The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Eight

We continued to sit at the table as the minutes dripped slowly by. Bran was the first to break the silence.

"I'm bored," he said, "and it's only been an hour. Is there anything we can do while we wait for them?"

Lark, slumped on the surface of the table with her eyes half closed, shrugged. "We could talk."

"About what?" I asked.

She shrugged again. "We could take turns asking each other questions. One person asks, and everyone has to answer?"

"Only if the questions aren't too personal," said Bran. "Or if you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

I laughed. "What, do you have a deep, dark secret to hide?"

"No. I want privacy, that's all."

"Makes sense," said Reed. "Who goes first?"

"Me," Lark said, sitting up. "What are your favorite colors?"

"Black," said Reed.

"Red," I said.

Bran shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" said Lark. "How can you not know?"

"I just don't."

"Hmm." She squinted curiously at him, but after a moment, looked away. "Mine's purple."

"Why purple?" Bran asked.

"I like it."

The look on Bran's face made it clear he didn't think the answer adequate, but he didn't say anything.

"I'll go next," said Reed. "When did you realize you had a Blessing?"

"I was five," Lark said. "I picked up my older sister's violin and was playing around with it, and I realized I was actually really good, although it didn't make sense, because I'd never played before. So I kept sneaking sessions with it. Then, one night, I made a dandelion seed on the floor sprout." She grinned. "I didn't think about it. I just did it. And that was when I knew I was a Blessed." She turned to me. "You next, Fyra."

I laughed. "It's not half as interesting as yours. Bran stole my headband, so I set a deathbird on him."

Bran glowered at me.

"What?" I asked. "It's the truth."

"I was ten when I realized mine," Reed said quickly, probably worried we'd start fighting. "I'd been doodling on my arms for years, but this time—when I drew a butterfly in the palm of my hand—it peeled off and started flapping around."

We all turned expectantly toward Bran.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't remember when I realized."

"How can you not remember?" I asked.

"I just don't. I've always known."

"Bo-ring," I said. "You could at least make something up."

He looked me in the eye, then, his frown fading slightly, but not enough to stop the threat of it that hung around the corners of his mouth. "I thought we were supposed to be answering truthfully."

I couldn't think of a retort to that.

"My turn," said Bran. "What did your parents say to make you go on this quest?"

Even Lark glared at him now.

"They didn't say anything," she said. "I wanted to go."

"You wanted to be killed by the Magician?"

"I wanted to fight with my fellow Blesseds, and save my town from its curse."

"Me too," said Reed. "I knew I was a Blessed. I knew this would be my fate someday. Whether or not the people in my town are afraid of me, I still want to help them, and my friends there, and my family there."

I hesitated, then said, "I was afraid to come at first. But my mam explained to me that I had to go—that the town needed us. So I came."

"And what did she say to you?" Bran asked. "Did she say you had to be brave? Did she say you had to do it? Did she even give you a choice?"

"There was no choice," I said. "I wanted to help."

It was a lie. Bran knew it, and I knew it, but he didn't call me on it. I wondered why. He'd seen the panic attack. He'd known how scared I was to go. They all had.

"What about you?" Lark asked him, her gaze sharp as the blade of a knife.

Bran met her eyes coolly. "They told me I had a chance to be great—that I was lucky to be sent on a quest like this. A quest that could kill me. I disagreed. But they think that, when I return, I'll feel differently. That's why I'm not going back."

Lark broke the eye contact, staring downward at the table and tracing the grain with her ring finger. Bran's chin dipped in an almost imperceptible nod of victory.

No one asked any more questions after that.

When noon rolled around, the innkeeper set out bowls of bland-but-filling stew for us. A few hours later, Elder Brona returned. We all looked up as the creaking door heralded her arrival—except for Lark, who was leaning on the table, fast asleep. Reed gently nudged her awake.

"It's time to go," said Elder Brona. "Assuming we walk at a good pace, the walk should take us an hour, and we'll likely reach the farm an hour and a half before sunset. You'll have plenty of time to make any necessary preparations."

"All right." Reed pushed back his chair and stood. "Is there anything we should bring? For protection from the ghosts, or anything like that?"

Elder Brona shrugged. "We've never fought them ourselves before, and we've never..." She caught herself and frowned, as if she'd lost the thread of her thoughts and was trying to find it again. "They've never had reason to try to fight us."

"So we don't actually know whether or not they're hostile?" Bran asked.

"We've never tried to interact with them, but we're pretty sure they aren't friendly."

"But how do you know they can't be reasoned with?" Lark asked. "They might not know what they're doing is wrong."

Elder Brona turned to Lark, her expression hard to read. "Trust us. They're not reasonable creatures. They are dangerous."

"And that's why we're here," Reed said quickly. I saw his hand flutter, finding Lark's and giving it a gentle squeeze before moving back to its place at his side. "So, shall we get moving?"

Elder Brona nodded. "We shall. Follow me."

Ah, Bran... You just had to go and ruin the question game, didn't you? To help Bran become less of a killjoy, please vote.