Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  “Ad astra per aspera, madam,” he answered. “And you said you haven’t read anything about it, so you can’t know what’s possible and what isn’t. Or were you lying and you really would rather die?”

  My lip trembled again, my brow twisted…

  I couldn’t answer.

  Something about him softened. He nodded once.

  “I’ve made my decision,” he declared quietly. “Are you willing to try?”

  “I…” My throat closed. I swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

  “I don’t either,” he said frankly. “But I know where we ought to start.”

  Confusion and indignation twisted inside me. I sniffed, shaking my head.

  “Where? How?”

  He didn’t answer. He just stepped down the bridge toward me. My breathing picked up, my confusion mounting…

  He stopped about five feet in front of me, and held out his right hand to me. I stared at it.

  This could be a trick. He could get hold of me, rip me in and break my neck, and in my state…

  He could have done that at the foot of the stairs. He could have broken my neck, or smothered me, or pulled the knife from out of the portrait and put it through my heart.

  He could have.

  I let go of the urn. Shaking, I reached out, and set my long, calloused, tattooed fingers against his.

  He instantly frowned.

  So did I.

  His hand was soft—but strong, and warm. His fingers slowly closed around mine. His silvery eyes moved back and forth, as if searching…

  He took two steps toward me.

  My teeth clenched, my heart started to pound.

  He was taller than I was, and he seemed to loom over me—since I had no power to run away…

  He lifted his left hand. He let go of my hand.

  Both his hands bumped my shoulders.

  Softly, they encircled my neck, his thumbs resting on my jaw.

  A heated shock, like lightning, flashed down through my body.

  All at once, everything focused with blazing clarity. I could feel the warmth of his whole body, I could smell him—a musk of frankincense—I could see the way all the torches reflected against his silvery eyes. A scar on his forehead, accompanying the one on his cheek.

  He also had a small scar near the corner of his mouth.

  I froze. My heart raged in my ears. My wide eyes fixed on his—but he could not see me.

  Instead, he shut his eyes.

  And he leaned down toward me.

  I drew in a sharp breath. The heady scent of frankincense drowned me.

  His nose bumped my cheek.

  And the next instant—

  His lips closed over mine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I sat cross-legged in front of the fire, staring at the flames.

  Seeing nothing.

  I clamped my fingers tightly together in my lap, my jaw locked.

  Terrifying thrills of hot and cold washed through my whole body in alternating waves, my stomach clenched. I could hardly breathe.

  And I couldn’t move.

  My mouth burned, though it was hours since his lips had pressed to mine.

  The heat of his touch had shocked me, the feeling of his unfamiliar mouth against mine—such a stunning and foreign sensation. Never, never in all my life had anyone ever put his mouth to mine. The memory of it kept racing over my skin, across my throat, making goosebumps rise on my arms.

  As I relived that blazing memory for the thousandth time, fighting to quell it but powerless to stop it, my cheeks heated like a fever, only to turn ice cold, then to fire again.

  I could not remember how long we had stood like that, our mouths locked together. I couldn’t remember anything but the overwhelming smell of him, the taste of him, the heat of his hands by my face.

  He hadn’t leaned in. He had not wrapped his arms around me. Neither had I reached up to touch him.

  When he had suddenly released me, the entire world had tipped, and I’d almost lost my balance. I gasped.

  I had opened my eyes—unaware that I’d closed them—to see him frowning distantly, that one maddening curl falling across his forehead. It had been a dark and troubled look on his face, and for some infuriating and bewildering reason, it had filled my head with heat, and sent a snarl of something black and angry twisting through my chest.

  Something like…

  Humiliation?

  I now opened my eyes.

  Stared at the fire.

  When had I closed them?

  My shivering right hand reached up to press against the base of my throat. I swallowed hard, my breathing unsteady.

  After I had fled from him, without a word, I’d reflexively stolen a piece of bread from the larder—but when I’d retreated to the guard room and tried to eat it, my stomach suddenly wouldn’t hold anything, and I had to spit it out.

  Yet, as I sat here on the hearthstones, the pain in my middle, in my leg and in my head had inexplicably dwindled, the edge dulling to almost nothing. Replaced by these bizarre and unnerving tremors of heightened feeling that sent my heartbeat racing.

  Baba Yaga was right—I should have studied this family more closely. Prince Krystian was casting spells, he had to be. He was possessed of some sort of magical power, some talent, some gift that he’d perhaps been born with. A fairy blessing that lived in his very skin, something that could reach inside a person and bewitch them with no more than a touch. It was magic. That was the only explanation.

  What else could it be?

  “Between March and April, when spray beginneth to spring

  The little bird, with happy heart, in her own tongue does sing

  And I live in love-longing, for the fairest of all things

  For she to me truest bliss may bring

  And to her power I am bound…”

  Frowning hard, I ventured into the corridor outside the guardroom. The voice—easy, hauntingly-beautiful and lilting—drifted toward me through the darkness, echoing through the vast chambers outside.

  Terror flashed through me and I grabbed the doorframe.

  It was Prince Krystian. Singing again.

  A shudder ran through me.

  I should shut the door. I should back away, I should put my hands over my ears…

  “A wonderous chance have I been lent

  I know from heaven it is to me sent

  From all other women my love relents

  And lights on Alysoun.”

  I stopped.

  And I suddenly realized I was halfway down the corridor. My heart jolted as I came back to myself…

  And the words of his song shot through me again.

  Alysoun? Who was Alysoun?

  Again, I started forward, as if pulled by a chain within my chest. I moved through a door ahead of me, and paused in a dim, crossways corridor, the water bubbling through a narrow channel.

  A door to my right, open to the great hall.

  His song came from there.

  “Of hue her hair is gold as wheat

  Her brow is fair, her eyes are black

  With lovely face, she smiles so sweet

  A winsome form she does not lack

  But unless to her myself she takes

  For to be her very own mate

  Long to live, I shall forsake

  And dead I shall fall down…”

  I approached the door and leaned through, scanning the large room until I spotted him. He walked slowly away from me, down the center of the towering room. Grey light from the vast skylight cast him in frosty illumination, countered only by the few low-burning torches set into the pillars. My eyebrows drew together, and I stepped inside, as his voice soared up to the stone rafters, swelling through the chill air, surrounding me and vibrating through my bones.

  “A wonderous chance have I been lent

  I know from heaven it is to me sent

  From all other women my love relents

  And lights on Alysoun.

&nb
sp; All night long, I twist and wake

  Until my face is pale and wan

  Lady, all for thy sake!

  Longing may bring me to drown.

  In this whole world, there is truly no man

  To write her loveliness. No one can.

  Her neck is whiter than the swan

  The fairest maid in town.”

  Prince Krystian turned, and I could see his face. That infernal curl of dark hair gracing his brow, his attention distant. As if he was listening to the echoes of his own voice, feeling the sound travel through his own frame, for the simple pleasure of it.

  “A wonderous chance have I been lent

  I know from heaven it is to me sent

  From all other women my love relents

  And lights on Alysoun.

  I am from courting all awake

  Weary as a knight from war

  Lest any her from me take

  My heart is for terror sore

  It is better, though, to brief be tore

  Than to mourn forevermore

  Fairest, do not let me suffer long

  Hearken unto my song!”

  I blinked…

  And realized I’d come all the way into the great hall, past the pillars, and stood near the dais, beside the thrones.

  Prince Krystian’s head came around. As if he had seen me.

  I froze. My heart bashed into my chest.

  He smiled a little.

  My face became so hot it hurt.

  “I always come here to sing,” the prince said, his voice consumed in cathedric echoes. “When there’s not an audience, that is.”

  I cleared my throat. My mouth opened, then shut. I was blushing so hard I almost couldn’t see. I clenched my hand by my side, to keep from slapping my own cheek.

  “Have you been this direction, yet?” he asked, pointing off to his right, at a door I just now noticed.

  I cleared my throat—and realized stupidly that he couldn’t see me if I just shook my head. I had to speak.

  “No,” I muttered.

  “It might interest you,” he noted, starting that direction. His shoes tapped softly on the marble, and he lifted a hand absently in front of him, reaching out slightly for the door handle…

  His fingers bumped it, and he found the brass grip, and tugged on it.

  The door opened. He swung it far open, and left it so, then stepped through.

  And I followed him. That invisible chain tugged inside my chest.

  I gritted my teeth. It had to be magic. It had to be.

  But…

  If that were the case…

  Why couldn’t I fight it?

  I stepped across the threshold, and stopped.

  A dusty, leathery smell welled up to meet me. Beyond me waited a very tall room—I could tell that, from the very feel of it. But the sounds of my footsteps were muffled, and it stood all in darkness.

  “This is where the monks of Astrum work,” came the prince’s voice from somewhere inside. “These are their desks, all these rows of them, and then all these walls—”

  “I can’t see,” I cut him off blackly. “There’s not a single light.”

  Prince Krystian laughed. The sound rankled me…

  And at the same time, sent an unearthly thrill through my body.

  “Well, maybe this won’t be so interesting after all,” he muttered. “The lamps are up high, and the servants are in charge of lighting them. I don’t even know—”

  I heaved a sigh, set my jaw, lifted my hand, and snapped my fingers.

  Flames burst to life, one by one, in the lamps all around the room. And as I watched…

  A towering cloister library bloomed into being.

  The rich golden light from the ornate-glass lamps revealed a room filled with polished wooden platforms, upon which stood rows and rows of stately desks and padded stools. Leather-bound tomes stood upon each desk, flanked by all kinds of writing instruments and dozens of bottles of colored ink. And upon the far wall, floor to high ceiling, waited shelves upon shelves packed with similar leather-bound books, all of equal size. Great burning lamps hung from black chains from the ceiling, and little lamps stood upon each desk, to light the work of each penman.

  Unable to stop myself, I looked over at Prince Krystian.

  He stood not far from me, his face thoughtfully tilted upward. The golden light resting upon his curls, his shoulders, the angles and surfaces of his face, flickering across his eyes…

  “I think I hear the lamps burning,” he murmured. He blinked a couple times, then turned his head slightly toward me. “Did you do that?”

  I just sighed again, and then grunted, turning away from him. Trying to tamp down my blushing again.

  “As I was saying,” he said, and I could feel his small smirk. “This is where the monks of Astrum work. Every year, the Sophos Gatherers go out from Astrum, and travel to the ends of Edel, recording every battle, every marriage, every purchase of property, every death, every birth, every renovation, every bridge built, every new path carved, every hanging, every arrest, every theft, every murder—everything of note that happens to anyone, rich or poor, noble or common.” He stepped forward, touching the railing of one of the platforms, slipping his fingers across the smooth wooden surface. “Each of the Gatherers wears an ancient talisman, and it protects him from all curses, all weapons. It lets him pass through any magical barrier, any illusion. But none of the Gatherers can strike anyone, or wear a weapon, or the protection disappears.” The prince stepped into an aisle between platforms, and folded his arms over his chest. “Then, once everything is gathered, they come back home. They give all their papers, all their records, to the monks. And the monks spend the rest of the year writing everything down.” He gestured to the wall of books. “This is the history of Edel. Almost from the very beginning. And this…” He stepped forward, found his way to a narrow, wooden staircase, and climbed up it to the third shelf. He bent down, and rapped his knuckles on the spine of one of the largest books. “…is the history of Albain.”

  I frowned sharply.

  He straightened, and turned around, raising his eyebrows.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said, stepped down the staircase, walked toward me…

  And passed me.

  His shoulder nearly brushed mine.

  I sucked in my breath, shutting my eyes…

  The breath of his passage touched me, and then he departed. His absence filled the room.

  My eyes refocused. And I narrowed them at the shelf.

  Gritting my teeth, I started forward.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Carrying the book under my arm, I limped slowly down the cloister aisle, over a footbridge that crossed another channel of water, and out an unfamiliar door…

  To find myself in the great, empty hall of fountains. I paused.

  My stomach rumbled.

  I bit my cheek. If I remembered correctly, and had my bearings right, the door at the far end of this hall led to the gardens.

  The gardens with the bridge, where the prince had stepped up to me and…

  “Ugggghhh!” I groaned through my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut and forcefully shifting my thoughts away.

  And the gardens had a door that led to the kitchens. If I just followed this canal, I’d find my way there.

  My steps still hitching, my boots tapping through the silence—accompanied only by the gurgling water—I made my slow and careful way across the marble floor. Grinding my teeth against the ache in my joints.

  I pushed through the door with my shoulder, and stepped into the garden.

  It immediately felt warmer, the damp scent of flowers and leaves filling the air. I paused, trying to peer through the foliage to find the door I knew was there…

  My attention tripped over the white railing of that bridge. The large stone urns beside it. Right where I had stood…

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” I snapped to myself, starting forward again. I wound my way along sev
eral meandering paths, trying with all my might to come across one that was at least relatively straight…

  And then, all at once, the door was right in front of me. Half open.

  The smell of baking bread rolled out toward me—and my mouth watered.

  I swallowed, blinking, as I came to an unsteady halt.

  Humming issued from the kitchen, along with warm, bright light. And I suddenly wanted to roll my eyes.

  The prince was in the kitchen.

  I glanced back toward the rest of the garden. Glared at it.

  There was nothing edible in here except raw herbs, all planted in neat rows. And I wasn’t about to just eat a handful of basil.

  I did roll my eyes, now. And then I dragged myself through the door.

  The savory scent of bread flooded my head as I stepped into the well-lit, large kitchen. The whitewashed walls, baskets and herbs tied to the rafters, a huge fireplace with a spit, three large ovens, three broad wooden tables.

  One of the open ovens—a brick oven in the wall—radiated heat, and a large cottage loaf stood upon the hot bricks, gently baking.

  And Prince Krystian stood at one of the tables in front of it, his coat off and draped over the back of a chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had flour on his blue waistcoat and trousers, and a dusting of it on his nose. He was busily kneading another batch of dough—working it hard, flipping it over onto the table with a loud slap, then working it again, all whilst he hummed.

  I stared at him.

  All around him on the table waited the ingredients for the bread dough, neatly arranged. And he worked the dough as briskly and certainly as any housewife or baker I had ever seen.