by A. G. Howard
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Howard, A. G. (Anita G.), author.
Title: Stain / A. G. Howard.
Description: New York, NY : Amulet Books, 2019. | Summary: Lyra, the silent princess of daylight, must find a way to make noise and pass a series of tests to stop a pretender from stealing her betrothed prince and crown.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018030085| ISBN 9781419731419 (hardback) | ISBN 9781683354079 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Fairy tales. | Princesses—Fiction. | Mutism—Fiction. | Identity—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ8.H828 St 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Text copyright © 2019 A. G. Howard
Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura
Map design by Ryan Howard
Published in 2019 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS.
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I dedicate this fairy tale—fraught with grit and thorns—to those who delight in strange magic and dark sensibilities. May my creatures grace your slumber with moonlit-gilded nightmares, and may my characters give wing to aspirations as bright as the sun.
Prologue
There once was a humble land, surrounded by an ocean and afloat within its celestial sphere like an islet, where the sun and moon shared the sky. The stronger light shimmered upon the countryside each day, and the gentler provided a reprieve from darkness each night. Together, day and night were complete, like lovers united. But a magical war erupted between the two kingdoms. At battle’s end, one kingdom dragged the night down into the belly of the earth, along with shadows and winter and ice, and those creatures drawn to darkness or cold. There, underground, the moon made its journey across a new firmament, traversing from west to east, and east to west, never to rest again. The other kingdom held tightly to the day above—hoarding the sun and its endless campaign across the skies, with the kinder seasons and all the variants of life making everything bright and colorful. An enchanted boundary fell into place between the two planes, allowing a flash of dawn in the night realm and a dusting of dusk in the day, a routine occurrence lasting only long enough to remind each kingdom of time’s passage and what had been lost. Although the people appeared to thrive in their separation, without both day and night they were incomplete, and discontent brewed beneath the surface. For what they had forgotten, they would soon remember: disassociation breeds prejudice, bitterness, and apathy—emotions too monstrous for any one kingdom in any one land to contain, and too powerful to ever be defeated by magic alone.
Part I
In Which the Thorn
Strangles the Rose
1
Of Brambles and Blights
In one enchanted telling of old, a prince desperately seeks a princess to wed and rule by his side. But when his destiny arrives upon the castle steps, she fails to look the part of royalty, being drenched and forlorn after facing a cloudburst on her journey. To satisfy the prince’s queenly mother, she must prove herself a real princess, with a constitution so delicate the slightest lump beneath a tower of eiderdown mattresses—a lump no bigger than a pea—bruises her flesh and hinders her sleep. Only a girl as tender as a budding rose may marry the royal son and become a queen in her own right.
However, that antiquated telling neglects one vital detail: roses need thorns, just as thorns need roses. If one looks closely at the partnership, they can see the balance a thorn provides—brutal enough to protect from predators, yet gentle enough to share the stem and never tear the fragile blossom. Only if that thorn should lose its rose does it become ugly, purposeless, vicious and vile, with ill intentions to expand its reach and dominate at the expense of all else.
This is the story of two very different princesses—one who lost her rose, and one who gained her thorns. Their journeys to prove their worth unwind within a fairy tale entangled amidst the briars.
It begins with “Once Upon,” and a touch of morbid to set the tone . . .
Once upon a nightmare, a princess was born in the kingdom of perpetual daylight—a fine-boned babe who killed her queenly mother upon her entrance to the world.
Yet, that’s not entirely true. Queen Arael had become ill seven months prior, after pricking her finger on a thorny rosebush yielding deep lavender blooms at the base of Mount Astra, the highest mountain in Eldoria.
The queen adored flowers, and this rose called to her with a seductive nuance of shadows and mystery her sun-bright, royally regimented days were lacking. She didn’t stop to consider that its roots spread deep beneath the earth, far enough to feed off the alter-world of Nerezeth, land of eternal night. An impish, satiny voice whispered on the wind and tickled her ear. Convinced it was her own conscience inspiring her, she ignored any sense of impending doom and plucked the stem free. Some said the moment the thorn pierced the queen’s skin her blood filled with a demon’s curse . . . a darkness that crept into every facet of her being, intruding upon the babe she carried within. Her death while giving birth only validated the rumor for those foolish enough to believe such folly.
On that day of loss and life, a sorrowful hush fell over the sparkling ivory castle of Eldoria. The king’s sister, the beautiful Lady Griselda—elegant as a statue carved of the ivory stones lining the garden ponds, with glossy hair both crimson and black—stepped forward to be the princess’s governess.
Though Griselda put on a show of compassion for her brother, her heart waxed cold with envy, for she had three little daughters of her own who would never sit upon the throne now that an heir had been born to the king. Her embittered mind wasted no time concocting some means to amend this injustice.
Had the babe died with her gentle mother, her fate would have been kinder than what was in store . . .
King Kiran of the House of Eyvindur, so overcome with grief, had yet to look upon his new daughter. Weeping, he pressed his lips to the limp, cold hand of his lovely wife’s corpse. The scent of soil and flowers still clung upon her olive skin from her time in the garden earlier that day. “If only Arael could’ve stayed long enough to see the babe but once.”
“Better that her mother didn’t see.” Griselda’s gaze, dark and hard as wrought iron, fixed upon her brother while she wrapped the wriggling bundle in an itchy lace blanket. “She’s quite unusual. Her lashes . . . they’re bone-white. And longer and more numerous than a centipede’s legs.” Griselda’s own dark, thick lashes trembled as if in pity. “It is startling.”
The newborn screeched out at her aunt’s severe handling. The cry sliced through the silence and echoed through every hall and corridor. Each servant within the room—from those gathering up bloody sheets to the ones mopping the crimson smears off the white tiles—paused and held their breath. For the sound was anything but obtrusive. The child’s wails formed a melody that wrapped around each particle of air, silver and resonate and p
ure—like a songbird’s trill on a mild spring day. Other servants who had been occupied elsewhere congregated around the door to peer inside.
The king’s tears slowed, and for the first time he turned to look at the babe, taking her gently from his sister’s hands. “So lyrical. Her voice is music. I shall call her Lyra.” He nodded, his white-gold crown glinting in the candlelight, since the curtains had been drawn to offer privacy while the queen struggled to give birth. “Arael would’ve liked that.”
The baby snuggled into her father’s gentle arms.
“Those eyes . . . that skin.” Griselda observed the babe around her brother’s sturdy shoulder; the tiny princess wriggled within her lace blanket, a faint, bluish-tinged creature that resembled a shadow on a saucer of curdled cream. “There’s no denying she’s been touched by moonlight. She’ll have no shield from the sun. And she appears sickly; it must be the illness from the queen’s blood. A contagion from the cursed land of eternal gloom and ice.”
“She has a rare and melancholy beauty, it is true,” her brother answered in that deep, wise tone that made him so beloved to his people, while his black beard nuzzled the babe’s milky-soft head. “But you yourself can relate to tender skin, and how outward appearances rarely reflect inward strength. See how she grips my finger.” Lyra’s tiny pale hand curled halfway around his russet-colored thumb and squeezed. The king chuckled. “Such pith in one so small. Yes. I shall see her live to a ripe old age. She’s blood of my blood and was born to gift our world with song. She will sit the throne and rule in grace and light just as her mother did.” Even amidst the heartbreak over his loss, he loved this child more than his own breath, and the flavor of his tears forever imprinted upon Lyra’s lips as the taste of purest comfort.
Over the years, as the princess grew, so did her differences. She looked nothing like her cousins—a trio of velvet-eyed beauties whose hair glistened auburn in the candlelight, whose ivory skin freckled from time spent outdoors. The elder two’s figures were sure to be shapely and sensual like their mother’s one day, but the cousin closest to her age, Lustacia, shared Lyra’s willowy build.
However, no one shared her odd characteristics. Lyra had iridescent eyes—mother-of-pearl prisms that shifted from the rich amber of autumn leaves to a lilac so gentle and serene it was almost transparent; moonlit skin—the color of hydrangea petals faded to the lightest shade of blue—too spectral to hide the delicate network of veins beneath; and hair, eyebrows, and lashes so silvery-white and glistening, they rivaled the spiderwebs which draped the corners of the castle where even the candlelight couldn’t quite reach. Over time, her lashes grew so long they stretched above her eyebrows and often tangled within her hair. Thus, any strands about her face were kept drawn into plaits, allowing her to blink freely.
To everyone but her doting father, she remained a creature of otherworldly strangeness. Her skin burned with excruciating pain when sliced by the slightest strand of sun. Her eyes had never shed a tear. They guided her through shaded corners and antechambers, glistening gold with the precision of a cat, yet shifted to purple-tinged and left her blind as a mole in daylight.
Outside of her brother’s earshot, Griselda poisoned the servants against the child. “Her blood is contaminated. She walks in shadows like the gloom-dwellers. Already, we’ve lost the queen to her. Now her demon wiles have bewitched my kingly brother. And when it’s her turn to reign, what then? What purpose can she serve to a kingdom where the sun shines eternally from our victory centuries ago? Will we all live locked up indoors, indentured to darkness for her comfort? Or will she split the earth so night can seep in once more to contuse our skies?”
On Lyra’s fourth birthday, she toddled down the corridors, the floor cool and slick beneath her bare feet. Heavy drapes cloaked the windows; only candles were lit on the north side of the ivory castle in respect for her tender skin.
Three servants peered around the corner, dim light flickering across their faces. Upon seeing them, Lyra waved. They shook their heads.
“I miss the sun’s warm glow,” whined Brindle, the court jester. The bells on his hat jingled with each bob of his chin.
“Must we always live in hiding?” seethed Matilde, the head cook, her crossed arms cradling a soup ladle that dripped with a mouthwatering scent.
“Just for her?” snarled Mia from behind a basket piled with bed linens. She had served as Queen Arael’s faithful lady’s maid but was reluctant to do the same for the odd little princess.
Lyra didn’t quite understand the septic bite of their words. All she knew was their murmurs tickled her ears like the tiny chattering mice in the storybooks her father read. She ran to greet them with a melodic giggle. All three servants’ expressions changed . . . frowns becoming smiles, eyes once dim with mistrust brightening with optimism.
Matilde caught a breath and Brindle spun in place, his bells jingling merrily.
“Her voice . . . it be like sitting in the shade on a blanket of spring flowers, ain’t it?” He laughed.
Mia set aside her basket. “What are we all standing about for? It’s the princess’s birthday, and as her lady’s maid, I intend to see ’er pampered and spoiled.”
The other two servants agreed. Matilde baked a honey-iced cake and tickled Lyra’s feet with plucked goose feathers as she ate; Brindle crafted a chime of glittery, tinkling tin triangles to hang over her small bed; and Mia gave her a bubble bath scented with rich, woody magnolia and vanilla brandy. Lyra laughed as the bubbles perched weightless on her lashes and hands, thrilled by the candle glow captured inside. Nothing held more fascination for her than light.
From that point on, the cook, jester, and maid aimed to elicit the princess’s laughter as often as possible. Hidden from sight, Griselda watched their loyalty grow and her grudge burned deeper and darker, branding her heart with an irreversible smudge.
Three more years tumbled by. Preoccupied with his daughter’s needs, King Kiran was oblivious to his sister’s darkening moods. He failed to notice how often Griselda stayed with her daughters on the east side of the castle, isolating her small family and half of the castle’s servants where the curtains remained open to the never-changing sun.
One day, in the north wing, as Lyra stared sadly at the heavy drapes on the windows, the king stopped beside her to stroke her satiny hair. “Wishing for greener pastures, little lamb?”
She bowed her head low. Something was amiss with her tongue. She couldn’t form words—only those lyrical sounds that seemed to make everyone either happy or confuddled. She’d given up trying to speak. Better to make no sound at all than be misunderstood. But she and her father had a special bond. He could read her gestures and expressions. No answer to his question was needed; she knew he understood better than anyone how she longed to go outside and feel the sun on her face, or the wind in her hair.
“Well,” the king answered her silence with a cheerful note in his voice. “It just so happens I’m bringing the pasture to you. I’ve sent for the three royal mages. They’re on their way from Mount Astra’s peak to find a means for you to stand in the light.”
So overcome with happiness, Lyra threw her arms around his leg and nuzzled the spiced scent of his royal robes.
The immortal triplet brothers arrived, walking barefoot and soundless through the castle halls like tethered spirits. Their feet and hands glittered, resembling pale beige sands that slipped through an hourglass. Descended from ancient seraphs, they were so bright and beautiful, no mortal could look upon their faces for fear of going blind. Thus, they wore shimmery, cowled robes and birdlike masks. Lyra studied them in reverent awe as they measured her head and neck. Renowned for combining their magic in clever ways, the mages designed a hood made of nightsky, a fabric woven at the hands of enchanted seamstresses—one part midnight shadows and one part stardust. Being customized for the princess only, it followed her every movement without touching, like a school of fish darting to-and-fro about her head.
With her hood in p
lace, Lyra scampered to a window her father had opened. A floral-scented breeze wafted through the swirling fabric and she basked in its sweetness. She gestured toward a tree in the garden with a thick white trunk and twisty, twining branches adorned in feathery crimson leaves. It stood out like a flame in the center of the lush green backdrop, so bright she could see it even through the muted screen protecting her face.
King Kiran knelt beside her. “That is a sylph elm. Before your birth, the leaves turned red. Your mother told me the legend, that the leaves only bleed when an elm hides the severed wings of a sylph. If an air elemental brings an injustice upon someone pure of heart, they’re cursed to be earthbound in their two shifting forms.” He paused, and Lyra sensed him trying to keep his voice strong. She wondered if he was doing what she was: envisioning her mother in the garden right now. “But the sylph can be freed one day, once all the other leaves become richest gold—the color of your eyes cloaked in shade.” He tweaked Lyra’s nose. She giggled, knowing the chiming lilt would snuff out his sadness. His answering smile was her reward. “During that time—when only two red leaves remain among the gold—if the sylph performs a selfless deed out of the kindness of their heart, they can reclaim their wings and return to their true form.”
As if prompted by his words, a red butterfly perched upon the windowsill. Forgetting the light’s danger, Lyra reached farther than she should’ve with her bare hand. A strand of sun grazed her moonlit skin. Her fingers sizzled and charred. She howled in agony, her own cries mocking her with joyful lyricism.
Mortified, the king caught her up and watched somberly as the mages treated and bandaged her blisters. He commissioned an entire suit of nightsky. However, the hood had taken all of the materials preserved in jars from centuries before. The mages could find no current source of moon-born shadows or stars because Nerezeth had been hoarding the nights for hundreds and hundreds of years.
