Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  Her father began to hurl stone after stone at her. As the cursed rocks reached her cursed skin, they fell to the ground, cracking open at her feet. Droplets of purple paint mixed with the sparse rain and the stone dust.

  Donovan tried other attacks—waves of pressure, blasts of fire, nightmares formed of smoke and fear. Briar’s painted skin unraveled each curse, snuffing out each burst of power. She didn’t feel the heat and force, the intended terrors. A few strokes of the purple hue were enough to unravel most curses. Covered in it, she was untouchable.

  Briar’s head spun at the possibilities her discovery opened up, but she still needed to stop her father’s attacks. She wasn’t sure how long the unravelling effect would last—and the rain was falling harder.

  Shouts rose over the sounds of the curses. Larke’s men would be pouring from the stronghold at any moment. Briar’s limbs shook, and she barely stayed upright. She couldn’t fight the soldiers and her father at the same time.

  Something moved in the darkness. She limped forward, weaving through the rubble as well as she could. A particularly large pile of stone had fallen into an approximation of a doorway. The lintel was still in a single large piece, scrawled with the remnants of a powerful barrier curse. That was where the movement had come from. Her father must be hiding behind it.

  Briar hobbled sideways and found Donovan crouched among shattered stones and assorted jars of paint. He looked up at her, brush poised to scribe another curse. She saw curiosity in his eyes, a hint of admiration.

  “Remarkable, Elayna Rose,” he said. “I’ve never heard of someone cursing their own skin to unravel the curses thrown against them.” Donovan studied the patterns she had scribed on herself, analyzing, memorizing. She knew he would take apart her discovery stroke by stroke, trying out variations with Briar’s mother. He was a student of his art more than anything else. “We must examine this further,” he said eagerly, as if he hadn’t been breaking her bones and hurling his magic at her moments ago.

  “You said you wished Mother had killed me,” Briar said. Her throat hurt from inhaling so much dust, and her voice sounded creaky and thin.

  Her father waved his paintbrush impatiently. “Nonsense. You will return with us, of course. We must explore the implications of your discovery. I hope you remember the stroke order.”

  Briar blinked at him. The purple paint dripped into her eyes, stinging like tears. Then she understood. Her father had been bluffing when he’d said he wished she’d been killed. It was a spoken curse designed to unsettle and distract her.

  “Stand still and allow me to attempt a few more curses on you,” her father said, opening up a jar of crimson lake. “Do you feel anything? I should very much like to know how long these effects last. Let’s try an incendiary.”

  “Stop,” Briar said.

  Her father looked up.

  “I’m not working with you.”

  “Nonsense. You are a Dryden. You’ve had your rebellion, but it is time to return to the work you were born to do.”

  Briar swallowed, wishing her voice sounded stronger. “I’ll decide how to use my own power.”

  Donovan raised an eyebrow, his owlish eyes glinting in the light from the ruined stronghold. Then he picked up an emerald-green scarf that had been lying on the fallen lintel, one Briar had often worn to hold back her frizzy hair at home. She remembered her mother wrapping it around her head with nimble, paint-stained hands. The scarf was dripping with paint now—azurite and precious ultramarine. That was how her father had placed the despair curse on her. He had been carrying a part of her with him all that time, and he’d used the Law of Resonance on it to crush her with hopelessness.

  He held up the scarf, azurite paint dripping from emerald silk, and lowered his voice. “I can make you accompany me.”

  Briar stared at her father, looking into the face of what she was, what she had come from. And instead of the old destructive urge, she felt a profound sense of calm.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t.” With the purple curse on her skin, he couldn’t force her to do anything. For as long as it lasted, she was free.

  “You could be extraordinary,” her father said. “It will never happen if you squander your talent in your youth.”

  “I can live with that,” Briar said.

  “Elayna—”

  “You can’t make me go anywhere or hurt anyone.” Briar met his gaze steadily. “Try it.”

  Donovan’s elegant hands tightened around the scarf. He understood. He no longer had power over her. His art had failed him, and in his eyes, she saw a hint of fear.

  Suddenly, torchlight flooded the ruins, and shouts filled the stormy air. Fighting men in Larke burgundy charged out of the stronghold, looking for whoever had destroyed their fortress. Briar reached automatically for her satchel, but it had split open when her father hurled her across the ground. She had no way to fight those men.

  Then hoofbeats thundered toward her from farther up the canyon, and people shouted in familiar voices. Half a dozen horses charged out of the darkness, their hooves shaking the earth. Lew rode the leader, with Nat close beside him. The two brawny outlaws drew their weapons and bellowed war cries as they charged Larke’s men—all of whom were on foot. Jemma rode close behind them, wielding her cudgel, red shawl flying. Esteban followed, barking rough spells in a strained and exhausted voice to hold back the swarm of soldiers. He held the reins of two additional horses, saddled and riderless.

  Briar gasped in relief. She was no longer alone. Her friends were there.

  Donovan reached for his paints, about to attack the newcomers.

  “Don’t move.” Briar hobbled forward, placing herself directly in front of her father. He couldn’t wield his curses against her. She would hold the line against him, stopping his violence with her cursed flesh. She could take the power her parents had given her—along with her own invention—and use it to stop them from doing harm.

  So, with her broken bones aching and the rain falling harder by the minute, she stood up to her father, no longer bound by her family’s curse.

  Archer was pretty sure his body had stopped working at last. He could barely raise his head a few inches off the ground, and when he did, agony ripped through his broken form.

  But it didn’t matter, because Briar had done it. She had painted a curse to dampen her father’s power, and now she had him trapped among the ruins of what had once been the strongest fortress in the kingdom of Lure. Even better, the team was there to save them all.

  They arrived in a rebellion of shouts, punctuated by thundering hooves and the strangled song of a very tired voice mage. Lew. Jemma. Nat. Esteban. They got there just in time to hold back the Larke soldiers trying to emerge from the dark confusion of Narrowmar. The clash of their weapons was sweet music to Archer’s ears.

  Donovan and Briar looked as if they had been turned to stone, though lightning could strike between them at any moment. Neither knew Saoirse was dead. Donovan couldn’t find out until they were long gone from there. Archer wished Briar never had to find out.

  The curse painters ignored the commotion as the outlaws tried to stuff the soldiers back into the stronghold, pushing them toward the exposed main corridor. More men were jammed in the narrow space, unable to wield their weapons properly against the team.

  Archer needed to get back on his feet and fight with his friends, but his body wasn’t cooperating. He twitched helplessly, feeling as if he were locked in the stocks again, this time with fewer rotten vegetables and more broken bones. The others fought on without him, working to hold back the horde long enough to secure an escape route.

  But they were forgetting someone. Archer tried to call out to Jemma, but he couldn’t speak through the blood collecting in his throat. Then a familiar face appeared in the gaping wound that had once been a fortress, next to the main corridor where the guard station had been. Looking frightened but resolute, Mae Barden crept out of Narrowmar at last.

  She moved carefully to a
void drawing the soldiers’ attention and skirted around the curse painters, no doubt sensing she wanted no part in their battle. Dust matted her golden curls, and blood stained the hem of her pink dress. She spotted Archer lying on the ground, and a cry escaped her lips.

  Archer smiled hazily as she started toward him. Maybe the mission was a success after all. Then Mae stopped as abruptly as if she’d walked into a wall. She stood still for a moment, looking at something on the ground.

  She bent down and picked up a sword, its hilt wrapped in burgundy leather. Archer had left the dead captain’s sword beside his unconscious brother. That was what Mae was staring at so intently—Tomas, Archer’s careless, jovial brother. She hefted the sword in her pale hands.

  “No.” Archer’s words gurgled through the bubble of pain. “Don’t, Mae.”

  If she could hear him, she paid no attention. She tightened her grip on the sword, looking down at the man who had seduced and discarded her, who had turned to his ruthless father to clean up after his indiscretions. Who, through his irresponsibility, had threatened her life and nearly ended their illicit child’s.

  Archer understood what Mae must be thinking, but Tomas was still his brother. They’d endured their father’s cruelty together, and even though Tomas had made selfish choice after selfish choice, Archer didn’t want him to die. He reached out to the friend whose life he had saved, unable to speak above a whisper, and pleaded with her not to kill his brother.

  But Mae didn’t hear him. She raised the sword over Tomas’s body. Her face twisted with passion, a mix of hatred and betrayal and sorrow. She had always been quick to laughter and quick to anger. She hurled herself into every pursuit, whether it was friendship with the son of her father’s enemy or a love affair that had always been doomed. Archer hated to see her in anguish, but vengeance wouldn’t help—and it would change her forever.

  Mae let the sword fall.

  The blade clanged like a bell against the stony ground and clattered to rest a few feet away from Tomas’s still-sleeping form.

  Archer dropped back, lacking the strength to hold up his head any longer. Mae had spared Tomas’s life despite how much grief he had caused her. There was still room for mercy in the cruel world the Larkes had created. Archer drew in a rattling breath. If there was room for mercy, there was room for change, and hope.

  Then Mae was kneeling beside him, carefully touching his body, feeling the extent of his injuries. He couldn’t feel much himself anymore. He couldn’t hear much either, or see, now that he thought about it. Archer’s world faded to a muted buzz and skittered out of reach.

  Chapter 34

  Briar listened to the cacophony as her friends held back the soldiers. Relief flooded her body. The rain was falling harder than ever, and the paint on her skin would wash away soon, but the arrival of the others would give her time to escape. It was almost over.

  Lew and Nat fought the soldiers among the rubble, using their brawn for all it was worth. Esteban and Jemma gathered up Archer and Mae and hoisted them onto the spare horses. They left a mount for Briar and charged back up the ravine.

  “Hurry, lass!” Lew shouted. “We can’t hold them much longer.”

  Briar backed away from her father, ready to dive in his way if he tried to curse Lew and Nat, but he slumped, as if his daughter’s opposition had drained his strength.

  “Mark my words, Elayna Rose,” he said as she turned and limped to the waiting horse. “You will return home when you realize this world cannot match the family calling.”

  Briar didn’t answer. She pulled herself into the saddle with her good arm, whimpering as she jarred her broken bones. Her ambulatory curse was still painted on the pommel, a reminder that she had the potential to do vast and interesting magic that was entirely separate from her family’s dark work.

  “Ready!” she shouted to the remaining members of her team. Lew and Nat pulled back on their mounts, allowing the soldiers to pour forth from Narrowmar, and they charged into the rain-drenched night. With a flick of the reins Briar followed, praying her father wouldn’t curse her as she fled.

  She caught up with Lew and Nat just as they rode past Esteban, who had paused in the center of the ravine. He opened his mouth to shout a final spell to hold off their pursuers. It sounded like a good one, full of destruction, but Briar didn’t look back.

  They regrouped at the broken statue beyond the ravine. Jemma, covered in dirt. Mae, the rain plastering her curls to her forehead. Esteban, a black shape crumpled in his saddle. Lew, with assorted cuts and bruises and a bloody rip in his vest. Nat, a makeshift sling around his neck. The squall of a very irritated baby came from beneath his patchwork coat.

  “I found her with Sheriff,” Nat reported. “He almost bit my hand off, but I told him you’d want me to take her.”

  Mae rode close by Nat, checking to see that her baby still had all her fingers and toes. Sheriff barked, weaving through the horses’ legs to stay close to Nat and the baby.

  “You both did well.” Briar was beginning to feel lightheaded from the pain in her arm. She wanted to take shelter beneath the statue’s giant legs, but they weren’t safe so near Narrowmar. “Are we riding all night?”

  “We can rest in New Chester,” Jemma said. Her clothes were dirty and torn, but she had emerged from the tunnel unscathed. “Esteban can’t heal anyone until he has a long sleep.”

  The voice mage clung to his saddle, swaying dangerously. That final spell had taken a lot out of him after a long night.

  “We thought you were done for when the mountain collapsed,” Lew said, drawing his horse closer to Briar. “Did you get Lord Larke?”

  Briar hesitated. “I don’t think he’ll bother us for a while.” In truth, Jasper Larke probably wouldn’t survive the wound from the black curse stone unless he found a voice mage. She hadn’t seen what had become of Tomas after she’d put him to sleep.

  Archer himself was in no condition to ask about his father and brother. He had been slammed to the ground, first by Briar in the tunnel then by her father. The brutal blows had taken their toll.

  Briar was afraid to get close to him and see the extent of his injuries. Jemma and Lew fashioned a litter to transport him, but they couldn’t do much to make him comfortable. He lay unconscious in the sling, his face covered in cuts, his skin swelling from internal bleeding.

  “Can’t you fix him?” Nat asked Esteban as they prepared to set out into the forest.

  The voice mage was barely awake. Jemma moved forward to tie him to his saddle so he wouldn’t fall off his horse.

  “I have done … more … can’t.”

  “Don’t speak,” Jemma said. “When you get your strength back, you can try again.”

  She finished the knots on Esteban’s saddle then mounted her own horse. She, too, could barely look at Archer, but her back was straight and her eyes were resolute as she led the way into the darkness.

  They had a somber ride away from Narrowmar. The sparse pines rose above them, not thick enough to protect them from the rain, and the sloping ground was wet and perilous. After an hour, they left the woods for the road to avoid jarring Archer’s litter more than necessary. Briar held out hope that they would encounter a traveling voice mage along the way, but the road remained empty.

  They stopped to rest in the small hours of the morning, making camp beneath the dripping pines. Nat and Jemma managed to find enough dry wood for a small fire. Lew laid Archer beside it, wincing as the flames illuminated his bruises. They were dark and swollen and still spreading.

  Esteban tried twice more to sing Archer back to health, but his powers were utterly spent. He wheezed and gasped, unable to produce a single note of magic. Archer had killed Larke’s voice mage, Croyden, the only other person nearby who might have had a chance at healing Archer’s body. Esteban mumbled an apology, struggling to hold up his head on his scrawny neck.

  “It’s not your fault,” Lew told him gruffly. “We all did the best we could.”

  Th
ey had hoped making camp would give Esteban time to recover, but Archer was fading fast. His breath became a slow rattle. Jemma and Lew sat with him, whispering soberly to each other. Briar didn’t have to eavesdrop to know they didn’t think he would live to see the dawn.

  Jemma wore a stoic expression as she pressed a wet cloth to her son’s forehead. She whispered in his ear, perhaps telling him the secret she had kept for his entire life, but he was beyond hearing. The others huddled beneath the pines, unable to revel in their successful mission as their leader lay dying.

  “Can you do something?” Mae pleaded with Briar, her daughter swaddled up tight in her arms. “You’re so powerful.”

  “I’m not,” Briar said. “I’ve tried to heal before. It doesn’t work.”

  “He can’t die, not because of me.”

  “It was for both of you.” Briar started to reach out to the baby then pulled back, clutching her injured arm. “And for everyone Larke would have hurt if he’d used your baby to expand his dominion. Now, you can return to your father’s house, or take your daughter and leave this kingdom forever.”

  Mae hugged her baby closer, tears spilling onto the blankets. “Please try something.”

  Briar couldn’t tell her no, even though she knew it was futile. Mae looked at her with too much trust and desperation.

  Briar approached Archer’s broken form, her leg protesting every step. Jemma moved aside to give her space.

  Archer was covered in the age-worn cloak they had stolen from Mage Radner in Mud Market, one arm resting atop the faded fabric. The cloak wasn’t quite thick enough to hold off the chill in the air. Archer shivered, his face pale beneath the bruises.

  Briar sat in the dirt beside him, her saddlebag of spare paints clinking as she set it on the ground. She only had a few colors left, but even if she had every hue of the rainbow, she didn’t know a curse in the world that would hold off the slow march of death.