Excerpt: The God's Curse

Chapter 1
As the roads of Burnath flooded with people, the constant murmuring dealt not so much with the recent births in the village, but of the one recent and rather significant death. Beneath a metallic gray sky, the citizens of Burnath poured into the streets like rushing water through a broken dam, their whispers and utterances buzzing like some strange vibration that moved through it like invisible waves. Unlike the nervous, hushed tones of the adult villagers, the children's solemn voices drifted through the crowd in stage whispers amongst one another, unfazed by the pressure that weighed in on their elders.

"We have to find out who's cursed!" they cried out to one another, leaning across the legs of their parents to their siblings and cousins.

"This one lived to twenty-eight," said an older child, "I wonder how long the next one will make it."

As the river of people flowed through the main road, they eventually paused at the Forbidden Gates, piling around it as though the massive wooden gates were a dam. There, the families clustered together, holding their young children close and glancing tentatively around at the other families. There were some in which their apprehension seemed formed solely of a kind of dark curiosity. The Collins' and Malloys, Solmets and McKinnits stood amongst the others, keeping a slight distance from the Breens, the Fairburns, and the Graysons as they each cradled their tiny infants, the oldest of the three not yet passing through his fifth month. Around them, the air seemed to thicken and weigh on them like a kind of densely clustered fog, completely obscuring the joy of their children.

Finally, as the familiar, deep red robes of the Clergy caught the faint light reflected from the dying sun off of the ashen sky, the buzzing seemed to stop and the villagers of Burnath fell into a heavy silence. As the Clergy ascended the great Temple of Avidras, he reached into his robes and removed a rolled up piece of parchment, barely visible from the ground below the high balcony.

"The Great Protector of our village, Avidras, has spoken!" he began, as though hoping to draw the breath from every villager as they stood, several hundred pairs of eyes gazing unblinkingly up at him. "In order to feed His power and continue to protect us, He must choose but one sacrifice out of many– one who will give all for the protection of many!" The three families of the newborn infants clutched their children closer, neither one of the new parents uttering so much as a breath as the Clergy glanced down at his parchment. "The Great Avidras chooses Kiera Breen," he announced finally.

There was a buzz that ran through the village once again, this time, however, the wave in the gathered pool of villagers was visible as so many heads turned to face the fated family. As the two little girls watched in somewhat quizzical sadness, their parents collapsed in on each other. Pressing her daughter against her bosom, Forbia Breen disintegrated into sobs, overshadowing those of the fated infant while her husband, Straun, wrapped his arms around the both of them, bitter tears leaking out over his face in spite of his every effort to resist it.

Almost as soon as it had formed, the wave dissipated, tapering off and vanishing to leave the village edge in a kind of lightened silence, the weight of the previous moment now all seeming to gather over the Breens like a solidifying cloud. Slowly, the crowd began to move silently back through the village, traveling along the main road and breaking off until the Breens were left alone outside of the Temple of Avidras, holding their children against them.

Meanwhile, outside of Burnath, the village of Avidras, the events played across the dancing flames of a single lantern's light, the only break in a darkened room. As the tiny flame flickered and moved with the slight breeze, so did the images move with it, playing silently into the cold, gray eyes of a small boy.

Chapter 2

In the twenty one years that passed, Burnath slipped easily into its air of normalcy, the effects of the curse kept behind walls without much effort. As such, the main road of the village was a bustling pool of constant movement that seemed as though the road itself had come alive. Moving through the clouds, a black cloak swept awkwardly along the uneven step of a tall man. Pushing his way past everyone, the man kept his head down and walked with long, maladroit strides as a moderate limp overshadowed any possible illusion of grace. Still, he managed to push himself through the dense wall of villagers as they, too, made their way through the weekly market place.

Arriving at a fruit stand that was overflowing with the products of the harvest, he pushed back his cloak so that he could scan the merchandise. He was a tall, young man with straight, black hair tied back behind his neck and disappearing into his dark cloak, although two shorter locks had since fallen from it and now flanked his strong face. Their ends brushed against his strong, chiseled jaw and framed the gray eyes that moved smoothly along the table as though carefully inspecting each and every individual fruit. Like stone, his eyes gave off the immediate feeling of ice as they gazed almost emptily.

"Morning McKinnit," said the farmer gruffly, turning now to stand across from him behind the table.

"Morning," he grunted back, his voice low and gravelly so that it sounded more like a grunt than words. There was a pause in which the farmer stood straight, his arms crossed as he watched the young man closely.

"Been a good harvest this year," the farmer began, his eyes narrowed, "the honeydew are like sugar." Saying nothing or even looking up at the farmer, the McKinnit reached into his cloak and produced a purse from which he dropped two coins on the surface of the table. His gaze still locked onto McKinnit, the farmer slowly slid the coins across the table and slipped them into his own purse as the young man picked one up and began loading it onto a bag. "Really, I should be charging more," the farmer went on, running a hand down his thick, brown mustache as he straightened a little more, his chest raising and his stance solid.

Now, McKinnit stood, hoisting the bag with the melon over his shoulder and gripping the table tightly in order to keep his balance. His cold eyes stared back at the farmer, waiting for the inevitable elaboration with an expression of reluctant and fragile patience.

"For you, though," the farmer went on, reaching back into his money purse and pulling out two gold coins which he set on the table, pinning them beneath two thick fingers, "I could go so far as to turn the profit towards you." When McKinnit simply watched him silently, his gaze chilling the already brisk wind, the farmer slipped the two coins into his hand and, for the slightest of seconds, averted his eyes. "My wife is very sick," he said, finally, "I have two young daughters. The doctors don't know how to help her. If I don't do something, she will die and I don't know how I will ever raise my daughters."

McKinnit narrowed his eyes, "what can I do?" he asked in a tone that was far more bothered than concerned. Now the farmer's eyes narrowed even further and he leaned forward, pressing his large hands on the edge of his booth as he moved his face within inches of McKinnit's.

"I know all about you," he hissed, "everyone here does! You have to tell me how I can save my wife!" McKinnit's calm demeanor was like a chasm between them, cutting the older man's words in their path as he looked coldly back at him.

"I can't do that," he said finally in a flat tone.

"Why not?" demanded the farmer.

"Because I am not a seer," he replied simply before turning to continue on through the marketplace. Now the farmer slammed his fist against the wooden table, sending a shudder throughout it and knocking several of the fresh fruits off so that they crashed to the ground or rolled out towards the other, nearby merchants' tables. At the same time, a thick arm shot out and gripped McKinnit's cloak, stopping him so abruptly that he nearly lost his balance and toppled towards the man's grip, instinctively grabbing hold of the table to keep himself from dropping straight to the ground. Fiercely, their gazes met as the farmer's hot breath singed McKinnit's face.

"I will not have my wife die because of your legendary selfishness!" the farmer snapped, "everyone knows what you are! We see you gaze into the flames at night! We hear your cries! And we talk, even if you don't! You will tell me the secrets of my wife's illness!" Although his fury had burned his face a deep scarlet, the farmer's expression suddenly softened in spite of his grip on McKinnit's thick cloak. "Please," he said, "I'll give you 500 gold and a constant supply of food until the day you leave this place!" Yanking his cloak back from the farmer, McKinnit stood and balanced himself with the melons as he took a step back from the farmer's reach.

"I am not a seer," he merely repeated before hobbling off through the crowded marketplace.

Kiera moved the dingy old rag idly around in a circle, her brown eyes gazing off through the doors of the tavern. She watched with a sinking feeling as the light outside began to fade and give way to blackness, the only reflections in the two small windows being the flickering lights of the two lanterns. It wouldn't be long before the first of the town's drunkards would pile into the well-known tavern and begin their endless catcalls and demands. There were, of course, the constant leering and whispers the seemed to follow her everywhere from the day she was born. Recently, as she crossed into her second decade, there had begun the cruel speculations as to how much longer she would be around and it was only these that seemed to eat at her far more than anything else.

"Ya tryin' to rub a hole through the bar?" came a gruff voice behind her, snapping her painfully from her reverie. Her body straightening, she immediately began moving her polishing down along the smooth wood.

"Sorry, Archibald," she said quickly, leaning over the bar and letting the two auburn-colored braids slide over his shoulders and hang in the corners of her eye. The old innkeeper sniffed and began loading the newly washed glasses into the shelves behind the bar.

"‘s almost time to open anyway," he said, his voice like sandpaper through his thick, white, mustache. His round chin was flecked with harsh, white stubble although he still had a rather thick head of stringy white hair. Archibald was a squat, rough-looking man though his blue eyes held a strangely kind glow visible only when one considered his employment of Kiera.

Kiera sighed and stood again, dropping the rag behind the bar and turning to look at him again.

"Should I go unlock the door?" she asked.

"Might be a good idea," Archibald rasped without looking at her as he bent intently over his glasses. Kiera sighed silently as she crossed the tavern, tightening her worn apron. There, she lifted the lock on the thick wooden doors and instinctively stepped to the side as they were pushed open by three large, sloppy-looking men who only barely regarded her as they headed straight for the bar. Saying nothing, Kiera followed them, slipping in and immediately gathering some chilled glasses.

"Alright, what'll it be tonight?" she asked, her eyes lowered and fixed onto the glasses as the men leered at her.

As the night wore on, Kiera found the freedom to retreat into the back of the tavern while the other barmaid, Amy, served the customers who now nearly filled the tavern. Brushing the floor with the stiff twigs of the old broom, she watched the small particles of dirt as they shuffled across the stony floor, building like a wave that continuously curled over itself until it scattered over the surface of the dustpan. She looked up, however, when the doors flew open once more and a cloaked man entered, walking with a purposeful limp over to the bar. There, he sat down and pushed back the hood of his cloak.

"Ale," he muttered. Amy nodded with a slight look of uncertainty before filling the glass and taking the coppers he had wordlessly tossed onto the surface of the bar. Slipping in through the back, Kiera rested the broom against it and eyed him.

"Amy," she whispered, motioning surreptitiously for the younger girl to come to her. When she did, Kiera whispered, "who is that man?" Amy looked back at the customer, who was taking some heavy gulps from the mug of ale and beginning to attract some attention from two busty women in tight corsets and short skirts sitting a few seats down from him.

"That's McKinnit," Amy whispered back. There was a pause in which Kiera and Amy watched as the two women sauntered over to the young man and began making wide-eyed, drawling whispers at him. The young man did little to hide his interest as his cool, gray eyes moved along their every curve, taking in their very details as they slid into the two empty stools on either side of him.

"That's what I thought," said Kiera finally, "is it true he's a seer?"

"That's what they say," Amy replied as she was summoned to refill a glass. As Amy moved off to serve the customer, Kiera idly reached again for the broom, though her eyes remained on the strange man. She had remembered hearing rumors surrounding his rather sudden and mysterious appearance in the village about five years prior. Due to his abnormality, the McKinnits had supposedly kept him hidden until the ailing Gregor McKinnit found need of his service outside of the house. Since then, it had become common and uncertain "knowledge" that the impaired young man was a seer of such extreme selfishness that he refused to use his gift to help others and even went so far as to deny it. Still, the thoughts of him had moored in Kiera's mind in ways she was certain they had in others and watching him now only stirred them even more.

In an attempt to avoid angering Archibald, however, Kiera had to split her attention between McKinnit and the chores had hand, constantly sweeping and straightening as the clientele only became more drunk as the night wore on. Eventually, she found a moment to pause and look back in disgust as McKinnit, swaying slightly in his stool, had wrapped his arms around the two girls and all but buried his hands in their corsets. At the same time, he smoothly moved between them, kissing them in a forceful, almost violent way that only seemed to intrigue them more in their increasingly drunken state. Finally, McKinnit slid off of the stool and began precariously limping towards the door, the three of them somehow balancing each other as they slipped out into the night.

Shaking her head, Kiera returned to her work. With effort, she all but pursed her lips in order to keep from smirking at her own thoughts. There was little doubt as to the reservations of most of Burnath's women to resort to such things, but for Kiera, it was one of the only ways she could manage to make ends meet in the little town. From the rumors, it seemed almost too easy, but she would never allow herself to toss away the constant doubt. After all, she knew there was a stark difference between her and every other woman of Burnath.

McKinnit looked back into his small bedroom where the two women still lay over it, their bare breasts rising and falling as they remained still in a deep sleep from which they seemed they could never rise. Keeping his uneven steps soft, he slowly pulled the door shut and sat down at the small, square wooden table in the center of his tiny house. There, he struck a match and lit the multiple wicks of the three large candles. The heat struck the bare skin of his chest, a welcomed relief from the chill that crawled over his exposed arms and legs.

As he leaned forward, his long, black hair slipped out, the two uneven locks framing his face and swinging dangerously close to the open flames that danced over the strange candles. Supported by three wicks per candle, the flames were spread out and held stable despite the cool breeze that blew in from the windows. McKinnit's eyes remained focused, unblinking as he gazed into the candles, letting the fire light begin to sting his eyes. Reluctantly he blinked, as though the gray ice of his eyes were thawing, but after a moment, he would remain still as the images began to dance and flourish along the silhouettes of the flames.

A familiar hand brushed surreptitiously, unnoticed by any other, over a ceramic cup before it lifted it and carried it across the room. The other hand held a second, nearly identical cup which was placed across from the other. In this plain room, there was a kind of hidden tension, mutual and yet strangely one-sided on each individual view. He watched, motionless, his face blank, as a shadow suddenly fell over the surface of the table before it quickly vanished leaving the light now uninterrupted across the smooth, wooden surface.

When the images had faded back into fire light, McKinnit sat back, his expression still blank as he held his hands over the flame, warming his frozen extremities. After a moment, he pushed himself with surprisingly little effort to his feet and blew out the candles. Immediately, the room seemed caked in frost as the gray-white smoke drifted into the dark air of the empty room. He then hobbled back into his bedroom where he crawled back in between the two naked women, their bodies warming his as they curled around him, each letting out a low, triumphant moan.