But there was nothing. At least, nothing I could recall with any certainty.
I sighed, my brow furrowing.
I was the one who would be an idiot if I ignored what he said.
Starting forward, I limped out of the guardroom and into the corridor. Three of the four torches had gone out, leaving only a feeble light for me to travel by. I followed that passage all the way to the great hall of fountains.
Late afternoon light, filtering through the clouds, coldly illuminated the vast chamber, and the fountains and rivers muttered and shushed each other as I entered. My boots tapped on the flagstones, echoing up and down. I shivered, avoiding the edge of the river, walking as far away from it as I could. I tiptoed across the low bridge and hopped onto the other side, grimacing as the muscles in my midsection pulled. I stopped, closing my eyes, putting both hands to my middle. My knees felt weak, and sweat broke out on my forehead again.
“Stop,” I muttered through my teeth. “Swooning won’t do any good.” I gulped back the bile that rose in my throat, straightened up, shook myself, and started forward, through the massive doors into the great library.
The sounds of the tumbling water faded behind me and the tapping of my soles grew louder against the marble. As I glanced around, the volumes sitting upon the towering shelves seemed like a million beings—beings who, upon sensing me, shut their eyes and mouths as tight as oysters, and withdrew from me. I glared at them.
That same grey light from the cloudy sky overhead reluctantly lit my path as it spilled through the skylight. I made my way all the way down the cathedral of a room, toward the huge window at the far end, which bore the likeness of the scribe with his hand on his work.
And there, at the very foot of the window, stood a single stone pedestal, with a thick book lying open upon it. I hadn’t noticed it before.
I lifted my hand and snapped my fingers. A green light popped to life, and hovered beside my shoulder. Cautiously, I drew closer to the book, lifting my chin and holding my gaze on it.
I had learned early that books could be some of the most dangerous magical objects in the world. Some could summon terrible ancient powers, others could spew fire or poison or deadly tentacles or thorns; others could trap your hands to the covers, others could suck you inside the pages; still others, if simply opened, could awaken the dead, kill everyone in the room, stop time—or turn time into an endless loop.
I stretched out my hand toward it, and stopped moving.
I couldn’t feel anything humming against my fingers. My skin didn’t tingle. Nothing glowed against my eyelids. And the book already lay open.
I frowned.
It…seemed to be an ordinary book. Without any magic at all.
I stepped right up to it, my frown deepening, my little green light bending closer and lighting up the pages.
“What is this…?” I muttered, scanning the pages. “‘In the first year of the fifth age, king Avilius wed Tacita. She begat Marius. When Marius was twenty years old, he wed Lucilia, who bore him Regulus, Junia and Salvius…” I wrinkled my nose, then turned the weathered pages backward, realizing that all this seemed to be was a lineage of the kings of Astrum. I kept going, discovering blueprints for the castle, plans for the gardens, maps of roads through the kingdom, treaties for the passage of goods up and down the river, the building of a great bridge across that river, and so on. Growing impatient, I turned faster and faster, until I came to the third page of the book. I stopped. My hand hovered over the weathered page, the half-faded ink, written in a precise and ancient hand, with outdated spellings I had only seen in the oldest books in Baba Yaga’s house.
“‘In the fifth year of the second age,’” I whispered as I read aloud. “‘Romilius, son of Gordianus, became king of Astrumus. Therein, a plague fell upon the land, that poisoned the bodies of the men, and blinded the eyes of the women. One of the wise Sophos brought to mind a plague of the same, from his boyhood, and called to name the Gwiddon of the Mountain Pass, whose wrath King Gordianus had incurred before his death. Whereupon they discovered it was indeed a curse, and not a plague, King Romilius sent forth a message upon the wings of a hawk, to the palace of the Green Tower, where lived the Lady Lilias, third daughter of King Swann, telling her that he would surely die. When Lady Lilias learned of the plight of King Romilius, she flew with all haste to the kingdom of Astrumus…’” My mouth fell silent. My gaze raced ahead, to the end of the short paragraph—
And I stared at it. As if the words had suddenly turned to a language I didn’t know.
I shook myself and started over, reading the story again, certain I had missed something…
I came to the end, and stared again. My brow knotted as confusion and disbelief snarled through me.
“No,” I muttered, shaking my head. “No, no, that can’t be right…”
I flipped a few pages, swiftly finding the lineages again…
I put a hand to my forehead.
King Romilius had not died. He had a son, named Felix, who had a son named Lucius, who had a son named Tiberius, who had a son named Valerius…
I kept flipping, wildly scanning, page after page after page…
Until at last, I found it.
King Aurelius was wed to Marina, who begat twin sons: Krystian the elder, and August the younger. She also bore him a daughter, Tulia.
With each entry I had read, the handwriting had changed. Different scribes had recorded each birth—yet it all flowed in an unbroken, unwavering line.
King Romilius had survived the curse. And Prince Krystian had descended directly from his line.
With teeth set on edge, I turned back to the third page. And I read the story one last time. Still staring at the last line.
Then, with sudden fury, I slapped the book shut, turned on my heel and left the library.
Chapter Twelve
I waited deep into the night. Stoking the fire in the guardroom as I sat on a bench in front of it. Waited for the little paper vulture to come fluttering down the flue, as it had so many times before in my life.
But it didn’t.
Stiffly, I crawled off the bench and lay down on the hearthstones, pillowing my cape under my head, pulling my arms close to my chest. Wearily watching the waver of the flames. My stomach felt hollow again, and my legs ached.
The words from the Book of Memory trailed round and round in my head. Impossible, ridiculous words. And then the lineages tumbled after—name after name of princes, princesses and kings, bumbling all the way down to Prince Krystian, only to start again with that absurd tale about Romilius.
I had to stay awake. I had to be ready the moment Baba Yaga returned my message, so I could take action. I did not dare fall asleep…
I jerked my head up, gasping.
The fire had gone out.
I grunted, my brow twisting, as I forced myself to sit up. All my muscles panged, and I felt as if I had been clenching my teeth for hours. I lifted my left hand and snapped.
“Oh, come on,” I muttered hoarsely, trying four times before sparks sprang into the hearth—but there was no firewood. I stretched across, grimacing, and grabbed a log and threw it in. The sparks caught and the log burst to flame…
My eyes flashed.
In the new light, I twisted and looked all around me, frantically searching…
The room looked exactly the same as when I’d lain down.
Baba Yaga had not written to me.
I sat there, staring, for I do not know how long. All the heat drained out of my head, and my hands clenched around the hem of my cape.
Then, letting out a grinding roar, I heaved myself to my feet, grabbed the bench and flung it over. It crashed onto the stones.
I stormed toward the door, falling against the frame, then pushing through to the corridor. I fought my way all the way into the receiving room and then to the kitchen and the larder. I pried the knife out of the board, whipped around and charged back into the chamber filled with portraits, then went up th
e stairs to the place where all the surrounding staircases led up and away.
“Where are you, you royal dog?” I shouted at the top of my voice, squeezing the knife so hard my hand shook. My shout shattered the silence and ricocheted up the passages. “You filthy swine! You arrogant pig! Show yourself!”
“There’s no need for screaming,” came the muttered reply.
I whirled to my right, to see Prince Krystian sitting in one of the armchairs beneath the portrait of a severe and ugly queen. He wore loose, forest-green clothes and brown boots, and a tray of food and tea sat beside him on the table. He turned his face my direction and raised his eyebrows.
“What do you want, witch?”
I bared my teeth and came back down the stairs toward him, leveling the blade at his face.
“I am going to kill you,” I seethed. “And then I will take my chances with whatever comes after.”
“What are you going to kill me with?” he wondered, canting his head. “That kitchen knife I heard you take out of the cheese board?” He shrugged. “Go ahead and try. I won’t stop you.”
My mouth twitched, my breath shaking. I took another step toward him.
“Why did you send me to look at that fairy story in that worthless book?” I demanded.
“Wait—I thought you were going to kill me,” the prince countered.
“Answer me!” I roared.
“I don’t know what fairy story you’re talking about,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “We don’t deal in fairy stories in Astrum. Everything recorded in every book has been verified by eye witnesses and legal documents. Fairy stories are the purview of the Green Tower.”
“So, you are telling me that that fantastical story about Romilius is what passes for truth in Astrum?” I bit out.
“Erm, it passes for truth in more than just Astrum,” he said, giving me a confused expression. “The same sort of thing happened again recently, in Spegel. Didn’t you hear about it?”
I stared at him. I had heard something about it. But I couldn’t speak.
His brow furrowed, and he took a breath.
“Why did reading that make you want to come in here and kill me?” he wondered. “Nothing has changed—you’d be killing yourself by striking me. Have you given up already?”
“What else is there for me to do?” I shot back. “If that is your solution, then you’ve gone mad.”
“It’s a solution that doesn’t involve either of us dying,” he pointed out. “I thought you’d be happy with that.”
“Happy?” I spat. “I am sick.”
“Yes, I imagine you are,” he replied, with dark sarcasm. “Even for a blind man, that’s easy to see.” He sat forward, pinning me with his words. “What sort of insane, wicked person travels beyond the border of her home to try to destroy an entire kingdom, whose people she has never known, and she is so eager to deal out death that she ensnares herself and turns everyone around her to stone? Imprisoned in her own twisted, fiendish trap like a spider wrapped in her own web. Incapable of any kind of feeling, goodness, nobility, or kindness.” His voice quieted. “A monster in the woods, afraid of her own reflection. Afraid to admit that she is human—and that she’s made a mistake.”
“I have not made a mistake!” I thundered, my vision blurring. My fingers trembled on the handle of the blade. “I know what I am, and what I have done! I am the first apprentice Gwiddon Baba Yaga has taken in more than a century—I am a Curse-Maker and the terror of Winterly Wood. I have killed more than a hundred men far stronger and more cunning than you; I’ve ruined the arrogant, covetous nobility who have dared cross my borders thinking they could trespass without consequence. Woe betide you, Prince, if you’d wandered into my land.” I bared my teeth and jabbed the blade at him. “I would have skinned you and built your bones into the roof of my master’s house.”
The prince said nothing for a long time. Then, he smirked.
“Well, lucky for me,” he spoke quietly. “I’m not on your land, am I?”
I took a breath, my lips quivering, baring my teeth again.
“My master will come,” I stated. “My master will come and kill you herself.”
“Really?” the prince’s eyebrows went up. “Where is she, then? I’m sure you’ve sent a message to her by now. If not several. What did she say?”
My expression twisted into a snarl. My hand shook. I didn’t answer.
“Mm,” the prince mused, his sightless eyes glancing down. “Apparently, she’s wiser than you are.”
I flung the knife.
It sped past him, and embedded in the heart of the ugly queen’s portrait.
“Aw,” the prince frowned one side of his mouth, glancing that direction. “What did you do to poor great-grandmother Millicent?” He turned back to me, and grinned. “I couldn’t stand her. She was the sourest woman! Never smiled, scolded you constantly for being too loud, hated children. Now I have an excuse to take her down.”
“I hate you,” I seethed.
He tilted his head, his expression quieting.
“Interesting,” he said. “Why do you hate me? I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Oh, you think not? You are only one of the dozens of tormentors of all the people of Edel,” I raged. “Your fathers have brought ruin and whip down on the people beneath them for centuries, unchecked. And I swear,” I snarled. “I will bring every royal household down, brick by brick, with my bare hands if I have to. And you will pay for what you’ve done.” With that, I spat on the carpet, turned and swept up the stairs, aiming for one of the tower staircases—to avoid the guardroom and find some other place in the castle to stay. Anywhere away from him.
I marched up the winding staircase, dragging one hand across the stone wall, my feet pounding.
I was perhaps twenty steps up when I realized I couldn’t breathe.
I jerked to a stop, my eyes going wide.
I fought to suck in a breath—
A horrific, stabbing pain seized my heart.
It skipped three beats.
Heat drained out of my body.
My legs collapsed. I struck the stone.
And I fell down the stairs.
I tumbled backward. My shoulders and head smacked the edge of the steps—I wrenched limply around and mangled down the bend in the case, slamming my arms and legs against the walls and the stairs. The whole world spun—my hearing buzzed, my gut turned over.
I hit the floor and splayed out on my back, my hips turned, gasping like a fish flung out onto the dock. My hands spasmed, my entire ribcage riddled with pain.
Suddenly—
Hands.
Hands stumbled into my head, found my shoulders. Warm fingers wrapped firmly around my neck, pressing against my spine.
“Is it broken?” someone gasped.
I finally pulled in a desperate breath, and my entire body began to shiver. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Faintly, I could sense those same hands feeling me all over—my arms, my legs, my head. Rushed but precise. Then, the flap of a small piece of fabric, and it pressed hard against my forehead. I forced my eyes open…
A stormy-browed Prince Krystian bent over me, holding a white cloth to my head with his left hand. With his other hand, he pressed his fingers to my throat, as if counting my heartbeats.
Confusion swallowed me.
“Can you hear me?” he asked tightly, his voice buzzing through my head. “Are you awake?”
“I…” I stammered, muddy and sluggish. “I’m…awake.”
He let out a brief sigh, then clenched his jaw.
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “But I don’t think you split your skull.”
I couldn’t summon words in any coherent order, and I couldn’t work past the pain in my chest to say anything.
“Can you lift your right arm?” he asked.
I frowned, befuddled.
“Erm…” I muttered, and feebly raised that arm…
He groped for it and caught hold of it
, then swung it up around his shoulders. The next moment, he pushed his arms underneath me, hefted me toward him…
And lifted me up as if I weighed nothing.
He strode effortlessly down the steps, carrying me, and maneuvered around several chairs to a burning fireplace, before which stood a long couch with pillows. Before I could form any sort of objection, he’d laid me down on that couch, moving the pillows away from my feet—then, he found the kerchief again, where it had fallen onto my shoulder, folded it up, and pushed it against the wound on my head.
My vision cleared. He straightened up, and took a step back. He had my blood on his hands.
I stared at him.
“What…” I managed, reaching up myself to push down on the kerchief to staunch my bleeding.
“What?” he repeated, sticking his hand out toward the fireplace and feeling around for a moment before he found a fire poker. He pulled it free of its stand and jabbed the logs in the hearth. The fire blazed high. With a few misaimed clanks, he put the poker back.
“Why…” I tried again. He faced me again, frowning, and pulled out another kerchief from his pocket and began wiping his hands.
“Why, now?” the edge of his mouth curved up, and a careless curl fell across his forehead. “Which is it?”
“I cannot kill you,” I rasped. “But you can kill me.”
He didn’t say anything—just methodically kept wiping his fingers.
“Why don’t you?” I murmured.
“What makes you think I’m the sort of man to kill a young woman?” he countered. “How old are you?”
“Four and twenty,” I muttered.
“Same age as my little sister, then,” he said, stretching out and putting the dirty kerchief on the mantle, then bracing his hand on the mantlestone. “You think I’d murder a young woman, unarmed, no less.” He raised his eyebrows in my direction. “Because I’m nobility, is that it?”
“Nothing you haven’t done before,” I growled.
Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow Page 9
