the man, then over his shoulder at the spell, then back at the man, eyeing a second bag which dangled fully on his belt.