Cursed

by Frank Miller

  King Uther was pale and beads of sweat wet his bare upper lip. He kept glancing nervously to his mother’s tower as the footmen forced Merlin onto his knees before the bloodstained executioner’s block.

  “Uther, you’re not thinking!” Merlin fought with his captors.

  Uther snapped, “We tire of your words!”

  The king nodded to the executioner. Merlin’s neck was pressed into the groove of the chopping block. The king looked up to his mother again. She nodded. Uther took a deep breath and turned to the assembled mob. “Merlin the Magician, you are hereby sentenced to die for the crime of treason against our person!”

  Merlin could smell the rusted blood soaked into the block. A resignation overtook him. He chuckled joylessly. In seven centuries, the only pure truth he knew was that death was ugly, sad, undignified, and empty of meaning, and despite what had seemed like great evidence to the contrary, he was proving no exception to this rule. And what difference did it make? In many ways, Merlin was already a ghost. Without his magic, he was little more than a player in a theatrical, pretending to be the great Merlin the Magician to a less and less believing audience. He could not even find anger in his heart for Uther Pendragon, a boy who had never been anything more than a pawn for his cruel, ambitious mother and, to a lesser degree, for Merlin himself.

  But as the executioner lifted his ax, an unfamiliar panic swept over him like a rogue wave, a primordial, even embarrassing, scream for survival, and he swung his arms wildly to free himself. But the soldiers held him fast. The blade glinted in the sun and a burst of feathers threw all into chaos.

  The executioner stumbled backward from the diving kite as the ax dropped onto the block a whisker from Merlin’s nose. The crowd gasped and dozens made the sign of the cross as the raptor lunged and dove at the executioner, ultimately driving him from the scaffold.

  Uther had not the slightest idea of what to do. He looked up at the window to Lunette, who gestured to finish Merlin, but before he could order his axman back to his post, the kite landed on the chopping block, a tiny scroll tied to its leg.

  “A message, my liege!” Merlin barked, head still pressed to the block.

  Uther wanted to escape. His moment of strength was unraveling. Sir Beric took a few tentative steps toward the kite, and his eyes widened.

  “It’s true, my liege. There is a note!” Sir Beric repeated, compounding the king’s misery.

  With a sneer, Uther said, “Well? Read it.”

  Sir Beric hurried over to the bird and carefully extricated the message from its leg. He unrolled it and held it to the sun, his jaw slowly dropping as he read silently.

  Uther had had it. “For mercy’s sake, Beric, what does it say?”

  Beric sputtered, “It is a letter from the Wolf-Blood Witch, sire, offering to bring the Sword of Power, the—the Sword of the First Kings, to Merlin the Magician!”

  “Tell her I am indisposed!” Merlin called out.

  Uther could feel his mother’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck. He dared not look up. He bit on his lip, fantasizing about Merlin’s severed head falling into the crowd, but he knew when he was bested.

  “Get him up. Get him up!” Uther spat as he shoved Sir Beric and a few footmen out of his way and stomped back into the castle, ignoring the jeers and complaints of the mob denied its blood.

  The soldiers lifted Merlin to his feet, but he pushed them off and bent over to study the kite, which stared at him with indifferent black eyes. Merlin reached out to stroke the bird’s wing and it bit him on the thumb, drawing blood. Yanking his hand away, he realized, “You’re one of Yeva’s, are you? You tell that old crone this changes nothing between us.”

  The bird watched him with disinterest as the soldiers pulled him to his feet and led Merlin away.

  THIRTY

  A STEADY, UNFORGIVING WIND CHAPPED faces and sandaled feet as Father Carden led a grim procession of thirty Red Paladin horsemen into the foothills of the Pyrenees, where cottonwoods and tall pines had pushed over the marble ruins of Bagnères-de-Bigorre, a Roman outpost favored by the rich for its warm springs. They crossed uneven grassy slopes dotted with boulders that were split by wide, shallow streams filled with brown trout. Even the low peaks of the mountains were snowcapped and were unrelenting funnels for the December winds. Carden gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering, mindful of being an example to his monks.

  The Weeping Monk rode beside him, eyes covered by his draping hood.

  As the terrain grew rockier and the slopes grew steeper, the paladins entered a green valley of high firs and a small blue lake, the shoreline of which had been claimed by a massive encampment, declared by the enormous banner of gold and white, the colors of the Vatican. It hung from a crossbeam like the sail of a ship, atop a papal carriage. Several large, red, oval tents, also flying the Vatican colors on long lances, surrounded a grand pavilion, sheltered up the shore from the lake and protected from the wind by a row of old pines.

  Servants in religious robes with buckets on long poles ferried hot water from the nearby springs into the pavilion.

  The pavilion doors were guarded by the black-robed Trinity, Pope Abel V’s personal guard. As Carden and the Weeping Monk rode up to the pavilion doors and dismounted, they could see their warped reflections in the Trinity guards’ ghoulish golden masks. Each mask was cast in the likeness of papal death masks, so each Trinity guard was given his own unique death identity. The dead golden faces of previous popes stared back at Carden and the monk with their strange closed eyes.

  The Weeping Monk took note of the gruesome flails hanging from the Trinity guards’ leather belts, and he coolly tucked his robe behind the pommel of his sword and stood to face them as Father Carden approached the door. The Trinity stepped back in unison and spread the flaps of the pavilion’s entrance. Father Carden ducked and entered alone.

  A sour mist obscured only the closest items. The air was heavy and scented with incense. Perspiration beaded Carden’s brow. Servants continued to scurry back and forth, replenishing the vast wooden tub at the center of the papal tent with natural hot spring water.

  Wading in the tub was a human skeleton. Pope Abel weighed no more than a hundred pounds and was mostly hairless. What flesh did cover his bones was sinewy and taut.

  “Your Holiness.” Carden knelt on the carpet before the tub.

  “Rise, Father Carden,” Pope Abel answered in his gravelly voice.

  Carden stood. He did not react when he saw the pope’s face, scabbed with the pox.

  “I find these waters quite restorative,” Abel said, then asked, “How was your journey?”

  “Winter arrives early, Your Holiness,” Carden said.

  “You must be tired. Let my people draw you a bath. Surely I haven’t used all the hot water.” Pope Abel smiled. Carden noted that despite the pope’s diseased appearance, his teeth were pearly white.

  “That is a generous offer, Your Holiness, but . . .” Carden hesitated.

  “But the work is too important. I know. I know you. Your work has not gone unnoticed, I assure you, Father Carden. And I know we have taken you away from that work. It must be difficult.”

  “It is my honor to make the trip, Your Holiness. But yes, I confess there is a feeling that weighs upon me. There is so much to do.”

  “God sees this work, Father Carden. He sees. How many villages cleansed? Is there a number?” Abel asked eagerly.

  “They don’t always live in villages, Your Holiness. These sad abominations live in the treetops and mud holes, caves, marshes. It is the rare kind that approximates what we would recognize as a traditional human settlement. The same goes for their appearance. While some might look like us, most of the others have stunted wings or misshapen limbs to afford easier climbing through the branches. Horns. Eyes without pupils that see in the dark. Some are covered in fur, while others live in the dark underground their entire lives and have no use for eyes, so they simply do not have them.”

  �
��Extraordinary. How marvelous it must feel to know that you are doing what God planned for you and removing these aberrations from His land.”

  “I feel this, Your Holiness, I do.” Carden felt a swell of emotion at the thought.

  Pope Abel swam away and the mists converged around him. He emerged and spat water into the air. “How many Red Paladins do you command, Father Carden?”

  Father Carden swelled a bit with pride. “It is difficult to say, Your Holiness. In every town now we are overrun with volunteers. It would not be a boast to suggest that our numbers exceed five thousand.”

  “You have amassed an army, Father Carden. Incredible. And they are dedicated?”

  “They come from different backgrounds, some rougher than others but they are a brotherhood. And a sisterhood as well, I might add.”

  “Excellent.” Pope Abel snapped his hands together and water shot into the air. “And losses?”

  The moment Father Carden feared had come. “Some, Your Holiness.”

  “Some?” Pope Abel replied, still popping water into the air.

  “Naturally, there is resistance to our great work.”

  “A ‘resistance,’ is it, Father Carden? That sounds formidable. Is that what we call this Wolf-Blood Witch? Hmm? A ‘resistance’? All by herself?”

  “She is not all by herself—”

  Pope Abel sprang up in the tub. “Don’t contradict me, you vain farmer’s boy!”

  Carden looked down at his muddy boots, shamed by the rebuke.

  Pope Abel stood there, dripping immodestly, daring Carden to look him in the eye. Then, satisfied, he slowly slid back into the water up to his eyes and waited there, like a crocodile.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Your Holiness,” Carden whispered.

  “She knew our plans, this witch.”

  Carden nodded. “They found maps—”

  “Found? She stole them from the Red Paladins she murdered in the glade. I know everything, Father Carden. You do yourself no favors by softening the blow. Dozens of Red Paladins slain by this witch, and what has been your answer? Hmm?”

  Carden started to answer, but Abel cut him off.

  “Nothing! That is what! Your campaign is paralyzed with winter approaching. Weakness is like the pox, Father Carden: it spreads to all who are near it. This witch is making a fool of you. A fool of us!”

  “There is—”

  “Eh? What’s that?” Abel snarled. “Measure your words, pilgrim.”

  Carden struggled to remain calm. “Your Holiness, we believe we have found where these creatures nest. We are setting the trap. I beg you for time. When we find her, I swear to God, we will make such a chilling example of her it will drive her followers to despair and madness.”

  “Make it so, Father Carden, or it is you who will be made the example.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “One more misstep and I will send in my Trinity to assume command of this army of yours. Be advised, the Trinity are not famous for their mercy.”

  “I understand, Your Holiness.” Carden bowed and made as quick and dignified an exit as possible.

  He was incredibly thankful to breathe the biting cold air again. He strode past the Trinity guards without a glance and was about to do the same to the Weeping Monk, then hesitated. He grabbed the monk at the bicep and hissed in his ear. “This is your failure that I have to come here and be subjected to this humiliation. Where is your pride? This witch mocks us. If I burn, mark my words, I will not burn alone.” Carden shoved the Weeping Monk aside and marched to his horse.

  The monk adjusted his robes and stared at the golden, dead faces of the Trinity standing watch at the pavilion doors.

  THIRTY-ONE

  LADY LUNETTE STROKED A SHORT-HAIRED gray cat in her lap and tipped over a small hourglass on the windowsill of her tower. The sands began to fall. She gently pushed the feline from her lap. “Down, down. Work to do.” With a tiny complaint, the shorthair leaped onto a velvet bench and curled into a ball. Lady Lunette took a lump of fig pastry into her hand and patted it, humming softly to herself, as a knock sounded at her door.

  “What is it?” she asked tartly.

  The heavy oak door creaked open and Merlin leaned his head into the small doorway. “Your Majesty Queen Regent?”

  An invisible armor of ice settled over Lady Lunette. She smiled thinly. “Lord Merlin, what a surprise. To what do we owe the honor of this visit? And may we offer you a fresh cherry custard?”

  Merlin admired the tiered trays of colorful desserts that filled the Queen Regent’s tower chamber. “I must decline, milady, for I ate my fill at court. Though I hear they are delightful.”

  “Wine, then,” Lady Lunette stated, cocking an eyebrow at a pitcher of wine and two silver goblets. “You must have worked up quite a thirst from such an exciting day.”

  Merlin scratched his beard, eyeing the wine warily, and demurred. “Exciting day. Yes. Yes, indeed.” He sat on a wooden trunk at the foot of Lady Lunette’s bed and bowed his head, deep in thought.

  Lady Lunette’s smile waned. “How may we help you?”

  Merlin finally looked up and stared out the window at the setting sun. “For some reason, a day like this reminds me of a story. Perhaps you’ve heard it. Among the gentry they call it ‘The Story of the Midwife.’ ”

  Lady Lunette considered her pastry dough. “I don’t believe I have.”

  Merlin’s voice was soft. “They say it was an unusually cold night for May and that a frost had settled over the crops. Yet the people stood beneath the stars holding candles because a king was being born that night. And this was very important, because the old king had died only months before, leaving the queen a regent—not a true blood heir to the throne. But were she to deliver a son, then he would rule as the true king.”

  Lady Lunette carefully placed the raw fig pastry onto a tray of similar unbaked pastries. Her face was stone.

  Merlin warmed to his subject and folded his hands, leaning back to savor the tale. “But as the night wore on, it became clear that the child had not turned and struggled inside the Queen Regent. And though she prayed to Saint Margaret that her child come free as easily as Margaret escaped the dragon’s stomach, the baby was stillborn.” Merlin paused. “And a boy.”

  Lady Lunette closed her eyes for the briefest of seconds.

  Merlin continued his tale. “Knowing the dead child would snuff out her claim to the throne, the Queen Regent huddled with the midwife and devised a plot. And so, by the light of the moon, the midwife snuck away from the castle to a peasant home that was known to her, one that had recently celebrated the birth of a baby boy.”

  Lady Lunette began to carefully fold the dough of another tart.

  “It is said the mother was paid handsomely in gold coins from the royal coffers,” Merlin said. “Yet days later that same woman was found dead from a curious suffocation. Poisoned, some surmised.”

  Lady Lunette smirked and chuckled softly.

  Merlin stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and breathed in deeply. “Indeed, most anyone who might have known of the foul conspiracy met similar ends.” He turned to Lady Lunette. “All except for the midwife, who, fearing for her life, fled the kingdom, never to return.”

  Lady Lunette closed one of her shutters against the setting sun.

  Merlin pulled on his ear, thinking. “One imagines that were she ever found, she would represent quite a danger to the king.”

  Lady Lunette set down her dough. “Which I suspect is why she remained hidden forever, given the grim outcomes of the other characters in the story. Or perhaps the simpler explanation is that she never made it out of the kingdom at all. And shared the fate of that poor mother who sold her child for a few gold coins.”

  Merlin nodded. “Yes, that has always been my suspicion as well.” He walked slowly to the door, paused, then turned back. “There is a third option, of course.”

  “Is there?” Lady Lunette asked sharply.

  Merlin�
�s eyes gleamed. “That perhaps the midwife is alive and well and under my protection. Good day, Your Majesty.”

  Lady Lunette clenched her jaw as Merlin opened her oak door and stepped onto the tower stairs. When the door closed, it was silent in the tower. Lady Lunette turned to her hourglass. The sands had piled at the bottom.

  “Spspspsps,” she softly called for the shorthair. “Spspsspsps,” she tried again. After no response, Lady Lunette leaned over in her chair. The gray shorthair stared back at her with lifeless blue eyes from where it lay dead on the velvet bench. Lady Lunette smiled with satisfaction. She reached down and plucked the half-eaten cake from the floor and set it carefully back on the tray.

  THIRTY-TWO

  GRAYMALKIN CASTLE,” YEVA MUTTERED as she fed her kite, Marguerite, a dead mouse in her hand. “The castle of the lovers Festa and Moreii. Dark spirits there. That drunkard is up to something.”

  Nimue stared at the words on Merlin’s note as Gawain, his traveling companion—the woman in purple robes whom Nimue had learned was named Kaze—Morgan, and Wroth debated their next steps.

  “Going alone is too dangerous,” Gawain stated. “There are Red Paladin checkpoints up and down the King’s Road. You’ll have to take the forest trails. I’ll ride with you.”

  “Ech bach bru,” Wroth rumbled.

  Wroth’s son Mogwan turned to Gawain. “My father says we need you here.”

  “Food runs and finding survivors are the priority,” Nimue agreed.

  “Why go at all?” Gawain appealed to the others. “The man works for Uther Pendragon. How can we trust him?”

  “Agreed,” Morgan added.

  Nimue stared at the sword. “Arthur would say Uther Pendragon is our best chance for survival.” Uttering Arthur’s name gave her a small ache in her chest.

  “And where’s that brave Man Blood now, eh?” Gawain snarled. “And what has this ‘king’ done for us except sit idly by while Fey have been slaughtered from Cinder to Hawksbridge to Dewdenn?”