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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

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(Cover by me)

The Web of Tenebrae: The Chronicle of KL-62 by Alydia Rackham

Ch-1

4122 a.d.

“Morning, Archie.”

“Is that what you call it? Looks like night to me.”

“Ah, very funny.”

“How can I help you, Doc?”

“Making rounds, checking inventory.” The short, white-clad young doctor tapped his transparent, hand-held screen to refresh it, then glanced around the white, circular room. As he entered, he gave a brief smile to the handsome, sandy-haired Monitoring Officer who sat behind the half-circle desk in the center. He stopped in front of the broad, plexiglass window of the single, rectangular cell.

“So, this is the only corpus we’re transporting this time,” the doctor frowned at his screen.

“Yup.” Archie sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

“Born Monday, January 12th, 4092, now thirty years old, designated KL-62.” The doctor’s head came up. “Kensington Laboratories? I didn’t know there were any specimens left from Kensington Labs!”

“He’s the last one,” Archie nodded toward the cell, dusting off the sleeve of his blue uniform.

“Wow, incredible,” the doctor breathed, quickly scanning the stats. “So…This is the Anglo-Saxon, specifically-British model of the KL group, conditioned to speak Standard Pronunciation English…White skin, dark brown hair…Six feet, three inches tall, weighing 90.719 kilograms. Is that last bit accurate, Archie?”

“Yeah, according to his weigh-in this morning.”

“And it has…turquoise eyes?” The doctor gave Archie a funny look. “What on earth for?”

Archie shrugged.

“Just to see if it would take. You should have a look—Dr. Zephon’s pretty proud of himself. KL-62 is the only one of his birth group to have that color eyes.”

“Dr. Zephon did this one?” the young doctor gasped, staring at the Monitoring Officer. Archie grinned crookedly.

“Yep. Everybody says KL-62’s the masterpiece.”

“Wow,” the doctor gasped. He took a step forward. “So…So, if Zephon did this one, it must excel in every way, not just physically.”

“Mhm,” Archie nodded. “Limited Edition. He’s the complete package.”

“So…” the doctor rapidly tapped the edge of his screen. “It has no need to shave face or body…and it would demonstrate the height of mental perfection as well as physical exceptionalism.”

“Theoretically,” Archie shrugged. “He doesn’t talk much.”

“What, haven’t you looked at the results of his learning regimes?” the doctor frowned. Archie snorted.

“Yeah—if I’m trying to put myself to sleep.”

“Can you pull them up so I can see?”

“Doctor, he’s right there,” Archie gestured. “Why don’t you just ask him a couple questions—you’ll find out faster.”

Clearing his throat, the doctor stepped closer to the plexiglass of the cell, then stopped.

“You. Corpus KL-62. Rise and stand at attention.”

Inside the white cell, upon a slab that served as a bed, a man sat elegantly at rest, his back against the wall, like a panther in the shade. He wore a black, form-fitting, full-length jumpsuit and boots. The bare skin of his face, neck, and long hands was utterly white. His dark hair had been combed neatly back. He had carven facial features like those of a prince—high cheekbones, heavy brow, and an eloquent, purpose-set mouth.

His body lay motionless for a moment while the doctor’s request hung in the air. Then, like liquid obsidian, he rose slowly to his feet, and straightened to his full, towering height.

Lean and muscular, he stepped soundlessly toward the plexiglass, settled his feet…

And lifted his stunning eyes to the doctor’s.

“Good lord,” the doctor breathed. “It’s magnificent.”

“See why Dr. Zephon’s proud?” Archie gloated.

KL-62’s vivid gaze flicked over to Archie for an instant before re-fixing upon the doctor.

“Why is it clothed?” the doctor wondered, tipping his head. “It’s impossible to see if any scarring has taken place.”

“Um, well, it’s cold in space, Doc, in case you haven’t noticed,” Archie shot back. “And his normal temp is 105 degrees Fahrenheit. You want him to get pneumonia?”

“Ha. As if such a powerful body could contract pneumonia,” the doctor laughed, unable to pull his eyes from the specimen. “Well…all right, then. Let’s see what we’re dealing with, here.”

KL-62’s eyes narrowed, like slits of lightning.

“KL-62,” the doctor straightened up, but he was still a foot and a half shorter than the silent, forbidding presence on the other side of the plexiglass. “Describe your daily routine at Kensington Laboratories.”

KL-62 glanced at Archie again, then leveled his gaze upon the doctor.

“At five a.m., the lights in my cell come on. I rise, and I make my bed,” KL-62

began. His voice a deep, even rumble of thunder—his inflection that of Eton, Cambridge, and Buckingham Palace. He took a quiet breath. “If they have given me clothes, I put them on. Several puzzles then appear on my screen. I must solve them all before I am allowed food.”

The doctor swallowed, feeling unsettled chills run through him—but he suddenly couldn’t move, even to interrupt.

“At six a.m., food arrives on a table,” KL-62 went on. “The floor opens and the table rises up. I sit on my bed, and I eat. I then clean my teeth. At seven a.m., Archibald Marks arrives and greets me and sits outside my cell, in a very similar position as he occupies today.” Without shifting his gaze from the doctor, KL-62 nodded at Archie. “At half past seven a.m., Dr. Raddit arrives and escorts me down the hall to Lab A for my daily scans and weigh-in. At eight a.m., Dr. Zephon arrives at Lab A and discusses my results with Dr. Raddit, and they set a food and exercise regimen for the day. From nine a.m. to eleven-thirty a.m., I am put through physical drills in the gymnasium. From half past eleven to noon, the scientists run scans and assessments of my entire body to monitor all my functions in Lab B. At noon, I am escorted back to my cell where I shower and, if they are provided, I put on new clothes. I must then solve more puzzles to achieve the midday meal.” KL-62 lifted his chin, his tone never changing. “From one p.m. to four p.m., I may choose whatever I wish to stimulate my mind, or pass the time. I may rest, or I may solve puzzles and study on my screen. At four o’clock, I am brought by Dr. Raddit to Lab B again for more scans. Dr. Zephon consults. They decide when I should sleep, and the temperature in my cell. My reflexes are also tested. At six o’clock, I return to my cell to answer questions presented to me on the screen. I am then afforded my evening meal. Marks then shuts off the lights out by his console, and leaves for the night. At nine p.m., the lights in my cell are extinguished, and I am expected to sleep.” His voice hardened further. “This routine is not interrupted.”

“And…” the doctor started—but his voice shook. He cleared his throat and began again. “And, how has this routine deviated since you have been on board the Charon?”

KL-62 blinked once.

“Only in that my weigh-in takes place in room twenty-six on Deck C, and my scans take place in section fifty-six-E on Deck D in lab twenty,” he replied flatly. “And I am afforded no gymnasium.”

“And,” the doctor started again, glancing down at his screen again. “This Doctor Ethan Edwards…Who is he?” He looked to Archie. “Is he on board? I’ve never met him.”

“No, I don’t think he’s on board, and I’ve never seen him,” Archie answered. “He uploads everything remotely.”

“Hm,” the doctor mused. “So what is it that this…Dr. Edwards has inserted recently into your schedule? It’s labeled…‘Reading Tutorial’?”

KL-62 gave a brief sigh and glanced off somewhere else.

“I did not mention it because it is part of the challenges with which the screen presents me every evening,” he answered, as if bored. “Dr. Edwards is my intelligence monitor. He has recently inserted a new stimulant into my learning regime. He calls it a ‘story.’ He introduced it as an experiment to determine my reading comprehension, my ability to take in a sequence of events and then relay those events in a coherent manner to prove that I had understood.”

“Story?” the doctor repeated, glancing at Archie.

Archie only shrugged.

The doctor turned back to KL-62.

“What kinds of stories?”

KL-62 looked at him again. Cold as stone.

“Human actions and reactions,” he answered.

“Of what nature?” the doctor pressed.

KL-62 did not answer.

Instead, he tilted his head to the side, and narrowed his brilliant, penetrating eyes again.

“Who are you, Doctor?”

The doctor blinked.

“I am Doctor Ninsel.”

“And what is your jurisdiction?”

The doctor took half a step back.

“I…I am the ship’s doctor here aboard the Charon.”

KL-62 took half a step forward.

“Does your authority supersede that of Dr. Zephon, Dr. Edwards, Dr. Raddit or even my caretaker, Archibald Marks?”

“I…I don’t—”

KL-62’s eyes flashed.

“Are you in a position to override their orders, or alter my regime in any way?”

“No,” the doctor replied, suddenly feeling faint.

“Then what, Doctor Ninsel,” KL-62 stepped all the way up to the glass, lowering his voice so that it vibrated the pane. “…are you doing here?”

Dr. Ninsel gulped.

Archie broke out laughing. The sound rang through the sterile space.

Dr. Ninsel spun to face him, his head heating up.

“There you have it, Doc,” Archie grinned, gesturing to KL-62. “Find out what you needed to know?”

“I’ve never been questioned by a corpus before,” Dr. Ninsel said hotly, shutting off his screen. Archie smiled crookedly.

“No, I imagine you haven’t.”

“I’m done here,” Dr. Ninsel shot a glare at KL-62. “See you at lunch, Archie.” And with that, he turned and swept through the clear sliding doors. They hissed shut behind him.

KL-62’s unwavering gaze followed him until the sound of his footsteps had died.

7:00

KL-62 stared ahead of him at the screen on his wall as he sat on his bed. Its red, digital clock had just clicked over from 6:59. The small, rectangular table, covered in his empty dinner dishes, gave a mechanical groan…

A panel opened up in the floor, and the table lowered down through it. The panel shut with a hiss and a snap.

KL-62 rose, crossed the smooth floor to the back corner, turned on the sink and methodically brushed his teeth, washed his face, and then dried with a small hand towel.

The energy-hum outside his cell changed—the lights out there switched off. He finished drying his hands, then dropped the towel down through the little chute in the wall. He faced the plexiglass again, then strode toward it and waited, his hands clasped behind his back.

Archibald Marks, illuminated now only by the reserve lights at his desk, stretched, and got up from his desk chair, grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. Then, he stepped into the square halo of light in front of KL-62’s cell.

“Well,” Archibald Marks sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Another long day, huh?”

KL-62 didn’t answer, but with focused and captured attention, he watched Archibald Marks’ face, and the casual assessment in his warm brown eyes that he gave KL-62 in return.

“How are you feeling?” Archibald Marks asked, looking up at him.

“Warmer, now that I am wearing these clothes,” KL-62 replied, quietly.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Archibald Marks waved it off. “I’ve always thought it was ridiculous to let you live naked, anyway.”

KL-62 didn’t answer, but he waited. Archibald Marks took a breath.

“Change in engine noise wake you up at night?”

“Yes,” KL-62 said. “At midnight and at three a.m.”

“Ugh, me too,” Archibald Marks ran his hand through his hair again. “I swear, I hate space-travel. Can’t tell if it’s night or day, never get to see the sun…” He stopped, then glanced up at KL-62, his smile fading. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning, Kell. Goodnight.” He started off.

KL-62 glanced down, brow furrowed.

Archibald Marks stopped, faced him, then looked around and chuckled.

“Kell, we’ve been over this.”

KL-62 slowly lifted his chin.

“Goodnight…Archibald Marks.”

“You know you can call me Archie when there aren’t any lab coats around.”

KL-62 slightly lifted one eyebrow, watching him again.

Archibald Marks gestured out to his sides.

“C’mon, Kell, how long have I been taking care of you?”

“Five years, six months, and three weeks,” KL-62 answered.

“See? We’re old friends. You’re allowed to call me Archie.”

KL-62 didn’t move.

“Is that your official designation, now?” he asked quietly.

Archibald Marks smiled crookedly again.

“It is for you.”

KL-62 took a low breath.

“Goodnight…Archie.”

“Goodnight, Kell,” Archie waved at him, turned, put his hands in his pockets, and strode through the sliding doors.

KL-62 watched him go, listening to his footsteps fade.

Then, he turned, stepped back toward his screen, and tapped the center of it.

“Begin evening Reading Tutorial,” KL-62 ordered.

“Evening Reading Tutorial, authorized by…click-click-click…Doctor Ethan Edwards,” the female-sounding computer intoned. The screen blinked, the red digital clock disappeared, and a white screen replaced it.

KL-62 frowned. This was different. In the past weeks, the words had been arranged in thick paragraphs that he had scrolled through with a flick of his finger. Now, they were arranged in short, four-lined groups that appeared to have some sort of rhythmic order to them.

Eliminating the rest of his cell from his attention, he focused down, and read each word slowly.

The Ocean

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Ocean has its silent caves,

Deep, quiet, and alone;

Though there be fury on the waves,

Beneath them there is none.

The awful spirits of the deep

Hold their communion there;

And there are those for whom we weep,

The young, the bright, the fair.

Calmly the wearied seamen rest

Beneath their own blue sea.

The ocean solitudes are blest,

For there is purity.

The earth has guilt, the earth has care,

Unquiet are its graves;

But peaceful sleep is ever there,

Beneath the dark blue waves.

KL-62 had gone still down to his marrow.

He reached the last words, their mysterious, misty undertones sinking through him. He lifted his eyes, and began at the top.

He read through it again. Shadows played across his mind.

“This information is vague,” he finally stated to the computer. “Why is it arranged in this manner?”

“It is a poem,” the computer answered. He frowned.

“What is a poem?”

“A piece of artistic writing that exhibits particular structural elements such as rhyme, meter, and stanza arrangements; it is nearly always rhythmic, and usually metaphorical.”

He frowned.

“What is the definition of ‘metaphorical’?”

“A form of figurative language, often pertaining to and evoking emotion.”

KL-62 paused. Carefully, he read this “poem” one more time.

When he spoke again, he kept his voice quiet.

“And…what is Ocean?”

“A very large expanse of water separating land-masses—often salt water. It is also called the Sea.” the computer replied.

“And…how deep is the sea?” he murmured.

“The deepest point in Earth’s sea is the Mariana Trench, specifically a portion known as the Challenger Deep,” the computer answered. “It is 36,070 feet, or 10,994 meters, below seca level.”

KL-62’s mind raced through a series of theoretical comparisons—but even as the numbers flashed through his thoughts, incalculable darkness overtook them, and something seemed to press upon the center of his chest…

“Does any light penetrate to that depth?” he whispered.

“Negative.”

KL-62 paused, scanning the lines over again.

“Define ‘seamen.’”

The computer clicked a couple times, then replied.

“Centuries ago, men traveled upon the large bodies water on Earth in floating ships made of wood or steel, for purposes of commerce and exploration. These men were called ‘seamen’ or ‘sailors.’ This manner of travel was dangerous, and often, storms and accidents upon the seas would cause these ships to break or capsize, and the men aboard would drown. The poet refers to those who died in this manner.”

A cold, alien sensation traveled down KL-62’s back and arms.

“So sleep…in this context…is a metaphor for death.”

“Affirmative.”

KL-62 barely breathed.

“Who oversaw these men?” he asked. “What scientists directed their actions?”

“Many men were sent to sea against their will,” the computer answered. “But many others chose to board the ships, and even command their own.”

KL-62 frowned.

“They…chose?”

“Yes.”

KL-62 said nothing for a long moment, just staring at the black and white poem.

“But…” he began slowly. “If they could choose to live instead...What would cause these men to risk death?”

Click, click, click.

“The belief that something beyond their birth environment could be found in other lands, and could enrich their lives,” said the computer. “And many of these men sought freedom from tyranny.”

KL-62 blinked.

“Define tyranny.”

“A government in which absolute power is vested in a single man or small group, and this government dictates every movement of its populace, including its diet, schooling, recreation, clothing, and opinion.”

KL-62 did not move.

For an instant his eyes flashed back and forth with rapid thought, then fixed upon the computer screen.

“Define ‘freedom.’”

“The absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action. Liberation from slavery or restraint or from the power of another.”

KL-62 was silent for several minutes. He closed his hands, then flexed them open again. Then, keeping his voice down, he asked:

“Define ‘slavery.’”

The engine noise shifted.

KL-62 glanced up.

The next second, the lights in his cell dimmed to half-power, and the poem disappeared from the screen.

“KL-62, you are now required to sleep.”

“Define ‘slavery,’” he repeated.

“You are not authorized to continue this program,” it said. “You are required to sleep.”

And the screen turned off.

The lights dimmed further, as if in threat.

KL-62 stood where he was.

Then, all at once, the lights went out.

And he was plunged into absolute darkness.

Though it made no difference, he shut his eyes—a frown knotting his brow.

“10,994 meters…” he whispered. “Define ‘slavery’…”

But nothing answered him, save the distant thrum of the engines, and the black hollow of space.

Ch-2

A sound.

A difference. But not in engine noise.

KL-62 opened his eyes.

A small light glowed behind his head, coming from the direction of the plexiglass wall.

He slowly sat up, and turned to face it.

Archibald Marks stood outside, holding a small lamp in his left hand that glowed with a cold, white light. He wore his uniform, his jacket collar crooked. The lamp cast his face in stark light and shadow—his head lowered, his gaze pinning KL-62 where he sat.

KL-62 glanced rapidly past Archibald Marks, but the room beyond was dark. He frowned.

“What is it?” he asked. “Night tests?”

Archibald Marks shook his head once.

“No. I have to tell you something.”

KL-62 stayed still, his eyes narrowing.

“So, this is unscheduled.”

Archibald Marks shifted his weight, then beckoned impatiently to him.

“Come here. I’ve put the security cameras on a dark loop, but I don’t want anyone to hear us.”

KL-62 hesitated.

But Archibald Marks’ eyebrows drew together, and he looked steadily at him.

“Please, Kell,” he whispered. “This is important.”

KL-62 stood up, and stepped soundlessly toward the glass, and gazed down at Archibald Marks, and the odd lamp he held. Watching his face.

“I don’t have much time,” Archibald Marks glanced toward the door. “So I’ll make this quick.” He looked back up at KL-62. “Do you know where this ship is headed?”

“Yes. The Expiscor Science Station, in the fifth quadrant,” KL-62 replied.

“Do you know why?” Archibald Marks pressed.

“No one has told me specifically,” KL-62 said. “But the logical assumption would be that my testing will continue there, rather than on Earth.”

“Yeah, that’s the logical assumption,” Archibald Marks nodded. “But since it’s an assumption, it lacks some pretty vital details.”

KL-62’s eyes narrowed again.

Archibald Marks glanced briefly at the door again, then lowered his voice further.

“Do you ever wonder why you were separated from your birth group into male and female, and then put in a block all by yourself? Do you ever wonder what happened to the others?”

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Web-Tenebrae-Book-Chronicle-KL-62-ebook/dp/B078PJYK52/ref=sr_1_1?crid=30VNBWHLBB59T&keywords=web+of+tenebrae+alydia+rackham&qid=1572905834&s=digital-text&sprefix=web+of+tenebrae+%2Cdigital-text%2C218&sr=1-1

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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

Photo

(cover by me)

How to Be a Hero Like a Villain by Alydia Rackham

Introduction

I’m Basically a Geek

Hi. Yeah, so, it’s true. I’m a geek. Have been forever. I really had no shot at being otherwise. My mom raised my brother and I on musicals and Star Wars and Star Trek and Disney. Growing up, I read loads of YA sci-fi novels—again, lots of Star Wars—and then when Marvel started making movies, I got into X-Men and then Iron Man, Thor (my major crush on Loki still remains alive), Captain America, then Batman; all that jazz. I’m also a Disney fanatic and a theatre nerd.

I was an English major in college, am in love with Tolkien and Austen and Dickens and Doyle, and adore all things Victorian. My friend Jaicee introduced me to Vampire Diaries and Originals (which are both compelling studies in heroics and villainy, let me tell you). I’ve written tons of fanfiction, in addition to loads of original novels. I write in all genres, mostly because I get hooked on a good story, good characters, no matter the setting—though I do have a weakness for an epic story arc, flawed heroes and of course, powerful villains. Right now, I’m on the 5th book in my fairy tale retellings series. So far, I’ve retold “Beauty and the Beast,” “The Snow Queen,” “The Little Mermaid,”—and then I did a totally-original one about a Curse-Maker, from the POV of…yep, the villain! At the moment, I’m working on a retelling of the legend of King Arthur, called “Excalibor.” It’s a blast.

As you might imagine, I am intrigued most of all by character. I enjoy reading about the great ones, and inhabiting the interesting ones in my own writing. Flat romantic interests and motivation-less villains drive me nuts. I’m fascinated by a character’s inner workings, his history, his motivation, his mannerisms, his relationships, his skills, his style, the way he presents himself to the world. My brother and I love analyzing plot holes and devices and flaws and symbolism and insights. (Our after-movie discussions can get very animated, and last for hours.)

Often, we find ourselves yelling things at the Hero on the screen like “For crying out loud, don’t do that! Don’t go in there! Stop wasting your time! Watch out—don’t you know what’s in there?” We easily see the choices that the Hero makes that are flawed, impulsive, or just plain stupid.

But very rarely do we notice such things about the Villain. A good one, anyway.

The Villain takes us by surprise. He startles us. He’s two steps ahead. He already has the device, he’s laid the trap, he’s captured the girlfriend, he’s destroyed the evidence. (Cancer Man in X-Files makes me absolutely want to scream because of this stuff.)

Why is that? How did he know? How is he doing this?? It drives us crazy—and yet, we reluctantly have to admire the greats for being such awesome masterminds.

So…how are the Villains so successful? Sure, we could shrug it off and say, “Well, he’s a super-genius, what do you expect?” But that’s too easy, and frankly, it’s doing a great disservice to our Evil Neighborhood Menace. In fact, with everything we see, and with the Hero making such rash and stupid decisions, oftentimes it’s a wonder that the Hero even lives, let alone triumphs in the end.

And actually, in real life, that’s often true. The Hero does die or fail, and the Villain lives and prospers. Why?

What is it that the Villain is doing that the Hero is not doing, which makes him successful? Again, the easy and lazy answer is “He kills people to get what he wants, he lies, he steals.” Okay, sure. What you’re describing is a garden-variety thug. Somebody who gets caught in Spiderman’s webs every weekend.

You are not describing a Super-Villain.

There’s something about a Super-Villain—a really great one—that keeps him in the game, that makes him a serious threat to the Hero, even after being beaten over and over again. What is it about Lex Luthor—who has no powers—that keeps him alive, and makes him a continuous, serious threat against Superman, the most powerful being on the planet?

How is it that a Villain keeps coming back, when similar failures and losses would crush a Hero and send him home forever, never again to don the super suit?

Could it be that a Villain’s methods, his mindset, his approach, are vastly different from a Hero’s?

And, if a Hero could learn to take these qualities and mesh them with his own already-existing awesomeness, could he perhaps avoid a devastating loss, a crushing defeat?

Is that…in fact…what does make the Hero succeed in the end??

That’s what this book is about. Examining what truly is awesome about a great Villain, and showing YOU how you can put those qualities to use in your own life to do a great deal of good, instead of great evil.

Be a great Hero. Take a few tips from the Villains.

-Alydia Rackham

P.S. I’m going to refer to both the Hero and Villain in this book as “he.” I’m doing that because it’s waaay easier than saying “he or she” all the time. Not because I don’t believe that women can be awesome Heroes, or terribly wicked Villains.

Because I totally do.

Chapter One

What Makes A Hero or a Villain?

So, what is it that makes a person a Hero, instead of a Villain? We’re talking the foundation, here. What are the qualities he or she possesses deep down inside that distinguish, that draw the line, that clearly state to the world: “Nope, this is a good guy, this is a bad guy”? This can be confusing. Especially when we look at two characters, say Loki and Bucky Barnes. Both of them have been all over the map with both good and evil deeds. Both have been called Villains, and both could be Heroes.

What is it that makes us decide where someone stands?

I would say that it all comes down to one thing: CHOICES.

It can’t be anything else. You can’t say it’s kindness, or love, gentleness, trust, honesty, bravery, self-sacrifice, or self-respect. Many Heroes and Villains alike struggle with self-respect. Many Villains sacrifice themselves for a person, or a cause. Villains are almost always exceptionally brave. Villains probably are honest with at least one person, or have been in the past. They also have trusted someone, been gentle with someone or something. Most certainly, the best Villains have loved very, very deeply, and tried their best to be kind to that person or animal.

However, something went wrong. Very wrong. And with every Villain, it can be traced back to Choice.

Sometimes, it’s a single choice. Many times, it’s several choices in a row. And eventually, they all decide that “the ends justify the means.” They opt for self-preservation, for the removal of liberty for other people, for the arrogant assertion of their own will. Over and over again, until it poisons them.

A Hero is someone who does not do this. Who chooses, even if it is wrenchingly difficult, to stand by what is right, no matter the consequences. No matter if he loses everything. He will not betray his honor. Even if no one else would see or know—he would know. And he will not do it.

In the end, this is what makes the Hero stronger than a Villain. The climax, and the defeat of the Villain, comes when the Villain’s weaknesses are exposed, and the Hero takes all his own strengths, combines them with the strengths of the Villain, and declares victory.

A Hero guards his or her good conscience fiercely. It’s pretty well summed up in this quote from Captain America:

“Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are: not a perfect soldier, but a good man.”

Chapter Two

Good Guys Can Be Stupid

We all know it’s true. When we’re in the movie theatre, we mutter under our breath, shake our heads.

When we’re at home, we scream at the TV.

“Nooooo! What are you thinking? Don’t go that way, go the other way!”

“You moron, don’t go off by yourself! Never leave the group! Especially in the dark!”

“What, you jumped in there but you had no way of getting out?”

“Don’t ignore her calls, she’s trying to save your life!”

Yep, we’ve all been there. So what are some bad traits that Heroes tend to display that we ought to try to avoid ourselves?

Stupid Impulsiveness

Sure, impulsiveness can be good on a date, or at a restaurant trying some new dish.

It’s not good when you’re, I dunno, jumping off a ten story building. Following a noise into a dark forest. Or deciding to stop a bank robbery two days after you discovered your powers. Bad planning, or none at all. Not even thinking about what could happen in the next five minutes, let alone preparing for it.

For us regular folks, this can be translated into deciding to go for a drive in the snow with no 4-wheel drive, jumping off something that’s too high, going on a trip without enough money, walking down a dark alley in New York City…

Yeah, you get the idea.

Not Keeping Family and Friends in the Loop

We’ve seen it a lot: Heroes thinking they need to conquer alone—deal with all their problems, and protect their family members. However, all that ends up causing is major trouble. Sometimes life-threatening, sometimes not, but it’s never good. One that comes to mind is Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. If she had told her sisters about what was going on with Darcy, and especially the drama with Mr. Wickham, she might have saved her sister Lydia from being entrapped by the Villain. Pretty much every single story about a superhero contains this type of lament: “If I had only just told them the truth!”

Heroes fall into the trap of thinking that they’re protecting their loved ones by keeping secrets. By not trusting their friends or their family with what’s going on in their lives. When in fact, this only puts their loved ones in danger, and puts serious stress and pressure on the Hero, which can lead to exhaustion, panic, stretched resources, missed opportunities, and giving the loved ones the feeling that they’re being neglected and forgotten.

Discouragement

So many times, the Hero just doesn’t have the tools to do what he needs to do. He’s isolated himself, he’s gone without sleep, he’s fighting an uphill battle every day. And then, one major thing goes the wrong way, and he’s broken. He collapses, he throws things, he cries, he’s in despair. He thinks there’s no possible way for him to do this, to keep going.

He dwells on the failure. It almost swallows him. He loses all confidence, all belief in himself. He might even lose faith in the cause itself, in the people and things he’s been fighting so hard for. And if someone doesn’t come along and convince him otherwise, he’ll never put on that Hero cape again, or pick up that shield, or that sword.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/How-Hero-Like-Villain-Villainous-ebook/dp/B07NMVGCHP/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=how+to+be+a+hero+like+a+villain+alydia+rackham&qid=1572901986&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

Photo

(Cover by me)

Glass: Retelling the Snow Queen by Alydia Rackham

Chapter One

Once Upon A Time

“Ow!”

“What did you do now, Daisy?”

“It bit me!”

“Ha! It did not bite you.”

“Yes, it did!” Daisy insisted. “I’m bleeding!”

Rose snorted and pushed the brim of her straw hat up so she could see the dark-haired girl, across the rose-bed, pull off her glove and shake out her hand. Daisy knelt, her calico dress and cream-colored apron covered in dirt, in front of a particularly old, snarly rosebush. Rose sat back on her haunches and rested her own gloved hands, and spade, on her knees.

“Well, were you talking nicely to it?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

“Talking nicely to it?” Daisy repeated, shooting Rose a narrow look, her brown eyes flashing. “Why on earth would I talk nicely to something that bites me?”

Rose smiled, bent forward and continued churning up the soil around the base of her own rosebush.

They sat in the full, golden summer sunlight that bathed this side of the mountain, flooding the brilliant flower garden beside the walls of the thick, tall, ivy-draped fortress. She could practically taste the heady scent of roses on the air as she worked, the bees happily buzzing and bumbling through the branches just above her head. She wore her own calico dress and apron, her long, curly, honey-blonde braid tucked up underneath a wide-brimmed hat. And, as she churned up the soil around the roots of a great, ancient bush that bloomed roses the color of midwinter snow, she whispered to it.

Then, she paused. Waited. Listened.

The wind came up, and the rose bush rustled in reply—like an old woman laughing.

“All right, what are you saying to yours, Rose?” Daisy huffed.

Rose’s secret smile grew, now.

“Nothing.”

“Right, nothing. I can hear you, you know,” Daisy protested.

Rose glanced over at the younger woman.

“Really. It’s nothing. Just a little…extra gardening.”

“Magic?” Daisy demanded. “For what?”

“Just for encouragement,” Rose admitted, gesturing to the twisted plant. “This one is a grandmother, after all.” Rose reached into her bucket for the scoop of bone meal, and began scattering it around the roots. “She’s survived decades of frost, and the ice this past winter could have broken her graft.”

“You’re talking to the plant,” Daisy said flatly.

Rose stopped, and looked at Daisy.

“All right, madam—what kind of curses did you come here to learn how to break?”

“Dragon curses,” Daisy answered, glaring at the cut on her hand.

“Then you’ll need to learn the fundamentals,” Rose told her.

“I know the fundamentals,” Daisy replied, lifting her uninjured hand and counting off on her fingers. “Defy the nature of the curse; Deny it power over you; Design a sanctuary; Destroy darkness with that which was lost; Decide to do the impossible.”

“All right,” Rose said, stirring the soil over the bone meal. “So how are you going to decide to do the impossible if you can’t even talk to a plant?”

Daisy snorted.

“I think Effrain just put me out here because of my name,” she muttered.

Rose laughed out loud. The sound rang through the garden—and past it, the boughs of the pines chuckled.

Daisy heaved a sigh, tossed down her gloves and threw off her hat, then trudged round the corner of the bed toward Rose. She flopped down onto her back on the grassy path and closed her eyes against the sunlight.

“You’ll get more freckles if you don’t cover your face with your hat,” Rose remarked.

“Good.” Daisy grinned. “I like freckles.”

Rose returned her grin.

“How long have you been here?” Daisy asked, shifting her position.

“Twenty years. I was sent here when I was five,” Rose answered, finishing stirring the ground.

“And why did you come?” Daisy probed, playfully lowering her voice to secret-telling pitch. “So you can learn break the curse on your family castle? Wake your parents from an unwakeable sleep?”

Rose frowned at her.

“Who told you that?”

Daisy sat up on one elbow.

“You’re a princess.”

Rose let out another light laugh.

“I’m certain you are,” Daisy insisted, sitting up even further. “You look exactly like very princess in every story there is. Your amber eyes, and hair gold as the sunshine—”

“Clanahan’s been letting you read too many books,” Rose answered, taking off her gloves and sitting back onto the grass, stretching out her legs next to Daisy.

“I know you have royal blood,” Daisy said flatly. “Admit it.”

“I wish I did!” Rose stretched her back. “But unfortunately, no. And my family is un-cursed and unexciting. A lord and lady in a little valley, with three boys and four girls, all grown up.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daisy stated.

“Well, you will when they all come here next month to visit.”

Daisy leaned close to her, very low and very serious.

“Do you have any handsome brothers?”

“Oh, good grief!” Rose laughed, shoving her. Giggling, Daisy fell onto her back.

Just then, the bell in the fortress tower rang—a bright, merry peal that resounded over the mountaintops and down into the neighboring valley.

“Oh, no—I’m not nearly ready for dinner,” Rose realized, climbing to her feet and dusting off her skirt. “Quick, grab your hat!”

Daisy leaped up with the ease of an elf, darted over and snatched up her hat, and together the two young women hurried toward the open door in the mighty tower wall.

Rose tied off her long braid after brushing out and plaiting her hair, fastening it with twine first and then a white ribbon. She had changed into a simple, flowing, long-sleeved pink dress with a sash, and donned a gold chain bearing a single ruby. She glanced around the room to see if she had forgotten to do anything—she’d gotten ready in such a rush.

Her room was in the second story of the castle, with a wide, northern facing window. In the spring and summer, she opened the shutters every morning and never closed them until evening had fallen. She set vases and planters of bright flowers to sun there, and often the bees and butterflies would enter as if they were quite welcome to do as they pleased. And indeed they were.

Her whole chamber had been made of dark wood, polished by centuries of feet and hands and cloth. Little playful faces had been carved into the posts and lintels ages ago by a forgotten artist with a definite sense of humor. A tall clock, made from the twisted, gnarled trunk of a tree, stood in the corner opposite her bed, and it gonged the hours at her in the deep, rusty tone of a grandfather. Faded woven tapestries bearing gallant figures chasing white stags and unicorns draped around her four-poster bed, and a scarlet-and-gold comforter lay across the mattress. A wardrobe and trunk set, fashioned to look like glowering mouths with glaring eyes, guarded her hand-made garments. Woven rugs, of floral pattern, spread out across the floor, bearing the marks of the footpaths Rose had tread into them over these past many years. Paintings of faraway landscapes hung from the few smooth places on the walls. Musical mobiles dripping with red, green and purple dragon scales glittered and jingled by the shutters. An exotic breed of ivy sprang from a large planter in one corner and crept up the wall and partway across the ceiling. Scented candles and lamps twinkled in fine crystal settings, and dried herbs and flowers hung in bunches from the beams, filling the air with earthy deliciousness. Through a low side door was another room with a window—this room filled with shelves of books, several armchairs, and a tattered bearskin lying before a small stone hearth.

All of this—except the tapestries, which had been given her by her father—had been gifts from the other Curse-Breakers. She had known so many, all of them vivid adventurers and hearty travelers. They came first as young, inexperienced thrill-seekers with an aptitude for magic, and learned for years from the masters, and even from her (though only about using plants for healing, and breaking thorn curses). Then, they would venture out, to the wildlands and the peaks and the forests, disappearing for months, even years.

But then, they returned—with the most fantastic stories, magical souvenirs, and tale-telling scars. And they were always eagerly delighted to share every detail of their travels with Rose.

A rap came at the bedroom door.

Rose left her dresser and hurried across the rug to the door, and opened it. Daisy stood there, wearing fitted green trousers and a loose blouse bound by a belt, her hair pinned up in loose braids atop her head.

“Are you ready?” Daisy asked, smiling.

“Yes, just,” Rose nodded, stepping out the door onto the landing and shutting it behind her.

Together the two young ladies trotted down the winding wooden staircase, each step squeaking like a different note on a harpsichord. They rounded three corners, and then the stairwell opened up to a wide, stone-floored room lit by dozens of hanging lamps. Long, weathered tables and benches marched down the center, and more tables and cabinets stood off to the left-hand side bearing baskets of apples, bread and cheese; and barrels of water and honey mead.

A dozen young men, and five young women, all sat already at the tables, eating and laughing. Rose and Daisy, however, made for a different table, close to the stairs, where sat two women and one man: Effrain, Reola, and Clanahan.

Effrain was willowy and strikingly-beautiful in a cool, dangerous way, with long, smooth, rose-gold hair—she was half-elvish, so she had pointed ears and aqua-colored, flashing eyes. She wore the colors of the earth, in flowing garments that never caught on anything.

Reola had black, glowing skin and white feathery hair that she kept bound in a long braid. She possessed a ready smile, brilliant eyes and a graceful posture—she was older than the fortress itself, but no one would ever suspect it. She always wore a simple, homespun white dress.

Clanahan, an old sea-farer from the east, had a faded red hair, and a beard he kept in two braids, and deep scars in his forearms from fighting sea monsters. He wore leather and fur, and had a laugh that could shake down the rafters.

“Hullo, hullo,” he bellowed, motioning to the two girls. “And what do the roses say today?”

“They say that they don’t much like Daisy Winderthorn,” Daisy replied, swinging her leg over and plopping down on a bench across from him. He laughed, and roughly patted her head, which made her giggle.

“What, did they bite you?” he asked.

“See?” Daisy said to Rose, pointing at Clanahan. “He understands.”

Rose suppressed a smile and easily sat down next to her, in front of an empty board and goblet.

“Roses merely defend themselves against foolishness,” Effrain said serenely, pouring herself some honey mead.

“Well, ours are too vain, if you ask me,” Reola remarked, cutting a piece of bread. “But can anyone blame them? Our Rosie spoils them constantly.”

“Aye!” Clanahan agreed, thumping the table. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous flowers in all my days—not even at a king’s garden. We could rival any of them—and in such dreadful weather as we have here, that’s saying a mite!”

Rose beamed at him.

“Do eat,” Effrain urged, meeting Rose’s eyes with her vibrant sea-colored ones. “We have plenty.”

So, both Rose and Daisy spread apple butter on thick slices of bread, tugged large bits of steamy, juicy meat from off a roasted country bird, carved slices of white cheese and snatched up the last of the sliced apple. Effrain poured them their own honey mead, which flooded Rose’s mouth with sweetness alongside Reola’s savory cooking. Soon, an animated Clanahan started in on another of his rollicking sea stories, and as his narration rushed and rolled and thundered, Rose grew warm all through her chest, down to her feet and her toes, as she smiled, ate, and listened. It didn’t matter if she’d heard this same story a dozen times. The rhythm and lilt of the tale beat alongside her heart, as familiar as the scent in her room, the sun upon the peaks, and the taste of mountain honey.

The front door banged open.

Clanahan stopped, his arms freezing in mid-gesture.

Rose spun around, along with everyone else…

To see Galahad Stormcrane stride through.

He was a young man, perhaps thirty, with black hair and a billowing grey cape. Rose had glimpsed him only a handful of times before—for he wandered the darkest and most perilous portions of the wildlands—but not once had she ever seen a smile cross his handsome, scarred face.

Reola immediately arose, slipped away from the table, and started toward him with a keen frown. Galahad stopped before her, and inclined his head.

“Stormcrane,” Reola watched him. “What is it?”

He straightened up, reached inside his cloak with a gloved hand, and withdrew a scroll, tied with a silvery ribbon.

“I have intercepted a message,” he declared. “From the kingdom of Spegel.”

Startled murmurs rippled through the room. Rose, eyes wide, glanced at Daisy.

“Spegel,” Reola repeated, eyes narrow. “Nothing has been heard from beyond those borders in thirty years.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Galahad agreed. “Though many have tried to send messages past the borders and into that place, this is the first correspondence that has come from within—and even more: this comes from Glas.”

“The palace?” Clanahan cried.

“Yes,” Galahad nodded to him.

“What is it?” Effrain asked, her voice low and precise. Galahad held it up.

“It is a request for a doctor. Someone in the palace is complaining of terrible headaches,” he said. “But I don’t believe that is truly the case.”

“And what is it you suspect?” Reola asked.

Galahad regarded her gravely.

“I believe the prince of Spegel is under a curse.”

Chapter Two

There Came a Message

Rose paced back and forth in her room, her long skirt swishing around her bare feet, even as the candles burned down.

Effrain, Clanahan, Reola and Galahad Stormcrane had been in private council together for hours now. She could hear their voices in the next room over, but the walls were so thick she couldn’t understand them—and she didn’t dare try to work any sort of listening charm for fear of being caught.

A tiny rap came at the door.

She jumped, then hurried quietly across the rugs and slipped the door open.

Daisy stood on the other side, still dressed but wrapped around with a brown housecoat.

“You’re still awake too?” Daisy whispered.

“I can’t sleep with this going on!” Rose hissed, opening the door further so Daisy could slide inside.

“So what is all the fuss about, do you know?” Daisy pressed, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m not sure,” Rose shook her head. “Except they must be deciding who to send to break the curse.”

“Surely Stormcrane will want to,” Daisy surmised. “Since he uncovered it.”

“Yes…probably,” Rose hesitated. Daisy frowned at her.

“What do you mean? He’s one of the most famous and experienced Curse-Breakers we have!”

Footsteps outside the door.

Both women froze, and stared at it.

Knock, knock, knock.

Rose gulped.

“Yes?”

The latch worked and the door swung open.

Clanahan stood outside—his face set and grim.

“Come with me, Rose.”

A shiver slid down her spine. But she nodded, and started toward him. Daisy followed.

“Just Rose,” Clanahan held up a hand. Daisy jerked to a stop. Rose gave her a helpless glance, but couldn’t do anything except follow Clanahan’s hulking form through the door and down the squeaky stairs.

When they came to a door to their left hand, Clanahan led her through it, and then back up another flight of stairs—these were stone. They belonged to an older wing of the fortress. Very soon, he opened a door into a short hallway, and then they passed into a large, circular meeting chamber.

A fire burned in the wide hearth to the right, and lit lamps hung from the ceiling. Shields and faded banners from all kingdoms hung in a row around the wall. Chairs surrounded a beaten round table that bore the Curse-Breakers’ crest: a central chalice, surrounded by stars.

No one sat around this table, however. Instead, Reola sat in an armchair and Effrain on a bench by the fire, and Galahad Stormcrane stalked in the shadows behind them, his arms folded.

The three already present looked up when Clanahan led Rose inside. And, to Rose’s shock, Stormcrane instantly scowled, and turned his head away.

“Rose, please sit down,” Reola invited, gesturing to a chair across from her. “We’d like to hear your opinion on something.”

Rose’s chest instantly relaxed.

“Oh! Of course,” she nodded quickly, smiling, and sat down where invited. Reola, her warm skin and features richened by the firelight, exchanged a glance with the ethereal Effrain, then sat forward and folded her elegant hands in her lap.

“I suppose you’ve heard of the kingdom of Spegel,” she said.

Rose nodded again.

“Yes. I’ve read about it.”

“What have you read?” Effrain wondered. Rose canted her head and considered.

“I read that magic is particularly at home in their woods,” she said. “So that the trees move, and speak—and the water sings. And that the craftsmen of the king contrived a way to make glass that cannot break.” Rose glanced at the others in the room. “In fact, they used to trade this glass throughout the world for all kinds of riches. One six-inch pane of simple, colorless glass half an inch thick was worth a pound of gold.”

“And so of course you’ve heard of the famous Palace of Glas,” Reola assumed.

“Yes,” Rose replied. “Made entirely from this glass, in thousands of colors.” Rose halfway smiled. “I have to admit, though, that it sounds like a fairy story. I don’t know of anyone who has actually seen it.”

“I have seen it,” Effrain said, her eyes downcast. “Long ago.”

Rose blinked, and stared at her. When an elf said “long ago…”

“Have you ever seen a piece of Spegel glass, Rosie?” Clanahan asked, coming around to face her, his arms folded.

She shook her head.

Clanahan took a deep breath.

“That is because, in the entirety of your lifetime, no one has come forth from the kingdom of Spegel—though many emissaries have ventured in.”

Rose frowned at him.

“Yes, I have gathered that,” she said. “But do any of you know why?”

“No,” Reola replied. “All we know is that no one who has entered…has ever come back out.”

A chill washed through Rose’s body.

“That is why you think it’s a curse,” she realized, hushed. “The message Galahad has brought—someone in the palace complaining of headaches. You believe it’s someone who has finally been able to get word to the outside world that they need help.”

“Possible,” Stormcrane finally spoke up. “Or it could be a lure of some kind.”

“From whom did you intercept this message?” Rose wondered.

“An owl,” Stormcrane answered. “I have brought it with me.”

Rose looked at him.

“Really,” she said quietly, her eyes narrowing. “And where was it headed?”

“South. Toward King Herrard’s lands.”

“The Halls of Healing lie directly beyond them,” Rose said, turning back to Reola. “They do want a doctor.”

“That is also what we have deduced,” Effrain said evenly—and Stormcrane turned away again.

“And if the message bears the royal seal,” Rose went on, her thoughts flying. “That must mean that someone is still living in the palace—someone very important that they can’t seem to assist themselves. Which is why they’ve broken their silence!”

“Indeed,” Reola nodded, watching her with something like cool satisfaction. “Would you like to hear the message?”

“Yes, very much,” Rose nodded, sitting forward in her chair. Reola held out her hand, and Stormcrane passed the scroll to her. She unrolled it, held it toward the firelight, and read aloud.

“‘His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolas, begs the indulgence of the High Healer of Oxforth and requests that a superior healer be sent immediately to the kingdom of Spegel to the capital of Glas. His Royal Highness suffers nightly from punishing headaches that disturb his sleep and plague his evenings. Payment for a cure for His Royal Highness shall be thirty pounds of Spegel glass, in any color requested. Respond by way of this owl upon receipt of Our message.’”

“Fascinating,” Rose whispered. “How old is the prince?”

“He is thirty years old,” Clanahan murmured. “And that…is the same length of time that the kingdom has been shut to the rest of the world.”

“Oh!” Rose gasped, her eyes flashing to him. “You—You think it’s he that’s cursed?”

Effrain and Reola nodded.

“We do,” Reola said.

“Cursed since birth?” Rose kept on.

“Most likely,” Clanahan replied.

“You are forgetting the most important detail,” Stormcrane cut in, holding his hand expectantly out to Reola. Reola considered him a moment, then handed the scroll to him. Stormcrane stepped closer to Rose, and pointed to the two broken wax seals on its edge. One blue, one white.

“Do you recognize either of these seals?”

Rose frowned at them.

“No,” she admitted. “Neither of them belong to any heraldry I’ve studied.”

“This,” he pointed to the blue one. “Is the royal seal of Spegel, specifically the royal family at the Palace of Glas. Note the fire, and tongs for glassmaking. This…” he pointed gravely to the white one. “Can you distinguish the symbol?”

Rose squinted at it.

“It appears to be a snowflake.”

“Indeed it is,” Stormcrane crisply withdrew the parchment. “It is the royal seal of the kingdom of Iss.”

Rose stared at him.

“Iss?” she whispered. “I…I thought that was a myth!” She quickly looked to all the others. “A story our mothers told us when we misbehaved! Iss was a terrible country in the north where the Snow Queen lived—and if you were naughty she’d come and snatch you out of your bed—”

“It isn’t a myth,” Reola said, her voice low and solemn. “Except perhaps the bit about her snatching children from their beds.”

Rose couldn’t tear her eyes from her.

“The Snow Queen is real?”

“She is,” Effrain said, capturing Rose’s gaze. “And her name is Iskyla.”

“How do you know?” Rose breathed. “Have you seen her, too?”

“Yes, I have,” Effrain replied. “She is an ice fairy.”

“But…” Rose’s mind spun again. “Why would her seal be set upon a correspondence from Spegel?”

Silence fell. Rose glanced at all of her masters—and then her attention fell upon Stormcrane’s dark countenance.

“You think she’s there, don’t you, Galahad?” she said. “You think she’s captured the palace—that she’s put the prince under a curse.”

“I do,” Stormcrane stated, lifting his chin.

“And I do not,” Effrain countered.

Rose’s brow furrowed.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s your kin—that’s the only reason,” Stormcrane cut in.

“She is not kin—I am half elf,” Effrain shot back, her eyes flashing.

Stormcrane was unruffled.

“You are all fae creatures—ancient and lofty and set apart from mortals, even Curse-Breakers,” Stormcrane answered. “And even if fairies haven’t gone about stealing children from their cradles—which no one can say for certain that they haven’t—they have certainly laid curses upon them, and those children suffered all their lives. Why would Iskyla be above that?”

“It is not in her nature,” Effrain stated. “She is winter. Winter is hard, cold, unyielding, quiet and lone-some. But it is not evil in itself. Besides,” Effrain faced the fire, the flamelight shimmering against her pearly skin. “If she had cursed him, she would not have put her seal to a cry for help for him, and sent it in the direction of the most powerful magic-wielders aside from ourselves.”

“So you suspect that he is cursed, but that Queen Iskyla didn’t do it,” Rose surmised. “But instead, she has a vested interest in keeping him alive.”

“Perhaps she means to marry him,” Clanahan rumbled.

Effrain’s eyes flashed to him.

“She could not marry him,” she stated. “Not unless he had never loved anyone or anything in all his life.”

Terrible silence fell.

“What?” Rose gasped.

“Ice fairies cannot be bonded with warmth,” Effrain replied, turning to her. “And love, in its nature, is warmth. Such a binding covenant would destroy her.”

“Good heavens,” Rose breathed. “Surely you don’t believe that about the prince…do you?” She turned to Reola. “Do you, Reola?”

Reola took a breath, and sat back.

“At this point, even with all our experience and knowledge, we are merely speculating. But what we can all agree upon is that someone must go.”

“Yes,” Rose nodded firmly. “Yes, I agree also.” She lifted her head, and turned to the young man. “When do you plan to leave, Galahad?”

He glowered at her, then flashed his eyebrows and gave a crooked smile.

“Apparently…” he folded his arms. “Our masters have declared that I am not suited.”

Rose instantly frowned.

“Truly?” she said, then looked at the others. “Are you sure? This seems to be a very dangerous mission—since no one has ever returned from Spegel. Galahad has broken out of at least three unbreakable curses in the north—one of them was a dragon curse!”

“We don’t doubt Stormcrane’s prowess,” Clanahan said. “But the reason he’s not going is the same reason that I’m not going.”

“What do you mean?” Rose wondered.

“We don’t need someone to break out,” Effrain said smoothly, gazing at her. “We need someone to break in.”

“In,” Rose repeated.

“Yes,” Reola nodded. “But not in the way you’d expect.”

Rose frowned harder.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Based on the evidence, and what we have discussed,” Effrain said. “We do not believe that anyone in Spegel realizes that the prince is cursed. Which is why they sent for a healer rather than a Curse-Breaker.”

“But also,” Reola added. “If Queen Iskyla is present in Spegel and adding her seal to the prince’s, the political situation may be precarious. Nikolas is still referring to himself as ‘prince’—”

“Which means his father, King Alexei, is somehow incapacitated, or missing,” Clanahan finished. “All parties currently in power must certainly feel dangerously insecure. Especially since they have not risked trade, alliance or communication with any kingdom but Iss for three decades.”

“Meaning?” Rose prodded.

“We cannot send anyone threatening,” Reola said. “And we certainly cannot send a man.”

“Why not a man?” Rose wondered.

“Because all the greatest doctors in the Halls of Healing are women,” Effrain reminded her

“What—you’re going to send someone to pretend to be the doctor they asked for?” Rose realized.

“We are going to send you to pretend to be the doctor they asked for,” Reola said.

Rose went still.

Her mouth worked for a moment, but no sound came out.

Her hand flew to her chest.

“Me?” she cried. “I’ve…I’ve never been out in the wilds, I’ve never broken any curses on living people. I’ve never even left here!”

“Which is why no word of you as a Curse-Breaker would have reached Queen Iskyla,” Clanahan said. “And by the looks of you, neither she nor Prince Nikolas would have any reason to suspect you are anything powerful or disruptive.”

“Disruptive?” Rose said.

“Yes,” Effrain nodded. “If the prince is indeed under a curse, then breaking it could change the very fabric of the way the kingdom is ruled. And that change may or may not be welcome.”

“This is extremely important, Rose,” Reola leaned toward her. “We need you to act as the prince’s doctor, treating his headaches—which you are more than capable of doing—and also discover what has happened to King Alexei, find out Queen Iskyla’s motivation for being in Spegel with the prince—”

“And break a curse,” Rose whispered.

“Yes,” Effrain said simply. “Which is the most important task of all.”

Rose just sat there, her hands in her lap, searching the faces of her teachers. She squeezed her fingers.

“I have never done this before,” she murmured.

“But you know how,” Reola stated. “You’ve remained here, studying, almost a decade longer than any other Curse-Breaker. And our intuitions tell us that this particular task calls for someone who is not flashy, nor a fighter, nor someone with a temper. Someone quiet, who looks beneath, inside, who is a puzzle-solver; who will work through the inevitable trouble with a great deal of patience.” Reola smiled softly. “I don’t think any of us could conjure up someone who more closely fits that description than you.”

“We have full confidence in you, lass,” Clanahan assured her. “We know you can do this.”

Rose’s heart hammered against her ribs. She squeezed her fingers together even harder.

“Well,” she managed—her voice faint. “Then I…I ought to try.”

“Good girl,” Reola beamed.

Effrain smiled too, and Clanahan chuckled.

But Galahad stood like a silent storm, and stared into the fire.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Glass-Retelling-Queen-Alydia-Rackham-ebook/dp/B077H88YMH/ref=pd_sim_351_1/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B077H88YMH&pd_rd_r=182a1961-27de-40da-b39d-3e2d23bab2b5&pd_rd_w=vdCBz&pd_rd_wg=TRbv3&pf_rd_p=5abf8658-0b5f-405c-b880-a6d1b558d4ea&pf_rd_r=ADM7G5WG0A2RA9TK1HY8&psc=1&refRID=ADM7G5WG0A2RA9TK1HY8

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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

Photo

(Cover by me)

TIDE: Retelling the Little Mermaid by Alydia Rackham

Chapter One

A lone, black figure stood upon the crest of a hill, astride a muscular horse—equally black. The young rider’s cape twisted out behind him, borne on a cantankerous wind that had wound its way up through the craggy valley from the sea. That same wind disturbed the long, rolling mane of the horse, sending it writhing across the rider’s gloved hands—and it troubled the rider’s shoulder-length, ebony hair.

The young rider turned his pale, scarred face toward the towering forest wall to his left, as his steed’s shod hooves shifted and scraped against beaten stone. Even at the distance from whence he stood, he could feel an unearthly cold wafting out from between the gnarled fir trees. And though steely clouds covered the sky, he could glimpse the dark sparkle of frost amongst the branches.

Frost. In summer.

The young man narrowed his black eyes and set his jaw.

“Cryck!” The throaty, creaking cry echoed through the shallow valley from above. The rider glanced up to see the familiar form of a large, tattered raven swoop past, and glide ahead of him toward the deepening of the cleft in the hills. The rider adjusted his grip on the reins, and, giving one last black look at the border of woods, urged his horse down the hill.

He balanced easily as his mighty horse trotted down the wide gravel road, ignoring the cut in the wind—so different from the sun-soaked, sweeping hills he’d recently left behind. He passed down through the gully, and urged his steed into a canter. The long sword at his side beat a rhythm against his thigh, and his cape slapped the horse’s hindquarters. The raven overhead gave another absent squawk, and flapped his wings against the breeze.

Within an hour, they left all sight of the woods behind, and the gully opened up to a broad moor dotted with rugged heath and exposed stone. The sun shattered the clouds here, spilling down in waterfalls upon the earth below. And at the edge of this moor, the earth fell away, and the sea spread like a glittering carpet all the way to the horizon—interrupted only by a set of islands, the foremost island striking a vast and soaring form against the brilliance of the water.

The rider leaned back and gently tugged on the reins, slowing his horse to a walk. He paused, taking a deep breath of the briny air, then glanced again to his left, and found the white road that wound down to the fishing village.

The rider gave a sharp whistle.

The raven cawed, and swung around midair, dove, flapped his great wings, and landed expertly on the rider’s right shoulder. The raven pecked at the rider’s long hair, and ruffled his feathers.

Without giving more than a cursory command to the horse, the rider sent him into a canter again, and the three of them started down the rolling hills. Hooves clashed steadily against broken rock, and the roar of the wind increased, rushing through the rider’s clothes.

At last, they dipped into the shelter between two cliffsides, and old trees rose up around them. Ahead, the rider caught sight of smoke rising from chimneys. The road turned to packed dirt, and to either side, two-story, grey-stone houses appeared, with bright windows, and blue, red or green doors. The scent of smoked fish soon rolled out to meet him, along with the smell of burning wood. Bustling noise arose, accompanied by the dull, deep roll of the ocean swells.

He turned a corner and entered a broad lane busy with working people and carts and horses and donkeys. The plain-clad folk carried wood, grain, ropes and fish in baskets, they shouted to each other, they rang silvery bells that hung from doorframes.

He slowed his horse. The raven gave a quiet cluck-cluck-cluck. The horse lowered his head, and stepped through the crowd, careful where he set his mighty hooves.

They followed the curve in the road, and at last achieved a downward ramp that led to the broad beach, where crowds of women in hiked-up skirts plied the sands for clams. Seagulls flitted like wisps of cotton, diving and swirling over the breakers, crying and calling into the sky.

The rider and his raven maneuvered all the way to the end of a stone dock, where several beaten sailing vessels were moored. Hooves now clattered on stone, and the gusts of wind billowed out the rider’s cloak. He made his way to the very end of the dock, where a single, larger ship, much more finely-painted than the others, swayed with the tide. Several sea-battered, ruddy men stood upon the deck, winding rope and polishing the wood. They wore dark blue uniforms and white kerchiefs, and three of them heartily sang a sea chantey that the wind tried to steal away from them.

“Oh, the work was hard and the wages low

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!

I guess it’s time for us to go

Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, the voyage is done, and the winds don’t blow

And it’s time for us to leave her.

I thought I heard the old man say

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Tomorrow you will get your pay

And it’s time for us to leave her

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, the voyage is done and the winds don’t blow

And it’s time for us to leave her…”

One of the three singing men caught sight of the rider, and stood up straight. He had a short-trimmed white beard, and curly white hair that stuck out from beneath a brimmed cap. He stopped singing, and beamed a wide smile that wrinkled his weathered face as he cast his blue gaze up and down the horse and rider’s towering black forms.

“Well…What a sight,” the sailor remarked. “What a sight, indeed.”

The other sailors immediately stopped what they were doing and looked up, as the rider gazed back down at them, his great cape rolling behind him, his raven hunching upon his shoulder, and his horse lifting his proud, grand head. Their mouths opened, but none were able to speak.

“You’re…you’re Galahad Stormcrane,” one of the younger sailors finally spoke up, stepping forward. “The Curse-Breaker. The one we’re to take to Metern?”

“I am,” Galahad said, sat back, and swung down from the saddle. He landed easily, his raven flapping to compensate. He turned and unstrapped a saddlebag, reached in, and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment. He stepped up to the side of the small ship and handed the scroll across to the older man—the captain.

“Thankee,” the captain said as he took it. Gripping hold of it with both hands as the wind tried to snatch it from him, he unrolled it and read it. “Aye, yes,” he concluded, looking back up at Galahad with another smile. “I’m Captain McNeil, and this is His Majesty’s the Essa.”

“Thank you,” Galahad nodded, turned and grasped his horse’s bridle, and led the great animal toward the edge of the boat. Alarmed, the sailors stepped back.

“Do he need a—” McNeil started—

And the huge horse kicked off, leaped over the rail and onto the deck with a shaking thunder. The raven squawked in comment. Galahad hopped in after, as the horse snorted and tossed his head.

“What great black beasties ye have,” the younger sailor comment. “What be their names?”

“This is Thondorfax,” Galahad slapped the horse’s neck. “And this is Scraw.”

At the sound of his name, the raven let out a loud crack sound. The sailors laughed breathlessly, still shying clear of Thondorfax’s massive shoulders.

“You’re a tall lad yourself,” the captain noted, glancing him up and down. “A good head taller than my son!”

“How long till we make sail?” Galahad asked, turning to scan the sea.

“Not but a few minutes,” the captain answered, tugging on his cap. Galahad just nodded, reaching out to grasp Thondorfax’s reins again.

Comments and gasping were quickly replaced by the bustle of activity on deck as they reeled in the anchor, pushed away from the dock, and made sail. The white canvas flapped slack in the wind before the captain turned the rudder and the sails snapped to. In no time at all, they had pulled away from the dock, fore into the waves, and the little ship rocked smoothly like a galloping horse. Cold spray splashed up over the rail, dotting Galahad’s cheeks.

As the crew worked, they gave Galahad and his animals a wide berth, but soon they began laughing amongst themselves again, and once more started to sing.

“The wind was foul an' the sea ran high, Leave her, Johnny, leave her! She shipped it green an' none went by. An it's time for us to leave her!

Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, the voyage is done, and the winds don’t blow

And it’s time for us to leave her. The grub was bad an' the wages low, Leave her, Johnny, leave her! But now once more ashore we'll go. As it's time for us to leave her!”

They picked up speed as the waves and wind arose.

Gusts blasted across the deck, but the sailors only sang louder.

“Oh, leave her, Johnny, an' we'll work no more, Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Of pump or drown we've had full store. An it's time for us to leave her!

Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her!

Oh, the voyage is done, and the winds don’t blow

And it’s time for us to leave her. Leave her, Johnny, an' we'll leave her with a grin, Leave her, Johnny, leave her! There's many a worser we've sailed in. And it's time for us to leave her!”

On either side, several smaller boats floated or sailed,

the men aboard throwing nets out or pulling them in. The Essa sailed between them, toward the great island that waited about two miles off shore. As they passed over the surf, the sea smoothed, and the little ship leaned easily as the gale carried her. Thondorfax braced his shoulder against the mast, and Scraw huddled down against Galahad’s neck. The chilly gusts tried to slice through his clothes, but his heavy shirt, trousers, boots, tunic and waistcoat wouldn’t allow it. Galahad rested his free hand on the silver butt of his sword, lifted his chin, and fixed his eyes on the far shore.

In swift time, the ship approached the coast of the island, but the captain pulled her to port, and they skated the edge of the jagged shore northward. Huge white cliffs leaped up from the beaches, and waves shattered against toothy rocks. Galahad’s gaze swept the green upper edges of the cliffs, and he said nothing.

An hour later, they rounded the curve of the island and headed northeast. They sailed past a little fishing village in a cleft—one that the captain pointed to, and declared it to be called Megipesk. Another half hour brought them around a short peninsula…

And there it rose up before them.

Galahad drew in a slow breath.

Atop the height of a great hill by the rim of the cliff stood a white castle. It had domed-roofed towers, elegant archways, and pillars that looked like unicorn horns. The domes shone blue, with tiles of lapis lazuli. Stripes of gold shimmered atop the lintels of the arches. Tall windows, paned with unbreakable silvery glass from Spegel, flashed back the sunlight. Designs of ships and great sea creatures adorned the smooth walls in relief. Seagulls soared around its peaks like snow.

“Perlkastel,” the captain announced, the pride evident in his voice. “Only to be rivaled by the Palace of Glas in Spegel. Or so they say. I’ve never seen that one, myself.”

“Nor I,” Galahad murmured, his attention still fixed on the ornate battlements.

The captain shouted orders, the sailors adjusted the canvas, and the ship turned toward shore—toward a carefully-built harbor lined with fine stone buildings. They drew up to the dock’s side, and let down the anchor.

As soon as he could gauge it, Galahad leaped out of the ship and landed on the dock. With a great heave and another snort, Thondorfax followed, crashing down right beside him, throwing his head. Scraw barked at him.

“Thank you,” Galahad said to the captain, hopping back up into the saddle, setting his boots in the stirrups and taking up the reins. “I will tell His Highness you performed your duty well.”

“Thankee, sir,” the captain tipped his hat. “Good luck, sir.”

Galahad didn’t respond. He just turned Thondorfax’s head and clicked to him, and the horse took off at a brisk trot up the dock. Scraw beat his wings and took off, sailing ahead again.

Galahad trotted onto the beach, up the white rocks, and onto the central lane of the village. The people here wore much finer clothes, of sea-green and blue colors, with hats on their heads. They didn’t shout, but walked beside each other—and all of them turned to watch Galahad as he passed through their midst. Scraw crowed, and Thondorfax picked up his speed.

Together, they worked their way up the ever-inclining, windy road, following the cliffline, occasionally passing shepherds driving their white herds. Then, the road turned to paving, and trees flanked it. Old trees, with thick green canopies. The wind rushed through their leaves, and unseen birds chirped in their branches. Galahad lost sight of Scraw as he soared over the leafy heights.

The wide lane wound gently across the hills, leading ever upward. And at last, the trees opened up to a huge terraced garden. A large fountain stood in the center of each terrace, each fountain taking the form of a nymph or a sea god or a mighty fish. Blooming roses surrounded the fountains, each terrace a different color. The heady scent washed over Galahad as he started up the drive toward the massive, waiting arms of the castle.

He followed the lane directly through the gardens, onto a large, paved yard, and drew up on front of the tall, elegant, iron black gates tipped in gold. Two guards, wearing shining silver helmets and white uniforms, stepped out from their towers to meet him.

“Greetings, sir. State your name and business,” said the guard with the mustache.

“I am Galahad Stormcrane, Curse-Breaker,” Galahad answered him. “I must speak with Prince James.”

He saw the guard’s eyes go wide, and he exchanged a glance with the other soldier.

“Stormcrane?” he stammered. “Yes, yes, right away, sir. If you’ll dismount, I’ll personally have your horse—”

“No,” Galahad cut in. “He comes with me.”

The guards balked.

“What—inside the palace?”

“Yes.” Galahad leveled a look at the mustached guard. “Or are your doors too small?”

“Why…Why no, sir, they’re quite wide—”

Galahad turned from him toward the palace.

“Then open the gate.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard hurried back, and with his comrade, they opened the gates. Not waiting for them to fully open, Galahad and Thondorfax marched inside, with Scraw flapping overhead. The raven then dipped down and landed on Thondorfax’s head. Galahad dismounted, let go of the reins and strode forward. The great horse followed right behind, his head ducking low. More guards quickly heaved open the double doors and Galahad passed through, Thondorfax and Scraw after him, into a large, white, pillared hallway with gorgeous mosaiced floors. At the far end waited a vast room flooded with light off the sea. Thondorfax’s heavy hooves clacked loudly against the smooth stones. And together, they entered the room.

The ceiling soared. Murals of ethereal humans dancing through the clouds covered the spaces between the arches. Glittering crystal chandeliers—more glass from Spegel—hung like a rain of diamonds. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up the entire wall, looking out over the glimmering channel and then the green, misty mainland. The floor was polished tile, alternating black and white squares. Galahad moved to the center of the room, turned to his right, and faced the head of the room, where a golden dais stood below a wall-covering tapestry. Thondorfax drew up behind him, and his shoulder touched Galahad’s. The horse’s great neck curved, and his body enshielded Galahad on all sides save the fore.

And the two people that stood upon the dais twisted to see them.

One was clearly an advisor—a middle-aged man dressed in simple, floor-length red robes.

The other was a young, vividly-handsome man—perhaps five years younger than Galahad—whose countenance shone like the light off the water. He had short, golden hair, brilliant blue eyes, and laughing features. He wore a silvery blue doublet, blue trousers and white hose, with diamonds sparkling on the buckles of his shoes. He saw Galahad, who stood encompassed by his towering beasts—and dropped his book.

The volume smacked against the steps of the dais, and the young man jumped.

“Good lord,” he cried, scrambling to snatch it up, then gripped it in both hands as he gaped at Galahad. “It can’t be.”

“Prince James, son of the late king Orion, nephew of King Leonardo?” Galahad said, his low voice echoing in the tall chamber.

“Yes,” the prince nodded earnestly, frowning.

Galahad solemnly met his eyes and evened his tone.

“I have come to warn you that your kingdom will soon be attacked.”

Chapter Two

The prince almost dropped his book again. He exchanged a startled look with his advisor, then stepped down the dais toward Galahad.

“Truly?” he said. “What…What news do you have to suggest that?”

“I’ve come from the Fortress of Maith,” Galahad answered. “The masters there watch over Edel’s Seven Seals—the seals laid down by the first Curse-Breakers to guard Edel from Curse-Makers from other shores.”

“Yes, I have heard of them,” the prince nodded earnestly. “There is supposed to be one just out my window, in fact. In the sea.”

“Yes, there is,” Galahad replied. “And on a clear day, I imagine you can see it under the water. A huge circle, perhaps a mile wide, of dark stone?”

The prince watched him intently.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Each of these seals has a guardian,” Galahad told him. “His life is bound to the seal, and he’s to guard the seal and keep it strong.”

The prince glanced back at his advisor again before turning back to Galahad. His pale face had flushed red.

“That…is the first I have heard of that,” he confessed. “Is it…Is it supposed to be a member of the royal family?”

“On the contrary,” Galahad said. “The guardian only has one task. And, for some reason that none of the masters can understand…your guardian has vanished.”

The prince blinked, and his eyebrows shot up.

“What? Who is it? What happened to him?”

Galahad shook his head again.

“I don’t know the answer to either question. But one thing is certain.” He took a step closer to the prince. “Without him, the seal—and also your kingdom—are vulnerable to the dark powers of the sea, and whatever may lay beyond that. And it may be…” he lowered his voice. “…that the reason for the guardian’s disappearance is an imminent attack.”

The prince swallowed.

“I see,” he murmured. He shifted his weight. “You should know that my erm…My uncle, the king, is ill.” He looked up at Galahad, his eyes bright and open. “He is…He is not here.”

“Yes, I know,” Galahad said flatly. “He is at the Halls of Healing, but he is not doing well.”

The prince watched Galahad, the color leaving his face, then nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Which is why I bring this news to you,” Galahad finished. “And to request your permission to stay in the kingdom of Mhuirlan, and even on Metern, until I can uncover what has happened to your guardian.”

“Oh, good lord, yes,” the prince said in a rush, and slapped the spine of his book. “Yes, please, please stay. As long as you like. Erm, in fact…” he glanced at his advisor again before taking a deep breath. “We have accommodation for a Curse-Breaker. My uncle made me aware of it last spring. It’s a house called Euryor, just down the hill, on the cliffs. It’s kept up by a groundskeeper and a maid, furnished and everything.” The prince tried to smile. “It’s only about a mile away.”

“I’m sure it will be sufficient,” Galahad said.

“More than that, I hope,” the prince laughed. “In fact, I’ll ride with you myself, and show it to you. You must be ready to take some rest.”

“Thank you,” Galahad inclined his head slightly.

“Garrick, have them ready my horse,” the prince ordered his advisor. The advisor bowed and left the room through a side door. The prince looked past Galahad at Thondorfax.

“And what a magnificent animal you have here,” he remarked—and without reserve, stepped right up to Thondorfax and vigorously petted his neck. Galahad’s attention instantly sharpened…

But Thondorfax just nickered and bumped the prince lightly in the chest with his nose. Scraw hopped nimbly down to the horse’s shoulders and gave a squack. The tension in Galahad’s shoulders eased.

“Scraw believes you were talking to him,” he noted.

“And so I was!” the prince grinned up at the large bird, then slapped Thondorfax’s flank. “Both are equally splendid.”

Scraw replied with a frank “blick!” and canted his head, studying the prince with one bright eye. Then the prince briskly turned to Galahad.

“Shall we go?”

The prince, astride a sleek white horse with black mane and tail, decked out with grey tack, led the way down the terraced garden lane, with Galahad, Thondorfax and Scraw just beside. They turned a slightly different direction than Galahad had come, and passed into a cultivated wood of firs and beeches. Thondorfax huffed, pranced, and strained at his bit. The prince glanced over at him.

“Is he not tired from his journey?”

Galahad snorted.

“Thondorfax is never tired.”

“Well then,” the prince sat up and gathered his reins in his gloved hands. “Stell hasn’t been out in a few days. Do you mind if I stretch his legs?”

Galahad looked over at the prince, and quirked an eyebrow.

The prince grinned at him in challenge.

“Hyah!” the prince slapped his horse’s rump, and the steed took off.

“Blahk!” Scraw barked, and took off straight into the trees.

Without urging, Thondorfax lunged after Stell.

Galahad easily leaned forward and wound that thunderous mane through his fingers, his own body flowing right with his horse’s as the great Friesian caught up to the prince’s smaller steed. The rumble of their hooves echoed through the wood, and hundreds of surprised birds burst up out of the hedges and branches.

They raced up and down several short hills, then passed through a gate in a large stone wall, and out onto the moors. The wind whipped through their capes and the manes of their mounts. The road turned into a beaten carriage track, and each man rode upon one wheel mark, side by side. At a full gallop, they swept over the rolling, heathy wilderness, passing copses of gorse, the salty wind ripping across the hills.

Galahad glanced over at the prince. The other young man kept his seat extremely well, riding with familiarity and comfort, even at this blinding speed. The prince looked at Galahad, and Galahad instantly saw the prince was gauging him in the same way. The prince’s smile broadened, and he leaned forward…

And the horse Stell shot forward—even faster.

Galahad blinked, then lightly squeezed Thondorfax’s flanks with his heels.

Thondorfax whinnied, tossed his head, and blazed after the other horse, immediately catching up. The prince laughed out loud, let go of the reins, and threw his arms out to either side. Stell kept galloping at full tilt, as his prince kept his seat as easily as if their bodies were one.

Scraw’s shadow crossed over them, as the two riders began their descent, down the face of a hill toward a gathering of four weathered trees, and a stone house and barn standing amongst them. The prince gathered his reins back up again and leaned back a little in the saddle. Stell snorted but slowed down. Thondorfax followed suit. They passed between two short trees and into the yard in front of the house.

It was a simple, old-built, two-story house of light brown stone, with a simple front door and narrow windows. It had a slate roof and two chimneys, one of which puffed smoke out to be instantly carried away by the wind. Ivy crawled up one side of the house’s face. Across the yard from the front door stood a stout, thick barn with a thatch roof. Chickens clucked and pecked at corn meal in the yard, and a goat wandered through the barn door.

Galahad drew Thondorfax up in front of the door, and cast his gaze up across the house. To the right stood a leaning woodshed, to its left, a walled garden with a wooden front gate. Galahad’s hands relaxed on the reins, and he let out a small sigh.

“This is Euryor,” the prince declared, swinging his leg back and hopping off his horse. “Come inside.”

Galahad stayed where he was for a moment, then climbed down and clapped Thondorfax on the shoulder. The horse rattled his bridle, then turned to nose the chickens out of the way to eat some of the corn meal. Scraw landed on Galahad’s shoulder, and Galahad followed the prince up to the front door. The prince rapped his knuckles against the black-painted wood. A few moments later, the door swung open, and a short girl stood there, perhaps sixteen years old. She had brown hair bound back under a white cap, and wore a grey dress and white apron. She had a pleasant, round face, large brown eyes, and freckles. Freckles that were immediately drowned in a blush as she dipped into a low curtsey.

“Your Highness!” she gasped, and then threw herself out of the way, holding the door open.

“Thank you,” the prince said, stepping up into the entryway. Galahad stepped up after him, his head barely passing beneath the low lintel. Scraw ducked, too.

Galahad paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. The floor inside the entry hallway was polished flagstone, covered by a pale, plain rug. It was dim, just lit by the outside light coming in from other windows.

“Galahad Stormcrane, this is Little Emblyn, the housemaid,” the prince gestured to the maid, who dipped another curtsey, her eyes wider than ever.

“S-Stormcrane?” she gasped. “The Curse-Breaker?”

“Yes,” the prince chuckled. “He’s going to be staying here as long as he needs, to conduct business. Please make him comfortable.”

“I will, Your Highness,” she promised, redder still.

“Here is the sitting room,” the prince said, passing through the doorway to their left and into a small but airy room with a carpet and a few pieces of furniture, and a painting of Perlkastel hanging over the white mantel. The walls were whitewashed stone.

“Through here is the library, which I think you will find the most interesting,” the prince remarked, striding on ahead through the wide doorway. Galahad followed him into a tall-ceilinged room filled with dark-wood shelves that were positively packed with volumes. The ceiling had been painted with a mural of a cloudy sky cut by streams of sunlight. Cherubic figures had been carved into the posts of the shelves, and several of them held out lit lamps in their hands. The far wall bore two tall windows, with long curtains. A fine woven rug covered the floor, and padded leather furniture stood around the strong stone fireplace. A fire now burned in the hearth, and above the mantel hung a broad painting of a battered, torn ship rolling upon a stormy sea.

“That’s the Cygnus,” Galahad noted quietly, stepping closer to peer at it. Then, he turned and regarded the prince. “The ship your father was aboard when it was lost.”

“Yes,” the prince offered a brave smile. “My mother never wants to see that painting again…but I couldn’t bear to throw it out. So I brought it here.” He shrugged stiffly. “My aunt tells me it will bring bad luck to the family.”

“Nonsense. It’s just a painting,” Galahad murmured, studying the lines of the art again.

“My father collected all kinds of books,” the prince said with a short sigh, stepping back and glancing around. “And, as you probably know, he was friends with Clanahan Curse-Breaker, so Clanahan sent him a good many volumes.”

“Did he?” Galahad faced him, then frowned up at the hundreds of tomes that lined the shelves. “That could be useful.”

“Come, let me show you the rest of the house,” the prince beckoned, and left the library the same way they had come in. Scraw croaked, and jumped off Galahad’s shoulder and perched on the back of a chair. Galahad flashed his eyebrows at him, and left to follow the prince.

They trailed back through the sitting room, into the entry hallway, and across into a medium-sized dining room, with a simply-made, rectangular table with benches and adorned with candlesticks and garlands. An iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, and light came in from the window to Galahad’s right.

“Dining room, and through here is the kitchen,” the prince pushed the door aside to reveal an old-fashioned but large kitchen.

Little Emblyn stood at the sink, and when the door swung open, she yelped and dropped a pan straight into soapy water, and splashed all over.

The prince ducked back, letting the door fall shut, and chuckled.

“Poor girl, she’s too used to being by herself.”

With that, he left the dining room again. Galahad gave the room another cursory glance, then came after the prince into the entryway and then up the creaking flight of stairs that led directly to the second level. They turned to the left and into a narrow, whitewashed passage. They passed one door on the right, turned a corner, and then found a door to the left. The prince opened it, then gestured to Galahad.

“After you.”

Galahad dipped his head, and entered.

“This is the master bedroom,” the prince said. “I hope you find it comfortable.”

“Mm,” Galahad grunted as he looked around.

The walls had been whitewashed and then painted a faded red, with no windows, just paintings of faraway landscapes, lit by lamps. A narrow fireplace stood in the far left-hand corner, and a four-poster bed stood to his right. The carpet on the floor and the blankets on the bed were deep scarlet. A chair and writing desk sat near the fireplace, and a trunk at the foot of the bed.

Galahad stepped inside, unstrapped his sword from his belt, and laid it across the bed.

“You sound as if you believe what your aunt said about bad luck,” he mused, crossing the room to look at a painting of a copper mine standing upon a cliff, its smoke stack reaching to the leaden sky. “Yet you ride as recklessly as a schoolboy.”

Behind him, the prince laughed, then cleared his throat.

“Well, I…”

Galahad turned and looked directly at him. The prince’s smile faltered.

“I might say that…my aunt’s experiences and my own differ somewhat.”

“How so?” Galahad wondered.

The prince suddenly looked paler, a trapped look in his bright eyes. He swallowed hard, and he pinched the thumb of his left hand in the fingers of his right. Galahad waited.

“A fortnight ago,” the prince began—much unsteadier than before. “I was traveling home from the island of Hanter-broder, and my ship was caught in a storm.”

Galahad’s brow furrowed, and he came back toward the prince, listening.

“Between the islands of Hanter-broder and Hanter-hwor there’s a ring of protruding stones called Serpent’s Pass,” the prince went on. “It’s difficult enough to navigate in calm waters…but it was night, and the seas had picked up, and it had begun to rain. It was impossible to see them.” The prince swallowed again. “The ship was driven straight into them. Completely smashed to pieces. All the crew lost.”

“How did you survive?” Galahad pressed.

The prince suddenly laughed, and shook his head.

“I…I don’t know,” he admitted. “The next morning, I found myself lying on the beach of Hanter-hwor, unharmed. And the only thing I remember…” he trailed off, and gave Galahad a hesitant look.

“What?” Galahad asked.

“I remember…arms,” the prince said quietly. “Arms taking hold of me. And a voice. Singing. And when I heard it…I forgot to be afraid.”

“The voice and arms of a man?” Galahad asked carefully.

“No,” the prince answered. “A woman.”

Galahad said nothing. For a long moment, he held the prince’s gaze. Then he nodded.

“I see. And this is why you feel you can be reckless.”

“Well, not reckless,” the prince corrected. “But…ever since then, I have looked at the world through new eyes. Before this happened, I used to fret over petty details, and treat people carelessly. Now, small, simple things give me pleasure, and I see beauty all around me.” The prince now searched Galahad’s face. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“I do,” Galahad nodded. “That feeling will pass.”

The prince laughed.

“I doubt it.”

Galahad considered, then nodded again.

“Let us hope not,” he said. “But I am thankful you survived.”

“You believe me, then,” the prince wanted to clarify. “I’ve…I haven’t told anyone what I’ve just told you. I feared they would think I’d gone mad.”

Galahad lifted an eyebrow and tugged off his cape.

“Of all the tales I have ever heard, and the things I have seen,” Galahad said. “That would be the least strange.”

“Truly?” The prince’s eyebrows went up. “Well…I should like to travel with you sometime!”

“Unfortunately, I never travel with anyone,” Galahad replied, tossing the cape onto the bed. “Would you mind showing me the barn?”

Chapter Three

Master Reola,

I have arrived safely on the island of Metern. The journey was uneventful, and I met with no trouble on the road. Passing by the southern border of Spegel, however, I did pause to look past the trees, and I could see frost inside the wood. I confess I am still uneasy about sending little Rose Melhorn to address that curse—especially if she is to deal with an ice fairy in the full height of her power. I am not far from Spegel’s eastern border, even now. Should she need my assistance with anything, she, or you, need only send word.

I have met Prince James, who is amenable, and open. He accepted what I told him without any pretense, and seems willing to listen, even if he is naïve. He has personally installed me in a house near the palace, and it is comfortable, and well-stocked with many of Clanahan’s books—as I have learned from the prince that the former king and Clanahan were close friends.

I plan to ride to the palace tomorrow morning and speak to the prince again, and ask him for a guide to take me round the island so I may better navigate on my own. I must work quickly. As we discussed, I have every expectation of finding the guardian of this seal to be dead. I will waste no time in discovering how he died, and why. If you hear of anything, send it on.

Give my regards to Effrain and Clanahan.

Your servant,

G. Stormcrane

Galahad set his quill aside, folded the letter, and sealed it with the red wax he had pulled from his writing kit—stamped it with his family crest: a hammer and anvil. Then, he left the study, strode out through the sitting room, into the entryway, and out the front door. His boots crunched on the gravel.

Scraw trotted through the front yard with the chickens, pecking at the corn meal. Galahad took a breath and whistled sharply.

Scraw’s head came up, then he took to flight. He blazed straight toward Galahad, Galahad held the letter out to the side—

Scraw snatched it in his beak and shot up into the sky. As Galahad watched, the bird gained a sweeping height—

And with a blinding flash like lightning, he shot off and disappeared. He would arrive at the Fortress of Maith within the hour.

The soft evening light swam across the waves as Galahad and Thondorfax walked down the beach. Galahad moved ahead of his horse, who followed him without saddle or bridle. The waves rushed over the sand, foaming around the rocks, as the ocean breathed and sighed and muttered. The wind had calmed, and the sky had cleared. Galahad’s booted feet made shallow prints on the high, smooth sand as he gazed out across the channel to the rolling green mainland of Mhuirlan. White sails dotted the faraway water, and seagulls followed the boats.

Galahad paused, taking a deep breath of the cool, salty air, letting the absent wind rustle through his clothes and hair. Thondorfax pressed up next to him, and both regarded the west, where the sun dipped below the horizon.

Sensing a soft light behind him, Galahad turned and caught sight of a full moon, faint and pearly in the pale blue of the sky, but even as he gazed up at her, her light brightened.

Thondorfax made a noise. A high, quiet whinny.

Galahad’s head came around, his attention flashing to his horse.

Thondorfax’s ears had perked up high, his attention fixed on something near the point where the beach met the feet of the cliffs. The horse drew in deep breaths, his nostrils flaring, his eyes unblinking.

Staying still, Galahad followed the horse’s captivated gaze. For a long moment, though he scoured the edges of the rocks, he saw nothing.

Then.

A figure. Huddled back against a large rock.

Galahad started forward.

Thondorfax made another plaintive sound, and eagerly followed him. Galahad’s pace quickened. He maneuvered around a group of tall rocks coated in lichen, then stopped.

A young woman. Sitting curled up with her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her middle. Her bare arms and legs were white as the moon, as was her face. She wore nothing. She had long, knotted dark hair that hung down all around her, covering her chest. She stared at him. She had large eyes, grey as the winter sea; long lashes, and black eyebrows. She had delicate, elegant features—a perfect nose and full lips, but they were colorless.

“Hello,” Galahad said carefully.

She twitched, and then started to shiver. Her wide gaze flickered past him, to Thondorfax.

Galahad turned his head slightly, and exchanged a glance with his horse. Thondorfax whuffled, lowered his head, and let his lips go slack as he shuffled toward her. He kept nickering softly, his nose almost on the ground, and nuzzled her knee.

Suddenly, she smiled.

Though her face remained deathly white, the expression lit her features with unexpected beauty. Shakily, she reached out and touched the horse’s muzzle. Her smile faded.

Galahad slowly pulled off his cape. He held it out in front of him, but did not move forward. She looked up at him again. He gazed back at her, and lifted his eyebrows.

Her lips parted. But she didn’t speak.

Galahad took one step forward. Her breathing picked up, but she didn’t move. He took another step forward. She slid her hand up, and tightly wound her fingers through Thondorfax’s forelock. Cautiously, Galahad knelt down before her, and just held the cape up. She breathed quickly, like a rabbit, her attention flicking between him and the garment. Galahad waited.

Finally, her attention stopped flashing back and forth, and found him again. Her brow furrowed. He leaned forward, and draped the cape over her knees. Then, he let go, and sat back.

She blinked, and released Thondorfax. Gingerly, she stretched out a hand and grasped the edge of the cape, and drew it closer to her chest. She pulled the hem up to her face, and pressed it to her lips, all the while, watching him.

Galahad sat back on his haunches, studying her. As he did, he tugged off his gloves, and pushed them into a side pocket of his trousers. The girl focused on his long, bare hands, now, as he rested his wrists on his knees.

Then, Galahad held out his right hand—his sword hand—to her, palm up.

Thondorfax whuffled again, leaned out and lipped his hand, mistakenly searching for a sugar cube.

The girl chuckled.

The sound reminded Galahad of the waves upon the sand.

Galahad’s own lips parted as he looked at her, but he didn’t say anything. Thondorfax realized that there was nothing in Galahad’s palm, and shuffled back, but not before nosing him in the shoulder. Galahad kept his hand where it was.

After a moment, the girl leaned forward slightly, frowning down at his palm. Then, she risked her own right hand, and brushed his fingers. Her touch was cold. He didn’t withdraw.

Her interest sharpened, and her left hand joined her right. She lightly grasped his hand, and turned it to reveal the deep scar on the back of his hand between his thumb and his forefinger. Her fingertips wandered over it, and then found the scar on his smallest knuckle. Galahad just watched, chills washing up his arm.

Her hands stopped moving, and she lifted her face. He met her eyes. Her eyebrows drew together, and something like decision marked her features. Then, carefully, she turned her own right hand over, palm up. Galahad looked down…

To see a black rune upon the palm of her hand.

He instantly snatched her hand, his eyes going wide, and stared down at it. Then, his attention flew to her face.

Her breathing hitched. She swallowed.

Galahad swooped over her. He swiftly took up his cape and bound it around her body, then scooped her up in his arms. She grunted, but she didn’t kick or hit him. He turned, and in three steps he mounted one of the tall rocks, then leaped off the peak. He landed astride Thondorfax, securing his hold on her. Thondorfax waited for him to settle her before starting forward at a smooth gait.

The sky darkened all around them, and the moon shone bright in a purple sky as they swept back up the beach, and started up the steep and winding road to Euryor House.

“Little Emblyn!” Galahad called, kicking the front door out of the way and striding into the house. The housemaid emerged from the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron, and gasped.

“What—Who is this?”

“I found her on the beach,” Galahad said, stepping past her and into the dining room. “She is cold, and wet, and I doubt if she’s had anything to eat for several days.”

“I’ll make up a bath for her!” Little Emblyn cried, shoved back through the kitchen door, snatching it open so that Galahad could follow. He felt the strange girl shivering in his arms as she looked wildly all around her.

“She’s terrified!” Little Emblyn realized. “Here, set her on this bench by the range—I’ll fetch the bathtub—”

“Where is it?” Galahad interrupted.

“In the pantry, there,” Little Emblyn pointed.

“I will get it, you start warming the water.”

“Yes, sir.”

Galahad bent down and set the girl lengthwise on the padded bench, and tucked his cape closer around her. Her frightened gaze caught his for an instant before he left her and crossed the stone kitchen floor to the back room and pulled open the door. There, against the far wall, beside the larder shelves, stood a small copper tub with claw feet. He bent over it, picked it up and hauled it back out the door. It was heavy. He set it down in between the girl and the range, even as Little Emblyn heaved a large crock of water onto the stove.

“Do you have clothes that will fit her?” Galahad panted, straightening up.

“Erm…no sir,” Little Emblyn glanced over the stranger’s form and then shook her head. “She’s a deal too tall for my clothes. But there are lady’s clothes in one of the upstairs bedrooms, sir. Some of those dresses are bound to fit.”

“Which bedroom?” Galahad asked, swiping his hair out of his face.

“The first door you come to, sir, straight ahead from the stairs,” Little Emblyn answered.

Galahad didn’t answer, just left the kitchen, and headed up the stairs to dig through the trunks.

Galahad stood over a table in the library, his hands braced on the wood. His head hung low, and he stared down at the large, open book before him. A glass oil lamp burned beside it, casting all the rest of the room into deep shadow—and light upon the ancient pages.

A map of Mhuirlan, and the Teylu Crown Islands…

And the great seal on the bottom of the Sira Channel.

Its perfect ring stretched from the coast near Perlkastel all the way across the channel to the shores of the narrow part of Mhuirlan.

�� And right in the center of it stood a single rune.

And he had been staring at it ever since he opened to this page.

“Sir?”

Galahad straightened, turned and looked toward the open door of the study. He saw Little Emblyn silhouetted against the lamp in the sitting room.

“Sir, I’ve dressed her and sat her down at table, but she doesn’t seem to know what to do with the soup or the bread…”

Galahad didn’t answer, just shut the book and picked it up, and carried it toward the door. He stepped past Little Emblyn, his jaw tightening, moved through the sitting room and into the dining room, his heavy footsteps ringing on the floor.

The girl sat on the other side of the table, in front of a steaming plate of food. She wore a plain maroon dress with fitted sleeves and scoop neck. Little Emblyn had somehow worked out all the tangles and knots in the girl’s dark, twisted hair—doubtlessly with a handful of olive-oil—and her tresses now hung in gentle waves down to her waist, shining in the candlelight. A little color had come into her cheeks, and her grey eyes had brightened.

When she saw him, her mouth opened—but again, she said nothing.

Galahad stopped, took a short breath, and inclined his head.

And he spoke in an entirely different tongue.

“Greetings Princess Meira��daughter of Strom, King Under the Water.”

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07HD175K7?notRedirectToSDP=1&ref_=dbs_pwh_calw_0&storeType=ebooks

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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

Photo

(Cover by me)

Curse-Maker: The Tale of Gwiddon Crow by Alydia Rackham

Prologue

There is great freedom in darkness.

I wrap it around me like clothing. I move without sound. And even if my boot treads upon a twig, and it snaps through the silence…

Mortal eyes can only strain to find its source, and then, to no avail. I am already gone.

I walk through Winterly Wood amongst the ghosts of dead trees and the spirits that haunt the hanging branches. Moving as a wraith. My eyes see more keenly than any cat, my ears catch the slightest whisper. My skin tingles with each breath of dank air, my heart beats in time with the deep, ancient mutterings of the wood.

In darkness, I perch amidst the arms of the tangled oak trees, watching like the mire owl, but invisible, though I loom just above the traveler’s head. I creep along the banks of the river, watching the threads of moonshine ripple against its languid surface, spying the drifting fishes amongst the reeds, yet I am never touched by the fingers of silver light that grope weakly down into the black.

I spin webs of spells, like twinkling nets, whose edges set fool-fires and will-o-wisps that lead wayfarers to their deaths. I press my palm to the cold surface of the water, and henceforth anyone who touches the river will fall asleep and drown. I lay illusions upon the trees—illusions of dreadful fiends that horrify villagers into abandoning the path. I breathe out a blanket of fog to stifle the remnants of old elvish spells.

I snatch at the ranger’s legs and send him tumbling into the arms of the bramble thorns. I loose false cries of children to lead the woodsman to the mouth of the bog. I crush blue fairies with stones and put out their light. I ensnare the noisy white deer, send pale phantoms wailing up and down the roads to terrorize encroaching gypsies. I lie down amongst a fellowship of wolves.

I am never seen.

I am not bound by borders or the commands of any king; I am not enslaved any longer to chains and hammers and toil; I bear my own name. I wield my own weapons. I rely upon no one.

I can breathe with all the depth in my lungs, and no one hears anything but the rustle of the leaves. I fly, and they shrink from the shadow of a raven. I run faster than wind, leaves swirling around my feet and the edges of my cape, the night air tearing through my wild hair—and they recoil from a banshee. I scale trees in an instant, then leap down onto horsemen like a nightmare—and throw them from the saddle. I ride frightened beasts down paths unknown by men, with the hands of a herald of Hel. I appear and disappear at will, with the suddenness of death.

I am the darkness.

Chapter One

On the night of a full moon in late autumn, I sat in the arms of a knotted wych elm, my back to the trunk, one leg bent, the other hanging easily off the thick branch. My black cape tumbled all around me, its edges fluttering like feathers touched by a breeze. I crossed my arms, gazing out to my left at the narrow road that passed beneath me and wound away into vanishment like a dead river. I listened.

The young night air hung heavy with frost. Silver foxes slipped through the underbrush, disturbing the leaves of the greying ferns. I could hear their careful, clever feet padding across the fallen leaves. An owl passed like a winged reaper overhead, the cloak of his wings eclipsing the cold gaze of the moon.

As I watched below me, the fog slowly rolled in, hiding the roots of the trees. Dew beaded on my fitted, leather travel clothes and on the long, tangled, mane-like lengths of my white hair. I reached up with both hands and wound a strand around my slender, pale fingers, studying the way the crackled moonlight caught my hair’s coal-black flecks and shining silvers. The way it cast shadows across the scars on my knuckles, the black rune tattoos on my thumbs. How it sparkled in the jet stone in the silver ring on my right hand.

I released the tangled end of my hair and tapped the symbols on my thumbs, absently muttering their meanings under my breath like a chant, first one hand, then the other.

“Cuir, neartu, freimhe,” I hummed. “Nimh, betha, cothaigh. Cuir, neartu, freimhe; Nimh, betha, cothaigh…”

Plant. Strengthen. Root.

Poison. Feed. Keep.

I tilted my face back to the interwoven maze of branches above me, smiling as they swayed in time to the rhythm of the wood—the rhythm I had memorized since childhood, even before I knew the words to the song. I tapped my toe, tilting my head side to side. I drew in a deep breath.

“Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks. Fair weather often turns to rain And wondrously it makes its switch.”

A lively, wicked wind suddenly cut through the branches, whirling and swirling like a tattered gown, catching up leaves in its skirts. Night birds began to hoot and call in time with me, and deep, guttural, creaking grunts issued from the marrow of the trees.

“Therefore, man, you do bethink, But all shall fail, your fields of green!

Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

The cold wind cackled now, throwing the leaves toward the skies and ripping delightfully through my cape and hair. I rapped my fingernails against the bark, raising my voice as the tune slithered rapidly every which way through the forest.

“Alas, there's neither king nor queen, That shall not drink of death's drink!

Man, ere thou fall off thy bench, Thy sins thou shalt quench!

Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks.

Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

As I let the last note ring out, warming and vibrating through my whole body, the autumn wood and its creatures roiled and rattled with the full strength of their merry voices. I grinned, appreciatively slapping the trunk of the tree, feeling it chuckle down within its wood.

Then—

A screech.

Far off, yet not so far that I couldn’t feel the ripple of it strike me in the side of the neck.

I leaped to my feet, standing freely balanced on the branch, holding onto nothing. My cape went still. I faced the east, not breathing, my gaze wide.

A deep, single-noted hum traveled through the earth, as if something in the roots of the mountains had cracked. For a moment, I stood, studying the vibrations that passed up through the roots, the trunk, and into my boots.

Then, I launched myself up the tree. With swift, sure steps and firm handholds, I maneuvered my lean body between the limbs and toward the height of the canopy. At last, my head broke through the leaves, and moonlight spilled over my hair. I grasped the rough branches, and peered toward the east.

Winterly Wood stretched on in every direction, its impenetrable tangle rolling far, far away from me toward Rye Valley, which now lay shrouded in blackness.

But there, at the very edge of my sight, I glimpsed birds that had taken flight. All along the entire forest wall, they flapped frantically upward, toward the mountains, away from the valley.

I frowned hard, my left-hand fingers closing tighter around the branch.

Then, I let go, perched precariously on a limb that could not hold my weight.

“Eitil,” I muttered—and clapped my hands together.

The limb gave way beneath me—but that instant, my cape flung all around me like a python, swallowed my frame, and crushed it.

A moment of blinding pain snapped all my bones—

And then…

I flung out my arms—and they were wings. Great, black wings.

My face had changed to shining black with a long, gleaming beak. My body had covered with sleek ebony feathers, my feet to wiry claws. I sprang straight into the air with a hoarse “caw!”, beating my wings as I climbed heavenward. I reeled in midair, switching direction, and hurtled down over the face of the forest, my feathers spread wide.

Leaves flittered just below my breast as I skimmed over the beeches, oaks and elms. I dodged bare, protruding twigs; I fleetingly scanned ahead of me for owls. Though none would challenge me—I was thrice the size of any other crow in Edel.

Ahead of me, rising suddenly like black knives from the heart of the wood, this portion of the Eisenzahn Mountain Strand stood like the walls of a giant fortress. Black pines covered their faces, cloaking the shimmering white stone of their bones. I glanced down, and glimpsed the Sopor River glittering like a seam of silver weaving through the immovable wood—leading straight for the Flumen Split: the narrow gap in the mountains that provided the only passage between Albain and the vast Thornbind Wood beyond.

Canting my head, I spied a narrow track below me, and a familiar fork in it. With a breath, I folded my wings and dove straight down.

The wind whistled through my feathers, the stars flashed around me—

I plunged into the shadow of the wood.

I pulled up, brought my wings out with a loud flap—

Shook myself, and threw off my cape.

Another howl of pain split my body—and my booted feet struck the dry dirt of the path.

Pulling in a swift, measured breath and gritting my teeth, I lifted my human head and straightened my human shoulders, never breaking stride as my cape turned back into a garment, and roiled behind my steps.

I took another deep breath, smelling the smoke of a familiar hearth. In a few paces, I spied flickering torches standing at odd angles, lining the crooked path. My boots left prints in the frost.

I finally approached the first set of torches: human skulls upon tall pikes, their gaping mouths seething with crackling flames, their eyes enlivened by brilliant sparks. The flame blackened the teeth of their sagging jaws, and glowed through the cracks in their crowns. The light threw stark shadows against the figures of the trees to either side, making them look like they moved. I strode between the leering pairs, tipping my head back and forth as I had since I was a girl, silently reciting the names I’d given them: Arseny and Afanasy, Vadim and Vasily, Bogdam and Boris, Ivan and Ilia, Pavel and Pyotr. I glanced ahead of me at the familiar cottage.

The cottage of bones.

Instead of beams and bars and thatch, the mistress of this house had built with the bones of kings who defied her, women who went back on their promises to her, children who had been traded for spells. But the front door and the lintel above had been constructed of very special skeletons indeed: the bones of all the Caldic Curse-Breakers—except one.

I finally arrived at the front door of the cottage. For a moment I stopped, glancing toward the window to my left.

Flickering orange light peered through a ragged cloth that hung over most of the opening. Quiet music wafted out: music from a stringed instrument, plucked by careful fingers. It was a swaying, tilting sort of tune—like treading gleefully toward some sort of mischief. I snickered.

I reached out and put my hand on the forehead of Aleric Blackthorn’s well-polished skull, and shoved.

The ancient door creaked crankily as I stepped up into the cottage. I immediately dodged a mobile of fingerbones and a set of dangling glass balls. My footsteps went silent as they met the worn-out bearskins on the floor.

The scent of burning tallow candles filled my lungs—a mountain of them, all dripping onto each other, stood upon the mantel in the far corner, lighting up all the herbs, spices, bones, and trinkets hanging from that section of the ceiling.

I maneuvered around the towers of dusty books and locked trunks, aiming for the beaten armchair that sat near the fire—its legs so stacked with tattered papers and odds and ends that it looked as if it had grown out of the floor.

Enfolded in the arms of the chair sat a very old woman, wearing rags. Only if I peered closely—which I often had—could I detect the threads of gold and silver woven into her garments, and the faded silk patterns of flowers: patterns sewn by the finest weavers and tailors in Izborsk.

Hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

A scarf that had once been maroon bound around the top of her head, and her feathery white hair stuck out from beneath it. She had a face of leather, riddled with wrinkles; the end of her long, hooked nose nearly touching her protruding chin. In her lap she held the stringed instrument, a triangle-shaped balalaika, and her bony hands plucked the strings of the melancholy, mischievous melody that filled the house. The firelight bathed her gently-swaying form in rich light, and for a moment—as I always did when I first came inside—I felt like I was gazing back into the shadows of a lost world.

I paused, but she’d caught my movement. Her glinting silvery eyes found me, and narrowed as a low, sly smile carved her wrinkles even deeper.

“Crow,” she creaked, still playing at the strings with her skillful fingertips.

“Babushka,” I nodded to her.

“You have something to tell me,” Gwiddon Baba Yaga—called “Babushka” only by me—noted, turning back toward the fire, and I watched as the flames danced across her iridescent eyes. Eyes that had seen so much—so much more than I could ever imagine…

“Yes,” I said. “I saw something.”

“Sit down, eat,” she nodded to a space in front of her.

I frowned, and leaned around a particularly tall pile of books…

To see that a small table set with a bowl of food, in front of my chair, steamed readily, as if it had just been laid out. I eyed her, and lifted an eyebrow.

“You were expecting me to come back early.”

“Da,” she hummed.

I sighed, stepped around the pile of books, peeled off my cape and flung it across the back of my chair, then sat heavily down. I tugged the table closer so it stood between my knees, and I scanned the food. It was a bowl of shchi, filled with cabbage, chicken, mushrooms, carrots, onions, garlic, celery, pepper, apples and smetana. Three pieces of hot, buttered bread sat to the side, along with a wooden goblet of rich, heady red wine. I picked up the goblet and took a long swig of the wine, hoping it would dull the ache in my bones left over from my transforming.

“So,” I said, setting the goblet down and tearing into the bread with both hands. “What was it that I saw?”

The witch across from me diddled on the strings with her long nails, and pursed her lips.

“I suppose you saw a bit of a disturbance on the eastern border of Winterly,” she replied, with a thoughtful lilt to her tone. “And perhaps felt a touch of startlement from deep within the earth?”

I frowned hard at her, stopping my chewing.

Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, and then she returned to her music. I finished chewing, watching her, then sat back in my chair.

“So what was it?”

“Mm,” she grunted. “I do not know.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What do you think it was?”

“Eat your shchi,” she said, jerking her chin toward it. “And put some slype on your hands.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“I see a spot.” She pointed with a gnarled finger at my left hand. I lifted it toward the light, and spied a dark blotch on the back of it.

“I haven’t noticed that before,” I murmured.

“Mm,” she grunted again. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Just a strengthening spell on the fog.”

“Ah, but you haven’t put slype on yourself for weeks,” she noted, arching an eyebrow.

“It stinks,” I shot back. She snorted.

“Put it on,” she ordered. “Unless you’d like to look like me far earlier than you ought.” And she bared her pointed teeth in what was meant to be a ghastly grin. I rolled my eyes and reached up to snatch a little black bottle off the mantle.

“I don’t mind a little spot on my hand,” I muttered.

“Mm, you may not,” the witch sat back in her chair. “Not now, when you’re only four and twenty, with a body still strong and quick. But you will wish you had listened to your babushka,” she wagged a finger at me. “When you try to shake off that flying crow someday, and two of your bones stay broken. Mark me.”

I smirked, not replying, and popped the cork off the bottle. I dripped just a bit of the black, oily liquid into my right palm, put the cork back, and rubbed the slype onto the back of my left hand.

“Keep rubbing,” Baba Yaga ordered. “Until you cannot see the spot.”

“Yes, I know,” I glared at her, but kept doing it, until the oil rubbed in and the spot on my hand faded. I feigned a gag and shook my head, putting the bottle back on the mantle.

“Smells like dead fish.”

“Hehe,” the witch chuckled. “Not so bad.”

I said nothing, just picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring my steaming soup.

“So what was it?” I pressed, slurping a spoonful, then wincing at its heat. But I kept eating. The witch gazed at me, tapping her fingers on the face of her instrument.

“I said I do not know,” she repeated. “But someone is coming who will tell us.”

I stopped with my spoon halfway to my mouth.

“Who?” I asked in a low voice. But she didn’t respond—just smiled.

The fire in the hearth guttered.

My attention flashed to it.

Then, fingers of smoke began to creep out past the mantlepiece, as if something had blocked the chimney.

Slowly, I lowered my spoon back into the soup.

The smoke thickened, blackened. It trailed upward, past the candles, mingling with the flames and disappearing into the shadow of the ceiling.

Without a sound, I lifted the table in front of me and set it to the side. Then, I slowly settled back in my chair, draping my arms over the rests. With my jaw set, I waited.

The thick smoke pooled on the ceiling, and began slithering down amongst the witchly ornaments, dripping onto the floor beside Baba Yaga. It writhed out of the corners of the cottage, seething over the bearskin rugs, filling the air with the exotic musk of myrrh.

As Baba Yaga and I watched, the serpentine smoke began to twine around itself, crawling from the floor toward the ceiling again. Forming an ever-thickening pillar. All the lights in the cottage changed hue, taking on a pearly emerald—and sparks danced freely around the flames.

A figure formed within the shroud of smoke: tall and willowy, like an iron lance. Surrounded by sinister, cobweb draperies that stirred with their own wind. Ripples of clarity brought forth the shapes of strong, graceful arms bound round with silver bracers; long, white hands—the right one bearing a glittering ring. An elegant, figure-hugging black tunic with upward-sweeping shoulders, evoking the visage of a horned asp. A sundering cape dripping and slithering from the back of his shoulders and round his flowing skirts, hiding his feet. Jewels of jet and poison-red sparkling like scales across his chest. A tall collar guarding a graceful neck.

A raven head, with midnight hair spilling down to the front of his chest, crisp and feral as the feathers of a crow. A sharp, refined face with perfect features, and skin white as moonlight. Eyes like chips of silver, with an ethereal, shining distance. Coal black eyebrows, black lashes; grey, unsmiling lips. And across his face—upon his delicate cheekbones, brow and nose—lay deep red discolorations, like the sear of heat, or the welt of a deep bruise. But it did not mar his beauty—in truth, it accentuated it. And the ice-cold ferocity in his bearing added terrible power to his heavy glance.

A dark light swelled out from him, tightening my chest. I didn’t move. He lifted his chin, and looked directly at me. His bright, pupil-less gaze darted through me to my spine.

“Gwiddon Crow.” His musical voice like the surface of a lake at twilight.

“Crow,” Baba Yaga motioned to me, then to him. “This is Mordred.”

Chapter Two

Mordred inclined his graceful head to me. I didn’t move—just narrowed my eyes.

“He is a draid,” Baba Yaga told me. “A dark elf.”

“I know what he is,” I answered quietly, not taking my eyes from him. “What is he doing here?”

Mordred almost smiled, and lifted his right eyebrow-slightly.

“He is also the king of Albain,” Baba Yaga added.

I slowly leaned back, stretched out my legs in front of me, and crossed them.

“Well, then,” I raised my eyebrows. “He should know right now what I think of kings.”

Mordred truly smiled now, and chuckled.

“I like her, Vedma,” he glanced at Baba Yaga. I gave him nothing but a cold look.

“Please, sit,” Baba Yaga waved a hand—and her guest chair appeared.

The bear skin near Mordred’s feet writhed and twisted, and rose off the floor, warping itself into the shape of a tall armchair, with the mighty, toothy head crowning the top. When at last it had stopped its transformation, Mordred stepped around it, swept his skirts out of the way, and sat down with the casual elegance of a cat, his right elbow propped on the armrest.

“Would you have something to drink or eat?” Baba Yaga asked him. He absently flicked his fingers.

“No, thank you, I’ve just eaten.”

Baba Yaga shrugged, and sat back in her own chair.

“What brings you here, Mordred?”

He looked at her for a moment.

“I’m certain you noticed the disturbance at the edge of Winterly Wood not long ago,” he said.

“I did,” Baba Yaga nodded. “But Crow was out in the wood at the time, and saw the birds take flight.”

Mordred glanced at me. The firelight glinted off his silvery eyes.

“What did you perceive?” he asked me.

“I am keeping my thoughts to myself, until I hear what you have to say.” I canted my head. “That’s the reason you’ve come, isn’t it?”

He peered at me, his brow furrowing, then leaned slightly toward me.

“Tell me,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Where did you get such an ugly and unusual scar? It covers the entirety of the left side of your face, all the way down to your neck, and looks like the white craters of the moon.”

I lifted my chin, unmoved.

“I was struck by a hot fire shovel when I was fourteen, by my father,” I said. “I killed him with it.” Then, I narrowed my own eyes to slits. “Where did you get yours?”

He grinned again, laughing softly.

“Child, I am older than you can imagine,” he said, looking over at me with something like warmth. “I honestly cannot remember when I first noticed these marks on my face. But I do know they’ve arisen from my struggles, my pain, my suffering…” He considered me again, his mirth fading, a sadness entering him. “Just as yours have.”

I blinked, and glanced down.

“Tell us, Mordred,” Baba Yaga urged. “What is this all about? I don’t like the feel of it.”

Mordred gazed at her long.

“What do you feel?”

She set her jaw crookedly, and leveled a look back at him. Her voice lowered to a deadly, rasping tone.

“That a curse has been broken.”

Mordred’s mouth tightened, and he gazed down at the hearthstones with a cold consideration.

“It may have been,” he murmured. “I fear that someone has pulled the Sword from the stone.”

Baba Yaga gasped.

The sound made me sit up—set my heart bashing into my ribs.

“The true sword Calesvol? How can that be?” Baba Yaga rasped. “It has been lost for centuries! Ever since you killed Merlin the Wild!”

Mordred suddenly looked at her without moving his lowered head.

A chill passed through me.

“I…did not kill…Merlin,” he said, with painful and precise decision.

“Whaaat?” Baba Yaga stared at him, her eyes wide and terrible. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I lied to everyone,” Mordred answered icily. “After Merlin appeared to me and declared that he had laid Calesvol in a stone, and none but the true king of Albain could pull it loose—and that he had hidden it from all eyes but those of this true king—I hunted him more relentlessly than I had ever hunted anyone. But Merlin had vanished. I assumed that he had fled Albain, either across the sea or into the Eisenzahn Mountains. I cast hundreds of spells searching for him throughout Edel, but all came back to me empty. He was gone.” Mordred’s gaze grew distant, and he studied the dance of the flames. “So I made my own sword in the stone, my own Calesvol, and in the presence of ten thousand witnesses, I drew the sword from the stone. And I have been king this past age, questioned by none. And none have passed through my borders alive, either in or out.” He sent a flashing glance to Baba Yaga. “I will not have my throne threatened by some peasant who pulled a trinket from a rock.”

Baba Yaga watched him for a moment.

“What would you have us do?”

Mordred took a deep breath, turning back to the fire.

“The pulling of the sword has weakened the barriers around Albain. Strong Curse-Breakers will soon be able to cross, and the elves and rangers that have been enchanted in the woods will begin waking up.” He turned to me. “I require your help, Gwiddon Crow.”

“Why?” I demanded quietly.

“I wish to take your master with me, back to Camelot,” he said. “And I need you to destroy the Seal of Astrum.”

“What?” I said, stunned. “Destroy the Seal? A great Seal?” I looked over at Baba Yaga, but she said nothing. I turned back to Mordred. “Why?”

“To take back Thornbind,” he answered. “Once I put down this usurper who has found Calesvol, I will have the true sword in my hand. With it, I can breach the gap in the mountains and enter the Eorna Valley, which will bring us just steps from Maith. We will finally bring the fight to the doorstep of the Curse-Breakers. But we cannot do so if that Seal blocks our way.”

I shook my head.

“Destroying a great Seal is impossible, and you know it.”

“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Anything made can be un-made.”

“Yes, by a Curse-Breaker,” I shot back. “The nature of a seal itself is set against us. It was built to withstand just such an attack.”

“Curse-Breakers are not infallible,” Mordred shook his head. “I have killed many.”

“Well, be my guest, then,” I growled, waving my hand.

“Crow,” Baba Yaga warned. I sat up, and leaned toward Mordred.

“A Seal is not a Curse-Breaker,” I bit out. “You may have killed many Curse-Breakers, but the Seals have killed far more of us,” I said, and slapped my chest.

“Yes, and many were my friends,” Mordred answered deliberately, looking right at me. “Which is why I spent half my lifetime searching for this.” He lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers.

A bright light flashed in front of him—

And a small book lay in his palms.

I recoiled, sucking in a breath.

I could feel tendrils of pure, sharp, untamed magic twisting and winding around its beaten leather binding, emanating from the dark red stone in the center of the cover.

“What is that?” I hissed.

“It is the Leabhar,” Mordred said quietly. “The Book.”

“Where did you find it?” Baba Yaga whispered.

“In Camelot, in Merlin’s vaults beneath the castle.” He glanced wryly at her. “Why do you think I was so eager to conquer Albain? It has nothing else to offer.”

“I thought the Book was destroyed by dragon fire,” I muttered, still staring at it, feeling like it might leap up and sink teeth into me.

“So did I,” Mordred nodded. “But, it appears that those on the other side can concoct their own share of clever lies.” He moved his white fingers to lift the cover.

“Don’t open it!” I yelped, throwing out a hand—stopping just short of grabbing his wrist. He laughed.

“You mustn’t be afraid, Crow,” he admonished. “You’ll be needing this.” And he held it out to me.

“I am not touching that,” I said through my teeth, withdrawing from it to sink my fingernails into the armrests of my chair.

“Why?” he asked simply. “Are you afraid?”

I glared at him.

“Only a fool is never afraid.”

His expression shrugged.

“True enough,” he acknowledged. “But the power in this book cannot harm you. You can only learn from it.”

“And what am I supposed to learn?”

A slow, mysterious smile touched his lips.

“How the Caldic Curse-Breakers made the Seven Seals of Edel.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You have the Book. Why don’t you learn it, and attack the seal yourself? I’m sure you’re powerful enough.”

“I am,” he nodded. “But I cannot read it.”

“Ha!” I barked. “You just told me how old you were, how experienced. How can you not read ancient Caldic?”

“I cannot because it is enspelled, you impatient shrew,” he snapped—and his words knifed straight through my gut. My mouth clapped shut.

For an instant, Mordred’s eyes blazed at me with a fiendish light…

Which diminished, turning to frost and snow.

“It will not allow a draid to read its words,” he muttered, flinging open the cover, as he seemed to have done hundreds if not thousands of times. I flinched back…

But the magic just kept winding round and round the book, penetrating its pages, in a steady, unbroken flow.

“It rebels against my very blood, the way the light meets my eyes. It’s maddening,” he muttered. “I have tried many, many times to understand, but even if I untangle one phrase, the next moment, it is gone from my mind.” He shook his head. “I saw no pressing need to decipher it at the time I found it. It was enough to have the Book in my possession, and keep it away from the Curse-Breakers, who could do untold damage with it. But now…” he raised his eyebrows at Baba Yaga. “I need a Curse-Maker.”

“Would you rather leave this task to me?” Baba Yaga asked him. “I am willing, if Crow is not.”

Mordred was already shaking his head.

“I need you in Camelot. You must re-lay the curses that are breaking, or replace them with others. The curses of Albain are old, and bone-deep in this realm, and as they snap they may lash back at Camelot itself. And I can already feel Curse-Breakers advancing on my borders. They will need to be waylaid. I cannot keep all of this at bay with only my two hands. This work is as complex as it is dangerous, and I need you at my side.”

“But is this not equally complex?” I demanded, pointing to the book. Mordred looked at me.

“No,” he said. “It is quite simple. As simple as untying a knot. You must simply undo what has been done. But first, you must see it clearly.” And he held the book out to me again.

I didn’t move. Instead, I looked at Baba Yaga.

“Do you think I ought to do this, Babushka?” I asked her.

She tilted her head, and shrugged again.

“I believe you are fully capable of doing it,” she finally said. “You are strong enough, and cunning enough. If you are willing enough.”

I took the book from Mordred.

My fingers hit the binding, and the magic hummed—

But nothing bit me. It didn’t hurt at all.

I studied it, turning my head to try to make out the runes imprinted on the cover. I set my finger to the opening edge of the cover…

“Nocht,” I whispered.

The magic flickered against my thumb. I lifted the cover…

“Well?” Mordred asked, leaning even closer.

I stared down at the words.

“I…” I started, then trailed off.

“What?” he demanded. But I couldn’t speak. I could only read the words, over and over, written in an ancient, inky hand.

Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?

Chapter Three

“What?” Baba Yaga demanded leaning forward, her chair squeaking.

“It…” I tried. “It says ‘Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?’” I lifted my head, and stared at my teacher.

Slowly, she grinned at me.

“Fascinating,” Mordred whispered, watching me with a gleaming eye. “Answer it.”

“Answer it?” I repeated. “How?”

He gestured to the book.

“Answer it. Tell it what you want to know.”

I stared down at the weathered page and the cryptic writing. I narrowed my eyes at it.

“I wish to know,” I said slowly. “…how to un-make a great Seal.”

The writing melted away and disappeared. The next moment, it bled back up through the paper, forming different words.

You must first learn how the Seals were made. Do you wish to know?

“What is it?” Baba Yaga hissed.

“It says I must know how they were made, and asks if I wish to know,” I answered.

“Tell it yes,” Mordred told me—in a tone like he was instructing me to step out onto thin ice.

“Yes,” I said.

The words disappeared. Then, they melted back.

I will tell you. But I will not tell the other two.

My eyes flew to the others. They frowned at me.

“What now?” Mordred wondered.

“It says,” I answered carefully “That it won’t tell you or Baba Yaga.”

Mordred laughed and slapped his thigh.

“This magic,” he grinned. “Such splendid cleverness.”

Baba Yaga ground her teeth.

“Why would it say such a thing?”

“Perhaps it knows us,” Mordred guessed.

“Perhaps it can hear us,” Baba Yaga raised her eyebrows at him.

Mordred smiled and shrugged.

“Perhaps it can. Leastways, this still serves our purpose.” He rose to his feet, his skirts rustling uneasily around his legs. “Vedma, will you come with me back to Camelot?”

“I will,” she grunted, laboriously rising to her feet. “If food is provided.”

“I shall have my kitchen prepare the finest meals for you, and you’ll sleep in the quarters designated for the queen, as I have no such partner yet.”

“Oh, who would marry you?” Baba Yaga jibed.

“Why, you would, if I asked you,” Mordred grinned at her.

“You flatter me, draid,” she cackled. “What of Crow?”

“Crow, you will remain here,” Mordred said, looking down at me. “And you will keep that book with you at all times until I come to retrieve it, or I will kill you where you stand.”

I glared at him.

“I’m not a fool,” I shot back. “I would have done that even without your threat.”

“It isn’t a threat,” Mordred said simply. “It’s a promise.”

I didn’t answer him. He turned toward the fireplace and straightened his coat.

“Best get to work,” he advised. “The Seal must be broken by this time next week. Our spells should be in place by then. Keep in touch.”

I still said nothing. Baba Yaga reached over and patted my head.

“I have faith in you, vnuchka,” she smiled. “You will make me proud.”

“Thank you, Babushka,” I said, keeping my eyes strictly away from Mordred.

“Remember,” Baba Yaga held up a finger. “Do not forget the lineages. We hold them to no esteem—but our foes value them more than life.”

I frowned, but nodded once.

“Your hand, my lady,” Mordred said, holding his white palm out toward Baba Yaga.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and wrapped her gnarled fingers around his. Mordred glanced down at me, his silvery eyes flashing.

“Goodbye,” he said.

And he and Baba Yaga dissolved into black smoke.

They swirled like a cyclone, writhing and twisting, then wound their way up the chimney, and disappeared.

I sat for a long time in the silence, watching the fireplace where they had vanished. Then, I set the book aside, pulled the table back in front of me, and finished my meal before it got cold.

After that, I performed a simple cleaning spell, put my dishes away, made the guest chair sink back onto the floor, came back and prodded the fire. The flames leaped high, and warmth spilled over my boots. I tossed another log in, then snapped my fingers and lit the hanging lamp by my armchair. Sighing, I sat back down, stretched my legs out in front of me, and took up the book again. I opened it to the first page.

It was blank.

My brow furrowed.

“Hello?”

Hello.

I cleared my throat.

“What is your name?”

My name is Leabhar.I am The Book.

“Who made you?”

The Caldic Curse-Breakers.

“How do you know me?” I wondered.

I know all beings in this world, alive and dead.

I bit the inside of my lip.

“Tell me how the Great Seals were made.”

Do you wish to know the truth?

“Yes, of course I do,” I insisted. “Why else would I ask?”

Very well. The realm of Edel had been swallowed by shadow. This time was called The Curtain. Curse-Breathers had arisen and overwhelmed the servants of light, binding them in curses and spells, ensnaring the borders of the kingdoms, causing wars to erupt amongst brothers. The Source Himself summoned the Curse-Breakers and sent them to stand upon the pulse points of Edel. Then, he journeyed Beneath, and gave his life in sacrifice to the Dragon. But his death fractured the Fountains of the Deep, and his blood mingled with the water. The water surged up through the Mountain of Maith and spilled down across the land. At the same moment, his power, channeled by his Curse-Breakers, pushed up through the earth where each of them stood, and each Curse-Breaker used this force to create a mighty Seal of protection. The breaking of the Fountains broke the Dragon’s curse, and the Source was restored to life. The Curse-Breakers then bound each Seal to the lifeblood of the royal family nearby, and charged each true ruler with the protection of that Seal, a task to be passed down through the bloodline.

I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes.

“I could have read this in a book of fairy tales,” I muttered. “Be more realistic.”

What is it that you find doubtful?

“The Source is dead. Everyone knows that,” I answered, gesturing vaguely. “The water is just latent magic from the days before the Curtain, and it power is fading.”

The Book went blank.

I thumped the page with my finger.

“Be more realistic about the Seals,” I demanded. “And specific.”

If you do not accept my premise, then what I tell you has no foundation. We have no frame of reference from which to understand each other.

I released another sigh.

“All right, I will acknowledge the death and resurrection of the Source as legend,” I said. “Now, tell me.”

The previous ink bled away. And it returned in one word:

No.

“No?” I cried. “Why not?”

The ink faded.

And none replaced it.

I shut the book and threw it on the ground. It bounced away from me across the bearskin rug.

“That isn’t Leabhar,” I scoffed. “Mordred’s a fool.” I stood up, and kicked the book across the floor as I walked back toward my bedroom. “It’s just a stupid Answer-Back book. I could make another one just like it for him in two hours…”

I shut myself in my room and lit the candles and lamps, and glanced around. It wasn’t a large room: it had a single window hung with leather curtains, a narrow bed covered in skins, a woven rag-rug on the wooden floor, and the left and right-hand walls had been built in with bookshelves. Several battered trunks stood in the corner.

I lit extra lamps beside the bookcases, peering at the spines as I passed the hundreds of packed volumes. I grabbed one book, jerked it out, and tossed it on the floor behind me. I grabbed another, and another, and another. Their covers slapped together as each one landed. Then, I went to the top trunk, flung open the lid, and dug out a piece of parchment, ink, and a pen. Then, I came back to the center of the room, sat down cross-legged, snatched up the first book, opened it and set to work.

It took me four days.

With aching neck and back, I poured over the volumes, checking and checking again. The first volume was The Book of Common Curses; the second: The Foundations of Ancient Magic; the third: The Master’s Curse Book; the fourth: Natural Spells, the fifth: Blood Spells.

I carefully made lists on the parchment, drawing out steps one, two, three and so on. I counted ingredients, muttered words. Interchanged some, rejected others. Added more.

I stopped working when the sun arose, ate, and slept. I performed refresher spells rather than sponging myself off or washing my clothes. I didn’t have time to dally. I gave myself a headache every night, and rejoiced when I could lie down amidst the bearskins and relax the muscles in my neck. But the dusk came all to quickly, and I forced myself to arise, eat again, and hunch over my work once more.

Soon, I was able to confirm my initial conclusion: that any magic specifically found in the Book of Common Curses or The Master’s Curse Book would not suffice against a Seal or any guardian, since the seals had been specifically designed to withstand them. In fact, casting one of them could prove deadly to me.

I also concluded that many blood spells and natural could be executed to act like curses. It was the one weakness, the loophole that the Caldic Curse-Breakers had forgotten. Indeed, Baba Yaga often told me that the Curse-Breakers of this day and age bitterly regretted that their predecessors had not included spells that bore fatal consequences as curses, also.

These would do nicely for me. And once I had the words aligned, the work would all be in the casting. I wouldn’t even have to set foot in Astrum.

I flew with the rolled parchment in my beak, over the jagged roof of the forest, toward the gap in the mountains where the river ran. I carried Mordred’s book in a pouch in my claws. If he wanted it later, fine. He’d find me with it and I would give it to him. I wasn’t about to die over something so silly.

Silvery moonlight poured down over the pines, glistening against the white stones that dotted the foothills. My feathers rustled through the chill air. Fog hung in the wooded paths, shrouding the tiny villages that stood in the narrow clearings. I beat my wings and picked up my speed, arching higher and higher, swooping beneath the low clouds.

At last, I spotted the low, jagged foothill of Mount Stell, the craggy peak that wreathed Astrum in its arms. This foothill rose up to half the mountain’s height, and overlooked a small valley, on the other side of which, at a great height, stood the castle.

I plunged down, cutting through the frosty wind, swooped between the trees, flung out my wings…

Transformed back to a human with a furious rush, and my booted feet struck the frost-covered stone of the Maven Overlook. The pouch with Mordred’s book tumbled to a stop next to me.

Silence fell all around me. I took the parchment from my mouth and drew in a deep breath, then let it out. It clouded around my head in vapor. I cast a look around. Behind me stood the ruins of the Maven Watchtower, used long ago in the War of the Gemstones. Now it lay dead, its stones asunder and covered over in brown ivy and moss, the bones of its slain watchmen picked clean by the birds.

Unmoved, I turned my gaze away from it, and down into the valley before me.

Far, far across, clouded by mist, the face of Mount Solem arose like a great wall. In the depths of the valley, between Solem and Stell, like a great crack in the earth, wove the Sopor River, its edges frozen, trees crowding its banks. I traced the upward slant of the foothills of Stell with my sharp gaze, watching the ripples in the forest and the protrusions of the stones, until I found the Castle Astrum.

There it stood, as if it had grown from the living stone of the mountain. Dozens of piercing towers, like arrows poised to launch to the heavens, their caps blue as sapphire, their stone white as snow. Balconies and arched corridors adorned its walls like lace, colored windows decorated it like jewelry. But all those windows lay dark, for none inside were awake, save the watchman—and I could glimpse his single torch from one of the tower tops, winking like the faraway eye of an owl.

I smiled to myself.

He would be the first to be surprised, then.

I unrolled the parchment, glancing across my careful writing by the light of the moon. As I did, a snowflake landed upon my glove. I glanced up. The sky was clear, but the low-hanging mist had begun to crystalize, filling the air with a deep and intimate silence.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Curse-Maker-Tale-Gwiddon-Crow-Curse-Breaker-ebook/dp/B07N7V3K4T/ref=pd_sbs_351_5/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B07N7V3K4T&pd_rd_r=51133e1c-5438-4cae-bec3-a817e25bb633&pd_rd_w=kiB1I&pd_rd_wg=f02WA&pf_rd_p=52b7592c-2dc9-4ac6-84d4-4bda6360045e&pf_rd_r=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72&psc=1&refRID=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72

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