A Curse for Spring
by
Amanda Bouchet
A malevolent spell strangles the kingdom of Leathen in catastrophic drought. Prince Daric must break the curse before his people starve. A once-mighty goddess trapped in a human body might be the key—but saving his kingdom could mean losing all that he loves.
This is a stand-alone novella
Prologue
Prince Daric touchedhis fingers to the giant column of mist and then jerked them back. He stared at his fingertips, but nothing had changed. His skin hadn’t reddened; the nails weren’t blackened. Nothing, in fact, had happened.
With a nervous swallow scraping down his throat, he turned his head to check that no one had followed him from the royal encampment. The dying forest staredback with gnarled eyes, everything brittle, creaking, and ready to catch fire. Nothing disturbed the too-dry branches, but it was only a matter of time before someone noticed he’d snuck off and came looking for him.
They were still days from home after a long journey to neighboring Raana followed by a pilgrimage to their own sacred Wood of Layton. Negotiations with Raana’s Royal House of Nighthallhad not gone well, putting everyone in a foul mood, especially Daric’s father. King Wilder worried for his people, and Queen Illanna Nighthall had shown more greed than humanity, as usual.
Every year had been the same since Daric’s birth—ten years of drought. Fields grew drier, the people of Leathen thinner, and the royal coffers lighter as Daric’s parents were forced to pay the surrounding kingdomsfor water, grains, and provisions.
After another look around him to make sure all was quiet, Daric turned back to Braylian’s Cauldron. A thick column of mist rose from the sacred circle, but he knew that at any second, the elements could shift, turning into violent flames, bolts of lightning fierce enough to blind a man, gales that whipped and wailed, or shards of ice that exploded upward beforeraining down like daggers.
Children were warned away from the Cauldron from the moment they could understand fear. At least once a year, Daric joined the rest of the royal family at the volatile stone-lined circle to pay homage to Braylian, the goddess of the elements and the divine creator of the four seasons.
Usually, he was not alone to come before Braylian and beg for the return of waterto Leathen’s lakes and rivers. And to his knowledge, no one had ever stood this close to the Cauldron. He was not too young to understand the consequences of this ongoing lack of true springtime. He saw the tension in his parents and the gauntness of his people. The fact that he and the drought were the same age made him even more determined to find a solution. Somehow, he felt responsible.
Gathering his courage, Daric stretched his hand into the mist again, this time losing sight of everything up to his wrist. It was cool, damp, and terrifying. He curled his hand into a fist and drew back. As he did, he could have sworn he felt a soft brush of fingers across his knuckles.
Daric shivered in a way he knew a brave young prince shouldn’t, and had he been a hallerhound, he’d have feltthe hair on the back of his neck rise and quiver.
He squared his shoulders. Raana coveted Leathen’s orin mines. No longer satisfied with simply purchasing the strong, versatile metal, Illanna Nighthall had just successfully bartered for a nearly untapped mine that hugged the border. She had one shaft now. Next year, Daric feared she would have another.
Why spring rains would still water andnurture the surrounding kingdoms but not Leathen was a mystery. All Daric knew was that Leathen had faithfully guarded Braylian’s Cauldron for generations. It was time that Braylian returned the favor for Leathen.
“Braylian!” he called out, frightened, even though the stone circle seemed calm today. This was where spirits gathered, the seasons changed, and storms were born from nothing. “We needyour help!”
No response came, and the mist remained quiet. He leaned forward, dipping his head into the column. To do so was bold and spine-chilling, but if the goddess saw him, maybe she would answer.
A thick gray cloud dampened Daric’s skin with more wetness than he’d felt on his face outside of his own washroom since the last snows of winter, but he saw only fog in front of him.
Disappointedbut also a little relieved, he straightened out of the column. Leathen’s summer heat sucked the moisture from the land, its autumn storms sometimes ruined the crops the kingdom’s struggling farmers managed to cultivate, and its harsh winter freezes left too many people huddled around kitchen fires, cold and hungry. The long, ground-watering rains of springtime had abandoned Leathen the momentDaric came into it.
He didn’t know how, or why, but he needed to fix it before the drought forced his parents to sell their kingdom piece by piece to the power-hungry Queen of Raana.
An orin mine for water. More orinore for bread. When Leathen had no riches left, what would become of it?
Other kingdoms would turn covetous looks their way soon, just as Raana did. Land was land, even if it wasdead.
Daric appealed to the goddess again, leaning once more into the mist. He knew his actions were dangerous. Reckless, even. But what good was a prince to a kingdom that might cease to exist?
He called to Braylian until he was hoarse. Finally forced to admit defeat, he withdrew his head and torso from the cloud and started back toward the royal camp, his heart heavy with failure.
A liltingfemale voice stopped him in his tracks. “Who calls?”
The sound was more water than words. Daric turned back in awe, seeing a hand emerge from the column. Small fingers mirrored the tentative movements he’d first made into the mist. As if she’d learned from him, she mimicked his gestures, eventually leaning forward. As she did, her upper body took form, solidifying. Every action matched his, exceptshe was a girl. She was even his age, and the most ethereal, radiant being he’d ever seen.
She stretched out her hand more boldly. Beads of water dripped from her fingertips.Rain. It watered the dying ground between them, turning it vibrant and green.
Daric moved toward the Cauldron, his eyes wide and his pulse beating with wild hope. “I am Daric, of the House of Ash. Are you Braylian?”
