by A. K. Koonce
I left before I could dwell too long on my disappointment in her.
“Way to be optimistic, Miranda.” I grip the reins of the horse a little tighter. At this point, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Or where to find this stupid little yellow flower. If I find the flower, I may find the culprit behind the curse someone has brought to this land.
It’s days like today that doubt creeps into my mind and tells me I’m wrong. It tells me that all I need to do is marry King Iri and be his pretty little bride for the hopeful crowds.
“What isn’t to love about the day?” He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He sways on top of his horse, not paying mind to where it walks.
“Hey!” A deep voice bellows. Miranda’s eyes snap open as his horse pauses, nibbling at the sprouting green hair of an unsuspecting troll.
“Oh, no, no. This won't do.” Miranda steers the horse away. “Terribly sorry, sir.”
Rigs follows behind Miranda, easily pointing his horse around the small group of people gathered outside what appears to be a pub. Nausea rolls in my stomach at the thought of taking another drink of alcohol after the night I had with Bear in the wine cellar. But I also remember my trip to a bar with Donovan and how they all thought the curse was nonsense.
Just like I do.
I might not need or want a drink, but bars can be good for other things. Drunk people have slippery tongues. Words that ought to be secrets often slip out without them meaning for them to. Going to a pub would be good for at least one thing: gossip.
Tugging on the reins, I stop my horse. Miranda’s and Rig’s horses take a few steps past me but come to a halt soon after.
“What is it?” Miranda raises an eyebrow.
“I think the princess may be thirsty,” Rigs draws out on a bored tone.
“Listening ears.” Miranda hisses at my guard.
Ah, yes, that’s right. We are undercover. It’s just too dangerous for the princess to be out and about, and people are apparently already getting news of my travels.
And there is an enemy out there. A deadly one. One who is likely poisoning people and calling it a curse. But Bear swears there are other enemies lurking in the shadows as well.
“I want to hear from the people,” I say with certainty, already sliding from the saddle and leading my horse to a post.
Knowing that I was likely to run into people, I pulled my hair back into a low bun this morning, hiding the bright blue pigment under the shelter of my hood. To a stranger, I appear as a young girl traveling to see the wedding with my brother, Miranda, and my sweet boyfriend, Rigs.
Wow, why did my gag reflex kick up just then?
I had explained the plan to them on the way here. Neither of them seemed too thrilled to play along if the occasion occurs. And the occasion has occurred. Plus, I’m the princess and future queen, so do they really get a choice here?
Begrudgingly, Rigs follows suit with Miranda trailing after us, and he smiles broadly at me when he finishes tying up his horse. I wonder how often Miranda actually gets out. Really, I wonder about a lot of things about the oddity that is Miranda.
The troll, whose hair is still damp from the horse’s mouth, glares at us as we walk through the door. Inside music blares. A band plays happily in the corner, a small dancing crowd forming in front of them.
I hadn’t heard any of this outside, hadn’t even imagined the bar would be this lively. Perfect. I clap my hands together in excitement. Now where to start, that is the real question.
“Oh.” I lean into Rigs, who stiffens when I get too close. Then I wonder if Rigs fears for his life when I play games as foolish as this. “Could you be a Sweet Tart and get us all drinks. I would love just a glass of water.”
His forest-green eyes glare down on me and that ridiculous pet name, but he nods slowly. Before he leaves, he gives Miranda a look that could only be described as the passing of the baton between two men meant to babysit me. Miranda laughs, picking up my hand and twirling me to the music.
“This music is amazing!” he yells over the chorus of guitars and drunken men.
“I’m going to find a game to join in.” I smile at him, batting my eyelashes.
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea.” His dancing slows as he examines me then looks around the room.
“How else am I supposed to get to know these people if I don’t spend time with them or start a conversation? Hmm?”
Our hands are still clasped as he sways to the music, and I try to pull away. His grip tightens. Miranda watches the crowd behind me, examining them in a way I had yet to see him do. What was he thinking when he saw these people? Did he see them as I did? As a people who need to be saved and a vast source of knowledge.
“Keep your hood up. I’ll be watching you, and for the love of the Goddess, don’t go making deals with anyone.” His normally goofy grin is replaced by a much more serious expression. I mean, I get it, I get it. I’m the Cursebreaker. We can’t just have me gallivanting around in public all willy-nilly. So, thank Goddess, this isn’t willy-nilly, it’s . . . actual factual? Honestly, I’m not sure what the opposite of willy-nilly is, but you get the picture.
I give his hand a gentle squeeze.
He lets me go, leaving his arm outstretched to me dramatically in the air. “Have fun, friend. Meet me for drinks soon. I’ll have your large, scary, and protective boyfriend drop off your water.”
Wow. Really great actor this one.
“Thank the Goddess I have a friend like you.” I call over my shoulder.
He watches me like a damn hawk.
A roar of laughter and cheers erupts from a square table with men seated around it. Lingering around them or leaning on the arm of the high back chairs, a few women watch but do not participate. A plump and red-cheeked fae with a long crooked nose and spidery blue veins running the length of his arms reaches out and sweeps the large sum of coins in the center of the table toward him.
“I win again,” he bellows with a hearty laugh. A fae girl, who has to be decades younger than him, leans against his arm with her cleavage spilling out.
“Oh, good,” I say cheerily, pulling a seat from a nearby table and shoving it in the only remaining empty space. With a grin, I beam at the table who greets me with unsure glances and humorless expressions. “I’m glad I caught you at the end of a game. I love poker.”
“It’s scraps, not poker. Obviously.” The man at my side spits that statement out with a disgusted curl of his lips.
“Scraps. Right. Sure.” I nod.
What the fuck is scraps?
Rigs appears behind me, dropping the glass of water harshly against the table. He looks less menacing in his casual clothes than in his uniform. Yet I still wouldn’t pick him for a fight. He crosses his arms over his chest, making the sheer size of his biceps more apparent. Other men at the table shuffle slightly as he gives them each a leveling glare.
The man who just won doesn’t seem bothered by Rig’s presence in the least bit. He still gives me a long eyeroll and pats his full pockets. “Shouldn’t you be on the arm of your man and not the other way around, girly? I’m not sure you can handle yourself at a man’s table.”
I feel the smile on my face melt away.
“Trust me, she can handle it. It’s you lot I’m worried about.” Rigs leans into the back of my chair, but his hand never touches me. He just lingers, his hand clamping down on the back of my chair, close enough to give off an appearance that we . . . no, we still don’t look like an adorable couple. We look like two people who like the same chair, and even that’s pushing it.
I smile at his encouraging words, though, regaining my composure. “What’s the game?” Waiting for his answer, my eyes scan over the crowd to catch Miranda’s brilliant red hair bobbing around the dance floor.
“Let’s play The King’s Draw.” Another man holding a deck of cards spits. His two front teeth clearly missing under his thin-lipped smile.
Turning slightly in my seat, I tu
rn to Rigs as the music grows louder. “Rigs, what is that on his chin?”
“I believe he is trying to grow a beard,” Rigs replies with little interest.
“By the Goddess.” I nod in agreement, turning back to the group. “Count me in. How do you play?”
A collective groan sounds around the table.
They’re a whiny little bunch.
“Simple.” The previous winner smirks. “Each card has a symbol. They mean health, illness, or a few mean death. Along with the symbol is a number. You’ll draw from the deck at each turn, adding for health, subtracting for illness, and death means you’re out. You start with ten points. Once you reach zero or below, or draw a death card, you lose. Last man standing wins. It’s a game of luck, and tonight, I’m very lucky, it seems.”
When he grins, what appears to be broccoli is clearly visible in his yellow teeth, making it harder for me to not stare at the large man.
“Easy enough.” I try to repeat the rules in my head, but all I hear is “death card” so I guess I’ll just pay attention.
The dealer shuffles the deck, and then offers it to each player in turn. I watch the cards as they are flipped, no one drawing anything like the ominous death card yet. I hold my fingers in my lap to keep track of the eight points I now possess.
Not many talk once the game begins, but I clear my throat nonetheless. It’s too strange to have this pocket of quiet in such a loud and rough bar.
“So, is everyone in town for the upcoming wedding?”
Many at the table send me sideways glares. Some avoid eye contact all together. The dealer pauses, answering first like a gentleman. “Most of my family has fled the city. I only remain to take care of our farm just outside of the kingdom.”
“Oh, be honest,” a goofy grinning man says, “You are only sticking around so you get the opportunity to spit in the face of the king as soon as you can!”
A chorus of “Here, here!” erupts from the group. My hands feel clammy at the turn the conversation is so quickly taking.
I think we should all calm down on the tone we’re using about my fucking mate right now.
But I keep my mouth sealed shut.
“He is a cursed king.” The large man with the money-filled pockets clamors. “We need a new king on the throne. One who isn’t tarnished.”
Struggling, I school my features into the perfect example of nonchalance. “And who would you put on the throne?”
“Me. I have the appetite for it.” He pats his stomach happily as he draws another card from the deck.
Oh, my Goddess, I’m playing cards with a bunch of idiots.
“So tell me then, what would you do about this curse that is plaguing the land if you were king?”
“I’m sure the chaplain could be of use. The king doesn’t utilize him as much as he should.”
His answer surprises me. Though I haven’t a clue what else he could have said, because as far as I know, to these people, there are no other options.
I pull a card, flipping over the symbol for illness and remove two points from my hand leaving me at six. Others are lower than me, and this time, a couple players down, a man draws the death card and begins grumbling about how this game is always rigged.
“Ah, yes.” I respond. “The chaplain can pray the illness away”
“At least he would be doing something.” The toothless man tries. “It’s better than being so wishy-washy on a bride all this time. Hopefully this time it sticks, but I’m sure he will find her to have ‘mysteriously vanished’ too.”
“So what do you think of the princess then?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Wow, Syren. Really getting to the bottom of this curse situation, huh?
Rigs cocks an eyebrow at me.
The group laughs. “She isn’t our princess,” one of the men shouts, the others whooping their agreement.
I nod my head, picking up my glass of water to take as sip. Before I can swallow, the liquid threatens to spill out of me as I choke on it when the large man next to me pats his stomach and says, “There are more than enough people who oppose the king and his princess. Many more who would be willing to rid him of his crown, too. They’re just too scared right now. How do you feel about the king?”
The foggy memory of our kiss last night burns through my mind as well as my heart.
I—like him. He’s . . . an o-kay fellow . . .
I say nothing to that either.
I meet their waiting stares. “I haven't decided yet.”
“The curse is getting worse.” One man brings up, changing the subject before I can accidently profess my love for the hated cruel king.
“Shouldn’t it be getting better now that the water princess is here? Yet it’s not. More fae are dying every day.” The last round winner frowns as he draws the death card, somehow leaving only me and a handful of other men in the game. He crosses his arms, letting them relax on top of his portly belly. The curvy female on his arm leans her head into him and pats his hand. Her slim bottom lip juts out in a pout.
“Some things get worse before they get better,” I offer. Though from the looks of the skeptical, scowling faces, my optimism doesn’t help them at all.
A patron with a far-too-pointed face and lips pinched as tight as an asshole tosses his cards at the table. “I’m out,” he growls.
Silence slides over the table.
I try again.
“It’s almost like a poison. The curse seems to settle into people without being seen. No previous illnesses. Have any of you ever seen someone poisoned? I hear some flowers have that effect…” I keep my eyes fixed on the cards, but I can feel the abrupt halt in the players around me.
“Who the hell would compare something declared by the Goddess to poison?” one of them growls.
“Has no one here been poisoned before this curse? Was there ever someone who might have talked of deadly remedies of sorts?” I ask.
The man across from me tilts his head slowly. Accusingly.
These people don’t like my questions.
Another of the men brushes it off entirely, though. “Gossip doesn’t make facts, girly.”
“Everyone here has lost someone to this curse. Who has the king lost?” The man next to me spits.
His mother. His father. Has the curse so muddled the kingdom that these angry men and women don’t remember what their king has endured for their sake? Do they not remember how this entire thing started?
Before I can stop myself, I’m speaking again. Not angry, just curious. A glutton for punishment, I am. “Who have you lost?”
The question was clearly a mistake. Anger or sorrow flashes across many of their faces. A few remain unreadable.
In an instant, it becomes a chorus of answers, their words piling on top of each other in an unharmonious noise.
“My sister.”
“I lost my wife and daughter.”
“My best friend.”
“My mother and my brother.”
Fae who all once existed. Creatures that were loved by the men and women sitting around me now, gone. I can feel their pain and anger as they say their names, as they recognize everything they have lost.
Silence falls over the table, becoming just a quiet shuffle of cards as the few left in the game take our turns. The last player before me slides the card up, looking at it, then throwing the cards back on the table. “I’m out.”
All eyes turn to me. Rigs shifts behind me, both hands gripping the back of my chair as he leans forward.
“Does that mean I win?” I ask slowly with an itch of nerves spiking through me.
This time it’s a chorus of “fuck,” “shit,” and “damn it.”. I reach out, pulling the tokens on the table toward me. An odd bittersweet feeling of winning but taking money from people who need it more swirls inside me.
“Congratulations, you’re the king,” The long-faced man says with dry humor.
“The king?” I ask, intrigued.
“The king
is the only one safe from the sickness.”
My hands shake as I stack the tokens in front of me. My mind reels because I know it’s true. These poor people have lost so much, and now here I am, taking what money they have left in a gambling game. So, I’ll spend the rest of my night losing. Giving back the only way I can in this exact moment.
Here is hoping I don’t die at the hands of an angry King Iri in the morning.
Fourteen
They All Fall Down
Syren
Miranda cradles his head over his steaming breakfast, nursing what I assume to be a hangover from our trip to the bar. He had nearly danced himself all the way back to the castle. Which neither Rigs nor I found amusing, not to even mention his poor horse.
Bear eyes him suspiciously, sending me questioning glances on occasion. I simply smile back. Taking a bite of sugared oats topped with fresh fruit, I give him a wide-eyed innocent look. Sorry, Bear, I don’t know why Miranda looks so miserable today. Maybe he, too, found that terrible alcohol hidden in your wine cellar.
“So,” Bear begins, “how was your evening?”
It’s an open-ended question to either me or Miranda, though neither of us rush to speak. Stalling, I stir my spoon around my bowl, letting the rhythmic sound of the metal sliding against the glass fill the silence.
Miranda looks up, narrowing his eyes, making the dark circles underneath look more apparent. He opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, lifts the spoon full of his own oatmeal and fruit. It’s like he is challenging me to speak. I don’t want to be the one to break the news. I know Bear won't be happy.
Bear shoots an eyebrow up. “Sounds like you had a good time. Must have been really eventful.”
Neither I nor Miranda break eye contact with each other. We both scoop heaping spoonfuls of food into our mouths until we look like chipmunks.
“Okay.” Bear’s silverware clacks against the table loudly, his hand flattening over the wood. “Did something bad happen? Are you possibly going to die for five to seven days?”
He’s so overdramatic sometimes.