Curse of the Night Witch

by Alex Aster

  “Then give me the dagger.” Melda’s hands were shaking, but something in her expression was resolute, hard as marble. Tor knew with one look he would never be able to convince her otherwise.

  Without saying a word, Tor handed it over. She gripped its hilt, nodded once, then disappeared into the shadows.

  “Wait!” Tor said, but there was no response. They took a few steps deeper into the woods, but the trees were too thick, and the fog was too good at lending cover. Dread and regret filled Tor’s chest in equal measure.

  What on Emblem had he done?

  “She’s gone,” Engle said.

  The Silver Falcon’s Feather

  Once upon a haunted wood, a bird wished to see the stars. It flew farther than any other being had, past mountain peaks, clouds, and even the sun. It reached the top of the world, where the sky was black. The stars blinked hello.

  Your silver color is the greatest shade I have ever seen, the bird said to the stars.

  Take a bath in the moon, and you, too, can shine just as brightly, they replied.

  The bird dipped its wings inside the puddle of moon, and they came out glimmering as radiantly as freshly polished swords.

  When the bird returned home, it found its new beauty had been a curse. It was hunted by islanders, hoping to take the bird down, wishing to keep the shining feathers for themselves. So, the bird remained hidden in the shadows. Until, one day, it heard the scream of a little girl who had fallen into a river in an attempt to save her sister.

  The bird swooped down and carried both girls to safety. Then, it gifted the sister one of its feathers.

  One feather, one wish, it said, wanting to reward the girl’s bravery.

  Over time, the silver falcon gave a handful of its feathers away. And, many years later, inspired the wish-gods to do the same.

  And so Eve was created.

  15

  A Dark Forest

  Tor and Engle were very quiet as they made their way toward Garth. Engle had his head down and was kicking up more dirt with his shoes than usual.

  Though his friend said nothing, Tor could practically read his thoughts.

  “She chose to keep going,” he said. “She made a choice.”

  Engle nodded.

  “She’s stubborn. No changing her mind, even though she’s going to get herself killed out there.” Tor’s stomach sank as he realized just how true his words were. They had taken all of the resources; his backpack suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, every last bit of food and every last sip of water a reminder that Melda didn’t stand a chance. “She should have come with us,” he said softly.

  Still, Engle didn’t speak, he just kept kicking at the ground, like uprooting black flowers would solve their problems.

  “I feel bad, but we did ask her to. It’s not like we could have made her change her mind.”

  Engle gave a simple mm-hmm that did nothing to settle Tor’s guilt-ridden brain. He knew very well it was his fault Melda even had reason to find the witch in the first place.

  Still, it was not all his fault, another part of his mind reminded him. She was the one who touched the eye on his wrist, after all.

  “You know what? She’ll probably be fine. I mean, it’s Melda. She’s about the most capable person we know.”

  Engle sighed. “If you say so.”

  They walked on and as the negative weight of the Shadows started to lift, Tor became very aware of an especially painful thought. Even though his mother was an esteemed Chieftess, and he himself had been born with her emblem, Tor was the worst leader in the world.

  He had led his friends into a doomed mission.

  And then he had given up.

  * * *

  Tor and Engle were almost to Garth when they heard an earsplitting scream.

  They groaned; Tor gritted his teeth. The sound ripped through his brain like a lightning bolt had traveled through one ear and out the next. The source was immediately familiar.

  “Melda,” they cried at once.

  Tor and Engle turned around immediately, running back through the forest. They ran quickly, expecting to come across their friend at any moment. They yelled her name, over and over.

  But, after a few minutes, they stopped.

  “Wait,” Tor said. “We’ve been walking for hours. If Melda kept going, there’s no way we would have heard her scream.”

  Engle’s face was flushed. “But we did,” he said between gulps of air, reaching up to brush his light brown hair out of his face. “It sounded like she was right in front of—”

  Tor grabbed Engle’s arm before he could finish, ignoring Engle’s yelp. He held his wrist up right next to it; the eye there was fluttering, as if in warning. “What if the curse connects us? What if Melda’s voice was projected through that?” He nodded toward the lips on Engle’s arm.

  Engle gulped. “Then I would say that Melda has found herself in big trouble.”

  * * *

  Engle and Tor were doubled over, panting. They had run for an hour straight. Tor dug underneath his rib, hoping it would stop the cramping, but it did nothing but pinch his skin.

  “We’re never going to find her,” he said. “Not in these woods.”

  Engle squinted, searching the distance. Then, he sighed. There was nothing but trees and fog for miles.

  Tor planted his hand against a trunk, sweat dripping down his forehead even though the air had turned ice-cold.

  Melda was gone. She had been captured…or eaten by a creature they hadn’t yet encountered. He thought of the remaining Cuentos stories and paled. “The Faceless Man” was one of them—about a spirit known for stealing faces to wear as masks.

  Bile rose in his throat. They had no hope of finding her.

  And it was all his fault.

  All of it.

  How could he be so senseless? So weak? So selfish? He never should have let her go alone. Not after she had saved him countless times.

  Not after she had become his friend.

  Engle stiffened beside him.

  “What is it?” Tor straightened.

  His friend smiled so wide his freckles stretched thin. “I think I see something.”

  Engle raced ahead, his breath coming out in frantic white puffs as the air became somehow even colder. Tor followed, willing his legs to move when all they wanted to do was collapse underneath him.

  He found Engle standing over an object coated in dirt. Still, even in the darkness, the blue stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Melda’s drop of color.

  Engle took it gently into his palm. “Someone has her,” he said, pointing at a trail of wagon wheel marks Tor could barely make out and would have definitely missed on his own.

  She still might be alive.

  “We’re going to find her,” Tor said resolutely. All they had to do was follow the tracks.

  There was a worried fold between Engle’s eyebrows as he nodded. “Yes. But first, we’re going to need a plan.”

  * * *

  The tower where Melda had been taken looked ready to topple over. Paint had been scraped away, and bricks had fallen altogether. Windows were blocked by iron. Men stood outside of it, holding weapons, talking loudly. There was a faint smell of meat cooking nearby.

  Their plan had been simple. Or, at least, it appeared simple before one of the fireworks they set off shot itself into the forest. Now, a small fire was growing into a big one, the smoke reminding Tor of Eve.

  “Come on,” Engle whispered. He had seen the barrels of fireworks from a mile away, and came to the conclusion they would make the best distraction—and cover. And he was right. Their steps went unheard as they ran from behind the dense thicket of trees to the base of the tower. “The man with the keys has a big potbelly and is missing the top of his hair.” According to Engle, Melda had been locked
in a cell.

  “There,” he said, and Tor swallowed. Because the man Engle had pointed out was walking right toward them.

  “And who are you two?” he demanded.

  Tor wanted to punch him right in the mouth for daring to kidnap his friend, but the man would be hard to take down. And he and Engle weren’t exactly known for their fighting skills.

  So, just like Mrs. Alma had repeated over and over again in leadership class, Tor knew he had to change his tactics. He forced his scowl into a smile. “We’re here looking for work.”

  The man’s wrinkle-inscribed forehead crinkled even more. He barked out a laugh, reminding Tor that his gift of persuasion had been taken away along with his emblem. “Work? Doing what? Moving a stack of hay around the property?” The man grabbed his stomach with both hands and laughed again.

  Tor and Engle shared a concerned look. It didn’t seem as though his tactic was working very well.

  The large man’s eyes narrowed. “Say, what’s on your wrist?” he said. He took a step toward Tor, and Tor took a step back. They repeated this twice before the man seemed to get impatient and charged at Tor, managing to grab his arm so tightly Tor was actually afraid the bone might snap in half.

  “Let me see what’s on your wrist, boy!” he yelled.

  Tor struggled, or at least tried to, until the man elbowed him right in the ribs.

  He bent over, gasping, the air sucked right out of him.

  When the red-faced man finally did see what Tor had been hiding—the cursed eye blinking hello—he opened his mouth wide in fear. But before he could speak a word, the kidnapper made a grunting noise, blinked, and fell to the ground.

  Engle stood there, The Book of Cuentos still held high above his head.

  Tor did not waste a moment, grabbing the ring of keys right from the passed-out man’s belt.

  Engle looked at the heavy book in his hands, then shrugged, a small grin on his face. “This book really is useful.”

  * * *

  The two boys raced through the tower, stopping at each door to peer inside. Finally they found the right one, which held a collection of cells. When they reached Melda’s, she jumped up from a filthy, hay-covered floor and gripped the solid metal bars keeping her caged, her face pale. For once, it seemed like she was at a loss for words.

  Then, she found some. “You should go,” she said, craning her head to peer down the hallway. “The guard will come back any minute.”

  Engle laughed as Tor produced the ring of keys. “That guard isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Melda opened her mouth but didn’t say a thing as he opened the door and grabbed her hand, pulling her down the twisting stairs and into the hall below.

  “Who are these people?” Engle asked quietly. There were yells for water outside. It seemed like their distraction was still working.

  “Emblem-thieves,” Melda said, hands in fists by her sides.

  Tor’s jaw locked. Emblem-thieves were markless people who killed to inherit another’s power. His mother had warned him as a child never to veer from the main road, lest he come across them.

  “How did you find me?” she whispered.

  Engle grinned. He held up something in his hand—her necklace. “And our linked curse may have had something to do with it.”

  Though the woods were on fire, and they were still surrounded by armed men, Melda did something surprising—she smiled. “I thought I’d never see it again.” She put the glowing pendant back on with care, then threw her arms around Tor and Engle. “Thank you—you have no idea… I…”

  When she pulled away, both boys were flushed red.

  The hall below the tower had walls made of stones that appeared to be held together by caked-up dirt. The tables were covered by a thin layer of dust, and the chairs wore spiderwebs between their legs. It seemed to be empty, everyone outside battling the quickly spreading fire.

  Tor heard a whisper.

  “Hello?” it said.

  He looked at Melda and she froze, like she had heard it, too. The sound came from the back of the room, which led to a dimly lit corridor. Tor didn’t think; he walked directly toward it, Melda matching him step for step.

  “What are you doing?” Engle grabbed at his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Tor wasn’t going anywhere—not until he knew whose voice had spoken. It had sounded so sad, so broken. “Just a minute,” he said, shaking him off.

  Melda did what any good leader would do. She delegated. “Why don’t you go find us some more food?” she asked. Engle hesitated for a moment, then went off to search the kitchens.

  Tor and Melda inched forward, careful not to make a noise, should it be a trap.

  They entered the corridor, which consisted of bare walls and a few torches to light their way. Then, the hallway opened up, and there were cells, just like the one Melda had been trapped in. And they were not empty.

  Dozens of people, young and old, sat on piles of hay—sad faces behind locked gates. Some barely glanced at Melda and Tor; others’ expressions lit up. A boy their age rushed to the bars, holding the metal tightly.

  “Help us,” he said. “Help us get out of here.”

  Tor fumbled with the ring of keys he had stolen.

  Melda bent down so she met the boy’s eyes. “What happened to you?”

  “They came to our village,” he said. “North of The Plains. Took anyone with a valuable emblem.” Tor watched as she looked down, undoubtedly searching for his marking.

  “You’re a painter,” she said. Tor had never met one before. They could paint anything to look as true as real life.

  The painter smiled sadly.

  “Why haven’t you tried to escape? Surely you could have painted a key?”

  He sighed. “We’ve tried. Something in these cells blocks our power.” How was that even possible?

  Tor finally found the right key out of dozens, and the door swung open.

  “Come on,” Melda said, urging him out. “I can’t believe they did this to you,” she whispered. Tor saw that the boy’s wrists were hurt—rings of skin seemed to have been peeled off, no doubt by tight restraints that had stayed on too long.

  “Why are you surprised? The people here are dark-hearted.”

  Tor gritted her teeth. “Why?” There had to be a reason. People were not simply born this evil.

  “It’s the Night Witch,” the painter said quietly, as if the wicked woman could hear them. “When an evil so pure exists, it seeps into its surroundings. Tarnishes everything around it.”

  The Night Witch. Of course she was responsible for this.

  Tor’s hands shook as he hurried to find the right keys to each cell. Each door required a different one, making the task much harder than expected. Still, his fingers moved at lightning speed. Every moment he wasted could be one that they would be discovered, he told himself, chanting it in his head like a spell.

  As he reached the last door, he locked eyes with a woman holding a baby on her knee. She was covered in dirt, all the way from her ankles to her eyelashes. Even the baby looked like it hadn’t bathed in days.

  Why would those men take a child so young?

  Then he saw the little boy’s emblem: a snowflake.

  Clattering sounds at the other end of the corridor caught his attention. The prisoners he had already freed started to retreat back into the hallway.

  They’d been found out.

  Tor hurried to unlock the final door, then worked his way through the crowd to Melda. She protected the entire group with her arms, splayed out in a T.

  “You’re not getting anywhere near them,” she said, her voice so resolute Tor almost believed her. But he saw how many men had gathered at the mouth of the hall. Dozens of them, all holding something sharp enough to tear through flesh.

  No. He had to come up with a new pl
an, had to do something. Another distraction! Or maybe Engle had finished in the kitchen and was cooking up a scheme that very moment. He had gotten them in—maybe he could get them out, too.

  Melda spoke again. “You’ve mistreated these people long enough,” she said, her steady voice echoing off the stone walls. “Their emblems are not yours to take.” She turned her head for just a moment. “You are released!” she yelled at the crowd behind her. “Let us show these thieves exactly what we can do.”

  Just like that, the words coated in her magic, the crowd behind her shed their fears like snakes discarding old, broken skin. A woman cried out and leapt forward, taking down a guard in a single motion. A flurry of others followed. Tor stood transfixed as a teenage girl disappeared right before his eyes, then reappeared after having struck a thief in the head with a bucket. An old man with a telekinesis emblem threw a chair at another.

  One of their captors threw a pike, but it was blocked by a woman who snapped it in half with her bare hands. The painter used dirt from the ground to draw a sword on his arm, which peeled off into a real metal one. He used it to fight off a thief holding an axe.

  But there were still too many. The prisoners, Melda at their front, were pushed farther and farther down the hall, sharp pikes just inches from their stomachs. Tor closed his eyes in spite of himself, one of the weapons just a foot from his skull.

  It was over.

  The dust-covered woman from the last cell emerged from the back of the crowd, carrying her crying baby. One guard moved toward them, but before he could do anything, the child with the snowflake emblem lifted his hand and everything went very quiet.

  At once, all of the remaining thieves were frozen solid.

  Silence.

  The group of former prisoners erupted in cheers, throwing their arms around each other. Engle surprised Tor by poking his head up from behind a turned-over table, breadbasket in hand.

  Before escaping into the night, dozens of the formerly imprisoned people stopped to thank Melda. One woman even bowed low and whispered, “Thank you for helping us find our courage.”