Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow Read online

  “I will,” she grunted, laboriously rising to her feet. “If food is provided.”

  “I shall have my kitchen prepare the finest meals for you, and you’ll sleep in the quarters designated for the queen, as I have no such partner yet.”

  “Oh, who would marry you?” Baba Yaga jibed.

  “Why, you would, if I asked you,” Mordred grinned at her.

  “You flatter me, draid,” she cackled. “What of Crow?”

  “Crow, you will remain here,” Mordred said, looking down at me. “And you will keep that book with you at all times until I come to retrieve it, or I will kill you where you stand.”

  I glared at him.

  “I’m not a fool,” I shot back. “I would have done that even without your threat.”

  “It isn’t a threat,” Mordred said simply. “It’s a promise.”

  I didn’t answer him. He turned toward the fireplace and straightened his coat.

  “Best get to work,” he advised. “The Seal must be broken by this time next week. Our spells should be in place by then. Keep in touch.”

  I still said nothing. Baba Yaga reached over and patted my head.

  “I have faith in you, vnuchka,” she smiled. “You will make me proud.”

  “Thank you, Babushka,” I said, keeping my eyes strictly away from Mordred.

  “Remember,” Baba Yaga held up a finger. “Do not forget the lineages. We hold them to no esteem—but our foes value them more than life.”

  I frowned, but nodded once.

  “Your hand, my lady,” Mordred said, holding his white palm out toward Baba Yaga.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, and wrapped her gnarled fingers around his. Mordred glanced down at me, his silvery eyes flashing.

  “Goodbye,” he said.

  And he and Baba Yaga dissolved into black smoke.

  They swirled like a cyclone, writhing and twisting, then wound their way up the chimney, and disappeared.

  I sat for a long time in the silence, watching the fireplace where they had vanished. Then, I set the book aside, pulled the table back in front of me, and finished my meal before it got cold.

  After that, I performed a simple cleaning spell, put my dishes away, made the guest chair sink back onto the floor, came back and prodded the fire. The flames leaped high, and warmth spilled over my boots. I tossed another log in, then snapped my fingers and lit the hanging lamp by my armchair. Sighing, I sat back down, stretched my legs out in front of me, and took up the book again. I opened it to the first page.

  It was blank.

  My brow furrowed.

  “Hello?”

  Hello.

  I cleared my throat.

  “What is your name?”

  My name is Leabhar. I am The Book.

  “Who made you?”

  The Caldic Curse-Breakers.

  “How do you know me?” I wondered.

  I know all beings in this world, alive and dead.

  I bit the inside of my lip.

  “Tell me how the Great Seals were made.”

  Do you wish to know the truth?

  “Yes, of course I do,” I insisted. “Why else would I ask?”

  Very well. The realm of Edel had been swallowed by shadow. This time was called The Curtain. Curse-Breathers had arisen and overwhelmed the servants of light, binding them in curses and spells, ensnaring the borders of the kingdoms, causing wars to erupt amongst brothers. The Source Himself summoned the Curse-Breakers and sent them to stand upon the pulse points of Edel. Then, he journeyed Beneath, and gave his life in sacrifice to the Dragon. But his death fractured the Fountains of the Deep, and his blood mingled with the water. The water surged up through the Mountain of Maith and spilled down across the land. At the same moment, his power, channeled by his Curse-Breakers, pushed up through the earth where each of them stood, and each Curse-Breaker used this force to create a mighty Seal of protection. The breaking of the Fountains broke the Dragon’s curse, and the Source was restored to life. The Curse-Breakers then bound each Seal to the lifeblood of the royal family nearby, and charged each true ruler with the protection of that Seal, a task to be passed down through the bloodline.

  I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes.

  “I could have read this in a book of fairy tales,” I muttered. “Be more realistic.”

  What is it that you find doubtful?

  “The Source is dead. Everyone knows that,” I answered, gesturing vaguely. “The water is just latent magic from the days before the Curtain, and it power is fading.”

  The Book went blank.

  I thumped the page with my finger.

  “Be more realistic about the Seals,” I demanded. “And specific.”

  If you do not accept my premise, then what I tell you has no foundation. We have no frame of reference from which to understand each other.

  I released another sigh.

  “All right, I will acknowledge the death and resurrection of the Source as legend,” I said. “Now, tell me.”

  The previous ink bled away. And it returned in one word:

  No.

  “No?” I cried. “Why not?”

  The ink faded.

  And none replaced it.

  I shut the book and threw it on the ground. It bounced away from me across the bearskin rug.

  “That isn’t Leabhar,” I scoffed. “Mordred’s a fool.” I stood up, and kicked the book across the floor as I walked back toward my bedroom. “It’s just a stupid Answer-Back book. I could make another one just like it for him in two hours…”

  I shut myself in my room and lit the candles and lamps, and glanced around. It wasn’t a large room: it had a single window hung with leather curtains, a narrow bed covered in skins, a woven rag-rug on the wooden floor, and the left and right-hand walls had been built in with bookshelves. Several battered trunks stood in the corner.

  I lit extra lamps beside the bookcases, peering at the spines as I passed the hundreds of packed volumes. I grabbed one book, jerked it out, and tossed it on the floor behind me. I grabbed another, and another, and another. Their covers slapped together as each one landed. Then, I went to the top trunk, flung open the lid, and dug out a piece of parchment, ink, and a pen. Then, I came back to the center of the room, sat down cross-legged, snatched up the first book, opened it and set to work.

  It took me four days.

  With aching neck and back, I poured over the volumes, checking and checking again. The first volume was The Book of Common Curses; the second: The Foundations of Ancient Magic; the third: The Master’s Curse Book; the fourth: Natural Spells, the fifth: Blood Spells.

  I carefully made lists on the parchment, drawing out steps one, two, three and so on. I counted ingredients, muttered words. Interchanged some, rejected others. Added more.

  I stopped working when the sun arose, ate, and slept. I performed refresher spells rather than sponging myself off or washing my clothes. I didn’t have time to dally. I gave myself a headache every night, and rejoiced when I could lie down amidst the bearskins and relax the muscles in my neck. But the dusk came all to quickly, and I forced myself to arise, eat again, and hunch over my work once more.

  Soon, I was able to confirm my initial conclusion: that any magic specifically found in the Book of Common Curses or The Master’s Curse Book would not suffice against a Seal or any guardian, since the seals had been specifically designed to withstand them. In fact, casting one of them could prove deadly to me.

  I also concluded that many blood spells and natural could be executed to act like curses. It was the one weakness, the loophole that the Caldic Curse-Breakers had forgotten. Indeed, Baba Yaga often told me that the Curse-Breakers of this day and age bitterly regretted that their predecessors had not included spells that bore fatal consequences as curses, also.

  These would do nicely for me. And once I had the words aligned, the work would all be in the casting. I wouldn’t even have to set foot in Astrum.

  I flew with the rolled parchment
in my beak, over the jagged roof of the forest, toward the gap in the mountains where the river ran. I carried Mordred’s book in a pouch in my claws. If he wanted it later, fine. He’d find me with it and I would give it to him. I wasn’t about to die over something so silly.

  Silvery moonlight poured down over the pines, glistening against the white stones that dotted the foothills. My feathers rustled through the chill air. Fog hung in the wooded paths, shrouding the tiny villages that stood in the narrow clearings. I beat my wings and picked up my speed, arching higher and higher, swooping beneath the low clouds.

  At last, I spotted the low, jagged foothill of Mount Stell, the craggy peak that wreathed Astrum in its arms. This foothill rose up to half the mountain’s height, and overlooked a small valley, on the other side of which, at a great height, stood the castle.

  I plunged down, cutting through the frosty wind, swooped between the trees, flung out my wings…

  Transformed back to a human with a furious rush, and my booted feet struck the frost-covered stone of the Maven Overlook. The pouch with Mordred’s book tumbled to a stop next to me.

  Silence fell all around me. I took the parchment from my mouth and drew in a deep breath, then let it out. It clouded around my head in vapor. I cast a look around. Behind me stood the ruins of the Maven Watchtower, used long ago in the War of the Gemstones. Now it lay dead, its stones asunder and covered over in brown ivy and moss, the bones of its slain watchmen picked clean by the birds.

  Unmoved, I turned my gaze away from it, and down into the valley before me.

  Far, far across, clouded by mist, the face of Mount Solem arose like a great wall. In the depths of the valley, between Solem and Stell, like a great crack in the earth, wove the Sopor River, its edges frozen, trees crowding its banks. I traced the upward slant of the foothills of Stell with my sharp gaze, watching the ripples in the forest and the protrusions of the stones, until I found the Castle Astrum.

  There it stood, as if it had grown from the living stone of the mountain. Dozens of piercing towers, like arrows poised to launch to the heavens, their caps blue as sapphire, their stone white as snow. Balconies and arched corridors adorned its walls like lace, colored windows decorated it like jewelry. But all those windows lay dark, for none inside were awake, save the watchman—and I could glimpse his single torch from one of the tower tops, winking like the faraway eye of an owl.

  I smiled to myself.

  He would be the first to be surprised, then.

  I unrolled the parchment, glancing across my careful writing by the light of the moon. As I did, a snowflake landed upon my glove. I glanced up. The sky was clear, but the low-hanging mist had begun to crystalize, filling the air with a deep and intimate silence.

  I backed up, just two steps. I held up the parchment in my right hand, staring across at the castle, my jaw clenching.

  Then, I flung the parchment down onto the stone in front of me.

  It burst into flame.

  A raging green fire blazed up from it. I flung my right hand out, palm open, and spoke the first written words aloud, biting off each consonant, chanting each musical vowel. I spoke the curse in the ancient language of magic: undiluted, potent and irrevocable.

  “Let all those in Astrum, let all those

  in the Castle of Stars

  Let them all fall asleep, a sleep unwakeable

  Till the dawning of the second day from hence

  Till the sun arises on that day, let no man or woman

  Nor child or creature, nor anything that creeps or crawls

  Open its eyes from sleep, nor stir in its slumber.”

  Just then, the little light from the torch high on the watchtower faltered. And as I stared, fixed, the light fell, and vanished.

  I stretched out my hand toward the sky.

  “Let great clouds cover the sky over Astrum

  Let a heavy darkness shroud the stars from their sight

  Hide the face of the moon, envelope the cathedral of the sky above

  And shield the light from the face of the castle.

  Let it snow therein, until the gardens are white, a

  And the towers no longer shine.”

  I watched.

  Behind me, thunder crackled in a low, devilish growl. Wild wind gusted through my clothes.

  And over my head, like a vast reaper, a ceiling of clouds closed over the dome of the heavens, obscuring the moon, darkening the valley. I lowered my hand, and held it out, palm up.

  “I lay this spell upon the king, the king who lies asleep at Astrum:

  Let his heart be pierced, let his blood well up

  Let it enter my hand and fill my palm

  Let me possess it, but let him not die

  Let him rest,

  Knowing that he has freely and happily given of his lifeblood.”

  As I spoke, heat bloomed in my hand…

  And when I looked down, my gloved palm had filled with dark red blood. I almost smiled. Then, I turned my hand over and squeezed my fist, letting the blood drip heavily down onto the burning parchment. I set my stance.

  A strange, shiftless wind now writhed around me, disturbing the edges of my cape, winding around my feet, sending the embers of the fire blazing up toward my knees. I took another deep breath.

  “Let the blood of the king bind this spell

  This spell irrevocable, by his agreement

  By the giving of his blood, he agrees.

  Let the Castle Astrum be adorned with diamonds

  And filled with unfathomable riches,

  If each awakens by midnight of this night

  Each one, to a man, awaken

  And look into the face of the moon.

  But if they do not,

  If the king does not awaken, along with his court,

  And look into the face of the moon,

  Let he and his court cease to breathe

  Let their breaths stop in their chests

  And lock like stone, unable to draw in.

  And let them remain so, forever.”

  With that, I reared back, and planted my foot in the center of the parchment.

  It tore into shreds, sending a terrific crack echoing through the silence, bashing off the face of the mountains—and the blinding flash traveled like a lightning bolt across the valley.

  I drew back, gazing down at the charred embers covering my boot…

  And all of a sudden, I crashed to my knees.

  Chapter Four

  A backlash of power took my feet out from beneath me. I hit stone, and fell forward onto my hands.

  The terrible, double crack battered against the faces of the mountains. My heart jerked inside me, and an awful tremor coursed through my muscles. I jerked my head up, gasping, staring into the valley before me. The thunderous noise faded away.

  The clouds hung low over the castle grounds, billows of snow obscuring the heights of the towers. Darkness closed in, leaving no sign of the moon or the stars.

  Slowly, I climbed to my feet—wincing at a small pain in my middle.

  And waited.

  But nothing else happened.

  The Curse seemed to be holding.

  I stood for a long time, watching the rolling blizzard gradually hide everything in the valley from my sight. If I left now, I could be back at Baba Yaga’s house within the hour, write her a letter and tell her the deed was done.

  But…

  What had that second ripple been? What had knocked me down?

  I hadn’t expected a backlash—but the Seal still lay down in the woods beside the river. Perhaps what I had felt had been the Seal’s barrier collapsing.

  I set my teeth and glared at where the castle would be, if I could see it.

  Baba Yaga would not be satisfied with my letter, even if I told her everything I knew.

  Neither would I.

  I took a step forward, then another, until I stood upon the very precipice. I glanced down into the darkness, raising an eyebrow, seeing nothing but t
he nearest edges of the trees.

  I flung my cloak around myself.

  My bones crunched and snapped. My body lightened.

  I flapped my wings and sprang into the air, then swooped around and snatched the pouch with Mordred’s book in it, and plunged over the edge of the cliff.

  I coasted beneath the belly of the low clouds, sweeping over the depth of the valley, aiming for the castle I could no longer see. Snowflakes filled my vision, stinging my eyes, and freezing air filled my lungs. I dipped lower, escaping the thickness of the storm, swooping above the trees now and ascending the height.

  I glimpsed low, linear walls and an ordered pathway beneath me—

  And all at once, the mighty towers of Astrum leaped up.

  I pulled up, flapping backward to keep from striking the stone walls. I swerved and changed direction to the right, avoiding a massive tower that bore a giant stained-glass window, whose picture I couldn’t discern for the darkness.

  There. Inward of the tower stood a huge main gate. Looming, arched and wooden, painted blue, and overlaid with interlocking silver ornamentation. Over the gatehead hung stone figures of women in flowing garments, their arms and faces cast toward the sky, as if searching. Snow covered their hair and shoulders. Beside the gate, from a culvert in the wall, spilled crystal-clear water into an ancient canal. It hummed in a subdued, melancholy song, keeping the words to itself.

  I landed and threw off my cloak. I shot back up to my human height—

  That small pain in my middle pierced me again.

  I stopped, pushing my fingers into the space right beneath my breastbone. The pain faded. Grinding my teeth, I snatched up Mordred’s pouch off the ground, and tied its strings to my belt. Then, I strode toward the gate.