Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  “I am the wizard,” he murmured. “I am Merlin.”

  White light shattered my vision. I fell onto my face.

  Horrified quivering broke my whole frame. I buried my head in the snow, lifting my shaking hands up next to my neck.

  “What have you done, Crow?” he whispered, his head still just above mine. “I’ve awakened to find that the world is…changed. So very changed. The magic in the air tastes less of dragon flame…and more of curse-dust…and blood…and cinder.” He took several deep, testing breaths, and lowered his hand…

  My wide eyes glimpsed his graceful, scarred bare hand reaching down into the snow, right beside my head. He touched the snow with his fingertips—and it did not melt.

  “Albain lies with Mordred…and the Curse-Makers sit upon thrones of power,” he murmured. “But the scales have tipped. The glass has been made whole. The tide recedes. And the sword waits.”

  My teeth started chattering. I tried to clamp my jaw shut, but the tremors just raced down my spine.

  “The Seal binds you here, doesn’t it?” he said. “You tried to curse the family of Astrum, and it caught you.”

  I couldn’t fight him. It was as if I wasn’t in control of my own body.

  I nodded hard.

  He stayed silent for a long moment. Then, he lifted his hand out of the snow.

  “No one will come to you, Crow,” he said softly. “Mordred and your master must now contend with me—and my wrath has long been sleeping.” He shifted slightly, and I could feel him bending even closer to me. “You are strong. And you know how to live with pain. Even so, you have perhaps a fortnight—maybe a few days more than that—before this Seal kills you.”

  My throat snapped shut. I tried to crawl back away from him…

  He rose to his feet. Let out a short sigh.

  “What led you to this?” he muttered, as if to himself. “What lies they must have told you…”

  I dared to lift my head, just enough to see him.

  I blinked.

  He suddenly stood at a distance—right where I had first seen him. He watched me, very carefully. His brow furrowed, his head canted.

  “As if they wished it.”

  My lips parted.

  He lifted a white hand, and set two fingers against the bridge of his nose.

  He was gone.

  Not a breath of wind, not a sound.

  Gone.

  Without leaving a single footprint behind.

  I staggered uphill, back up the road, out of the wood. Panting, I limped up the curve in the road toward the first terraced garden, following my own footprints.

  That shafting pain had faded when he had disappeared. Now, a dull, sickening ache sat in the pit of my stomach.

  I passed through the orchard terrace, between the sleeping trees, the water in the river whispering to itself—muttering about me like an old, disapproving woman knitting in a corner.

  I almost slipped on the ice on the staircase. I caught myself against a statue, wrenching my knee again, and spat out an oath. I shoved off from the statue, finishing my climb, following the snow-laden path across the next terrace.

  Midway across, something changed.

  I slowed to a stop, frowning hard. The snow in front of me looked different. It looked…

  Brighter.

  And the water almost…

  Sparkled.

  I looked up.

  The clouds had thinned to a silken veil, passing swiftly by far overhead, like smoke after harvest. And near the center of the sky…

  The sun. Like a great, white eye peering down through murky water, it fought to pierce the veil, the covering of my spell.

  My heart beat faster. I set my teeth, pulled my attention down from the sky, and hurried onward.

  I climbed the next staircase to the third tier, ignoring the discontented babble of the water, kicked through the snow until I crossed into the shadow of the castle. I pushed through the door again and shut it behind me—

  And ground my teeth this time.

  Bracing one hand against the cold wall, I climbed the winding tower staircase until I achieved the empty watchtower, left it, and followed the walk around the south tower, back toward the keep, around it, onto the broad walk toward the great east tower, found the narrow parapet to the eastern watch tower, and climbed back inside the familiar window.

  The fire I had built had diminished to embers. I slapped the curtain shut, strode across the room and grabbed more logs and tossed them on, watching the embers fly and spit. In a few moments, the flames latched on and swirled higher, spilling heat out onto the hearthstones. I stood close, wrapping my arms around myself, shutting my eyes and shivering.

  Slowly, I sank down, curling my legs up next to me, leaning my shoulder against the side of the fireplace. I stared into the dancing flames, images of him swimming before my waking eyes. As if he were gazing out of the fire at me, lancing me with those dreadful eyes, stretching out his hand toward my face…

  I twitched away, baring my teeth. Forcing my legs to fold open, cross-legged, I pulled that small piece of wood out of my belt, tapped it, and waited for it to transform into the lap desk. I snatched out a piece of paper and a pen, bit my lip, and, with a shaking hand, began to write.

  Babushka,

  I am writing now to warn you. I can hardly believe what I saw. This morning, I heard bells in the woods outside the castle grounds, and fearing the approach of anyone who might interfere or take word to Maith, I followed the sound, and discovered a band of Doolin gypsies making their way to Astrum. I deceived their way and confused them into proceeding back down the mountain—but the moment they had gone, I was paralyzed by an invisible magic that almost crushed me. When I was able to look, I saw a man standing in the pathway. A man unlike any I have ever seen. He was dressed plainly, and seemed young, but—Babushka! I cannot tell you what he felt like. If he had touched me, I am certain I would have caught fire.

  And he told me his name was Merlin.

  Is this the Merlin that you and Mordred spoke of? Merlin the Wild, the one Mordred told you he had killed, but he had not?

  This man spoke of wakening up, and he knew of Mordred, and of you. He told me that you and Mordred would soon have to contend with his wrath. He said, “the scales have tipped, the glass remade, the tide receded. And the sword waits.” What does that mean, Babushka? What is happening in Albain?

  I am afraid, Babushka. I am afraid because he did not kill me. He did not even try. Instead, he told me that I had merely a fortnight before the Seal kills me. And that not you, nor anyone else, would be able to help me.

  Please, Babushka, if you cannot come yourself, please send word to me. Tell me the truth. Tell me if this was Merlin. Tell me if the Seal truly can kill me in a matter of days. Tell me what to do so that I can help you fight this Merlin, and whatever allies he has here and in Albain. I want to come to you. I want to break this Seal. Teacher, show me how.

  Ever yours, and faithfully,

  Crow

  After I sent the paper flying out the window, into the frosty air toward the east—over the valley, over Winterly, into the kingdom of Albain—I sat by the fire, waiting.

  I stared at the slender opening between the curtain and the window, where the curtain was caught upon the shoulder of the stone guard. The fire crackled and sputtered. Logs fretted and glowed and turned to ash.

  The outside light began to fade. Darkness lowered in the east, stretching its fingers across the sky toward the west. The sliver of light turned grey, then black. Bitter cold seeped from the window onto the floor, creeping toward where I sat.

  I stood up, my muscles stiff, and retrieved more wood. There wasn’t much left. I stacked two logs onto the embers, snatched a fur off the cot, and reclaimed my spot on the hearthstone. I wrapped the bearskin around myself, listening absently to the haunting rush of air up the flue. It almost sounded like a voice—a distant wanderer across a moor, humming a bleak tune into the wind.

  I re
sted my head back against the fireplace, pulling the skin up beneath my chin, and closed my eyes. The song in the chimney, and the muttering of the fire lulled me.

  I fell asleep.

  I opened my eyes.

  The grey light of dawn poured in through the sliver between the curtain and the wall. I shifted beneath my skin wrapping—grimaced. Every single muscle in my back hurt, and portions of my legs felt numb. Grunting, I twisted to look…

  The fire had gone out. The ashes lay cold and dead.

  My head came up. My heart leaped.

  I pushed the skin off myself, clawing my way to my feet, my gaze darting around the room…

  No little paper vulture waited on the table, nor did one perch on the chair.

  Limping badly now, I paced through the room, scanning hurriedly, searching the mantlepiece, the cot, the windowsill, the floor, even inside the fireplace.

  Then, I suddenly came to a staggering halt, right in the middle of the empty room.

  For the first time in my life, Baba Yaga had not answered me.

  Chapter Nine

  I was out of firewood.

  Grey frost had crept in through the window and coated half the walls. My breath clouded around my face as I paced back and forth, the fur wrapped around my shoulders and dragging behind me. For the fifth time, I glanced at the table—finding the same thing I’d found each time before.

  No food.

  I paused, gritting my teeth, and leaned my shoulder against the mantle. It seemed like years ago that I’d sat down to eat Baba Yaga’s steaming, savory meal in front of the fireplace, inside her warm house.

  My stomach growled. My muscles quivered. And that dull ache opened up inside my gut. I winced, shutting my eyes, lowering my head down onto the icy mantle.

  The wind gusted. My head came up. The wind blew the curtain aside and snow poured in, spilling over the floor. The blast cut through the fur I was wearing and bit my face. I glared at the window.

  I couldn’t stay in this room.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I crossed the slick floor, grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open. My legs wobbled. I stopped, then reached out of the fur with my right hand and pressed it to the stone wall, trying to steady myself. And I continued, slower.

  I crept down the staircase, my heart picking up faster than it should have. I stopped again, midway down, blinking hard. I pulled in three purposeful, deep breaths—but I still felt like I was not getting enough air. Closing my right hand to a fist, pushing it against the wall, I forced myself to focus, to calm the trembling in my knees and my arm.

  I stepped down, then down again, then down again.

  I followed the stairway to the bottom and emerged into that tall, dim, familiar entryway. I stopped there, too, realizing that I could no longer see my breath—and frost didn’t sting my nose. Then, a thought struck me.

  I turned back into the base of the stairway, and passed through the door into the guardroom.

  The torches burned very low, and the fire had gone out. But a tall stack of wood stood beside the broad fireplace. I quickly crossed the floor, rounded the table, evaded the stone guard on the floor, snatched up a log and tossed it into the hearth, on top of the pile of ashes. Grey cinders flew up. I grabbed another log, then another, stacking them. Then, I snapped my fingers—

  Orange flame burst to life amongst the wood. Heat and light rolled out. I stood right in front of it, opening my arms out to either side, so that the skin formed a kind of half-tent behind me, catching all the warmth and sending it up through my body.

  For several minutes, I stood there with my eyes closed, letting the frost melt off my trousers and boots, regaining feeling in my toes and fingers and nose. The entire room gradually warmed, and the flames reached higher.

  My arms shook. I had to lower the heavy skin, breathing hard, feeling a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I turned and dropped the skin onto the bench by the table, then searched the room. Three barrels stood in the other corner. I crossed to them.

  I pried the loose lid off the first one. It was empty. I pulled the lid off the other. It was half full of dried chicken bones. I tugged the lid off the last one. It was mostly full of stained polish rags. I threw the lid down. It clattered on the floor.

  I turned around, paced back toward the fire, and opened the three boxes I found by the hearthstones. Nothing but pipe tobacco, bottles of polishing oil, and strips of leather. I almost kicked one of the boxes—

  But suddenly, I didn’t have the strength to do even that. I sank down on the bench in front of the fire, staring into the flames.

  The Seal wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d starve to death before the magic could kill me.

  “Hello?”

  I leaped to my feet and spun around—

  My vision blacked out. I staggered sideways and fell against the fireplace. Frantically, I grabbed the mantle, shook my head…

  My vision gradually cleared.

  Prince Krystian stood in the far doorway, his right hand lightly touching the doorframe. He wore a white shirt with a high collar, and fitted doublet with blue at the shoulders, long trousers and black riding boots. Two curls of his dark hair fell across his forehead. He frowned into the guardroom, his silvery eyes searching, but finding nothing.

  “What?” I gritted, unable to stop myself.

  He suddenly smiled, and let out a laugh.

  “Oh, good—I was just thinking to myself, that’s one big rat.”

  “Ha-ha,” I muttered, shoving off from the fireplace and sending him a poisonous—if useless—glare.

  “What were you looking for?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t looking for anything,” I snapped, making myself stand upright.

  “Right,” he nodded, his eyebrows coming together incredulously. “Which is why you were going through all the barrels and boxes in the room.”

  “I wasn’t looking for anything,” I repeated, harsher. “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  He shrugged.

  “I would consult my busy schedule, but…” he grinned, showing those wolfish teeth. “For some reason, I can’t make out my own writing.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  But then, my left knee buckled.

  I slapped my left hand out and grabbed the mantlepiece again, grinding my teeth. Krystian’s smile grew thoughtful, and he canted his head.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” I snapped. Then, my stomach growled so loudly it shook my body.

  Krystian chuckled.

  “A…bit of a conflicted answer,” he remarked.

  “I am not hungry,” I insisted hotly. “Leave me alone.”

  “Why don’t you go down to the larder?” Krystian suggested. “We’re stocked for the winter, more than the entire court could ever eat. Apples, pears, all kinds of nuts, cider, cheeses, smoked pork and venison and beef, potatoes, jars of preserves, sourdough bread, smoked fish, pickled eggs, whatever you want.”

  I stared at him, my skin crawling.

  “You’re trying to poison me,” I hissed.

  “Yes,” he stated, nodding once. “So I poisoned the entire larder, so I would also poison myself.”

  My face got hot. He smirked at me, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

  “Go eat something. Just go straight out of here,” he pointed down the hall he’d come from. “…turn left into the tower, go straight across, around the stairs, and down the grand staircase, turn right and go into the kitchens. There’s a dairy to the right-hand side and a larder to the left.” With that, he pushed away from the doorframe and turned to leave.

  “Why would you do that?” I demanded, taking one step toward him. He stopped, blindly searching for my voice, his brow furrowing.

  “Hm?” he said. “Do what?”

  I glared at him again.

  “Why would you tell me where to find food?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you just let me starve?”

  A distant, cold expression came over
his face. His mouth tightened for a moment, and he glanced up, at nothing.

  “My grandfather got lost in a blizzard when my father was only nineteen,” he said, his voice quiet. “My father, the prince at the time, couldn’t even leave the castle, the snow was so thick. When the storm finally cleared, he went searching for the king. My father found his own uncle, along with my grandfather’s best friend, frozen to death on a cliffside. When he went further, he discovered a cave in the side of the mountain, almost entirely blocked by stones. When he went in…he found his father lying dead by the remains of a fire.” Krystian’s brow tightened. “He had wasted away, after chewing off every piece of leather from his clothes.” Krystian came back to the present, almost looking directly at me, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”

  I stared at him, hardly breathing.

  He gave a crooked smile, turned around, and strode up the corridor again, as surely as if the hall had been lit by daylight.

  I didn’t move until his footsteps had died away completely. And even then, all I could do was sink back down onto the bench.

  My stomach growled again.

  I shook my head.

  He wasn’t telling me directions to the larder. He was leading me to a pit of snakes or a pack of dogs, or…

  I frowned dully.

  Wait.

  There couldn’t be live snakes or dogs. They would be stone.

  I shut my eyes. My mind wasn’t working properly.

  My stomach growled again.

  I opened my eyes.

  I didn’t have a choice.

  I got up off the bench, steeled myself, and made for the far door. Fighting to remember the directions he’d given.

  I passed down the corridor and into the passage, then turned left and mounted a set of stairs in the broad curved wall. They took me to a large, circular room that had four doors—one at each side of the circle—and between each door waited an upward-sweeping staircase. I headed for the towering door directly across from me, and discovered a wide, elegant stairway descending to a lavish receiving room. Ornate carpets covered the wooden floors, banners hung from the rafters, three fireplaces waited at the far left end of the room, and portraits lined the plastered walls. I paused for just a moment there, and turned to a low set of doors no less elegant, for designs of the forest had been carved into their faces. I pulled on the brass handle, and the door gave way.