To my left, a low fire burned in a small hearth. A wooden table and chairs sat before it, and a skin rug lay upon the floor. Weapons lined the walls, as did the tools for lighting torches, and one long, beautifully-polished brass trumpet. A cot stood against the far wall, laden with pillows and blankets. A thick curtain hung from a rod above the window, now tied back so the watchman could see out.
I gritted my teeth. He didn’t need to see, now. I moved to it and untied the sash, letting the curtain fall shut. Mostly shut—it could not close all the way, because the statue blocked it. But the cold wind stopped blowing in.
I moved to the table at the hearth, and found a half-eaten meal there of salted meats, cheeses and bread, and a goblet of wine. I made a face. The wine would hurt like the devil. In fact, eating anything right now sounded horrid.
I moved closer to the fire and sank down beside it, grimacing with every movement. Once I’d settled my shoulder against the side of the fireplace, I reached down to my belt, opened a pouch, and pulled out a tiny square of black wood.
I held it in my left palm, and tapped it with my right-hand forefinger. Then, I set it on the floor in front of me.
The piece of wood unfolded like paper, growing larger and larger until it was the size of a lap desk, with a lid. I reached down and picked it up, setting it on my lap, and opened the lid.
Inside, as always, I found a pile of parchment, and a black pen made of dragon bone. I drew out one sheet, laid it on the desk, and lifted the pen.
“Lovely, lovely,” I muttered poisonously, pressing my pen against my blistered fingers. Setting my teeth on edge, I put my pen to the parchment and began to write.
Babushka,
Forgive my intrusion into your business at Camelot. I fear nothing has gone according to plan. I conversed briefly with Mordred’s “Book,” but discovered it to be nothing more than an Answer-Back book for children. It was filled with simple fairy tales, and offered me nothing helpful. So instead, I spent four days in our library, constructing a series of blood spells, rather than technical curses, to render the guardian of the Astrum Seal crippled or dead.
Today, I flew to Maven Overlook and cast several spells. A sleeping spell upon the entire castle, a storm spell to hide the moon, a condition spell to give riches to Astrum if every person within gazes at the moon by midnight, but if they did not, their breath would stop. I cast these spells in careful sequence. But when I did, I felt something lash back at me. Knowing you would not be satisfied if I did not investigate, I drew nearer, and ventured into the castle itself. There, I discovered that the guards were not dead, nor were they asleep. Instead, they had been turned to stone. I also began to feel a deep pain inside me. Walking further into the castle, I came upon the prince of Astrum. He was not asleep, nor stone. Instead, he is blind. And when I tried to kill him, my knife broke apart, and I was thrown backward, my hand burned. He told me then—though I do not know if it is true—that his father, the king, has been lying abed for months, unable to open his eyes, after an accident on his horse, and that he, the prince, is now the Guardian of the Seal.
I cannot know if he is telling the truth, nor can I know what has happened to so tangle my spells. But when I tried to fly to you, I struck something I could not see, which nearly killed me. It broke my cloak spell, returned me to my natural form, and flung me down on the stones. I fear making a second attempt to leave Astrum.
Dearest Master, please advise me.
-Crow
It took me an hour to write this. I stopped several times, pressing my blistered hand to the cold stones, swearing under my breath. When at last I finished, I folded the paper into the loose shape of a bird, then put the pen back in the desk. I tapped the desk, and it reduced, folding up to its original tiny size. I put it back in its pouch, then crawled to my feet, letting lose several more pieces of foul language that still didn’t seem potent enough. I leaned on the table, then worked my way to the chair, then over to the curtained window. I pushed the curtain out of the way, and threw the folded paper out into the snow.
The instant it left my hand, it transformed to a black crow made of paper, flapped its wings, and vanished into the cloud. I watched it go, the snowflakes swirling into the window and across my boots. I waited. Thunder rumbled. And the stone statue beside me soon wore an icy cloak, his face shrouded in white.
I blinked awake. My skull pounded.
I glanced around the room without moving my head. The fire burned even lower, the embers glowing resentfully. Snow drifted at the foot of the window, beneath the curtain. I lay underneath all the blankets and furs on the cot. And if I thought about it, I could count every single one of my bones.
Paper rustled. I frowned, finally lifting up off the pillow…
A little vulture made of paper shifted its weight as it stood on the back of the nearest chair.
“Come here,” I croaked, holding out my hand to it. It made an indignant fluff of its paper feathers, but hopped off, coasted, and landed in my hand.
The instant it hit my skin, it snapped, and transformed to a flat, folded piece of paper. It smelled like burning peat bog. Wincing, I managed to sit up, unfold it, and read it by the dying light.
Crow,
I am displeased with you.
I told you to mind the lineages, but you did not listen to me. Why did you not spy out the kingdom itself before casting any sort of spell, or at the very least, ask the trees? Why did you not learn of the state of the king’s health? Why did you assume he was the Guardian? Why did you not remember—the Guardian of a seal can be anyone in the royal line? Now, you have bound yourself to this kingdom, this Seal, and they are capable of imprisoning you and killing you. The spell you have cast has created a continuous ring of magic between you and that seal—a ring it is using to preserve the lives of its people. You are the counter-balance to that Seal, and you are bound to it. Which do you think is stronger, Varona? Which do you think will be crushed first?
Worse yet, you have not provided the spell with a true “but if.” Recall every great spell ever cast, Varona! There must always be a “but if”! A princess put to sleep by a magic comb in her hair will die, but if it is removed before sunrise, she will awaken and live! You enspelled the people of Astrum to sleep so they could not gaze at the moon—but what real key, what “but if” have you provided it to be broken? You made it impossible! You cannot make it impossible! This is precisely why we make such keys, such possible keys, for every single curse or spell we ever cast: if a mistake is made, then we ourselves may provide a way out, so that the opposite force, the counterbalance, does not ensnare us and bleed us of our lives.
I am ashamed of you. You have mastered curses of terror in a wood—but that is far different from battle with a Seal.
No Gwiddon or Draid will be able to come to you in Astrum. We would be trapped within the Seal’s barrier along with you, and unable to contain the forces now running wild in Camelot.
Do not attempt again to kill the prince. That attempt of yours is what caused the barrier to nearly destroy you. I daresay it took a tremendous toll. If the prince were to die on his own, by accident or starvation, the ring of magic would break, and the seal would be vulnerable. But if you intervene in any way to kill him again, the Seal will surely kill you for your efforts.
You must untangle your own spell now, or die. There is no other way out.
~Baba Yaga
Chapter Six
I didn’t sleep.
I sat there by the window, on the stone floor, frost gathering on my crossed legs. I read and re-read Baba Yaga’s letter. The pain in my burned hand turned to numbness. My bones ached. The fire in the hearth died. Warmth drained out of the tower.
Slowly, a dim light arose, and a weak light came in through the gaps between the curtain and the window frame.
I absently tossed the letter, and it spun away from me, hitting the wall and falling like a leaf into the pile of snow beneath the sill. Slowly, I crawled to my feet, and stared for s
everal minutes at the stale food on the table. The dried blood on my face had stiffened, feeling like a partial mask across my cheek and chin. I pressed my tongue to the wounds inside my mouth, then set my teeth and shook my head.
I moved to the door. I stopped, screwing my eyes shut.
My left knee hurt, now. And that ache in my belly…
Biting it back, I made myself open my eyes. I stepped through the door, and picked my way down the winding stairs, leaning against the wall. Every time my left knee bent, it panged. I swore again, the black words bouncing off the icy stone, and back to me.
When I finally reached the base of the stairs, I rested for several minutes, leaning back against the doorframe. I listened, but couldn’t detect anything but that constant sound of languidly-bubbling water.
My feet tapping the ancient stone, I went into the guardroom. The fire here had lowered to embers, but the torches still burned enough so I could see very clearly. I picked my way between the stone guards, and made my way through the other door, into the short passage that was interrupted to the left by a flowing canal. The quiet rush of the water filled the entire passage. I glared at it, and stepped through another door to the corridor with the curving left-hand wall. Ahead of me, more rushing and gushing sounds echoed through the massive space. I stepped into the room of fountains, and halted.
The sunlight that managed to penetrate the cloud cover came in through the windows and joined the torches in glittering against the tumbling waters of the dozen fountains and the curving river.
I wrinkled my nose, feeling the blood on my skin crack. I didn’t dare touch this water. It had a spell on it, I knew it. It would sooner kill me than wash off my stains.
I paced up the man-made river, much farther than I had the night before, and finally found a narrow foot bridge I could cross. I hopped across it as quickly as I could, ignoring the throb in my knee, and left the water behind.
Ahead of me gaped that vast door I remembered from last night—the door larger than any other, the space beyond yawning like a cavern. Now, I could make out that chamber’s features much more clearly.
The room itself was shaped like a keyhole, this door opening in the bottom of that keyhole. The floor was made of marble tiles of different colors, arranged to create the illusion that millions of cubes were stacked partly on top of each other in neat rows, and that a person would have to ascend these odd stairs to keep pressing further into the room. I stared at the floor alone for several moments, disoriented.
And grudgingly acknowledging that it was certainly a clever trick.
I took a few steps in, my disorientation vanishing as my feet slid smoothly across a perfectly flat floor. Finally, I stopped and looked up, and around me.
Towering white walls edged in gold filigree—and set into these walls were giant, wide bookshelves. Bookshelves stacked with more volumes than I had ever seen in my life. Thousands and thousands of books, of all sizes and colors. And far, far above my head, the pillars of the walls arched and leaned toward each other, creating beams between enormous skylights of Spegel glass. Glass that formed pictures of muscular celestial beings floating amongst clouds, pointing to stars and beckoning to ships upon the rolling seas. Their garments, if they wore any, flowed like mist all around them, their hair tumbling in waving rivers around their shoulders, their expressions serene and wise. The enormous room itself smelled sweetly of old pages, and leather polish.
I ventured further, my quiet, uneven footsteps echoing. I walked a long distance, until I finally arrived at an ornate, circular rug the size of a small garden spread out on the floor, with chairs, tables and lamps arranged upon it. Beyond, the room itself took on a circular shape—the top of the keyhole. The skylights above ended here, but the ceiling above the circular room had been painted with a fantastic mural of kings, queens, soldiers, peasants, forests, houses, castles, dragons, horses and elves, all intermingled, one scene flowing into the other. Three narrow, vertical windows interrupted the bookshelves—these bore depictions of flames in torches. But directly ahead stood a much greater window. Floor to ceiling, and thirty feet wide, it presided over the whole room. It showed a scholar with a brown cap, garbed in dark flowing robes, casting his gaze down upon a desk, from which he had just stood up. His elegant right hand rested in afterthought upon the open pages of the book he had just been inscribing, and his left hand reached for the pull of a silver bell. Behind him stood stacks of other books, and a lone candle, whose light, it seemed, would be insufficient for his task.
“I can hear you, but I’m not sure where you are.”
I jolted, and spun around to my left—
Prince Krystian sat on a chair in a small alcove. He still wore his sleeping clothes, but on the table beside him sat a steaming pot of tea, and a cup that also steamed. He hung his left leg over the armrest, and a large green book sat in his lap, leaning against his chest. It was shut, and he slowly rubbed his hand up and down its side, as if he simply enjoyed the feel of the binding. He stared out in front of him, his silvery eyes even more evident in the morning light.
He smirked, carefully reaching out for his teacup. His fingers searched the edge of the table, then found the saucer, and the handle of the cup. He picked up the tea, blew on it, and took a careful sip. His brow furrowed quizzically.
“So, who are you?” he asked. “What is your real name, where do you come from?”
For a moment, I toyed with the idea of just turning around and leaving. But something in the curve of his lips and the arch of his brow challenged me. I lifted my chin.
“Why should I answer you?”
“Because I’m the prince,” he said. “You are in my house. And I asked you.”
I said nothing for several beats.
He flashed his eyebrows, smirked, and took another sip of tea. I ground my teeth.
“I am Crow, of Winterly Wood.”
“Winterly!” he repeated, his brow furrowing with interest. “In the forbidden kingdom of Albain. How did you get out?”
“How did I get out?” I frowned.
“Of course, how did you get out?” he said again, carefully putting the teacup back onto the saucer with a rattle. “Albain’s borders have been choked with curses since before my grandfather’s time.” He smirked again, wider this time. “Unless you’ve been the one casting all the curses, hm?”
“As a matter of fact…” I growled, and left it at that.
He chuckled.
“What is so funny, pig?” I bit out.
“Nothing in particular, I’m just amused by you,” he said, ignoring my insult.
“Why?” I demanded. “I could kill you where you stand.”
“No, you couldn’t,” he shook his head, laughing.
A chill ran through me. He drew his leg off the armrest and sat back in the chair, draping his arms on the armrests now.
“I know what you are, and I know what I am,” he told me, his smile transforming to one of coldness, even if he couldn’t see me. “And there is a magic far older and more powerful than you that protects me.”
“Not if you walk off a cliff,” I said scathingly. He shrugged.
“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “But I learned to walk in this palace. I’ve often run up and down its stairs in the pitch dark, not a single torch burning. I don’t need to see it. I feel Astrum all around me.” He sat back in his chair, his expression turning to ice. “How do you feel, Malefica?”
I swallowed—and said nothing.
He sneered and glanced off, his sightless eyes turning toward the great window. My blood ran hot.
“And what do you have to live for, dog?” I spat. “Your dead castle? All your people, turned to stone? No one will ever find Astrum through this blizzard. And you are blind. Worthless. Not even a whole man.” I took two steps toward him. “Who would want a blind man who cannot ride, cannot fight, cannot even see the walls in front of his face? Your life is finished, you arrogant peacock. From here till eternity, nothing but darkness and s
ilence awaits you. It is your choice how long you wish to endure it.”
As I spoke, he had honed in on my voice, almost gazing back into my eyes.
“My choice,” he said, that small smile returning. Then, he canted his head, his brow furrowing. “And what is your choice, Malefica?”
I stopped.
“Why do you want to live, while I die? What is it you have that you treasure so much, that you fight so hard to return to? A family?” he ventured. “Mother, father? Husband? Child?”
I stared at him, one shoulder lifting, my nose snarling.
“Do you have a home filled with people you’ve known since you were small, who have cared for you and taught you and shared in every success and failure of your life?” he wondered. “A small stretch of good land whose paths you memorized so long ago, you have no sense that once, you didn’t know the way? Vaults and vaults of precious, irreplaceable recorded memory, the very lifeblood of all the kingdoms of the world?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Enlighten me, witch. What do you have that I don’t?”
I said nothing. I couldn’t. My blood boiled, my fists clenched.
But I couldn’t say anything.
“Hm,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes. “Then why don’t you walk off a cliff?”
I mentally writhed backward. My eyes flashed, and I took half a step back—before leaning toward him.
“Mark me,” I snarled, pointing at him. “I will outlast you, Prince. You cannot fathom how strong I am, nor how I will fight you. You have no hope of putting me down.”
“And mark me, devil woman,” he shot back. “Make no mistake: Astrum is not dead. Far, far from it.” He arose, straightening his powerful shoulders, leveling a terrible look at me that—though he could not direct it at my face, nevertheless hit its mark. “You walk in my halls, beneath my windows. And I am not afraid of you.”
Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow Page 5