Briar sat in the dirt beside him, her saddlebag of spare paints clinking as she set it on the ground. She only had a few colors left, but even if she had every hue of the rainbow, she didn’t know a curse in the world that would hold off the slow march of death.
She took the paints out anyway and began a design on the sleeve of Archer’s shirt. The soft scrape of the horsehair brush whispered in time with Archer’s death rattle. Tears dripped down Briar’s cheeks, tinged with purple, but it was no use. No tears or paints could bring him back from the brink.
“Archer,” she whispered. “You probably can’t hear me, but I want you to know you did well. We saved Mae. We saved the baby. She’s beautiful. Sheriff is already in love with her. She’s going to adore the forest and the open road too.”
Briar sniffed and felt Sheriff nudging her arm. She made room for him to lay his head gently in his master’s hand.
“Do you remember the day we met?” Briar whispered. “You saved me too. I was too mad about my cottage to see it then, but you gave me a chance at a different life. You gave me freedom and hope and … so much love. I don’t know if you loved me specifically, but the love you showed your team and your friends and even your family, it wrapped me up like a blanket, and I can never thank you enough for that.”
Sheriff gave a low whine, as if to echo the ache in Briar’s heart. Archer’s breathing was slowing. The bit of paint on his sleeve had no power to save him. It was just a pretty picture of a cottage in the woods, with a large dog beside it and a bow resting by the door.
She brushed her fingers over the painting, wishing she could conjure that scene into being. The oil paint smudged slightly at her touch. She let her hand fall onto the rough cloak covering Archer’s chest, the one they had taken from Mage Radner to carry her paints way back in Mud Market.
Briar sat up. Sheriff raised his head, looking at her with mournful eyes. Was it possible?
Briar held her breath, not wanting to let the others know there was even a glimmer of hope lest it fade. She dipped her brush in a jar of verdigris and began a new design. She worked one-handed, more by feel than anything else. She painted along the hood of the cloak, telling the story of what they had been through in the weeks since she’d seen her little cottage burn. She painted a voice mage with his words full of fire and power, painted the long road they had traveled since then. She painted the scene all the way across Archer’s chest, planting it on the rising and falling planes, scribing it above his heart and down the other side of his body where the cloak rested. The well-worn, treasured cloak that had belonged to a powerful voice mage.
When it was done, Briar wrapped her arm around Sheriff’s neck and waited. She watched the painting rising and falling on Archer’s chest, praying that the rise and fall wouldn’t stop, that the cloak still had a resonant connection with the mage who had worked so hard to earn it, that the curse would be in place for just long enough.
The others had gathered around as the fire burned low. They must have watched Briar paint the cloak over Archer’s body, perhaps thinking it was a funeral ritual only she understood. They kept watch, knowing it wouldn’t be long. Her face still wet with tears, Briar didn’t dare tell them what she had done.
She waited. Sheriff seemed to sense something was going on because he tensed beside her, waiting, waiting. Then she heard the voice. It came from so far away, she would have thought it was an insect if she hadn’t been listening for that sound, but she heard it, and she knew what it was. The voice grew from a low buzz to a whine to a scream. The others looked around, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from.
Then Mage Radner plunged out of the cloudy sky, wearing nightclothes and shouting an angry tirade at the curse that had picked him up and carried him across half a county to Archer’s side.
In other circumstances, Radner might have broken the curse before it had carried him far, but he was too shocked at being wrenched out of his bed and into the air, and Briar’s magic was too strong.
The voice mage landed in a heap on the other side of Archer’s still-breathing form. Briar leapt up at once, ignoring the pain in her leg. She seized the voice mage by the scruff of the neck—Sheriff chewing on his elbow to reinforce her authority—and ordered him to speak healing words faster than he had ever spoken them in his life. Radner was too confused and scared to argue.
Then the words were pouring forth, healing, restoring. Briar might not be able to heal herself, but she could drag forth hope by the scruff of the neck to save the man she loved. The spell filled the camp, sonorous and life-giving and strong.
Then Archer was opening his eyes and sitting up, and everyone was crying—everyone except Radner, who was grumbling about what Lord Barden and the sheriff would have to say about his most undignified treatment, but he had the good sense not to try to fight the curse painter who had flown him there.
All that mattered to her was that the magic had worked.
Archer’s eyes flew open. Loud and joyous sounds surrounded him, but
