A Curse So Dark and Lonely (The Cursebreaker Series Book 1)

We smell the harbor long before we reach Silvermoon. The scent of fish throws a faint metallic tang into the air. It’s ten times worse in the summer; I remember. I would ride with my father to inspect our naval fleet, or to receive dignitaries from other ports, and the stench of fish and sweat and dirt is ingrained in my brain. The harbor sits at the northernmost point of Rushing Bay, bordered by land that stretches south on either side for over a hundred miles, which makes the bay—and Silvermoon Harbor—easily defensible from the south. When the creature made itself known and I closed our borders, I sent the naval fleet south to stand guard at Cobalt Point, where the bay opens into the ocean.

I have no idea whether my ships continue to stand guard at Cobalt, but after bringing word of our visit, Grey reported that Silvermoon Harbor stands in better shape than he anticipated. Their proximity to the sea would have kept them well fed—and provided ample resources for trading with towns farther off. Even still, I offer silver coins and good tidings to everyone we meet along the road. For those who look in need of food, I tell them to come to where the South Road meets the King’s Highway, in two days, and I will have a wagon of food and supplies waiting.

For those who look well fed and able, I tell them we are seeking to rebuild Emberfall’s army.

At my side, Harper has been quiet and aloof, reciting the lines I’ve given her to perfection—while adding her own flair. The King of Disi longs for another victory. The people of Disi are eager for trade with those of Emberfall. The children of Disi have so much to learn from Emberfall’s rich and civilized culture. The mark on her cheek, the dagger at her waist, the cool edge to her words … she makes the perfect warrior princess from a different land. What I know is restless uncertainty comes across as distant composure.

Before long, the city wall looms ahead, the gates closed and guarded. A shadow flickers in the guard tower at the top of the wall, and after a moment, bells peal out, ringing loudly, a repeated bong-bong-bong. We’ve been spotted. The gates draw open.

“What does that mean?” says Harper. “The bells.”

“Royalty approaches,” I say. “They ring differently for different things. You will hear them at every city we visit.”

Her jaw is tense. She says nothing.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” My voice is light, the question almost teasing, but the words are genuine. Tension has begun a slow, lazy crawl up my spine as well. We have one guard and one untested soldier. I have a bow strapped to the saddle and a sword at my hip. I can already see at least a hundred people lining the street leading through Silvermoon, drawn by the bells. In my former life, they would have been no cause for concern. I would have been traveling with a dozen guards at least—if not more while in my father’s company.

Now if this crowd were to turn against me, to turn against my family’s abandonment of them, it would not take many to have us outnumbered and dead on the cobblestones.

“Not nervous.” Harper draws the words out. “But meeting people on the road feels different from … from that.” She nods ahead to the still-gathering crowd.

I lean closer and drop my voice. “I would be surprised if anyone dares to approach. It was once said that approaching the royal family without invitation was a good way to lose your head in the street.”

Her head snaps around. “What? Really?”

“The Royal Guard has quite the reputation.” I look across at Grey. “Isn’t that true, Commander?”

“We take few chances.” His voice is almost bored—or maybe distracted. His eyes are watching the crowd.

When we draw near, three armed men and a woman on horseback separate from the crowd and ride through the archway, blocking the road and therefore the entrance. One man and the woman wear armor, and carry as many weapons as Grey and Jamison. The other two men ride in front. At first glance, their attire fits well, sporting threads of silver and gold, but as we draw closer, the men’s faces are drawn and wary. They may not be armored, but they are armed.

I don’t recognize either of them. Many of the local lords ran—or died—when the creature first unleashed its terror on the lands neighboring Ironrose.

“The Grand Marshal, my lord,” says Grey, his voice low. “And his Seneschal.”

For a moment, I regret sending word of our visit. This man could carry nothing but resentment for the crown, for a royal family who has seemingly abandoned them for years. Tension builds in the air between our party and theirs. I’m tempted to draw to a halt, or to demand an expression of their intent. I’m tempted to send Grey across the remaining forty feet of road to inquire as to our reception here. The people behind their representatives are quiet, peering out of the opening.

Clearly Harper is not the only one harboring uncertainty.

To my left, Jamison’s breathing is steady. A soldier used to following his commanding officer into war. It’s reassuring. I have two men to fight at my side—and that’s a one hundred percent improvement over yesterday. We ride forward.

At twenty feet, the two leading men dismount from their horses, followed by their two guards. They stride forward. They draw their swords.

Grey’s hand finds the hilt of his own. Harper sucks in a breath.

But then the men and their guards fall to one knee. Their swords are laid on the stone road in front of them.

“Your Highness,” says one. “Welcome. The people of Silvermoon have long awaited your return.”

“We greet you with great relief,” says the other. “You and your lady.”

Beside me, Harper lets out a slow breath.

I do the same.

“Rise, Marshal,” I say. “We thank you and your Seneschal for the kind welcome.” I have to pause to make sure my voice gives away nothing. “We are eager to visit with the people of Silvermoon.”

They rise and mount their horses, leading us toward the city. The Grand Marshal is a large man my father’s age, with thick, graying hair and a stern yet kind demeanor. He compliments Harper, then begins listing the achievements of Silvermoon over the past few years, the ways they’ve bolstered the city’s defense—including defense against the creature, which tightens something in my gut. But he seems anxious to please. His welcome feels genuine.

Like with the moment on the road, I remember what this feels like. To be a part of something.

As we pass through the gates, the people yield the road. They kneel. They call out, “All hail the crown prince!”

It is not the first time I have been welcomed this way.

It is the first time it has ever meant so much.

We leave the horses at the livery so we can walk through the harbor’s marketplace on foot. The Grand Marshal offers to escort us with his guards, but he would undoubtedly have questions about the alliance, about the fate of the royal family, and I am not ready to feed a larger meal to the town gossip quite yet.

Once we step into the fray, however, I nearly regret the decision. The aisles are thick with people, voices raised to bicker and barter and trade. Bodies press in closer than I am ready for. A stray dagger could be anywhere. Harper suddenly grips my hand.

Grey knows his job, however. He steps forward and says, “Make way for the crown prince and his lady!”

A path opens before us. Men bow. Ladies curtsy.

But not all. Some stare. The stares are not friendly.

Harper leans close. “I’m sorry I’m so nervous.”

Sharing my own tension will do nothing to calm hers. I glance over. “You seem resilient as ever.”

“I’m not used to so many people staring at me.”

“How regrettable. You surely deserve the attention.” I gently move her hand from mine to the crook of my arm. I lean in close to speak softly along her cheek. “I need my sword hand free. You are not the only one who is nervous, my lady.”

Surprise registers in her eyes, and she gives a small gasp. I half expect her to let go, but she doesn’t. Her hand holds tight at the bend of my elbow.

The cobblestone walkway between rows of vendors and tradesmen has been swept free of snow, and large steel barrels of burning coals sit every dozen feet to warm the air. Every stall boasts something different: silk scarves, hammered silver pendants, beaded hair combs. Swords in one booth, knives in another. Frayed pennants advertising each artisan’s trade wave in the cool breeze. I am glad for the open air of the marketplace, because the press of people is actually quite claustrophobic. People continue to yield a path, but many do so only grudgingly. Men meet my eyes and hold them.

It pricks at my pride. My father never would have tolerated it. He would have made an example of one, and no others would have dared such insolence.

My father also would have had twenty-four guards at his back. I have two.

I lean toward Harper again, and keep my voice easy. “What do you think of Silvermoon, my lady?”

“I’m trying not to stare too much.”

“Stare all you like. Does anything catch your fancy?”

“All of it does.”

“Name anything you like and it is yours.” I say this more loudly, and every merchant’s head swivels in our direction.

“You don’t need to buy me off,” Harper says under her breath. “I’ve already come this far.”

“I’m not buying you off. I’m buying them. I want to spend silver. Give my people confidence.” I pause and raise my voice again. “Silk, you say? Come, let us look.”

We spend a small fortune. Vendors have been ordered to deliver bolts of fabric, dozens of dresses, endless trinkets in silver and gold and blown glass, and a pile of painted wooden toys Harper chose for the children. Everything she touches, I buy. When we pass a stall offering beer and spirits, we buy a round for everyone nearby. The men who scowled at me earlier have disappeared, and any uncertainty has vanished from the air.

Even Harper has relaxed into the role. Vendors fawn over her. Women whisper behind their hands, but their eyes are curious, not mean-spirited. Children offer baskets of sugared nuts and warm biscuits, and no one dares to crowd our path now. Grey and Jamison seem more at ease, giving us more space instead of hovering quite so close.

Underneath it all, uncertainty plagues me. I look at each face and imagine soldiers from Syhl Shallow slicing through them with a broadsword. Worse, I look at each face and imagine my creature slashing through them with claws.

By late afternoon, we’re nearing the back part of the marketplace, where the stalls and aisleway are larger, and many vendors offer games of chance and entertainment. The scents of salted meats and roasted vegetables carry from the next aisle over, where the marketplace will spill out into a large open area for eating and gathering. Larger weapons are sold back here, too: swords, shields, longbows, and the like.

My eyes linger on the bowyer’s stall, the long arcs of wood ranging in color from bright polished amber to a dark, rich ebony. The stall is larger, with a long channel set up alongside, where shoppers can test a bow before purchase.

Harper follows my gaze. “You haven’t bought anything for yourself.”

“There is nothing I need.” Except time, and I haven’t yet seen that for sale.

“Well, technically I don’t need anything you just bought, either.”

The bowyer notices our attention, then turns to pull a long slim bow from the wall. Reddish-brown wood gleams from end to end, the grip wrapped in braided leather. He offers it on outstretched hands. “Do you care to shoot, Your Highness? Or perhaps your lady would? This is the finest bow I have. Wood from the Vuduum Forest.”

I inhale to decline—but Harper looks up at me. “Can I do it? Will you show me?”

“Yes, of course.”

We draw a crowd almost immediately. Two dozen people form a circle. Grey stands beside us, his back to the stand, and tells Jamison to make sure the people keep their distance.

“Are all these people going to watch?” Harper whispers.

The bowyer offers a slim wrist guard, and I take her hand to buckle it around her forearm. “Nothing generates interest like the opportunity to watch a royal fail at something.”

Arrows lie along the ledge at the front of the narrow range, with a wooden target at the end, maybe thirty feet away.

I take an arrow, nock it on the string, and rest the end on the shelf of the bow. “Watch,” I tell her. “Straight arm, draw back to the corner of your mouth, and shoot.” I do as I say. The string snaps hard, and the arrow flies straight into the center of the target.

That earns me a smattering of applause. Harper’s eyes are wide. “Way to keep the pressure down.”

I smile. “A child could hit the target at this distance.” I hold out the bow and another arrow. “Give it a try.”

She takes the bow and arrow, then a long, slow breath. Her eyes center on the bull’s-eye. She finds focus so easily. The nock of the arrow lands on the string like she’s been shooting all her life, and she raises her arm to put it along the bow.

She’s so confident about it that I nearly miss the fact that she’s resting the arrow on her fingers instead of the bow shelf. I step behind her and close my fingers over her drawing arm before she can let go.

“Was I doing it wrong?” she says.

“If you want to shear the fingers off your hand, you were doing it exactly right.” I adjust the placement of the arrow, matching my stance to hers. My arm rests below her forearm, my fingers closing around hers to hold the bow. “Here. Touch your mouth with the string.”

When her fingers brush her lip, mine do as well. Her body is warm and close in the circle of my arms. The crowd behind us has melted away, and the moment centers on this one task. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say softly, “release the string.”

Her fingers release. The string snaps, and the arrow goes flying.

It buries itself in the upper-left quadrant of the target. The crowd applauds again.

She turns to me and smiles. “I did it! I like this better than knives. Will you show me again?”

I find it amusing that she keeps asking, as if I would not do this a thousand more times. She seizes another arrow and lines it up on the bow, more sure this time. I lift her elbow to straighten her aim.

She hits closer to the bull’s-eye this time. Her eyes are bright, and she’s a little breathless. “Again?”

“Of course.” I would give anything to touch her face again. Her chin, the soft curve of her lip. I settle for gently straightening her aim.

She hits the target again and smiles up at me. “I love this. Again?”

“As many as you like, my lady.”

When she turns to shoot, she shifts closer to me. Whether by accident or intent, I am not sure, but I can feel her warmth. When I place my hand on her arm, I leave it there.

She does not pull away. Maybe fate has finally found me worthy of mercy.

Just as I have the thought, a weight slams into my midsection, and I’m thrown against the side of the bowyer’s stall.

And then I hear Harper scream.