Wicked is the Curse.

10 | Primrose

Chapter Ten | Primrose.

The days continued to pass in a blur of walking and hunger. 

The hours muddied together in Aire's mind, with only the growing undercurrent of fury building deep within her heavy bones and aching muscles. The need for Eoban scraped against her resolve, thirst burning in her throat. She thought about it before she could stop herself, tasting the bitterness on her tongue before the beast constrained in her blood lunged. 

Magic, no matter how small, was a vicious, vengeful thing when spited.

She had always claimed that the Eoban had no hold over her, but she had gone years without having her blood undiluted. She had taken more and more herbs to keep the beast quiet and now without it, chains kept it restrained.

Worse, was the dye running from her hair.

The dirt of the road masked the worst of the flaking, dry dye. Dust clogged her nose, marking her face and streaking into her hair. The spell of heat passed and overhead, the sky grew grey and troublesome. Rain fell in spluttering bursts, soaking them and forcing the Crimsons to find shelter in the trees. When the spells of rain passed, they walked through wades of putrid mud that cakes to their boots. The rain turned the road to sludge and Aire, with panic choking in her throat, threw herself into the mud when they were eating.

She faked exhaustion and bore the slaps that the Crimsons gave her, hiding her smile. She would steal success wherever she could.

Aire recognized only slices of the land around her. The flat fields spread out around them, with small beaten down cottages with thatched rooves. Haggard men and women knelt in the fields that were separated by low stone walls. The smell of rot permeated the air. The Crimsons didn't allow them to speak near the farmlands, fearful that their murmurings would concoct a spell of rally the farmers to save them.

Aire cursed their stupidity.

A Wield was not brought on from words. It was something intertwined with the very essence of a Wielder's soul, cemented down into their bones. It looked to be the wave of a hand, the click of someone's fingers to the un-trained eye.

No.

Aire had grown past the age of being granted a Wield, so she had watched her sisters train everyday under her parents' strict instructions. A Wield was power, safety and a responsibility that people forgot, was also a burden. The irony was never lost on her. Aire, the one whose blood was thin with magic, had been the only one to survive.

Only when the Crimson wave had washed through the land and the bodies began piling up on the roads, hanging from the rafters of their homes and from the gates of great cities, did she begin to see those who could not pass.

Mamae had always said that the magic was a gift, but as Aire watched her world burn and the spirits rise around her, she knew that if it was a gift, it was one for the damned.

The walking continued.

"The crops are rotting in the fields," A Crimson murmured to his partner.

"Not a concern for us. We can sustain ourselves on the crops from Cearnia and imports from Knechru." His partner, Lakron smiled.

"What of the peasants?"

"What of them?"

"If they starve, there will be none to work the land."

"They breed like rats and multiply in the blink of an eye. A culling of their numbers is needed."

'Poultice,'   Aire thought caustically, glaring at the back of Lakron's head.