Chronicles of Mithelain: Cursed

Prologue

Stormhellion Castle

Anteran

1320AD (After Dragons)

The stony-faced man and the cloaked, hooded woman walked almost unnoticed through the jostling, drunken crowd in the gaily-festooned Great Hall. The festivities had been gathering speed since before lunch and most of the courtiers were now too far in their cups to make the distinction between one reveller and the next.

It was not the man's first visit to Anteran, and if any had paused in their merry-making to regard the pair they might have recognised something familiar in the man's gait, or in his face; he was not the flame-haired, large-bellied buffoon of days gone by, but his eyes were the same––black as pitch, though lacking the mirth that was once his trademark.

When the couple reached the foot of the raised platform at the head of the hall they stopped.

The woman kept her head bowed; her face under the hood was shadowy and indistinct, and her body shapeless beneath the great cloak that hung to the floor.

In contrast, the man stood erect with his chin up and his spine straight. He wasn't handsome––his features were too heavy, and his pallid skin showed the faint dents of youthful pocks around his neck, throat and jaw––but he carried himself with the natural confidence (bordering on arrogance) born of god-given privilege that made him attractive in the eyes of some women. He was head and shoulders taller than anyone around him. He wore plain linens beneath suede breeches and tunic; and a cloak pushed back over his shoulders. His red hair was clipped unusually short, contrary to the fashion of the time for tails and ribbons. His face was gaunt and a muscle ticked in his square jaw. He carried a plain parcel wrapped in twine and his dark eyes were fixed upon the trio sitting on the platform: Eanfrid, the beaming, flaxen king of Anteran, his ethereal, raven-haired wife, Cynwise, and their newborn son.

A little girl of about six or seven summers, with long blonde curls, wearing a luxurious, emerald velvet gown, peeked from behind Eanfrid's throne. She analysed the serious man's appearance, and then her face lit up. She threw herself across the platform and jumped. "Uncle Griffid!"

Griffid caught her in his free arm.

The queen's head snapped up and her gaze fell upon the man below her. Her gently blushing cheeks drained of colour. She reflexively hugged the infant prince to her breast making him squawk in protest. "Ean," she rasped.

Eanfrid was already staring at his daughter in the grip of the king of Cathas. He felt as though someone had hit him with a fist of iron squarely in the centre of his chest.

"If it isn't Princess Winifred." Griffid hefted her up. "My goodness, but you are no little princess any more. I believe you are almost a woman."

"I'm nearly six," she announced grandly.

"Six. Why it is only a skip and a jump to twenty from there."

A tiny frown marred her sweet brow. "No, uncle. Seven comes after six." She counted with concentration on her fingers. "It's a long way to twenty after that."

"Still, you're growing so fast the next time I see you you'll likely be married."

"Not for a long time, I hope." She ran a hand down his cheek. "You look funny without your beard."

"Do I?" He reached for her ear pulling forth a silver ragan in his thick fingers. "What have I told you about keeping your fortune here? You never listen."

Winifred giggled when he handed her the coin. "Thank you."

As he watched this performance, slowly, dizzily, Eanfrid grew conscious of the entire court looking up at him. Realising he was squeezing his wife's knee hard enough to bruise her tender flesh, he relaxed, cleared his throat, and stood to speak––swaying for a moment as his vision flashed with stars. His throat was dry as parchment. Swallowing didn't help; he had no saliva.

Cynwise spared a hand from their precious son and linked her slim fingers through his.

Despite the close atmosphere in the hall and her proximity to the brazier they felt unusually cold, and trembled, but being physically connected to her grounded him and gave him strength. He put his other hand to his lips and coughed once to clear the dread from his throat. "Ahem...Griffid, this is an unexpected honour." His heart was thumping now at an inhuman pace as though every nerve in his body urged him to take his family and flee. Sweat prickled in his armpits and down his back, soaking into his shirt. He searched Griffid's hollow face for a clue of his intent. There seemed no obvious malice reflected in the stygian dark eyes. He appeared to be unarmed. But Eanfrid recalled the harsh conviction of Griffid's last words: 'see me again and die, or wish you had'. The grave sincerity with which the man had spoke was still enough to curdle Eanfrid's blood and wake him in the dark hours of the morning in a cold sweat.

Yet he was here, apparently in peace. Had time healed the most grievous of wounds?

Still hefting the little princess, without being invited Griffid stepped up onto the platform and handed the parcel to Eanfrid. "I would not miss the opportunity to visit you on the Naming Day of your first son."

Eanfrid blinked in disbelieving surprise. A little warmth dared to return to his chilled limbs. He desperately wanted to think Griffid had forgiven him. "It takes a great man to extend the hand of friendship to those who have wronged him," he said, unable to hide the palpable respite in his voice. "On behalf of my family, I thank you."

Griffid's gaze slid to the exquisitely wrapped bundle in the queen's arms. "May I see him?"

Eanfrid plainly saw Cynwise's hesitation. She fired a quick, questioning glance up at him but he subtly squeezed her hand and let go. Though he understood her reserve his heart was bursting now with newfound pleasure. He wanted Griffid to acknowledge his son; it seemed a step towards restoration of relations between them all. The thought of life returning to what it once had been between Cathas and Anteran made him tingle all over with incredulous excitement.

Griffid rested Winifred back on the platform and stepped towards Cynwise.

She almost imperceptibly shrank back.

With tender hands he peeled back the fur wrap. At the sight of the gurgling, smiling baby his eyes shone with sudden moisture, glistening like wet coal. "What is he called?" he asked quietly, a slight catch of emotion in his voice.

"Canaar," Cynwise whispered. With her striking blue eyes widely proclaiming her absolute disbelief, she looked at the man who had threatened her with death less than twelve moons ago as though he might smite her at any moment.

Eanfrid could see quite well that to his wife it might only have been yesterday, so fresh were her feelings of mortal fear. But she was a new mother, he reasoned. It was understandable she should feel protective and nervous. He resolved to be relieved enough for both of them until such a time as she could relinquish her suspicions.

Griffid nodded his approval. "After Eanfrid's father. It is a good name. A strong name." He held out his big hands, broad as brass coal scoops, the knuckles dusted with fine auburn hair. "May I?"

Cynwise fired another nervous glance at Eanfrid, but he nodded and so she haltingly passed the child to Griffid. "Be careful to hold his head."

"Oh we are fine," he answered with a smile, captivated by the infant gurgling happily up at him. He jogged the tiny bundle gently in his huge hands. "Canaar of Anteran, you've your mother's looks and your father's sunny disposition." He turned and angled the smiling baby for the audience to regard. "Behold, your prince!"

The unsteady guests looked at one another as if unsure what the politic response would be. Then they slowly began applauding, at first only an uncertain smatter, but gradually ascending until the noise echoed around the cavernous rafters of the chamber––a crescendo of sound that drowned out any but the loudest speech. Some whistled, and others shouted approval. To think the rift between the two kings might be mended was a weight off every Anterani with an interest in trade between the territories.

Eanfrid grinned broadly.

Even Cynwise managed a crooked smile and some colour returned to her cheeks.

To have Griffid's good favour once more would be an enormous weight off her shoulders too. Eanfrid wondered if perhaps her family might now consent to an audience? They'd heard nothing from them since the wedding. Surely they could not bear the grudge if Griffid did not? He put his arm around Griffid, noticing with surprise how thin he had grown, and how plain was the attire he wore. "My friend, we are about to take supper, will you join us?"

At first Griffid didn't seem to hear; he appeared transfixed by the infant. Then he looked around. "What? Oh, no, I cannot. My carriage is waiting. I'm on my way to Symera."

Cynwise perked up. "You'll see my father?"

"I go to visit my brother. I have no plans to see Arkan."

The queen sank back in her chair, the hopeful light in her eyes dimming.

Griffid cooed at Canaar and said no more. At last he sighed and handed the infant back to his mother.

As he smiled, Eanfrid began to feel strange wetness upon his fingers and on closer examination saw a dark stain on his skin. He rubbed his fingertips together, smearing the mark; then smelled it and jerked back, tearing at the paper, his heart racing again but this time in horror. When he spied the contents of the parcel nausea caught in his throat. "Cynwise, take the children and leave at once."

Fear and confusion returned at once to Cynwise's face. "What is it?"

"His Majesty is overwhelmed by my gift," Griffid informed her with a tight smile.

"What is it? What have you brought?" She got up and peered into the open package and reeled away sharply, baulking as she turned to shelter her son. "Weeping gods." A beat later she shook her hand at Winifred. "Come, at once. Come."

Hearing the urgency of tone the child took Cynwise's hand, looking back over her shoulder but having to skip to keep up with the woman's running departure from the hall. She waved at Griffid.

Griffid fluttered his fingers at her in farewell.

The parcel wrapping rustled in Eanfrid's trembling hands and his rapid pulse beat a hollow sound in his ears as though his chest were an empty cavity. He felt like he was slowly suffocating. "What is the meaning of this?" He could barely croak the question.

Griffid's eyes glittered. For a moment he didn't speak.

When he finally did his voice echoed the cold loathing reflected in his face. "She's a commoner and a whore and knows no better, but you...you were my friend, my ally. I trusted you, and you betrayed me. You stole my future wife, and my future children. You stole my territory's future queen. And now you celebrate while Cathas mourns." His lips pressed into a thin, grim line. His eyes bore into Eanfrid's conveying every ounce of black despair he felt.

"W-We fell in love," Eanfrid stammered. "We couldn't help ourselves. Would you rather Cynwise stifled her true feelings and married you anyway?"

"A child of eighteen doesn't know the difference between lust and love. Given the chance I would have seen to it that she got over you. She would have grown to appreciate the value of the comfort and security I could provide, not just to her, but her family as well."

"It was more than lust we felt for each other and you know it. Young she might be, but Cynwise knows her own mind probably better than you or I. If you were in my shoes you would have done the same thing. There will be another woman for you, someone who will love you as you deserve to be loved."

Griffid sneered at him. "Do you tell yourself that to ease your conscience? I would not have treated a friend thus. But we are friends no more so I may repay like with like." He made a slight gesture with his hand.

The woman at the foot of the platform lifted her hood and let it drop.

Eanfrid stared down at her, knowing her, and yet not knowing her. With her dark hair and ghostly pale skin she seemed familiar in many ways, but he knew they had not met before. Only when she raised her eyes to him did his flesh shrink. He had seen those piercing blue eyes before. They were his wife's eyes, but shining now with a malice that chilled his marrow.

Her face was drawn and there were dark shadows under her eyes. Her bloodless lips pulled back into a smile that more closely resembled a snarl. "At last we meet, Your Majesty," she said, with a voice like breaking glass. "I am Gertrude, the middling of my father's daughters, your wife's younger sister." At the same time she parted her cloak to expose her heavily pregnant belly.

It was done with such theatricality that Eanfrid felt sure the gesture meant something. He sent a bewildered glance at Griffid. "You think you wound Cynwise by marrying her sister? She never thought ill of you; she just didn't love you. It would please her if you found happiness with another."

Griffid barked a harsh laugh. "I would not take one of Arkan's daughters to the altar now if he paid me back all the money I invested in his family."

Eanfrid looked back at Gertrude, examining her for clues as to how her presence and condition might punish Cynwise. "Then you've forced her into an unfavourable marriage?"

Griffid stepped closer. "You always were naïve. Can you not see what is before your own eyes? She is not married. She is having my bastard. And she will have many more before I tire of her."

Eanfrid's confusion turned to revulsion. "You...you ruined her?" Pains began radiating through his chest. He rubbed the spot over his struggling heart, understanding the look in the woman's eyes now. He had no words to appease her.

"For one of her reduced station it was the most she could hope for. I have to say she cleaved eagerly to the position of king's whore when she learned the alternative was wasting her youth and beauty alongside her younger sister on the Weeping Isle."

Eanfrid's throat had seized up and he couldn't reply. He was glad Cynwise wasn't there to witness the story firsthand. He felt like a knife was twisting in his heart.

"Your wife's mother actually begged me to take both girls," Griffid continued remorselessly. "But Esmeralda refused. Proud little thing. She wanted to go to the workhouse with her mother but I want her in reasonable shape when I have her brought to Cathas in a few months. I expect by that time she might appreciate the luxuries open to her, compared to life with the nuns on that godforsaken, wind-swept rock."

Griffid's words tore at Eanfrid's soul like the beak and talons of a vulture, without mercy, hungry to feed on his guilt and regret.

"Perhaps you have a message for Arkan? I could possibly stretch to visit him in my brother's dungeon when I'm in Symera. I might reassure him while the rest of his family suffers, his eldest daughter lives in the lap of luxury with her loving husband and adoring subjects. I'm sure he'll be greatly relieved."

Disbelief burned in Eanfrid's chest. "You lie. It's all a lie."

Griffid directed a hand towards Gertrude. "The evidence is before you. But write to my brother if you don't believe me. He knows all the particulars."

"You did...you did all this to spite us?" Eanfrid's breaths were coming in short, pained gasps. He felt like he would never be warm again, as though Griffid's malice had entered his blood like crystals of ice and was chilling him from the inside out.

"To spite her. Not you. For you I saved a special reward. One love in your lifetime was not enough for you. You stole mine with impunity to please yourself. Did you think I would not settle the score?" He seemed to grow taller and wider, his voice swelling. "I am a direct descendent of Peredur the Dragonslayer, the great man who snatched Mithelain from the claws of wild beasts and made it the realm it is today. I will not sit idly by and weep while his name is shamed and dragged through the mire." Griffid turned to the confused courtiers, raising his hands. "Honoured guests, they to whom love is bound not by moral codes or honour, but by base, uncontrollable lust, have sired a child from their sin, and since lust is all to them, lust will be their undoing."

The courtiers stared up at him, stupefied by shock and alcohol.

Taking the parcel from a stunned Eanfrid, Griffid plucked from it the glossy black raven and dropped the soiled wrapping on the ground. The bird's head dangled loosely from its broken neck and blood oozed from its beak. He brushed his finger against it and daubed the mesmerised Eanfrid's forehead with a smear of blood. "As the gods are my witness, your sins shall be revisited upon you. The Druids of Morta have looked to the future, and though you will not live to see it, you can die knowing the path of your son's life will lead to the destruction of all that your ancestors have built, for from his loins will spring Anteran's downfall–"

Before any more could be said there was a blur of movement as a slight figure ran to Griffid and snatched the raven from his hands. "Cerran du morta, belal edara!" the bald, bearded man with the tattooed and pierced face cried as he tossed the bird on a nearby brazier.

It began to smoulder, casting off a plume of green smoke.

The crowd gasped in horror and shrank away as one creature.

The smell of burning feathers filled Eanfrid's nostrils. Acrid. Terrible. It woke him from his trance and he lurched backwards raising his forearm to his nose, hardly believing what he was seeing or hearing. The spot of blood on his forehead tingled. He scrubbed at it but it remained as though the tip of a white-hot poker had scalded him. His illusions were shattered. There would be no resolution. No forgiveness. Indeed for the past twelve months Griffid had been cultivating a bitter hatred so foul it shook Eanfrid to the foundations of his soul. He curses me?

"Maylian of Akura." Griffid sneered at the leathery-skinned intruder. "You think your meagre forest magic stands a chance against the Druids of Morta? You know as well as I, the curse made by sacrificial blood on flesh cannot be undone. It will run its course unhindered." With a black smile he swung around and strode back towards the double wooden doors at the other end of the hall, followed by Gertrude who fired one scathing look over her shoulder as they cut a swathe through the shocked onlookers like a hot blade through butter.

When they vanished from sight Eanfrid's weak legs gave way and he sank to his knees in despair. "Weeping gods, Maylian. I am cursed. I am cursed."

The other man dropped down beside him. He smelled of earth and smoke and citrusy bergamot. He licked his thumb and rubbed it over the smear of blood on Eanfrid's forehead. Then he took the king's face gently in his callused hands. "It is smoke and mirrors, Your Majesty. Half the curses in the realm would not come to fruition but for the belief of the recipient making them so."

Eanfrid rubbed the still burning spot between his brows. "What of the other half?"

"Rest easy. I have burned the bird and the curse with it. Now, come. You must reassure your people, and then we must go and do the same for your wife."

Could it be that simple? Eanfrid stood on shaky legs and announced to the cowering crowd that all would be well. The curse had been overturned due to Maylian's quick actions. The feast would continue as planned. His voice came out stronger than he felt, but seemed to have a positive affect. The shadow of dread lifted from their faces. Those who had been sobered by events set about remedying their condition with more ale. He wished he could be so easily appeased.

He and the older man retreated quickly along the twisting, torch-lit corridors and up the winding turret towards the Royal Solar where Cynwise would be hiding. His heart was still a lump of burning agony in his chest and he rubbed his sternum again trying to ease the pressure. "Is it so easy to counteract a curse?"