Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  “You have to succeed,” he said hoarsely.

  Briar swallowed. “I will.”

  “Good.” He nodded sharply. “Good.” Then he took two quick strides forward and swept her into his arms.

  The rest of the team and the woods and the world faded away as Archer kissed her. It was a whirlwind and a churning river and a collapsing house and a blazing fire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his shock of blond hair. There was urgency to his mouth on hers, his arms lifting her right off her feet. When he set her down, Briar clutched the sleeves of his indigo coat to keep from stumbling, too hazy to think straight.

  “It’s about time,” Lew muttered. “Now, can we get on with our suicide mission, please?”

  “Let’s do this.” Archer stepped back from Briar and slung his bow across his shoulders at a jaunty angle. “Summon all the luck you have to spare, friends. It’s time we got this rescue underway.”

  “For the reward and the challenge and the open road!” Nat said.

  “For Lady Mae,” Archer said, “and for everyone else Lord Larke thinks he owns.”

  Briar regained her senses enough to dig into her saddlebags and grab one last thing she had been working on.

  “Take these.” She handed out bundles of carefully wrapped stones. “They’ll make little explosions if you throw them against something and make your enemies think there are more of you. Be careful.” She reached Archer last and closed his fist around the sack of curses, trying to communicate a riot of emotion through the pressure of her hands. She didn’t know what had prompted him to kiss her after he’d held back for so long, but she would make sure it wasn’t the last time. “And don’t die.”

  She released him and turned to Jemma and Nat. “Shall we begin?”

  They left Sheriff to guard the horses, and Jemma led the way through the trees to the eastern side of the mountain, where Briar would carve a tunnel into Lady Mae’s prison. As she and Nat followed Jemma up the slope, Briar strained to hear what was happening behind them, listening for Esteban to make his move.

  The air smelled of pinesap, moss, and sun-warmed earth. The afternoon sun had dipped behind the peak, and the shadowy forest offered plenty of cover, making it a simple matter to hide from patrols. The stronghold’s defenders would focus on the ravine and the entrance, especially with Lord Larke’s carriage approaching.

  Briar explained the risks they were about to undertake as they picked their way up the steep incline. “I don’t know the interior composition of this mountain. There could be soft places where the rocks might collapse on top of us. Smaller curses would give us a better chance of getting through safely, but they’ll take longer. I might need to try some bigger curses.”

  “Can you reinforce the ceiling?” Jemma asked.

  “I’ve added something to the design for that,” Briar said. “It’s my own invention. When miners employ curse painters to make their tunnels, they brace them with wooden beams. It takes time and manpower and makes noise. There’s no way we could carve that sort of tunnel into this fortress without getting caught, especially with such a small team.”

  “And your invention will help?”

  Briar hesitated. “That’s the idea. I’ll displace the stone as carefully as possible, but my modifications might not work. If you want to stay outside until I’m through with the riskiest part, I completely understand.”

  “You’ll need me to navigate once we’re in the stronghold,” Jemma said, “but I think Nat should stay outside to guard the tunnel.”

  “I agree,” Briar said. “We can’t have anyone coming in after us.”

  “Wait a minute.” Nat stopped short, looking at Briar for the first time since Archer kissed her. “Don’t leave me out.”

  “You won’t miss anything,” Briar said.

  Color rose in Nat’s cheeks, making him look very young. “We’re supposed to be in this together,” he mumbled.

  Briar sighed. She’d hoped the mission would take his mind off his thwarted crush. “You can stand guard while I’m making the tunnel, and we’ll call you in when it’s time to breach the inner wall. Please? We need a lookout.”

  “Fine.” Nat’s wide shoulders slumped. “You better not have any interesting fights without me.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  They soon reached a place where a short cliff jutted out from the mountain. Juniper trees gathered at its base and clung to the slopes above, framing it with their twisted branches.

  “This is the spot.” Jemma set down her unlit lantern and laid a hand on the east-facing stone. The pale-gray rockface was as flat and inviting as an empty canvas. “If we go straight in from this point, we’ll end up in a banquet hall that’s no longer used. It’s the closest we’ll get to where I think they’re keeping Mae.”

  “Okay then.” Briar removed her satchel from her shoulder and spread her paint jars in front of the rock wall. This was it, the reason she’d been recruited for the team, even though she hadn’t known her true enemy then. She felt a tingle in her fingertips, a hot rush of creation and destruction. “Brace yourselves. This could get messy.”

  Chapter 21

  Archer watched the caravan from the branch of a wych elm at the top of the canyon. The fine carriage and its two dozen burgundy-clad guards were only a hundred paces from the stone door. Archer had always known they would be vastly outnumbered, and he’d hoped to avoid an all-out assault, but now that it came down to it, he felt a grim satisfaction that he would be facing his father directly.

  Well, not quite directly. He fully intended to stay hidden in the tree for as long as possible, but it was a fight nonetheless.

  Some of his rage cooled as he waited in the wych elm. Jasper Larke was a despicable excuse for a man, but Archer had broken free of him. He’d refused to live on Larke’s terms any longer, and today, he would make sure Mae and her child and all the lands it would inherit didn’t have to either.

  He pulled on a pair of supple leather gloves and nocked an arrow, thumbing the fletching he had cut himself. He had spent long hours practicing with this bow despite—or perhaps because of—his father’s insistence that he focus on the sword, like his older brother. Larke claimed the bow was for common soldiers, but the weapon felt right in Archer’s hands.

  Esteban perched in another tree farther along the ridge like a grumpy vulture. He gulped water from a skin and hummed softly, limbering up his voice. Lew had circled around to the other side of the canyon behind the caravan, his hands gloved and his pockets full of Briar’s exploding curses. Archer and Lew had both stuffed knots of fabric into their ears to dampen the effects of Esteban’s magical sound. They couldn’t turn back.

  Clinging to the tree branch with his legs, Archer let go of his bow with one hand and took a curse stone out of his pocket—this one bright red. He rolled it between his leather-clad fingers, wishing Briar fair luck on her mission. If he fell today, he trusted her to finish the job.

  Time to give her that diversion.

  He lobbed the stone out of the tree, and it ignited with a flash and a muted bang about twenty feet away. In answer, several small explosions flashed on the opposite ridge. Lew was ready too.

  The men on the road below turned, looking for the source of the bangs, reaching for their short swords. Archer raised his bow. More explosions popped along the ridge, the flashes of light giving the impression that many men gathered in the trees. The soldiers searched for their hidden enemies, preparing to charge. Before they could do that, Esteban began to sing.

  The song was beautiful and terrible even through the fabric plugging Archer’s ears. He’d heard Esteban’s voice countless times since they’d met back in Chalk Port, but he was still surprised by its power, strong enough to knock a man down through the sheer force of sublime sound. Esteban’s healing songs were strong but also gentle. This one had the commanding beauty of an ocean or a tornado or a look from a woman with fierce eyes and magic in her hands.

  Archer
barely held onto his bow and arrow and his tree branch as the song rippled outward from Esteban. It wasn’t even directed at Archer, but its reverberations traveled through the ground, the tree, the pit of his stomach. The men down on the road wouldn’t know what hit them.

  The voice magic rolled over Larke’s retainers like a tidal wave. They ducked instinctively, though only sound had actually touched them. The song would disorient them, leaving their minds unbalanced and their senses reeling.

  Esteban deepened his tone, and the effects changed from confusion to fear. Terror rippled through the caravan as the men covered their ears and frantic whinnies burst from the horses, only to be swallowed up by that petrifying sound. The song blasted them, wrecking their nerves, ruining their resolve. It was as destructive as any curse, even though it left their bodies untouched. Every note, every beat, every turn and cadence conveyed to these men that death was coming for them.

  The horses were the first to bolt, a dozen animals trying to flee at once. Some riders managed to keep their mounts under control, but others were even more scared than their horses, and they gave the animals their heads, allowing them to run where they wished.

  As some men succumbed to Esteban’s music-induced terror, others ran toward the trees where Archer and Esteban were hiding. They’d realized the threat was coming from that direction, and they were making a desperate charge, trying to take down the hidden sorcerer before he hurt more of their comrades. Archer swallowed as the men drew nearer. He had to defend Esteban, even if that meant striking down those brave soldiers. He’d brought the voice mage into it. He’d brought all of them into it.

  He began to pick his targets. He drew back his bowstring, sighted, released. There was a twang and a thud, again, and again.

  The vibration of the bow and the thump of arrows slamming into bodies made their own music, which Archer felt more than heard. One by one, frightened men fell to his arrows. He tried to close his eyes to their faces, even as he closed his ears to Esteban’s song, but he knew some of those men. They had protected him on long rides through the countryside. They had laughed at his youthful jokes. They had served him, pledging to give their lives for his family. They were fulfilling those vows, charging up the ridge, forcing him to shoot—and each arrow felt as if it were striking Archer’s own body.

  More arrows found their targets. More men dropped like stones on the road. One got caught in his stirrups as he fell, his horse too mad with fear to care. The animal charged back down the canyon, dragging his dying rider with him. Archer released another arrow to put the man out of his misery.

  The chaos didn’t last long. The surviving soldiers regained control of their horses and formed up around the carriage. Lord Larke’s face was no longer visible through the window. Archer didn’t think he could shoot an arrow into that face anyway, and he was relieved he didn’t have to make that choice. He pressed a shaking hand against the tree trunk, staring at the men scattered across the ridge, his arrows protruding from their bodies. It had happened so quickly—going from swearing to do anything to save Mae to shooting men he knew. He felt as if he were descending into a pitch-dark well with no way of stopping.

  Then the carriage door opened, and a new face appeared. Another man had been riding in the carriage with Lord Larke, a well-dressed, portly fellow Archer recognized as Croyden, his father’s loyal voice mage. Archer shouted a warning to Esteban. Despite looking like a country gentleman, that mage was powerful, well trained, and fully licensed.

  Croyden stepped down from the carriage and strode across the rocky ground, the soldiers falling in around him. He pulled back the sleeves of his fine purple cloak, revealing the tattoos covering his fleshy arms. He drew in a breath, and the counterattack burst from his throat and spun toward the trees.

  Esteban’s tone changed in response. Croyden’s attack crashed into a fortress of sound. Undeterred, he catapulted notes at the ridge with increasing ferocity. Esteban’s lips curled, and he answered the attack chord for chord.

  The two mages fought, shouting and singing death at one another. The song of one voice mage was sublime enough. The dueling duet of two voice mages was on another plane altogether. It was as if demons and gods and beasts were roaring at each other from the heights and depths of their dominions.

  Archer nearly forgot his arrows as the cacophony shook the leaves from the trees and made the earth tremble. He could see—and hear—why mages had to be licensed and subject to such strict rules. Their powers unchecked could rip apart the fabric of the world.

  Archer tightened his grip on his tree branch as the mages shook the mountain to its roots. Few mages were as powerful as Esteban, but Croyden held his own, undaunted by the magical barrage. Archer hadn’t realized he was so strong.

  Suddenly, Croyden bared his teeth and howled like a wolf, targeting Esteban’s tree. The attack rattled the elm so hard Archer feared his friend would be shaken loose.

  Esteban had a death grip on the trunk, but his aged hands were slipping. His voice became hoarse. The attack had gone on for too long. They needed to distract Lord Larke for as long as possible, but Esteban couldn’t keep singing forever under those conditions.

  Archer pulled another arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He sighted along the slim wooden shaft. He would only have one shot. Croyden could slay him with a word if he figured out which tree he was in. One shot or Esteban would fall too.

  Croyden’s lips and ears bled from the assault of sound, but he refused to back down. He was slowly overwhelming Esteban. Archer didn’t want to kill the man simply for fulfilling his duties, but he had to protect his team. He found his target, drew back, breathed, released.

  The arrow struck true. Croyden toppled to the ground. Silence echoed through the canyon.

  For one heartbeat, Archer allowed himself to believe they might succeed in their quest after all. Then the large stone door at the end of the canyon swung open, and thundering footsteps shattered the sudden quiet.

  Reinforcements poured out of the doorway—a dozen soldiers, two dozen. More than Archer could shoot with his remaining arrows even if he wanted to. At their head rode two people he’d never seen before—a man and a woman, both with straight backs and severe expressions. The man had large owlish eyes, and the woman had dark frizzy hair. Both carried satchels across their saddles, and their hands were dripping with a multitude of colors.

  “Archer!” Esteban shouted, his powerful voice strained thin. “That’s—”

  The rest of his words were lost as the entire ridge exploded, throwing Archer from his tree. A pinwheel of white light swirled across his vision. Then everything went dark.

  Chapter 22

  Briar repeated the strokes for the curse on the tunnel wall again and again, her fingers tingling with magic. Yellow ochre, umber, green earth, carbon black, carmine, umber, brown ochre, lead white, carmine, yellow ochre, bone black, carmine. Over and over she painted a gray-brown mountain pierced by a nimbus of fire. As she finished each curse with a flare of red at the center, the mountain rumbled, and a stretch of stone fell into dust.

  Some of the rubble disappeared with each blast, a tricky addition to the curse using yellow ochre and carbon black—one of several modifications Briar had made to the standard demolition curse. It kept the tunnel from filling up with stone dust as she worked. Even so, there was precious little air to spare. She worked in silence, only speaking when she needed to confirm the route with Jemma, who crouched behind her with a candle lantern.

  Briar’s back ached from bending over in the tunnel, and her eyes were grainy from the dust. The smells of linseed oil and candle wax were suffocating. She felt as if she hadn’t seen the sky in a year. Her paints were becoming congealed and dirty. She had to close all the jars tightly before painting the final stroke in each curse, slowing her progress through the mountain.

  Earth-deep rumbling sounds indicated a fight had begun at the stronghold’s entrance. So far, no one knew they were there. The usual guard patrols would cove
r the woods where the tunnel opened, but the excitement in the ravine was keeping most of the soldiers occupied. Nat kept watch among the juniper trees at the tunnel entrance in case someone happened by unexpectedly.

  Briar would have preferred Nat’s company in the tunnel over Jemma’s. The older woman had directed Briar’s course into the mountain with confidence, but she made a taciturn companion. Briar still wasn’t sure why Jemma objected to her so strongly. She hadn’t said much at all to Briar since Archer had kissed her.

  “Okay, get ready for another one,” Briar said, closing her jars and preparing the final stroke.

  Jemma adjusted her red shawl over her nose and mouth without speaking.

  Holding her breath, Briar painted the final swatch of carmine. There was a loud crack, and the painting began to eat into the stone, its colorful maw swallowing dust and breaking off larger rocks, which fell to the floor. She hadn’t found any magical protections so far. Hopefully she wouldn’t hit a magical barrier when she reached the inner shell of the stronghold. She couldn’t fracture it without the marine-snail purple.

  When the curse had cut as far into the stone as possible, Briar wiped the dust off her face with a scrap of canvas, climbed over the rubble, and prepared to paint it yet again.

  Jemma clambered after her then set down the candle lantern and produced a water skin from her saddle bag, holding it out without a word. Briar accepted it gratefully and took a large gulp, the dust turning to mud in her throat.

  “We’d better check on Nat soon,” Briar said, wiping a drop of water off her chin. “I want to know what’s happening out there.”

  “I’ll go.” Jemma took back the water skin and returned it to her bag, but instead of heading down the tunnel, she frowned at Briar for a long moment, the candlelight flickering in her deep-blue eyes. “Do you know who he is?”