Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  Copyright © 2020 by Jordan Rivet

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contact the author at Jordan@JordanRivet.com

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  Book cover design by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

  Map by Jordan Rivet

  Curse Painter, Art Mages of Lure Book 1/ Jordan Rivet – First Edition: September 2020

  Created with Vellum

  For Mom,

  who taught me to love books

  And for Dad,

  who got me hooked on fantasy

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Interlude

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Interlude

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Interlude

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Duel of Fire Excerpt

  Also by Jordan Rivet

  This story begins with a curse. It was a little curse, not strong enough to maim an enemy or destroy a livelihood. It wasn’t the type of curse the authorities would bother to prosecute once they’d met their quota for the month. It wasn’t even the type of curse to keep its creator up at night in a cold sweat after inflicting a little more evil on the world. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be that type of curse.

  Unfortunately, in the business of adding tiny bits of evil to the world, even with the best intentions, sometimes things could go terribly awry.

  Chapter 1

  Rough bark scratched Briar’s legs as she climbed the maple tree next to the finest house in Sparrow Village. Her paint satchel swung against her hip, the jars inside jingling faintly. She tried not to look down. The ground was too far away already.

  Afternoon shadows advanced from the woods behind the property, swallowing up the stable and creeping toward the whitewashed house. Briar held her breath as she climbed past the expensive glass windows. The house’s inhabitants, servants included, should still be away at the summer fair. Hopefully, the place was empty—and would stay empty until Briar finished the job.

  She edged along a stubby branch jutting toward the second floor of the house. The limb creaked, and the leafy canopy rustled threateningly. Trying to ignore the sounds, Briar wrapped her legs around the end of the branch, opened a jar of brown-ochre paint, and selected a long-handled brush from the bundle in her satchel. Then she braced herself against the clay-shingled roof and began the painstaking work of painting a curse.

  Stroke by stroke, the image of a fine house with a peaked roof took shape. The oil paint glistened as it spread from the horsehair brush, brown ochre standing out against the whitewashed boards. The familiar smell of linseed oil soothed Briar’s nerves, and she relaxed into her task. She’d practiced the complex design on canvas to prevent mistakes. Each brushstroke required precision and a steady hand, though that got harder the longer she balanced precariously between earth and sky.

  She hadn’t planned on climbing any trees for the job. She’d spotted a ladder when she’d scouted the place a few days ago and had designed the curse for a shadowy spot beneath the eaves. If she painted it too close to the ground, the gardeners would notice and wipe away the paint before the jinx took effect. More importantly, they would know who was responsible. Briar had already given the local authorities too many reasons to distrust her. Unfortunately, the ladder had been missing when she’d arrived to carry out the job, and the maple tree leaning aggressively toward the house had been her only alternative.

  As Briar painted, knots jabbed her thighs through her green wool skirt, and twigs poked into her thick hair. She clutched the clay shingles, trying to ignore the dizzying drop below. Painting curses took concentration. This one wasn’t nearly as dangerous as some she knew, but she couldn’t afford any errors.

  She finished the shape of the house and used blue smalt to add windows, their placement roughly the same as the windows on the real house. Cursing objects was always simpler than cursing people. To affect a human, Briar had to paint an item of clothing they wore often or touch a cursed canvas or stone to their skin long enough for the spell to stick. Getting caught was all too easy, but many curses could be painted right onto inanimate targets—assuming she could reach them without breaking her neck.

  This particular curse wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it was the most interesting piece of magic Briar had executed in months, her perilous position making it all the more stimulating. Her blood heated in her veins, and her fingers tingled with magic, with the sizzling rush of creation. It was going to be a good one. She could feel it.

  The local blacksmith had doubted her abilities when he’d hired her for the job. Her clients rarely believed she could live up to her reputation at the sight of her paint-smudged hands and humble clothes.

  “I’ve heard downright perplexing things about you and your … profession, but you look awful young,” the blacksmith had said at their furtive meeting in his smithy the week before. “Can you really help?”

  “Possibly.” Briar pushed her dark, frizzy hair out of her eyes, poised to flee at any hint that it was a setup. It wouldn’t be the first. “I hear you want to curse Master Winton.”

  “Aye, the merchant. Five weeks I spent on a bleedin’ suit of armor at his bidding, and he refused to pay fair wage. Claimed it wasn’t ornate enough. I have young’uns to feed.”

  “Have you gone to the sheriff?”

  “That loiter-sack?” The blacksmith spit in the dirt beside his anvil. “He and Winton are close personal friends.”

  Briar took a horsehair paintbrush out of her satchel and twirled it between her fingers, the bristles tickling her damp palm. “Where is the armor now?”

  “On display in Lord Barden’s manor.” The blacksmith eyed the paintbrush nervously. “Winton claimed it wasn’t worth the price then gave it to his lordship himself as a bleedin’ present. Now I’m out the coin and the steel.”

  “And you want revenge?”

  The blacksmith glanced at the summer-bright path outside his smithy and lowered his voice. “It’s not just for me, you see. I have daughters. I want to show them we don’t take abuse from rich bastards what think they can get away with it.”

  Briar noted the blacksmith’s frayed trousers, the patches on his boots. A wreath of wildflowers hung on the smithy door, the petals wilting in the heat. She imagined the little girls collecting the blooms and clumsily tying them together to brighten their father’s workplace. The blacksmith’s daughters woul
d have less to eat that winter because of Winton’s greed. Briar liked jobs that brought a little justice for ordinary folks—or at least payback.

  She tucked her paintbrush behind her ear and stuck out a hand. “I’m in. Tell me about Master Winton’s house.”

  The blacksmith had described the property situated on a spacious lot at the edge of Mere Woods—two stories tall, expensive clay shingles, clear glass windows. And no ladders, apparently.

  Perching in the maple tree was becoming less comfortable by the minute. Briar switched from blue smalt to malachite green and began adding vines to the image. She would twine them around the painted house as thick as ivy and add colorful flowers at key points along their lengths. The curse would make the pitch sealing the house against moisture slowly disintegrate. By the coldest months of winter, the roof would leak, and wind would howl through the cracks. She would make Master Winton pay, though he would never know his ill fortune was a result of his cheating ways.

  Briar was proud of the curse’s subtlety, but the intricate vines were taking too long. She should have prepared an easier design. Her arms ached from bracing herself against the roof, and the distance between the tree and the wall seemed to grow with each stroke. She began to sweat, the paintbrush slipping in her grasp.

  As she paused to open a jar of yellow ochre, she detected movement out of the corner of her eye and froze. Someone was there.

  No. Not now. She held her breath, struggling against a powerful urge to run. She couldn’t be caught, but she couldn’t leave the curse as it was either. Without the final stroke, the little image beneath the eaves would be no more than a pretty picture.

  She peered through the thick maple leaves, hardly daring to blink. The grassy expanse between the house and the woods was deserted except for the creeping afternoon shadows. Yet she felt someone watching her.

  A horse snorted inside the stable, and magpies chattered in the trees, but she detected no movement, no other sound.

  Telling herself she was jumping at shadows, Briar resumed her work. The jars rattled in her satchel as she switched between yellow ochre and vermilion, adding flowers to the vines. Curse painting required a strict stroke order, and she couldn’t rush the process, but her brush kept slipping as she juggled two colors and her awkward position. She put the paintbrush in her teeth and clenched her legs tighter around the branch so she could grip the vermilion jar with both hands. The lid was stuck. Knots dug deeper into her thighs as she teetered on the stubby tree branch.

  Movement again, a flicker of blue. This time, the shadows took on shape and substance. She wasn’t imagining it after all. Someone was standing next to Winton’s stable. She could just make him out through the leaves—a tall man in an indigo coat looking right at her.

  Briar’s heartbeat spiked, and her limbs quivered, making it harder than ever to keep her perch. She wanted to scramble out of the tree and run for it, but she didn’t know what the stranger would do if she tried. She stared at him, as motionless as a sparrow facing a tree snake.

  Seconds ticked past. The tall man didn’t leave the shelter of the stable. His shock of blond hair was visible even in the shadows, and he held something long and thin in his hand.

  Could he be Master Winton’s gardener? The merchant was a nasty fellow, according to the blacksmith, but would his man really stand back and allow him to be hexed? Briar could be planning to burn the house to the ground with the family inside, for all the gardener knew.

  Her legs shook hard enough to rustle the branches. She would attract the attention of passersby if she kept on like that. She couldn’t do anything about the stranger. She had to finish the job.

  The jar of vermilion popped open at last. Briar rushed the last few strokes of the curse and messed up two flowers. She repaired them with a few quick flicks of the hard edge of the paintbrush, sweat dropping from her forehead to the earth below. One more petal, and the curse would be complete.

  She dipped the brush in the jar and brought it, dripping red, to the wall. The branch groaned beneath her as she stretched toward the farthest corner of the painting for the final stroke.

  Suddenly, the stranger stepped out of the shadows. He held a longbow, an arrow already nocked. The action startled her, and her hand slipped, leaving a long red slash down the curse painting. Briar gasped and scrambled for more paint to counteract the slash. Before she could fix it, there was a loud crack, and the branch gave way beneath her. Leaves and twigs lashed Briar’s face as she tumbled from the tree and hit the ground hard. Paint jars crunched beneath her.

  She stared up at the shivering branches, winded and shocked. She had fallen. She had actually fallen. Leaves drifted above her, floating on the late-summer breeze.

  Don’t just lie there! You’ll be caught for sure.

  She sucked in a breath and forced herself to sit up. Paint and shards of glass covered her shirt. As she brushed them away, pain shot through her wrist. Her left arm had taken the brunt of the impact. She tried to rotate her wrist, and agony lanced through her. She clenched her teeth to keep from vomiting, black spots dancing before her eyes.

  If her arm was broken, she wouldn’t be able to work for months. She couldn’t afford such an injury. She would lose her home, everything she’d built from the remnants of her old life. She should have abandoned the job at the first sign of trouble.

  A creaking sound reminded her of the precise curse marred with a broad slash of vermilion. The house gave a deep, ominous groan. She sifted through her curse painting knowledge, trying to work out what that slash was likely to do—and how soon. Every stroke had meaning, and that one …

  The creaking came again, loud and insistent. Briar realized what was about to happen and leapt to her feet. She didn’t have much time. She snatched up as many broken jars as she could, shoveling the oily glass into her satchel with her good hand, then bolted away from the house. Running jostled her injured arm, and tears filled her eyes.

  The stranger in the indigo coat retreated into the shadows as she darted past. He looked young, with a high forehead, sharp mouth, and dark, quirked eyebrows. The longbow remained undrawn, and he didn’t try to stop her.

  Briar reached the shelter of the woods just as a roaring, squealing sound startled the magpies from their nests. She looked back.

  The house teetered, two stories of whitewashed timber and fine clay shingles swaying like laundry in a stiff breeze. Iron nails began to ping out of the boards one by one, disappearing in the long grass around the house.

  Don’t.

  More nails loosened, fell, scattered.

  Please, no.

  But it was too late. The final nail popped free, and the house gave a moan like a dying animal. The walls buckled, glass windows bursting, clay shingles cracking and sliding. Then the entire structure collapsed with a thunderous crash.

  Dust billowed into the sky, and splinters scattered across the grass. Briar crouched behind a craggy oak tree, horror consuming her. This can’t be happening. Magpies wheeled overhead, cawing and scolding from a safe distance.

  The dust cleared slowly, unveiling the damage from her botched curse. Somewhere beyond the stable, the stranger gave a low whistle. Nothing was left of the house but a pile of rubble beside a triumphant maple tree.

  A whimper escaped Briar’s lips. She had worked so hard to set up a new life there, a fresh start peddling quiet, nonlethal curses. Yes, her work was illegal, but she tried not to hurt anyone. She’d even dared hope she might make amends for the things she’d done before. This would destroy her efforts, drawing attention she couldn’t afford, maybe enough to attract the notice of the people she’d left behind.

  No. She refused to contemplate that possibility. She would run again. She would start over as many times as it took to keep them from catching up with her.

  Trying not to rub her paint-covered clothes on anything, she pulled her satchel to her chest and fled into the woods.

  Archer emerged from the shadows of the stable and admired the spli
ntered ruin.

  He had never seen a curse painter work so meticulously—especially from fifteen feet in the air—nor produce such dramatic results. Not a single whitewashed board or pane of glass remained intact. Willem Winton’s fine house looked much better bashed into tiny pieces. Archer wondered what the old charlatan had done to make that slip of a girl want to curse the place into oblivion.

  “Who cares why she did it?” He slung his bow onto his back at a jaunty angle. “It was brilliant work.”

  Archer had heard a curse painter lived in those parts, but he hadn’t expected to meet her there. He’d just wanted to engage in a little casual burglary while he was in the neighborhood. Instead, he’d stumbled upon a better prize than gold candlesticks and Mistress Winton’s jewels. That girl could be the answer to all his problems.

  He turned toward the woods and whistled a high, piercing note. A large dog loped through the trees, shadows dappling its short gray fur. Archer knelt beside the dog and scratched the folds on its neck.

  “What do you think, Sheriff? Can you follow her for me?”

  The dog whined and rubbed his wrinkly head against Archer’s knee, smearing slobber on his breeches, then he trotted over to the maple tree to sniff out the girl’s scent among the broken paint jars.

  Archer picked up a large glass shard covered in green paint and pocketed it. The curse painter had worked with impressive stealth, at least until the end. He only noticed her perched in the tree when her luminous eyes caught the light, and she stared at him like a large, frizzy-haired owl. She had such power.