A Curse of Magic

by Marisa Claire

  I poke his side as he passes me. “Yeah, you do that, servant boy.”

  Mama sits at the service counter studying the shop’s accounting books. She doesn’t even acknowledge us. Her gray-streaked brown hair hangs over the side of her face. The strands almost block the tiny worry lines around her eyes and mouth, ones that have seemingly formed overnight.

  We’ve been short on Lore tokens this month. Without them, we’re forced to use the wood stove to heat the living quarters above the shop at night. Every building, old or new, has been integrated with Lore components. I’m not sure what the tokens we all slave for actually are, but I know better than to think they’re magic coins to summon electricity. The Royal Lores will never reveal their secrets. Hiding this knowledge from the working classes is just one more way of control.

  I head over to Mama, but a scream sounds off in the distance and I freeze.

  The woman screams again, louder this time. I rush to the front window.

  “What’s going on Arabella?” Mama calls out.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Asher storms out of the supply room. The floor cracks beneath his heavy footfalls. He meets me at the window and then we peer through the foggy glass. Up the road, near the ruins, is a gathering.

  “I’ll check it out,” he murmurs. “Stay here.”

  “Nice try. I’m coming, too.” I grab the gray cloak hanging on a hook by the front door—an unusual, light color of gray compared to the typical drab varieties in Arlos. In a flash, I have it on and tied around my neck.

  Knowing full well who I am, he doesn’t even try to convince me to stay

  “Please, be careful you two!” Mama hollers after us as she moves toward the back room to hide. She hates any sort of violence.

  The crisp air hits my face. Running only makes my skin colder and so I pull the hood of my cloak over my head. Near the old-world ruins, several people are gathered around a Tenant class collection carriage. The crumbling cement and steel building towers above the landscape, casting a long, dark shadow onto the road. Asher flings an arm across my chest, forcing me to a skidded stop. His gaze is locked forward. brows tightening further as he studies the scene. Even on my toes, I still can’t see what’s going on. Asher has about seven inches on me, which he sometimes forgets. Like now.

  “What’s going on up there?” I ask, stretching up on my toes again. But the only thing I can really see are Salis and Taro’s big heads near the front of the crowd.

  “Not sure. I need to get closer.”

  I grab his hand and drag him forward, but away from the bully brothers. His lips thin into resigned annoyance. I have as much respect for caution as I do anything—

  The crowd’s fidgeting bodies have gone rigid and unmoving, as if afraid, cutting off my thoughts. Then several people tear away from the gathering. My heart thuds hard in my chest at the sudden, panicked dispersal. Asher no longer lets me pull him forward. His grip tightens and anchors us in place with the remaining onlookers.

  Asher mutters, “It’s Favian.” He releases my hand.

  I narrow my eyes and find the older man as the crowd thins. Favian, the town drunk, is barking slurs at the Tenant coachmen in front of a supply carriage, holding a device in his hands I recognize.

  A bomb.

  Favian is somewhat of a pyrotechnic. If he’s not drinking, he spends most of his day nearly burning down his little workshop just outside of town. He’s not a bad guy, not really. It’s just his life has been more difficult than the average villager’s.

  About five years ago, his wife and two young sons were murdered. No suspects were found, though not that much time was put into finding them. Peasant lives aren’t worth much.

  The spooked carriage horses bounce up and down, snorting loudly. The Tenant coachman has his palms up, pleading with Favian to calm down. Not a chance that’s going to happen. For whatever reason, Favian hates the Tenant class almost more than he hates the Royals.

  “I have nothing more to give, you pathetic vermin,” Favian snarls at the coachmen. “I’m no longer a slave for this oppressive Queendom.”

  “We need to go, Bel,” Asher pleads.

  “I can talk him down.”

  I break free from Asher and start forward when a bright blue burst of light floods the road, launching Favian ten feet into the air. The device flies from his hand and lands several yards back from where he hit the ground himself. I shield my eyes and crouch down, expecting another blast, but nothing happens. Asher races up to me and wraps his arms around me.

  Favian rolls on the ground, struggling to breathe. From around the corner of the ruins, a thundering echo precedes the entrance of a massive horse. Atop the beast sits a regally armored man, carrying a staff aimed at Favian. His uniform appears nothing like our simple peasant clothing. The bright blue sash draped over his black leather- and metal-studded armored breastplate is made of silk, not a fabric we see much around here in this mud hole of a town. A silver dagger is sheathed at his side. I have no doubt he could have the weapon aimed at any one of us in a hot second if he wanted to.

  He’s a Royal Guard of Lore.

  The Guard dismounts and struts over to Favian, who’s now sliding through the mud to retrieve his bomb. The Guard raises his staff and a blue glow brightens the tip. Favian seizes—in apparent pain—and then his body lifts from the ground until he hovers in mid-air, frozen.

  The Guard turns to survey the scattered gathering. “The House of Lore does not tolerate defiance,” his deep voice booms over the crowd. “Without order, chaos emerges. Chaos brings punishment. By the power of the House of Lore, I sentence this man to death for crimes against the Royal family.”

  My body tenses, but Asher’s strong hold prevents me from moving. This isn’t right. I look at Asher, tears welling up in my eyes. “Please . . .”

  “He’ll kill you, too, Arabella.”

  Feeling helpless, I turn to watch the horror. My chest tenses. I can’t let this happen. With a yank, I pull my hood down farther to conceal my face and then burst through the crowd before Asher can stop me. The Guard steps closer to Favian, the staff’s power still holding him a few feet above the ground. The crowd gasps. Honestly, I’m not sure if the crowd’s response is from my stupidity or for what’s about to happen with Favian.

  Regardless, I snatch the bomb from the ground and slide in front of the doomed man.

  “Favian is crazy!” I yell, lowering my voice to disguise it a bit. “We all know this!” I hold the bomb out to the side. “He needs help, not punishment.” Head still covered, I keep my chin down, but face the Guard. My heart pounds against my rib cage as if it might blow up, like the bomb. Even still, I refuse to glance Asher’s way.

  “If you do not wish to join his fate,” the Guard snarls, “I suggest you step aside and go about your business.”

  At this point, I fully realize how holding a bomb is probably not the best way to resolve this whole problem and how I could actually be making it worse.

  From the corner of my eye, several magicless Guards from Arlos approach me.

  “I will use this!” I show them the bomb and they stop in their tracks.

  The Royal Guard releases an exasperated sigh right as the bomb in my hand glows blue. My breath hitches and I flinch back in fear. The device drops from my hands and into the mud with a plop. Before the bomb explodes or the can Guards dog pile me—or whatever—I race past the nearest Guard and into the crowd to lose his comrades. From behind, I hear Asher’s voice and glance back at him, but I continue my escape down the street instead of toward him. I quickly hide behind a shop and release a steadying breath when the Guards pass by without spotting me. Crouching lower, I ditch my light gray cloak into a nearby rubbish bin. I’ll have to come up with some excuse for losing it.

  I peek around the corner and, with a flick of the Guard’s staff, Favian’s body twists, bones cracking and limbs distorting. He’s not even able to scream. The Guard pulls the staff upright, disengaging the power, and Favia
n’s body drops to the ground in a deformed heap.

  Chapter Two

  STILL ON EDGE, I open a cabinet in the kitchen and remove an ornate, carved box made of antique oak. I can almost feel my father scraping his chisel over the raw materials as I run my fingers over the intricate patterns. Most people thought his hobby was a waste of time. Creating beauty is never a waste, he would say. Sometimes for me. Sometimes for himself. And sometimes to dismiss the pessimists.

  Reaching into my pocket, I feel for the key Mama gave me, then gently open the lock. With a click, I lift the lid. I’ve forever thought the lock was a bit pointless. If someone wants to steal our tokens, they’ll take off with the entire thing, not worry if they have the key.

  Inside are three golden tokens engraved with the face of Queen Isolde. I’m told she’s beautiful, but the portrait etched on the metal is too severe for me—high cheekbones, cold eyes. The coins emit a slight sapphire glow. When I was little, they seemed like marvelous treasure, but these days they’re just something we never have enough of.

  Mama insists I use one to heat the shower water this morning. When I told her how hot water was a waste, she nearly chewed my ear off. It didn’t help that I had to also explain my run-in with Salis and Taro and the mud. I failed to mention what happened last night in the street with Favian. No one came for me after I snuck back in the house except Asher, who chewed me out, of course. Maybe my cloak hid who I was well enough. Mama would have just died, if she knew the truth.

  “You need to appear like a lady at the Transfer Ceremony,” she whispered, as if the rising sun might hear her, too. “I won’t have people thinking our family is in need.”

  Mama can’t provide much, but she’s still proud and determined to take care of us like she promised Papa.

  I pinch a token between my thumb and forefinger. I have no idea if the sensation is only in my head, but a whisper of energy radiates through my fingers. I place the chest behind the mostly empty food storage tins in the cabinet.

  “I’ll take a short shower,” I call out to Mama. “You should enjoy the warm water, too.”

  She answers me down the hallway, from her room. “You take as long as you need.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t be a martyr, Mama.” I’d already planned to save her plenty.

  I glance down at my nightclothes then peer out the second story window. The street appears empty. Plus, I’ll only take a second. No one will see me, if anyone is opening shop. I race down the stairs, slip out the front door, and rush across a well-worn path, clutching the token in my palm.

  Out front stands the metal token box for our cluster of ten shop houses. I find our number and place the token in the round, cut-out slot. As I pull my hand away, the coin glows a brighter blue, then vanishes. Magic.

  Now we’ll have one tank of hot water and electricity for at least an hour. Now that’s magic.

  Ignoring the eye of our nosey neighbor, who had pulled back her curtain the second I stepped foot off the front stoop, I race back home. In a flash, I’m up the creaky stairs to the bathroom and starting the shower. The water is warm straight from the faucet. I can’t strip out of my pajamas fast enough before flinging myself into the cascade of heated water heaven. Which is nothing like the thirty seconds of icy hell I endured last night to scrub as much mud off me as I could.

  Five minutes is all I allow myself. I leave the rest for Mama, especially as she left me her bar of fancy lavender soap and a dollop of perfumed shampoo to use. I wring out my hair, then step from the stall and wrap a towel around my body.

  “Your turn, Mama,” I shout as I leave the bathroom and walk toward my room. She doesn’t answer. A few steps later, I enter my tiny bedroom and gasp. My body freezes in place. “Asher!” I squeak, pulling my towel tighter around my body.

  Asher sits on my bed, dressed in his best dark green-hued tunic. He knows I love that one because the color matches his eyes. A mischievous grin stretches over his lips, a reminder that he’s in my room. On my bed.

  Pointing toward the hall, I scold, “What are you thinking? Leave.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  I lower my hand and lift my chin. “How did you get in anyway?”

  His wry grin turns lopsided. “You know, we’re going to be married.”

  “So? We’re not married now. And how can you be so lighthearted after last night?”

  “Death isn’t a new thing around here, Bel. You know that. But nothing happened in the end.” He paused with a pointed look my direction. “This time.”

  “Nothing happened to me. What about Favian?”

  Asher’s lips form a thin line.

  I gesture him outside my room again. “Shoo,” I order.

  Asher stands, and he passes me with a courteous dip of his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  After he leaves, I grapple for my underclothes and the dress that’s laid out on the chair next to my bed. Ten years ago, the shabby thing was the height of fashion. Still, I pull everything on as quickly as I can. Then, not wanting Asher to linger in the hallway for Mama to discover, I throw open the door. And there he is, no more than six inches from where I stand, gaping at me as I stand frozen before him—again. Ugh. It’s getting old.

  “What?” He shrugs. “I’m just doing what you said!”

  Before he can say anything else, I punch him in the arm. “Get inside.” I yank him in while he feigns injury.

  Asher plops onto the bed, and I grab my mirror and brush from my side table. I lower myself into my chair and rake the brush through my hair, occasionally checking my reflection.

  Asher pats a spot on the bed next to him. “You could bring those big brown eyes over here.”

  “My eyes and I are perfectly comfortable over here.” I pull at a tangle near the back of my head as he stares my way, unwavering.

  I stop what I’m doing and furrow my brow at him. “Don’t forget, I’m going to the Transfer of Life Ceremony in a couple hours.”

  He waves his hand in the air. “You’ll be fine. I overheard talk in the town square. You only have about a five percent chance of being chosen to receive the marking this year.”

  “A zero percent chance would be better,” I mutter.

  “Well, at least you’re not volunteering to have a life like your brother.”

  Neil didn’t get the marking, but right after the Ceremony, he was one of the few who was accepted into the Lore Training Institute. He wanted out of this hell hole and was willing to do anything to escape—even if meant leaving us behind to serve the Royals in a low position with no freedom. The town of Borandice is just a few miles away, but we never see him anymore.

  “There’s always been a chance that I could be chosen today,” I say. “Mama’s going to need him, if I actually am.”

  Asher stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Neil wasn’t happy salvaging worthless scrap all around the ruins.”

  “And you’re saying I am?”

  “Of course not, Bel. But I have a theory that the Transfer knows your soul’s desire.”

  I snicker at his silly belief that magic is a good thing, then playfully drawl, “And what is my soul’s desire, oh Wise One?”

  The mischievous grin consumes his lips again, and he leans in my direction. “Well, me, naturally.”

  I chuckle. “Shows what you know about my soul.” I rest the mirror and brush on the side table. “Now, let’s go downstairs and explain to Mama why you were in my room.”

  He gallantly gestures toward the exit. “She loves me, and you know it.”

  “Whatever.”

  The wood on the steep, angled staircase creaks loudly with every step as we go down. There’s no sneaking out of this home. Not that Mama monitors me. She knows she can always rely on me.

  At the bottom, Mama comes from the storage room and clicks her tongue at Asher behind me. She shakes her head and grins. Her hair is pulled back today, revealing her elegant cheekbones and warm eyes. I can see why Papa was so madly in love with her.

 
“Don’t you have a home?” she jabs at Asher.

  “Sure ma’am, but my home isn’t filled with beautiful ladies.”

  And right there is why he can do no wrong in Mama’s eyes.

  Ignoring Asher’s charm, Mama scans me up and down. “I can’t believe that dress has held up. The last time you wore it was . . .” Her gaze drops. “. . . um, was at your father’s funeral.”

  It’s a simple maroon fabric, with ribbon detail on the front of the bodice and cap sleeves. Nothing flashy, but the dress was all I had.

  Papa deserved much more than the modest cremation and small family Ceremony we gave him in the woods. Spreading his ashes was the moment I knew life would be different. I was no longer Papa’s little girl. I had to grow up, and my brother Neil just wanted to get out. Now I’m facing another life-changing moment wearing the same dress.

  Mama spins me around and ties the thin ribbon at my shoulders. She pats me down, smoothing out any lingering wrinkles. I rub my palm across the exposed skin on my upper arms. Will today be last time I’m free of the marking?

  “You’re stunning,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

  Asher places a hand on the small of my back. “She sure is.”

  My cheeks flush, and I quickly brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear. To further hide my growing embarrassment, I head over to the small kitchen, tucked into the back corner across from the storage room.

  “Is there anything to eat?” I ask

  “Oh, yes.” Mama joins me in the kitchen. “I still have biscuits from last night’s supper and we have eggs I can cook up.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I insist. “I can cook.”

  “I got this.” Asher grabs the bowl of eggs from the counter.

  “Um, no, thanks.” I grin. “The last time you cooked, the burnt smell lingered for days.”

  “Psht, whatever,” he says with a perfect smile.

  Mama grabs the small bowl from his hands. “Sit you two. It’s a big day. I’ll make the eggs.”

  I don’t argue and snag two day-old biscuits from the small wicker basket on the counter. Grabbing Asher’s hand, I lead him to the small bench near the front of the shop. I toss him a biscuit and he catches it without looking. He downs the bread in two bites before we even sit.