The Shadow Curse

by Kala Merseal

  When they finished eating, Nyphelia ushered Ara to the infirmary, and there they settled in gathered chairs with

  Max and Arlow. Greida joined for a while but soon retired. Nyphelia curled into Arlow, their chairs shoved together to create a makeshift loveseat.

  The couple stood to retire for the night, leaving Max and Ara alone to sit beside Raethin.

  The candlelight dimmed, the wick burning to its end and the wax fading. Ara yawned then paused. Max eyed her, that soft smile pulling at his weathered lips.

  “You’ve visited every night since they moved him here.”

  “So have you.”

  Max paused, his gaze flitting over Raethin’s motionless form. A fading scab remained from Raethin’s fatal wound. “You were never required to visit,” the older elf said.

  “We know your issues with him.”

  Ara never tried to hide her dislike for the elven commander, but she found, recalling the last few weeks, that she no longer felt contempt. Deep down, remorse and mourning gripped her pained heart, some of it for Raethin. Maybe she had hid her feelings well—or maybe Max wanted her to admit what she felt out loud to him.

  She caught his stare and frowned.

  “I used to have issues,” Ara deliberated. Her words drew out as she sighed.

  When she didn’t continue, Max sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “Stubborn,” Max quipped. “You two are childish, even now.”

  Ara perked at his words, stunned by the rebuke. She knew the contempt ran both ways for Raethin and her, but she didn’t realize their mutual dislike was so clear to the others. Then again, Max was not just close to Raethin but to her as well. She considered him as an uncle, a close friend to her father and therefore fatherly to her. Raethin saw both her father and Max in the same light, she knew that.

  “If you two had gotten over yourself, you would’ve gotten along,” Max continued. His chair creaked as he leaned back and sighed. “You would’ve found that you didn’t need an apocalypse to become friends.”

  Ara narrowed her eyes. “Are you scolding me?”

  “Yes. He nearly died for you. I hope you can find a way to apologize and show your appreciation when he wakes.”

  “Sure.” That was all she thought about doing since arriving to the druids’ territory but was hesitant to admit that to Max.

  Her frown deepened as Max shuffled in his chair.

  “I know that you feel guilty, Ara,” Max said, his words slow as he deliberated. “I too feel guilty, for not having been strong enough to fight the Kaevari. The gods blessed us with the druids just in time. They did not have to save Raethin — in fact, the sole reason they did so was because of you. You may not understand it now, but you are the arbiter of our lives and more so, Raethin’s life. You should consider being more careful with our souls in the palm of your hand.”

  Ara’s eyes widened as she stilled. Max stood and having said his piece, bowed and left.

  His words held fast in her mind. Minutes passed as she mulled over them. Slowly, his words sunk her heart which throbbed painfully in her chest.

  Her throat thickened as her eyes swelled with tears.

  Since escaping, they all worried so much about surviving. In the dim quiet of the infirmary, reality knocked breath from her lungs. Her only comfort was Raethin’s warm, slumbering body just feet away. She watched his chest rise and fall steadily with breath.

  Ara was the last of the Zypherus family. She was the queen of a kingdom overrun by blood, shadow, and dust. A queen of a band of soldiers hand-picked by her father. A queen of nothing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day after Raethin’s ritual, Cirith focused his attention back to the world outside the druidic sanctuary. His scouts had announced the increased activity of the demons when he approached their station that morning.

  Cirith found Solas and scout captains hunched over a crude map of the Forest with pins in specific places when he entered the strategy hall in the barracks.

  Solas looked up to him, his face shifting from a hardened glare to a damning sneer.

  “Now that your attention is away from pleasing the little princess,” Solas sniped, “You can finally pull your eyes to this.”

  His gesture brought attention to the pinned locations on the crude map. The captains moved to allow Cirith to peer over the pins.

  Cirith scowled and glanced back up at Solas. He ignored the taunting sneer his elder gave and sighed.

  “We’ve had four attacks now,” Solas stated. “All centering around the outer edges of the ward. The holy shrines that strengthen our ward are falling one by one.”

  “They were smart to target those.” Irritated, Cirith leaned away and paced around the table. The captains watched in silence as Solas followed the Guardian.

  “But you must know that they only strengthen the ward — they are not the foundation of the ward itself. They are precautionary measures, a boon to add to its already solid foundation.” Cirith halted in his pace, turning on Solas. “They are trying to fluster us, nothing more. They can’t enter even if the last shrine falls.”

  “That’s true,” Solas said. “But there are druids maintaining the shrines. The first two shrines they destroyed; they also killed the druids. After that, the druids guarding the other two ran before they could be killed. What of the others? There are three other shrines and the druids refuse to vacate without a command from you. What if they capture one? The Kaevari didn’t seem to want to capture and torture before — only to destroy — but what if that changes?”

  “Then announce to the others to vacate the shrines,” Cirith said. “The shrines were for outsiders anyway. They do not hold the True Presences. We can and will rebuild.”

  The others quieted. Solas stilled, mulling over Cirith’s suggestion.

  “And what if the strength the shrines feed into the ward is the difference?”

  “It isn’t.” No, Cirith was the difference. If he fell, then the ward would fall instantly. For now, he was confident in his ability to remain standing against the Kaevari. Even Aeskrius was hesitant to fight him head-on.

  “Fine.” Solas turned to the captains and commanded them to announce to all druids outside the ward to retreat inside. With a wave, the strategy hall emptied to just two.

  Cirith watched out the window as the captains made quick progress on their charge. The field outside emptied within minutes.

  “They are cornering us.” Solas broke the silence as he stood beside Cirith. “You are allowing them to trap us in a corner.”

  “We are safest inside the ward.”

  “Is there any scenario — any at all — in which the ward will fall?”

  Cirith hesitated, Solas’s doubt feeding into his own. There were — few that were impossible and a few that were so bluntly apparent that they were overlooked.

  Sighing, Cirith turned away from the window.

  Solas followed. “Well?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cirith gritted. “The only way to easily break the ward would be to kill me.”

  Solas sighed. His shoulders sagged as he glared at Cirith.

  “If there is any other way to break the ward then we can’t assume that they won’t try it.”

  “Yes,” Cirith stated. “They may be able to use druid blood to get through but that is to assume that the ward won’t recognize their different essence. They may also be able to use another god’s blood but that is also to assume that the potency of that blood is higher than Rakeva’s or the Spirit’s.”

  Cirith turned away, heading out the hall’s doors. Solas followed, his disapproval now potent in the air.

  “That is assuming that they won’t try it, Cirith.” Solas deliberated. “We can’t bet on that.”

  “Our druids are being recalled now. As for the god’s blood, there is no other god in the Forest right now.”

  “If you had known,” Solas snapped, “Then you should’ve recalled them before the shrine attacks. Now the demons may become wise.
”

  “They won’t. It is a theory. The ward may cast them out still with druid blood.”

  Cirith ignored the trailing elder as he headed back to his studies, his thoughts circling around the horned demon.

  “We’ll see,” Solas said as he left the Guardian.

  The several days afterward, Cirith settled into a routine. After spending most of the night pouring over tomes about ancient gods and curses, he wrestled with sleep for a few hours before climbing out of his den to speak with Solas and his druidic captains. The reports stayed the same: the druids had abandoned the shrines and after one more attack from the Kaevari, the demons disappeared.

  Two shrines remained untouched after a week.

  “They realized that we are not responding to their efforts,” Misandreas stated. The elders and Cirith sat around their regal table in the council chamber. “They are plotting something else.”

  “Of course,” Solas said. “Anything to rise a respond. But what else is there to do? We have no weaknesses outside the ward.”

  Cirith had pondered this as well, in the dark quiet of his chambers late at night. He tried to foresee Aeskrius’s actions before he made them. Now that he pawned the princess’s care off to Vilithian and her commander was healing but incapacitated still, he was able to focus on his next steps.

  For now, they were on the defense. His people were capable of lasting years — even decades to centuries — without leaving their ward but it would be more peaceful to not be under-siege for the rest of their lives.

  There would be a collision eventually. If the Kaevari did not find a way to break the ward, then the druids would have to find a way to defeat them. Not just for their kin but for the whole of life in Altana.

  No, not just Altana. The world.

  Cirith knew that they would not rest in one continent. They would seek to devour the world and if possible, move to the next realm.

  “We may be lucky,” Misandreas mulled aloud. “Lucky enough to be secure in here. But what of the rest of Altana?” “We should only worry about our kin.” Solas was a broken record. Cirith refused an eye-roll as the youngest elder continued, “The demons have all but devoured the continent already. We must protect what still lives.”

  Solas excelled the conversation into a debate with Misandreas. A voucher for the equality of life, Misandreas nose-dived into advocating for the other races.

  Cirith leaned on his hand and sighed. His eyes darted to Vilithian, who sat silent beside him, expressionless.

  “What say you?” Cirith muttered, his gaze darting back to the arguing druids.

  “We are not ready now,” Vilithian said. “We need to know more about the creatures. Soon. For we cannot sit idle while the whole of the realm is devoured in shadow and blood.”

  Cirith nodded. He thought the same and didn’t need to convince Misandreas and Solas.

  “I have dug through the old tomes and scriptures for answers.”

  Misandreas quieted, slapping Solas on the arm when he began to retort.

  “And what of the creatures?”

  “I have met Aeskrius once before,” Cirith said, gaze distancing as he recalled the meeting. “He mentioned the Void King. Of course, all know the Father of the Void, an ancient slumbering primordial force that devours the damned and all fading things. For eras he has slumbered. He has no stories but a place in creation of Thraes. He is the balancing force of life and order. He has borne nothing but the Deep Abyss.”

  Cirith hesitated, recalling his studies. “But there is a faint familiarity, a sense of foreboding, with this that I feel deep in my Spirit. There was something that happened that is not recalled to those both immortal and mortal in the realm. Rakeva is silent in the matter, of course. But what I do not understand is the connection. I thought the Kaevari would have to do with the gods of death and discourse but even they have no hand in this.”

  “Then what?” Misandreas asked, eyes gleaming with both intrigue and terror as she leaned on the table.

  “Aeskrius mentioned that the Void King is back. But where did he go? And why was he gone?” Cirith sat back in his chair, gaze focused on the relief on the opposing wall. Rakeva blessed the druids, her hands of life flowing with vines and rays of light. Such a portrayal of nurturing motherhood that vastly contrasted with her silence.

  “Rakeva is silent,” Cirith said. “But I’ve all but exhausted our library. The only path forward is questioning the newcomer.”

  “He’s not awake.” Misandreas’s expression fell. “And even if he were, the Spirit would have to be conscious as well.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Can’t you just shake him awake?” Solas crossed his arms.

  “If that were to work, wouldn’t we have done that?”

  Misandreas snapped.

  “I’ll see what I can do. But if he does not have answers,” Cirith mulled aloud. “Then we may have to find other outlets for information.”

  Solas drummed his fingers against the table.

  “We could catch a demon,” Solas mused as he picked at a chip in the wood. “Torture information out of him.”

  “Maybe.”

  After a few more minutes, they exhausted their debate and Cirith left the room. Their idea to extract information from the new Great Spirit reminded him to check on the unconscious elf and he headed toward the guests’ quarters.

  By the time he reached the infirmary, dusk fell on the fortress, its dimming lights peering through the ceiling glass. The room was empty, aside from an attending druid and the sleeping patient.

  Cirith moved to Raethin’s bedside, ignoring the druid as she tucked in the clean sheet and bowed out of the guardian’s presence.

  He felt the pulsing Spirit inside the elf. Its energy reverberated in calming waves, in-sync with the mortal’s heartbeat. Cirith’s eyes shifted to see more of the energy and color soon bled into the currents. Golden white pulsed through the thick field of energy.

  The guardian leaned his hand to the elf’s chest, laying it flat over the core. With a gentle push, his own spiritual energy submerged into Raethin. He saw his energy, a vibrant white tinged with green, interact with the gold, twisting and mingling.

  Just as quickly, Cirith pulled away and left, his eyes catching the sun setting through the windows.

  He would wait only a few days more before taking

  Solas’s direction. Until then, Cirith resigned himself to his chambers, and reread the tomes mentioning the Void King.

  ♦♦♦

  After that night, Ara visited the infirmary alone. The others went to sleep after having dinner with her. Max was the last to leave the dining area, his presence a heavy reminder of their last along conversation.

  She sat across from him at the table, eying the night in the window next to them.

  “You’re not sleeping well,” Max said.

  Ara looked to him, brow furrowed, as he studied her. She noticed as well earlier that morning when she hovered by her mirror and saw sunken, bruising skin under her eyes.

  “Nightmares.” Of her mother and father, devoured by the horned Kaevari. Of Raethin dying in her arms. Since they arrived, she did not have vivid visitations in her sleep by the demon but even still he plagued her with her greatest fears and deepest pains.

  He sighed, standing from the table.

  “Try to sleep well tonight. Do what you must.”

  Max patted her shoulder as he passed by her and soon the room fell silent.

  Still, Ara stared out the window, watching the moonlight catch against the crystal lines of the glass. A few druids peppered the grounds outside. A scout watched from the top of the barracks, a lone light the only indicator that someone peered into the forest. Two others walked along the main road, muttering to one another. She caught a glimpse of the ill-tempered elder darting into the barracks’ first floor.

  Ara sighed and turned from the window. An arching doorway separated the dining from the sitting area, where two sofas and a chase circled ar
ound a dimly lit fireplace. Bookcases lined the walls surrounding the hearth, filled with books of history and fiction that the druids had undoubtedly discovered through the millennia.

  She soon found herself before the shelves, her fingers shifting over the cover titles of tomes and novels. A few titles stuck out to her as copies of editions the royal library housed but many were unfamiliar. Some titles were unreadable in the druidic language.

  Her fingers settled over The Lost Heart of Diza. Ara pulled the novel out and flipped open the cover. Most older books had no description, but she found on the first page a brief introduction mentioning a goddess and her sealed heart and an elven sorcerer who sought to steal it for its immortal properties.

  Ara tucked it under her arm and left the room, her feet wondering to the infirmary. Despite being alone for the night, she strange not making the trip, even if just to check on him for a few minutes.

  The infirmary was empty when she entered. The druid attendants had left one candle burning by Raethin’s bedside, a hope that he would not wake in darkness during the night. A chair sat beside the bed.

  Ara sat in the chair. The book now laid in her lap. She would read it when she went to bed. Hopefully, it would put her to sleep.

  She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and looked over Raethin.

  He looked healed, the bruises just ghostly stains across his smooth skin. The wounds had quickly evolved into scars.

  Ara imagined that he was no longer in pain.

  What kept him from waking must be spiritual.

  Ara sighed, her gaze trailing down his bare arms laid out on his sides. They were still thick with muscle, untouched by the illness.

  Her fingers reached out to his before Ara halted. She wondered if he would feel her touch. Would it wake him?

  Would he be uncomfortable?

  Ara’s cheeks flushed as she pulled away. She could not even explain to herself why she wanted to touch his hand. But she imagined that she would want that comfort if she were incapacitated then reached back out. Her fingers grazed his, then she gently pulled his hand up, holding it palm-up in between her own hands.