The Shadow Curse

by Kala Merseal

  Max and Ara walked down the stairs to the main floor of the building and met with Arlow and Nyphelia, who waited by the entrance. Max and Arlow wore garbs much like the guards that walked past them in the hall then, though the material seemed as lightweight as her robe.

  Misandreas rushed to them, with Bieva and a male druid flanking.

  "Come, the day may have just begun for you, but we are already hard at work," the lily-eyed elder said.

  They followed Misandreas and her druid attendants out of the building. Then halted.

  The sun nearly blinded them when they stepped outside, and once their eyes adjusted, the massive terrain shocked them.

  The infirmary nestled between two other buildings, both towering over the landscape. Across from them, a twirling keep loomed over even those buildings, curling around a tree that filled the sky. The sun filtered from behind, shedding light on the opaline steeples and glass roofing of the keep.

  "Come, children," Misandreas insisted, grinning at their awe. "We have much to do today."

  Ara and Nyphelia walked beside Bieva and Max and Arlow flanked them as the elder led them down the main path. More towering buildings lined one side, and the fortress’s central keep on the other. Each had druids fluttering in and out, chattering and bustling through their own duties.

  As they curled around the back of the tree, druidic children and their caretakers filled the streets. Many ran around in groups, playing with wooden swords, while others sabotaged one another with tricks of earthen magicks. Several older druids shouted at a group when a single child was lifted several feet in the air by massive twining roots.

  Ara counted less than two dozen children. She slowed, then turned with questioning eyes to Misandreas.

  “How do you have children?” She had heard that druids were beared by the Rakevan Tree that loomed over them but she also heard that the druids lived indefinitely, so it made little sense that they would have so many young children running around. To her, they looked under eighty years old—or under ten years for humans.

  “They are birthed in a grove within our Tree’s roots, of course. But it does not happen often, and the frequency changes depending on Rakeva’s needs,” Misandreas mused as they stood and watched the caregivers untangle the child from the roots and another older druid scolded the mischievous children.

  “How old are they?” Ara asked, hiding a smile as the rescued child ran off with the ones who tormented them, throwing rocks at them.

  “They grow quickly, then once they hit adulthood, they stop aging.” Misandreas grinned as a few of the children came to her and latched onto her leg. “The youngest is about twenty years aged.”

  After cooing and shooing the children off, Misandreas continued through the section of the fortress.

  The terrain changed, leveling out to a ground where adult druids sparred and practiced archery. The buildings surrounding the training field were shorter than the others. Warriors filtered out of the bottom floor with various arrays of weapons for training.

  Walking closer, one of the other two elders Ara met the day before stood among them, barking corrections on his students. The elder turned to them as they approached.

  Ara caught a gleam of excitement in Arlow’s eyes as he took in the barracks. The young half-elf had a warrior heart. Seeing him smile for the first time in days momentarily shocked her.

  Arlow caught her stare and his smile widened.

  Her life had turned so dark in such a short amount of time. Her own smiles came forced and weak. Seeing others express bits of joy was something with which she would have to become re-accustomed.

  “How did you sleep, Princess?” Arlow asked as the two elders muttered to each other. His smile softened his expression. “Are you well now?”

  “I slept fine.” Her smile slipped, remembering the strange apparition that awoke her. “I feel much better.”

  “That’s good. Nyph was worried about her.”

  Ara looked at Nyphelia, who hugged Arlow’s side. Her friend smiled, unaware that their intimacy was anything but natural. Ara did not know whether to balk at their development or to be happy for them. The prospects of love scared her—she had lost her first lover and now couldn’t bear opening her heart to another. What was the point of falling in love if they were destined to die anyway?

  But Ara forced a smile, her heart thundering at the joy in their eyes.

  “Have you heard news about Rae?” Arlow asked, his tone turning solemn. “They won’t let us see him, nor tell us about him.”

  Ara swallowed past a sudden thickness in her throat.

  “No, but I’m hoping to convince them to let me see him today.” Ara tried to steady her voice, knowing that they all worried about his well-being.

  But Ara’s mind kept reeling over the knowledge that Raethin did everything in his power to stop the demon from taking her. She wondered how strong of a sense of duty and indebtment the commander had to her father to sacrifice his own life in exchange for a princess of a dead kingdom.

  A knot settled in her stomach as Max clapped a hand over Arlow’s shoulder.

  “You look like a child in a bakery,” Max said.

  “Of course,” Arlow replied, grinning. “We’re not on vacation here. Might as well stay fit.”

  “You’re right.” Max nodded. “Who knows how long we will be here. We’ll need to stay trained and healthy while we can.”

  They fell silent at his words. As always, he spoke of the weight of reality in his simple, blunt way. With the druids and their warded homes and blessed powers from Rakeva, even Cirith said that it was only a matter of time. Who was this Aeskrius, that he could destroy even a goddess’s power, given enough time?

  Their silence broke when Misandreas sauntered up to Ara’s side, her arms crossed, and face puffed. Behind her, the other elder’s face scrunched even more than his usual scowl. Whatever discussion they had while the mortals spoke had angered the lily-eyed elder.

  Misandreas looked around their small group and smiled, the anger dissolving.

  “The rest of the walk around the fortress is full of housing. The council’s keep is where the real fun is,” she said with a grin.

  The other elder scoffed, sneering at the mortals.

  Misandreas’ grin tightened.

  “The Guardian is waiting in the keep for us,” Misandreas continued, pointedly ignoring the elder. “We must hasten our pace. Cirith has many things to discuss with the Heir.”

  “I suggest not taking the others,” the elder snapped, whipping his head around to fully glare at Misandreas. “Your game is useless and short-lived. Showing these mortals around incites the belief that they will be here for a while. They won’t.”

  “Solas, your sore attitude is rotting the place,” Misandreas retorted. “It is druidic tradition to demonstrate our people’s liveliness, duty, and charitability.”

  “Then allow the mortals to demonstrate duty along with us,” Solas said, waving across the elves to his warriors. “They are all warriors. Let them fight and train while they still have the freedom to do so.”

  “It is up to them to accompany their princess or to train.” The lily-eyed elder crossed her arms. “I will not demand that they spend their first waking day of peace readying for war. That is what our people are for.”

  “It is only the Heir that should worry about what is to be said by Cirith.” Solas sighed, turning his stony gaze to Ara, who stood during their quarrel, sullen with a churning stomach. “You can rest easily, Ara Zypherus, that I will train your soldiers in ways that your commander never could or ever will again.”

  Everyone stilled. The mortals stiffened, their fists tightening and lips curling. Even Ara’s anxiety turned cold and boiled into anger.

  “Shut your rotting mouth, Solas, before I sew it together,” Misandreas snapped, breaking the tension. “As always, your lack of consideration is sickening. I will take the mortals, and they will witness all that our Guardian has to say to the Heir, because a
s her companions, they deserve to know the revelations that befall this land.”

  Solas’ cheeks darkened, and his jaw ticked. As he opened his mouth, the air shifted, and within an eye’s blink, Misandreas stood with her finger jammed into Solas’ forehead.

  “You will remain silent about this until Cirith and Vilithian come to you.” Then in a small whisper, though all close could hear, Misandreas said, “You may be an elder, but you are a newborn to the world of the gods. Let it be known that your willful ignorance will not go unnoticed.”

  The air shifted again and Misandreas took off toward the keep. The elves had to run to catch up, throwing glances over their shoulder at the fuming elder and his warriors behind them. Arlow had dropped his training sword, walking together with Nyphelia behind Misandreas.

  Ara’s anger still quivered deep in her chest. The audacity of that impulsive elder astounded her. How did he become an elder? His lack of emotional control spoke deeply of his fresh initiation of the position. She wondered about the quiet argument the two elders had before that outburst—or how deep the roots of the disagreement ran.

  But the outburst did shed light on the severity of their world’s situation. What revelations did Misandreas speak of? What lay underneath the Kaevari’s conquest of the mortal realm?

  The group rounded the keep from the other side, passing what appeared to be crafting and cooking quarters as well as more housing. Scrumptious scents filled the air as they passed. The mortals' stomachs rumbled in response.

  Ara was just as astonished by the foyer of the keep as she was its entrance. Accustomed to extravagance like any other royal, she was familiar with the grandeur of fine gold and marble architecture. But the style of the druids reminded her of the gods' temples, an architectural design that even the Altanan monarchs restrained from copying. Reverence for their deities always stayed above the royal bloodlines.

  When Misandreas led them through the front, attendants bowed and greeted the elder, and nodded in respect to the mortals. The lily-eyed elder led them toward the left wing of the keep, waving over several halls. She noted to her guests that they were private library corridors for isolated study and meditation.

  "How large is your library?" Ara asked as the elder led them up a spiraling, wide staircase.

  "The keep is mostly library corridors, dear," Misandreas said. "The upper floors are for magical study, as well the council chambers and living quarters."

  "Where is the temple?" The druids were people of the goddess. There had to be a sacred place where they worshipped Rakeva.

  Misandreas shot her a look, surprised at her intuitive inquiry.

  "It is in the lower levels. Only the council approaches it."

  The stairs led them to another hall, doors on one side facing an endless wall of stained, opaline glass. Ara glanced out the windows as they passed by, then looked at Misandreas as they turned a corner.

  "And where is it that you are keeping my commander?"

  A pause, then the lily-eyed elder said, "In the lower levels."

  "And when should I get to see him?"

  Misandreas met her eyes then and smiled.

  "Soon."

  ♦♦♦

  Cirith had idled within keep the last three days. The horror that dwelt below was a constant curious itch that no matter how much he beckoned his goddess to sate, she comically refused to respond.

  He had ordered all but the few attending the mortal and his council to not enter the levels below. At least until he figured out how to fix his error.

  The sacred waters had helped. But they did not heal. Nothing took the black curse from the mortal's body, though the liquid had stifled its growth.

  Raethin lay in a death-like coma. Each time Cirith visited, the curse seemed to progress, graying the mortal's skin as black veins arched across his torso and limbs. Despite Cirith's ceremonious performances of cleansing, which starched the black veins and colored the graying skin, there was no healing. He didn’t want to show the Heir—letting her know so soon that he failed to heal her commander.

  This morning he had heard of Misandreas' plan to entertain and distract the mortals before she would shepherd the Heir to the keep. Cirith had decided to spend the morning in the healing chambers below. He now stood with the mortals' attendants; his face etched with a deep frown.

  "What if we cut the curse out?" Kiri, an apprentice of Misandreas, stood beside the mortal's side, prodding the blackened wound with a utensil, her jade skin close enough for contamination.

  Cirith had warned his druids not to touch the black curse residue with their bare skin. Kiri was just as eccentric as her mistress and had selective hearing. When Kiri looked up at Cirith, she shuddered under his glower and shuffled away.

  "If anyone is to attempt that, it will be me."

  Kiri opened her mouth to protest and Cirith continued, reiterating.

  "I cannot be cursed, and we don't know how the curse will react to druid blood."

  The druidess pouted but said nothing as Cirith gestured for all his attendants to step away. They did promptly, and he pulled up his sleeves.

  His fingers lengthened into claws, the talon ends rounding into sharp, gray points.

  Cirith placed a palm flat on the mortal's chest to hold him in place and sliced into the first layer of black crusted ichor surrounding the wound. The mortal did not respond to the cut, nor as Cirith sliced further down.

  What did respond was the black substance itself. It convulsed as Cirith dug deeper, quivering, and slithering like living, enchanted ivy up Cirith's arm. Golden, sizzling light intersected the substance, and it gurgled and burned when Cirith’s magick touched it.

  Cirith curled his claws around a chunk of solidified black ichor and pulled, grunting against the strain. Everyone in the room watched the mortal for a reaction, their expressions turning grim when Raethin’s body did not respond to the obvious distress. When the substance gave, Cirith ripped it from the wound and tossed it aside. The druids around him scurried from where the substance landed.

  The black ichor quivered against the stone floor, its amoebic shape lurching around for blood or flesh. After a long minute it settled against the stone into smooth, black tar.

  “Holy Theron,” Kiri breathed. She held to the stone wall by the entrance of the chambers and clutched her chest.

  “What in the hells is this?”

  Cirith hesitated to answer, his focus back on his hand, which was fingers deep in Raethin’s wound. The mortal’s breath stayed even, so Cirith was not sure if his body were numb to the intrusion or if he were so deep in the comatose that he could not wake and sense the pain. Cirith wondered just how much Raethin felt.

  But still, he ventured on. Though he discarded a large chunk of the reeling black substance, enough still festered in the wound that it consumed his hand like a black hole. Cirith clutched another handful, feeling his claws tear through the tar-like substance, and jerked. This time, Raethin’s body came with it, his torso arching as if the black tar had ingrained itself into his body.

  Cirith released his hold, and the mortal’s body thudded to the wooden table on which he laid.

  “It is responsive,” Cirith muttered. The substance had hardened as it clutched Raethin’s organs.

  “What now?” Kiri came forward, ignoring the warning glares from the other druids within the room.

  Cirith huffed. Their experiment had made sense, until the substance became wise to their intentions. He wondered what fueled the substance to be responsive. Was it the demonic curse searching for a host? Was the substance alive or possessed by Aeskrius’s master?

  Cirith could continue to dig out the curse’s substance and further damage the mortal beyond repair, or he could give up and turn from the room.

  For a moment, he called out once more to Rakeva, his whispers in the Aether echoes unanswered. Then a heat swarmed his chest—the first answer, though silent, he had since he and his druids had dragged the mortals into their warded fortress.
r />   “Leave us.”

  The druids stuttered, most rushing out the room without question. Kiri hesitated by the doorway; her jade lips pursed.

  “Shall I inform my mistress, Guardian?”

  Cirith shot a golden-blazed look her way as the warmth increased. This time, he knew it was not Rakeva responding, but Rasilvanor.

  “Yes, inform her that if she arrives before I am finished, to wait in the council room with the Heir.”

  Kiri bowed and quickly left thereafter, her sudden solemn behavior a relief.

  Another wave pulsed through Cirith’s chest, and a murmuring filled his head. It was not often that the Great Spirit intertwined with his soul spoke separately from him, but this instance gave him relief from trepidation.

  Cutting the cancerous substance out will only delay the inevitable.

  Of course, he knew that. He pursed his lips as the Great Spirit’s consciousness stirred within the pit of his core.

  This mortal can hold a great power, Cirith, much like that which was bestowed to you.

  Cirith paused, his tar-dipped claws hovering over the blackened wound.

  You must seek an allowance of that power. It will not come until called and allowed by the Greater Light.

  Cirith loosed a breath, his frown deepening.

  Rasilvanor had a point.

  “But how?” Cirith muttered, flicking the excess black substance from his hand. It splattered across the ground, the little droplets quivering for sustenance.

  He recalled his own transfiguration, which felt like eons ago at the start of the world. He vaguely remembered his joining with Rasilvanor. Of course, Cirith had died then, as well. Dying tended to blur memories.

  So, what had Rakeva planned? Did she have a Great Spirit hidden from Cirith that she had planned to incarnate?

  Rasilvanor remained silent at that thought, but there was a general sense that he did not believe that. It was not common for a deity to beget more than one Great Spirit.