The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Three

*Trigger warning for mild panic attack*

Long ago, there was a Blessed called the Magician. He was born when my town was young—barely days since it had been founded. No one knew what Blesseds were yet.

The Magician grew up normally, with normal parents, and normal friends. He was extraordinarily lucky. His childhood was full of narrow escapes and daring pranks. He always seemed to be happy.

And then something changed. He was no longer joyful. Rather than laughing at teasing, he'd sulk for days. Things would happen to those who bothered him. He was better left alone, if you didn't want to risk turning up with a broken bone later in the week. His own mother began to fear him.

The leaders of the town met and decided they no longer wanted him in their town. He was too dangerous, too powerful, too hard to understand.

"Leave," they told him. "Never return."

He refused, but they offered him exile or death, and he didn't want to die.

He packed his things and walked to the edge of the town. Before he entered the forest, he turned his face back to the town and cast a curse upon it. Misfortune—the worst Fate had to offer. Magic storms that would disrupt everything, bringing the town to its knees, so that nothing was for certain—not even the seasonal weather. Frosts would come in the middle of June. Spring would have at least ten false starts before it really got going, and it would be impossible to know when it was safe to plant.

The town leaders thought the curse would eventually wear off. They were wrong. It continued long after their deaths, and the deaths of the town leaders after them, and the deaths of the town leaders after them.

Others with powers appeared. The townfolk couldn't make sense of them, but they didn't have to. The leaders remembered. They coined the term Blessed, chose to press it upon those with talents deemed unnatural, chose to send those people—who were often children—out into the world to defeat the Magician. Brutal? Yes. Worth it? Yet to be seen.

More Blesseds were born, and the tradition continued. And then I came along. Another Blessed. Another quest. Only, this time, there were multiple Blesseds going on the same quest.

The town leaders controlled the big decisions in my town. They were, in their turn, led by the Head Man, who was elected once a year.

This Head Man was rather short. Not so short that it was unusual, but short enough that I found it odd. His cheeks were red. His hair was the same color, but with a tad more orange in it. His voice boomed through the town hall, like a drum, or a crack of thunder, "Fyra Jennings, Bran Rayden, Lark Ellins, Reed Tarkinbosh."

So that was the name of the boy with the pen. Reed. I slid my eyes sideways to look at him. He was plain, with brown hair and a short, rather stubby nose.

The Head man continued, "You stand accused of being one of the Blessed. Are you?"

"Yes," said Reed.

I glanced over to Bran. Why was he included in the list? He hadn't done anything.

"Yes," said Lark.

Bran took a breath. "Yes," he said.

I stared at him. He wasn't a Blessed. That I knew for certain. He'd never done anything magical—never defended himself from me or used a Blessing to hurt me. If he could have, he certainly would have. He hated me.

"Fyra," said the Head Man. "Fyra, are you paying attention?"

I snapped out of my thoughts. "Yes, sir. Sorry."