For the lie-seeker holds none but self dear.
Two for one, and one for him,
And the Orb of Oruthur glows true.
Break it, dear, and you will know
Of pain and love beyond wildest fear.
And then the tongue shall free,
To scream delight, in only his ear.
Oruthur, an ancient alchemist of the lore. Legends claim he became so dedicated to forge gold, he preserved his own wife within the precious metal and cast the remains into solid glass to keep her safe. Six orbs released into the world after his death, but I only needed one to end this wretched curse my father had long ago yoked us to.
The stranger’s cheap fabric scratched against my hand as I prodded his pocket. Smooth, cold material met my fingers and sweat dampened my palm. I eased it out, holding my breath, afraid the circular object I pulled from the breeches may be anything except what I sought.
I clenched my hand around it. If I had a voice anymore, I’d likely let a raspy moan escape, or perhaps a winded prayer to a lost deity. Instead, the puff of air from my lips remained inaudible as I drew my prize close to my face.
Please, please.
I pried my fingers away, one at a time, resistance like cooling iron attempting to persuade them together.
Finally, the exposed ball rested in my palm. Clear glass surrounded the exterior as thick as a finger span. Caught in the center, a shimmering gold material twisted and turned, appearing to search out the flickering lantern light to dance for the flames.
This could be nothing else. The Orb of Oruthur. The one thing able to free my family from the chains of this curse, and from the King’s dedication to destroy all curse-bearing people in the kingdom of Vati. My father, mother, and sister all saved once I broke this orb.
The man beneath me groaned, and I jerked back. I caught myself before I could hastily rise and display any unorthodox behavior. I was so close. Losing this opportunity would break me, mentally and physically. Living in exile and skirting along the edge of civilization was no way to exist. At the very least, my sister deserved more. She deserved to know what her own voice sounded like.
I curled my fingers back over the orb and slipped it into the satchel around my waist. I couldn’t risk breaking the item here. The king didn’t care if a curse-bearer broke their spell or not. He killed them either way. No, I had to take my prize elsewhere to fulfill the prophecy. The bag felt as though it gained the sudden weight of spring chicken, right before slaughter.
Carefully, I slipped down the stranger’s legs, letting my feet take my weight gradually. He shifted a bit, but settled quickly.
Almost there. Only a few more hand spans and I’d be free…
The tavern door smacked open. The metal knob ground into the wall behind it and the building groaned in protest. Cold night air, tinted with honeysuckle and horseshit, slipped around a set of towering men wearing long, black robes.
The stranger shot up at the noise. A protest came from his throat and much too-clear eyes scoured for the new threat, dashing over where I remained frozen on his lap.
But I couldn’t pay him much mind. My heart sputtered in my chest. The breath I’d held to avoid waking him suddenly turned to ice for a different reason. Almost as shiny as the gold caught in the orb, the King’s Rank sat upon the breast of these men’s cloaks.
The king called them his Curse Catchers, but the common folk whispered a different name in the dead of night. The Reapers. A band of men, each holding unknown special abilities, tasked with seeking and destroying all those bearing the effects of a curse. The King claimed to want to rid Vati of the unwanted, but I’d always wondered if he enjoyed seeing the rivers of blood run down his execution block.
A handful of the Reapers stalked through the tavern door, almost dwarfing the opening with their size. Their cloaks shifted, and a display of fine silver ran across leather armor, ending with ornate hilts atop steel longswords.
They hesitated inside the doorway. None of the patrons dared make a sound, for fear they may unexpectedly discover their own curse and find their heads separated from their bodies.
One Reaper split from the rest, and came to the bar where the barkeeper held a forgotten mug of ale.
“I’ll take that off your hands.” The Reaper gestured to the mug. His deep voice alluded calm and confidence. He knew what effect their presence created and tried, perhaps unsuccessfully, to quell the mood. “And have pitchers poured for the rest of us.”
The Reaper threw a handful of coins down, and the barkeep dashed away, quick to fulfill the orders.
The man leaned against the bar, shoulders softened beneath the weight of his armor, and rested one elbow on the polished surface. Almost with the familiarity of a practiced movement, he cast a glance around the still tavern.
Green eyes danced from patron to patron, settling for a second or two on each. When he looked at me, our gazes connected, and a shot of panic and fear coiled deep in my gut. Long forgotten instincts awakened at his stare. The ones that whispered a predator lingered nearby and the next few breaths may be my last.
He glanced down, where I sat on the stranger’s lap, and the Reaper’s lips twisted in a shadow smile. His gaze released me, and relief quenched the heat of terror for only a moment.
