Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  “Fair enough.”

  They were sitting near the campfire, Esteban polishing the silver tooling on his boots. He had a fastidious streak, and his fine clothes were always pristine. Archer and Nat practiced archery nearby, the thud of metal striking a tree stump providing the background rhythm for their conversation. Lew sat by the bubbling spring with a notebook on his knee and a quill between his teeth. Jemma sorted through their food supplies over by the horses.

  Briar twirled a paintbrush between her fingers, considering the old mage. “Do you think we’ll find all the same spells at Narrowmar?”

  “Doubtful,” Esteban said. “Narrowmar has only one entrance, a great stone door in the mountainside. Those spells were more appropriate for a building with many access points and a less stable structure.”

  “Do you think the same mage secured it at least?”

  “That I don’t know. Larke wants people to think the young lady is in his castle. It would raise suspicion if he sent his most trusted voice mage—his name is Croyden—off to his remote stronghold. Croyden has served him for two decades and rarely leaves his side.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Croyden?” Esteban’s gaunt face twitched. “We’ve run into each other on several occasions. He’s a self-important fopdoodle who thinks—no matter. Larke could have hired another for the task of guarding Narrowmar.”

  Briar sighed, dabbing her paintbrush in a slick of malachite green. “The fortress is secure enough without magic.”

  Esteban picked at a speck of ash on his sleeve. “If Larke thinks that’s the case, it will likely make your job easier.”

  “How so?”

  “There are only so many protective spells you can put on one door.”

  Briar went still. But what if we don’t use the door?

  The rough outline of a plan floated suddenly before her, a wisp of inspiration. She closed her eyes, trying to grab hold of it before it slipped away. Her idea was ambitious, especially since she would need to work very fast to keep from getting caught.

  “I think I have something,” she murmured.

  Esteban sat silently for a moment, seeming to sense her need for concentration. When she didn’t share her thoughts, he shuffled away, his fine boots scraping the dirt.

  Briar sat with her eyes closed, considering the shape of the necessary paintings, the potential obstacles. Her typical stable of curses might not be enough. Her parents had always liked to experiment, and they believed they hadn’t yet reached the limits of what curse magic could do. She might need to invent a new technique to avoid some of the more obvious problems—problems that would likely stop a lesser curse painter from even considering her approach. No matter what, it would require more power than she had ever used for a single task. She would be at risk of exhausting herself before the job was done, but it just might work.

  Her fingers tingling with anticipation, Briar opened a jar of brown ochre, selected a flat stone from the spring, and began a new curse.

  “You look like you could use a break.”

  Briar looked up to find Archer squatting on his heels beside her. She rubbed her eyes, surprised at how dark it had become. She must have lost track of time. She hadn’t heard Archer’s arrows hitting the target in a while. She had been painting rock after rock, practicing destructive curses that would eat holes into stone. When the inspiration had seized her, she hadn’t dared pause in case the idea slipped away.

  “Working too hard is bad for your health, you know,” Archer said.

  Briar rolled her shoulders, attempting to loosen the tension that had built up without her noticing. The fire burned low, and the others were already snoozing in their bedrolls.

  “I didn’t want to lose momentum,” she said. “I’ll go to sleep in a minute.”

  “You could sleep,” Archer said, “or you could join me on a quick errand.”

  “Now?”

  “I have an old debt to pay. Wouldn’t mind a little company.” He held out a hand.

  Briar hesitated. She wanted to take his hand, but lead white and umber paint streaked her palms, and her fingernails were stained with blue smalt from the sleep stones she’d made earlier.

  “I promise I won’t bite,” Archer said when she didn’t move.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” Briar wiped her hands on a rag, feeling oddly flustered, and scrambled to her feet without taking Archer’s hand.

  He shrugged and nodded toward the darkness beyond the spring. “This way, if you please.”

  Jemma had the watch, and she was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the spring with her shawl wrapped tightly around her. Her eyes narrowed as Archer and Briar strolled past. Archer gave her a toothy grin and offered no explanation.

  “Where are we going?” Briar asked as they left the camp behind and walked along the edge of a vast wheat field.

  “You’ll see.” Archer winked. “I’d hate to ruin the suspense.”

  He swung his arms casually as he strolled through the night, seeming to know exactly where he was going. Briar kept a hand on the bag of curse stones she’d slipped into her pocket. Archer acted at ease with her, as if he truly trusted her, but she couldn’t strip away the wariness of a lifetime so easily.

  The fresh-cut aroma of harvest season tickled her nose and made her skin itch. The farmers had been scything across their lands, piling straw in stacks and bringing the wheat in for threshing. The crispness of early autumn filled the air, and the stars burned bright overhead. It would be their last night in the open countryside before they reached the forest pooling at the bottom of the Bandon Mountains and disappeared once more into the trees.

  “What were you working on so intently back there?” Archer asked after a while.

  A smile tugged at Briar’s lips. “I have an idea for how to get into Narrowmar—something I didn’t even consider at first because of the dangers involved. I don’t know if it’ll work yet, but if it does, we should be able to build a solid plan around it.”

  “I knew you’d come up with something.” Archer glanced down at her. “There doesn’t seem to be much you can’t do with your curses.”

  “Well, I need a few more trials,” Briar said. “I don’t want to promise anything I can’t deliver.”

  “You’re very particular about your work.”

  “Isn’t that why you hired me?”

  “I suppose it is.” Archer nudged her playfully with his elbow. “I ought to send Willem Winton a gift for bringing us together. I hear he likes ornate armor.”

  Briar snorted. She wasn’t sure what to make of Archer’s behavior toward her lately. He had threatened her and told her explicitly she wasn’t part of the team, yet he also flirted with her and seemed to genuinely appreciate her skills. His admiration rattled her more than the threats.

  “So, what’s this debt you need to pay?” she asked. “And why tonight, when we’re trying to avoid notice?”

  Archer sobered, and she couldn’t read his expression in the darkness.

  “I blame you for this, actually. Your insistence on only cursing people who deserve it got me thinking about some of the less-than-noble jobs I’ve pulled off. One in particular stuck with me.”

  They reached the far corner of the wheat field and turned down a path strewn with chaff. A hint of music drifted through the night. It was faint at first, distant, but soon it swelled into a tapping, stomping rhythm. The sounds of laughter and conversation spilled toward them.

  Briar slowed. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “No one will see us. Don’t worry so much.”

  Briar followed Archer apprehensively toward the noise. They had avoided people as much as possible since entering Larke County, and she wasn’t sure why he would walk toward them now.

  A little farmhouse was nestled between the wheat field and a dark-green expanse of alfalfa. Beside the house rose a large barn. Torchlight flooded out of its wide-open doors, dulling the stars. People milled between the house
and the barn, dressed in humble clothing of rough wool and scuffed leather.

  Briar caught Archer’s sleeve. “We can’t—”

  “Shh, over here.” Archer slipped through the darkness alongside the barnyard to where a wagon lay just outside the spill of light. He hid behind it, positioning himself so he could watch the barnyard.

  Briar crouched beside him, certain they would be spotted at any moment, but the farmers were having too much fun to pay attention to the strangers skulking in the shadows. They chatted and laughed and tapped their feet to the music. Many wore bright knit scarves or ribbons in their hair. Inside the barn, a table was spread with the remnants of a large meal.

  A thin, dark-haired man stood by the barn door playing the fiddle. A young girl with similar features sat beside him, keeping time on a calfskin drum. Father and daughter struck up a livelier tune, and the others began to dance, twirling across a packed-dirt area that likely doubled as a threshing floor.

  “They do this at different farms most nights throughout the harvest season,” Archer whispered in Briar’s ear. “They like to have a little fun after the threshing.”

  The farmers danced faster, kicking up dust and chaff, filling the barnyard with motion. Briar spotted a few family resemblances—hair of a particularly red shade, a unique knobby nose—and she guessed four or five local families plus their hired hands were gathered for the celebration.

  “It’s our lucky night,” Archer said. “This’ll keep them busy.”

  “What exactly are we doing here?”

  “I stole from the family who works this farm a few years back.” Archer’s voice lowered, becoming serious. “I was desperate, and I probably would have starved if I hadn’t. Still, I prefer to steal from people who have coin to spare. Since we’re in the neighborhood …”

  He drew a fat purse out of his pocket and tossed it in the air, catching it with a metallic clink.

  “You’re paying them back.” Briar was starting to realize she knew very little about thieves—and this thief in particular. The purse looked heavy. The family had probably never owned that much coin. “With interest.”

  “It’s your fault really,” Archer said. “I guess you could say I was inspired.”

  Briar blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was hardly the type of person to inspire good deeds in others.

  “Why do you need me, though? You want me to paint a distraction?”

  “I don’t need you,” Archer said. “I mean—I just wanted your company.” He cleared his throat, turning so she couldn’t see his expression. “Follow me.”

  They left the shelter of the wagon and crept toward the farmhouse, music and laughter filling the night behind them. Archer moved stealthily, his boots barely making a sound in the grass. He climbed the front porch in two long strides and bent to lay the purse on the stoop.

  Suddenly the farmhouse door swung open, nearly hitting Archer in the face. Briar’s hand went to the curse stones in her pocket. A small boy stood in the doorway holding a cat slung dejectedly over one arm. The boy looked about five years old. He stared at Archer, who stood frozen like a child with his hand in a sweet jar.

  “Who are you?”

  “Uh, hello,” Archer said. “I’m, uh, a traveler.”

  “You want some food?”

  “No, thank you,” Archer said. “I was just—”

  “Mama!” the boy shouted into the house. “We got more hungry people out here!”

  “We don’t—”

  Before Archer could retreat from the porch, a woman appeared at the door behind the little boy. She was young and pretty, with wispy brown hair and bright-green eyes.

  “Can I help you folks?”

  “We’re just passing through, ma’am.” Archer held up the coin purse, his accent becoming noticeably rougher. “I was hopin’ to buy a spot of food for the road.”

  “Nonsense,” the woman said. “We have plenty to spare, at least for tonight. Come on out back.”

  “We don’t want to impose,” Briar said quickly. “We need to return to our camp before—”

  “Don’t be silly,” the woman said. “Half the valley is here anyway.” She caught sight of the way her little son was holding the cat and gave an exasperated sigh. “Put her down, Abie, and go ask Grampa to fix up two more plates.”

  The little boy relinquished his hold on the cat—who immediately bolted for the safety of the fields—and ran around the side of the house toward the barn.

  “Where are you all headed?” the young mother asked as she followed more slowly with Archer and Briar.

  “New Chester,” Archer said at once.

  “Oh, I haven’t been that far north in years,” the woman said. “I grew up west of here, over t’ward Shortfall Lake.”

  Archer’s steps faltered. “We really shouldn’t stay,” he said. “Looks like you folks are busy here.”

  “Not many villages in these parts,” the woman said. “We eat what we can grow or catch, mostly. If you don’t have enough food, you won’t buy it for a day yet.”

  “We don’t want to interrupt your celebration,” Briar said, sensing that the woman’s origins made Archer nervous. Shortfall Lake was right beside Larke Castle. They reached the torchlit barnyard, where the dancing had become more exuberant.

  “It’s just a harvest dance.” The woman grinned. “We don’t need much excuse for a dance and a good meal round here. The more the merrier.”

  A few people looked up curiously as the woman led the two strangers into their midst, including the dark-haired fiddler, who missed a few notes when he spotted them weaving through the dancers. The little drummer girl gave an exasperated cry, and he set to his fiddle once more.

  “My husband,” the woman said, nodding at the fiddler. “He’s careful of strangers, but I reckon you folks aren’t here to steal if you come waving coin.”

  “You’ve been robbed before,” Archer said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Aye. We don’t have it as bad as places closer to the highways.” She looked them up and down then, as if realizing it was a little strange for travelers to come so far from the main roads.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Briar said before the woman could ask what they were doing out there.

  “Juliet,” the woman said.

  They entered the barn, where platters of food covered a long pinewood table. Briar’s mouth watered at the sight—chicken legs, fat brown sausages, bowls full of berries, the nubby end of a loaf of brown bread. A few sturdy ponies chomped away at their evening meals, their flanks still wet from a long day in the fields. A farmhand was snoozing on a pile of straw nearby, an empty mug in hand.

  At the table, a spry old man was piling food onto a plate as the little boy held it steady.

  “You’ve met my Abie,” Juliet said, “and this is my father.”

  “Evening, folks.” The old man glanced up from the plate. “Will it be chicken or sausage or both?”

  “Both,” Archer said at the same time Briar said, “Chicken, please.”

  “I’ll give you a bit of everything,” he said. “Don’t drop that now, Abie.”

  Only after he’d filled the second plate did the old man pause to study them. He watched them juggle their plates and wooden spoons, his gray-eyed gaze lingering on Archer’s long belt knife and Briar’s paint-stained hands.

  “You’re travelers?”

  “Just passing through, sir,” Archer said. “I’m Fletcher, and this is Rose.”

  Briar stiffened at the sound of her real middle name. Just a coincidence. Rose was a common enough name.

  “They call me Grampa,” said the old man. “I reckon you can, too, so long as you like my cooking.”

  “Much obliged.”

  While they ate, Archer chatted amiably with the older man and the young mother. Briar was impressed with the way Archer’s accent seemed to mirror theirs, as if he hadn’t grown up all that far from their farm. The lilt was markedly different from the way he’d spo
ken to those men back in Mud Market and the way he ordinarily talked to the team.

  He didn’t speak without purpose, though. He slipped in questions about how often they saw the sheriff of that particular county and when they’d last seen Lord Larke, who was supposed to be out collecting taxes.

  Grampa spit in the dirt. “His men have already been this year, though I reckon they’ll be back when they hear how good the wheat harvest is. Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve taken an extra cut.”

  Archer wiped his mouth and set aside his plate. “I hear Larke’s taxes are higher than those of the other outer-county barons.”

  “He claims it’s for the king,” Juliet said. “We know he pads his own coffers.”

  “Can’t you appeal to King Cullum if he’s gouging you?” Briar asked.

  “And get our fields burned for our troubles?” Juliet shook her head. “Complaining only makes it worse.”

  Briar ground her teeth, thinking suddenly of a wildflower wreath in a faraway smithy. It wasn’t fair that poorer people had no recourse when the country lords and their friends took advantage. She understood why Archer wanted to pay them back for the coins he’d stolen. She wished she had something to offer too.

  “Have you ever met Lord Larke?” Archer asked.

  “Years ago, when he toured the county with his eldest son,” Grampa said. “He’ll be just as bad as his father, by all accounts.”

  “Tomas,” Archer said, his dark eyebrows lowering. “Lord Larke’s son is called Tomas, right?”

  “Aye. Larke is still as hale as ever, though. I reckon it’ll be a while yet before we have to deal with his heir.”

  “Mama, come outside!” someone called from the barn door. The little drummer girl appeared, clutching wooden drumsticks. “We’re going to play your favorite song.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, darling.” Juliet smiled at them. “Excuse me.”

  Archer and Briar finished their meal and moved to help Grampa clean up the plates.

  He waved them away. “Go on and enjoy yourselves for a bit, folks. I’ll pack up some leftovers for your journey.”