The Cursed Crown

by Matthew S. Cox

  I have to hope Oona’s vision leads us true. She’d been too insistent to hurry up. Maybe this won’t take years.

  “The last time I visited Ondar, I was twelve.”

  Kitlyn chuckled. “I remember. You cried all the way to the coach.”

  “And all the way to Ondar. And almost every day there.” Oona sighed. “I suppose I was a spoiled little thing.”

  “You’d been so forlorn, Aodh cut the trip short and brought you home.”

  “I find it odd you refer to him by his first name. But yes, I didn’t overact. I was sad. With all those new sights around me, all I could think about was not having you near.”

  A bit of warmth crept up into Kitlyn’s cheeks. “I think I may have suspected our friendship had become a bit… different even then. Though I had no name for how I felt. I just loved being with you.”

  “You could be right. I suppose it was a bit unusual for me to pine so much for a simple friend. Even if you were my only friend.”

  Kitlyn rode for a few minutes lost in thought about how miserable some of the castle staff had been to her while Oona had been away. Without the princess there, they’d made her work… and they continued making her work from then on. Upon his return, Aodh had barely taken notice of her sobbing while scrubbing floors or lugging buckets of water around. How many nights had she cried herself to sleep fantasizing that she’d been the child of some troubled noble who’d ride in the gates upon a magnificent black horse and claim her as his daughter. Oh, how she wanted to see the shocked faces of the servants upon realizing she did have station. And all the while, she had—only her father never told her.

  I’d rather have been a village peasant with a real father.

  Sadness crashed into anger.

  I could have played the part. It wouldn’t have bothered me at all to work if I had known.

  Oona’s attempt to find a village led them to a small dirt road. Wild growth at the sides and even a few weeds in the middle suggested the path saw little traffic. Ondar’s southlands brimmed with thick forests that prevented much of a view into the distance in any direction. Above, an endless canopy of autumnal colors stretched to infinity, an equal amount of reds, browns, and yellows crunching under their horse’s hooves.

  “This road appears too small to lead anywhere of consequence.” Kitlyn took a deep breath in her nose, adoring the smell of the fall: leaf, sap, and a touch of wet wood upon an invigoratingly cool rush of air.

  “It is a road, so it must lead to somewhere. Even if only to a small village, we should be able to at least obtain directions to a larger town.”

  “Darkness will fall soon.” Kitlyn looked up. “The days shorten with the season. Perhaps we should ride for a time after the sun sets.”

  Oona made a noise of agreement.

  Several hours later, the sun waned. The early stages of autumn had not yet stripped the branches entirely, and the remaining canopy made the forest dim much faster. Not long before the light weakened to the point Oona would need to call her orb for them to see at all, a whiff of wood smoke came by on the wind.

  “Someone has a fire,” whispered Kitlyn.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Umm. Because a fire out here could belong to bandits and I would rather avoid them.”

  “It could also belong to a woodsman or a small village.” Oona smiled.

  Kitlyn nodded. “I do not expect the worst of people. But perhaps I am overly cautious.”

  “If you were overly cautious, you would not have let me talk you into taking this journey alone.”

  “Fair point, but I can still be overly cautious and trust you.”

  Oona gazed adoringly at her for a few seconds.

  “Who approaches?” asked a man from the dark trees ahead.

  Kitlyn looked away from Oona, locking stares with a wiry blond in his mid-twenties—wearing the armor of a Lucernian soldier, though quite worn and battle-damaged. Did he steal from the dead or is he one of ours?

  “A pair of travelers,” said Kitlyn. “Looking for a village or town for the night.”

  The man glanced between them, clearly not recognizing either of them. “Bit young ta be off on your own, eh?”

  “Your arm is injured,” said Oona.

  “Ehh.” He glanced at his left bicep. “Just a nick. How the heck did ya see that in this dimness?”

  Oona glided out of her saddle and walked up to the man. “You assume I saw it. May I?”

  He let his hand slip from the longsword at his hip, evidently not feeling too threatened by a willowy girl a full head shorter than him. “May ya what?”

  She placed her hands on his arm. The glow of golden light radiated from under her fingers for a few seconds and faded.

  “By Orien,” muttered the man. “You’re a priestess. Please forgive my suspicious greeting. I’m Frith. Come on ahead. ’Tis safe for ya in our camp.”

  Kitlyn dismounted, jumping to the ground with a soft thump. She decided to leave her boots on for now, since the man didn’t strike her as dangerous. Though, she couldn’t shake a sense of suspicion at his armor—and his invoking Orien.

  Frith walked off in the same direction they had been riding. Minutes later, the road bent to the left but he kept going into the woods. Kitlyn and Oona followed, leading their horses.

  Oona peered over at her, eyebrows up, and whispered, “What do you make of this?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  Kitlyn paused at the top of the incline, gazing down at a camp arranged in a wide bowl-shaped depression. Six more people, one woman among them, occupied it, all wearing Lucernian armor in various stages of disrepair. A burly, bald man sat upon a fallen log tending to a cauldron over a fire, evidently cooking soup or stew. The youngest, near in age to her, carried cut firewood from a chopping stump to a stack. His armor appeared in the best condition, dirty but with no sign of battle damage. The woman, her shoulder-length dark brown hair wild as a fey creature’s, crouched over a dead animal that may have been a goat or sheep, in the process of cleaning it.

  “Oy, you lot,” said Frith. “Look about. We’re visited by a priestess of Orien.” He slapped himself on the left arm. “Mended me arm right.”

  “Sorry,” said the young man.

  Kitlyn and Oona tilted their heads at the same time.

  “Heh. Young Galfred there ain’t the best shot with a hunting bow.” Frith shook his head.

  Oh… Kitlyn’s eyes widened. No wonder we had to travel alone. They’re deserters. If we came with soldiers, this would’ve turned into a battle straight away. She glanced at Oona.

  “Hmm?” asked Oona, finally noticing the pointed look.

  “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

  “Beowyn, how’s that soup comin’?” Frith waved at the big bald guy by the fire.

  “Couple minutes.” The man kept stirring.

  A red-haired man in his twenties jogged over, reaching for the horse’s reins. “Well met, priestesses. Name’s Keal. I can tend ta your horses for ya while ya rest.”

  “Thank you.” Oona smiled. “I’m not a priestess, though I do bear Orien’s gift. Are any of you hurt?”

  Keal led Cloud and Apples off to the right toward a makeshift pen where the soldiers had tied four-inch thick logs as horizontal fencing to larger still-standing trees. Five other horses milled around inside.

  A brown-haired man in his thirties waved from where he lay by a tent. “Aye. Bear.”

  Oona hurried over to him. Kitlyn followed.

  “We are blessed to have you come this way, lifebearer.” The wounded man smiled. “I’m Niron.”

  “I’m not a lifebearer…” Oona paused. “Well, I suppose I am in a sense, but I’m not part of the temple.” She rested her hands on his leg.

  Niron cringed.

  The burly man at the cook pot froze, eyeing Oona. After a moment, he gave a brief shake of the head, dismissing some notion, and went back to his task.

  Oona bowed her head. “The grace of
Orien comfort you.”

  The golden-yellow light welled up around her hands and flowed into his leg.

  “Thank you, and praise be to Orien.” Niron rubbed his thigh, but still winced.

  “I have done all I can. The wound will still need time to fully mend.” Oona sat back on her heels, apologizing with her expression.

  Niron propped himself up on his elbows and managed a slight bow, more of a deep nod. “I understand. It does feel quite a bit better.”

  “Would’ve cost him the leg without your aid.” Another man near to his thirties emerged from a crude wooden shed nearby. Short, sandy blond hair framed a well-tanned face with a strong jaw and an odd sense of familiarity. “The gods have heard you, Niron.”

  “Heh. I had begun to wonder if they still listened.”

  Kitlyn looked up at the oddly familiar man. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so, child. Name’s Bertan. You don’t look like anyone I know.”

  She studied him a moment more, unable to place ever seeing him before. Still, something about him seemed too familiar. “I suppose not. Could be you remind me of someone.”

  “Oy, Beowyn, how’s that soup comin’?” shouted Frith.

  “Couple minutes,” said the big bald man by the fire.

  Frith showed them to another cut log which had been smoothed flat on top creating a bench.

  Kitlyn lowered herself onto it, looking around at a few tents mixed among wooden shelters. “Have you been camping here long? Is this a woodsman’s outpost?”

  Everyone looked at each other as if a silent conversation went on somehow between their minds.

  “We’ve made this little bit of woods our home.” Frith gestured at the camp. “Tryin’ ta do right by those who wander by, keepin’ travelers from gettin’ lost or eaten by bears or wyverns.”

  “Wyverns?” Oona’s eyes shot all the way open. “There are wyverns here?”

  About half the people nodded.

  “Aye.” The woman wagged her bloody knife at them. “But they don’t usually come this far away from the mountains. If ya do see one, your best bet is to hug a tree and stay low.”

  “Don’t scare the poor lass, Isha.” Frith waved at her with a gesture like he threw something, then turned back. “I need ta get back out there on watch. If’n ya need anything, don’t ’esitate to ask. We’re all a friendly lot ’cept maybe Keal.”

  Keal looked up from the horse enclosure with a big grin while making a rude hand gesture at Frith.

  “I’m teasin’.” Frith chuckled. “But really, watch out for Galfred. He’ll just as soon put an arrow in yer arm as hunt up dinner.”

  “Sorry,” yelled Galfred, still chopping wood.

  Frith nodded once more, winked, and jogged back up the hill to where he’d been standing when they first saw him.

  Kitlyn and Oona sat on their log in silence for a little while.

  “Beowyn, ’ow’s that soup comin’ along?” asked Isha. “You want any of this goat?”

  “Couple minutes.” The big man leaned in to sniff. “Put the last of the other goat in it. Don’t need more. May as well salt that one.”

  Isha looked over at them, mostly Oona, squinted, then resumed cutting the dead goat. Bertan and Niron spoke in hushed murmurs, occasionally glancing over at them as well.

  Beowyn, close enough to hear them, raised his head. “Don’t be daft.”

  Another short while later, Bertan carried two metal bowls of soup over, offering one each to Kitlyn and Oona. “Mind, they get hot.”

  “Thank you.” Kitlyn took the bowl by the edges and set it on the log to her right.

  “It smells good.” Oona smiled at him, gasping when she pinched the sides of the bowl and hurriedly set it down on the tree as well. “Thank you.”

  The others took bowls and sat to eat.

  “What was it you wanted to say?” whispered Oona.

  Kitlyn leaned close enough to kiss her ear and whispered, “I think they are deserters.”

  “What?” Oona looked around again then stared at her. “Oh… you may be right.”

  “This is why you thought we should go alone.”

  Oona shivered. “That would have been a mess.”

  The weight of someone watching them made Kitlyn look up. Niron had moved to sit on a fallen log, his hurt leg stretched out straight in front of him. He spooned soup into his mouth, his attention fixated on Oona.

  “I think they recognize you,” whispered Kitlyn. “But they doubt their eyes because they can’t believe it possible you’d be in armor, or out here alone.”

  “And the princess didn’t have Orien’s favor.” She blew on a spoonful of soup and slurped it.

  “Nor would a princess slurp her soup.” Kitlyn winked.

  “It’s hot!”

  Kitlyn held her chin high. “You’ve been spending too much time around that lowborn servant girl. All those manners they tediously taught you over the years, gone.”

  Oona poked her in the side, snickering.

  Once Keal finished eating, he jogged up the hill where Frith had gone. The thinner man returned to camp, taking a bowl of soup and sitting near the cook to eat.

  The young soldier walked over and plopped down on Kitlyn’s side of the log, giving her the unmistakable ‘gosh you’re pretty’ stare of a dumbstruck seventeen-year-old. He fussed at his hair, jet-black like hers. “Hi. I’m Galfred.”

  “Hello, Galfred.” Kitlyn raised another spoonful of soup, but hesitated, caught off guard by an unexpectedly large hunk of meat. Not sure I’ve ever had goat before… it’s not too bad.

  “You’re kinda beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Kitlyn elbowed Oona. “But I’m nowhere near as pretty as her.”

  Oona batted her eyelashes. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  Galfred perked up.

  Oona chuckled. “I was talking to her.”

  “Oh.” He smiled at Kitlyn, apparently oblivious. “What are you two girls doing out here in the woods?”

  “We’re looking for a place called the Hall of Stolen Memories or something like that.” Kitlyn drank the last bits of soup right from her bowl. “An undead sorcerer there stole something I have to get back.”

  “We have to get back.” Oona made a series of awkward faces, but decided to throw decorum to the wind and upend her bowl as well.

  “So ladylike,” whispered Kitlyn.

  Oona nearly choked, and sputtered into giggles.

  “Never heard of anything like that.” Galfred scratched his head. “But there’s a town not too far from here. Someone there might help, but you probably shouldn’t go tangling with any sorcerer, especially one that’s already dead.” He pointed off to the woods. “There’s a little waterfall out that way a bit. If you want to see it, I can show you where it is.”

  Beowyn chuckled.

  Isha walked over and folded her arms. At her approach, Galfred sat stiffly, no longer leaning close to Kitlyn.

  The woman stared pointedly at Oona for a long moment. “Mind if I ask what a pair of Lucernian priestesses are doing in Ondar, unescorted?”

  “Aww, leave off it,” said Beowyn. “There’s no way. Just looks like ’er.”

  Kitlyn peered up at the wild-haired woman. “I will answer your question if you can tell me why such a small group of Lucernian soldiers have camped out in the Ondari wilderness for quite a long time.”

  Everyone fell quiet.

  Isha’s expression shifted about halfway between worry and hostility.

  “Hey, easy…” Niron struggled up to his feet. “She’s still an Orien priestess. Don’t dare raise a hand to her.”

  Kitlyn set the bowl on the tree by Galfred. “You’re deserters.”

  Isha drew her blade and pointed it at Kitlyn. “And you two are probably not leaving this camp.”

  Galfred leapt to his feet and moved in front of her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to kill them.” Isha took a step back. “We’ll leave
them alive, tied to a tree. By the time they’re loose, we will be long gone.”

  “No.” Galfred kept leaning toward her. “That’s no way to treat a priestess.”

  “It isn’t.” Niron limped over. “But that’s no priestess. That’s the princess. I’m sure of it. And the only reason she would be out here alone, dressed like that, is if she ran away. Relax yourself, Isha. She is like us, seen the foolishness of it all.”

  “Foolishness?” asked Kitlyn.

  “Yes. What else could you call it?” Niron shifted his weight onto his good leg. “The king constantly spouts off about Lucen this and Lucen that, yet this war is endless. You have to have seen the lies. They call them savages, primitives, animals… but they are no different from us. Training, armor, weapons. And magic. The High Priest of Lucen speaks falsehoods as freely as breathes, yet there is no retribution.”

  “Indeed.” Beowyn lumbered over. “But this cannot be who you think it is. Princess Oona is too delicate to leave the castle. The fragile flower wouldn’t dare sit on a dead tree in the woods.”

  Kitlyn didn’t much care to have three soldiers looming over her, so she stood. Still, she had to look up to make eye contact with any of them, but at least she didn’t feel quite as small as when sitting. “Please bring Keal back to the camp. You all need to hear what I have to say. Surely, you cannot be in that much danger here that a few minutes absent a lookout while everyone is awake will create risk.”

  Frith hooked his fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Keal appeared atop the hill soon after and headed down when everyone beckoned him with waves.

  “What’s going on?” asked Keal.

  The deserters all gathered close. Isha still appeared ready for a fight, but at least put her sword away. It probably helped that both Galfred and Niron stood on either side of her giving her a ‘back off’ look.

  “Little lady here’s got somethin’ ta say.” Bertan gestured at Kitlyn.

  I hope he doesn’t hurt himself falling over when he realizes he called the queen ‘little lady.’ A hint of a smile played on her lips. “First, let me say that I agree with you on at least one point. The war between Lucernia and Evermoor was based on lies. King Talomir betrayed his friend King Lanas of Evermoor and ripped the Eldritch Heart from the Alderswood tree. They have been attacking us for twenty years trying to recover it before the tree died and took all of them with it. Every man, woman, child, animal, and plant would have withered away.”