A Hero's Curse (20 page)

Queen Leonatrix continues. “The daemon created an elaborate illusion on the plains near the Cauldron. What is now called the Gray Wastelands. It was tricky work. Chasms and fire pits disappeared as a paradise unfolded. It was impossible to know the real from the image. Nevertheless, the heroes were still on a path to the otherworld portal, the Burning Cauldron, when it happened.” I don’t realize I have been holding my breath until I take a gasp of air.

“A dense black fog rolled out from the Cauldron smothering any sight or sound the heroes might have possessed. The fog is an old curse called Daemon’s Dusk. From what we understood later, each of the heroes were isolated. Alone. This is where your father proved his worth as Kingdom Champion. He kept his head. He conjured crimson fire. It did not burn away the Dusk, but with it he was able to see enough to catch sight of the daemon. He made straight for the daemon, the whole of our council watching. That was his mission. To determine the true nature of the threat.” Queen Leonatrix’s voice adopts a distant quality. As if she has returned to that day so many years ago, staring into the image portal as my dad charged the daemon.

She gives a small, sad laugh. “He almost made it to the monster. We could see it. It is a large creature. Bigger than Kael. Its body is almost black. It has runes carved into its upper body with horns growing out of its head and bat-like wings. The daemon stepped out of the black smoke just ahead of your father, holding a woman in one clawed hand and a small child, a girl, in the other . . .” Leonatrix falters.

“I didn’t know until that moment,” she says in a whisper I have to strain to hear. Then her voice returns to the deep rich tone that is her normal. “Killian stopped as if he had been hit. The woman screamed at your father to save the girl. Killian flooded the area with crimson fire, trying to burn away any illusion. This is where I think the daemon let some of the illusion falter. All but the woman and girl he was holding. In that moment your father thought that he had burned away the deception, and what he was looking at was real. He hesitated. He failed to block the daemon’s next spell. The daemon hit your father with Daemon’s Dusk. Your father was blind.” I gasp out loud, but Leonatrix ignores me.

“Killian went mad with rage. He fell to his knees and released a protective shield. Just in time. The daemon attacked. But those shields only last a few moments. The woman and child screamed for Killian to save them.”

“So they were real?” I blurt.

The queen ignores me as she takes a deep breath. “Our council wonders why the daemon did not slay Killian when he had the chance. I think the daemon is craftier than we think. By destroying Killian the Aeolan council would have probably joined King Mactogonii and gone to war. The daemon broke Killian instead. There is a form of magic called transference. It is old and not often studied. It is the art of transferring curses from one to another. As Killian blindly scrabbled to find his own weapons, listening to the screams of his family, the daemon whispered the incantation to him. We were there. We heard it done.
Transfer the Daemon’s Dusk to the woman so that you can save them all.
The woman, the child, the squad—the daemon promised Killian that none would live if he would not transfer the curse.” My arms are rigid, my knuckles stiff, wrapped around the seat of my chair.

“Killian raged, but in the end he transferred the Daemon’s Dusk. Immediately he could see. The daemon laughed, a horrible grating sound, and the images of the woman and child vanished.” The queen takes a deep shuddering breath. “I saw it happen. He knew he had been fooled. But he was not yet finished. He pulled a piece of sunfire out of his vest and crushed the capsule, igniting it.”

She sits and then changes her mind and stands back up. “I gave him that sunfire. Long ago. The black fog and illusion fled. The sunfire must have interfered with the image portal. It began to falter. The daemon scrambled backward as if he had been burned. Killian charged the daemon and was nearly upon him when the portal image disappeared. Myself and the Aeolan council worked to reestablish a connection, and by the time we recaptured the image from Killian’s portal the daemon was in the air and your father was fighting several other monsters that had come out of the Cauldron. The sunfire was burning up. Your father abandoned pursuit of the daemon and went to save his squad.”

Leonatrix pauses, and I hear her sit down again. When she sits this time it is not with the stiff poise I heard earlier. “The council withdrew from the negotiations. I tried to convince the council that Killian’s actions were justifiable. He had also fulfilled his mission. He had gathered the first-hand encounter the council had requested. They, however, cited an escaped daemon, poor leadership, and a massacre. In truth, what they saw frightened them. They would not go to war.”

I try to talk but no words come out. I have to swallow and try again. “But what happened to the woman—my mother? I thought the curse was going to her, and they weren’t real anyway—” I can barely choke out the last few words because my throat has nearly swollen shut.

Queen Leonatrix’s deep, rich voice loses the last bit of coldness it held. “I do not know, Essie Brightsday. I didn’t know until you came into our kingdom today. I assume the daemon lied and the transference was always meant for you. Now I think that is how the daemon intended to break your father.”

I feel a weight dropped on me that starts at my shoulders and continues to my stomach, my arms, my legs, and my feet. It was Dad who cursed me.

U
nfortunately I do not know what to do with you. I cannot send you back to the chaos in the Kingdom of Mar. Not only has your kingdom descended into a civil rebellion, but now there is a daemon’s army marching on your border. Not that the council would let you leave. For the moment, Essie Brightsday, as much you might wish it otherwise, you may consider yourself a prisoner of Aeola.” My head is spinning from all the queen has told me, so this last remark barely registers.

Tig hears. “What?” he yowls. “Is this how you treat guests? We trekked all the way across the desert, endured wyrms, ringtail rodents, ridiculous mazes, and all for a terrible story and a prison cell? Congratulations, you just won the ‘Most Inhospitable Snotnose’ award of the year.”

“Tigrabum Fendor, I would tread carefully if I were you. The Exarus race holds little love for the Pardum. And here in Aeola there are many Exarus, and you are the only Pardum.” Tig arches his back and spits toward the queen.

I interrupt, stuffing the last of the story and the hurt deep down inside. “Isn’t there any way to stop the daemon?” My voice is pleading and almost steady.

“I do not know, child. Whatever happens, your part in this story is over.”

“I haven’t done anything yet!” I shout. The door opens and a big presence walks in.

“You sent for me?” asks Kael.

“Yes. Kael, take these two to the holding cells. Block fifteen.” The thin loops circle my neck and wrists again. Before I can struggle Kael has helped me up and is leading me through the door. Tig yowls for a solid minute before settling into a long, uninterrupted mutter. We go from rooms to outdoors. I can feel the air stirring and sounds carry further. The music is on the breeze again. It helps.

We pass several other people who greet Kael or at least acknowledge him. Kael doesn’t speak. We don’t ride the air lift again, which is nice, but at the same time, I’d like to try again. Maybe later. We make it to another room. It must be small, because Kael doesn’t enter. The line slips from my neck and wrists, and then with a gentle swish the door shuts. We are alone. The floor is the same soft material that I felt outside. Tig drops off my shoulders and sits down. I wonder where they took Shuffles—or King Mactogonii.

I feel around the room. The walls have the same soft feel that the floor does, but neither the floor nor the walls give when I push on them. From what I can tell everything in the room is made of the same material. Walls, floor, bed, table—everything. Soft, smooth, and yet unyielding. I sit on the bed and pull Tig into my lap. He is quiet now. I don’t have anything to say, either, so I sit and stroke his head and silently let the tears flow.

When they dry up the ache is still there, but it is dull rather than sharp. The question is obvious.
Why didn’t he ever tell me
? I don’t try to discuss it with Tig. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Then again, we might have a lot of time to talk. The door opens and interrupts my thoughts.

Light feet skip into the room. “Hello. I’m Illiana. I brought you dinner. Do you eat dinner?” she asks in a bright voice that sounds like she just finished laughing.

Tig answers that question. “Of course we eat dinner . . . if we could see it.”

“Oh, sure. It’s right here. You’re Tigrabum, right? And I heard your name is Essie Brighty, can I call you Ess?” asks Illiana, all in a rush. She doesn’t wait for me to say okay or even correct my name. “Sorry about our queen and your being a prisoner. I’m one of the servants here, and she can be a bit tough sometimes.”

“You mean a selfish porridge brain with a temper problem?” asks Tig.

“Exactly,” says Illiana. “And she eats kids.”

“What?” I interrupt.

“No,” laughs Illiana, “but she can be cold sometimes.”

“Oh,” I say, a little short myself.

“Well, it’s not my fault, I mean, I brought you dinner after all,” Illiana says a little defensively. “I think she liked your dad or something. That’s just what Jaeda said. But she’s usually right.”

That makes me sit up. “She liked my dad?”

“I don’t know. Is your dad likable?” asks Illiana, all business.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“We could ask Jaeda,” says Illiana. She sounds like she’s my age. Maybe a little older. I can’t tell how big she is. I’m getting better, but I’m still not used to the way Aeola interacts with sound.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twelve.”

“Me, too,” I say. “I need to stop the daemon and his army. Can you help me?”

“Let’s eat first,” says Illiana.

“I like her,” says Tig.

While she sets things on the low table I answer her questions and tell her about the Kingdom of Mar, my parents, and our journey. Talking to her is easy, and before I know it I’ve told her more about life in our valley than I can remember telling anyone else. Dinner is some kind of stew with a lot of slimy leaves. It tastes great. While we eat Illiana talks. She tells us about our surroundings, the ward, the holding cells, and the palace.

“What is this stuff?” I ask, running my hands over the bed and the floor—even the table feels made of the same material. The bed is soft while the floor is firm with only the slightest give. I test the wall that is opposite the bed. It has the same silky smooth texture, but it is hard and completely inflexible.

“It’s air,” giggles Illiana, as if she’s letting me in on a joke.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “What color is it?”

“In here it’s white, but that’s because these are holding cells, and they won’t spend much money on them. Outside we have different colors. It just depends on how the weavers put something together.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “You better start at the beginning.”

She laughs out loud. “It’s not that hard. The people who make stuff here in Aeola are cloud weavers. They’re the biggest guild. They weave the air together and can make just about anything. I mean usually it has to be a certain size to stay together. The bigger it is the better it stays together. Like a house or a road or a bed. Smaller things tend to wear out pretty quickly, so we have to import most of our everyday items.”

“How do you weave it together? And how do you get colors if it is just air?”

“Well, I don’t weave anything. You have to be chosen to be a part of the cloud weaver’s guild, and nobody was going to pick an orphan with no money to put them through training. I’m not sure of the exact process, but I know that the best cloud weavers use music to strengthen the bonds, because music is more powerful than almost any magic.”

“That’s what I’m hearing!” I exclaim. “I’ve been hearing strains of music, but I can never quite catch the tune or even where it was coming from exactly.”

“Wait, you can
hear
that?” Illiana asks.

“Yeah, most of the time. Sometimes it fades. Like in here I can’t really hear it unless I focus on it.”

“Wow,” says Illiana, impressed. “I don’t know anybody who can hear the music. It’s supposed to be too quiet to hear.”

“Oh,” I say. I blush a little, not having meant to brag.

Illiana must not notice or doesn’t mind because she moves on to talk about the flooding. Her voice is bubbly, but not annoying. “It’s been really bad for our country for the past few years you know,” says Illiana. “I mean with the flooding in the lower city.”

“Queen Leonatrix mentioned it,” I say.

“There are a lot of homes under water now,” she continues. “I lived there with my parents before they died.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault. I miss them, but it isn’t as bad as some kids have it.”

“What happened?” I ask. I don’t mind asking, and I know she won’t mind telling. It’s like when I wish people asked me about my sight rather than avoiding it and acting awkward.

“Dad was a realm guardian,” she says. “They sent his crest home to Mom when I was still young. Mom got sick pretty soon after that, and when she died I went to the orphanage. When the water started rising they let us go to whoever wanted us as life servants. I got to come to the palace and help in the kitchens.”

She says it like it was the best thing that could have happened, so I have to say, “That’s great,” even though I think it sounds like a terrible story. To be a servant for the rest of your life?

I envy her a little bit. She seems so happy where she is. I wonder if I could have ended up in the same place. My dad could have died as Kingdom Champion. Mom could have gotten sick or had a mental breakdown. Illiana grabs my hand and pulls me up from my sitting position and to the door.

“Where are we going?” I ask, confused.

“I’ll take you around Aeola,” she explains.

“I’m a prisoner,” I say, pulling away from her. “I’ll be hung or something for trying to escape. You’ll probably get killed, too,” I finish, bewildered by her ignoring the obvious.

She grabs my hand again. “It’s not like that here. You get locked in the deeps if you’re a danger to everyone else. The holding cells are just for people that are on probation or for tramps.” She pulls me the rest of the way to the door. “See, it isn’t even locked. Oh, sorry, you can’t see. That’s probably why you haven’t left already. Anyway, you just have to check in every four hours if you leave. We’ll be back way before that.”

I hesitate. “Tig? You coming?”

I can’t guess his expression. “No, I don’t think I will. I’m not—” he pauses, apparently struggling for words, “used to this.”

“This?” I prompt.

“I can’t see,” he says in a subdued voice. I pull out of Illiana’s hand and walk back to Tig. My legs bump the bed I know he’s sitting on. I reach out and find his sleek coat. He flinches when I touch him.

“I’ve been tough on you at times,” says Tig. “I didn’t realize.” He sits hunched for a few more seconds. “You’ve done a really good job.” I just rub his ears.

“You can go. I’ll be right here,” he finishes.

I want to tell him, “Now you get it,” but he is tense with his body bunched together, and I
do
know what it feels like. I give him a little scratch just above his tail instead. Illiana comes up next to me, and her fingers stroke Tig, too. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me to the door. Outside, the breeze brushes my hair, and I hear the music again but still only haunting snatches.

“You mentioned somebody named Jaeda who might know something about my dad. Will we see her?” I ask.

“Yeah,” says Illiana. “She’ll be in the cook’s hall. The day’s almost over, which means there might be leftover pasties that she’ll want to throw out. Come on!”

Illiana tugs me forward at a trot. Soon I hear others shuffling and calling out to each other. “Are we on the street?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s just a side street. We’re going around the back of the palace,” Illiana says.

“Is there anything that I might trip over?” I ask as she ducks another passerby, trying to remind her in a subtle way that I can’t see.

“No, not really,” she says, her tone casual.

I’m not totally convinced. I hear what sounds like a burst of steam from the right and someone shouts, followed by a laugh. “What’s on this street?” I ask.

“Mostly junk shops and a couple of portal shops,” says Illiana.

“What is a portal?” I ask. 

“It’s a portal. You talk through it or look through it. It depends on what kind you get.”

“The queen mentioned an image portal. How does it work?”

“Like I said, there are different kinds,” says Illiana. She pulls me to the left and scampers around someone heavy. I bump into a plump behind.

“Excuse you,” says a raspy feminine voice. “Watch where you’re going, street urchin.” I try to apologize, but Illiana doesn’t even slow down.

“Illiana, we’re being rude,” I scold.

“Ess, the world is different here,” says Illiana, “things move a bit faster.” But I feel her take a firmer grip on my hand, and she leads with a bit more purpose. “Hold on,” she pulls me right in a quick turn, and I just keep from tripping over my own feet. “This is a portal shop,” she says, “let me show you what they have.” Illiana skips forward and too late remembers to say “steps!” I whack my boot toe against a step and sprawl forward. Illiana jerks my hand upward, which helps me catch myself. “Sorry,” she says over her shoulder. She pushes the door open, and I hear the noise and bustle of the street fade as we walk indoors.

“’Ello ’ello ’ello,” a thick oily accent rolls out to us from several feet away. “Wat are you’ns peepin’ for today?”

“My lady wanted to know if you had any wave portals?” asks Illiana in brisk tone. I frown but she squeezes my hand.

“Uhh. Okey dokey.” He moves across the room. His voice sounds heavy, but he moves with an easy heel to toe movement that lets him slide in a smooth, quiet motion. Or maybe it’s the structure again. I shake my head a tiny bit to hear better.

“What be wrong wit’ her?” he asks. I feel the heat running up my face as I realize he must be talking about me.

“Nothing, why do you ask?”

“Nobbit? Wull, can’t see her peepers now can dey? She be a seer or summat den?” I turn off to the right, trying to pretend I don’t hear the conversation.