Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  His wings eclipsed the world. He swung his sword down in a hammer-stroke to my head—

  I lunged upward. The king’s sword blazed like sunlight.

  Mordred’s blade clashed against its edge.

  An explosion rocked the clearing. Light blinded me.

  I did not fall.

  Mordred spat magic in my face. The burning liquid scattered over my cheeks.

  Our swords tangled like wolves. Mordred’s feet hit the ground.

  Like a devilish dancer, he attacked me with a whirlwind of precise, flying blows—an ancient, chaotic style I had never seen.

  Magic humming and buzzing all around me, I funneled it through me, swinging my shield back and forth so his blade skittered across it, jabbing my sword over top of the shield to stab at his face, his throat, the side of his chest—

  He knocked each of my strikes away, and his broke against my shield like a battering squall against a battlement. Once—only once—my sword cracked against his chest. But it made no mark.

  He swung one of his mighty wings like the boom on a ship. I ducked. Burning wind raked over my back.

  I whirled into the opening. My cape flung up and out, and bit him across the face.

  Blood sprang onto the skin of his neck and cheek. He hissed and recoiled, then beat at me with his other wing.

  I twisted and raked my blade across the length of it. But the metal skidded over the feathers as if they were dragon scales, shooting sparks.

  Mordred lunged with his sword straight toward my middle.

  I wrenched my weapon into a tight circle swing—

  And cut his blade off at the hilt.

  The clash of the sword’s breaking deafened me.

  Mordred sprang back, a strange light in his eyes.

  And suddenly, I felt it vibrate beneath my feet—all around me.

  A tingling, stinging golden light.

  It thrilled against my skin, crackled through my hair. Turned the hilt of the sword hot to my touch.

  The Seal. It was the Seal.

  Inhuman strength flooded my entire body. I suddenly saw Mordred’s bones, his beating heart, the internal frame of his wings.

  With the speed of lightning, I entered the gap, lunging into Mordred’s arms, letting go of my shield and wrapping my left arm around his neck, and plunging the king’s sword straight through the tender shoulder of his left wing.

  He howled, and wrenched out of my grasp.

  My sword pulled away from my hand.

  He staggered back, yelping and gasping, blood gushing from his limp wing. He frantically reached up, grasped the hilt, and jerked the blade loose. He flung it down on the ground, clutching at his human left shoulder.

  His eyes found mine. They scalded me with their frozen power.

  “May you lose your way, you insolent cur,” he spat. “And never find the path to the halls of your fathers.”

  Confusion flittered through my mind.

  But with a sudden gust of wind, darkness swallowed him, and he disappeared.

  The forest fire went out.

  Darkness fell like a thunderclap.

  An icy wind blew through the embers and the skeletal trees, sending up a cloud of grey ash…

  Before silence descended.

  I blinked, frowning, my eyes fighting to adjust to the sudden darkness. In a moment, the smoke had cleared from the sky, and the white moonlight poured down into the clearing.

  And I suddenly fell to my knees.

  “Crow? Crow!”

  Krystian’s call echoed strangely in my ears. I hardly heard him. Because I was staring in confusion down at something protruding from my chest.

  It looked like…

  A black, broken blade.

  Covered in blood.

  I touched the edge of it with my fingertips. Mordred’s last words wandered through my mind.

  “Oh,” I whispered, blinking and glancing up at the trees around me—which now blurred before my eyes. “I understand.”

  “Crow!”

  A flash of movement, and a chaotic skidding sound just to my right—

  And Krystian caught me just as I weakly tumbled backward.

  “Oh, no—oh, no,” he cried, his voice ragged and panicked. I frowned again, squeezing my eyes shut to open them again, hoping they would focus…

  “Krystian,” I whispered as he bent over me, and I could see half of his face bathed in moonlight. I smiled at him.

  “This…This can…We can heal this,” he gasped, pressing his hand down over the wound, parting his fingers to make way for the blade.

  “Mmhh…!” I grunted—feeling a dart of pain shoot through my middle.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped—and something hot and wet landed on my face. I blinked again, trying to see him…

  His cheeks were shining. And tears dripped from his beautiful dark eyes onto my lips. I gazed up at him, feeling warm and listless. The edges of light around his head had begun to glow, like a halo. I smiled again.

  “I hit him,” I whispered.

  He laughed brokenly.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Remember that, prince,” I said. “A draid is weak beneath his wings.”

  “I will,” Krystian nodded furiously.

  “You…You might…” I said, wincing as I struggled to form words. “You might have trouble with him again…”

  “But you’ll be here,” Krystian insisted. “He’ll be too afraid of you to try again.”

  I chuckled. It hurt a little. Something warm trickled down my lips.

  For some reason, Krystian made a sudden choking, weeping sound. I opened my eyes, my smile fading, and gazed up into his. His brow was twisted, tears streaming down and dripping from his nose and chin. And I think he held my head and shoulders upon his warm arm.

  A wave of cold shadow passed through my body. I gazed at him long, the moonlight caressing his features.

  “I am sorry, Krystian,” I finally breathed. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, and your family, and your…your beautiful kingdom.”

  He was already shaking his head.

  “No, don’t say anything like that,” he bit out. And I felt him wrap his bloody right hand around the back of my neck.

  “Mordred…Mordred was right,” I gasped out, my eyes fixed on his. “I…I won’t go to the halls of my fathers. Instead, I…I will try to find my way to yours.”

  A sob broke through Krystian’s body. He stroked my hair away from my face. But I couldn’t feel it. I smiled at him again.

  “Then…perhaps…” I whispered. “I might someday see you there.”

  He bent his head and buried his warm, tear-wet face in the crook of my neck, winding his arms around me.

  I shut my eyes, taking a breath of him—of the smell of ash and sweat, but the earthy, masculine, sweet scent of his heart magick, too.

  I tried to take another breath—but my lungs wouldn’t fill. The shadow had suddenly taken my legs, wrapped around my middle, immobilized my arms.

  Darkness stopped up my throat, covered my mouth, shut my nose.

  Then, it put its hand over my eyes.

  I twitched once, hard.

  My heart stopped.

  And I died.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I took a deep breath.

  It felt effortless. As if, when I had breathed before—since the day I was born—I had had a weight of bricks on my chest and shoulders. Now, I couldn’t even hear the air entering and leaving my lungs.

  And the smell…

  Sweet and damp, like moss and low-blooming flowers, and fresh water…

  I could hear it. I could hear the water.

  It murmured and gurgled against smooth rocks, somewhere nearby.

  My eyelids moved beneath my lids. I took another effortless breath. I felt solid ground beneath me.

  Soft. Familiar. Yet, not at all so.

  Fallen leaves. Yes, that’s what I was lying on.

  I opened my eyes.

  Graduall
y, my vision focused.

  Far, far above me, great trees formed a canopy. Light filtered down through the motionless leaves, and a sort of gentle, blue haze captured that light, wafting between the thick, moss-covered branches.

  I sat up.

  I did it before I even thought about it.

  My muscles in my stomach and back didn’t strain. Nothing ached. I looked down at myself.

  No blade protruded from my chest. No blood covered my clothes.

  I pressed my hand to the simple black dress I was wearing…

  And stopped.

  The tattoos on my fingers had vanished. So had the scars on my knuckles from my childhood in the mines. And the brand of Baba Yaga.

  I climbed to my feet. Red and orange leaves fell off of me in showers, fluttering to the mossy ground. I took another deep breath of the sweet, moist air, my brow furrowing as I looked around me.

  A very old, quiet forest. No birds sang, and mists hung amongst the ferns and vines that tapered up the trunks of the ancient beeches. I stood still for a long time, casting my gaze all around me. But for some reason, I couldn’t summon any sensation of fear.

  The shadows here seemed soft. Even beautiful. A deep purple, edged in blue. The trees were listening, but absently. And they didn’t loom down over me, trying to claw at my hair. Little blue flowers bloomed in carpet-like patches, and each blossom almost shone from within.

  The water murmured again. But I couldn’t see it from where I stood.

  I followed the sound of it. Immediately, I realized I wore no shoes. But my bare feet encountered nothing that would hurt me—no sharp stones or jabbing roots or twigs. The moss and flowers and leaves felt like cool carpet against my skin. The train of my flowing black skirt trailed behind me.

  I wandered down something that seemed like a path for a longer time than I could measure, searching for the sound of the water—yet not feeling as if I needed to be in any particular hurry. It felt good to breathe. Just to draw air in and out, in and out. My body had somehow freed itself from every pain, ache, injury and limp I had been carrying around for what seemed like forever. I walked straighter, without fearing to trip, quietly relishing the cool sensation of my feet passing through the patches of flowers.

  Then, I rounded a vast oak tree, and finally glimpsed the river.

  It flowed very slowly, its edges barely rippling. It was crystal clear, and I could see the black, shimmering stones on the bottom. Fascinated by the undulating ripple of the reflections against its surface, I drew nearer, and knelt down beside it. My eyebrows drew together as I gazed down into it, and I reached out with one hand, and touched the edge of the water.

  It was ice cold—refreshing and shocking—and I smiled as I gently dragged my fingers through it, watching as the current moved past them, returning to the river’s unchanging, eternal flow. Unaltered by anything I could ever do.

  And then…

  A different reflection in the water.

  It interrupted the mirror image of the muted sky overhead, the branches of the trees, and the floating mists. It seemed to shimmer like a star, like something vibrant and living—yet somehow older than the wood.

  I lifted my head.

  My lips parted. I said nothing.

  A white horse stood on the other bank. Its mane and tail fell in elegant waves almost to the ground. Its bridle sparkled silver, its black eye watching me with placid attention.

  And astride this horse sat an elf.

  Wreathed in a cape of purest white, its edges embroidered in gold that glistened by the light of its own garment. It draped down to the sides and behind the horse in a weightless curtain, more delicate than lace. He also wore silver armor that fitted his lean, elegant body like skin. It looked as if hundreds of the very leaves of the wood had been magically turned to metal, and embraced his frame to fit it, and to move with the ease of a thought. The edges of each leaf shone and flickered like flamelight, though he did not stir.

  He had hair like snow, and it fell straight down his back and shoulders, uninterrupted by ornamentation—except a circlet of gold on his head, that bent in a slight bow upon his brow.

  He looked at me. His face perfect and noble, his mouth delicate, his eyebrows dark and thoughtful, his eyes filled with starlight. His countenance shone, but from what light, I could not see.

  And as I met his gaze, I was stricken through with a terrible, wrenching, delicious pain. And I couldn’t look anywhere else.

  “Hello,” he said simply—in a voice quiet as the summer wind. “Tell me your name?”

  For several minutes, I couldn’t even breathe, let alone think or speak. But finally, my mouth stammered out an answer.

  “I’m Crow. Of Winterly Wood.”

  “Hm,” he said lightly, and a hint of a smile passed his pale lips. “And do you know where you are, Crow of Winterly Wood?”

  “I…No,” I whispered, shaking my head—and feeling fear stab me for the first time since I had awakened. “Am I…Am I trespassing on your lands, my lord?”

  He did smile now. His eyes twinkled, and the brilliance of his face warmed.

  “Not at all,” he answered. And with the grace of a bird, he dismounted. His cape cascaded down behind him like a cloud, slowly tumbling round his ankles. He stepped soundlessly around his horse—and in a single movement, he leaped over the stream like a deer, and landed not far in front of me.

  I almost sprang to my feet—then stopped myself, realizing that I ought to stay on my knees.

  As his cape settled around him again, he tilted his head, considering me. I could only gaze back up into those fathomless eyes…

  Realizing that if I could get close enough, I could certainly count the constellations there.

  “Do you know me?” he asked, his tones deep and uninvasive, as if we sat down at a meal together.

  “No, my lord,” I shook my head again. “I have never met you.”

  His gaze twinkled again.

  “Oh, I believe you have,” he answered. “Quite intimately.”

  I frowned at him. He glanced over at the river.

  “Don’t you recognize my song?” he asked softly. “For though it passes through many realms, through many walls and many tongues, through fells in the highest rocks, and the fairest valleys filled with wildflowers, the melody is the same. And I am always calling.” He turned his shining head back, and looked down at me. “I was always calling you, Crow. Daughter of Bane and Egeth.”

  I stared at him.

  “Who are you?” I breathed.

  He didn’t answer.

  But a wind disturbed the trees. The leaves rustled in sudden agitation, and the water itself rippled, as if trying to cry out in words I could understand.

  The stranger did not stir—only stood, looking down at me. And I up at him.

  “You see, Crow?” he murmured—his eyes burning with brilliance, his words piercing my heart. “I am not dead.”

  “Oh…!” I gasped, chills racing over my skin as I covered my mouth with my hand. Tears stung my eyes, and I suddenly felt that I should get up and run away as fast as I could…

  Or throw myself at his feet and sob.

  “I…I…” I stammered, my mind stumbling and flailing. “Forgive me! I…I didn’t know anything. I…I still know nothing. I don’t understand anything, I never did.” My tears fell, and I emphatically shook my head, swiping at my cheeks.

  “Come here,” he said quietly. I lifted my head, blinking through my tears, to see him holding out his hand to me.

  “I…I can’t,” I insisted, my forehead twisting. “I can’t stand. Not in front of you.”

  “I am asking you to stand,” he said—and he smiled with something like gentle amusement. “Come here, Solnyshko.”

  My heart jumped. And before I knew what I was doing, I had climbed to my feet, and stretched out my hand.

  He took it. Wrapped my fingers up in his.

  His hand was warm, and strong, and soft, and young. A soothing heat traveled
up my arm, and bloomed in my chest. He pulled me closer, and carefully enveloped my hand in both of his, frowning down at them intertwined, as if weighing many thoughts. He was so tall, and his light cascaded softly down over me, like a rain of leaves falling from a tree in autumn.

  “I felt everything,” he said, closing his eyes as pain crossed his fair face. “Every time.”

  For an instant, a deep ache rippled all through my body—flashes of phantom, remembered pain: the rocks of the mine clawing my knuckles, the needles and ink in my fingers, my neck…the sharp crack of my father’s fist hitting my mouth, the agonizing hiss of the hot shovel scalding my face…

  His fingers tightened around mine, as helpless tears raced down my cheeks and fell from my chin. I looked up at him, and he looked at me…

  I saw, upon that beautiful face, the exact same scars I wore upon my own.

  Again, I could not breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t take my eyes from his.

  The scars on his face faded. And as they did, my own pain dissipated, and vanished.

  He tilted his head, studying me with those limitless eyes, and reached up to brush away my tears with his thumb.

  “Why do you think Mordred and Vassilissa wanted you?” he asked quietly, as he swept my tears away with soft, deft strokes.

  “Vassilissa?” I repeated, my lip trembling. “Oh! Baba Yaga.”

  He smiled and glanced at the ground, wrapping my hand up in both of his again, and pressing it to his heart. The metal of his armor was warm.

  “I knew her by Vassilissa first,” he told me. “A sweet, lovely child, with hair like ringlets of golden fire. And a heart more tender than anyone knew.” He looked at me, his eyebrows drawing together—and his look cut my heart. “How I miss her!”

  I took a jagged breath.

  He smiled sadly, squeezing my hand again. I remembered his question.

  “I don’t know why they wanted me,” I confessed. He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Indeed?” He paused a moment. “Mordred and Vassilissa have feared you since the day you were born,” he said, his voice deep and solemn. “Because I had chosen you. I had laid my protection upon you, so that nothing done to you could break you. They wished to turn that to their purpose—but of course, their purpose will never ultimately succeed.”