Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

  I spat on the floor. Without waiting to see his reaction, I turned and swept out of the library, forcing myself to take long, loud, even strides across the marble floor, though the pain in my knee, my shoulder, my hand and my face stung my eyes, and my vision blurred red.

  Chapter Seven

  “Glan,” I muttered impatiently, tapping my face. “Glan, glan.” Magic tingled across my skin, dissolving the dried blood on my cheeks. My nose wrinkling, I briskly dusted it away with my left hand, scraping it off my lips and the corners of my nose. As I did this, I paced slowly back and forth in my tower, in front of the extinguished hearth. Only the grey light from the gaps in the curtain penetrated. I could see perfectly well. However, it was too cold.

  Bending down and grimacing, I grabbed four logs off the pile, tossed them in the fireplace, and snapped my fingers.

  “Tine.”

  Sparks lit within the pile of logs, and soon, flames skulked up through the wood and lit it, swelling the hearth throat with gold light. I stepped closer, letting the heat wash over my aching legs.

  My stomach groaned.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Finally relenting, I turned around and picked up a piece of cheese from the abandoned plate, and ate it. And it hurt. It hurt in three places inside my mouth. But I made myself chew, I made myself swallow it. It tasted bland and stale. But it wasn’t moldy.

  I kept eating, devouring the cheese and bread, but I didn’t touch the meats. I stared at the goblet of wine. Narrowed my eyes.

  Took a bracing breath, picked it up, put it to my lips, and downed it.

  Pain darted across my tongue and the insides of my lips. But I kept swallowing until it was gone, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and slammed the goblet down.

  A sound.

  I went still.

  A sound. Outside. Faint as the rustling of faraway wind.

  Yet…

  It carried a tiny song with it. Like the passage of fairy wings.

  A bell.

  I moved to the window, and pushed the curtain aside…

  Twitched back.

  I gaped, disoriented.

  The snow had stopped falling. The air had cleared.

  Snow lay in blankets across the courtyard where I had hit the ground, and hung heavy upon the branches of the cedars. Grey clouds still coated the sky—but not a breath of wind stirred.

  And I heard it again. That faraway, musical jingling.

  Bells upon a harness.

  My heart jolted.

  I threw the curtain out of the way, grabbing the window frame and leaning out, scanning the great, silent valley shrouded in ice.

  The sound came again.

  And I instantly sensed the bells didn’t lie in that direction—they came from the south-west side of the castle.

  I glanced down, and suddenly realized that a narrow balcony stood outside this window, with a knee-high wall to the outside…

  And as I leaned even further and looked to my right, I could see it swooped around the outside of this tower.

  Most likely, it led to an open walk upon the parapets, where the guards would pace.

  Bracing myself, I climbed out onto the balcony, my boots sinking calf-deep in snow. Putting one hand on the ice-coated, right-hand wall—for my knee still ached—I walked as quickly as I could along that balcony, the frost in the air settling upon my hair and shoulders.

  As I rounded the bend, I slowed to a halt.

  Before me, as I’d predicted, an open walk upon the parapet angled southward. To my left, on the rooftop just below, I could see a small skylight, now draped in snow—and then loomed a giant tower, its imposing peak stretching into the clouds. As I cast my gaze over the rest of the roof of the castle, I spied four more vast towers—one to the south, one at the center keep, one to the far west, and one to the north. A shorter, smaller tower stood near the great north tower, and two more just like it stood on either side of the south tower. Between the keep and the north tower, a raised, broad, flat rooftop rose like a stage. It was bordered by elegant railings, and a walkway led from it into the tower keep. The roof of the castle itself looked to be shining blue slate, where it slanted too steeply for snow to pile on it.

  I paced forward, away from my watchtower, onto the parapet walkway. I grimly imagined how horrifically windy it would be up here if the air were not still. My feet swished through deep snow, but I kept listening.

  And I heard it again. Sleigh bells, toward the west.

  My walkway met with a much broader one that ran between the east tower and the keep tower. I turned right, following it, quickening my pace. The keep tower rose up over me like a giant, its diamond-paned windows covered in jack frost.

  The walkways ahead embraced the tower, and so I took the one to my left, following its curve around the keep. I found another broad walkway that connected the keep tower to the south tower. There, I stopped, leaning against the western railing, peering past one of the short towers, over the castle grounds far below.

  A large, terraced garden lay between the south and west arms of the castle, its first level laid out with mazes of shrubberies and statues. A stream flowed out from the castle and meandered across the first level, then tumbled to the second level, where spread an open gaming lawn. The water continued, till it fell over the edge onto the third level, where neat rows of sleeping fruit trees stood, waiting for spring. I sensed that the gardens continued around the south-western side of the castle, but I couldn’t see them.

  Beyond the far western edge of the garden, the ground fell away into a chasm. But the south end of the garden connected with a thick wood that sloped gently away toward the southern valley.

  And out from that wood came a road.

  The branches of the forest created a corridor around it, and the road ascended the garden terraces, leading straight to the palace.

  And the bells rang again. Much closer. Much brighter.

  Someone was riding up the road toward Astrum.

  I snatched at my cape—

  Stopped myself.

  I didn’t dare fly. For one thing, the spell on the cape might be twisted now—it might only halfway turn me to a crow. Or, it could turn me into one, but not back into a human. Or…

  Or I could fly, and slam headlong into that invisible wall again, and break my neck.

  Grinding my teeth, I turned and hurried toward the south tower, turned right onto the walkway that followed it, followed the outer wall, and pushed through the squeaking door of the little guard tower.

  I paused an instant, letting my eyes adjust.

  It looked just like mine inside—a dead fireplace, wooden table, cot.

  And a guardsman, sitting on the floor against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His head slumped to the side. Solidly turned to stone.

  I strode across the room to the door, and started down the winding staircase. When I reached the bottom, I found two doors—one to the right, which doubtlessly led into the castle. Cold air gusted in from the one to the left.

  I shoved through it, pushing away a drift of snow, and stepped outside. Again, I sank several inches into the soft, piled ice. I stopped, squinting ahead of me.

  I stood beside the stone bank of the river that flowed out from the castle. Snow drifts hung over its surface like awnings, but no ice interrupted its way. On the other side of it, I could make out the indentation of the road that led down the terraces of the garden and into the wood.

  I pushed through the snow on this side of the river, toward a small footbridge that led across. I crossed it, and paused in the center of the road. I glanced up and back, at the mighty castle, and the steely sky riven with pointed towers.

  I turned back toward the length of the road, and the dark opening of the forest at the far, far end.

  The bells jingled again.

  I started forward.

  I pushed my pace, ignoring the pain in my leg and in my middle, kicking through the snow. I negotiated the stairs at the first terrac
e without slipping, and continued on across the next level, past tall snow-covered statues that flanked the road. I hopped down the next set of stairs and followed the lane through the orchard, around a gentle swing in the path, and then straight toward the forest.

  I winced. The cold air was starting to hurt my lungs, and that pang in my gut sharpened.

  At the mouth of the wood, I paused, my breath clouding around my head. I listened.

  The gentle jingling rang steadily within the wooded depths. I stood poised there, drawing in the scent of the forest—but all I could detect was frost. No wind shivered the leafless branches, no bird fluttered in the high boughs.

  But around the bend of the road, somewhere not too distant, someone was coming.

  I went in.

  I instantly left the road, flanking it to the left instead, desiring not to leave any footprints. And as I walked, I tried to think.

  Why had the snow stopped falling? Why had the air cleared, and the wind gone still?

  What if this person or people, whoever they were, found their way into the Castle Astrum? Well, they would surely see everyone turned to stone, and discover Prince Krystian. Then what?

  Would he go with them? Would he risk leaving the Seal’s protection?

  Or…

  Would he send them back the way they had come—and order them to send word to the Fortress of Maith?

  I stopped, that thought sending a cold shock down through my bones.

  All they would need to do was light the beacon fire at Hoole, and the signal would pass up the Eorna Valley to Ashford, Tirin, Glenariff, Upton, Tulley, Rathlain and Busker to Maith, traveling all those leagues within a mere half an hour.

  And who would Maith send, once they learned that all of Astrum had been turned to stone, and the prince had been stricken blind—but the Curse-Maker herself was caught within the bounds of the kingdom?

  Faerwald the Ranger?

  Claer Emberblood?

  Galahad Stormcrane?

  I swallowed.

  Reola Firehand?

  Or…all of them?

  I pushed forward, setting my teeth.

  No. None of them.

  I broke into a silent run, whipping past trees on either side, following the steady ringing ahead of me. The road slanted gradually downward, and then began wide, snake-like switchbacks. And then I saw them.

  Through the gaps in the trees ahead, traveling east on one of the switchbacks—they would soon turn the corner and begin heading west, uphill.

  Merchant gypsies from Doolin.

  Horses with bright red harnesses adorned with bells, pulling carts and painted wagons. Dark-haired men, women and children wearing brightly-patterned fabrics and furs rode the carts, and also rode laden horses. All of them wore shining weapons—swords, knives and bows—even the children. Bells hung from their clothes also, and with every movement, that bright sound cut through the quiet. There looked to be a hundred of them, and two-hundred horses.

  And they would be able to see the gardens of Astrum when they made the next turn.

  I took a deep breath, lifted my hands and cupped them against my chin, below my mouth…

  And blew.

  Fog poured from my lips, gushing onto the ground, piling up, up…

  Building into a thick, mounting fog that covered the road, and soon, the entire passage. I stepped into the fog, pushing it away from my own path, but keeping it climbing higher, and further into the trees on either side of the road—ignoring the deepening pain in my gut.

  I stopped when I reached the opposite side, with trees on either side of me. I lifted my hands out in front of me, spreading my fingers.

  “Corraigh,” I whispered, bracing my feet deep in the snow, turning my hands to fists…

  And pushing outward, to both sides.

  The earth beneath my feet shifted.

  The roots of the trees writhed, pulling themselves out of the earth, like fingers drawing free of sand. Then, as I ground my teeth and kept pushing, the trees crawled backward, away from each other, parting down the middle to create a new path that had never been there before.

  “Luigh,” I breathed, opening my hands and smoothing them through the air. The snow rearranged itself, rippling over the torn earth, covering it in a pristine blanket, as if no one had done a thing.

  I retreated through the fog, performing the same spell over my footprints. Then, when I arrived at the place I’d started from, I closed my eyes, lifted my right hand…

  “Luigh…” I said through my teeth, feeling that pain dig deeper and deeper, down to my spine. As I said the spell, I opened my mind to see the path coming up the side of the mountain, watching the snow even out, obliterating the footprints of the gypsies.

  The next moment, the gypsies turned the corner. There they were, to my left, at the far end of the switchback.

  I slipped behind a large cedar and crouched down. I blew into my hands again, thickening the fog, and then spreading it down toward them, so it looked less like a wall.

  “Mearbhall,” I said—and I enchanted the fog.

  The caravan slowed. I heard them mutter to each other. I heard the striking of flint, and the catching of wicks as they lit lanterns. I crouched down within the snow-covered underbrush, slowing my breathing to nothing.

  They passed in front of me. Merely ten feet away. Men with long, dark beards. Women with piercing eyes. Children with watchful faces. They rode slowly, jingling, lifting their lanterns above their heads.

  “Oscail,” I mouthed, closing my eyes, opening my mind, seeing there the path I’d just created clear of fog—not suspiciously so, but just enough so they could glimpse it.

  I heard a cry go up, and the caravan slowed…

  And the leader turned. Turned down the path I’d created. The rest of his tribe began to follow him.

  Grinding my teeth, I fought to stay still. Usually, I had no trouble at all remaining as motionless and silent as a bird hiding from a hawk. But now, that sharp, needling pain had moved from one spot to several, and was clawing its way up inside my chest.

  The caravan wound its slow way past, the gypsies leaning forward as they tried to see up ahead. They padded through the snowy fog, and turned left down the new path…

  And, unwittingly, headed back down the mountain, the way they had come. And because of the enchantment I’d put on the fog, through which all of them had walked, they wouldn’t realize what had happened till they reached Hoole.

  That would be several days from now.

  I watched them go, listening as the fog muffled the bells, and the sound of their passage grew distant. I stayed there, sunk in the snow, feeling my feet go numb, until I couldn’t hear anything anymore.

  I moved to stand up.

  My eyes went wide.

  I stopped breathing.

  I couldn’t stand up.

  My muscles felt like stone, and that creeping, living pain transformed to something like…

  Like dragonfire beneath my skin.

  And suddenly—

  The fog in front of me disappeared.

  Vanished—blown away by a gust off the sea.

  And the path I’d made—

  It was gone.

  All the trees stood back where they had been before. Without a sound, without a single vibration.

  I grabbed hold of the bark of the tree beside me, clawing my way to my feet, sucking in cold breaths through my teeth, my heart racing. I stared, my mind in a whirl…

  “So. A wicce.”

  My pulse stopped.

  I grabbed a branch with all my might.

  I turned my head to the left, up the abandoned path…

  And saw him standing there.

  Chapter Eight

  Black robes that hung heavy as midnight, whose edges sparkled with deep blues and violets, whose train spilled across the ground behind him and disappeared into the snow. A deep hood, with a hem that twinkled like a faraway star. Shoulders bent, and turned as if he had just emerged from th
e wood beside the road. A face…

  A young, narrow face within the shadow of the cowl. Pale as snow, with carven cheekbones and a ragged, chestnut beard. A maze of scars lining his brow and cheeks. Dark curls framing his temples, falling across his forehead. A grave, unsmiling mouth; a stormy, frowning brow and kingly nose. And eyes…

  His right eye, blue as ice in the depths of the sea, filled with the light of a thousand stars. His left, like green fire, fathomless as the forest. His gaze, older than elf-kind—one that has seen the foundations of the earth, and named its pillars.

  I crashed to my knees.

  I clutched the front of my tunic, my mouth opening—I couldn’t breathe.

  Slowly, he tilted his head.

  “What are you doing in this part of the world, Wicce?” he asked. His inquisitive voice was quiet as the autumn wind in evening—but it shivered straight through my bones, and the pain in my middle almost split me in two.

  “I…I am…” I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut, clenching my own collar so tight I nearly tore it. “I am Gwiddon Crow. I…I came…”

  I couldn’t keep going.

  He took a step toward me. I heard his boot whisper through the snow.

  My eyes snapped open. I felt my cape try to writhe away from him. His terrible gaze pinned me to the ground. He took another step forward. Then another. He lifted one eyebrow, delicately.

  “Do you know my name?” he asked.

  Choking on air, I frantically shook my head.

  “Do you know what I am?”

  “You…” I panted. “…are a wizard.”

  “Not a wizard,” he murmured…

  And slowly, he knelt down in front of me.

  His shadow fell across my shoulders like stone. His cloak cascaded in deadly black waves in front of my feet. And suddenly—

  His face looked into mine.

  Inches away.

  The heat of him rippled out from his heart and across my skin, stinging my face and my hands. His gaze shot through my being like a spear. I stared, breathless, straight into those eyes. Eyes that held the span of the heavens, and the depths of the oceans, and the hidden realms in the woods where no mortal has ever been.