Whispers of Magic

By A. J. Skelly 

My blood freezes. I know that tingling scent. The scent of magic. Magic long dead in these parts. But there… that flicker of tantalizing other. That otherness resonates within me.

I scan the crowded pub for possible sources. Sweat, the stink of unwashed bodies, mutton left too long over the flames, and yeasty ale vie for prominence. But like a bloodhound trained on a scent, I cast them aside one by one until…

There. The tingling in my nose is only strong enough to tease me. As I rise and slowly turn, the fur coat hanging from my shoulders brushes the floor. A hooded, cloaked figure hovers in the shadows at the corner of the bar.

Prickles skitter over my skin. The thin figure is the source of the magic. Frozen blood thaws and thrums in my veins. I have not found another magic-wielder since Cora was stolen from me.

The person startles, noticing my insistent stare.

With a swish of heavy black material, the magic-wielder slides through the back toward the kitchen.

With a wild cry rising in my throat, I stumble after them. People curse as I bump into tables, and drinks slosh from their tankards. But I am a man with one purpose.

I cannot lose the scent.

Magic is the only thing that can cure my father and save the barony. And I do not possess enough on my own.

“You can’t be back here,” a scullery maid shrieks as I barrel past her.

“I’m sorry. There was a person—long, dark cloak. They just came back here a moment ago.”

“You get your sorry self out of my kitchen!”

I glance up in time to duck away from the cook’s rolling pin.

There is no place in the kitchen for the figure to hide. I jerk toward the back door.

My breath comes in gasps—from nerves, not exhaustion. I plunge through the exit into the attached stables. I’m immediately surrounded by the smell of horse, leather, hay, and wafts of baking bread from the kitchen behind me.

I sniff again.

There. A slight tingle fizzes up my nose, making my fingers twitch and my soul feel alive. The magic-wielder is near.

“Please.” My voice cracks. “Please come out. I mean you no harm. I need your help.”

My pleas are met with silence.

“Hello?”

Light flares around me, so bright I’m momentarily blinded. The fizzing sensation burns up my nose as the glut of unleashed magic goes straight to my head and makes me dizzy.

“What do you want of me?” a husky voice asks. The light dims, and I’m able to squint against it to see a woman. I jerk in shock.

Though parts of her appearance show the smooth skin of youth, she is badly scarred and pocked like someone held her face against an open fire. With her hood off, I can see patches of rippled scalp where scraggly hair struggles to grow. Her milky eyes do not waver from my face. Her lips and nose are twisted ropes that blur together on her face.

She stands tall, one palm out in front of her cupping a palm-sized flame.

“My lady.” Compassion creeps into my heart for this poor woman. “Forgive me for frightening you. I’ve been looking for many weeks for any trace of magic. I… my father is dying. Our barony with him. I need the help of another magic-user.”

“You have seen the extent of my healing abilities,” she remarks coldly as she juts her chin out, displaying the angry welts of skin.

“I can teach you. I am a healer. I possess the skills. I only lack enough magic to complete my father’s cure. Will you help me?”

Her face is impassive. She studies me. “I cannot help you as I am.”

“Why not? You possess the magic. I can smell it.”

A single tear tracks from one opaque eye. The flames dim in her hand.

“This is all the magic I can expend.” The flames fade farther. “It is already spent.”

“But it’s there.” It must be there.

“I am cursed. The curse must be broken for my magic to be freed.”

“What must I do?” My heart gallops in my chest. My father’s healing may be within reach.

Her chin droops to her chest, and she takes a shuddering breath. “You must marry me. As I am.”

I wince before I can school my features. “You don’t even know my name, and yet you’d marry me? Your curse?”

“Only an evil man would be worse than this purgatory. And I know who you are, Aiden Stormhawk.”

My head jerks up. Something about the way her unnaturally throaty voice says my name. As I study her, the smell of her magic swells and burns my nose.

I suck in a breath as hope surges in my chest, and my heart feels a pang of familiarity.

“Let us find the priest.”

Two hours later, we stand before the man of God as he raises his hands toward heaven and makes the sign of the blessing over us.

“I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

I swallow. Cloudy eyes look at mine, her twisted face expressionless. My wife. Reminding myself that this will save Father and that my heart aches with kinship toward her despite her disfigurement, I lower my mouth to hers.

The instant our lips touch, magic sizzles between us, shocking me and burning my mouth.

She cries out and writhes in my arms.

In horrified fascination, I hold her, keeping her from crashing to the floor as light and magic whirl around us like a cyclone.

Her scars contort, peeling away like flecks of ash. Her hair grows long, lush, and auburn. Her face… I know that face.

“Cora!”

“Aiden. The curse… it’s broken!”

I stare back at the missing piece of my heart. Her magic bubbles up and my nose twitches.

“Let us go save our people.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. J. Skelly is a writer, blogger, and lover of all things fantasy, medieval, and fairy-tale-romance.  As a former high school English teacher with a master’s in Creative Writing, she’s always been fascinated with the written word and has spent many years working with teenagers.  She lives with her husband, children, and many imaginary friends who often find their way into her stories.

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