Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  “Well, where is she, then?” Esteban grumbled.

  “Yes, spit it out, lad,” Lew said, taking his notebook from his vest pocket. “We have schemes to plan.”

  “I believe Mae and her bouncing bundle of complication are being held in Narrowmar Stronghold.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which Archer heard a faint, sleepy sigh from Briar. She had stopped tossing and turning, but it sounded as if her dreams were troubled. He knew a thing or two about that.

  “Impossible,” Esteban said hoarsely. “We barely had a chance with the castle. We will not remove anything from Narrowmar that Larke wants to keep there, living or dead.”

  “I have faith in us,” Archer said. “I fully expect to get both of them out alive.” His fist tightened on the arrow, bending the shaft. “I’m willing to die trying, though I understand if the rest of you don’t feel that way.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you’re the only brave and noble soul here,” Lew said. He glanced at his wife, his face sober. “We all agreed to do whatever it takes.”

  Jemma sat utterly still. Archer held his breath. Jemma knew more about Narrowmar than most of them. She understood the risks the change in direction would involve. For a heart-squeezing moment, he was afraid she would say no, afraid she would say it was impossible. But she met her husband’s eyes steadily, then she pulled her red shawl tighter around her shoulders and nodded to Archer.

  He released a breath. Once Jemma gave her assent, the others would as well.

  “Fine,” Esteban muttered. “We’ll figure out a way.”

  “Good,” Archer said. “So, shall we talk about our new route? I’d like to sleep a wink before the sun rises.”

  Their new course would change everything. He was about to take a massive gamble, but at least the others finally knew how perilous Mae’s condition was. He pictured her sunny smile, her quick laugh, her terrible taste in food—and men. She hurled herself headlong into every pursuit, sometimes to her peril. He wished she’d made some different choices, but she didn’t deserve to bear her child in that spooky old stronghold, surrounded by her father’s enemies. Archer wished he’d made some different choices too. Then maybe neither of them would be in this mess.

  It felt good not to carry the secret alone anymore. Archer was one of the few people Mae had told about her pregnancy. He had visited her in Barden Vale six months before while preparing for an elaborate burglary that would have relieved her father of the many gifts and trophies he kept in his great hall. Archer had warned Mae not to share the happy news with anyone—even the child’s father. The suggestion had offended her deeply. Archer’s face still stung from the slap, which he might have deserved, except that he was absolutely right about the baby’s father.

  Mae must have told him. There could be no other explanation for why Lord Larke would break the king’s truce and steal Lord Barden’s daughter. Archer doubted Lord Barden knew about his grandchild. Otherwise, he would march on Larke Castle openly and bring the king’s wrath down on both counties. He wouldn’t waste time offering discreet ransoms and skirmishing in the Mud Market with Larke’s goons. Archer couldn’t wait to see the look on Barden’s face when he was the one who collected the reward for Mae’s rescue.

  As if that’s what this is about. Even he couldn’t pretend the money was his primary motivation anymore, but the team deserved it after all their trouble.

  Just hold on a little longer, Mae. We’re coming.

  This is the story of a mission. It was an important mission, bigger than a damsel in distress and a spell-guarded fortress and a merry band of thieves. It was the kind of mission that could shake the earth if it succeeded—or if it failed. The outlaw called Archer alone knew how the kidnapping of the damsel would reverberate across forests and counties and make the world a demonstrably worse place. Saving her would surely be considered noble, but Archer didn’t care about that any more than he cared about the reward.

  For him, the mission was personal.

  Chapter 12

  Narrowmar Stronghold was tucked into the base of the Bandon Mountains a week’s ride north of the Sweetwater River. Archer feared switching their destination would put them farther behind schedule, but Lew knew a route that would shave a day off the journey. They set off into a hardscrabble wilderness full of towering rock formations and wind-ravaged scrubs.

  Everything between the Sweetwater and the Bandon Mountains belonged to the Larke barony. Archer knew the countryside well, but it had been years since he’d last crossed those lands. He hoped Lew’s shortcut would make up for the time he had squandered in Mud Market. Travel would only get more difficult for Mae in her condition. They needed to get her out of Narrowmar with time to spare before her baby arrived.

  They followed a treasure map of large rock formations and scattered settlements through the lower reaches of Larke County, keeping a careful watch out for Lord Larke’s tax collecting parties and the burgundy uniforms of his household retainers. The last thing they needed was to cross paths with the lord himself before they reached the stronghold. Fortunately, the bare, windswept region remained quiet, and they encountered only shepherds and lonely peddlers on the packed-dirt roads.

  They spent much of their time debating the best strategy to infiltrate Narrowmar. Jemma led the discussion, and the puzzle proved difficult even with her experience of the place. Esteban rode slumped over in his saddle, still recovering his strength after the encounter with Mage Radner, but he roused himself to offer the occasional suggestion. When the debates grew heated, Lew sometimes split off from the group to ride ahead or behind. He valued his solitude, and Archer was happy to indulge his loner tendencies in exchange for the use of his sharp scout’s eyes. Nat was less bothered by the details of the plan. He spent most of his time pestering Briar with questions about her magic.

  Briar herself acted more relaxed since she’d gotten paint supplies again, no longer on the verge of running for the hills or fighting like a cornered badger at the slightest threat. Whenever they stopped to make camp, she could be found grinding up pigment or boiling flax to make more linseed oil. She took out the horsehair brushes she’d bought in Mud Market to test her creations, producing little explosions and puffs of smoke and dust.

  Archer was beginning to feel as if Briar had always been with them. He appreciated the way she examined the world with those wide, solemn eyes and the way she didn’t shirk from difficult tasks, whether cursing them out of trouble or helping to build the campfire and care for the horses. After their caper in the Mud Market, he hoped she might consider a more permanent role with the team. Her skills were bleeding useful, and Nat would like having her around. Yes, it was just Nat’s feelings Archer was thinking of. The lad was smitten.

  He wished Nat wouldn’t take up so much of Briar’s attention, though. Archer sent him out on errands to give her a break—and took his place at her side as often as not. He liked the way her fingers moved when she unpacked her paints, the way she sat on her horse like she was about to take it over a jump.

  He frequently found himself riding next to her as they got deeper into the desolate countryside, chatting about the weather, about curses, about the rock formations squashed together like crooked teeth.

  “Think Sheriff will catch up?” she asked on their second afternoon in Larke County.

  “Huh?”

  “Your dog,” Briar said. “I was worried about him when we crossed the river.”

  For a minute Archer couldn’t think straight. “You were?”

  Briar looked at him questioningly, as if she didn’t understand why he was pleased to distraction. Sheriff would have been delighted to know she cared about him too.

  “He’ll find us.” Archer shifted in his saddle, fingers brushing the curse she’d painted on the pommel. “He always does.”

  “It might be wiser for him to avoid Narrowmar.”

  Archer glanced over at her. “How much do you know about the place?”

  Briar studied a rock
formation that looked like a turtle with stubby stone legs. “Not much. It’s supposed to be impenetrable.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “And the magical protections might be different than the ones we planned for at Larke Castle.”

  Archer shrugged, trying not to let on how worried he was about that exact problem. “It’s a challenge. I know you like those. You could do what no other curse painter has done before.”

  “That’s not always a good thing,” Briar said. “You start trying to surpass what’s been done before, and pretty soon you’re in danger of stepping over the line.”

  “I, for one, have always liked crossing lines,” Archer said with a wink.

  Briar looked at him steadily. “In my business, that can be deadly.”

  Archer shifted in his saddle, finding her wide brown eyes too intense for once. Briar seemed troubled by her work, at war with herself, even though she was more relaxed with paints in hand than without them.

  “Are you still up for the job?” he asked.

  “I said I would do it.”

  Her tone sounded distant and guarded once more. Archer wondered about her history. Her accent suggested she’d lived in High Lure before moving to Sparrow Village, and Jemma believed she’d killed people before. To his surprise, the more he got to know her, the more plausible that sounded. They were all keeping secrets on top of secrets next to more secrets.

  He would do well to be cautious, and he should warn Nat not to get too attached.

  By their third day in Larke County, the twisted rocks and gnarled scrub gave way to rolling sunlit fields scattered with farmhouses. The cultivated fields and sheep grazing in grassy pastures gave the valley an idyllic, pastoral feeling. Villages were dotted here and there, each composed of little more than a strip of houses, a market, and a blacksmith.

  They replenished their supplies when needed, no more than two of them going into the villages at a time. Archer himself stayed out of sight. He had history in those lands—and he wasn’t particularly proud of the things he’d done there. The cool north wind blowing through his hair carried memories he’d long since left behind. Each day they became harder to ignore. He found himself tugging up the collar of his indigo coat anytime they passed farmers on the road, just in case they recognized him.

  By contrast, Briar’s guarded manner relaxed bit by bit as they got farther north. She spoke more freely, and Archer even caught her smiling sometimes. She indulged Nat’s endless questions and listened graciously when Lew read snippets of poetry from the notebook he kept in his vest pocket. She became increasingly involved in the discussions about how to tackle the job ahead, asking about Narrowmar’s layout, history, and possible defenses. She’d even come to an uneasy truce with Esteban, though Archer didn’t understand why. Perhaps her work back by the Sweetwater had impressed the voice mage as much as it had impressed Archer.

  Four days after they crossed into Larke County, Briar rode up beside Archer as the afternoon light turned gold and hazy.

  “I’ve been working on something for you.” Her saddle creaked as she leaned toward him. “There’s one set for everyone, but I can make more if needed.”

  She held out a small burlap bag made from the sack they’d ruined while trying to get the paint supplies out of Mud Market. Small objects clicked together inside as he accepted it.

  “What are they?” Archer asked.

  “Curse stones.”

  He nearly dropped the little bag on the ground.

  “They won’t work unless you touch the stone directly.” Her tone became noticeably drier. “That’s why they’re in the bag.”

  “Right.”

  “These are sturdier versions of those scrap curses I told you about. The stones are all different, so make sure you grab the right one. Use a glove or the side of the bag to touch them.”

  Archer opened the bag carefully and peered inside, where he found three stones of different colors, tiny images painted on them with a fine brush. He imagined they hummed with magic, though that could have just been the wind.

  “What do they do?”

  “The blue one puts someone to sleep,” Briar said. “They’ll go under as soon as you touch them, but you have to rest the stone on their skin once they’re down.”

  “What happens if it loses contact with their skin?”

  “They’ll wake up instantly.”

  “So be ready to run?”

  “Exactly. The gray stone with the white design unlocks any door, providing it doesn’t have a spell on it. I’ve only ever done those on canvas, which tends to wear out quickly.” Briar’s voice took on an eager tone, a hint of genuine pride in her work. “I’m hoping painting it on stone will mean you can unlock several doors before the curse wears out. We might need them inside the stronghold.”

  “Brilliant. And the black one?” The darkest stone had flecks of yellow and brown swirled into the black paint.

  Briar hesitated, her eyes darkening despite the sunlight.

  “That’ll cut like a knife,” she said. “And the wound will keep bleeding unless a mage heals it.”

  “Whoa, Briar, don’t you make any nice curses?”

  A pained expression flashed across Briar’s face, almost too quickly to catch, and her eagerness vanished. “I wasn’t sure if I should include that one, but after those men almost killed us, I thought … Just don’t use it unless you absolutely have to. Please.”

  “I won’t.” Archer felt bad for making light of Briar’s contribution. She had asked not to kill anyone, but a cut that required mage healing would be a death sentence in many cases. Giving one to each of them had cost her, and the significance wasn’t lost on him. “Thank you for this.”

  Briar blushed, tugging a strand of hair across her cheek. “It’s nothing.”

  Archer knew it wasn’t nothing. Esteban and Lew were wrong. It wasn’t just another job to Briar. She might not know it herself yet, but somewhere along the way—perhaps in Mud Market or after the Sweetwater crossing—she had started to consider herself part of the team too.

  Briar rode off to give the others their bags of curse stones. Nat listened so carefully to her instructions, he let his horse wander off and chew on the long grass at the roadside. Briar had to follow him into the weeds to finish her explanation. Nat held the bag of curse stones with such reverence that Archer nearly took it just so he would pay attention to his surroundings.

  “I can handle this, Archer,” Nat said fervently. “Blue for sleep. Gray for locks. Black for death. Easy.”

  Briar grimaced at the reference to death, but she didn’t correct him. She moved on to present a bag of stones to Esteban, who accepted them with sullen politeness. He appeared to be trying to be more cordial to the curse painter, but cordiality for Esteban was a large stride away from civil for everyone else.

  “Our curse painter is certainly full of surprises,” Jemma muttered, falling in beside Archer. She held the bag of curses as if it were a dead rat.

  “Even you can see how useful these will be.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Jemma said. “But I don’t think we’ve seen our last surprise from Miss Briar. I told you she’s dangerous.”

  Archer didn’t argue, but whatever dangerous past Briar had left behind, it had nothing to do with their mission. She might be at war with herself over how she wanted to use her abilities, but she would get the job done. He felt increasingly confident that hiring her had been the right move, no matter what she was hiding.

  Chapter 13

  Briar was determined to crack the puzzle of Narrowmar Stronghold. Set directly into a natural fissure in the mountains, it made an even more interesting challenge than Larke Castle. She mulled over how to tackle the fortress as they veered to the northeast through sprawling farmland. Ruins scattered across the surrounding countryside suggested the area had once been far more populated, its inhabitants owing fealty to the lords of Narrowmar. In ancient days, it had housed the kings of a lost nation.

>   Briar didn’t mind the change in destination. Narrowmar was as far from High Lure as one could get without leaving the kingdom. No one out there would recognize the young woman formerly known as Elayna Rose Dryden.

  But by their fifth day in Larke County, they still hadn’t figured out how they were going to break into the stronghold. Archer seemed confident they would find a way in, even though Narrowmar had never fallen in its centuries-long history. Jemma had been there before, and she’d drawn them rough maps of its interior and surroundings, but she had precious little information about its magical defenses. Briar didn’t have the purple paint to unravel magical protections, anyway. They would need a more creative solution.

  She worked with her paints by firelight, the magic surging in her fingers, colors dancing before her eyes. No matter how much she claimed she wanted a quiet life, practicing serious magic still thrilled her. She couldn’t quit entirely, even though that would have been one way to live the good life that had eluded her. Saving the others with her ambulatory curses had been both exhilarating and deeply satisfying, giving her just a hint of what her curse magic could become. She wanted to capture that feeling again, but the problem of Narrowmar confounded her.

  Only Esteban could help, although he didn’t create any magic himself lest it give away their position. A fragile rapport had developed between them since the Sweetwater. They occasionally talked about their respective art forms, choosing their words with care. On the fifth evening, when they had camped by a spring at the edge of a wheat field, Briar asked Esteban how he’d known which spells protected Larke Castle.

  “Archer sent me to investigate while he was taking care of another task.”

  “What task?”

  “I don’t share other people’s secrets.” Esteban gave a dry cough. “I’m extending the same courtesy to you.”