Cursed

by Frank Miller

  “Why won’t you let me die?” he growled at her.

  “The Hidden teach us the spirit is not ours to extinguish,” Lenore countered, pulling off Merlin’s filthy furs and rags. When he was naked and shivering as a babe on the blanket, Lenore’s hand slowly went to her mouth at what she saw.

  It was a hideous, pulsing, deep red and violet wound that curled from his hip, around his stomach, up his back, and up to his throat.

  A wound in the shape of a sword.

  “What is this sorcery?” Lenore whispered.

  Her fingers crept along Merlin’s bubbling flesh and pushed down at the top of his ribs. Merlin cried out in pain. For Lenore clearly felt the contours of steel. Probing around his throat, she was able to pull the flesh down so that she could see the outline of a knob like the pommel of a blade.

  “What is this?” Lenore asked him.

  Merlin answered through shallow breaths, “My burden.”

  “It is killing you. This is quite obviously what has poisoned you. If it is not removed, you will die.”

  “It is too late,” Merlin whispered.

  The lights flickered again. Nimue stood over Merlin, who was ghost white beneath the blanket, his breathing irregular. Lenore knelt over him, tracing a stone blade across the track of the wound. The silvery vines of the Hidden grew up her neck and cheeks. She whispered an incantation, then pushed the stone blade into the flesh above Merlin’s collarbone. Merlin opened his mouth in a silent scream as Lenore reached her fingers into the cut. Nimue could barely watch as Lenore’s entire hand searched beneath Merlin’s flesh. Her mother’s knuckles flexed, and with a grunt, Lenore drew the bloodied Devil’s Tooth from the arterial darkness of Merlin’s chest. Despite her magical protections, Merlin’s agonized wails shook the foundations of the temple walls.

  The lights of memory flickered ahead several days. Lenore sat beside a sleeping Merlin. His wound had been treated and wrapped, yet his face and beard were soaked in sweat and he hovered between life and death. Lenore took Merlin’s hand in hers. She put his fingers to her lips and whispered, “Live.”

  Nimue’s eyes drifted to the Sword of Power on the ground, stained with Merlin’s blood. Suddenly she felt herself pulled to the sword, falling into the sword.

  In blackness she heard tortured cries and saw the faces of women and children begging for their lives. She saw severed limbs and torsos in piles. Lightning and fire. She saw rivers of blood flowing through Roman aqueducts.

  Look away from the sword, Nimue! It was Merlin’s voice in her mind. Do not enter the sword’s history. There are only horrors there. Look away! Look away!

  Nimue wrenched herself away from the vision, and she was with Lenore again in a secret crypt beneath the Sunken Temple. Lenore carried the sword across the silent stones to a statue of Arawn, King of the Underworld, a fierce bearded warrior holding leashed hounds that hunted the souls of the dead. At Arawn’s boots lay an empty stone scabbard. Lenore slid the Sword of Power into Arawn’s sheath.

  Nimue spoke her thoughts to Merlin: This must be where she fetched the sword from.

  Merlin’s thoughts answered: I never knew. She told me it was destroyed. She had access to Fey Fire, I assumed. Maybe I just wanted to believe her.

  The memories flickered again. Merlin was awake but in a weakened state. Lenore sat beside him with a bowl of porridge. She tried to feed him a spoon of it, but Merlin pushed her arm away. Not to be deterred, Lenore set down the bowl, pinched Merlin’s nose, forced his mouth open, and stuffed the spoon inside. Merlin stared at Lenore in disbelief, porridge on his beard. She snorted with laughter.

  The lights flickered again and the spirits moved the memories forward to Lenore supporting Merlin as he took a few steps in the Iron Wood, the color returning to his cheeks.

  “What is your name?” Lenore asked.

  “I have been called many names over many lifetimes. But in these lands I am known as Merlin. May I ask what you have done with the sword?”

  “The sword will trouble you no more.”

  “That is not an answer,” Merlin said.

  “And you are not my lord, so my answer will suffice.”

  Merlin smiled at this. “I have met my match, have I?”

  “You think very highly of yourself,” Lenore observed.

  Merlin chuckled. “I am glad to be rid of the sword. For longer than memory, I have been consumed by politics, intrigue, and the Wars of Shadow. I am ready for a different kind of life.”

  “I have heard this name ‘Merlin,’ and of your role in these Wars of Shadow. They did no favors to the common folk or the Fey Kind,” Lenore offered.

  “These conflicts were born from noble intentions,” Merlin said defensively.

  “Blood begets only blood. And no peace was ever bought at the point of a sword,” Lenore said.

  Merlin paused to study her. Her eyes danced. “It seems fate has brought me to a house of healing and wisdom.”

  Lenore lifted her eyes to meet his.

  In the pink shafts of dawning sun, Nimue caught the last glimmer of the lovers Festa and Moreii, clutched in a final embrace, lips barely apart, hands caressing necks. It was a tender but fleeting image. They vanished in the morning mists.

  Nimue wiped her wet eyes as Merlin fixed a pipe.

  “I would tell you it gets easier.” He blew a savory smoke. “But it does not.” He smiled sadly.

  Nimue’s stomach made a churning sound. She laughed. “You’ve invited your daughter to this grand castle and brought her nothing to eat.”

  Merlin flushed with actual embarrassment. “Gods, I am terribly sorry. Give me a moment, just—just one moment.” He hurried from the gallery.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  BENEATH A PALE MORNING SUN, merlin and Nimue walked through the withered gardens of Graymalkin Castle. Once-thriving cherry trees, pear trees, and plots of chard, fennel, and leeks were now dried and tangled husks.

  “I fear Graymalkin has left us a meager bounty,” Merlin lamented. “You are the Wolf-Blood Witch. Perhaps you can demonstrate this powerful connection to the Hidden and produce us a magnificent feast?”

  Nimue shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. It tends to strike like lightning. It strikes when it will.”

  “Pity. A gift that rare, enhanced by the Sword of Power, could make you a formidable sorceress. Yet your fear of it lessens your potential.”

  Nimue tensed at the slight.

  Merlin did not seem to notice. “Your mother was the same. She could have been a real talent rather than a fancy midwife to peasants.”

  Silvery vines crawled up Nimue’s neck and cheek: “Speak ill of my mother again and you shall see dangerous magic, old man.”

  Merlin took note as a few of the withered plants near their feet coiled like snakes about to strike. He nodded approvingly. “Anger is a start, but it is imprecise and burns out too quickly. Surrender is far more accurate and lasting.”

  Nimue realized she was being provoked and calmed a bit. She smirked at him.

  “Imagine the result you wish to see,” Merlin advised.

  “I told you, I can’t control it,” Nimue insisted.

  “That is because it is not yours to control. You must simply intend it, then surrender that intention to the Hidden.”

  Nimue turned away from Merlin and hugged her arms. She breathed the sea air for a moment, calming her temper, and reached out, visualizing a bountiful and vividly green plot. As she did so, the silvery vines slowly crept up her cheek.

  Merlin observed a movement in the tangle of brush. Strong stalks pushed through the weeds, tiny buds flowering into leafy chard and cabbages. The branches of the fruit trees assumed a new rigor, rippling with green leaves and shining ripe cherries and golden-brown pears. In only a few moments, Nimue had transformed the brush into a verdant and abundant garden.

  Merlin plucked a pear from one of the trees and offered it to Nimue. She took a bite. “My first lesson for you, my young Nimue.”r />
  Nimue took another satisfied bite, pear juice dripping from her smile. She allowed herself the smallest bit of hope in all this darkness that had surrounded her.

  Merlin served Nimue a bowl of stew in the Great Hall. They sat on the floor before the roaring Fey Fire.

  “I am known for many things, Nimue, but cooking is not one of them,” Merlin admitted. “And I fear we have no spoons.”

  Nimue saw his eyes drift to the Sword of Power resting in its sheath against the wall. “You still yearn for it, don’t you? Even though it nearly killed you.”

  “The sword was forged as the defending blade of the Fey. It lusts for battle and attaches this desire to he who wields it.”

  “Or she,” Nimue corrected him, though she nodded, agreeing. “I feel strong with it. Invincible, really.” She used three fingers as a spoon and took a bite of stew. “I can’t imagine giving it up. To anyone.”

  Merlin nodded. “That is something you’d be wise to resist.”

  “Why did you leave my mother? How did it end?”

  “There are some things that I prefer to remain private, Nimue,” Merlin said, shifting with discomfort. “Even between family. I have shared more with you than anyone in five hundred years.”

  “But I am not only your daughter, am I? I am the Wolf-Blood Witch. And you are not only my father, you are Merlin the Magician, counselor to King Uther Pendragon. If you expect me to surrender the sword to a human king, then I must trust you. And while this visit has meant a great deal to me—a great deal—I am not sure yet that I can do that—that I can trust you.”

  A sadness crept into Merlin’s eyes as the Fey Fire shuddered and the shadows closed in around them once more. Nimue heard the whispering voices of the lovers, and again, they were transported.

  Merlin walked with Lenore in the Iron Wood. She guided his steps. He stumbled and took hold of her hand, then held on to it, bringing it to his chest.

  “You are progressing well,” she said.

  “Thanks to you. You have saved me,” he told her.

  Lenore blushed. “All life is sacred to the Hidden.”

  “I care very little for my life. The Fates have wasted too many years on me. But you have revived my soul, something I’d feared lost.” Merlin touched her cheek.

  Lenore would not look him in the eye. “I am promised to another.”

  Merlin said, “But you do not love him.”

  “No.”

  Merlin nodded. “I sense you like broken things.”

  Lenore looked into Merlin’s ancient gray eyes. “Yes.”

  Merlin wrapped her in his arms, his lips on her neck, her ear, her cheek, her lips.

  As the lights flickered, the memory shifted forward, to Merlin and Lenore naked and entwined in the blankets, legs enfolded, gilded in candlelight.

  Another shift forward, and Merlin rose out of sleep in his hut to the sound of voices in the temple. A man’s voice berated Lenore.

  “The Elders question me, and I don’t know what to tell them, because the behavior is strange indeed.”

  “Yes, Jonah,” Lenore soothed.

  “There is dangerous talk, and I don’t like it. You’ve isolated yourself, neglected your duties. The medicine gardens are dying. This temple is neglected. Are you keeping something from me?”

  “I have—no, there is no—I can’t speak to childish gossip.” Lenore struggled to defend herself.

  “This embarrasses me. You’ve spent nights away in this temple. I don’t understand it, nor do I approve of it. Return to the village and behave normally. Do you understand me?”

  “Jonah, you don’t—”

  The lights of memory flickered again and showed Merlin circling the temple garden. Weeds had grown over the herbs and flowering plants. Merlin knelt down and whispered incantations, his fingers conveying ancient symbols to guide his thoughts.

  And nothing happened.

  With more effort, he urged the roots to grow and the flowers to blossom, but his words were empty and his gestures futile. The garden was unchanged.

  “No,” he whispered.

  The lights flickered and Merlin raged through the Iron Wood, frantically sputtering incantations to summon winds and lightning, but the forest was mute, the skies were quiet.

  Again the lights flickered to find Lenore in the Sunken Temple. She saw Merlin slumped against the altar, muttering to himself.

  “Merlin?”

  He turned to her with dark eyes. “Where is the sword?”

  Lenore took a step back, frightened by his demeanor. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “Did you think you could trap me here in this ugly speck of a village? Hmm? Was that your intent?” Merlin rose to his feet and walked toward her menacingly.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lenore said.

  “You took the sword from me! Against my will!” Merlin roared.

  “The sword was killing you! You were dying on the floor! What is this madness?”

  “It has stolen my magic! The core of what I am!” Merlin’s voice broke with emotion. “Return it to me!”

  “This obsession has corrupted your mind—”

  Merlin toppled the altar, breaking the ancient stone. “I demand you return the sword to me! Now!”

  Lenore stood firm. “The sword is destroyed and your life is saved!”

  “Liar! You’ve destroyed me! Deceived me!” Merlin collapsed onto the ground.

  Lenore fled Merlin’s raving and entered the temple’s secret tunnels. She approached the Sword of Power, nestled under the altar in Arawn’s sheath, questioning whether she should return the blade or leave it to the gods. Her hand reached for the grip of the sword. As her fingers clenched around the leather of the grip, she whispered, “Show me,” and visions flooded her mind. Her mouth opened to scream as her eyes grew wide and filled with terror.

  The lights of memory flickered and moments later, Lenore staggered into the temple. Merlin had regained some composure. He reached out to her. “Lenore, I’m sorr—”

  But she cut him off, “Leave this place and never return. I will marry Jonah.”

  Merlin pleads. “I was not myself—”

  “Leave this temple or I will have you torn from it!” Lenore turned her back on Merlin.

  “Enough!”

  Merlin stood up and backed away as Nimue climbed to her feet. “What did she see? What did the sword show her?”

  “I owe you nothing more.”

  But Nimue was not having it. “There is more to it and you know it. What did she see that so frightened her?”

  “I tire of this exercise,” Merlin growled. “You have seen enough!”

  “Have I?” Nimue turned and grabbed the sword.

  “What are you doing?” Merlin asked. “Nimue!”

  Nimue held out the sword in both hands and spoke to the blade. “Show me what you showed my mother.”

  A rush of images suddenly flooded Nimue’s mind.

  A thousand fires raged unchecked from the Baths of Caracalla to the Mausoleum of Augustus, giving the entire city of Rome a hazy orange halo. Strange blue lightning arced across the billowing black clouds of smoke, obscuring the stars. Desperate, starving Romans raced for safety as the monstrous invaders poured through the Salarian Gate, nightmares made flesh. They flew on see-through wings like giant insects and prowled like leopards, eyes gleaming in the flames, and stomped on cloven feet, antlers stained with innocent blood.

  Legionnaires fell back across the Pons Fabricius and took shelter behind the marble columns of Jupiter’s Temple. Across the Tiber, the basilica imploded in a series of pluming fireballs. The cascading lights shone upon the hundreds of drowning bodies in the river.

  A centurion on horseback called to auxiliaries when the blue lightning constricted into a single bolt and struck horse and rider, charring flesh and armor.

  The invaders howled and shrieked in a celebratory chorus as the conquering dark prince, Myrddin, a younger, crueler Merlin,
rode through the flames on his giant silver stag, swinging the Devil’s Tooth—the Sword of Power. Myrddin’s eyes glowed blue like the bolts he commanded. He pointed the sword at Jupiter’s columns, and a conflagration of wind and cold fire obliterated the temple and the women and children who had taken shelter there.

  “Leave nothing alive!” Myrddin roared as he galloped across the square, cutting down the fleeing Romans, whether they wore the armor of centurions or not, whether they were old or young, armed or defenseless.

  Myrddin screamed to the sky and summoned arcs of lightning, raining javelins of fire on every living thing his gleaming blue eyes could see. Chunks of red ash fell around the hem of his war robes. His black-ringed eyes looked down at the Devil’s Tooth, the seed of his ambition, the blade that commanded armies, felled emperors, and bent the knee of barbarian kings. The sword had fused to Myrddin’s flesh. There was no hand, no grip, no wrist, only a charred lump of flesh and steel at the end of his arm.

  THIRTY-SIX

  WITH A GASP, NIMUE JOLTED back to the present, horrified by what she had seen. She turned to Merlin. “How could you?”

  “It was the sword,” Merlin tried to explain.

  “It wasn’t the sword. It was you. You killed women and children. You’re steeped in blood.”

  “And you’re no different!” Merlin warned.

  “Me? Are you mad?” Nimue sputtered.

  “How many Red Paladins have you slaughtered with that sword?”

  Nimue swung into a fury. “They burned my home to the ground! They killed my best friend! My mother! How dare you compare me to—to that—to that murderer!”

  “I was like you. I let the sword guide my hand to justice. And it was like a taste of the ocean. My thirst only grew. And you will feel the same. You already admitted as much. The feeling it gives you. The power. I want to save you from this, Nimue.”