Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  I coughed.

  Water gushed out of my mouth.

  Pure, clear, clean water.

  I opened my eyes, blinking them clear, and stared.

  My heart thundered, my breaths gasping and tearing.

  My breaths!

  My lungs weren’t full anymore—magic wasn’t spilling out my eyes and nose and mouth. I could breathe.

  I could breathe.

  I covered my face with quavering hands and broke down sobbing.

  My entire frame shook and trembled, as the water quietly murmured around me, humming like a mother working at her spinning wheel. So warm, like a hot spring. So easy to breathe—the air filled with soothing steam…

  I had never, ever been so submerged in such clear, warm water in all my life.

  My clothes and cape and hair felt like lead, and my weeping frame staggered under their weight. Without thinking, I tugged at the clasp of my cape, pulled it loose and tossed it onto the wall. It hit the stones with a slap. With fingers that shook like the palsy, I untied my leather breastplate, wrenched it free and flung it out of the pool. Gasping, my hot tears burning streaks down my wet face, unstrapped my bracers, my belts, my leather collar, and threw them out onto the floor. Then, I peeled off my sagging, long-sleeved tunic, leaving my upper body completely bare for the first time in…I couldn’t remember.

  I sank down into the water, taking deep breaths that I let out in shudders, feeling the warm water wash over my bare skin. The sensation made goosebumps rise all over me. I closed my eyes, leaning back against the wall, then maneuvered so I could tug off my boots, my trousers, and my undergarments. I threw all of these off, and then plunged under the water again.

  I sank to the bottom, closing my eyes, feeling the liquid warmth completely surround my unguarded body. It washed through my tangled, ratted hair, the current swirling over my hundreds of hidden scars, wrapping around my wounded ribs, my injured leg, my beaten hands…

  I slowly raised up, keeping my eyes closed, intoxicated by the rippling warmth. My head broke the surface and I took another deep, cleansing breath of cooler, steamy air. And then I went back under.

  With deliberate strokes, I raked my fingers through my hair, prying all the knots and braids loose, letting the beads and metal emblems fall free. Luxuriating in the feeling of my tresses floating like a mermaid’s—soft and feathery and thick.

  I rose up again, taking more and more deep breaths, letting my head fall gently back so my ears were beneath the water, and all I could hear was the thunder of the falls roaring through the pool. Shutting my eyes. Letting all the deep, aching pain in my muscles and bones slowly melt away in the heat, feeling my heartbeat calm, my breaths becoming smooth and measured.

  A gentle movement of air touched my face. I opened my eyes, and lifted my head. The clean, crisp tumble of the falls clarified. I slowly rose to my feet, looking down at myself. I held out my arms in front of me, turning my hands over.

  There were the tattoos of the fundamentals on my fingers. There were the scars on my knuckles from the mines. There was the cut of the shackle on my left wrist, when I’d been arrested for witchcraft in Panswick, and escaped. There was the broad mark above my right breast where an arrow from a Ranger’s bow and clipped me. If his aim had been just a few inches truer, he would have struck my heart. There was the rune of Starov on my right forearm—a rune of white, risen skin—showing that I had been an apprentice of Baba Yaga.

  There were the bruises on my ribs, and I could see the bruises on my legs through the rippling water.

  But…

  They didn’t hurt anymore.

  Nothing hurt anymore.

  “Crow?”

  My head jerked around. My wet hair slapped my neck.

  The prince darted into the room from the far door, one hand wildly searching in front of him, his face flooded with alarm and concern.

  I threw my arms around my chest and instantly bent my knees, falling down so that the water covered me and the wall hid everything but my head.

  The next moment, I remembered he couldn’t see anything, let alone me.

  But still—I couldn’t bear the thought of being unclothed in front of him.

  “Are you in here?” he gasped, stumbling over a broken flower pot. “Crow? Where are you?”

  “I’m…I’m here,” I managed to call back, my voice hoarse and broken. He stopped, frowning hard.

  “What happened?” he demanded, out of breath. “I heard screaming and things breaking. Are you all right?”

  Heat burned my face, and helpless, childlike tears spilled down my face.

  “I just…” I choked, my lip trembling. “I just…I just wanted a bath.”

  His expression transformed. His brows drew together and his lips parted. He started forward, toward me, and I wrapped my arms tighter around myself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked again, much softer.

  “Mhm,” I mumbled weakly, swiping my tears away with my wet hand, splashing myself as I did. “I’m…I’m fine.”

  His keen, gentle expression deepened.

  “Do you have clean clothes?”

  “I…” I stammered, more tears tumbling as I glanced heavily across at the mess of my wet, beaten clothes all around his feet. “No. I don’t.”

  He thought for a moment, then held up a finger.

  “I’ll be right back.” And he strode across the room toward another door, marked with a symbol I didn’t know. Another door matched it, not far away. He pushed through the door and disappeared.

  Shakily, I set my chin on the wall, my shoulders shivering.

  In a moment, the door opened again, and the prince emerged carrying a white fleece robe with a sash, and a thick towel.

  “So you know,” he said, with a hint of his former smile. “The women’s bathing pool is just through there. It has a skylight, and chairs covered in soft fur, and robes and towels, and soaps and oils—everything you could want.”

  “Mm,” I managed, certain that if I tried to talk again, I’d break into tears.

  “Here,” he murmured, setting the towel on the wall. “Can you climb out without slipping?”

  I hesitated. I glanced at the towel, then past it to the floor. My muscles

  quivered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me help you,” he suggested, draping the robe over his left elbow and holding out his right hand to me. “I won’t look.” And he lifted his left hand, and covered his eyes.

  I stared at him.

  He was blind. I knew that. He obviously knew that.

  But somehow—seeing his hand firmly over his eyes comforted me.

  After several moments of debate—and frank reluctance to climb out of the warmth—I released partial hold of myself, reached up and grasped his fingers. He took firm hold of my hand, and braced me up as I stood. I swung one leg over, and, in my weakness, had to sit on the wall for a few seconds. He just tightened his hold.

  Taking another deep breath, I swung my other leg over, stood up, and snatched up the towel.

  Shaking and shivering, goosebumps covering me again, I dried myself as best I could, not truly knowing how best to do it.

  “How is that?” the prince asked, his eyes still covered.

  “Fine,” I answered, my teeth chattering.

  “Here,” he said, tugging the robe off his left elbow and holding it out to me.

  Shivering hard now, I dropped the towel, took the robe from him and shrugged into it, binding it around me and tying the sash tight.

  “Can I look now?” the prince asked.

  “You’re blind, you pig-dog,” I muttered. He laughed and dropped his hand.

  “Even if I wasn’t,” he said, smiling. But then it faded. His brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I answered back, unable to summon much.

  “I could hear you,” he said pointedly. “I could hear you crying, coughing, knocking things over...” He shook his head in question. “Wh
at happened?”

  “I’m fine,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself again. And new tears dripped down my face. “I’m fine.”

  “Hm,” he muttered, his expression deepening to a frown. Then, he stepped toward me, reached around me, put his arms around me...

  Pulled me into him, and wrapped me up in a warm, strong embrace. And he settled his head down against the side of mine.

  I choked again, startled and stunned. His grip tightened. His warmth—so like the warmth of the water—washed through me. And of a sudden, all I could do was squeeze my eyes shut, and bury my face in the crook of his neck.

  And he said nothing more, just held me as my long hair dripped water endlessly onto the marble.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I stood in the silence of my bedchamber, my arms wrapped around myself. Staring at the steaming bowl of broth, and the bread, cheese and wine that waited on the table by the fire.

  I felt empty, listless. My bare feet were cold, but the rug beneath them was soft.

  My crow’s wings cape and the rest of my black clothes draped over my arms, pulled close against me. The poor cape shivered occasionally, its shredded hems wavering.

  The prince had guided me up here, pulled out some of his sister’s nightclothes from the wardrobe and tossed them onto the bed, then gone back down to the kitchen to make food for me. I hadn’t said anything all the while. After he’d laid everything out, he asked me again if I was all right. I didn’t look at him, but I had nodded. Then, with some reluctance, he’d left me, and shut the door behind him.

  A drop of cold water fell from my cape and hit my foot.

  I winced, finally coming back to myself and peeling the cape off the front of my robe. Slowly, I made my way closer to the fire and draped the cape over a chair to dry. Then, I returned to the bed and stared down at the nightclothes that waited.

  Long, billowy pantaloons and a long-sleeved nightgown, all soft ivory, adorned with lace. I’d never worn something so flimsy to sleep in. It had never been safe enough for that…

  Shivering, I took off the robe, and quickly climbed into the pantaloons, then pulled the nightgown over my head. I shrugged into its warm softness, a deep weariness penetrating me all the way down to my bones.

  Pushing strands of my damp hair away from my face, I came back to the fire and sat down in front of the table of food. Gingerly, I picked up the spoon and ate what I could. I finished all the broth, half the bread, and a few sips of wine. My throat and mouth still felt raw, and an acrid scent lingered in my nose.

  With a sigh, I set the little table out of the way and leaned back in the cushioned chair, letting the warmth of the fireplace wash over me…My thoughts blank, my hands lying still in my lap…

  Hours passed. The flames guttered and lowered. The embers cooled. Darkness pressed into the corners of the room.

  I frowned.

  The smoke around the flames had blackened. And the flames themselves had turned…

  Green.

  My eyes flashed—and instantly, I was fully awake.

  I sat up, my fingers clamping around the cushion.

  And I watched.

  Smoke began to build within the hearth, lit by dim, flashing green lights—like lightning within a cloud. It roiled and turned, low and deadly as a pit of snakes.

  I got to my feet, my eyes fixed on the fire, backed away and stood behind the couch, keeping the furniture between me and the hearth.

  The next moment, the black smoke bled out from the grate like spilled poison, writhing across the rug and charring it…

  Flooding the room with the musk of myrrh.

  My heart gave a single, icy-cold bang. My hands closed to fists. And as I stared, the smoke pillared upward, as tall as a man—and then taller.

  All the way to the ceiling, until it swirled against the ancient arches. The green lightning flared within its depths, sputtering and twinkling and flashing.

  I bared my teeth, suddenly finding it hard to breathe—as if the air in the room had stifled. All the lamps shrank down to nothing, and the fire died completely.

  And a shape appeared in the smoke.

  Like a phantom walking on the sea, the shape of a slender man materialized amongst the blackness—a glowing, green-hued specter, with mighty black wings arching over his back and draping to the floor. His clothes shimmered with a ghostly, displaced light, his long black hair seething around his ice-white face.

  His angular head turned toward me, and his terrible eyes—bright as stars—pierced straight through me.

  Mordred.

  I crashed to my knees.

  “Crow,” Mordred whispered, unblinking and fixed upon me. “What are you doing?”

  “I…” I gasped, my mind spinning. “I wrote…I wrote to Baba Yaga, asking what I should do…”

  “What you should do,” he repeated, canting his head like a bird of prey. “What do you mean?”

  “I…I enspelled myself,” I rasped, feeling like my chest was being crushed. “I’m trapped—the Seal has me trapped here. The people of the castle are all turned to stone, the prince is blind. He is the guardian of the

  seal—”

  “I know,” Mordred answered, his voice quiet, his breath like a frozen gale off the sea. “I know everything. Except…” His dreadful eyes narrowed. “…why you have done nothing.”

  Feeling the blood drain out of my face, I held up shaking hands.

  “What can I do?” I tried.

  A look of delicate confusion crossed his face.

  “Are there no balconies?” he asked. “No staircases, no landings, no cliffs? No knives, no poisons, no swords?”

  “Are there…” I stammered, bewildered. I shook my head, trying to clear it. “What? Yes, yes there are—”

  “Then why haven’t you killed him?!” The thunder of his voice nearly split my head—it shattered against the walls, raking through the chandelier, ripping through the curtains. His towering form swelled to fill the entire room, the smoke swirling around me, engulfing me up to my waist.

  “But—If I kill him—” I choked, taking fistfuls of the collar of the nightgown.

  “You will die?” Mordred’s eyes blazed—and with a clap of giant wings, he bent down so his nose nearly touched mine. His white face filled my vision, his gaze swallowed my mind. My chest locked and I could not breathe.

  “You said you would do this, Gwiddon Crow,” he snarled, his precise, cultured voice biting into me like knives. “By setting foot in Astrum, you made a vow to see it through to the end.” His eyes burned like blue fire. “The kingdom of Astrum stands upon the edge of a blade. Why has it not fallen?” He lowered his tone to a hiss. “Are you afraid?”

  I stared at him, feeling the full weight of his meaning upon my shoulders.

  Mordred slowly shook his head.

  “Your master is ashamed of you. She told me once you had the heart of a wolf,” he murmured. “Perhaps she was wrong.”

  “I am not afraid,” I snarled back, my lips trembling.

  “Good,” he nodded—and suddenly withdrew to the ceiling with a chilling gust. He looked down his nose at me. “Then do it. Or I will be forced to intervene.”

  Thunder cracked.

  I gasped.

  With a squall of wind, the smoke blasted up the chimney and vanished…

  Leaving the room in utter darkness behind him.

  It took six tries to snap my fingers—my hands shook so badly—but I finally was able to perform a quick drying spell on my black clothes. The moisture left the garments in noisy puffs of steam. Then, standing in front of the renewed fire, I stripped off the nightclothes, laid them aside, and put my usual clothes back on. They felt warm, and clean, and fitted me better than before.

  With every move I made, my tremors calmed. I focused only on the habitual, methodical motion of pulling on my trousers, binding up that belt, tugging on my long shirt, wrapping my breastplate around me, fastening two more belts. The buckles made brisk clicking s
ounds; the straps on my bracers stretched and latched. My torn cape fluttered eagerly as I swung it around my shoulders and fastened it to the upper parts of my breastplate. I then bent and yanked on my boots. I stood up, straightened myself, and looked in the mirror.

  And the next moment, I turned away from my reflection, and headed to the door.

  I opened it and strode out into the hall, pushing my weariness and sickening nausea to the back of my mind. I suddenly felt as if every nerve was raw, that every footstep was loud; I could sense every little breath of air.

  I listened. And in a few moments, I heard footsteps that answered my own.

  I opened my mouth to call out—and then shut it.

  I had never used his name. Never called him by his title. The realization locked my jaw.

  I reached the end of the corridor and paused at the top of the spiral stairs, listening again. I could hear him down there, somewhere. Perhaps crossing the floor of the hearth room, heading toward another flight of stairs.

  I started down. My heart accelerated—and soon it was hammering through my chest, my pulse pounding in my throat. I picked up my pace, my noisy footfalls echoing all up and down the stairwell. My hands closed to fists against my will, my fingernails biting into my palms. I took short, quick breaths through my nose, my jaw clamped. I was halfway down.

  I went faster.

  I trotted down the staircase, forgetting to count them, my cape billowing out behind me. My head bowed, watching my feet with obsessive intensity, my insides burning and churning—

  A flash of movement—

  A yelp—

  My body collided with the prince.

  For an instant, I glimpsed his startled face…

  Before he twisted, lost his balance, pitched backward—

  In the span of a heartbeat, I saw the future.

  I saw him tumbling headfirst down onto the staircase. Saw his skull split, blood strike the stone stairs. I saw him crash like wreckage all the way down the case, then roll to a limp heap at the bottom, his arm and leg twisted unnaturally beneath him, his face blank.

  Like fire, that vision burned itself into my head—