Cursed

by Frank Miller

  Nimue tasted the salt of her blood.

  “I want to learn. I want to hear your voices. I want to see what you see. I want to save the Fey Folk from the wrath of the One God.” Morgan smeared blood on her own cheeks and knelt before Nimue.

  “Stand up,” Nimue said, embarrassed.

  Morgan did as asked.

  Nimue took Morgan’s face in her hands. “I’m no teacher. I’m not what you think I am. You’ve done more than I have. All I’ve done is survive.”

  “You’ve shown they can die. That matters. You’ve broken the myth, and that’s why they hunt you the way they do. They know your power even if you don’t.”

  “But I can’t teach you magic. I don’t know any. Mostly, the voices come to me uninvited.”

  A low whistle drew their attention. Far ahead on the trail, the Faun held up a speckled polecat with an arrow through its neck. Morgan mimed applause as the Faun proudly slung the dead animal over his shoulders.

  NINETEEN

  MERLIN WAS HALF CARRIED AND half dragged by a mob of shrieking lepers into the cold and windswept ruins of the Valley of Maron, home to a Roman outpost that was now a sanctuary for the lawless, the abandoned, and the wretched. The marble skeletons of ancient temples stood as mute witnesses to the Fall of Man, embodied here in the valley. The Roman laws and codices had been reduced to ash over centuries of rampant barbarism. There were now only two kinds of men: the cruel and the afraid.

  Which am I? he wondered.

  A little of both, he decided.

  The Leper King, on the other hand, was uniformly cruel and ruled the Valley of Maron as a criminal empire. By embracing the shunned and the forsaken, he had built a loyal army of spies, thieves, and assassins that reached from England to the Northern Monasteries and to the Viking strongholds of southern France. His private host was known as the Afflicted, and they were a force truly to be feared, acolytes who willingly offered their bodies to the leprosy as payment to the gods of dark magic in return for the Witch Sight. The cost to face and form was often uniquely gruesome.

  A mob of lepers formed out of the mists, led by a crone who wore a cow skull over her ruined face: Kalek, the Leper King’s closest adviser. Merlin knew her by reputation. She lifted her right hand, a mottled stump but for a single, bony finger, and pointed at Merlin.

  “You smell like a woman.” Her voice was low and gruff; an obstruction in her throat made her difficult to understand.

  “That makes one of us,” Merlin answered. Scented oils were a must in the Valley of Maron, and Merlin made no apologies. “Will Rugen see me?”

  “His Majesty,” Kalek corrected him.

  “Of course.” Merlin bowed his head slightly. “Will His Majesty, the Leper King, grant his old friend Merlin an audience?” He smiled, and Kalek just stared back at him through her skull helm with a hateful bloodshot eye. Then, with a disgusted wave, the mob dragged Merlin deeper into the valley.

  The Leper King had feathered his nest in a cave hewn out of the mountain wall by early Romans, once a part of a larger temple, now crumbled. One simply needed to follow the sloppy mounds of stolen treasure, heaping chests, gems, candlesticks, and torn tapestries that littered the cracked and faded tiles leading into the cave. Skin lanterns gave the cave a sleepy glow. The Leper King’s broad shadow fell across the walls.

  Merlin was thrown onto the ground like a sack of grain, and the lepers retreated like phantoms into the darkness.

  “I can walk, you know,” Merlin said, climbing to his feet and trying to swipe some of the filth from his robes.

  There was a heavy breath as the Leper King shuffled with the slow lope of a great ape between the smoky lanterns to his wide bed of piled carpets. His heavy, misshapen head, tucked under a deep cowl, sat atop colossal shoulders. Rugen was nine feet high and weighed over a thousand pounds, a testament to the giant blood flowing in his veins.

  “Merlin, my dear old friend, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” Rugen’s voice was low thunder.

  A leper girl, barely fourteen, her hands bloody with sores, offered Merlin a cup of thick wine, which he accepted as a courtesy.

  The Leper King settled himself onto his carpets with effort. “I’m mortified by the rudeness of my ministers. Please accept my deepest apologies. That is no way to treat a man of your importance, an adviser to King Uther, no less.”

  It hardly took a wizard to detect the glee beneath Rugen’s sanctimony.

  “A trifle. Think nothing of it. I’m getting too easily roused in my old age. I blame the travel. The road does not agree with me anymore.”

  “Nonsense, you look well. Healthy! But there’s no denying the world belongs to the young, eh?” Rugen’s hot breath puffed in the cold, damp air of the cave. He squeezed his enormous hands into rough, fingerless mittens. Like the other Afflicted, the king was missing several digits on each hand. “Drink, Merlin. This wine is my new favorite. That royal nose of yours might detect hints of cherry and Arabic spices.”

  “You are a man of culture, as always.” Merlin smiled.

  “And yet your lips are still dry.”

  “Just letting it breathe.”

  Rugen’s mouth twitched beneath his draping cowl. “This is an honor, a man of your station soiling those fine slippers to walk among the wretched and the unwashed. We are unworthy.”

  “I have come here to apologize.” Merlin spread his hands.

  “Really? What possibly for?” Rugen wore an innocent smile.

  “I will be the first to admit, my leadership of the Shadow Lords has been wanting of late.”

  “No, no, you’re too hard on yourself,” Rugen said, playing along.

  “But I am here to set things right. To pay my respects, to—”

  “You embarrass us, Merlin. How can something offend us that does not exist? The Shadow Lords have cast you out. You are a human spy and for years stole our secrets and fed them to an illegitimate king. You are long dead to us. And all besides, the myth of Merlin, it turns out, is entirely that: a myth.” Rugen’s enormous fingers played with a string on his carpet as he spoke. “After all, the rumors are you’ve lost your magic.”

  “Is that what the Shadow Lords will be under your rulership? A knitting circle of idle gossips? Are you even capable of a mature negotiation? Have you no interest at all in what I have to offer?”

  “I’ve lost the taste for your honeyed lies.”

  “I can endorse your leadership,” Merlin said.

  “Can you indeed?” Rugen smirked.

  “The Shadow Lords have grown lazy and contented while a darkness has gathered in the south. If we are truly to guide the destinies of men, then we must reclaim our power. Now, I own my part in placing my hopes in the hearts of humankind. And I am here to set it right. Like me, you watch the skies. You have seen the omens. The Sword of Power has once again revealed itself. All the kings in Christendom are determined it go to them. I am determined it find its way to you.”

  “To me?” the Leper King growled. “Not to Uther Pendragon? The monarch to whom you have sworn your allegiance?”

  Merlin’s tone saddened. “Uther is merely warming the throne for a true king.”

  The walls of the cave shook with the Leper King’s breathy laugh. “Such loyalty. Is this a question of his lineage? His temperament? Or because he’s cast you out as well?”

  Merlin looked down at his boots. “It’s not that entirely—”

  “Just some,” Rugen chuckled, “a touch. A smidge, eh? Just admit it, Merlin. You’re a drunk and a fool, not fit to serve even a bastard king like Uther.”

  “It is true I am no longer welcome in Uther’s court.”

  “And so you come begging to us.”

  Merlin could feel the Leper King’s temper rising. “We have been rivals in the past, Rugen, yes, but don’t let your pride stand in the way of a powerful collaboration. You have me at a disadvantage. Seize that opportunity. There is a reason that five centuries of kings have sought the counsel of Merlin the Magician.
With me at your side and the Sword of the First Kings in your scabbard, your empire will rival Alexander’s.”

  The Leper King slammed his fist on the ground. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

  Merlin heard the rocks crack under the blow. But within this fury, he detected the frustrated war between Rugen’s greed and his suspicion.

  “Well, Your Majesty, you’ll simply have to trust me. And bitter as that tonic may be to swallow, I’ve brought along a small token of good faith, to sweeten the drink. It is something I know you have long desired.” Merlin opened his hand to reveal a golden necklace etched with runes and bejeweled with ancient sapphires.

  Rugen swallowed the spit in his mouth.

  “The torque of Boudicca. Around her neck when she led the Iceni into battle.” Merlin’s eyes twinkled. “Shall we go and put it on her?”

  TWENTY

  A TORCH FLICKERED IN ONE OF the catacombs that Morgan had claimed. A simple bedroll, a table and chair taken from the Broken Spear, and some hanging blankets in place of walls provided the trappings of a modest chamber.

  Nimue sat on the bedroll reading aloud from a parchment as Morgan listened from the table, tapping a quill on her teeth. “ ‘To the Great Merlin the Magician.’ ” Nimue looked up at Morgan. “Is that his proper title? ‘Great’?”

  Morgan shrugged. “How should I know? It’s not like I write him every day. I thought it sounded official.”

  Nimue nodded. “Let’s stick with ‘Great,’ then.” She went back to reading aloud: “ ‘Greetings from the Wolf-Blood Witch.’ ” She looked up again. “I don’t know about this.”

  “You keep stopping. Just go on!”

  Nimue took a deep breath, went on reading. “ ‘By now I trust you are aware that I possess the sword of the ancients known as the Devil’s Tooth. I assure you that Father Carden knows this, for many of his Red Paladins have felt the sting of its bite.’ ”

  Morgan raised her eyebrows, pleased, as Nimue looked up with a smile. “I like that part.”

  “I thought it was good.”

  “You are quite the scribe,” Nimue said, and continued to read aloud: “ ‘Be assured my campaign of terror has only just begun. I intend to show Father Carden and his Red Murderers the very same mercy they have shown to the clans of the Fey.’ ” Nimue paused as though summoning the courage for the task. She went on, “ ‘Yet what I seek most, what we all seek, I pray, is an end to this violence and peace for our kind. I propose an alliance, Great Merlin, and request that you use your wisdom and proximity to King Uther to quell this massacre. In return, I offer you the Devil’s Tooth and trust that you will use it to unite the Fey clans and reclaim their lands. Refuse me, and I will muddy every field of Francia with paladin blood.’ ” Nimue wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t this make me sound a bit monstrous?”

  “You have to meet him as an equal or he won’t take you seriously,” Morgan insisted.

  Nimue sighed, trying to take it all in. “But what’s the point if there’s no hope of getting the letter to him?”

  “I’ve thought of that too,” Morgan said, taking the parchment and rolling it, then pulling Nimue into the tunnels.

  As Morgan guided them, Nimue asked, “Where did you learn to write like that?”

  “The convent,” Morgan answered. Seeing Nimue’s surprise, she explained, “Oh no, I am no sister of the One God, I assure you. But there was a Sister Katerine who was the sacrist at Yvoire and had access to all the books in the scriptorium: Homer and Plato and even the Runic Tablets, the Druid Scrolls, and the banished texts of Enoch.”

  They emerged from the tunnel to see that the path before them was littered with mauled trees. Something had pushed through the growth and bent and snapped everything in its path. The ground was turned over for fifty feet or more, as though two plows had tilled the soil.

  “What did this?” Nimue asked.

  Morgan sighed. “Another family of Tusks arrived last night. And they brought one of their riding beasts with them.”

  Nimue knelt down to a cloven hoofprint in the mud as wide as a barrel. “By the gods.”

  “A sight to behold, if you hold your nose. But it certainly complicates our already chronic food shortage.”

  Nimue gazed at the monstrous print in the ground and the torn-up earth around them. “Still, I’m sure we can find a use for him.”

  A harrowing squeal rose up from the valley, followed by a succession of fierce snorts. Nimue looked up at Morgan, alarmed.

  “Let’s hope he isn’t looking for a mate,” Morgan offered. They walked away from the downed trees, up a hill, and then onto a plateau, where wildflowers grew in spilling abundance. An ancient live oak, with long and low branches, like welcoming arms, formed a natural shelter for the meadow. Nimue heard a strange murmur of cooing and chirps.

  An older Moon Wing woman who resembled an upturned nest, with her disheveled hair and ragged cape of feathers, sat cross-legged in the flowers and autumn leaves. A black tern with a long yellow beak hopped and tweeted at her feet. The woman looked up at Morgan with a scowl. “Someone’s eating my birds.”

  They were surrounded by dozens and dozens of birds of all shapes and sizes: puffins, waxwings, plovers and vultures, quails and turtledoves, sparrow hawks and snow geese, harriers, woodpeckers, tawny owls and peacocks, predators and prey alike.

  Nimue’s scars prickled. The Hidden were present. Small voices called inside the burble of the many birds.

  “We’re looking into it, Yeva,” Morgan assured the Moon Wing.

  “It’s no mystery. We have a cave full of Snakes. You warn them, Morgan. Yeva’s birds have to eat too. And many fill their bellies on Snakes.”

  “I’ll warn them, I promise.”

  But before Morgan could say more, Yeva hopped up suddenly, not unlike the tern at her feet, and focused in on Nimue.

  “I haven’t gotten a close look at this Sky Folk warrior. This Wolf-Blood Drinker.” She regarded Nimue down the length of her beak-like nose.

  The chatter of the birds rose.

  “They have so many questions about you,” Yeva confided to Nimue, gesturing to the birds. She held up her hand and shut her eyes. She concentrated. With her eyes still closed, she breathed in sharply. “Oh my.” She passed her hand over Nimue’s heart and stomach. With both hands she measured something invisible, reaching around and finding its target over her scars. “This . . . this is why you are confused. Here is your power. Not clan. Not Fey.” She touched Nimue’s back. “This is your bridge to the Many Worlds.” Yeva’s eyes popped open. “May I see these marks?”

  Nimue stepped back, unnerved.

  Morgan touched Yeva lightly on the shoulder. “We have a favor to ask, Yeva. A special message we need to send to Merlin the Magician.”

  Yeva’s eyes widened, and she turned to Morgan. “Merlin? What do you want with that traitor to our kind?”

  Morgan held up the parchment. “The message is private, I’m afraid. But can you do this? Can you find him for us?”

  “I cannot find him.” Yeva shrugged. Then she made a guttural call from her throat, and a black kite dove from the branches above their heads, swooping noisily before settling on Yeva’s arm. “But Marguerite can find anything.”

  Nimue approached the beautiful bird. She reached out and stroked its neck.

  Yeva clucked. “She likes you.”

  “How will she find Merlin?” Nimue asked.

  Yeva chuckled. “Sky Folk call them Hidden. Moon Wings call them Old Ones. They laugh at all our names. But no matter, they will guide Marguerite.”

  “At your command?” Nimue asked with wonder.

  “Command? No. Request? Perhaps.” Yeva took the parchment from Morgan and tied it to Marguerite’s leg with a thin strip of leather. She cupped the bird’s head in her hand and whispered something, then threw her arm into the air, launching Marguerite into the treetops.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Merlin stood, arms folded behind him, and wat
ched as the gargantuan Leper King fumbled with his clumsy fingers among the keys on his belt. “Bloody small,” he muttered. Finally successful, Rugen turned the key in the lock and pushed open a vast iron door with screeching hinges.

  Merlin waited for Rugen to navigate his girth through the doorway before following at a polite distance.

  “Well?” Rugen whispered with unrestrained pride.

  Merlin’s eyes drank in the Leper King’s hall of treasures, a famed and coveted cave of priceless—and stolen—relics. His eyes drifted past golden chalices and gemstone rings, ruby scepters and ceremonial shields, and finally landed upon an ancient skeleton wrapped in flowers. A green light flickered in the skeleton’s eyes.

  It was a light shed by the Fey Fire burning in the brazier before it.

  “Magnificent,” Merlin answered.

  The Leper King’s hand swallowed Merlin’s shoulder and some of his back as he pulled him to some favorites. He gestured to a box smothered in jewels. “The reliquary of Septimus the Younger. Pigeon-blood rubies—”

  “Mined only in the Mughal Mountains,” Merlin offered.

  Rugen grunted, pleased. “Very good.”

  “I am ashamed to admit how I have longed to see this legendary vault,” Merlin said. “And is that the Chalice of Ceridwen?”

  He crossed the vault to wonder over a warped golden cup.

  The Leper King shuffled after him. He seemed taken with the flattery. “The same. The witch who offered it to me claimed it as the Grail. Of course I knew it was far more valuable. Ah, here she is.” Rugen sighed as they reached the flowered skeleton. “May I?” he asked, eagerly holding out his hand.