Cursed (Schooled In Magic Book 17), page 1
Cursed
(Schooled in Magic XVII)
Christopher G. Nuttall
Twilight Times Books
Kingsport Tennessee
Cursed
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
P O Box 3340
Kingsport TN 37664
http://twilighttimesbooks.com/
First Edition, May 2019
Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter
Published in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Prologue
CABIRIA DIDN’T WANT TO REMEMBER BEING sixteen. But she couldn’t help herself.
She had always loved House Fellini’s library. It was a monumental collection of books, all the more remarkable for the texts having been written, published and purchased well before the printing press had been invented and thousands of books had become available to all and sundry. Cabiria loved to stand by the shelves and run her hands over the books, yanking her hand away when charms and curses threatened her. As she’d grown older, she’d learned to read some of the oldest books in the world, ones that had been written by magicians whose names had passed into legend. She spoke five languages fluently and read three more, two of which were only spoken by a handful of scholars. It was easy to believe that all the knowledge of the world was concealed within the library stacks. She could have happily spent all of her life in the wonderful room.
But, as she’d aged, she’d come to realize that not all answers were found within the collection of aging books.
She had never doubted she would have magic, not until puberty had come and gone without even a hint of power crackling around her fingers. She’d muttered spells and chanted long incantations, drawn runes and performed rituals — including some she wasn’t supposed to know existed — without summoning enough magic to light a candle. Her parents had told her, at first, that it was just a matter of time. Later, when they’d thought she couldn’t hear, they’d fretted about their youngest daughter’s lack of magic. It wasn’t uncommon for a child to have less power than her parents, particularly if her family had put bloodlines over breeding like so many magical families had before they discovered that it actually weakened the magic, but for a child to have no magic at all? It was almost completely unprecedented. Cabiria herself was the only known case within recorded history.
Not that her family was cruel to her, of course. Cabiria’s parents never even hinted at disowning her, despite hints from some of their more distant family members that — perhaps — Cabiria should be sent elsewhere. Her father had fought a duel with a distant relative after he’d suggested, perhaps a little too loudly, that his wife had cheated on him. Cabiria’s sisters had protected her, as had her cousins. She still smiled at the memory of Cousin Alexi nearly killing one of his friends — his former friends — after the brat had played a particularly spiteful prank on her. But ...
Cabiria sat in the library, trying to remember the feeling of wonder she’d once felt when she’d gazed upon the bookshelves. She was sixteen, old enough to expect an invitation to Whitehall or Mountaintop or even — perhaps — Stronghold. But the invitation would not come if she couldn’t draw even a spark of magic from her powerless bones. She would grow into adulthood and then ... what? She would never be a part of magical society, not without power. She would be forever on the sidelines, looking in. Her family would be good to her, she knew, but ... it wasn’t what she wanted.
And my one hope of being normal, she thought, is to take a terrible risk.
She heard the door open, heard someone walk towards her. She didn’t have to lift her head to know that it was Allophone, her eldest sister. Allophone was everything Cabiria wanted to be, a girl who had been favored with everything from good looks to powerful magic. And she wasn’t even cruel. Allophone treated her young and powerless sister as if she were made of fine china.
“They’re ready,” Allophone said, quietly. She placed a hand on Cabiria’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this, you know?”
“I do,” Cabiria said.
The words hung in the air between them. She had never told her sister — could never tell her — but she resented her kindness and decency more than she cared to admit. She wasn’t a helpless child. She didn’t need to be coddled, to be wrapped in protective spells and guarded every time she walked out of the mansion. And yet, she knew she was vulnerable. She was the blind girl in the kingdom of the sighted, forever at the mercy of those who could use magic. Better to take the risk of death — or worse — than spend the rest of her life without power.
“It’s risky,” Allophone said. “Uncle Alanson said ...”
“I know what he said,” Cabiria snapped.
She caught herself, biting her lip hard. Uncle Alanson, Patriarch of House Fellini, had been even more driven than Cabiria’s parents to find a solution to her woes. It had been he, more than anyone else, who had drawn up the rituals to try to find, somewhere within her, a spark of power. Cabiria loved him for it. He could have pushed her parents to disown her. The hell of it was that he might have been right. House Fellini could not afford whispers about weak blood and powerless magicians. Too many people were already starting to talk.
“Come on, then,” Allophone said.
Cabiria stood, ignoring her sister’s attempts to help her up. Gods! She wasn’t a cripple. Her legs worked fine. She didn’t need a flying carpet to get up the stairs, or sneak down in the middle of the night for a snack. Allophone let out a faint sound — Cabiria didn’t care to wonder what it was — and followed Cabiria as she stalked out of the room. The hallway felt ... cold, as always. Cabiria knew they were surrounded by powerful wards, spells that her family had been weaving for generations, but she couldn’t feel them. There were parts of the mansion where she simply couldn’t go without walking into danger. The last time she’d triggered a trap, she’d been frozen for hours before her parents had found her.
The spellchamber felt creepy, as always, as she walked into the underground chamber. Her uncle stood in the exact center, carefully drawing out a handful of chalk runes on the stone floor. He’d wanted to use iron, claiming that it would help channel the power, but Cabiria’s parents had said no. It was too dangerous, they’d insisted. Cabiria’s cheeks burned as she remembered the discussion. Allophone had been experimenting with more dangerous substances than cold iron well before she’d gone to Whitehall ...
“Cabiria, my favorite niece,” Alanson said. He was a handsome dark-haired man, with a roguish smile that belied his kind nature. He’d never married, even though his family had expected it. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Cabiria said, as she took her place in the circle. Uncle Alanson was the only person who treated her as if she was a living person, rather than a fragile doll. She loved him for that, too. He hadn’t spent the endless rehearsals talking about risks. “I’m ready.”
“Be careful,” Allophone said. She retreated towards the door as Uncle Alanson raised his wand. “And good luck.”
Cabiria felt a flicker of nervousness, even as she braced herself for another crushing disappointment. Her parents and close relatives kept trying, but ... she feared, deep inside, they were starting to give up. The mystery of her lack of power might never be solved, nor might she ever have magic.
To hell with the risks. She would take her chances. And if she died, she died.
“And now,” Uncle Alanson said. Bright light flared around him. “We begin.”
Cabiria felt, just for a second, as if her skin were on fire. Something was ... crawling over her, something she could feel even though she couldn’t see anyt
... Someone was laughing. She could hear someone laughing ...
... And then her mother pulled at her arms, yanking her up. “Cabiria! Cabiria!”
Cabiria opened her eyes, unsure of when she’d closed them. Her memories were so confused, so blurred, that — for a moment — she thought she must have dreamed everything. And yet, as she forced herself to sit up, it was clear the spellchamber had been devastated. The runes and glyphs on the walls were gone, wiped out of existence by the forces Uncle Alanson had unleashed. The walls were scorched black, even though they’d been designed to stand firm against the strongest and deadliest of magics. And the floor was covered in black ash ...
She looked down at herself, wonderingly. Her robes were covered in ash and soot, but otherwise intact. Her skin was unmarked. She was alive ...
“He’s dead,” a voice said. It took Cabiria a moment to realize that her father was talking, his strong voice echoing in the giant chamber. “Alanson is dead. Burned to ash!”
“And he nearly took Cabiria with him,” her mother snapped. “No more experiments, do you understand me? No more!”
Cabiria looked down at her fingers. They had always been long and thin — magician’s hands, Uncle Alanson had said — but now ... they felt different. She had always hated her hands — their mere existence mocked her — yet ... they tingled, as if power was spreading through her skin and bones. Quietly, wonderingly, she muttered a spell. The room filled with brilliant white light.
Her father shouted and her mother cried, but Cabiria barely noticed. Her fingertips were sparkling with power. Light danced over her bare skin. She could feel the power within her. She had power. She finally had power.
No, not power.
Uncle Alanson had died to give her magic.
Chapter One
EMILY SAT IN BED, STARING AT her fingers.
They were long and slender, the skin pale and smooth despite six years of magic and mayhem. Magician’s hands, they’d been called. Emily could have been a surgeon or a pianist on Earth, but instead ... she was a magician. She took a long breath, then started to chant a spell that she’d memorized six years ago. Her fingers moved in perfect lines, crafting and directing the spell, but nothing happened. No power crackled around her fingertips. No magic sparked forth to do her will. She might as well have been playacting.
I was a magician, she thought, numbly. A week of being powerless, of being without magic, had left her feeling drained and numb. Her thoughts moved sluggishly, when they moved at all. It had been hard to get out of bed, let alone attend to the growing list of problems she had to handle. I was a magician and now I’m ...
She closed her eyes, going all the way back to first principles. She’d been taught how to build a spell up from scratch, how to shape the magic before she’d grown used to channeling her power instinctively, as easily as she’d breathed. Her magic had been a part of her, something she could move at will. Now ... she felt crippled. The power within her, the power she’d learned to sense and cultivate, was gone. Her senses felt muffled, blind. She knew the stone walls were crawling with wards — some designed to keep her safe, some designed to hide her condition from unfriendly eyes — but she couldn’t sense them any longer. It reminded her of the days when she’d first come to the Nameless World, when she’d been scared to touch anything for fear of setting off a trap. Now ... she was afraid to touch anything. Again.
The spell echoed in her mind. She cast it carefully, with all the precision she could muster after six years of training, giving it the care and attention she’d never had to after she’d managed to get in touch with her magic. The casting was perfect — she knew it was perfect — but nothing happened.
A wave of despondency crashed over her as she dropped her hands into her lap. The knowledge she’d gathered over the last six years, some of it dangerously won, was useless.
She was powerless.
Emily closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them and looked around the room, searching for a distraction. But the room’s mere existence taunted her. The lanterns glowed with magical light, but she hadn’t cast the spells. She hadn’t carved the runes on the walls. She hadn’t even lit the fire in the fireplace! It wasn’t her room. Alassa had promised her a suite of her own, but ... it wouldn’t be hers. She was nothing more than an unwanted guest.
You’re being unfair, she told herself. Alassa had been nothing but kind to her over the past week, even though she was very busy. The civil war might be over, yet there was no shortage of work. Reconstructing Zangaria would take years. Alassa offered to host you forever.
It was a bitter thought. Alassa meant well. Emily was certain of it. She had no doubt that her friend would do everything in her power to help. But the stone walls felt like a prison, a mocking reminder that Emily no longer had the power to shape her future. She was vulnerable, vulnerable in a way she hadn't been in six years. She felt as if she’d lost her confidence along with her magic. What was the point of struggling, she asked herself, if there was no hope of winning?
There was a tap on the door. Emily tensed, despite herself. Alassa and Jade had woven hundreds of protections into the castle, but they couldn’t keep out everyone. How could they? Castle Alexis wasn’t just the monarch’s home, but the center of government for an entire country. The lower levels were crammed with everything from aristocratic parasites to common-born bureaucrats, the former trying to convince themselves that they were still important while the latter felt utterly underappreciated by their superiors. Emily was all too aware that someone with bad intentions probably could get into the castle, with a great deal of effort. Why not? It had happened before.
The door opened. Lady Barb stepped into the room.
Emily felt an urge to shrink back as her former teacher — the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother — closed the door and strode over to the bed. It was hard to escape the feeling that Emily had failed Lady Barb in some way, as if things might have been different if Emily had listened to the older magicians who’d told her to stay out of the civil war. But ... Emily knew, all too well, that she couldn’t have made any other choice. Alassa and Jade were her friends. Emily had owed it to them to stand beside them when they’d gone to war against Alassa’s father. She could not have turned away.
Lady Barb had been badly injured during Fulvia’s attack on Whitehall, but now ... it was hard to believe she’d ever been more than scratched. She was still tall and muscular, with long blonde hair and a stern — almost patrician — face. The robes she wore were loose, designed to allow her to move freely; the sword at her belt was a sign she knew how to defend herself with and without magic. And her utter confidence in herself was daunting to those who didn’t know her. Only a handful of people had ever underestimated Lady Barb, Emily knew, and none had made the same mistake twice. There were girls at Whitehall who wanted to be Lady Barb when they grew up. Emily knew how they felt.
She looked down, unwilling to meet her tutor’s gaze. Her body felt ... wrong, somehow. She’d been hurt — badly — during the fight with Mad King Randor, but the injuries hadn’t healed as quickly as they should. The healers had done all they could, mending broken bones and repairing damaged tissues, yet they hadn’t done a perfect job. Emily wondered, morbidly, if her magic had helped her heal every other time she’d been badly injured. Magicians lived a long time, even without life-prolonging spells. Perhaps their magic countered the onset of old age.
“Emily,” Lady Barb said. Her voice was stern and unyielding, but Emily could hear the hint of compassion. “Look at me.”
Emily looked up, reluctantly. She felt ... she felt vulnerable. Too vulnerable. She knew Lady Barb would never hurt her, would never do anything to her that was not for her own good, but she still felt vulnerable. Defenseless. All of her weapons, magical and mundane alike, were gone. The healers had even confiscated the virgin blade she’d carried in her sleeve. She knew why they’d done it — the waves of despondency and depression had only grown stronger since she’d lost her magic — but she resented it. There was no way she could put up even a token fight against someone who wanted her dead.
