The Cursed Crown

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Hah!” shouted one fighting Kitlyn. “Won’t be long now, whelp. Merry greetings from Fauhurst.”

  Oona cringed at the continuous ringing of swords behind her. A wet crunch came from Raesa’s direction along with a man’s gurgling. Furious and worried for Kitlyn, Oona called another flare. The instant she raised her hand, the man appeared to expect it and turned his face away. Closing his eyes may have spared his vision, but his face still blistered. She didn’t hesitate, lunging at him with a desperate upswing.

  He pivoted to defend. Alas, his dagger lacked the reach to catch her blade before it cut into his side, stalling several inches up into his ribcage. Stunned, the man stopped moving and gawked at her. Oona took a step back, wrenching the sword out with a hard yank that threw her into a spin. She whirled with the momentum and brought her weapon around into another swipe that opened the front of his throat. Blood welled out of the slash, rolling down the front of his chest. He slumped to his knees and fell over sideways.

  Oona turned toward Kitlyn, who stood between two dead men. A clank came from the right. Raesa finished off another man with a thrust to the chest, then braced her boot on his pectoral and gave a kicking shove, which knocked him away. Her slender blade, thinner and lighter than a Lucernian longsword but about the same length, gleamed red.

  Kitlyn leaned most of her weight on one leg, her sword all but hanging from the fingers of her right hand. She looked tired more than hurt, though something seemed woefully wrong.

  “Kit!” shouted Oona, running over.

  “That wasn’t…” Kitlyn swayed. “Too hard. These men barely know how to fight.” She fell to her knees. “I’m…” She looked up at Oona and smiled. “You’re okay.”

  Kitlyn’s eyes rolled up into her head and she fell over, blood gushing from the left side of her neck, all over her left arm and chest.

  “No!” Oona screamed, dropping her sword to jump on Kitlyn and clamp both hands over the slash. It appeared to be the work of a dagger from behind. She’d been bleeding the whole time she fought those men. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Kitlyn!”

  Kitlyn lay sprawled in the dirt, arms askew, eyes unfocused, barely breathing.

  Oona squeezed her hands tighter. “Lord Lucen, please help her.” She gasped and sniffled. “No. Please, no…. Kitlyn! Tenebrea, I beg of you, please don’t take her from me yet… or take us both.”

  Leaves and twigs crunched behind her from someone approaching, too heavy to be Raesa. Oona couldn’t find the will to care if another assassin prepared to stab her. If she let go of Kitlyn’s throat, her love would die. If she ignored the man, she would die, then Kitlyn would die, too.

  Nothing mattered.

  “Please,” sobbed Oona, already suspecting the wound mortal, and them too far from anywhere they could obtain help. Despite it being a near certainty Kitlyn would die in seconds, her heart refused to accept the truth of it.

  Blue light welled up out of her hands, warming them, bathing the forest in harsh shadows. Oona briefly questioned her magic manifesting without her attempting to do anything more than stop Kitlyn from dying. Lucen’s gift of light could see lies, know a person’s intentions, burn the wicked, and chase shadows from the darkest caves… but her magic could do little for a wound so deadly.

  The blue glow intensified with her grief—and turned golden, yellow-orange like the sun.

  Oona kept pressure on the wound, wanting more than anything for Kitlyn to survive.

  Her strangely golden light shrank down beneath her hands, settling in a comforting, tingly warmth. Oona gawked in shock at the bizarre effect, her heart racing, tears still pouring from her eyes. A moment passed before she noticed blood no longer dribbled out between her fingers and a strong sense of tiredness had come over her.

  She tentatively lifted one finger. Then half her right hand, and nearly fainted at the sight of a thin red line across Kitlyn’s neck that looked like a week-old healing wound. “By Orien…”

  “My sister seems to like you,” said a strong, male voice from above, as though a man stood less than a half-step behind her. “And she’s not quite ready for you two yet.”

  An overwhelming presence washed over Oona, energy unlike anything she had ever felt. Her tears dried themselves in the wake of a warm, reassuring confidence enveloping her. Somehow, she knew Kitlyn would be okay. She bowed her head until it touched her wrists, her hands still clamped around Kitlyn’s neck. “O-Orien? I-I…” She couldn’t find the words to express her gratitude, and simply tried to radiate it as pure emotional energy.

  The presence faded.

  After a moment, Oona lifted her head and peered back at open ground. Raesa stood a few yards away with an expression of stunned awe.

  “Ow…” Kitlyn sat up and held her neck. She pulled her hand away and looked at it. “Guess I wasn’t as fast as I thought.”

  Oona stared dumbstruck. She shoved me… Her boots are off. She had to feel them coming… and she shoved me with a guy about to grab her, too.

  “What was that light?” Raesa gestured at empty ground.

  “Light?” Kitlyn peered up at her.

  Raesa stepped closer. “A column of golden light appeared there, so bright I couldn’t see you.”

  Orien spoke to me. She blinked and stared at her bloody hands. He saved Kitlyn.

  “Oona? Are you okay?” Kitlyn pressed her hand to Oona’s cheek.

  “You’re alive. You pushed me and just let that man slice your throat!”

  Kitlyn’s dark green eyes flickered with anger. “I didn’t notice them at first because they weren’t moving. When they did, they were too close already and… I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

  Grief, anger, panic, and love crashed together in an explosion of emotions that left Oona unable to talk. She lunged at Kitlyn, clamping on in a desperate hug. For the first time in her life, she hated someone enough to consider initiating a swordfight… not that she expected Fauhurst knew how to fight with a blade.

  She didn’t much care about that point.

  20

  Pure Heart

  Kitlyn

  Hazy forest wobbled back and forth in Kitlyn’s vision.

  The man had started to slit her throat, but she’d spun away before he could cut across the front. Judging by the amount of blood on her arm and chest, she’d been gushing the whole time she fought those two cowards. Yet… her neck felt intact. She hadn’t even realized the severity of her wound until she started to black out. By the time she understood she’d been mortally wounded, she’d become too out of it to even say goodbye to Oona.

  But, here she sat, alive.

  “How am I… not dead?” Kitlyn clung tight to her wife, as if letting go would kill them both.

  “Orien,” whispered Oona, bowing her head. “I think he… appeared here.”

  Kitlyn blinked in astonishment and gazed up at the canopy of autumnal leaves overhead, backlit in the late morning glow of a clear sky. Certainly Orien has better things to do than attend in person to the likes of me.

  “My magic.” Oona raised her hands as if cupping water. “I tried to stop the bleeding, but my magic started making light. I begged the gods to help you. It went from blue to golden… like an Orien priest.”

  Again, she pressed a hand to the side of her neck, finding it tacky with drying blood and only mildly sore. No worse than had a housecat raked her with a claw. “Some priests have the favor of more than one god.”

  “I’m no priestess.”

  Kitlyn grasped Oona’s hands together, squeezing them. “You are more faithful than at least half of them.”

  Oona laughed.

  “And so kind and loving and caring and sweet.” Kitlyn sniffled. “Orien must have sensed how much you want to help others.”

  Oona sniffled and brushed her fingers over the healed wound. Her touch sent a charged tingle down the left side of Kitlyn’s body. “You need to practice with Lorne a little more.”

  “Wouldn’t have helped… the coward ambus
hed me.”

  “You fought the whole time, bleeding,” whispered Oona.

  “Yeah,” said Kitlyn in a sighing whisper while looking at the dead men. “That’s probably why I fell over at the end.”

  “Don’t do that to me again,” half-shouted Oona. “Protect yourself first.”

  Kitlyn wiped at blood on her left arm. “I saw them coming. You didn’t. He would’ve killed you. I had a chance to move, you were defenseless.”

  “Don’t lie.” Oona dragged her into another hug, shivering. “You expected to die.”

  Kitlyn’s heart turned into a ten pound stone. “I would do the same thing again, without hesitation. I could never let you be hurt.”

  “But you’re the queen.”

  “People seem to think so.” Kitlyn chuckled. “But you are the other half of my soul. The gods put us together for a reason.”

  “We should hurry back to Crows’ Corner.” Raesa jogged over to them. “In case there are others. I hear horses not too far from here, so I believe this ambush was hastily arranged. These men have not been here that long.”

  “Yes. To Crows’ Corner,” said Kitlyn, still resting her head against Oona’s shoulder. “I need a moment. Too dizzy to stand.”

  “Fauhurst,” muttered Oona.

  “What about him?”

  “Did you not hear what that man said to you?”

  Kitlyn cringed. “Not really. I wasn’t paying attention to anything but where swords came from.”

  “That man said that Fauhurst sent them to kill us.”

  “He’s turning into a real pain in the neck,” muttered Kitlyn.

  Oona grabbed two fistfuls of her leather breastplate and shook her back and forth. “Not funny!”

  Kitlyn tolerated the throttling. “Sorry. I have to find something to laugh at or I will kill him.”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think that is probably a good idea.” Oona sighed. “Or at least, put him in prison.”

  “Yes.” Kitlyn took a few deep breaths. “I suppose we now have two important problems. What has driven the Nimse to form raiding groups?”

  Raesa approached and handed Kitlyn a bit of paper. “It appears that someone at the castle sent word to this Fauhurst that we would be here.”

  She unfolded it to reveal handwriting: Crows’ Corner. Both abominations.

  “Probably Fauhurst.” She handed the paper to Oona.

  Soft blue light flickered in her hand as she waved it over the paper. “I feel his guilt upon it.”

  It had to be us tearing through Underholm. We caused a lot of damage. “Omun.”

  “What?” Oona blinked. “I’m not sure that is wise. He would rip apart half the city to find Fauhurst.”

  “No.” Kitlyn chuckled. “I’m not going to ask him to find that worthless man, though I’m not above daydreaming about Omun throwing Fauhurst at the wall. I mean it had to have been us breaking a path across Underholm. Maybe he caused a cave-in or an old tunnel to open that gave them access to the surface they didn’t have before? Perhaps they are simply angry at the disturbance, like a hornets’ nest hit with a rock.”

  Oona stood and pulled Kitlyn upright. “We should return to town.”

  Raesa nodded and led the way toward Crows’ Corner. Kitlyn, arm around Oona’s shoulders for support, kept up as best she could, still weak and dizzy.

  “Something else might be bothering them,” said Oona out of the blue a few minutes into the walk. “If Omun stomping around down there did it, why did they wait weeks to start attacking humans? And… why are they coming out in the daytime? They clearly hate light.”

  “I suspect they would likely have remained hiding in that tunnel had not the tall man peered right in at them.” Raesa glanced back at them for a few seconds before looking forward again. “If it is too much for you to walk, please say something.”

  “Thank you. I think I’m all right. Well, not all right, but at least able to make it to Crows’ Corner.” Kitlyn stared down to watch where she planted her feet. One root or rock and she’d be on the ground. “It is odd that they waited so long. Maybe it took them a while to find a broken passage that led to the surface?”

  “The Nimse are going into Evermoor as well.” Oona slowed her stride a little. “More than our people are in danger.”

  “King Volduin will know what to do,” said Raesa. “I am sure he will send word once he determines the best course of action.”

  While she didn’t think the woman meant to imply her a child, the statement left Kitlyn feeling like one. Then again, Lanas Volduin had been on the throne for a long time. I should consider the wisdom of my elders regardless of the source. This threat affects us equally. There is little reason to distrust him.

  Wooziness made it difficult to think about much in great detail beyond how much she loved Oona. After such a close call, she wanted only to crawl under some heavy blankets and hold onto her for a few days. Considering it would probably be at least that long before she ceased feeling dizzy and weak, that amounted to a great idea.

  “We should make haste for Cimril,” said Kitlyn. “I believe I need bed rest.”

  “You are in no shape to ride. And yes, you do. Plus food and water.”

  She smiled at Oona. “You even sound like a priestess of Orien.”

  21

  Lessons and Curses

  Oona

  Four days later, Oona scurried around the library at Castle Cimril, a load of books clutched in her arms.

  She’d spent most of the first day back in the temple of Orien consulting with their high priest and meditating on her gratitude for the god answering her plea, still lapsing into tears every time she described Kitlyn’s wound. The priests interrupted her after a few hours of prayer and reflection on the second day, bringing her to a small room where a woman clutched a bleeding hand. At the urging of the priests, Oona had asked Orien to mend the small cut, and he had listened.

  Witnessing the truth that he had indeed bestowed his gift upon her froze the words in her throat. Calling on Lucen’s light magic had always been second nature to her, though she did gain skill and proficiency under Aodh’s instruction. She believed that she had been born with some innate talent, but her loyalty to Lucen had made it stronger. However, the more she thought of the former king’s teaching, the more she wondered how much had been real.

  Still, with some instruction at the Orien temple, she gained a modicum of confidence in being able to call upon him in times of need. Due to her being the queen consort, the priests did not ask her to join the temple, as almost always happened in cases of gods-given magic. Of course, people who demonstrated any magic often wound up compelled into a temple since most Lucernians did not believe such gifts happened in any way other than at the gods’ behest.

  Kitlyn planned to change that, but likely not for a little while yet. At least not until the citizenry became used to their new rulers and it no longer felt as though they might not accept two queens. Those with magic feared they would be taken from their families, often upon displaying the first signs of talent as children. They would be forced into whatever priesthood most aligned with their gift. Changing that dreadful law sounded like the right and pure thing to do. Oona thought followers of the gods—especially priests and priestesses—should be there because they had such love for their chosen deity they wanted to be. Compelling them to be priests was as wrong as forcing people to marry and calling it love.

  With a huff at the thought, she dropped her load of books on a table and sat, searching for any information about Underholm. A few of the older tomes had brief sections that told of a long-ago civilization known as the Na’vir. In one book, illustrations resembled small humans. A man in an elegant yellow robe and red hat labeled ‘Na’vir’ stood next to a much larger man in commoner’s clothes, labeled ‘human.’ The top of the Na’vir’s head came up to about an inch past the human’s belt buckle. Other than size, the drawing made them look quite human.

  Several book
s later, she found a written description of the Na’vir that claimed them ‘stumpy’ and ill tempered, overly vain in regard to their beards and with four muscular arms. Oona went back to the first book with the drawing. The man in the yellow robe did not appear to have four arms. A third book described the Na’vir as having features of ‘Anthari mixed with Man.’ It went on to detail pointed ears and the delicate facial features of the Anthari, but copious facial hair and more pronounced muscles similar to humans.

  “Nothing about the Nimse.” Oona sighed. “The old men who wrote these books can’t even agree on the number of arms involved.”

  Three young maids entered, red-headed Rowan, Mary with long brown hair, and Laura, a contagiously happy flaxen-haired girl. Only Rowan looked at Oona with a smile, the other two seeming afraid of her. Without a word, the twelve-year-olds set to their task of dusting. Oona returned Rowan’s grin. She’d been the one who brought food to Kitlyn while she’d been locked in the dungeon, and found her stolen shoes.

  Oona spent a little while more poring over books in search for any mention of the Nimse, but found nothing. No wonder Raesa thought them a myth. Oona bit her lip, momentarily wondering if they even had books in Evermoor, then cringed at herself for the condescending thought. Of course they do. Ivendar is as civilized as Cimril—only with more trees. A blur of bright blonde glided by at the corner of her eye. She looked up at Laura, dusting a nearby shelf.

  “Girls?” asked Oona.

  All three froze and turned to face her. Again, only Rowan didn’t appear worried. Usually, a noble or royal speaking directly to them typically meant they’d done something wrong or would soon be given additional work.

  “It’s all right. I am merely curious. I recall you telling me that none of you are able to read.”

  “Yes, highness,” chimed all three at once.

  Oona tapped a finger to her chin. “Well, since you are living within the castle and you are almost always the ones tasked with cleaning this room… I think it only fitting that you shall have reading lessons.” She smiled. “If, of course, you want them.”