Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  “I don’t mind a little spot on my hand,” I muttered.

  “Mm, you may not,” the witch sat back in her chair. “Not now, when you’re only four and twenty, with a body still strong and quick. But you will wish you had listened to your babushka,” she wagged a finger at me. “When you try to shake off that flying crow someday, and two of your bones stay broken. Mark me.”

  I smirked, not replying, and popped the cork off the bottle. I dripped just a bit of the black, oily liquid into my right palm, put the cork back, and rubbed the slype onto the back of my left hand.

  “Keep rubbing,” Baba Yaga ordered. “Until you cannot see the spot.”

  “Yes, I know,” I glared at her, but kept doing it, until the oil rubbed in and the spot on my hand faded. I feigned a gag and shook my head, putting the bottle back on the mantle.

  “Smells like dead fish.”

  “Hehe,” the witch chuckled. “Not so bad.”

  I said nothing, just picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring my steaming soup.

  “So what was it?” I pressed, slurping a spoonful, then wincing at its heat. But I kept eating. The witch gazed at me, tapping her fingers on the face of her instrument.

  “I said I do not know,” she repeated. “But someone is coming who will tell us.”

  I stopped with my spoon halfway to my mouth.

  “Who?” I asked in a low voice. But she didn’t respond—just smiled.

  The fire in the hearth guttered.

  My attention flashed to it.

  Then, fingers of smoke began to creep out past the mantlepiece, as if something had blocked the chimney.

  Slowly, I lowered my spoon back into the soup.

  The smoke thickened, blackened. It trailed upward, past the candles, mingling with the flames and disappearing into the shadow of the ceiling.

  Without a sound, I lifted the table in front of me and set it to the side. Then, I slowly settled back in my chair, draping my arms over the rests. With my jaw set, I waited.

  The thick smoke pooled on the ceiling, and began slithering down amongst the witchly ornaments, dripping onto the floor beside Baba Yaga. It writhed out of the corners of the cottage, seething over the bearskin rugs, filling the air with the exotic musk of myrrh.

  As Baba Yaga and I watched, the serpentine smoke began to twine around itself, crawling from the floor toward the ceiling again. Forming an ever-thickening pillar. All the lights in the cottage changed hue, taking on a pearly emerald—and sparks danced freely around the flames.

  A figure formed within the shroud of smoke: tall and willowy, like an iron lance. Surrounded by sinister, cobweb draperies that stirred with their own wind. Ripples of clarity brought forth the shapes of strong, graceful arms bound round with silver bracers; long, white hands—the right one bearing a glittering ring. An elegant, figure-hugging black tunic with upward-sweeping shoulders, evoking the visage of a horned asp. A sundering cape dripping and slithering from the back of his shoulders and round his flowing skirts, hiding his feet. Jewels of jet and poison-red sparkling like scales across his chest. A tall collar guarding a graceful neck.

  A raven head, with midnight hair spilling down to the front of his chest, crisp and feral as the feathers of a crow. A sharp, refined face with perfect features, and skin white as moonlight. Eyes like chips of silver, with an ethereal, shining distance. Coal black eyebrows, black lashes; grey, unsmiling lips. And across his face—upon his delicate cheekbones, brow and nose—lay deep red discolorations, like the sear of heat, or the welt of a deep bruise. But it did not mar his beauty—in truth, it accentuated it. And the ice-cold ferocity in his bearing added terrible power to his heavy glance.

  A dark light swelled out from him, tightening my chest. I didn’t move. He lifted his chin, and looked directly at me. His bright, pupil-less gaze darted through me to my spine.

  “Gwiddon Crow.” His musical voice like the surface of a lake at twilight.

  “Crow,” Baba Yaga motioned to me, then to him. “This is Mordred.”

  Chapter Two

  Mordred inclined his graceful head to me. I didn’t move—just narrowed my eyes.

  “He is a draid,” Baba Yaga told me. “A dark elf.”

  “I know what he is,” I answered quietly, not taking my eyes from him. “What is he doing here?”

  Mordred almost smiled, and lifted his right eyebrow-slightly.

  “He is also the king of Albain,” Baba Yaga added.

  I slowly leaned back, stretched out my legs in front of me, and crossed them.

  “Well, then,” I raised my eyebrows. “He should know right now what I think of kings.”

  Mordred truly smiled now, and chuckled.

  “I like her, Vedma,” he glanced at Baba Yaga. I gave him nothing but a cold look.

  “Please, sit,” Baba Yaga waved a hand—and her guest chair appeared.

  The bear skin near Mordred’s feet writhed and twisted, and rose off the floor, warping itself into the shape of a tall armchair, with the mighty, toothy head crowning the top. When at last it had stopped its transformation, Mordred stepped around it, swept his skirts out of the way, and sat down with the casual elegance of a cat, his right elbow propped on the armrest.

  “Would you have something to drink or eat?” Baba Yaga asked him. He absently flicked his fingers.

  “No, thank you, I’ve just eaten.”

  Baba Yaga shrugged, and sat back in her own chair.

  “What brings you here, Mordred?”

  He looked at her for a moment.

  “I’m certain you noticed the disturbance at the edge of Winterly Wood not long ago,” he said.

  “I did,” Baba Yaga nodded. “But Crow was out in the wood at the time, and saw the birds take flight.”

  Mordred glanced at me. The firelight glinted off his silvery eyes.

  “What did you perceive?” he asked me.

  “I am keeping my thoughts to myself, until I hear what you have to say.” I canted my head. “That’s the reason you’ve come, isn’t it?”

  He peered at me, his brow furrowing, then leaned slightly toward me.

  “Tell me,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Where did you get such an ugly and unusual scar? It covers the entirety of the left side of your face, all the way down to your neck, and looks like the white craters of the moon.”

  I lifted my chin, unmoved.

  “I was struck by a hot fire shovel when I was fourteen, by my father,” I said. “I killed him with it.” Then, I narrowed my own eyes to slits. “Where did you get yours?”

  He grinned again, laughing softly.

  “Child, I am older than you can imagine,” he said, looking over at me with something like warmth. “I honestly cannot remember when I first noticed these marks on my face. But I do know they’ve arisen from my struggles, my pain, my suffering…” He considered me again, his mirth fading, a sadness entering him. “Just as yours have.”

  I blinked, and glanced down.

  “Tell us, Mordred,” Baba Yaga urged. “What is this all about? I don’t like the feel of it.”

  Mordred gazed at her long.

  “What do you feel?”

  She set her jaw crookedly, and leveled a look back at him. Her voice lowered to a deadly, rasping tone.

  “That a curse has been broken.”

  Mordred’s mouth tightened, and he gazed down at the hearthstones with a cold consideration.

  “It may have been,” he murmured. “I fear that someone has pulled the Sword from the stone.”

  Baba Yaga gasped.

  The sound made me sit up—set my heart bashing into my ribs.

  “The true sword Calesvol? How can that be?” Baba Yaga rasped. “It has been lost for centuries! Ever since you killed Merlin the Wild!”

  Mordred suddenly looked at her without moving his lowered head.

  A chill passed through me.

  “I…did not kill…Merlin,” he said, with painful and precise decision.

  “Whaaat?�
�� Baba Yaga stared at him, her eyes wide and terrible. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I lied to everyone,” Mordred answered icily. “After Merlin appeared to me and declared that he had laid Calesvol in a stone, and none but the true king of Albain could pull it loose—and that he had hidden it from all eyes but those of this true king—I hunted him more relentlessly than I had ever hunted anyone. But Merlin had vanished. I assumed that he had fled Albain, either across the sea or into the Eisenzahn Mountains. I cast hundreds of spells searching for him throughout Edel, but all came back to me empty. He was gone.” Mordred’s gaze grew distant, and he studied the dance of the flames. “So I made my own sword in the stone, my own Calesvol, and in the presence of ten thousand witnesses, I drew the sword from the stone. And I have been king this past age, questioned by none. And none have passed through my borders alive, either in or out.” He sent a flashing glance to Baba Yaga. “I will not have my throne threatened by some peasant who pulled a trinket from a rock.”

  Baba Yaga watched him for a moment.

  “What would you have us do?”

  Mordred took a deep breath, turning back to the fire.

  “The pulling of the sword has weakened the barriers around Albain. Strong Curse-Breakers will soon be able to cross, and the elves and rangers that have been enchanted in the woods will begin waking up.” He turned to me. “I require your help, Gwiddon Crow.”

  “Why?” I demanded quietly.

  “I wish to take your master with me, back to Camelot,” he said. “And I need you to destroy the Seal of Astrum.”

  “What?” I said, stunned. “Destroy the Seal? A great Seal?” I looked over at Baba Yaga, but she said nothing. I turned back to Mordred. “Why?”

  “To take back Thornbind,” he answered. “Once I put down this usurper who has found Calesvol, I will have the true sword in my hand. With it, I can breach the gap in the mountains and enter the Eorna Valley, which will bring us just steps from Maith. We will finally bring the fight to the doorstep of the Curse-Breakers. But we cannot do so if that Seal blocks our way.”

  I shook my head.

  “Destroying a great Seal is impossible, and you know it.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Anything made can be un-made.”

  “Yes, by a Curse-Breaker,” I shot back. “The nature of a seal itself is set against us. It was built to withstand just such an attack.”

  “Curse-Breakers are not infallible,” Mordred shook his head. “I have killed many.”

  “Well, be my guest, then,” I growled, waving my hand.

  “Crow,” Baba Yaga warned. I sat up, and leaned toward Mordred.

  “A Seal is not a Curse-Breaker,” I bit out. “You may have killed many Curse-Breakers, but the Seals have killed far more of us,” I said, and slapped my chest.

  “Yes, and many were my friends,” Mordred answered deliberately, looking right at me. “Which is why I spent half my lifetime searching for this.” He lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers.

  A bright light flashed in front of him—

  And a small book lay in his palms.

  I recoiled, sucking in a breath.

  I could feel tendrils of pure, sharp, untamed magic twisting and winding around its beaten leather binding, emanating from the dark red stone in the center of the cover.

  “What is that?” I hissed.

  “It is the Leabhar,” Mordred said quietly. “The Book.”

  “Where did you find it?” Baba Yaga whispered.

  “In Camelot, in Merlin’s vaults beneath the castle.” He glanced wryly at her. “Why do you think I was so eager to conquer Albain? It has nothing else to offer.”

  “I thought the Book was destroyed by dragon fire,” I muttered, still staring at it, feeling like it might leap up and sink teeth into me.

  “So did I,” Mordred nodded. “But, it appears that those on the other side can concoct their own share of clever lies.” He moved his white fingers to lift the cover.

  “Don’t open it!” I yelped, throwing out a hand—stopping just short of grabbing his wrist. He laughed.

  “You mustn’t be afraid, Crow,” he admonished. “You’ll be needing this.” And he held it out to me.

  “I am not touching that,” I said through my teeth, withdrawing from it to sink my fingernails into the armrests of my chair.

  “Why?” he asked simply. “Are you afraid?”

  I glared at him.

  “Only a fool is never afraid.”

  His expression shrugged.

  “True enough,” he acknowledged. “But the power in this book cannot harm you. You can only learn from it.”

  “And what am I supposed to learn?”

  A slow, mysterious smile touched his lips.

  “How the Caldic Curse-Breakers made the Seven Seals of Edel.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “You have the Book. Why don’t you learn it, and attack the seal yourself? I’m sure you’re powerful enough.”

  “I am,” he nodded. “But I cannot read it.”

  “Ha!” I barked. “You just told me how old you were, how experienced. How can you not read ancient Caldic?”

  “I cannot because it is enspelled, you impatient shrew,” he snapped—and his words knifed straight through my gut. My mouth clapped shut.

  For an instant, Mordred’s eyes blazed at me with a fiendish light…

  Which diminished, turning to frost and snow.

  “It will not allow a draid to read its words,” he muttered, flinging open the cover, as he seemed to have done hundreds if not thousands of times. I flinched back…

  But the magic just kept winding round and round the book, penetrating its pages, in a steady, unbroken flow.

  “It rebels against my very blood, the way the light meets my eyes. It’s maddening,” he muttered. “I have tried many, many times to understand, but even if I untangle one phrase, the next moment, it is gone from my mind.” He shook his head. “I saw no pressing need to decipher it at the time I found it. It was enough to have the Book in my possession, and keep it away from the Curse-Breakers, who could do untold damage with it. But now…” he raised his eyebrows at Baba Yaga. “I need a Curse-Maker.”

  “Would you rather leave this task to me?” Baba Yaga asked him. “I am willing, if Crow is not.”

  Mordred was already shaking his head.

  “I need you in Camelot. You must re-lay the curses that are breaking, or replace them with others. The curses of Albain are old, and bone-deep in this realm, and as they snap they may lash back at Camelot itself. And I can already feel Curse-Breakers advancing on my borders. They will need to be waylaid. I cannot keep all of this at bay with only my two hands. This work is as complex as it is dangerous, and I need you at my side.”

  “But is this not equally complex?” I demanded, pointing to the book. Mordred looked at me.

  “No,” he said. “It is quite simple. As simple as untying a knot. You must simply undo what has been done. But first, you must see it clearly.” And he held the book out to me again.

  I didn’t move. Instead, I looked at Baba Yaga.

  “Do you think I ought to do this, Babushka?” I asked her.

  She tilted her head, and shrugged again.

  “I believe you are fully capable of doing it,” she finally said. “You are strong enough, and cunning enough. If you are willing enough.”

  I took the book from Mordred.

  My fingers hit the binding, and the magic

  hummed—

  But nothing bit me. It didn’t hurt at all.

  I studied it, turning my head to try to make out the runes imprinted on the cover. I set my finger to the opening edge of the cover…

  “Nocht,” I whispered.

  The magic flickered against my thumb. I lifted the cover…

  “Well?” Mordred asked, leaning even closer.

  I stared down at the words.

  “I…” I started, then trailed off.

 
“What?” he demanded. But I couldn’t speak. I could only read the words, over and over, written in an ancient, inky hand.

  Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?

  Chapter Three

  “What?” Baba Yaga demanded leaning forward, her chair squeaking.

  “It…” I tried. “It says ‘Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?’” I lifted my head, and stared at my teacher.

  Slowly, she grinned at me.

  “Fascinating,” Mordred whispered, watching me with a gleaming eye. “Answer it.”

  “Answer it?” I repeated. “How?”

  He gestured to the book.

  “Answer it. Tell it what you want to know.”

  I stared down at the weathered page and the cryptic writing. I narrowed my eyes at it.

  “I wish to know,” I said slowly. “…how to un-make a great Seal.”

  The writing melted away and disappeared. The next moment, it bled back up through the paper, forming different words.

  You must first learn how the Seals were made. Do you wish to know?

  “What is it?” Baba Yaga hissed.

  “It says I must know how they were made, and asks if I wish to know,” I answered.

  “Tell it yes,” Mordred told me—in a tone like he was instructing me to step out onto thin ice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The words disappeared. Then, they melted back.

  I will tell you. But I will not tell the other two.

  My eyes flew to the others. They frowned at me.

  “What now?” Mordred wondered.

  “It says,” I answered carefully “That it won’t tell you or Baba Yaga.”

  Mordred laughed and slapped his thigh.

  “This magic,” he grinned. “Such splendid cleverness.”

  Baba Yaga ground her teeth.

  “Why would it say such a thing?”

  “Perhaps it knows us,” Mordred guessed.

  “Perhaps it can hear us,” Baba Yaga raised her eyebrows at him.

  Mordred smiled and shrugged.

  “Perhaps it can. Leastways, this still serves our purpose.” He rose to his feet, his skirts rustling uneasily around his legs. “Vedma, will you come with me back to Camelot?”