Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Prologue

The salty air that whipped itself around the Seagulf Islands tasted bitter in Wesstial’s mouth. He was better attuned to the mountainous environment of the northern Whismerl region. There, other Magikals felt freer about their practices. Here off the coast of Javal’ta, Magik was scarcely recognized.


That made the mission that much more absurd to Wesstial, but it was his duty to obey. He had been told to come to the Seagulf Islands, to Boost, and assassinate Count Roose. This kind of behavior was not new to a Mage like him, but it usually involved brash upstarts that were looking to cause trouble. While monitoring the count, Wesstial did not see logic in killing such a man as Roose.


“But my place is acquiring results, not posing questions,” he said to himself, over and over again, especially when he could not help but over think the situation. He had arrived by ferry on Boost two days prior and had the count in his sights most of the time, when he was walking around town. A seemingly ordinary man, Roose was polite to those around him and was not expectant of any special treatment. When Wesstial was not keeping tabs, he asked townsfolk what they thought of the man. Most had no opinion as they were not aware anyone occupied the large manor on the highest hill of the island, Castle Tigra Lei. Some acknowledged Roose’s presence but did not see how it concerned them.


One or two tended to catch Wesstial’s earlobes. Rumors that the man went through servants like a crab goes through shells were repeated. One man swore he saw the count disappear completely with the clap of his hands, and a woman stated that exotic and dangerous plant life could be seen through certain windows at just the right angle.


Wesstial, making his way up the hill with stealth at his side and the tiniest sliver of moon at his back, wished that he could clap his hands and disappear. But he knew that such instances of Magik were not probable. Invisibility was a monumental achievement and the count was too young to have learned the trade.


Still, the Mage had a job: kill Count Roose.


At the top of the hill, Wesstial paused. The castle was not protected by any moat or rampart, no imposing wall or gilded gate. There was simply an entrance, double doors inside a frame. This did not surprise Wesstial because he had seen all this during reconnaissance. What surprised him was that the double doors were wide open, and Count Roose was standing just inside, staring out, unseen candles throwing wicked shadows across his face and body. Wesstial, at one with his surrounding shadows, was surprised when the count beckoned him forward from more than a hundred feet away.


“Come, Mage. Come forward,” he said. Wesstial knew better than to give away his position. He heard a buzzing then, an insect of some kind. It seemed out of place and before Wesstial questioned it, he felt a sting on his back, light but powerful. He wanted to swat at the pain but knew it would give him away.


Suddenly, with a blink and a lurch of his stomach, Wesstial found himself inside a cage. He spit up on himself briefly before looking around. The cage was barely large enough for a man and was made of what looked like glass rods. He thought that to be impossible as it proved irresistible to breakage. The room outside the cage looked like a Magikal workshop, with benches and tables scattered around the edges. He was on one of the tables. Glowbes were the most common source of light in the room but there were a few candles. In the center of the room was a tall plant stalk that he could not identify. Vines snaked away from it and occupied disproportionate areas of the room.


His heart sunk when he realized that the cage had no opening of any kind. Attempting to rock himself off the table in hopes of shattering his prison, Wesstial was almost at the edge when the count rounded a corner, winded as if he had been forced to run quickly or ascend a steep flight of stairs. A predatory smile graced him that could not be impaired by any wicked shadows.


“Dear Mage, welcome!” he bellowed, his voice loud for a compact man. “I am so sorry that you only get to see this part of the castle. When you didn’t leave the shadows, I had to send Puze after you. That sting, it was him. I am so sorry if it made you feel unpleasant.”


As he spoke, Count Roose gathered ingredients from the various tables and the shelves beneath them. Wesstial recognized them but did not see how they could be used against him. His alarm increased as Magik this far south was rare. “You were sent to kill me, yes?” His voice had a rumble to it and it sounded like he was chewing his words before he spit them out. Wesstial assumed that Decennian was not his first language. “I am with regret that you will not have the opportunity, my friend.”


He put his face close to the bars, his deep black eyes staring into Wesstial’s and his smile showing even more teeth. He realized he could shove his dagger through the count’s head, but with the thought came Roose’s movement, as if anticipating the notion. Wesstial was terrified and, though he usually felt brave in the face of danger, he now felt sick with grief: Count Roose meant to kill him. He was sure of it.


“Give me a tear,” he said while grinding the ingredients with a pestle. “Or a bit of hair, something.” Without a thought, Wesstial gave up three strands of hair. “Have you ever been Cursed, dear Mage?”


Wesstial felt true fear. “They’ve sent the wrong kind of killer,” he murmured, wishing his strands back to him. The associations of what it meant to be Cursed were exponential. His widened eyes made the count laugh, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated the cage and the Mage’s spirit.


“Do not fear, dear Mage. It is no big ordeal in your circumstance. I have larger bass to bake.” After spitting in the bowl, he looked at Wesstial again. “I have to be ready for when the king arrives, and I can’t waste anymore time with would-be assassins like you. So…” He paused, taking a breath and giving Wesstial the slightest scrap of hope.


He then dashed that hope against the stone flooring, like a master killing his gnashing pup. “I Curse you with Death.” In the microseconds that Wesstial had to contemplate the words, he knew his time was up and he truly wished he had said his goodbyes.


Or that he had come to Boost already Cursed.