Curse of Magic Read online

  1

  The queen is dead.

  They killed her.

  They killed my wife.

  Then they exiled me. For even in this time without gods, some still fear them, and superstition prevails.

  Erisi, the goddess of war, love, and victory—the goddess above all others—forbade the killing of your own king, long ago, when the gods still existed.

  If they ever did.

  Whether they did or not, I am spared because of some ancient tenet.

  I am exiled instead of killed.

  But Erisi said nothing about queens.

  I don’t know exactly how I came to be betrayed, but I do know why.

  I am a Dark, last of my line, direct descendant of the First King and only son of Varthos, the god-king.

  This, is why they exiled me: for fear of my magic, and what it could do.

  There was a trial—the façade of legality—but it was a sham, fixed from the beginning.

  I was jailed. In my own kingdom. Not something I ever expected to experience.

  My jail was no dungeon, but the physical fact of it wasn’t what got to me. It was being confined. Being ordered around by my own guards.

  I lost track of how long I was down there, of how long the trial lasted.

  Slowly, those who were loyal to me disappeared.

  Until none were left but those who weren’t.

  That’s when the judgment came. An illegal one, for there were no laws allowing dethronement in Serekthal, my kingdom.

  But that didn’t matter.

  They exiled me all the same, beyond the Ancient Wall.

  For this got around the tenet of the goddess, and if I died it wouldn’t be at the hands of my exilers, but at the monsters of this cursed land.

  I woke here after the judgment, my head shaved, my hair burning in a pile beside me that was now just ash—cast out with nothing.

  The irony was that while they feared me for my magic, it was not something I’d dared use, not since my father died. Without his prodding, his encouragement, I’d desired to stay as far removed from magic as possible.

  My father had been better than I at magic—he had been the god-king—and hadn’t feared it as I did.

  I was always too afraid to use it for fear of what I might become.

  A Shade, like my grandfather before me.

  Or a Dread, like my sister.

  My passion was always being king, ruling the land, bringing peace.

  And I had. I had helped create Elaria, the federation of free kingdoms and states, ending the Long War.

  Elaria, named not after a god, but a mortal woman. A princess who fought the gods for her land and her freedom.

  And won.

  Like we had. Like we’d freed ourselves from the bondage of our history, of our long-dead ancestors, and created something new and beautiful. We’d stopped warring for control, for supremacy over one another. I’d remade Serekthal from a kingdom that ruled all others, to one where all others could come together, and I’d given each kingdom and state the ability to govern themselves, make their own laws, while still being a part of something greater.

  I’d made us from many into one.

  For we were not simply a collection of allied kingdoms. We were Elaria.

  And now that peace was upon us, they, the Order of Priests, thought they didn’t need me anymore.

  I should have never let Orathar get so close.

  I can’t say for certain he was the one who orchestrated this, my exile, but I believe it to be so.

  He marked me, Orathar did. The high priest himself.

  Now he was ruling in my stead, keeping Elaria united.

  My regent, now the king in all but name.

  And he wasn’t even there anymore, but back in his home city.

  And I was here, in the woods of the cursed land: an area that stretched along the Wall for days, a dangerous forest which separated Elaria from the rest of the world, and which people never traversed, instead flying over on zeppelins or mounts.

  A cursed land which in a time long ago the gods had cast out the unworthy into, then erected the Wall.

  The Ancient Wall, the one that stood impassable behind me. For the mark the high priest had forced upon me banished me like those poor souls who’d angered the gods had been in the fairytales of my childhood. The mark binded with whatever magic was in that Wall—a magic which had no color, a magic I couldn't see—and prevented me from crossing it.

  And now there was only one way for me to get back into my kingdom, for me to take back what was rightfully mine, and avenge what couldn’t be reclaimed.

  Only one way to make all those who’d betrayed me pay.

  I would go north, to the city of Este, to where the high priest kept his rest, and I would slaughter him.

  2

  The Ancient Wall at my back was the height of fifty men, if not more, and stretched farther than could be seen even with a spyglass.

  It separated my kingdom of Serekthal and the allied kingdoms and states south of it, from what lay north of it, from what lay outside Elaria.

  The Wall continued all the way to the Krendar Mountains to the east, with air so cold it would freeze a man’s lungs in just a few breaths, and to the Ghral Sea to the southwest, with beasts that could swallow a man and not even notice.

  The only way over it was on a zeppelin, or some other method of flight.

  But I couldn’t cross it. Not with this mark.

  Perhaps I could risk a portal, perhaps the mark couldn’t prevent that.

  But even in the best circumstances, portals were risky. You might not end up where you meant to go.

  You might simply end.

  And even were you to make it through alive, you may wish you hadn’t.

  We’d used them during the Long War to transport supplies. A tenth made it through usably, if that. There was no telling how food passed through it might be fundamentally changed. Even something as simple as spears and swords pushed through might come out looking fine, but have unexpected effects when you stabbed or cut with them.

  One sword—which sat guarded in Serekthal’s royal armory—never dulled, and could cut through nearly anything with no effort.

  Most didn’t turn out so usefully. A dagger, also in our armory, would inflict on the wielder any wounds he inflicted with it.

  The majority simply rusted or disintegrated upon use.

  Not far from that heavily guarded armory, in my keep, I could look out from the highest tower and see over the Wall—the only point in all of Serekthal that was higher than it—into the cursed woods.

  See its strange bands of trees. First green, closest to the Wall, then yellow, then black, as though a blight was working its way toward us and devouring all in its path.

  Beyond these trees was my first destination, Silaris, the town of outcasts, the town of exiles.

  And much, much farther north, was Este, home to the Order of Priests, and where Orathar would be.

  The Order had remained outside of Elaria to maintain its neutral status as much as its autonomy.

  But before I could avenge my wife, I needed help.

  I am a Dark, but as I have said, I never had much need for magic growing up, and I feared what using it could turn me into.

  I was not my father. I had the Inclination, as all of my line did, but even the most gifted need practice.

  Now I would have to use my magic for the first time since my father died.

  And to do that and survive, I would need another.

  For alone, my magic could devour me more effectively than anything that might be lurking in these cursed woods.

  That was the blessing and the curse of the Dark.

  Our magic was strong. In some ways, limitless.r />
  But when we used it, we risked destroying not only our enemies, but also ourselves.

  Who discovered this fact was lost to history, but it was a secret my line had kept for ages: our magic didn’t just come from within us, but from without, as well. Like a Breaker or Imbuer, we could use the magic of others. But unlike Breakers, we weren’t limited to affecting the manifestation of magic. And unlike Imbuers, we weren’t limited to putting that magic only into objects.

  No, we could actually draw magic—Pull—from others, not just ourselves, and use that power however we pleased. Use their magic to do our bidding.

  This was a frightening secret, but not as frightening as what would happen if we weren’t careful.

  Pull too much power from ourselves, and risk becoming a Shade.

  Pull from someone without their permission, and become a Dread.

  Like my poor sister.

  We got our name from the most visually impressive of our powers—and the only one any but our line knew about: the manipulation of shadow.

  We could cast an entire battlefield into darkness, or swallow a kingdom in a night that never ended.

  An enemy that can’t see is an enemy easily defeated.

  But not one that goes quietly into the dark. As my family had learned.

  It was through my aversion to magic that I was forced to negotiate with the other kingdoms and states instead of exerting my power over them.

  And in so doing ended the war started long before I was ever born.

  Controlling darkness of course wasn’t all we could do, but we’d always managed to keep our other abilities secret.

  Until the Order of Priests somehow found them out.

  And then they had used this knowledge to dethrone me.

  To exile me.

  For they claimed I was a danger to the kingdom.

  Maybe they were right.

  But I was more of a danger to them now, than I ever would’ve been on my throne.

  They thought I was a peaceful king.

  They were right.

  They thought I was a forgiving king.

  They were right about this, too.

  But I was no longer a king, and my days of peace and forgiveness were over.

  3

  To get to Silaris, to find a mage to help in my cause, one I could Pull from, I would first need to find my way through these cursed woods alive.

  I could go to Gyead, the only kingdom north of the Wall to join Elaria, but I couldn’t know if the Order had spies—or simply agents—there, and I wouldn’t risk what was left of my family.

  Gyead was the kingdom my mother was from. Our two kingdoms had exchanged children, my mother for Venric, my father’s brother.

  My mother became queen in our kingdom, and my uncle a prince and a businessman in theirs. He owned most of the zeppelin towers in Gyead, and several in nearby kingdoms and cities.

  But I wouldn’t get him involved, wouldn’t put his life at risk.

  Not unless I had to.

  And not until after I killed Orathar, the betrayer.

  I could risk the Ghral sea or the frozen Krendar mountains, perhaps find an end to the Wall. But no one had ever made it across either of those places. Even the greatest Igniters couldn’t defeat the cold that suffocated the Krendar mountains. And the beasts in Ghral… well, one wouldn’t be blamed for mistaking them for mountains.

  So Silaris was my only chance.

  If I made it through these woods alive.

  I walked away from the kingdom of my birth, from my burnt pile of highborn hair, from that old wall that was one of the few things left from when the gods still existed, and entered into the woods. They were green now, but I knew soon they would be black.

  And then what would I encounter?

  And how would I fight? With my fists? My words?

  A magic which I wasn’t even sure I still could use?

  I moved through the forest swiftly, but cautiously, keeping an eye and ear out for any beast or ghoul.

  But despite this place’s name, I encountered neither. The woods were peaceful and quiet.

  I eventually came to a wall of brambles which had no obvious way around it.

  It connected from tree to tree, looking as though it might stretch as far as the Ancient Wall itself did.

  And while this wall looked natural, there was a sense of purpose about it.

  As though it hadn’t just grown randomly. As though someone had put it here.

  Perhaps someone had.

  I held my hand in front of the wall and Pulled from myself.

  At first nothing happened. I hadn’t done this in ages.

  But then, that old familiar feeling came upon me, a sense of minor disorientation, and then: the colors.

  I had forgotten how many of them there were that I couldn’t normally see.

  But I could see them now. Bright, vibrant, everywhere. Like the entire world opened up to me to reveal its secrets.

  For in this state I could see that which permeated that world, which powered it.

  I could see magic.

  Actual magic, whether manifest or potential. I could see if someone used magic to poison or to save; to make themselves mundane and unnoticed, or attractive and conspicuous.

  I could see it as a beautiful haze around imbued objects and enchanted buildings, around warded keeps and ancient scrolls.

  But none but that which surrounded all life emanated from this unnaturally natural wall in front of me, from these twists of wood and ivy.

  They were just plants.

  I pressed my palm into it, meaning to simply push through the wall, but recoiled as a hidden thorn bit into my flesh.

  I held my hand in front of me, looking at the wound. No magic there either. If it was poison, it was natural in origin.

  I made a fist. Blood oozed out of the prick, flowing over my palm and down my forearm.

  I wasn’t used to not wearing gloves.

  Wasn’t used to not wearing armor.

  Even as I had this thought my hand was going to my bare waist for a sword that wasn’t there with which to cut through this wall.

  “Damn,” I cursed. How was I going to—

  “Looks like you could use some help,” a soft voice whispered from off to my right.

  I spun and found myself a few paces away from a woman as naked as I was.

  No, not exactly a woman. Not a human one anyway.

  Instead of shins and feet, the limbs below her knees split out, became roots that spread wide and dug into the soil. Her skin was like flesh-colored wood, with grain and gnarls.

  “You’re a dryad,”

  The naked woman smiled. “I am. And you’re…” She looked my naked body up and down.

  Despite myself, despite the rage that still burned in my heart—or maybe because of it—I started to grow aroused. She was beautiful. And it had been a long time since I’d seen anyone but my guards.

  Her skin was wood-like, and her legs turned into roots, but this did nothing to take away from the allure of the rest of her body. On the contrary, it enhanced it.

  Made her otherworldly.

  Her breasts were large and perky, her hips wide, and her sex bare and pink.

  Her eyes were an enchanting blue, a blue brighter than oceans that glowed as though with sunlight, and her hair was pale white like the midday sky.

  Her lips were full, and deep red, the color of ripe fruit.

  Her ears were like that of an elf’s, and she had two sets of… not exactly antlers coming out of her head. They were green, and looked more like wood than bone.

  I’d only had limited schooling in Krann’s Bestiary, so I knew little of dryads, other than what they looked like, and that they drew power from the trees and the earth.

  I didn’t remember anything about them being evil, or man-eaters like the harpies or succubi.

  “You’re…” she said again, before finally finishing uncertainly with “…interesting. What are you?”

 
“Human.” This deep in the woods, the blighted band of trees on one side, the Wall on the other, I wondered if she’d even seen one before.

  This was not a land many humans walked. We flew over it in our zeppelins or—those rare few of us who had the ability and the means—on our beasts. But not walked.

  And I wondered, what had her ancestors done to get themselves cast out of the land that was now my kingdom? Because surely, dryads weren’t among those cast out by the gods. Not according to any text I’d ever read.

  And why had they stayed in these woods?

  “Yes… I can see that now. So what are you doing in my forest? Your kind hasn’t been here for ages.” She looked down at her roots. “No kind has. None but me.” There was a sadness in her voice as she said this.

  “I need to go somewhere.” I gestured at the bramble wall. “Past there.”

  She nodded. “Past the wall is danger. Past the wall is death. That’s why it’s there. On this side though, it’s safe. You should stay here with me where it’s safe. Where it’s comfortable and bright.” She moved toward me, the roots making up her feet lifting, twining and shifting as she did, soil falling from them as they plunged in and out of the earth, moving her slowly forward so it seemed as though she were floating. “Stay here with me. We can have so much fun together.”

  She grew closer and closer, and I couldn’t pull away.

  It wasn’t an enchantment, I was mostly immune to those—one of the other abilities of the Dark.

  It was pure lust that kept me in place.

  I hadn’t been with anyone since…

  Since everything was taken from me.

  It was so fresh and vivid in my mind, but outside of it, out in the world, much time had passed.

  My “trial” had stretched and stretched.

  I didn’t know how long I had been in that dungeon for, but my beard had reached my chest by the time they’d exiled me, shaved it and my head, and left me disgraced like a lowborn.

  The dryad reached me, and, smiling up at me, ran her fingers down my chest.

  They felt like smooth wood, but were warm. Hot, even.

  She slid her hand over my stomach, to my lower abdomen and down further, gripping my girth and squeezing it.

  She licked her red lips and looked up at me as she pressed her body into mine.