Cursed

by Frank Miller

  “Quiet,” Nimue hushed her, and spun Dusk Lady in a circle, searching for a place to hide. Her heart pounded, but Dusk Lady chose that moment to turn stubborn, standing fixed in the middle of the road as Nimue dug her heels into the horse’s ribs and a lone figure rode into the moonlight. Desperate, Nimue fished out a cheese knife she had hidden in the saddle. “Come no closer!”

  Pym gripped her shoulders.

  “I surrender,” spoke a familiar voice. A black courser stepped out of the gloom. The young man held up a familiar piece of clothing. “Does this belong to one of you?”

  At Arthur’s presence, Nimue again felt the hum inside her. Her hand went to her throat, and for the first time she realized she’d lost her cloak.

  “You came all this way just to return a cloak?”

  “It’s a nice one.”

  “Are you alone?” Nimue glanced into the darkness over Arthur’s shoulder.

  “Aye. Except for Egypt here.” Arthur patted his horse’s long neck.

  Nimue urged Dusk Lady forward until she was close enough for Arthur to hand her the cloak.

  “Never seen anyone treat Bors like that,” he said, though Nimue couldn’t tell if he was impressed or frightened of her.

  She flung the cloak around her shoulders, loath to admit she was as afraid. “Pity. He could use more humility.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “I don’t need your advice,” Nimue said, doing her best to sound confident but conscious that she’d taken things too far back at the tavern.

  Arthur smiled, shaking his head. “Really? You have it all figured out, do you?”

  Charming smile or not, his tone annoyed her. “At least as much as a young sell-sword who just does as he’s told and keeps his mouth shut.”

  “Thank you,” Pym interjected, “for the cloak. You didn’t have to.”

  “I haven’t met your kind before.”

  “And?” Nimue asked.

  Arthur held up his hands. “Maybe you haven’t seen as much of the world as you think. For example, there’s a fellow name of Ring Nose, likes to set ambushes past the hook turn up the road.” Pym looked alarmed.

  “And let me guess: you know that because he works for you,” Nimue said.

  Arthur’s ears reddened. “For Bors, on occasion.”

  “True knights,” Nimue scoffed.

  “Listen, these are dangerous days for Fey Folk to be witching men in broad daylight.”

  “We’re not witches,” Nimue shot back.

  “Men like Bors are one thing,” Arthur continued, “but the Red Paladins are another. I’ve seen the burning fields. Have you?”

  “I’ve seen plenty,” Nimue lied.

  “You don’t forget the smell. It hangs in the air for miles. The Southern lords keep inside their walls and give the paladins the run of—”

  Nimue hushed Arthur. She listened. There had been a sound on the breeze.

  All was quiet.

  Then they heard the murmur of voices approaching from the glades.

  “Someone’s coming. Off the road.” Nimue took the reins of Arthur’s horse and spurred Dusk Lady down an embankment and into a dark pasture. She made breathy whistles to Dusk Lady, and she instinctively sought shelter in a huddle of young trees, not enough to hide them completely, but far enough. They waited in silence. Dusk Lady huffed and Nimue stroked her neck to shush her.

  After an eternity, four riders came into view, pausing at the spot where they’d just stood. One of them held out a lantern and looked around.

  “Friend of Ring Nose?” Nimue whispered.

  “I don’t know them,” Arthur said in a low voice.

  His hand slid down to the pommel of his sword, and his blithe countenance turned to stone. His muscles tensed.

  More wolf than pup, Nimue realized.

  A sudden hum welled up inside her, and she fought it off. But there was something inside Arthur, a reservoir of energy, barely checked and almost primal, burning like some deep internal furnace. It was unlike any aura Nimue had ever felt, and it made her both curious and deeply afraid. This was no ordinary boy.

  Cold laughter brought Nimue’s attention back to the road. She could tell by the men’s rough voices and poorly fed horses that they were not Red Paladins. After a few moments, the riders moved on. Their lantern light faded and Arthur’s muscles slowly relaxed again.

  “Follow me,” Nimue whispered to Arthur and Pym. She rode into the darkness, farther away from the road.

  “Where are you going?” Arthur asked.

  “To make camp. We aren’t taking that road tonight.”

  Half a skin of wine later, Pym snored quietly in the grass.

  Lit silver by the moonlight, Nimue circled Arthur, aiming the wobbly blade at his nose. Arthur laughed. “What are you doing?”

  “Stalking you,” Nimue whispered.

  Arthur frowned, his short sword dragging in the grass. “Have you held a sword before?”

  “I’ve killed hundreds.”

  Arthur slid his foot toward Nimue.

  “Be careful,” Nimue swung with gusto, but Arthur kept creeping forward.

  “To the death, is it?”

  “If you’re careless.” Nimue held the sword with both hands.

  Arthur feinted left. She swung again, but only sliced air.

  “You’re fighting with just the blade,” he told her. “That’s a waste of a good sword.”

  Nimue lunged forward and Arthur barely dodged. “You talk too much.”

  But Arthur pivoted inside her reach. “A sword is more than a blade.” He stepped between Nimue’s legs as she cut at him, but he caught her blade in his cross guard. “It’s the cross guard.”

  With their swords locked and pointed to the ground, he mimed striking Nimue in the chin with his pommel. “It’s the pommel.”

  He bent his knee into the back of hers. “Legs.” And then he turned his elbow to touch her cheek. “Body weight.”

  Nimue sulked.

  Arthur smirked.

  Then she head-butted him right in the nose.

  “Gods!” Arthur stumbled back, pinching his nose to stop the trickle of blood coming from his right nostril.

  “Head,” Nimue said.

  He looked at the blood on his fingers and chuckled. “Tavern brawler, eh?”

  Nimue lunged and Arthur raised his short sword in time, deflecting her blow. With two hands, she swung again, too close to Arthur’s face. He shook his head. “You are dangerous.”

  “That is the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night. Yield?”

  “Hardly,” Arthur snorted, jabbing the short sword. Nimue pivoted to block him but missed. He slid his blade to the pommel of her sword and spun it hard, flinging Nimue’s sword into the grass.

  “Luck!” Nimue shouted as she held her smarting wrist.

  Arthur sheathed his sword and took her wrist in his hands. “You need to hold the sword loosely, like the reins of a horse.”

  Pym snorted in her sleep and mumbled. The night air was wet and cold, but Arthur’s fingers on her hand warmed Nimue’s blood enough.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, finding her voice, as Arthur’s fingers kneaded her palm.

  “Does this bother you?”

  “You’ve lowered your guard.”

  “Your sword is in the grass. I won.”

  “Have you?” Nimue snuck her cheese knife from her skirts and brought it up to Arthur’s throat.

  “Is that a cheese knife?” Arthur laughed.

  “It’s sharp enough.” Nimue pushed the blade against his neck. “Yield?”

  “You are a terror.”

  Nimue let her eyes linger on his. His gray eyes were flecked with green, like flakes of emerald. The hum in her stomach thrummed and rose up her chest and into her throat, overwhelming her before she could resist, and suddenly she was rushing forward. No, something inside of her was locking into Arthur with such ferocity she felt as though she might scream. Then images roa
red into her mind unbidden: a blade with the green of Arthur’s eyes . . . a hand covered in leprous boils reaching toward her . . . a cave wall of solemn carved faces . . . a woman with red curls wearing a dragon helm . . . an owl with an arrow in its back . . . Nimue herself underwater, clawing to breathe, water filling her lungs . . . and . . .

  Nimue gasped awake, sucking in air, shivering uncontrollably. She fought off a wave of nausea, partly the wine and partly the dread that she’d succumbed to another vision and that Arthur might have witnessed it. She had no memory of falling asleep. She was also wet and freezing. Morning mist drenched her clothes. A weak sun failed to burn through the low clouds. Nimue had never felt so cold. She shook Pym awake.

  “Pym, it’s morning. We have to go.” Pym obeyed with the stupor of the just awakened. They walked softly past Arthur, who slept on one of his saddlebags, climbed onto Dusk Lady, and cantered onto the misty road.

  They traveled for an hour, too wet and miserable to speak. The road was empty but for a traveling dentist who had spent the evening serving distant farms and looked like he’d been drinking the entire ride back to Hawksbridge. All the same he offered the girls a complimentary exam, which they politely declined. There was a moment, a curious one, when the dentist observed some totems on Nimue’s wrist jewelry identifying her as Fey Kind. The dentist seemed fearful, and he gestured to the road ahead, then stopped short, as though a moment of courage had passed. He bid the girls good day and whickered his horse down the road at a trot.

  The mists cleared, and the girls felt their first relief from the evening chill. But as the forest pressed in and the road narrowed, signaling the last mile to the village, an ox dragging its chains but no plow barreled out of the wilderness and into the girls’ path. The wooden arm of the plow dragged alongside the animal’s shoulder as it lumbered past the girls and down the road, clearly panicked. Nimue followed it with her eyes, confused, and then turned back. In the break of the trees a column of black smoke rose ominously. Flakes of red ash fluttered in the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

  Nimue’s heart pounded.

  She spurred on Dusk Lady, and as the horse cleared the forest, screams ripped the air.

  SIX

  THE TALL OAKEN DOORS OF king uther Pendragon’s Great Hall groaned open and two royal footmen, wearing the embroidered three red crowns of House Pendragon on their yellow tunics, dragged in a half-conscious mage. His leather slippers dragged on the floor. His brownish-blond beard was stained with wine. They held him up before the young king on his throne.

  “Merlin.” King Uther calmly smoothed his waxed black beard. “Perfect timing.”

  “Took a bit, but we found him in the cabbages, sire,” Borley, the older, barrel-chested footman offered proudly. “Drunk, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t say?” King Uther smiled coldly.

  Merlin flung his arms away from his captors, smoothed his night-blue robes, and swayed for a moment before steadying himself against a pillar.

  “You promised us rain, Merlin. And, per usual, your words have proven hollow.”

  “Weather is fickle, my liege,” Merlin said, fluttering his fingers to the sky.

  King Uther dropped a slab of cold mutton on the floor for his wolfhounds.

  He suspects, Merlin thought through his wine-soaked haze. He suspects my secret. But they would continue to pretend, he knew. At only twenty-six years, Uther was a young and insecure monarch and loath to admit error or weakness. That Merlin, his secret counsel, the legendary sage, was a fool and a drunkard, not the feared sorcerer of the ages, was likely too humiliating a thought for Uther to entertain for very long. Let us end this charade once and for all, Merlin wished. Merlin the Magician was Merlin the Fraud. His magic was lost and had been for almost seventeen years. It was only spy-craft and will and pride and the gullible nature of men that had sustained the lie all these years. Merlin was tired of it. Yet something within him refused to confess the truth. Fear, perhaps. He preferred to keep his head on his shoulders. Besides, voicing it would somehow make it more real. More final.

  Sir Beric, Uther’s other counsel, a rotund, plaited-bearded fellow Merlin knew as a leech and a coward, sniffed at Merlin’s words and turned back to the king. “The drought and resulting famine are causing wider panic in your northern French provinces as well, sire. Taking advantage of these passions, Father Carden and his Red Paladins have burned several Fey villages.”

  Uther’s eyes darkened and turned to Merlin. “The Red Paladins are not fickle, Merlin. They are quite reliable. How many Fey villages have burned, Sir Beric?”

  Sir Beric consulted a scroll. “Ah, approximately ten, Your Majesty.”

  If the king was hoping for a reaction from Merlin, he was disappointed. The mage simply poured a cup of wine.

  Uther chose to speak to Beric as though Merlin were not there. “Merlin is a conflicted creature, you see, Beric. These are his kind being put to the torch, yet he is unmoved. Not that he’s ever been confused for a man of the people. He’s not fond of the mud of the southern villages. No, he prefers the trappings of our castle and our plum wine.” Uther deigned to look over at the wizard. “Don’t you, Merlin?”

  “It’s hardly a mystery what’s happening. The Fey Kind are, quite frankly, better farmers. So, in times of want, the mob finds reason to steal their food. Father Carden and his paladins are dull vessels for these old hatreds, nothing more.” Merlin wiped some spilled wine from his robes. “However, if His Majesty would allow it, the Shadow Lords may be able to offer some service here.”

  The king grew quiet and nodded for his goblet to be refilled, and a cupbearer poured.

  Uther’s paranoia always rose at the mention of Merlin’s circle of spies. Merlin could count on that. It was a reminder to the king that Merlin was not a man to cross. The Shadow Lords were more disturbing to the king than Carden’s crucifixion fields. The Fey were a nuisance and offered little to the royal coffers, whereas the Shadow Lords were different: a secret confederacy of witches, mages, and warlocks, each with their own networks, guilds, and cells at every societal rank, from the lowliest leper colonies to the royal court, all operating outside the king’s grasp.

  What Merlin neglected to mention was that the Shadow Lords had become a far greater danger to him than to the king. That he had earned untold enemies within the organization, that they smelled weakness and decline, that rumors of his lost magic were swirling alongside rumblings of assassins and black bounties on his head.

  And Merlin’s response to all this?

  More wine, he mused darkly, weary of it all.

  Servants entered with a tray of food for the king, who was still quietly stewing over the mention of the Shadow Lords. The butler announced, “Supper, Your Majesty.”

  Uther rose from his throne, eyes never leaving Merlin, and walked to the table, where he sat as the lid was lifted from the tray, revealing medallions of steak on his plate. Upon seeing his food, Uther’s mood did not improve.

  “We asked for doves,” he growled to his butler.

  “Deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” the butler soothed, “but we seem to have an issue with the dovecotes. Some, ah, dead birds were found.”

  Merlin frowned at this. “How many birds?”

  Unnerved by Merlin, the butler’s voice shook slightly as he answered, “Um, nine, sir.”

  Even a man struck blind can still remember the color blue in his mind. So it was that Merlin, a man robbed of the Sight, recognized an omen.

  Nine doves.

  Nine was the number for magic but also for wisdom and leadership. The dead doves were a powerful warning of shattered peace and coming war.

  Uther sighed. “How appetizing. Go.”

  The butler and the royal footmen hurried out of the throne room.

  King Uther sawed into his meat. “A bit late for your enchanters to help us now.”

  “Not necessarily, Your Majesty. With the right encouragement, they could—”

  Uther slammed the
table with his fist, rattling his plate and frightening his hounds to bark. “Drought! Famine! Food riots! We cannot afford to look weak to our enemies! Do you know the Ice King and his northern raiders prowl our coasts, waiting for the right moment to strike? Do you? We want rain, Merlin!”

  Sir Beric bowed his head, fearful of Uther’s wrath.

  King Uther turned to Merlin, eyes aflame. “To hell with your Shadow Lords. Mother doubts they exist at all.”

  Unfazed, Merlin folded his hands into the long sleeves of his robes. “I would assure the Queen Regent they are all too real. But His Majesty requires rain, and so we shall redouble our efforts.”

  “Yes, do,” Uther bit. But as Merlin headed down the hall in a swirl of blue robes, the king added, “We know how you value your privacy, Merlin. It would be a pity if the wider world learned that you were serving us. Who knows what enemies might crawl out of the woodwork?” Merlin nodded at the warning, and the great doors of the throne room slammed behind him.

  However, once he entered the serpentine corridors of Castle Pendragon, he sobered up quickly, no longer swaying, his senses returning and as keen as a fox. He drew a torch from a sconce in the wall and swept into a dark passage. After several steps, he paused and listened. Somewhere up ahead of him there was a scraping sound, followed by small bursts of air. Merlin strode ahead and rounded a corner, his firelight falling upon a magpie, spinning in a desperate circle on the floor, flopping about in its death throes. The magpie was a powerful omen of witchcraft but also of prophecy. Merlin’s fathomless eyes drifted toward the ceiling.

  Minutes later, his lungs burned as he labored up the last remaining stairs of the castle’s highest tower. As he climbed into the turret, the first thing he noticed was the silence. Then he saw the dead birds littering the floor, some of them still twitching. Though the quantity was itself alarming, it was their arrangement that was most disturbing of all. The magpies had all fallen and died in ten impossibly precise patterns of three. Ten arrangements of three.

  Ten: a rebirth. A new order. Dead magpies.