Dad snorted, then leaned forward. “If you want to go back to school, I will reluctantly allow it,” he said. “Jude’s should be relatively safe ... as long as you don’t brew forbidden potions without permission. Very few families would risk taking hostile action within the school’s grounds.”
My fingers touched my dark cheek, delicately. The regrown skin had stopped itching weeks ago, as it blended into my skin, but there were still times when it didn't feel like me. I’d been lucky - very lucky - that I hadn't accidentally killed both Rose and myself. As it was, we’d come far too close to being expelled. And yet, if I hadn't been brewing the potion, I wouldn't have discovered how my talents actually worked.
“I will be careful,” I said. A thought struck me and I smiled. “If I’m the only one who can make Objects of Power, does it matter if I don’t get good grades?”
Dad smiled back. “If you don’t get a passing grade, you won’t be allowed to move up a level,” he said. “Imagine being the only nineteen-year-old in first-year classes.”
“Ouch,” I said. The older students - the upperclassmen - might be responsible for policing the junior students, but they certainly didn't socialise with us. There was an invisible barrier between the years that might as well be made of reinforced iron and stone, for all that it was impassable. An older student in a lower grade would be isolated from her age group as well as her peers. “That would be bad.”
“It would be,” Dad agreed. He met my eyes. “Rose could come here, you know. I could hire tutors, if she wanted to continue with her studies.”
I shook my head. Rose would hate it. She’d feel out of place, in a way that I could understand all too well. And it would cut her off from her family ... young girls went into service all the time, but this was different. She would neither be family nor servant, trapped in an ill-defined position that would never resolve itself ...
“No,” I said. Maybe I’d ask him to take Rose on later, if I had to leave the school, but only then. I had no doubt Rose would pass her exams. She might be ignorant, but she was far from stupid. I never had to tell her anything twice. “We’ll stay at the school together.”
“As you wish,” Dad said. He looked down at the desk. “Be careful, Caitlyn.”
I nodded. I was always careful. Having a sister who thought that hexing my chair or bed was a laugh had taught me to be very careful.
“The family name can protect you from a great many things,” Dad added. “But it can't protect you from everything. Like it or not, the world changed the moment you crafted your first Object of Power. We may not see many visible changes - yet - but everything turned upside down. Aunt Stregheria is not the only person who will seek to use you.”
“Yes, Dad.”
My father looked up at me. “Your mother and I believed that you would inherit magic of your own,” he said, sombrely. “You were one of three triplets. Everything we knew about magic told us that you’d have it too, that the three of you would form a triad greater than the sum of its parts. We made the choice - and it pained us greatly - to allow your siblings to ... encourage ... you to develop your powers. And there were enough signs that you did have some form of magic to convince us to continue. We simply didn’t realise what you were.”
I couldn’t speak. My mouth was dry.
“That was a mistake,” he admitted. “We allowed your sisters to bully you relentlessly, for nothing. In doing so, we damaged all three of you. Alana and Bella have bad habits of their own, habits we have failed to curb. In some ways, Aunt Stregheria is right about sending children to out to fostering. A distant relative would be less inclined to put up with unpleasant behaviour.”
I looked down. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to believe that my parents - who I loved and respected - could make a mistake. And yet, I knew they had made a mistake. Everything they’d done in a bid to bring out my magic had been both cruel and pointless. I had no magic. There wasn't even a spark that could be fanned into a flame.
“We will do what we can to make up for it,” my father told me. “But that will not be easy.”
“I know,” I said. I couldn't meet his eyes. I almost wished he was shouting at me instead. “I ... it wasn't your fault.”
“We knew no better,” Dad agreed. “But that doesn't make it right.”
He rose. “Go back to your bedroom and sleep,” he ordered. “Sir Griffons will be here tomorrow afternoon. I believe he’s looking forward to inspecting your work.”
“Yes, Dad,” I said.
Dad sighed. “And that sword will start an avalanche,” he added. “I wish you’d come to me, when you figured out what you could do. We could have planned out how to tell the world before it was too late.”
I nodded as I turned to leave. He was right. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have let Isabella goad me. But, if there was one thing I had learnt in six years of study, it was that there was no way to call back a spell once it was cast.
And we would just have to live with the consequences.
Chapter Five
The workroom felt uncomfortably hot as I bent over the sword, carefully carving the last set of runes into the metal. Sweat trickled down my back, reminding me just how much was at stake. A mistake now - even a single rune marginally out of place - would render all of my time and effort utterly wasted. Dad would not be pleased.
I finished drawing out the second-to-last rune, then took a step back. The sword seemed to glow, although I was fairly sure I was imagining it. My calculations insisted that the spellform wouldn't take shape until the very last rune was in place. And yet, I wasn't entirely sure. There were too many hints, clues and misleading statements in the ancient books for me to be completely confident in my own abilities. The writers might well have left out more than one crucial detail.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I put the etching tool down on the workbench and reached for my spectacles. I’d designed them myself, after discovering the limitations of the original designs. It was surprisingly comforting to know that, in some respects, we were more advanced than the ancient sorcerers. We’d had to come up with too many innovative workarounds for our Devices of Power to be anything else.
I perched the spectacles on my nose and peered around the room. The walls glowed faintly, reflecting the magic embedded into the mansion, but the sword was dead and cold. There was no magic flowing through the blade, not yet. I took a step forward and examined the runes, making very sure that I hadn't made a mistake. Magister Tallyman had insisted, when I’d been working as a TA, that it was possible to correct an error if one caught it in time, but I had never succeeded. The ancient sorcerers hadn't thought it was possible either.
“It’s done,” I muttered. I’d gone as far as I could without Sir Griffons. “And now ...”
I stepped into the antechamber and rang the bell. Lucy entered the room a moment later, curtseying hastily to me. It felt weird to have her show so much respect. The maids had never been particularly impressed with me, even though I was their master’s daughter, until I’d insulted Great Aunt Stregheria to her face. Dad might have pronounced a horrific punishment - or at least something most people would consider a punishment - but the maids thought I was wonderful. If Great Aunt Stregheria had been horrible to us, her great-nieces, how had she treated the maids?
“Please find Sir Griffons and bring him here,” I ordered. Family friend or not, Sir Griffons wasn’t supposed to wander our halls without an escort. “It’s time for him to receive his sword.”
Lucy curtseyed again and hurried off. I turned to the table in the antechamber and picked up the latest copy of Forgers Weekly. There was a large painting of me - or someone who was supposed to be me - on the front cover, probably drawn from the family’s official portrait. I looked about five or six years older, my skin a shade or two lighter. It was quite possible that anyone passing me in the street wouldn't recognise me, if that painting was all they’d seen. I supposed that wasn't a bad thing.
The article insi
de the covers was long on hyperbole and short on actual facts. Whoever had written it clearly hadn't been a witness to the duel. They’d heard everything at second or third hand, ensuring that the fragments of truth were mingled with exaggerations or blatant lies. I had not recreated the Emperor’s Power Stone, nor had I blasted a giant hole in the school’s walls. Castellan Wealden would have expelled me for that, I was sure.
There was a knock at the door. My mouth was suddenly dry.
“Come in,” I managed.
The door opened. Sir Griffons stepped into the room.
He was immense, easily the largest man I’d met. His blond hair - a fraction too long for society’s pleasure - framed a rugged face that had half the maids swooning whenever he came to call. The silver armour he wore, covered with protective runes, outlined a muscular body; his hands, scarred by countless battles, were large enough to make mine look tiny. I had never thought of him as particularly clever - his attempts at mending his own armour and weapons had frequently made matters worse - but he’d always been kind to me. That alone gave him status in my eyes.
“Lady Caitlyn,” he said, gravely. His voice was deep, commanding. “I believe you summoned me?”
I swallowed. “Your blade is nearly ready, sir,” I said. Sir Griffons was a Knight, a servant of King Rufus himself. I had no idea of his birth, but he deserved respect for his knighthood alone. “I just need your assistance with the final step.”
Sir Griffons bowed. He couldn't hide the anticipation in his eyes. “It would be my honour, My Lady,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Exactly as I say,” I said. I turned to open the door. “Come with me.”
I couldn't help feeling concerned as I led the way into my workroom. Sir Griffons meant me no harm, I was sure, yet his mere presence could upset the magic. If he took a step too close to the unfinished blade ... I wasn't sure what would happen then, but I had the feeling I wouldn't like it. Rose’s mere presence had made a highly volatile potion explode so violently it had nearly killed both of us.
“You’ll see the marks on the floor,” I said, pointing to the lines. I’d measured them out carefully, carving them into the stone. “Do not step over them until I give you leave.”
Sir Griffons nodded. I hoped he’d listen. He really wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. But then, he didn't have to be. Hacking away at enemies with a sword didn't require utter brilliance, merely strength, stamina and determination. I’d heard his brother was smarter - and a magical tutor in the capital. No doubt he’d inherited the brains, while Sir Griffons had inherited the brawn. Their parents weren't slouches either.
“The blade is almost ready,” I repeated. It was easier to keep my voice steady when I started to talk about forging. “I have to trigger the spellform to finish the work. For that - in order to bind it to you - I need a sample of your blood.”
I saw a shadow cross his face. I didn't blame him. We were all taught - from birth - to be very careful with our blood. An enemy who acquired a sample of my blood could use it to curse me from the other side of the world ... perhaps. I wasn't entirely sure it was true of me - my nature might make it impossible for the curse to latch on - but it was true of everyone else. I used the blood rituals religiously, just like everyone else. There was no point in taking chances.
“Very well,” he said. “But I’ll want to take the knife afterwards.”
“I can’t use a salve to dampen the pain either,” I said, as I picked up the knife and glass container from the workbench. I’d made both of them myself, washing the knife repeatedly until it was completely clean. I didn't dare risk contamination. “It will sting.”
Sir Griffons lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Worse than having a sword slammed into your leg?”
I giggled, despite myself. Sir Griffons had been through hundreds of battles and suffered countless injuries, if half the stories were true. He wasn't likely to be bothered by me cutting his arm so I could collect some of his blood. But then, I had had paper cuts that had hurt worse than broken bones. I didn't understand how that worked, but it was true.
“No,” I said. I passed him a cloth - I couldn't give him any potions or salves before the ritual was completed - and then stepped towards him. “Roll up your sleeve, then hold out your arm.”
Sir Griffons did as he was told. I braced myself, then pressed the knife against his flesh. A droplet - and then a line - of blood welled up. I fought down the urge to recoil - blood was bad news, even for me - as the liquid started to drop into the glass. Sir Griffons showed no sign of pain. But then, he would sooner have cut off his own arm than show weakness in front of a girl. It would not have impressed the maids.
“Press the cloth against the cut, then wait,” I ordered, once I’d collected enough blood. I’d seriously considered taking more, just in case there was an accident, but working with blood was enough to make me nervous. I would just have to ask him for a second contribution, if I needed more. “Do not use magic to seal the wound.”
“Understood,” Sir Griffons said. He sounded perfectly normal, as if we were discussing the weather instead of working on a ritual. I wouldn't have been so calm if we’d exchanged places. “I will wait.”
I placed the glass on the workbench, then picked up the etching tool and dipped it in the blood. My heart started to beat like a drum as I pressed the tool against the blade, slowly carving out the final rune. If this worked ... it would have been easier, far easier, to forge a sword that anyone could use, but Sir Griffons had wanted something special. The room grew warmer, again, as the rune took shape. I braced myself as I carved the last line. If I’d made a mistake ...
The blade glowed, a brilliant white light that stabbed into my head and sent knives of pain slicing into my brain. I yanked the etching tool away, lifting one hand to cover my eyes as my head started to pound. Sir Griffons let out an oath - I decided it would be better to pretend I hadn't heard it - as the brightness increased, forcing us both to turn away. And then the brightness snapped out of existence, as if someone had blown out the candle.
I blinked, trying to get the spots out of my eyes. My head was ringing with pain, although I wasn't sure why. The light ... the light hadn't been natural. My hands looked as though they were translucent ... I blinked and the effect vanished, leaving my hands as solid as they always were. It made no sense. What had I done?
Think about it later, I told myself firmly.
The sword lay on the workbench, glowing faintly. I reached for the spectacles and put them on, swallowing a word I knew Mum would not have liked when I looked at the sword. It glowed with magic, a spellform that twisted up and down the blade ... it had worked. I’d forged an Object of Power. But it wasn't quite finished yet.
I turned to look at Sir Griffons. “You have to take the blade,” I said. “Pick it up with your sword hand and hold it in the air.”
It would have daunted me, if someone had told me to do that. The blade was so large that it was hard to believe that a grown adult could have lifted it with only one hand. And yet, Sir Griffons took it in his stride. He stepped forward, held his hand over the grip and then picked it up effortlessly. Even his hand looked small compared to the blade, but it rose as if it were as light as air. The gemstone I’d worked into the pommel glowed brightly as he lifted it higher. Faint flickers of magic danced around the longsword as it bonded with its new owner.
“It’s perfect,” Sir Griffons breathed.
He stepped back and assumed a combat stance, slashing out at an imaginary foe. The sword darted forward and back as if it were made of pure light, flaring brightly as he thrust it outwards. It was so long he would have to wear it over his shoulder, rather than on his belt, but I had a feeling it wouldn't cause him any problems. The blade would practically leap into his hand when he called. And it might even have other powers too.
If it stays with him long enough to develop them, I thought. The ancients had insisted that a magical weapon would grow into the perfect match for
its wielder, once it had grown used to him. But my calculations insisted that the spellform would remain stable unless someone damaged the blade. And that would render it completely useless.
I stepped back, sombrely, as Sir Griffons put the longsword through its paces. Magister Tallyman had shown us a similar blade, one forged in the Thousand-Year Empire. It had been a genuine Object of Power, one that had endured until some idiot removed one of the gemstones. Whatever the stone had been worth, the working blade had been worth far more. Now, it was just a piece of scrap metal. I might have been able to fix it, but - if it was bonded to someone else - I’d never be able to use it.
“This is brilliant,” Sir Griffons said. He let out a deep laugh. “This is fantastic.”
He bowed, deeply. “I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.”
“You are welcome,” I said, stiffly. My cheeks grew hot. I was thankful my skin hid the blush. I wasn’t used to praise, not like that. “I designed a scabbard for you, but you’ll have to wear it over your shoulder.”
The Zero Curse Page 5