Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

Copyright © 2020 by Jordan Rivet
All rights reserved.
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Map by Jordan Rivet
Curse Painter, Art Mages of Lure Book 1/ Jordan Rivet – First Edition: September 2020
Created with Vellum


For Mom,
who taught me to love books
And for Dad,
who got me hooked on fantasy


Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Interlude
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Interlude
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Interlude
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Duel of Fire Excerpt
Also by Jordan Rivet


This story begins with a curse. It was a little curse, not strong enough to maim an enemy or destroy a livelihood. It wasn’t the type of curse the authorities would bother to prosecute once they’d met their quota for the month. It wasn’t even the type of curse to keep its creator up at night in a cold sweat after inflicting a little more evil on the world. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to be that type of curse.
Unfortunately, in the business of adding tiny bits of evil to the world, even with the best intentions, sometimes things could go terribly awry.


Chapter 1
Rough bark scratched Briar’s legs as she climbed the maple tree next to the finest house in Sparrow Village. Her paint satchel swung against her hip, the jars inside jingling faintly. She tried not to look down. The ground was too far away already.
Afternoon shadows advanced from the woods behind the property, swallowing up the stable and creeping toward the whitewashed house. Briar held her breath as she climbed past the expensive glass windows. The house’s inhabitants, servants included, should still be away at the summer fair. Hopefully, the place was empty—and would stay empty until Briar finished the job.
She edged along a stubby branch jutting toward the second floor of the house. The limb creaked, and the leafy canopy rustled threateningly. Trying to ignore the sounds, Briar wrapped her legs around the end of the branch, opened a jar of brown-ochre paint, and selected a long-handled brush from the bundle in her satchel. Then she braced herself against the clay-shingled roof and began the painstaking work of painting a curse.
Stroke by stroke, the image of a fine house with a peaked roof took shape. The oil paint glistened as it spread from the horsehair brush, brown ochre standing out against the whitewashed boards. The familiar smell of linseed oil soothed Briar’s nerves, and she relaxed into her task. She’d practiced the complex design on canvas to prevent mistakes. Each brushstroke required precision and a steady hand, though that got harder the longer she balanced precariously between earth and sky.
She hadn’t planned on climbing any trees for the job. She’d spotted a ladder when she’d scouted the place a few days ago and had designed the curse for a shadowy spot beneath the eaves. If she painted it too close to the ground, the gardeners would notice and wipe away the paint before the jinx took effect. More importantly, they would know who was responsible. Briar had already given the local authorities too many reasons to distrust her. Unfortunately, the ladder had been missing when she’d arrived to carry out the job, and the maple tree leaning aggressively toward the house had been her only alternative.
As Briar painted, knots jabbed her thighs through her green wool skirt, and twigs poked into her thick hair. She clutched the clay shingles, trying to ignore the dizzying drop below. Painting curses took concentration. This one wasn’t nearly as dangerous as some she knew, but she couldn’t afford any errors.
She finished the shape of the house and used blue smalt to add windows, their placement roughly the same as the windows on the real house. Cursing objects was always simpler than cursing people. To affect a human, Briar had to paint an item of clothing they wore often or touch a cursed canvas or stone to their skin long enough for the spell to stick. Getting caught was all too easy, but many curses could be painted right onto inanimate targets—assuming she could reach them without breaking her neck.
This particular curse wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it was the most interesting piece of magic Briar had executed in months, her perilous position making it all the more stimulating. Her blood heated in her veins, and her fingers tingled with magic, with the sizzling rush of creation. It was going to be a good one. She could feel it.
The local blacksmith had doubted her abilities when he’d hired her for the job. Her clients rarely believed she could live up to her reputation at the sight of her paint-smudged hands and humble clothes.
“I’ve heard downright perplexing things about you and your … profession, but you look awful young,” the blacksmith had said at their furtive meeting in his smithy the week before. “Can you really help?”
“Possibly.” Briar pushed her dark, frizzy hair out of her eyes, poised to flee at any hint that it was a setup. It wouldn’t be the first. “I hear you want to curse Master Winton.”
“Aye, the merchant. Five weeks I spent on a bleedin’ suit of armor at his bidding, and he refused to pay fair wage. Claimed it wasn’t ornate enough. I have young’uns to feed.”
“Have you gone to the sheriff?”
“That loiter-sack?” The blacksmith spit in the dirt beside his anvil. “He and Winton are close personal friends.”
Briar took a horsehair paintbrush out