by Jordan Rivet
She took the paints out anyway and began a design on the sleeve of Archer’s shirt. The soft scrape of the horsehair brush whispered in time with Archer’s death rattle. Tears dripped down Briar’s cheeks, tinged with purple, but it was no use. No tears or paints could bring him back from the brink.
“Archer,” she whispered. “You probably can’t hear me, but I want you to know you did well. We saved Mae. We saved the baby. She’s beautiful. Sheriff is already in love with her. She’s going to adore the forest and the open road too.”
Briar sniffed and felt Sheriff nudging her arm. She made room for him to lay his head gently in his master’s hand.
“Do you remember the day we met?” Briar whispered. “You saved me too. I was too mad about my cottage to see it then, but you gave me a chance at a different life. You gave me freedom and hope and … so much love. I don’t know if you loved me specifically, but the love you showed your team and your friends and even your family, it wrapped me up like a blanket, and I can never thank you enough for that.”
Sheriff gave a low whine, as if to echo the ache in Briar’s heart. Archer’s breathing was slowing. The bit of paint on his sleeve had no power to save him. It was just a pretty picture of a cottage in the woods, with a large dog beside it and a bow resting by the door.
She brushed her fingers over the painting, wishing she could conjure that scene into being. The oil paint smudged slightly at her touch. She let her hand fall onto the rough cloak covering Archer’s chest, the one they had taken from Mage Radner to carry her paints way back in Mud Market.
Briar sat up. Sheriff raised his head, looking at her with mournful eyes. Was it possible?
Briar held her breath, not wanting to let the others know there was even a glimmer of hope lest it fade. She dipped her brush in a jar of verdigris and began a new design. She worked one-handed, more by feel than anything else. She painted along the hood of the cloak, telling the story of what they had been through in the weeks since she’d seen her little cottage burn. She painted a voice mage with his words full of fire and power, painted the long road they had traveled since then. She painted the scene all the way across Archer’s chest, planting it on the rising and falling planes, scribing it above his heart and down the other side of his body where the cloak rested. The well-worn, treasured cloak that had belonged to a powerful voice mage.
When it was done, Briar wrapped her arm around Sheriff’s neck and waited. She watched the painting rising and falling on Archer’s chest, praying that the rise and fall wouldn’t stop, that the cloak still had a resonant connection with the mage who had worked so hard to earn it, that the curse would be in place for just long enough.
The others had gathered around as the fire burned low. They must have watched Briar paint the cloak over Archer’s body, perhaps thinking it was a funeral ritual only she understood. They kept watch, knowing it wouldn’t be long. Her face still wet with tears, Briar didn’t dare tell them what she had done.
She waited. Sheriff seemed to sense something was going on because he tensed beside her, waiting, waiting. Then she heard the voice. It came from so far away, she would have thought it was an insect if she hadn’t been listening for that sound, but she heard it, and she knew what it was. The voice grew from a low buzz to a whine to a scream. The others looked around, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from.
Then Mage Radner plunged out of the cloudy sky, wearing nightclothes and shouting an angry tirade at the curse that had picked him up and carried him across half a county to Archer’s side.
In other circumstances, Radner might have broken the curse before it had carried him far, but he was too shocked at being wrenched out of his bed and into the air, and Briar’s magic was too strong.
The voice mage landed in a heap on the other side of Archer’s still-breathing form. Briar leapt up at once, ignoring the pain in her leg. She seized the voice mage by the scruff of the neck—Sheriff chewing on his elbow to reinforce her authority—and ordered him to speak healing words faster than he had ever spoken them in his life. Radner was too confused and scared to argue.
Then the words were pouring forth, healing, restoring. Briar might not be able to heal herself, but she could drag forth hope by the scruff of the neck to save the man she loved. The spell filled the camp, sonorous and life-giving and strong.
Then Archer was opening his eyes and sitting up, and everyone was crying—everyone except Radner, who was grumbling about what Lord Barden and the sheriff would have to say about his most undignified treatment, but he had the good sense not to try to fight the curse painter who had flown him there.
All that mattered to her was that the magic had worked.
Archer’s eyes flew open. Loud and joyous sounds surrounded him, but he couldn’t quite make sense of them. Something had called him back from the brink, something he didn’t fully understand. His friends’ faces bobbed around him like cattails in a stream, and a large tongue was covering his hand in slobber. Amidst the commotion, all he could see was Briar.
Purple paint streaked her hair, and every color of the rainbow covered her shirt. As she looked at him, the most delicious sense of wellness filled his body. She was a healing song in his ears, a crackling fire in his blood.
He sat up, a cloak sliding down from his chest, and pulled Briar toward him. The others crowded in to hug him and slap his back, but he paid no attention to them, intent on the woman in his arms. Briar pressed her cheek against his chest, smudging the paint covering his shirt, and for a moment, all they did was breathe in time with one another.
Then he tipped her face up, her luminous eyes meeting his.
“Thank you,” he said. “And I do.”
“You do what?”
“Love you, specifically.”
A smile broke across that paint-smudged face, and Archer wondered if he had died and gone to the higher realms after all. Briar’s eyes held deep wells of sadness, wells that might never be empty, but at last, joy flowed there too.
This story ends with a promise. It was a solemn promise, the kind made in a breathless, joyful moment. This promise saw a young man named Archer clasping the paint-smudged hands of a young woman named Briar and offering her his world, such as it was, and in return, she promised him her heart, such as it was, every smudged, hopeful piece of it.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Curse Painter. Briar and Archer’s adventures will continue in the sequel. Please sign up for Jordan Rivet’s mailing list to get a special discount when the book launches. You will also receive a free fantasy story!
Keep reading for a preview of Duel of Fire, Jordan Rivet’s epic YA fantasy about a duelist and a prince who team up against a fiery villain.
If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a review and telling your friends. Thank you!
Acknowledgments
It takes many people to bring a book into the world. This is a story about art magic, so the first people I have to thank are Dane at Ebook Launch, who created the gorgeous design on the cover, and Amanda at Red Adept Editing, who helped me polish the words on each page.
The following people provided vital feedback on the story: Sarah Merrill Mowat, Willow Hewitt, Rachel Andrews, Jennifer Deayton, Amanda Tong, MaryAnna Donaldson, Betsy Cheung, Vishal Nanda, Jenny B, and Ayden and Julie Young. Thank you for your suggestions, encouragement, and generosity.
Thank you to Rick Gualtieri for helping with ads, to Sarah for reading the book in advance, and to Suzannah for inviting me to a new online writing community. As always, thank you to the stalwart crew at Author’s Corner for sticking with me for so long.
This has been a challenging year. Thank you, readers, for checking in on me and for helping to spread the word about my books amidst the distractions. I hope my stories will bring you joy and help you escape the real world for a little while.
Jordan Rivet
Hong Kong, 2020
About the Author
Jordan Rivet is an Am
erican author of swashbuckling YA fantasy and post-apocalyptic science fiction. She has written eighteen books across five worlds and doesn’t plan to stop anytime soon. Originally from Arizona, Jordan lives in Hong Kong with her husband.
www.JordanRivet.com
[email protected]
Duel of Fire Excerpt
DARA struck the practice dummy with a precise lunge. The wooden figure shuddered under her blade. She recovered to a guarded stance. Breathe, retreat, advance, lunge. She stabbed the dummy three times in rapid succession. Arm. Head. Heart.
Her breathing steady, she recovered and checked her form. She couldn’t afford any wasted movements. The Vertigon Cup was only two months away, and she had to be perfect.
Breathe, retreat, advance, lunge. Again.
“Practice as you compete.” Her coach’s words replayed in her head as the air hummed with the quick slice of her blade. “If you want to be the best, you train each time like you are fighting for the Cup. This is no practice duel, no just-for-fun game. Fun is for children. You are an athlete.”
Dara hit the dummy again, the blunt point of her sword adding check marks to the battered surface. She wanted to be the best. She had trained for years, sweating through intense workout sessions, fighting opponent after opponent in an effort to show her worth as a duelist. She would not ease up in the final stretch.
Sweat dripped through Dara’s hair as she completed her forms. She did a hundred perfect lunges every day before her coach arrived. If they weren’t perfect, she started over. After the hundredth one, her arms and back felt limber, though there was a bit of tightness in her left calf. She set her blade on the stone floor and worked at the muscle. It was always cold in the dueling school, even in midsummer, and she hadn’t warmed up enough today. She usually ran across the bridges on her way to practice, but today rain fell thick on the mountain, making the boards slippery. She couldn’t afford an injury this close to the biggest tournament of the season.
Dara didn’t just want to win the Vertigon Cup. She was going pro. She had finished her basic education and graduated to the elite adult division six months ago. Her parents had grudgingly given her permission to continue training in the afternoons as long as she worked in their shop in the mornings. She’d have to start earning her keep full-time soon unless she could pull off a big victory. The prize money was part of it, but if she won the Cup, she could sign with a patron to support her training.
But Dara’s coach was late today. He usually came in while she was doing her lunges. Dara put her blade and mask beside her trunk in the corner and sat on the wide brown rug to stretch while she waited.
Rain drummed on the rooftop, and echoes played around the hall. The training space was cavernous, with a wide stone floor and competition strips painted across its length. Ash spread out from the big stone fireplace in the corner, scattered by the wind whipping down the chimney. It was past midday, but the fires blazed in the blustery weather.
Tall windows revealed a slice of the opposite peak. The king’s castle stood like a crown on the mountaintop. The rain fuzzed the details except for the piercing lights in the topmost towers.
Dara had the school to herself for now, but soon the other duelists would arrive for their group training sessions and fill the hall with the clash of steel and the shouts of competition. She loved the metallic din, the way it spurred her to perform better in every practice, every tournament. Professional dueling was an obsession—both for Dara and for the kingdom of Vertigon. Swords hadn’t been used in war in a hundred years. In fact, there hadn’t been a war in a hundred years. But the sport had exploded in popularity during the time of peace. Every competition sold out, and prosperous craftsmen and nobles paid dearly to support the best athletes. Top duelists drew more attention on the streets than King Sevren himself, and they lived like royalty by the time they retired their blades.
Only a handful of women in the city ever landed patrons, though—and Dara would be one of them.
She was more than ready, but there was still no sign of her coach. Berg Doban trained some of the best duelists in Vertigon in his school on Square Peak. Dara had been working with him for years, and he was almost never late.
The tall wooden doors banged open, and the other students began to arrive for the group drills. Dara’s friends Kelad and Oatin were among the first to stride in, laughing and shoving each other and shaking the rain out of their hair. They were both solid athletes. Kel had a patron already, and Oat was expected to make a top-four finish in the men’s division at this year’s Cup. But Dara worked harder than both of them.
“Where’s Doban?” Kel said, coming over to the stretching rug after chucking his gear in the general direction of his trunk.
“No idea.”
“You’re usually slicing him ragged by now,” Oat said.
“I thought I’d be late today.” Dara switched her long legs around and reached for her toes. A strand of golden hair fell into her eyes. “I couldn’t run with the rain like this.”
“Don’t know why you bother anyway,” Kel said. “Running is for horseboys and valley scum.”
“If you ran more, you wouldn’t have dropped those last two hits to Rawl in the Square Tourney,” Dara said. “You have to build your endurance.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kel flopped onto the rug and stretched a leg across his body, rotating his hips until his spine cracked. Kel was wiry and short for a swordsman, but he made up for it with his fine-tuned precision. He could hit a flea with a running lunge on barely a glance. Plus the crowds loved him, which was almost as important in this game. “I lost a gold Firestick to Yuri because of those points.”
“You’ve got to quit betting on yourself,” Oat said. “It messes with your head.” He stood above them, working his long arms in a slow circle. Oat was one of the tallest men on the mountain. Looking up from the floor all Dara could see was the black stubble on his chin and his windmilling limbs. He dropped into a long lunge and grinned at her.
“Better than betting on you, Oat,” Kel said. “You didn’t even duel in the last tournament because of your precious ankle.” Kel sat up and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Don’t remind me.” Oat grimaced. Being tall gave him a great reach, but he was forever falling victim to twists and sprains. It was probably the only reason he didn’t have a patron already.
“You’ll get them in the Cup,” Dara said.
“Thanks, Dar, but we all know you’re going to be the star of the Cup,” Oat said. “Coach barely remembers I’m competing when you’re on the strip.”
“Wish he’d remember when we have drills scheduled. He should have been here half an hour ago.”
“Maybe he’s—”
The door crashed open. Coach Berg Doban strode in, water dripping from his cloak. All the athletes stopped and stared, their stretches forgotten. Berg strode into the center of the dueling hall and hurled his bag of practice blades across the room. It slid to a stop at the foot of a training dummy.
“Idiot!” he roared. Then he stalked over to his trunk and kicked it open. He reached in to grab his padded coaching sleeve, but he had flung the lid up with such force that it immediately slammed back down on his hand. Berg let out a string of curses and lifted the lid again more carefully.
“Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bridge today,” Kel whispered. “I don’t envy you one bit, Dara.”
He and Oat went over to their own trunks and quietly began pulling on their gear. The other athletes became very interested in lacing up their boots and adjusting the bends of their blades as Berg grumbled at his coaching equipment. Dara retrieved her blade, glove, and mask and approached him.
“Umm, Coach?”
He whirled around, another curse on his lips, but held it back when he saw that it was Dara. “You are ready?” he said instead. “We drill now.”
Dara gulped and darted to the drilling strip marked out in paint along one side of the dueling floor. Be
rg stalked after her, pulling on the thick coaching sleeve and muttering under his breath.
Berg was a big, square man with big, square shoulders. He didn’t look like a typical swordsman. The pros tended to be long and lean, like Dara and Oat, but a few compensated for their shorter reach with other assets. In Berg’s case it was his knock-down-walls strength, still visible in his thick shoulders even though he’d grown a bit paunchy around the middle in his coaching years. Berg still had a temper like a cur-dragon in mating season. He was originally from a distant part of the Lands Below, but the dark look that lit his eyes as he crossed the dueling floor had become legendary since his arrival in Vertigon decades ago.
They began their usual drill sequence. Berg didn’t need to call out commands, only occasionally correcting Dara’s stance as she moved through the basic forms. Advance. Parry. Thrust. He was a demanding teacher. He knew how fierce the competition was this year and how much Dara wanted that Cup victory. But today instead of his usual criticism he praised every move she made.
“Yes, Dara, that is how it’s done,” he growled as she touched each key point on his coaching sleeve: hand, arm, shoulder, chest. “Yes, you stay focused. That is it. You do not give your opponent time to think in case you miss your target. No guarantees in a duel. You always go for the second and third and fourth shot even if you think you have number one. Yes! That is the way!”
Berg’s praise made Dara more nervous than being corrected. Her performance today wasn’t much better than their last drill session, when he’d shouted at her for ten minutes for dropping her guard before the arm shot. She tried to focus on keeping her movements efficient, but she missed a handful of hits, the rounded tip of her blade glancing off the padded sleeve. And still Berg praised her.
