Cursed

by Frank Miller

  She’d grown used to his smell, a mix of earth and grasses, sweat and something near to cinnamon but more exotic, that she attributed to his bedroll, which had seen many journeys. She’d also memorized the back of his head, the waves of brown hair that lapped over the hood of his tunic and the copper glints it would reveal in the late afternoon sun.

  Nimue’s thoughts drifted. What would it be like to kiss him? What would his arms feel like wrapped around me?

  She suddenly and unexpectedly missed Pym so hard her chest hurt. She could see her dear friend’s pursed lips and flashing eyes, her please don’t get us into trouble look. They could break into hysterics over jokes never spoken.

  It took one look at her fingernails, rusty with blood, to realize she would never be that girl again, and that her thoughts of autumn romance were as childish as one of Pym’s laughing fits.

  FIFTEEN

  MORGAN TURNED THE LOCK ON the back door of the Broken Spear and felt the pain up her wrist. She shifted the bag of spell ingredients she’d collected on her walk that morning to her right shoulder and finished turning the lock with her left hand. Her right wrist was still wrapped in rags to lessen the nagging pain that came from hauling trays of mugs, spilling with ale, for ten hours a day. As she dropped the keys into the pocket of her smock and turned to the road, a swollen rat waddled past her foot. Morgan put the toe of her boot on its tail. The rat squeaked and half rolled onto its back.

  “Are you the one that’s been digging in my corn?” Morgan drew a small dagger and jabbed it through the skull. She cleaned the blade on her smock, sheathed it, plucked up the rat by the tail, and plopped it into her spell bag.

  The white moon was Morgan’s torch as she crossed the lone road of Cinder’s Gate, a village that was merely a prelude to the actual town of Cinder set deeper into the hills of the Minotaur Mountains. Cinder’s Gate was only a handful of farmhouses, a stable with a decent smith, a recently built chapel to the One God, and the Broken Spear for thirsty travelers. The hills on both sides of Cinder’s Gate were thick with forests of spruce, larch, and various pine trees as well as a variety of limestone caves.

  Morgan pulled her hood up and was about to enter the woods when someone whispered her name from a mound of boulders several feet away. Morgan drew her dagger again and took a few steps back. “Who’s there?” She was ever keen to the dangers of the open road and had stabbed holes in more than a few overeager drunks. But her heart jumped just the same as a tall, lanky figure emerged from the shadows of the rocks.

  “Morgan, it’s Arthur.”

  Morgan’s cheeks flushed with relief and a more complicated stew of emotions. “Arthur?”

  He stepped into the moonlight and she shoved him with both hands. “Gods, I nearly jumped out of my skin! That’s not funny! What in the Nine Hells are you doing out here?” Though her tone was harsh, she was happy to see him.

  Arthur gestured for her to lower her voice. “I’m in a bit of trouble.”

  “Lost your trousers at dice again?” Morgan scoffed. “Haven’t I warned you about gambling?”

  “It’s not money,” Arthur said, not playing along.

  “Good, because I don’t have any.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you into this, Morgan. I—truly, I didn’t know where else to go.” Arthur kept glancing back at the rocks.

  Bothered by all the cloak-and-dagger, Morgan changed her tone. “Very well. Get on with it. What have you gotten into now?”

  Chagrined, Arthur called over his shoulder, “It’s all right.”

  Morgan frowned, not expecting more company, particularly not the kind Arthur kept.

  Slowly Nimue crept out from the rocks. She walked toward Morgan until she entered a shaft of moonlight, then pulled back her hood. Her eyes were dark as pits, her cheeks tight against her bones.

  Morgan was unimpressed. “Is she with child or something?”

  “Hardly,” Arthur chuckled without mirth. “Have the paladins been through here yet? Calling out for rewards and the like?”

  Morgan frowned. “I’ve heard some things. Rumors of dead paladins and witchcraft.”

  “Allow me to introduce you to Nimue.” Arthur hesitated. “The Wolf-Blood Witch.”

  Morgan burst into laughter. “You shit. What is going on?”

  “It’s the truth,” Arthur insisted.

  “Where’s your horns, love?” She turned to Arthur. “Her? I think a breeze might blow her over.”

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Nimue said in a flat, threatening tone.

  “Can we discuss the rest indoors?” Arthur asked, craning his neck to the road, then turning back. “It would be safest.”

  Morgan took another beat, brow furrowing and mouth slowly opening as she realized: “You’re serious.”

  Arthur nodded. “I am. Nimue, this is Morgan, my half sister.”

  Morgan took a step back from Nimue as though she suddenly had grown horns. “And you brought her here?”

  “Please, I’ll explain everything, but can we just—just do it inside the tavern?”

  Morgan poured a pot of wine into three tin cups and served two bowls of porridge made from beans, peas, cabbage, and leeks with two hunks of black maslin. Nimue gnawed into the hard bread as Morgan studied her. Arthur finished his cup of wine in one swallow and pushed it toward Morgan for another pour.

  “She doesn’t say much, does she?” Morgan observed, obliging Arthur.

  “Normally, she never shuts up.”

  Nimue kicked Arthur under the table, causing him to grimace.

  “There’s a girl,” Morgan said approvingly. “Arthur definitely needs a good kick now and again. I think I like you.”

  Nimue turned suspicious eyes on Morgan as Morgan sat down across from her.

  “How is it?” Morgan asked, gesturing to the porridge.

  “Good,” Nimue said with her mouth full. Then she added, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Morgan sipped her wine, considering Nimue. Then she leaned forward. “Is it true? Did you kill those Carden bastards?”

  Nimue looked up at Morgan from her porridge bowl. After a beat, she nodded.

  “Good for you,” Morgan said with deep satisfaction. She looked at Arthur and then back to Nimue. “How many?”

  Nimue thought about it. “Ten. I think. Maybe more.”

  Morgan sat back in disbelief. “Ten?” She again turned to Arthur, who nodded. Now it was Morgan’s turn to empty her cup. She refilled it. “How?”

  Nimue looked at Arthur, and he shrugged. “I trust her,” he said.

  With that, Nimue stood and drew the Sword of Power from the sheath slung on her back. Whether a trick of the candles or something more mysterious, the empty tavern filled with a sudden light before darkening again as Nimue placed the blade on the table under Morgan’s wide eyes.

  Morgan stood, eyes devouring the sword. She touched it lightly, fingers grazing over the rune on the pommel. “The Devil’s Tooth,” she whispered.

  Nimue frowned. “The Devil’s Tooth?”

  “Do you know what this is?” Morgan breathed, awestruck.

  “I’ve heard that name. It was the sword from the old stories. The first sword,” Nimue said, seeing the glow in Morgan’s eyes. “No, come on. This can’t be.”

  Morgan traced the runic symbols. “These are the elemental four circles. Water. Fire. Earth. Air. Bound together in the fifth circle. The root that binds. This is the first sword, forged in the Fey Fires. The Sword of the First Kings. Where did you find this?”

  Nimue turned grim. “It was my mother’s. She gave it to me when—when the Red Paladins came to my village.”

  “Incredible. Just incredible. You’re Sky Folk, aren’t you? Or do you prefer Sun Dancers?” Morgan asked.

  “Sky Folk. How do you know?”

  “I’ve become a bit of an expert,” Morgan said without elaborating. “Did your mother say where she found this?”

  “No,” Nimue said. “She bade me bring it to someone na
med Merlin. I know it sounds mad, but I think she meant Merlin the Magician.”

  “Not mad at all,” Morgan said, staring at the blade. “Something like this, it makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Wait, are you suggesting Merlin is real? And alive somehow?”

  Arthur nodded. “The Arab traders know him. Know of him, at least. They say he spends his days as a black dog and steals away children to some kind of castle underground.”

  “That’s idiotic.” Morgan rolled her eyes.

  “And you’re the big expert on Merlin, are you? Broken Spear regular, is he?” Arthur asked.

  “Kiss my ass, Arthur.”

  Arthur turned to Nimue. “You’ll learn quickly that Morgan knows everything and we’re all fools.”

  “Not all, just you,” she corrected.

  Definitely brother and sister, Nimue thought.

  “I hope by now you’ve learned to ignore him,” Morgan said to Nimue. “Pretty to look at but not much going on upstairs.”

  Arthur took an angry gulp of wine.

  Morgan looked back and forth between Nimue and Arthur in disbelief. “Aren’t you a pair? Merlin is only the most feared sorcerer of this age. Of any age, for that matter. He’s mentioned in historical records dating back to the fall of Rome. He’s hundreds of years old.”

  “Fey Kind?” Nimue asked.

  “Druid,” Morgan answered. “A priest of the Old Gods. I mean, who knows really? Perhaps he has ancient Fey blood or giant’s blood or is half god. But he knows Fey magic, of course. And sorcery. And necromancy. And conjuration. He knows all of it. He’s the very history of magic in one man. They say he commands the oceans and the skies.”

  “Now who sounds idiotic?” Arthur chimed back in.

  “Well, he’s rumored to be a counselor to King Uther Pendragon, for one. So he must think Merlin has something to offer. And he’s supposedly, perhaps even more important, master of the Shadow Lords.”

  “What are they? What are the Shadow Lords?” Nimue asked, feeling more and more ignorant by the minute.

  “The great ring of magical spies who secretly control us all,” Arthur mocked.

  “Uch, just get drunk and fall asleep already,” Morgan spat. “Arthur fears what he doesn’t understand. I believe in them. Since the rise of the Church, the real wizards and witches have all gone into hiding. It is a society of magic hidden within ordinary society. Each Shadow Lord holds a dominion: the beggars or the forgers or the bankers, even.”

  Morgan’s smile faded and she looked upon Nimue’s wide eyes with rising sympathy. “Oh, Nimue, you haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’ve set into motion, have you?”

  “How do we reach Merlin?” Nimue pressed.

  “Wherever he is, I assure you he’s far from this forgettable outpost.” Arthur smiled at Morgan, then emptied his wine cup.

  Morgan thought for a moment, then poured herself another cup of wine. “Perhaps there is a way to make Merlin come to us.”

  “Come to us?”

  Morgan nodded. “If your conditions are met.”

  Nimue squinted with confusion. “I have conditions?”

  “Of course you do. You are the Wolf-Blood Witch and you wield the Devil’s Tooth. That makes you powerful. And power is the only thing men crave.” Arthur started to interrupt, but Morgan continued, “You are in a position to bargain, Nimue, for your survival, for your people’s survival.”

  Nimue had not thought of any of this. Being branded the Wolf-Blood Witch felt like a death sentence, and until now she hadn’t imagined another side to it. For the first time in days she felt the stirrings of hope. This Morgan was not to be underestimated. “If Merlin is as great as you claim, won’t he see through these lies?”

  Morgan sat up and studied the sword again. She rubbed her hand down the neck of the blade and then showed Nimue the blood stained on her hand. “Is this paladin blood?” she asked.

  Nimue nodded.

  “What lies? You are the Wolf-Blood Witch and you have brought fear to those red devils. You wield the Sword of Power and you will not part with it unless Merlin meets your demands.”

  Nimue looked around the simple tavern. “You seem very confident.”

  “Oh”—Morgan sipped her wine—“you’ll find I’m full of surprises, Nimue. But if I help you, I’ll expect you to offer something to me in return.”

  “What is that something?”

  “You’ll see.” Morgan smiled.

  SIXTEEN

  MAKING SURE THE ROAD IN cinder’s Gate was clear of any late-night travelers, Morgan led Arthur and Nimue south into the forested hills. “No torches and no talking,” she ordered, then walked ahead of them on sure feet, her brown hood making her difficult to see in between the shafts of moonlight that illuminated the ground like stepping-stones. The only sounds were the soft crunches of their boots over the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. Nimue had trouble finding any path at all and lost Morgan several times as the barmaid ducked under fallen trees and crossed trickling streams without breaking stride. They hiked like this for close to an hour, at a steady incline, until Nimue’s cheeks stung from scratches, her lungs burned, and her feet ached.

  Then suddenly Morgan stopped and held up a hand. Arthur and Nimue waited. The forest was very dark. There were no visible structures apart from the towering pines and unusual rock formations, suggesting they had climbed onto one of the vast horns of the Minotaur Mountains. It was cold, and Nimue pulled her peasant’s cloak tightly around her shoulders as something rustled in the branches above their heads. Arthur’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, but Morgan shook her head. The “something” leaped with great agility from branch to branch, a dozen feet above their heads, before vanishing into the dark. Too fast for a bear, too large for a bird or a cat.

  “What was that?” Nimue whispered.

  A distant croak was her answer. It sounded like the frogs in the glade near her home on the barrow. After another set of croaks, Morgan waved them on. As they walked, Nimue sensed dozens of eyes upon them. She wasn’t sure if Arthur could sense it too. Shadows rippled near a downed pine. Morgan paid these strange observers no mind as she led Arthur and Nimue to a wall of rock draped in a veil of leafy vines. The floor of pine needles rose up and to the west.

  Nimue was prepared for another climb, but the veil of vines abruptly parted, revealing two girls, blanketed in capes of leaves, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind the veil was a small cave mouth. Without explanation, Morgan ducked and entered. Nimue followed but kept her eyes on the girls, who looked tired and frightened.

  A few steps into the cave it became impossible to see, and Nimue struck her head on a low-hanging rock. On instinct, she reached back for Arthur and found his hand. His fingers clasped hers for a moment before she pulled away.

  Nimue followed the sound of Morgan’s skirts rustling between narrow walls. Whispers and murmurs echoed off the walls, old voices and young, and as the cave breathed, it sent a gust of smells for Nimue to decipher: pig manure and urine, a variety of highland grasses, goatskins, pepper and cloves, yew and alder, damp leaves, dried lilies and irises, sour ale, tallow, mildew, salted beef, bay leaf, sage and thyme and sweat ripe with fear.

  “It’s safe,” Morgan whispered in the dark.

  A black cloth was pulled away from a lantern, casting a flickering orange glow across a sea of faces. Bodies of all shapes and sizes huddled on the floor or sat against the jagged walls. There were at least a hundred, maybe more. The cave was low but wide and reached beyond the light into distant chambers. Nimue’s breath left her. They were all Fey Kind. They were all her people, and all were refugees from Carden’s pyres.

  Her voice choked as she tried to say, “They’re so beautiful.” It was a painful yet inspiring homecoming to a place she’d never been, to a family she’d never known. Some of the clans were so rare that Nimue had never seen them before. Clans like the shy Cliff Walkers—mountain folk, the men wearing thick helms of ram horn and the women wit
h intricate scar patterns of interlocking circles on their arms. Or the Snakes—who worshipped the night and lived in floating huts on the glade rivers. Their children hid beneath capes of rat skins, and the men and women peered out from masks of stretched bat wings, their faces painted with guano. Storm Crafters were tattooed head to toe and reputed for their rain summoning, while the Moon Wings communed with night birds and were blood enemies of the Snakes. Their young lived in the forest canopy, in rookeries, for ten years before their feet touched earth. One of the children stroked the head of an enormous gray owl as she stared at Nimue with fierce, suspicious eyes. The Tusks worshipped the boar and were equally hot-tempered. Fauns wore antlers, rode giant bucks as mounts, and were outstanding archers. There were even Plogs, tunnel dwellers, who had evolved to lives of perpetual darkness and labor. Their hands were two-fingered, thick, clawed, and calloused, and most were blind. They were the stuff of Fey child nightmares, though Lenore had taught Nimue that the Plogs were shy creatures who preferred grubs and roots to flesh.

  There were still more from clans that Nimue did not recognize. It was all so overwhelming. Add in the combination of the confining cave walls, the warmth and thick air, the fear, and the exhaustion; Nimue swayed, and Morgan had to steady her to prevent her from falling.

  Morgan and Arthur led her down a series of tunnels until they reached a small alcove with room for a straw mat and a lantern. Nimue’s fists were wrapped tightly around the grip of the sword as she allowed herself to be guided down to the mat. As her eyes closed, she felt herself being swept into a deep and alluring darkness.

  She dreamt of fire.

  Nimue’s eyes popped open. The first thing she saw was Arthur seated against the wall, studying the maps they had stolen from the Red Paladins. He looked up at her.

  “You slept almost two days,” he told her.

  Nimue slapped the ground around her. “The sword.” She searched frantically. “Where is the sword?”

  “Relax, we’re okay. It’s here.” Arthur showed her a nook in the rock beside her straw mat. Inside was the Sword of Power, wrapped in a cloth. Nimue calmed at the sight of it, though her head was foggy with images from her dreams, curious yet frightening faces staring at her from the darkness.