“You spotted those? In the rafters? You’ve got the sharpest eyes of any guest I’ve ever had here,” he declared. “I’m amazed! But yes, Uncle Lupin brought back those odd little faces. He called them ‘eavesdroppers.’ So, be careful what you say!” And he winked.
Baffled, I stared at him, an odd heat in my face.
And then I realized I’d fallen into his trap. He’d been talking and talking all this time, just hoping I would succumb and finally start making idle, useless conversation with him.
But, try as I might, I wasn’t irritated.
After all—he’d given me a compliment.
And, for some unfathomable reason…
He’d called me a “guest.”
“It’s so quiet in here,” Krystian murmured as we stepped into the gardens, on the fourth day. He paused in the middle of the path, his eyebrows drawing together. “I always hear the water—but no birds, anymore.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and maneuvered around him, purposefully not looking at the stone sparrows perched on the tree branches.
“I imagine they’ve turned to statues, too,” Krystian mused.
I didn’t answer, just folded my arms and leaned back against the wall of a low bridge.
“Unless they’re dead,” the prince added. I blinked.
“Dead?”
He shifted toward me, his blind eyes searching.
“If they’re turned to stone…are they dead?”
The question hung heavy in the air. His entire frame suddenly seemed taut.
I stared back at him, weighing my reply. If I should reply at all. Finally, I shook my head.
“No, that isn’t how a stone spell works,” I answered. “Someone or something turned to stone is simply frozen, unconscious of all that goes on around them. They don’t die, but they don’t age, either. If they stayed this way for a hundred years, and somehow awoke, they would be the same as the day it happened.”
“How can a stone spell be broken?” the prince wondered. I sighed, wincing at a needling pain in my shoulder.
“There are several ways,” I said. “The most common is shooting the witch who cast it through the heart with a yew arrow.”
The prince heaved his own sigh and raked his hand through his hair, stepping up in front of me and leaning back against the other side of the bridge, facing me. He crossed his arms, too.
“Got any yew arrows?” he muttered.
“Very funny, prince,” I growled.
He ducked his head briefly, and I caught him grinning. He rubbed the back of his neck. Then, he lifted his face and canted his head, his brow furrowing.
“How did you learn about magic?” he wondered. “Your master teach you?”
I shrugged.
“Some,” I said. “The rest, I learned for myself. By reading, and using it, and listening to the magic all around me.”
“All around you,” he repeated. “In the water?”
I snorted, glancing off.
“That’s one sort of magic, I suppose,” I said. “But there’s far more than that. I like the magic in the trees more than the magic in the water.”
“What kind of magic is in the trees?” he asked.
My attention came back to him. I hesitated. But he just frowned in my direction, waiting.
“The magic that makes life,” I told him. “The magic that makes all things grow, roots push deep and drink, branches stretch to the sky, sap pump like blood through the bark, the wind rush through the leaves. Trees listen. They touch the pulse of the earth, they hear the softest footfall of every deer or man walking in the woods.” I glanced up, all around me, at the tall, intertwining branches of the trees here, my voice lowering. “Trees speak to each other, and to the animals that live in them. And if you learn how to listen, you can understand what they say. But it takes patience. Their dialect is strange and old and slow. No hurries, no demands…Just quietness, and humility…For all trees have a spirit as ancient as Edel, and a wisdom that comes from watching all the failings and shortcomings of the rushed and foolish people all around them…” I lifted my hand, and gently pressed a leaf between my fingers and thumb, without pulling it free. “This oak tree is called Hadarak Deep-Keel. His fathers were cut down to make the ships that travel the river all the way to Avalon.” I shut my eyes, a rough and earthy magic humming down through my fingertips. “His favorite Fleeting One was named Dulcis. She was little…and frail, and bright as a star. And she sat in his branches, and would read rhymes out of a pretty book with a red cover. She is gone now.” My frown deepened. “He misses her.”
A sweet, aching pang traveled through my chest. I opened my eyes.
The prince’s brow had twisted, and he swallowed hard. I considered him.
“Who was she?” I asked quietly.
“My little sister,” he answered—his voice shook. “She died of red fever when she was ten years old. Just one year short of being recorded in the Book of Memory.”
Slowly, I released the leaf. The prince shifted, the pain further tightening his face.
“The tree…It told you that?”
“His name is Hadarak,” I corrected—but not sharply. “And…” I shifted. “He likes you, too. But…he wishes you wouldn’t yank off his leaves when you walk by.”
Krystian smiled reflexively, and let out a low chuckle.
“I don’t understand that—talking to trees,” he shook his head. “I suppose it’s true: you either know magic, or you don’t.”
I was already shaking my head.
“No, that isn’t true.”
He frowned.
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not,” I answered. “Anyone can learn magic. Not everyone can become powerful, but it’s so. Here, hold out your hand.”
His expression washed through with alarm.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I rolled my eyes. “You are. Now, hold out your hand.”
Hesitantly, he did so.
“Now,” I said. “Imagine a perfect, shiny, black river rock. Picture it. Can you?”
“Yes,” he nodded gravely.
“Take a breath,” I instructed. “Now, say Gá cloch.”
“Gá cloch,” he repeated.
A brief flash of light—
And a shimmering black stone landed in his palm.
He jumped, almost dropping it—but caught it at the last second.
His blind eyes went wide, and he hurriedly felt it all over with both hands.
“Where…Where did that come from?” he cried.
“You conjured it,” I answered.
“I…I…” he stammered, still turning the stone over. “Isn’t ‘conjuring’ dark magic?”
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” I snorted, folding my arms again. “What’s dark magic supposed mean?”
“Evil magic,” he shot back. “Magic used for…For killing and trapping and talking to the dead.”
I looked at him flatly.
“Was that your idea when you called that rock?” I asked. “To kill somebody with it?”
He blinked.
“No.”
“Satisfied?” I demanded.
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I don’t know what you were talking about in the first place,” I retorted.
“Yes, you do,” the prince insisted. “Even if it isn’t called the same thing. Curse-Makers do magic that Curse-Breakers would never do. And probably the other way around.”
I shrugged.
“Yes, probably,” I admitted blackly. “I’d die before I gave a baby blessing, for one.”
“A baby blessing?” he frowned. “Like in the stories about the princesses—”
“—‘and she will be lovely and beautiful, and dance like a fairy, and sing like a nightingale, and everyone who meets her will madly adore her, and fall all over their faces to do whatever she wants,’” I finished loftily, then snorted. “R
idiculous. Who would want that insufferable child?”
Unexpectedly, Krystian laughed.
“I…might have to agree with you there,” he admitted. “But what about the magic that Curse-Breakers won’t do?”
“Oh, they’re just frightened of the power,” I scoffed. “Afraid of themselves, afraid they can’t master it, because they’re too weak to try.”
“I would be,” the prince said—in an abruptly quiet voice.
I frowned at him.
“I wouldn’t want the power to make a plague or a drought, or…to kill anyone,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t trust myself to hold my temper. Or to undo what I’d done.”
I stared at him, suddenly feeling cold.
He smiled a little, flashed his eyebrows in resignation, and shook his head.
“And, I imagine…” he ventured. “A Curse-Breaker might have some idea about what to do with two people trapped in a certain castle I’ve heard about.”
I didn’t move, and I didn’t say anything. That cold feeling sank down through my gut.
The prince smiled to himself again, then pushed off from the side of the bridge, and took a couple steps toward me. He reached out toward me—
I frowned—
He found my left wrist, pulled my arm toward him, felt for my hand, and pushed the black stone into it. He patted it lightly, then let go of me, and meandered over the bridge.
I just stared after him, the stone still warm from his hand, as my fingers closed around it.
Chapter Eighteen
I awoke too early on the morning of the fourth day.
I opened my eyes, and stared into the low fire, feeling inside me that the sun hadn’t yet come up. My brow slowly furrowed, and I groaned. I shifted painfully, and pressed my hands to my gut, drawing my knees up toward my chest.
These past three days, I had been doing everything in my power to ignore it, but the deep ache in my gut had spread through all my bones, and the hurt that had wracked my body when I fell down the stairs had not faded like it should. If only Baba Yaga would answer me…She would know a potion that could make me feel better…
A black cloud covered my thoughts.
Baba Yaga. Who had written that letter to Mordred…
I twisted, pressing my face into the furs I was lying on, and let out another groan through my teeth.
I pushed myself into a sitting position, feeling a cold sweat break out on my forehead—and my vision blinked in and out once. I sat very still, regulating my breathing, until that sense of dizziness passed. I started to get up…
Sat back down.
I stared into the fire.
I felt so weak. As if I’d been lying in bed with a fever for weeks. And there, behind my heartbeat, I could almost feel the Great Seal. Like something alive and burning, deep inside me, yet as faraway as the moon. It listened to me, saying nothing. Like a panther watching its prey from the darkness.
I gritted my teeth, reached out and braced my hand on a bench, then pushed myself up onto my knees, took a breath, and got all the way to my feet.
My stomach turned over. Maybe if I walked around a bit…
I left the guardroom, taking slow, elderly steps, setting my hand against the chilly wall as I went, and stepped into the Great Hall.
The huge chamber’s cold emptiness greeted me silently, and my shuffling footsteps echoed against the hard walls. The torches burnt low, the shadows deep. I took deep breaths, focusing only on reaching the next pillar in front of me, then the next, then the next…
My toe kicked something. I stopped.
The something skidded away from me on the marble floor, then slid to a stop. I frowned.
It was a book.
I blinked.
It was Mordred’s book.
I hadn’t given it a second thought since the day I arrived. But now that I recalled, I had dropped it when I had turned to a crow, trying to flee. And I hadn’t laid eyes on it again until now.
Wincing, I closed the distance, laboriously bent down, and picked it up. Its cover felt warm. Setting my teeth, I tucked it into my belt, turned around, and made my way back to the guardroom.
I had started sweating icily when I came back to the hearth, and sank down, panting. I pulled one of the rugs off the floor and covered my legs, shivering as I set my shoulder against the side of the fireplace. I lifted my hand and impatiently snapped my fingers, reviving the fire. Slowly, warmth seeped through me, and my quivering calmed. But that low ache would not let me sleep.
I pried the book from my belt, and frowned down at it in my lap. I absently ran my thumb across its plain cover. Then, without thinking much of it, I opened the cover and stared at the first page.
I sat there for a very long time, listening to the crackle of the embers, watching the firelight play across the blank page.
Then, dark spots began to appear on the page. My attention sharpened. And the next moment, the dark spots formed words.
Is that you, Crow?
“Yes,” I muttered, my voice hoarse. “What do you want?”
You’re the one who opened me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I answered flatly. “I’ll close you again.”
As you wish.
And the ink faded away. I rolled my eyes.
“Fine,” I grunted. “Are you truly the Leabhar?”
I am. But I am not what Mordred believes me to be.
I arched an eyebrow.
“What does he believe you to be?”
He believes I know how to make and destroy the Great Seals. It is true, I know how they were made. But I do not know how to unmake them. Neither do I know the greatest secrets of the realm, the world, or life. I was written by Curse-Breakers, who, though wise and mighty, were still only men. They could simply give me the wisdom they themselves had earned through what they had learned and seen.
“Mm,” I sighed. “I don’t suppose you know anything about what I’ve done here, then, do you?”
Yes, I do.
My brow furrowed.
“How?”
The castle told me.
I heaved another sigh, leaning my head back for a moment before giving the book a dark look.
“But I don’t suppose you know what to do about all this?”
Nothing can be done that isn’t already being tried.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Really.”
It is the truth. Prince Krystian is right.
A cold, sinking sensation traveled down through my gut.
“But what if I’m also right?” I murmured. “What if it’s impossible?”
It is only impossible if you make it impossible.
“What?” I cried. “How can I make it impossible? Everyone knows it comes entirely by chance—it can’t be picked or chosen.”
What do you know about it?
I blinked at the impertinence of the book’s tone—regardless of the fact that it didn’t have a voice.
“I…I know some,” I insisted. “I know that it’s an overpowering emotion, that it can drive you mad, make you do things you wouldn’t otherwise do, make you risk your life, make you act like a fool, speak stupidly, and abandon your clan and your friends.”
Could you not say those things about hatred?
I stopped.
“Hatred?”
Yes. Did you not act in that very manner when you attacked Astrum?
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The ink faded away. Then, it returned, more boldly.
It is not simply an overpowering emotion. If it were, it would include every emotion possible: anger, jealousy, sorrow, happiness, loneliness, mischievousness, contentment, confusion, possessiveness. And if emotion were to fade or even disappear, then the power itself would cease to exist. And that is not the case.
“What is it, then?” I demanded.
It is knowledge. It is a decision. And it is a spell.
“What do you mean?”
First, it is knowledge that someone is worth suc
h a decision. And the decision is that this person’s health, well-being and happiness are to be a source of joy and contentment for you. That you will strive to make his happiness complete, and his heart and body safe from all harm. That you will be kind when you are angry, jealous only when justified, sorrowful when he is sad; happy when he is so; lonely without him; mischievous when he needs cheering; content in his company; calm in spirit, and bearing a generous hand. All with purpose. Regardless of emotion, you remain steadfast. It is a careful, deliberate and slowly-grown spell. Like a tree planted in a garden. If left untended in its youth, it will wither and die. If left untended in its strong years, it will overshadow too much of the rest of the garden and starve it of sunlight. If left untended in its old age, its branches will fall and crush its own seedlings. Do you comprehend this kind of spell?
“Of course I do,” I answered. “But where is the power in it?”
It is the most powerful of all spells. When laid correctly, it can revive those turned to stone or to trees, restore those who have been transformed into beasts, open unbreakable doors, and—in its purest form—can undo any curse. And it can be wielded by anyone, whether he knows anything of magic or not.
I stared at the page.
“That can’t be true.”
You saw the Book of Memory for yourself. You may judge as you wish.
I glared at the book.
“You’re very noncommittal,” I accused.
Whether you live or die, Crow, it makes no difference to me. Why should it?
“Fine,” I snapped back. “What am I supposed to do?”
I have told you. Know, and decide. The prince has already made his decision. Have you?
I didn’t feel like eating all day. So I didn’t.
I stayed in the guardroom far into the morning, staring into the fire, having set The Book on the table next to the stone guard. At perhaps noon, I crawled to my feet again, having gotten too stiff, and wandered aimlessly out into the rest of the palace.
With little thought, I made half a round of the rooms, just as the prince had done the past three mornings. I meandered through the Great Hall, the Cloisters, the Hall of Fountains, into the Gardens, and through the great doors into the Ballroom…
Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow Page 13