Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  My boots made deep marks in the snow. My cloak whispered behind me. No other sound arose, save the resentful mutter of the water.

  I raised my hand, and flicked my fingers.

  “Oscail,” I said.

  A deep groaning issued from within the hinges. I never broke stride.

  The silver adornments unlocked their grasp from each other, and the doors slowly swung open toward me, with the heaviness of titans. They shoved the snow away from their feet in drifts, clearing the stone entryway. I passed between them and swept into the dark, fathomless silence beyond.

  I paused, listening.

  I heard nothing, save the distant rush of more water, like a river echoing in a cave. It smelled slightly musty, but it felt warmer in here than outside. I allowed my eyes to adjust, and ascended the five broad stone stairs before me. I sensed another great arch leaning over my head, and stepped beneath it. My soles tapped quietly against the worn flagstone. I glanced down. The stone itself had lightened, indented and smoothed beneath a thousand years of foot traffic traveling in and out of this very door.

  Ahead of me, across an empty stone floor, stood another set of giant doors, though these hung open already. The floor beneath my feet changed from stone to polished marble, and even in the dimness, I could detect an ornate pattern of some kind stretching away from me.

  I crossed the length of it, searching ahead, my jaw tight and my senses alert. I still heard nothing.

  I slowed as I entered through these new double doors, closing my hands, and treading very carefully as I looked all around me.

  A long, vast hall waited in the immense quiet.

  Twin lines of carven grey pillars stretched toward the heavens, branching into meeting arches straight above my head, like the boughs of trees. The ceiling stretched so high I could almost mistake it for the sky. Especially since, halfway along the ceiling, the spaces between the branches turned to clear glass, forming a giant glass skylight. Through it, I could glimpse the churn of the clouds, and the gusts of snow.

  Torches burned with subdued flickers, gripped in the stone hands of more serene statues wrapped around the pillars, their faces tipped toward the ceiling.

  To my left, on the other side of the line of pillars there, ran an open canal of murmuring water, all along the length of the hall. Just before it reached the ending wall, it turned to the left and disappeared through an arched door all its own, vanishing into another room. To my right, the same sort of canal bubbled, but this one penetrated the outer wall, and, I supposed, left the castle entirely—the culvert I had seen by the gate.

  I kept walking, my feet silent on the marble floor—a floor of marble so black I couldn’t make out any design. Straight ahead of me stood the dais, bearing two thrones, each of white stone, and draped in purple velvets. I stopped in front of them, lifting my chin…

  Then spat on the stone at their feet.

  Growling my nose, I turned to the left searching in the darkness for another door…

  I spotted one—a low, rectangular opening. I advanced on it, passing over the footbridge that crossed the canal. I reached out and pulled open the door…

  Immediately slowed to a stop.

  I had just entered the armory for the royal guard.

  A fire burned in the huge hearth across the way. The scent of polish and leather filled the air. Water from the canal pooled in a hip-high sort of trough against the left-hand wall. Shields and shining weapons of all kinds hung upon the walls. Torches burned in iron sconces.

  And five men were in this room.

  Two of them sitting on benches, slumped back against the wall. Three of them lying sprawled on the floor. Fully dressed.

  But they had been turned to stone.

  I froze. Suddenly unable to breathe.

  Clamping my teeth, feeling my heartbeat accelerate, I crept closer to the nearest man who lay on the floor. He looked young, with a trimmed beard and long hair, which lay in a marble halo around his head. One hand lay limp across his chest. His eyes were closed.

  Slowly, I bent down, and knelt next to him. Frowning so hard my forehead ached, I yanked off my right glove, reached out, and touched his hand.

  Cold as ice.

  Stone.

  Stone…?

  I shifted and wrapped my fingers tight around his unmoving throat.

  “Beatha,” I whispered through my teeth. I felt power rippled out of me, enter his body…

  Nothing happened.

  “Beatha,” I insisted, squeezing harder. “Anail a ghabhail. Beatha!”

  The stone did not yield.

  I withdrew my hand, the chill of that icy, hard skin penetrating my palm. I arose, and moved to each man, touching him, eyeing him. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.

  This was not right.

  I left the guardroom though another door, moving down a dark, narrow passage which opened up into a crossways corridor, interrupted by yet another canal of water. I paused there, glancing up and down.

  Still, I didn’t hear a thing.

  I spotted a door, ajar, ahead of me, and continued that direction. Only one torch burned in this low space. The wall to my left gradually curved away, telling me it formed the wall of a great, circular keep. At the end of the hall, to the right, a wide staircase swept up into the darkness. Ahead of me waited another door. I pushed through it…

  And found myself in a massive room, even taller than the great hall. Its lofty ceilings disappeared in the blackness, and great, elegant windows ahead of me formed the upper half of the entire wall. A few torches burned at the pillars, low and away from the windows.

  And away from me to my right, all along the center of this mighty chamber, a dozen fountains danced with singing water. Tall figures of all sorts wound and twisted around each other, water tumbling from pitchers or flutes or mouths, spilling across shoulders and hands, into giant bowls that then issued the overflow into a wide, meandering stone river. Beside the river sat great stone planters filled with flowers, and benches accompanied them.

  I paused, going utterly still.

  I felt something. Something thrumming against the surface of that murmuring water.

  My brow snarling and my eyes narrowing, I crept toward the nearest fountain, my gaze darting up and down the stone figure of a naked woman pouring water from a pitcher into the bowl at her feet, smiling at her work, her long braid draping over her shoulders.

  I stopped. And I listened to the water.

  The continuous, whispering sound of it rolled round and round in my mind, and as I held my breath and let my gaze unfocus…

  A shimmering light began to swirl across my mind. A brilliant, ever-brightening light.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  I leaped back, and jerked a long knife from its sheath at my belt.

  The metal sound shot through the silence, singing against the stone.

  “Who’s there?”

  I spun around, my heart bashing against my chest, my wide eyes piercing the dark—my blade pointed at the source of the voice. But I couldn’t see anyone.

  “Is someone there?” the voice came again, echoing all around. A young man’s voice—careful, measured. In the rhythm of someone from Astrum.

  “I am here,” I answered in a low growl, tightening my grasp on my knife. “Who are you?”

  “No, you answer me first,” he commanded. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the impenetrable shadow.

  “I am Crow, Gwiddon of Winterly,” I answered.

  “Gwiddon,” he repeated, hushed. “A malefica?”

  “The two words mean the same,” I stated flatly.

  He said nothing.

  I risked a step closer, but I couldn’t reach him. The canal stood between us.

  “I have told you my name,” I reminded him. “Tell me yours.”

  I heard no answer.

  Then, from the far end of the room, I heard the soft, rushed sound of retreating footsteps. />
  I re-sheathed my knife and dashed down the length of the canal. Gritting my teeth, I turned sharply to the left, kicked off one of the planters, and leaped over the canal.

  I landed and kept running, feeling heat sting the edge of my cape. Then I slowed, trying to search out ahead of me…

  I sensed a yawning opening before me. Larger doors than any so far.

  I silently drew out my knife, and proceeded without making a sound.

  Thunder rumbled outside. Lightning flashed.

  It flickered down through the largest skylight I’d ever seen, making a billion patterns across the smooth floor for just an instant, before vanishing in blackness.

  This room—lofty and wide—held dozens of pieces of furniture, and deep spaces upon the walls. Lightning flashed again—

  I saw movement ahead.

  Someone darting to the left.

  I sprang forward.

  I vaulted over a chair, landed and raced forward. I heard him breathing, sensed his heat. I flung out my hand—

  “Tine!” I bit out—

  The nearby torch on the wall burst to life.

  I saw him.

  A young man, his back to me, trying to dive into an alcove.

  I lashed out with my left hand and grabbed the back of his shirt.

  He yelped.

  I jerked him. The collar tore. He flung around—

  I slammed my forearm into his chest and crushed him back against the corner by the torch, bringing my knife around to aim right at his heart.

  He froze, his chest heaving beneath my arm.

  He was taller than I was, by perhaps half a foot. Muscular and lean, built for nimble and athletic movement. He was strong—I could feel the powerful muscles in his chest. He wore soft woolen nightclothes, and his feet were bare. I lifted my eyes and rapidly searched his face.

  He had dark hair, which now hung wildly across his forehead and his ripped collar. A unique, handsome face—high cheekbones, defined jaw, a narrow nose, and a different sort of mouth: beautifully-formed, and guarded. He bore a thin scar across his right cheekbone that came to a stop at the bridge of his nose, probably given to him by the tip of a sword. And his eyes…

  Deep-set, with dark, heavy eyebrows. Long lashes. And eyes themselves that would have been reflective as obsidian…

  But now looked silver. Without pupils.

  And even as he stood panting beneath my arm, his silvery eyes searched the space in front of him as if he could not see.

  “Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely, that once-distant voice now cutting through the immediate air right before my face. “What have you done to me?”

  I watched his mouth as he spoke. He formed words differently—I could see his sharp canine teeth especially, and his low tones vibrated up my arm.

  “To you?” I repeated, leaning closer and studying every angle of his face, as the flamelight flickered against it. “Who are you that you should matter to me?”

  “I am Krystian,” he answered. “Prince of Astrum.”

  “Are you indeed,” I murmured. “Then allow me to finish what I came for.” And I turned my left hand and wrapped it around his neck, stepped in and rammed my blade straight into his chest.

  It burst in my hand.

  I flew backward, crashing to the floor, landing hard on my right shoulder.

  My right hand burned like it was on fire. I shook it out, dropping the ashen remains of my blade.

  Prince Krystian stood there, his hands pressed to his chest, his sightless eyes wide, his breathing staggering.

  But no blood leaked from any wound.

  “Who…Who are you?” I snarled, feeling my heart begin to pound. “Who are you really?”

  “I told you,” he snapped back. “I am Prince Krystian.” He pushed away from the wall, and took a step toward me—but his gaze came nowhere near me. “Now tell me what you’ve done to me.”

  I crawled up onto my haunches, grimacing at the new blisters on my hand…

  “What makes you think I’ve done something to you?”

  “Don’t toy with me, Malefica!” he suddenly roared, his face taking on a terrible, wolfish snarl. His voice shook the walls.

  Lightning flashed again, and the white light blazed down into the darkness for an instant, lighting up his whole frame.

  “Just a few minutes ago, I could see, and now I cannot. You’ve blinded me,” he bit out. “I can feel something evil lying across my castle—and you have done it.”

  “I did nothing of the sort to you,” I retorted, finally rising to my feet. “I meant to kill you, and your whole family with you.”

  His expression twisted with confusion.

  “Why?”

  “None of your concern,” I shot back—and suddenly, that pain in my midsection attacked me.

  I grabbed the back of a chair, stifling a cry, winding my arm around my middle. Prince Krystian’s useless gaze turned deadly.

  “You meant to take the Seal,” he murmured. My head came up.

  He turned almost toward me. His dark brow clouded further.

  “Did you try to attack my father?” he asked pointedly.

  I blinked. Watching him uncertainly, I pushed away from the chair.

  “My father the king?” he pressed. “The one you assumed would be the guardian of the Seal?”

  I said nothing. I didn’t breathe.

  Prince Krystian suddenly smiled and snorted, showing his wolfish white teeth again.

  My blood ran cold.

  “My poor father,” he said, shaking his head. “Who has been lying in his bed, unable to open his eyes these past two months, after landing on his head when he fell off his horse?” He raised his eyebrows, and spoke even softer. “He is not the guardian of the Seal, Malefica. I am.”

  I staggered backward. Accidentally kicked the handle of my knife.

  And, the pain mounting beneath my ribs, I turned and ran.

  I raced out of this large chamber, into the one with the fountains. I hurdled over the canal, biting back the pain, broke back through the narrow passages, through the guardroom, and into the great hall.

  The huge front doors still stood open. Falling snow piled in across the threshold.

  Panting, I threw my cloak around myself. My bones and sinews crackled.

  I sprang into the air, dropping Mordred’s book on the floor as I did, flapping frantically. I dove through the door, cawing at the lancing pain now burning all through my wings. If I could just get back to Baba Yaga’s house, then I could—

  My beak hit an invisible wall.

  I felt a bone shatter.

  My crow spell writhed all around me, splintering loose.

  My feathers burst off of me.

  I fell like a stone, and thudded to the snow right by the canal.

  I thrashed, blinding pain wracking my body—I couldn’t breathe.

  I lay there as a human, my cape torn, all my muscles shivering, my heart thumping like a rabbit’s. I stared up at the grey sky, fighting, fighting, fighting to pull in just one breath…

  “Gaahh!” I finally sucked in one tearing gasp, grabbing fistfuls of snow. I felt blood leak down my nose and onto my lips, and down my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, coughing, and turned my face into the pile of white ice all around me. It stung my skin. My head buzzed.

  And the pain in my chest grew worse.

  Chapter Five

  I don’t know how long I lay there.

  The throbbing in my middle dulled somewhat, and my breathing calmed. The blood in my nose clotted, and I could only breathe out of my mouth. I shivered, my bones aching against the icy stone beneath me. Snow swirled all around me, numbing the blistered fingers of my right hand, and the skin of my cheeks. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them. I did it again, and again, until my vision cleared, and I could see.

  Slowly, very slowly, I rolled over onto my stomach, and pushed off the snow.

  It hurt.

  I let out a hissing groan through my teeth, my gut p
anging hard, and dragged my legs forward so I stood on my hands and knees. I hung my head for several minutes, my hair draping around my face, gasping and spitting out blood. The red splattered across the snow. I coughed, spitting out more, then shoved forward so I knelt, upright.

  Blood dripped down my chin. Most likely, I’d bitten my cheek or my lip. And I might have broken my nose.

  Nothing that hadn’t happened several times before. I just had to clear my head.

  Grinding my teeth, I got one foot underneath me, and lifted up to a standing position.

  My vision spun. I shivered, pressing my hand to my middle as a wave of nausea almost doubled me over. I shut my eyes. I’d swallowed blood—it was making my stomach sick.

  I spat out more, then tried to take deep breaths. The freezing air stung the wounds in my mouth, and hurt the inside of my nose. I forced my watery eyes open, and started forward.

  I walked with cautious, gradual steps, listening as best I could. If the prince decided to attack me in this state…

  Thankfully, he was blind.

  I dragged myself back over the threshold of the great door, into the entryway, and halted, trying to catch my breath. I glanced around in the torchlit dimness, my thoughts faltering.

  I couldn’t make it very far. But I could not stop here.

  My attention caught on a door to my left, one I hadn’t noticed before. It hid in the shadows, low and square.

  I limped toward it, stretched out my left hand, and painfully tugged on the handle.

  It gave way, and the hinges creaked wearily. I peered inside, and found a torchlit spiral staircase, leading up and away. Another door opposite me hung open, and through it I could see the guard room, and the fireplace there flickering.

  This was a watch tower.

  I hauled myself through the door and shut it behind me, then began the laborious task of climbing the stairs. I leaned my left shoulder against the cold stone wall, taking each step one at a time, at its narrowest point. I counted them under my breath as I went, feeling the blood drying on my lips.

  “Forty…Forty-one…Forty-two…”

  Finally, at fifty-five, I met a landing, and an open door. I shuffled through it, and stopped.

  A man of stone stood slumped against the open window. A window that opened to the fore of the castle, and the valley before it. On a clear day, he would have been able to see Maven Overlook, where I had just stood to cast this spell. Now, a cloud had descended, and I couldn’t even glimpse the stone yard where I’d fallen.