The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)

Chapter 3b - Curse & Counterspell

Harric frowned. She had a point. The fog had come for Davos that spring on the foretold day, and Davos had a hired company of bodyguards to protect him; the fog slipped right past and did its work all the same. Gravin’s day came shortly after, and he encircled his cabin with a posse of witch hunters who by morning were all strangled or decapitated with Gravin. Why had Harric alone survived?

Lyla stepped toward him, eyes bright and earnest. “It was the power of your nineteenth Naming Day, Master Harric. That’s what I’m here to show you. You know about the Naming Day? You know about the Proof?” 

Harric grimaced. “The apprentice proof? Not really. Some kind of South-Isle magical superstition, I think.”

She glared. “That superstition just saved your life, and it’ll keep you alive past sunset if you make your Proof today.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m here to explain it, ain’t I? The nineteenth naming day is called the Day of Proof because it’s the day a prentice proves he’s a master by doing something only a master can do. Once he proves that, he’s free, and his master has no power over him. See?”

“Okay. But how does that apply to me? I’m not an apprentice any more. I quit two years before my training was complete, when Mother’s madness got so—” His voice strained. He swallowed and shrugged. “She chose this day for my doom because it’s the day I would have completed her training. Her way of saying I brought it on myself.”

“It doesn’t matter if you quit. You still know what she taught you, so you can still Prove it.” She studied Harric from the corners of her eyes. “I asked Mother Ganner if your mama prenticed you as a witch, but she said your mama was never a witch. Said she was a lady of the court who went mad from visions of the future, but that your mama taught you how to be a courtier. Did I learn that right?”

Harric snorted. “Partly.”

She nodded. “All right then, for your Proof you have to pick a courtly art of hers — something only a master could do — and show you can perform it like a master. When you do that, you break her power over you. See?”

“And this ‘Proof,’ if I perform it, will somehow break my mother’s curse, too?”

“Stop smiling at me like I’m some tickle-brained peasant. The curse is part of her power, ain’t it? So, promise.”

Something sparked to life in Harric. A tiny fluttering deep in his soul.

Break her curse and live? Live to see the sunrise again? Live to embrace Caris? To dream—  NO. He snuffed it savagely. Her dooms always come true. To hope now would only make him pathetic, scrambling after every witch charm and counter potion, right when he needed to face it like a man.

But the spark wouldn’t snuff. It grew. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t ignore the fact that for the first time ever, one of his mother’s dooms had stumbled, which meant there was hope. And the little spark seemed to know it, expanding from a glimmer to an unquenchable conflagration that reduced his defensive walls to ashes.

Lyla wore a tiny smile. An eyebrow rose in question.

“All right,” he said, through grinding teeth. “You’d better be right about this.”

She nodded, evidently satisfied this qualified as acceptance. “I am right.” She took a tentative step forward, a flash of mischief in her eye. “What art will you perform for your Proof, Master Courtier?  Fencing, feasting, or foining?”

Harric gave a barren smile.  “You forgot feigning. I learned all those things, but my real training was of more…secret skills to serve our Queen.”

“It can’t be a secret if it’s your Proof, so you have to tell me.”

He took a deep breath, trying in vain to calm the turmoil in his chest. This was madness. Could he truly defeat his doom? What if he failed?

She arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

“I’ll make my Proof in the art of the con. That’s my strongest suit.”

“I knew it! She trained you as a trickster. That’s how you beat my master in poker. It’s probably how she kept her magic secret all those years.”

He gave a non-committal shrug. “Sadly, all of Gallows Ferry saw me trick your master. The whole outpost will be alert to anything I try now. If I want to con anyone today, I’ll have to focus on new emigrants passing through the market.”

“How many cons could your mother do in a day?”

“Nineteen was her best.”

“Then for your Proof you’ll need twenty.”

He felt the bottom drop from his stomach. Nineteen had been a lucky day for his mother. Her best before that had been twelve.

“You can do it, Master Harric. You can. I saw how good you are.”

Harric nodded. He’d done well against her master, but he’d also been reckless. He didn’t think he’d be alive the next day, so he hadn’t cared if he made enemies. When her former master learned he still lived, they wouldn’t wait for his curse to finish the job, but look for a chance to kill him themselves.

“So promise you’ll make your Proof.”

He nodded. “All right.  But if this goes wrong you should probably know I’m going to haunt you.”

“I’ll bury you on an island so your ghost can’t cross the water.”

He laughed and reached out to take her hand, but she jumped back as if he shoved a rat in her face. Whirling, she flew down the stairs, but stopped at the landing and looked back. “You can do it. Don’t forget you promised.”

“I won’t,” he said, more to himself than her, for she had turned and continued her flight down the stairs.

He closed the door and laid his forehead against its painted wood.

His heart, which had calmed after the nightmare in the fog, begun to flutter again like a frightened bird in his rib cage. Twenty cons. In an outpost full of enemies and people who knew to watch him. He chuckled grimly. “I’m dead already.”

“Doomed,” said his mother, behind him. “There’s a difference.”

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