Wicked is the Curse.

01 | Irial

Chapter One | Irial

The man, with his guts wrapped around his neck, was laughing at her.

Aire tried not to pay him any attention, her eyes closing as her fingers skipped along the belt slung around her waist. The leather guard over her knuckle blades were familiar. Whispers, cast into her ears by those long gone, ceased at the man's arrival. Lower Irial was perfect to hear the whispering, where the streets of muck and loose paving stones were lined with the bones of the unfortunate who could not move beyond the veil that separated the living and the dead.

With the whispering quietened, she could hear the rainwater sluicing down the tiled rooves. Beyond the mouth of the narrow alleyway, Lower Irial was quiet. Evening had fallen with a rush of wind and rain, creating shadows in corners and un-nerving the superstitious. No one followed the curfew in Irial, but it was a brave or stupid soul who wandered the maze like streets in the dark. Brave, stupid or working. Business always boomed at night.

Aire opened her eyes again. The laughing man took a step closer. Close enough that she could smell the putrid rot of his exposed bowels.

"You are a bad omen, Royden." Aire fixed the sleeves of her long cóta and the hood she had secured tight over her head. The hood of coirigh wool would keep the rain from soaking in, but she couldn't stop her hand from reaching up to check for running dye.

Royden hooked a hand around an exposed rib. "I have kept you alive plenty of times before."

"And that is barely worth keeping your company."

"You keep me around your neck Aire," Royden reminded her. His sigh whistled through his exposed chest. "If anyone else knew how you speak to me, know that I wouldn't be following you around. You are far too rude."

"Go and speak to the other spirits. Irial is full of them."

"They're boring. At least you do exciting things."

Aire cast him a sharp look as she slipped out of the alleyway. "Like sneak around in the rain? I would rather be in bed."

Royden tutted, following her as she walked through the streets of Lower Irial. Visitors often commented that the city was a maze; built with dead-end streets and nonsensical routes. Even locals sometimes found themselves turned around, cornered in a dark street. She had never found that to be an issue. The streets were a map of veins spread out in her mind's eye. A skill she honed to make herself useful. Useful people were protected and a girl who was skilled enough to unearth carefully kept secrets was a valuable ally. It kept her fed and protected by those stronger than her.

In the narrow back-streets, block tenement houses overlooked her. Once, they had been built with crisp white stone and had housed one family in the two stories. Now, five or six families could be shoved into the houses with their hastily boarded windows. The streets reminded her of a row of blocked teeth, ready to gnash her bones to dust and let her...

She rid herself of the image, tensing at the figure walking down on the other side of the path.

"What do you think this shipment is?" Royden stepped through the passer-by. Her head was bent against the gathering rain, her gnarled hands clutching the edges of her brat. The shawl had seen better days, threadbare and pitiful against the changing moods of the weather. Aire averted her eyes, feeling the prickle of paranoia on the back of her neck. Before, in the days of blood and fire, people threw the accusation of Wielder around too easily. She didn't doubt that innocents had been thrown to the wolves for being present when the wind made someone flutter, or another felt their stomach turn for no reason.