Wicked is the Curse.

14 | Dullahan

Chapter Fourteen | Dullahan

"Magic is not a solution," A gruff, warm voice cajoled. "A gift, but a burden. A miracle, but a curse. Remember that."

And she had.

Even as the words had not been directed at her, but her brothers and sisters who trained under her parents' strict instruction. Even as she stared out her window, ignoring her tutors, she listened to her father's booming voice. Magic had balance, just like the soil that fed them, just like the sea that held a bounty of magic and food but ate ships in raging waves. For some, balance brought more abilities. For others, it tapered their strength.

Magic, like all things, could be drained.

It was all Aire could think about as agony ravaged her insides. Brice, who had kept the smoke from blackening their lungs, had healed their shattered hands and had torn open Lakron's face, was now weak. Too weak to keep her pain muted – struggling to keep her alive.

Her only mercy was her inability to stay awake. 

The others begged her to open her eyes, but the world was too rough, too blindingly painful that she couldn't. 

She slipped between dreams and the waking world. In her dreams, images scattered in broken pieces. Laughter wafted through her gritted screams – before she stood in echoing halls.

 Figures stood around a cooking pit, waiting for the boar to be lifted from the boiling water. Women knelt at the edge, shoving hot stones inside. By the fire, the dwarf poet Abhcán was strumming a chord and singing lowly in a voice so clear and beautiful that the most battle-hardened warriors would cry if Abhcán wished it.

Aire stood there, a wraith amongst the music and laughter. The dream – the memory – was an exquisite pain and she stared, yearning for the shimmering figures to turn and face her. So she could see their faces – so she could remember what time and greed had taken from her.

The music shattered as Nyeth shook her, her voice a low growl of desperation. "Stay awake, Aire. There are far too few Wielders left for you to be killed by a tree."

"A tragic death." Aire gasped, struggling to gather herself. Her tongue felt heavy and awkward, her head throbbing. "It would make for a sad song sung over dying fires."

"Do not waste your breath making dismal jokes," Nyeth scolded. To Brice, she said, "We need to bring her to the water. So, we can clean the wound and give her some water."

"The fire may follow us," Brice's voice was brittle.

"We cannot continue like this much further," Nyeth said. "We are all exhausted and Aire needs to rest."

Guilt churned inside of her. Every minute that passed was one where they could have lengthened the distance between themselves and the Bloodbounds. 

But they had come back for her. For a woman who still might die. Aire gritted her teeth. Warm blood ebbed down from her torso, but the wound was knitting tight. She could feel it, muscle, fat and skin forming too quick to be natural. As she glanced back, she saw a path of flowers spreading a long soil, now rich and dark.

Each step was blinding. Siseal's breath was ragged beside her, but he continued to march on. Aire could only concentrate on taking one step at a time. One. Two. One. Two.

Brice's magic continued to rip through her. The Wielder trudged beside them, her breathing rasping and pained. It seemed an age before Aire heard the babbling of running water. The great towering trees around them vanished for a moment and Aire blinked at the red-moonlight bathing a clearing of outcropped rocks, jutting around a narrow river running swiftly through the break in the trees.