Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow

by Alydia Rackham

“But…But…” I stammered, almost pulling away. “I didn’t…I didn’t even believe in you! And I hated the Curse-Breakers, and the Guardians—”

  “But I never hated you,” he smiled at me. “And I knew you would hear me someday.”

  “But…” I said again, staring to cry once more. “I’m…I’m dead! What good is all of this now?”

  That uncanny amusement returned to his eyes, twinkling and sparkling.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, as a simple fact. “Mordred the Draid, and the gwiddons and the Curse-Makers—they deal in death. They can create it, they can swallow cities in it. They can cover an entire land in its shadow. But no matter how they try, they cannot give life.” He stepped back from me, but still held my hand. “That, a sheòid, is my trade.”

  My mind spun. I shook my head.

  “You’re right. I don’t understand,” I said helplessly, more tears spilling.

  He gave me an assuring frown and one shake of his head—as if to calm my weeping, and interlaced our fingers again.

  “Come,” he said gently. “Perhaps you could recall the last thing you did before you were slain.”

  A barrage of visions suddenly assaulted me—gritty, dirty, burning, ugly images filled with rending pain and rapid bewilderment…

  “I took the king’s sword,” I said, my eyes shut. “And I broke Mordred’s. And I stabbed him beneath his wing.”

  He said nothing. I opened my eyes. He looked down at me gravely.

  “And…now that you have died?” he asked quietly.

  I stared at him. His hands remained steady on mine. But I felt a quiver pass through me.

  “The spell,” I gasped, my eyes going wide. “The…The people of Astrum—”

  “Yes,” he said, his gaze softening. “Are you not a Curse-Breaker, Crow of Albain?”

  I drew in a low, stunned breath.

  “Am I?” I breathed, frantically curling my fingers around his, now. “I thought…I thought…”

  He leaned a little closer, searching my eyes.

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought only broken curses had the power to—”

  “I decide what is a curse,” he shook his head. “Only I know what brings life or death, or nothing. Not textbooks or teachers—for they only guess. I know…and those who have come here to speak with me know.”

  My gaze flashed.

  “Others have been here before?”

  “A great many,” he assured me.

  “They are here?” I asked.

  He glanced around at the wood, then gave me a sideways look—and a hint of a tease.

  “Do you see anyone else?”

  I looked around too, and then shook my head.

  “No, they are not here,” he said, as if stating the obvious. “They’ve gone back.”

  “Back,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “This is the realm called Cadail, outside the gates of Nèamhan. You could never find your way here from Edel, no matter how far you walked or sailed—unless you broke a curse by your death.” He gazed at me steadily. “And there is no way out of this realm, except back.”

  My lip trembled again, and I tightened my grip on him.

  “Can I not stay with you?” I whispered.

  He beamed at me—and delicious, springtime warmth washed through me.

  “Someday, a sheòid,” he promised softly. “But there are two reasons I must send you back now.” He reached up, and laid his hand to the side of my head. “First, because I have promised to do so for all those who sever the bindings of wicked magic. And second…” His voice softened even more. “Even as we speak, I can hear another child of mine begging for you to be sent back to him. And I wish to honor his faith in me.”

  “Krystian?” I rasped, unable to believe it.

  He nodded.

  “Take care of him. That is the task I give you as you go forth from this place,” he said, an edge to his tone. “Neither Mordred nor Vassilissa are defeated, but their gaze has now turned to Camelot—and another of my kin has awakened to meet them. But there are other fell things in the world, Crow. Far greater evils still sleep. Beware of them—for they shan’t sleep for much longer.”

  “I will,” I promised, though I couldn’t fathom what he truly meant.

  He winked gently at me.

  “You’re a good lass,” he declared, patting my cheek. “With the heart of a wolf.”

  I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head, my breath shaking.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He took a step back from me, releasing my hand with one of his, and holding my fingers until our arms were outstretched.

  “I love you, Crow,” he said. “Go in that knowledge, and your feet shall never waver.”

  New, hot tears spilled down my face.

  “I will,” I said again.

  “Turn about, and look.”

  Reluctantly, I pulled my attention from him, and turned around to face the way I had come…

  To see, far back there, a black iron gate. Beyond which stood an impenetrable darkness.

  The gate hung open.

  His fingers slipped out of my hand.

  A breath of air by my ear.

  “Go,”—the whispered voice, like wind over the ocean, gusted through my hair. I spun around—

  He was gone.

  I stood, my wide eyes straining…

  Only the water murmured. The horse had vanished as well.

  I almost called to him. Almost opened my mouth and shouted into the wood.

  But…

  That was not what he had told me to do. He had told me to go. To go back.

  I faced the gate again.

  “With the heart of a wolf…”

  What would I find there? Who would I find?

  My feet hesitated as I stood ankle deep in the cool, violet flowers. The forest stood in silence, and the mists gathered in around me.

  Still, the gate waited.

  I took a deep breath.

  There was only one way for me to know.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I took a breath.

  Not deep.

  My chest felt heavy again. But it didn’t hurt.

  The air smelled of smoke and ash and burned wood. And…dew. Wet autumn leaves.

  I lay on my back on the ground, on crisp grass. The ground was hard and cold. I could hear…

  I could hear embers crackling, far off.

  And weeping.

  Quiet, shaking sobs. Somewhere nearby.

  I opened my eyes.

  Gradually, my vision focused.

  A wide open sky above me, its hazy pink edges interrupted only by thin, bare branches of surrounding trees. I blinked once, then again. I turned my head, just a little, and looked down the length of my body.

  I wore my ragged black battle clothes, my cape mangled beneath me, all of which felt far more solid and heavy than that flowing black dress…

  A dark blade, gleaming with blood, lay beside my right arm in the grass.

  And a young man sat beside me. His leather clothes scarred open by whip and flame, his hands and face marred by blood and soot, his curls covered in white ash.

  He sat with his knees drawn up, his fingers interlaced, his hands pressed to his lips. Tears made clean tracks in the soot on his cheeks, his brow twisted, his eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead. He rocked back and forth, tears running ceaselessly onto his hands.

  It was Krystian.

  He had stayed beside me. I must have been dead for hours, and Mordred had flown with the night. Yet, here he sat. As if the glorious thought that the spells on his family might be broken hadn’t even entered his head.

  I opened my mouth.

  “Yes.”

  My voice came out hoarse.

  Krystian jerked—a gasp tore through him. His brilliant eyes flew to mine, new tears spilling down.

  I smiled a little, gazing back up at him. I lifted my hand, and reached toward him. He s
tared at me, as if he were in a dream—

  I touched his arm.

  He twitched, and let out a soft cry.

  He grabbed my hand. I squeezed it.

  “Yes,” I repeated. “I will marry you.”

  He fell down upon me—wrapped his arms around me, crushing me to his chest, and pressing heated, desperate kisses to my neck, my scarred cheek—

  My mouth. Over and over, in a fever of relief, drowned in tears. And I freed my arms and bound them around his neck, winding my fingers through his curls.

  And I kissed him back.

  For the first time, I kissed him back.

  I was unleashed. In a frantic, wonderful release, I did what I had wanted to do for so long. And as our mouths moved together in wild, unrestrained giddiness—for I suddenly couldn’t get enough of his warmth, his strength, his scent—

  I could absently hear him gasping my name, and baffled words of “how” and “why” in between each savage kiss. And all at once, I laughed.

  I laughed against his lips, and had to lean my head back to gasp for air, and laugh again.

  “What?” he demanded, still lying mostly on top of me, searching my face with his tear-filled eyes, his arm beneath my neck.

  My laughter calmed to a smile, and I rested my hand against his warm, dirty cheek.

  “Look at the sky, lyubov moya,” I murmured, touching his lips with my thumb. “Look up.”

  He frowned hard, then turned his head to look past the heights of the trees…

  He froze.

  I looked nowhere but him. Watched his awestruck face as a new light filled the sky. A light neither of us had seen for what felt like an eternity.

  Dawn.

  “What…What happened?” he gasped, turning back to stare at me with wide eyes. “What happened?”

  I smiled again at him, running my fingers across his cheekbone.

  “I died,” I said—and I could not keep the triumph from my voice.

  And then—

  A trumpet.

  Like the very voice of the morning—sharp and clear, bright and echoing. It shot through the silence, vibrating the air. It called out into the valley, piercing and vivid, like the shout of a single word.

  Krystian scrambled off me and sprang to his feet, staring back toward the castle.

  “That’s the herald. That’s…” He spun, finding me again.

  I grinned.

  “You mean…” Krystian stammered.

  Slowly, I sat up. Ash and burned grass fell off me. I stretched up my hand toward him.

  “Should we go make sure?” I teased.

  He stood stock still for just another instant—

  Then reached down, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to my feet.

  The next instant, I stood right in front of him, our faces inches apart, sharing breath, staring straight into each other’s eyes. And neither of us could resist. Our mouths collided one more time in reckless relief—

  Then broke apart. He grabbed my hand, and together we charged into the wood.

  As my strides lengthened and I pulled in the deep, rushing breaths of a messenger horse, the aches in my bones and blood vanished. All my injuries were gone, and I felt younger than I had in years. Krystian pelted down the burned forest path right beside me, our arms swinging in unison, our strides matching.

  The trumpet called us again. Ringing through valley and wood. And at the sound of it, Krystian laughed.

  He let out a boyish, crowing, barking laugh—it sailed through the forest as a grin beamed across his face. And both of us pressed our speed.

  Nothing could have slowed us, for somehow, fatigue couldn’t touch us. We flew over the ruined ground, the ash-heaps and fallen trees, leaving footprints behind us in the cinders as if we were running through snow.

  We sped over perhaps two miles of ground, as if carried by the wind, and at last we broke out of the trees and out upon the foot of the palace gardens.

  Krystian skidded to a halt, panting. I stopped beside him.

  The sight before us struck us both speechless.

  The Castle Astrum towered like a mountain of ivory crowned with spires of blue pearl, shining in the full light of the dawn, its vast stained-glass windows flooded with every color in the rainbow. Its striking, noble head seemed to scrape the height of the blue, cloudless heaven. The windows sent reflections flashing down across the snow-draped gardens, and its walls gleamed against the backdrop of the rocky grey peaks of the Eisenzahns.

  As we stood there, the moisture in the air crystalized into a sheen of floating snow, sparkling like curtains of diamonds caught in the sharp golden light, touching our faces with brilliant, fresh cold.

  Just then, a flash of red movement caught our eye, high up on the rampart of the west tower. A blaze of gold shattered our vision—

  And the herald’s trumpet called again. Clear and loud, and urgent.

  “Hey!” Krystian shouted at the top of his lungs, jumping up and down and waving his free arm. “Hey, I’m here! I’m here!”

  The herald, about to utter another blast, sputtered to a stop.

  A startled shout rang out from the battlements. Answered by another. And another.

  Krystian jerked on my hand, and together we charged up the snowy path, kicking through the drifts and leaping up the staircases, taking the steps two at a time. We raced across the short yard, bashed through the door to the cloak room, and squealed our wet, filthy boots against the marble of the ballroom floor.

  Just then, someone else came barging through the other door: a short, skinny servant in hose, flat shoes, a blue shoulder cape and a large, floppy hat with a huge plume.

  He gasped, and his hands flew in the air.

  “Your Royal Highness!” he yelped. “What happened to you?”

  “Tacitus!” Krystian cried joyously, letting go of me, grabbing the servant, flinging his arms around him and lifting him off the ground.

  “Oof!” Tacitus grunted, his eyes going wide. “Your Highness—!”

  Krystian swung him all the way around, then set him down so fast that the servant’s hat fell down over his face.

  “Where is everyone?” Krystian demanded breathlessly, his eyes alight. “Where are they?”

  “Looking for you, sir!” Tacitus spluttered, pushing his hat back onto his head—crookedly. “The queen and the prince are nearly frantic—”

  “August—” Krystian barely had the name out of his mouth before he dashed through the ballroom door. I followed on his heels, trying not to laugh at the bizarre expression Tacitus shot after me.

  “August!” Krystian bellowed, dashing into the garden—

  The garden that was filled with a riot of birds chirping, squawking and screeching. They gusted into the air as he ran through, flapping their colorful wings in a panic to escape. I gawked for just an instant, my heart filling with a sudden delight, then made myself race after the prince.

  “August! August!” he kept calling, swerving through the gardens and shoving through the kitchen door—

  Someone yelped—

  And Krystian crashed directly into another young man.

  I managed to catch the door and hop out of the way to avoid the collision—the other man noisily caught himself against the table with one arm, snatching at Krystian’s tunic with the other.

  The next instant, they’d righted themselves, and stared at each other.

  The stranger looked the same age as Krystian, with long, waving hair the color of deep russet. He had brilliant green eyes, a short beard, and a handsome face. He was resplendent in drapes of dining robes of brilliant emerald and pure ermine. He looked very much like Krystian, but not identical of feature—he looked far less wolfish and more gentle. His impact with Krystian had covered them with soot, and knocked the crown from his head.

  “Gog’s bread, Krystian!” the other man cried. “What has happened to you?”

  “August!” was all Krystian could get out, before embracing his brother and burying his face i
n his collar.

  “What is it?” August exclaimed, grasping him in return. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, not now,” Krystian assured him, new tears falling across his smile as he backed up and took August’s head in his hands. “You’re all right!”

  “Of course I’m all right—all of us are all right, we’re just confused!” August said, as Krystian dropped his hands to August’s shoulders.

  “Callis, Virgil and I woke up in our chairs in the dining hall,” August went on. “And all the food in front of us was rotten! And then none of us could find you anywhere, and now here you are, covered in soot and blood, and with…with…” he looked past Krystian at me, disconcertion flashing in his eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Ah!” Krystian slapped August on the shoulder, backed up and wiped his cheeks with his sleeves. Then, he sniffed, drew himself up, and gestured grandly to me. “Prince August, may I introduce you to Crow…Invictus.” He met my eyes, and held my gaze. “She is a Curse-Breaker.”

  “Crow Invictus?” August breathed. “A Curse-Breaker?”

  My face heated as I imagined what I looked like: scorched hair, blood on my face and clothes, garments ripped and burned, ash all over my skin…

  But all at once, August was looking at me in a way no one had ever looked at me before. He paled, and his eyes grew wide with something like…

  Awe.

  Crow Invictus.

  Unconquered. Undefeated. Invincible.

  A new name.

  My blood thrilled with a strange, foreign joy.

  I inclined my head to August, keeping my face calm, in spite of the surge through my heart.

  “Krystian—what is going on?” August demanded, keeping his eyes fixed on me but grasping Krystian’s forearm.

  “A witch put a spell on the castle,” Krystian explained. “Turned everyone to stone, except me—because I’m the Guardian of the Seal. I just went blind.”

  “Blind!” August cried, finally turning to his brother. “Stone?!”

  “Krystian? I hear him in there—Krystian!” Shouts cut into the conversation as two men barreled through the kitchen door. They wore banquet clothes, too—one in silvery blue, the other in deep red. The one in blue had black hair and bright blue eyes and a beard, and the taller one in red had blond hair and warm brown eyes. They skidded to an inelegant stop to keep from slamming into the table, then gaped back and forth at the three of us.