Excerpt
The Zero Curse
By Christopher Nuttall
Prologue
IT WAS A HOT SUMMER DAY when I realized - for the first time - just how vulnerable I truly was.
I was ten at the time and, despite everything, I hadn’t given up hope that I might have a spark of magic. It wasn’t uncommon for magicians not to show much - if any - signs of magical talent before turning twelve, when they would be schooled in magic. Or so my parents kept telling me, as they tried to teach me more and more arcane disciplines in the hopes of shaking something loose. My sisters were streaking ahead and I ...
... I hadn’t even managed to cast a single spell.
If I hadn’t been able to pick up the Family Sword - which could only be handled by my bloodline - I would have wondered if I was truly my father’s daughter. I could sense my father’s disappointment and my mother’s concern, even though they tried to hide it. They had to wonder if I, Caitlyn Aguirre, would bring down the whole family. Our bloodline was strong in magic. A child born without the ability to use it would shame us.
It was a hot month, the hottest on record. My sisters and I would have loved to spend it in the swimming pool or paddling near the beach. Our friends - Alana and Bella’s friends, more accurately - had already decamped, leaving Shallot for their country estates where it was cooler. We wanted to go with them too, but we hadn’t been allowed to leave. Great Aunt Stregheria had come to stay.
I still find it hard to believe that Great Aunt Stregheria was my father’s aunt. She was a tall dark woman, the tallest I’ve ever seen, her hair hanging down loosely in a manner that signified she was an unmarried woman. It was easy to understand why. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked rather like a vulture, with an angular face and dark eyes that seemed to glitter with malice as she peered down at us from her lofty height. She was one of those unpleasant adults who firmly believed that children should neither be seen nor heard and she hadn’t been shy about making her opinions known. She’d been scathing about my failings in magic. And she’d drilled my sisters in basic manners until even Alana was sick of her.
I didn’t know why she bothered to visit us. I still don’t. She complained about everything, from the food to the heat. We were in trouble if we didn’t curtsey just right when she saw us and when we deliberately stayed out of her way. She expected us to wear our formal clothes at all times, even though it was far too hot; she expected us to wait on her at table, as if we were common maids. She’d get up late, have a long breakfast and then spend an hour or two with Dad before ... well, we didn’t know what she was doing. We didn’t really care either. We just wanted her gone.
One day, the hottest day of the summer, we managed to slip away early. Mum didn’t say anything to us, let alone drag us back into the house. By then, I think she was sick and tired of Great Aunt Stregheria making herself at home. She had a home of her own. I rather hoped it was a cave somewhere high up a mountainside, but I doubted it. Why couldn’t she go back home and stop bothering us? Great Aunt Stregheria was the sort of person who gave magic-users a bad name.
There was a little marshy pond down by the grove, one we’d paddled in when we were younger. We thought it was just far enough from the house - while still being part of the grounds - to escape detection, at least for a while. Dad hadn’t given Great Aunt Stregheria any access to the wards, we thought. She’d have been summoning us all the time if she’d had control. We took off our expensive shoes and splashed through the water, enjoying the cool liquid against our feet. For once, even Alana was too relieved to be away from the witch to indulge in a little malice. We were, just for an hour or two, a normal trio of sisters.
It didn’t last, of course.
Great Aunt Stregheria came striding through the grove in high dudgeon, her face twisted with rage. I don’t think she was mad at us, specifically, but she was mad. We froze, fear holding us in place as solidly as any spell, as she stamped towards us. I had no idea where she’d been, or what she’d been doing, but ...
“You little brats,” she snapped. In hindsight, I suspect she wanted to take her anger out on someone. “Get out of there!”
Normally, we would have obeyed instantly. But we were hot and sweaty and very - very - tired of her. We didn’t move.
Great Aunt Stregheria lifted her hand and cast a spell. I saw a flash of brilliant greenish light, an instant before the spell stuck me - struck us. Alana screamed - I might have screamed too, I’m not sure - as magic flared around her. My skin tingled unpleasantly, as if I was caught in a thunderstorm. I had an instant to see my black hand turning green and warty before the world grew larger. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as I splashed into the water, then jerked them open as my legs started to move automatically. The tiny pool - so shallow that it barely reached our knees - was suddenly huge.
I broke the water, just in time to see Alana and Bella become frogs. My head swam as I grappled with the sudden change. It wasn’t the first time I’d been transfigured, but ... but ... this was far worse. There were no safeties worked into the spell. I could feel the frog’s mind gnawing away at mine, threatening to erode my thoughts. The water was practically hypnotic, pulling at me. If I hadn’t been panicking, if I hadn’t managed to hop out of the water, I might have been lost.
The spell on me wore off in an hour, although it wasn’t until two years later that I understood why. By then, Dad had literally thrown Great Aunt Stregheria out of the hall and ordered her never to return. The spell on my sisters lasted nearly a week before it finally collapsed. Dad was delighted, utterly over the moon. He insisted I had a definite magical talent. I had to have something, he reasoned, to escape such a complex spell. Our parents had been unable to unravel it for themselves.
I knew better. Alana and Bella had been trapped, but neither of them had been in any danger of losing themselves in an animal’s mind. Their magic had even fought the spell when it was first cast. But I had no magic to defend myself. The protective spells Mum and Dad had laid on me had never been anchored properly because there was nothing for them to anchor to. It was sheer luck that I’d survived long enough for the spell to unravel. I was defenseless. Anyone could cast a spell on me.
It was a lesson I should never have forgotten.
I was a zero. And being powerless was my curse.
Chapter One
THE WORKBENCH WAS UGLY.
It had been made of dark brown almond-tree wood, once upon a time. It would have gleamed under the light, when it was new; now, it was covered in burn marks and scratches and pieces of mismatched wood where its previous owner had replaced broken drawers and covering with newer material. Half the drawers were tight, so tight that opening them was a struggle; the remainder were so loose that I felt I’d have to replace them sooner rather than later. And I’d found five secret compartments, concealed by careful design rather than magic, one of which had been crammed with gold coins from a bygone era.
Yes, it was ugly. But it was mine and I loved it.
The workbench had been in the family for centuries, according to my father. It had belonged to Anna the Artificer, once upon a time, before it had gone into storage after her death. Her children hadn’t had the heart to use it for themselves, apparently. None of them had come close to matching their mother when it came to forging talent. If there hadn’t been stories of her fighting a duel with a prospective suitor, I’d have wondered if she’d been a Zero. There were no stories about her forging Objects of Power - at least, none that had been passed down through the ages - but some of her Devices of Power had lasted nearly a decade without maintenance and repair. Very few forgers could make that claim.
Dad had given me the workbench, along with a workroom and suite of my very own. He’d said that I was the first person in centuries to live up to Anna’s legacy, the first person to deserve to sit at her workbench and forge. Personally, I thought he felt a little guilty. My sisters - Alana and Belladonna - had long since had their rooms decorated,
to mark their progress in magic, but I’d never managed to cast even the simplest of spells. Until recently, everyone had assumed that I was either a very slow learner or a freak. And I was a freak.
Just a very valuable freak, I thought.
The thought made me smile. It was good to be appreciated, to be something more than my family’s private shame. I still didn’t understand why I could forge Objects of Power - where everyone else was limited to Devices of Power - but it gave me a talent none of my sisters could match. Alana had never been a good forger - Bella had been too lazy to learn more than the basics and only then because Dad had pushed her nose to the grindstone - yet it wouldn’t have mattered if she spent every waking hour at the workbench. I was the only person who could forge Objects of Power.
“I can still turn you into a toad,” Alana had said, last night. She’d come home from school, along with Bella. “And you can’t do that to me without help, can you?”
“No,” I’d said. My sister was a spiteful person, now more than ever. I was careful to wear protective trinkets every time I saw her. “But anyone can turn me into a toad.”
I leaned back and surveyed my new domain. Dad hadn’t skimped on outfitting the chamber, either. Two walls were lined with bookcases, sagging under the weight of reference textbooks and a small collection of reprinted volumes from the Thousand-Year Empire. I wasn’t the only one who could read them - I’d had Old Script drilled into my head before I’d reached my first decade - but I was the only one who could make use of them. The instructions for making Objects of Power were easy to find, if one had access to a decent library, yet something had been left unsaid. It had been sheer luck that I’d realized that the missing ingredient, something so obvious the ancient magicians had never bothered to write down, had been someone like me.
Maybe I couldn’t use magic personally. It didn’t make me useless.
A second workbench, covered with handmade tools, sat near the door, next to a furnace, a kiln, a set of cupboards and a giant translucent cauldron. Dad had crammed one of the cupboards with everything a budding forger would want, while Mum had filled the other with potion ingredients. I hated to think how much it must have cost, even though I knew my family was rich and that my sisters had earned rewards for themselves, over the years. Being best friends with a commoner had taught me more than anyone had realized. I was almost embarrassed at the thought of bringing Rose into my workroom. A single gemstone - like the ones hidden in one of my drawers - would be more than enough to buy and sell her entire family.
I put the thought aside as I carefully pulled on a set of protective robes, tied my hair into a tight bun and inspected myself in the mirror. My dark face was marred by a nasty burn from when I’d managed to splash hot potion on myself, although it was healing nicely. I had a nasty feeling that I’d have forger’s hands - hands covered in burn marks - by the time I was twenty, even though my tutors had drummed safety precautions into me from the very beginning. It wasn’t something that bothered me, although Alana had made snide remarks about me not having ladylike hands. It was proof that I was more than just another aristocratic brat entering High Society.
Not that High Society ever really cared about me, I thought.
It was a grim thought. I’d gone to birthday parties, of course, doing the social whirl that ensured that everyone who was anyone in Shallot knew everyone else. But birthday parties for young magicians had been hazardous for me, all the more so as rumors about my magic - or lack of it - had started to spread. Very few people had grasped that I had no magic whatsoever, but it was clear that I was a very late bloomer. No one had wanted to be associated with me, for fear that whatever had laid me low might be catching. I’d had no true friends until I’d gone to Jude’s. Now ...
I swallowed, hard. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to school, even though I’d declined when Dad had offered to let me stay home. Rose was there, after all. I couldn’t leave her alone, not after everything she’d done for me. And maybe things would be better, now I’d beaten Isabella. The school’s honor code was strict. Isabella had been beaten fairly and that was all that mattered.
Unless she reasoned she hadn’t been beaten fairly, after all. It wasn’t an unarguable case.
One by one, I removed the protective amulets and earrings I’d forged over the last couple of weeks, placing them on the small table by the mirror. I felt as if I was naked, utterly unprotected, when I was done, even though the workroom was locked. I’d spent the last six years trying - and often failing - to avoid increasingly nasty pranks from my sisters, pranks that I’d never been able to see coming. Even something as simple as sitting down to dinner could turn into a trial if Alana had had time to hex or jinx the chair. Now ... I was protected, as long as I wore the earrings. But I didn’t know if I could wear them while forging without ruining my work.
Buttoning up my robe, I strode across to the workbench and looked down at the longsword, resting in a web of silver netting. It was big, easily too big for me to carry, even using both hands. I wasn’t exactly a weakling - forging requires physical strength as well as dexterity - but it was still too big for me. Sir Griffons, the man who’d commissioned the sword, was easily twice my size. He had muscles on his muscles ... and yet, normally, even he would have trouble carrying the sword. I couldn’t help thinking that a Kingsman - a servant of His Most Regal Majesty, King Rufus - wouldn’t consider the longsword a practical weapon. But it did have its advantages.
I smiled as I studied the blade, carefully planning out the next step. Casting the blade itself had been simple, a task that anyone could do. Dad had even offered to have one of his apprentices do it for me, pointing out that I didn’t have to waste my time on it. And yet, I’d declined. There was too great a chance that someone else’s involvement would taint the metal, making it impossible to turn the long sword into an Object of Power. I intended to experiment, once I returned to school, to see just how much preliminary work I could pass to someone else without ruining the final effect.
And besides, I wanted to impress Sir Griffons.
The swordsmen of the Thousand-Year Empire had had swords that could cut through anything, according to legend. Their blades had been as light as feathers, in the hands of their true owners; their scabbards had had magic of their own, healing wounds and boosting strength when swordsmen met in combat. And there had been some truth in the legends. I’d seen blades, passed down through the years, that had been magic, when wielded by the descendents of the original owners. My Family Sword, buried in the Family Hearthstone, had powers of its own. You simply couldn’t buy a weapon like that for love or money. Even if a family sold off a priceless heirloom - which would have forced them to put a price on ‘priceless’ - the magic wouldn’t work for anyone outside the direct line. Whatever rites and rituals had been used to transfer a blade to a new owner had been lost hundreds of years ago.
Sir Griffons had been obsessed with owning such a sword for as long as I’d been alive. He’d been pushing my father to either crack the secret behind the blades or come up with something new, something that would allow a Device of Power to survive against counterspells. Every year, Dad had tried something new; every year, the blade had either snapped in combat or lost its magic at terrifying speed. Dad and his apprentices had gone through the books hundreds of times, trying dozens of variations in a desperate bid to crack the secret. They’d known the reward would be massive, if they succeeded. The Kingsmen needed such blades to do their work. But they’d failed. The problem had seemed insurmountable.
I reached for my notebook and opened it, checking my work one final time. The calculations hadn’t been that difficult, although I’d had to adapt some of the runes to adjust for modern-day materials. Whoever had come up with the original swords had been a genius, as well as a Zero. The network of runes that channelled magic into the blade had to be precise or the spell would simply refuse to work. Thankfully, I’d learnt the value of precision long ago. My sisters had enough power to
compensate for deviations - often very big deviations - from perfect spellforms, but lesser magicians needed to be precise. Not that it mattered to me, in any case. I could speak a spell perfectly, with all the accent on the right syllables, and nothing would happen.
And yet, I can forge Objects of Power, I reminded myself, as I picked up the etching tool and held it over the sword. I am unique.
I’d forged the etching tool myself, as tradition demanded. I wasn’t too sure if it mattered - the harmony most magicians experienced when they used tools they’d crafted themselves was alien to me - but it wasn’t a tradition I wanted to abandon. Forging had given me a sense of purpose, of achievement, a long time before I’d realized what I could do. And besides, it kept my mind off uncomfortable truths. There were things I didn’t want to think about, even now.
Bending over the sword, I carefully pressed the etching tool against the metal and carved out the first rune. The metal was softer than it should have been - the silver cradle made it easier to carve, although I didn’t pretend to understand why - but I still moved with immense care. I didn’t have time to start again from scratch, not when I was due back at school in a couple of days. Besides, I wasn’t sure what would happen if I melted down the sword to reuse the metal. In theory, it shouldn’t make any difference; in practice, I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen forging go horribly wrong because the metal had already been tainted by magic.
The first rune fell into place, neatly. I took a moment to catch my breath - sweat was already trickling down my back - and then started on the second. My calculations insisted that the magic wouldn’t take effect until the last rune was in place, but I kept a wary eye on the blade anyway, just in case. A surge of magic that seemingly came out of nowhere would be dangerous, not least because I couldn’t sense the surge and take cover until it was too late. As far as magic was concerned, I was the blind girl in the kingdom of the sighted.
The Gordian Knot (Schooled in Magic Book 13) Page 39
