by A. G. Howard
However, violent and disturbing memories had their place, too. Those she saved for weapons to unleash upon enemies—a tactic that had won her a feared and revered status among even the deadliest miscreants occupying the ravine.
At last the jumbled scene unfolded with clarity and the sound reached her ears in sync with the images. The king, along with the dead knight lying behind her, spoke in hushed tones. The memory came to an end as the king and his confidante were attacked by the same three Eldorian guards who had escorted King Kiran to the battlefield and back.
Crony hissed. “Traitors.”
“Who?” Luce asked. “Tell me what you see . . .”
So shocked by the man’s memory, Crony didn’t notice the approaching footsteps. Luce’s vulpine senses kicked in before the four Eldorian soldiers stepped through the foliage surrounding them. He transformed into the fox and snatched Crony’s bag of glass with his teeth, escaping into the underbrush.
“What have we here?” One of the soldiers—hot and sweaty from military drills—caught Crony around the neck from behind. Her glass trinket fell to the ground and cracked. The trapped breath released on a wisp of shimmery flakes. Crony inhaled it before it could blow away and be a memory lost forever. Held safe within her, she’d have the means to imprint it upon someone still, should the time come.
“Appears to be a witch of the wilds,” a female soldier answered as she lifted the skeletal staff. The woman wrinkled her dirt-smeared nose upon seeing the squirrel’s tail tucked at Crony’s waist. “She reeks of dead things.”
“And thievery to boot,” a third soldier added, finding the knight’s armor tucked into the rock’s edge.
Crony lunged to escape but was helpless against her captor’s vise.
None had discovered the knight’s corpse until the fourth soldier nearly tripped over it. He knelt to rake the leaves and dirt away. His face paled. “Sir Nicolet.”
The other three soldiers gasped in unison.
“Lady Griselda has been searching for him,” said the man holding Crony. He tightened his grip when she tensed. “Murderer!”
Crony struggled against the rough hands wrestling her to the ground, but spoke not a word in defense as a dark bag came down over her head, blocking out all light. Why complain? At least she had her oblivion.
3
The Splendor of Velvet and Vermin
Following King Kiran’s death, darkness blighted Eldoria’s spirits—a mockery in a land where the sun never waned.
Only one day after the burial, and war loomed once more. Soon, the infantry would go by foot to Nerezeth’s iron staircase with orders to dig their way through to the gates. There was rumor the bedridden King Orion had been bonded somehow to the lavender-colored roses that were uprooted over a month ago, and by now, his fight to live would have dwindled and he would be easy to quash. Griselda wanted to ensure death would be at Eldoria’s hands. No one in court believed Nerezeth’s claim of being innocent of King Kiran’s blood, and there was a statement to be made.
Within the castle, a statement was being made as well. Along with her daughters, Griselda was moving to the north wing. “I should stay close to my niece,” she said. “I must keep her safe.”
Lyra had felt safe on this side of the grand ivory fortress, where the curtains stayed drawn and shadows slipped in and out, playing hide-and-seek with the candle flames. Here, she could escape her burden of heavy trappings and run about the winding halls and stairways half-dressed, unmasked, barefooted, and free to be herself. All her life, it had been only her and her father’s advisors—along with his most trusted knight, Sir Tristan Nicolet—occupying the northern tower, chambers, and corridors. This place had served as her playground in the waking hours, and a haven when time to rest. But when Sir Nicolet didn’t attend the king’s funeral or return to the castle, rumors abounded that he had also fallen prey to the Night Ravagers. Now, with both him and her father gone, a chilling change was on the air that smelled dank and moldering, like loneliness—despite all the people milling about.
Lyra crept in and out of dark corners as servants she barely recognized marched back and forth with trunks and baskets. To cross their paths won her fearful glances and curious glares, more biting than the sun’s rays had ever been. Her aunt’s servants had lived with her on the east side, leaving them as much strangers to Lyra as she was strange to them.
Finding a safe spot beneath a stairwell, she spied on a blond chambermaid walking alongside another with dark hair and a limping gait, both carrying baskets of linens and dried flowers that smelled musky and sweet.
“’Ave you ’eard?” the blonde asked the brunette, oblivious to Lyra’s presence. “Brindle and Matilde ’ave been exiled to the servants’ quarters. They’re only to come out for meal preparations. Regent Griselda says they been forgettin’ their places, wiling away work hours playing with the princess.”
“That sounds right enough,” the other answered. “A cook belongs in the kitchen preparing food, and a jester in the dining hall delivering jokes to aid with digestion. Don’t know why anyone would choose to be here in the darkness with that feral little beast anyway. So unearthly silent . . . and those eyes, the way they glint? It’s enough to give ya nightmares for weeks.”
Lyra backed herself deeper under the stairwell, lowering her gaze to keep it hidden.
The blonde stalled and looked around to be sure no one overheard. “Well, ’tween you and me, I’m relieved I didn’t get assigned to attend ’er. There’s rumor those lashes be made of metal shavings. That’s why they’re so jagged and silver-white. Can you imagine getting sliced by all them?”
Lyra touched her lashes, their softness belying the maids’ accusations. She wished to tell them how wrong they were. But how could they listen when she had no words? She could write them a note, but not everyone in the castle could read.
The brunette shivered. “Who’s to tend her then? I thought the regent had a falling-out with Mia.”
“Put ’er foot down, is all. Told Mia she’d still be permitted to be the princess’s personal maid, but only at the beginnin’ and endin’ of the cessation course. To ’elp bathe and prepare for bed, and in the mornings to dress for the day. But the regent said she’d keep a close eye on things, so Mia mightn’t come between Lyra and ’er true family.”
Lyra teetered on a tightrope of emotions—itching to jump out and defend Mia, but at the same time tempted to slink away like an unwanted ragdoll. As they passed, she compromised and slipped from her hiding spot to follow silently.
Their small procession stopped at her mother’s room. Her aunt had insisted the queen’s chambers should be her own, “until the princess comes of age enough to appreciate its splendors.”
Lyra ducked in behind the chambermaids, unseen, looking on as her aunt made a show of it: shaking the dust from the heavy drapes until several servants sneezed; folding back the brocade bedspread to line the sheets with musky-scented pillow-soaps of black amber and jasmine—Griselda’s signature fragrance; and opening the wardrobe to chase away the moths so she could air out the late queen’s beaded and bejeweled gowns of damasks, velvets, and silks.
Griselda’s hands already sparkled with ruby rings and white gold bracelets—pilfered from the royal jewelry box—as she lifted a gown free and held it against herself. Although unsettled by the image, Lyra couldn’t escape how her aunt seemed to belong in this room. How her confidence and poise favored her queenly mother in portraits more than Lyra ever would. How much more regal her aunt’s ivory complexion appeared in those warm, lush colors, compared to Lyra’s ghostly pallor.
Yet, in the back of the wardrobe, there remained a few pastel gowns of pale citrine, periwinkle, and seafoam that Lyra aspired to wear one day.
She looked down at her own unadorned gown of sage chiffon. Carnation-pink lace gilded the sleeves where they kissed her elbows, and a hem of the same skimmed the floor at her ankles—long enough her bare feet could only be seen in snippets when she walked.
In one cherished memory of her father, Lyra had followed him to the seamstress’s chamber and listened as he requested special gowns for her. “It’s of utmost importance that she’s comfortable. Airy fabrics free of embellishments. Nothing to weigh her down. Already she bears enough, wrapped in cloaks just so she can frequent other parts of the castle. And none of those deep colors that are fashionable in court. Something soft and delicate. Pastels, perhaps. They’ll flatter her coloring and be gentle on her eyes.”
Though his heart had been in the right place, her special wardrobe had the undesired effect of magnifying her differences, making Lyra stand out like a faded lily in a field of brilliant poppies and wildflowers.
“From this point on, we’ll visit our subjects daily in the commons, accompanied by the royal guards.” Griselda’s statement recaptured Lyra’s attention as the two chambermaids helped her into a black damask gown. Once the lacings on the corset back were tightened to fit her curves, she spun so the exquisite fabric rustled and whirled around her. When the dress came to a stop, a seamstress adjusted the diamond pin tucks across the bodice. “It’s time to refurbish our wardrobes. Our late Queen Arael wouldn’t have wished for her things to go unused . . . gathering dust.” Griselda raised her arms theatrically, delivering the speech as if to a great audience, although it was only Lyra, her cousins, and a handful of servants remaining. Griselda leveled a glance at her daughters who were seated on the bed. “We’ll deconstruct some of her less fashionable gowns and have the seamstresses reprise their embellishments and gemstones, so you will also have new accoutrements for our constitutionals. And this mattress . . .” Griselda snatched the seamstress’s scissors and scored a slit in Queen Arael’s bed, revealing the goose-down stuffing within. “Have the chamberlain bring us lamb’s wool to replace this filling,” she directed the blond chambermaid. “I won’t suffer sleeping upon feathers.”
At the thought of those same scissors ripping apart her mother’s beautiful things, Lyra stepped out of hiding and shouted, “No, please!” The room went completely silent. As always, her words held no shape. Even to her own ears, the sound rebounded in musical notes, and the only emotion the songs portrayed was joy . . . a bird’s trill despite that her heart cried in plaintive desperation.
Everyone in the room stalled their activities to stare at her. The moths that had been hiding since being chased from the wardrobe came out to hover along the ceiling—drawn by the enchanting sound.
Defeated, Lyra slumped against the cushioned headboard.
Griselda’s razor-sharp focus sliced into her. She dragged out her glossy crimson-and-black side braid to hang along the bodice of Arael’s gown. “Perhaps our princess would wipe the pout off her lips.” Lyra’s lowered her lashes, hiding from the attention beneath fans of snowy fringe. “Although you can’t accompany us on our diurnal processions, I am sure you can be satisfied to wait here for our return. We are each making sacrifices, dearest one. Ours is the most substantial, living here on the dark side of the castle. But I am willing to do that, for just as our kingdom needs to see that their royal line is still thriving and strong, my niece needs to be assured that I’m not only regent over Eldoria, but over her as well. I am your mother now.”
Lyra’s rapid heartbeats denied the lie even as her cousins chattered in agreement.
Wrathalyne sorted through Queen Arael’s books piled on the bed. “Mums, since we’re to have an extra sister now, we should move into Sir Nicolet’s chamber. It’s the biggest on the floor other than the king’s. It can be a wallowship of royal sisters!”
“Fellowship, Wrath,” Avaricette corrected around a mouthful of confections while shoving a lexicon off the top of the book pile toward her sister. “And may I suggest you start with this book and read it from front to back?”
While her cousins bickered, fresh sadness surged through Lyra at the reminder of Sir Nicolet’s absence. He, her father, and her aunt had grown up together, which made him the closest thing to an uncle Lyra ever had. She adored how his skin and eyes were a rich ebony, a comforting depth that reminded her of safe places, but how he also beamed like strands of sunlight each time he’d reveal his white-toothed smile. The day her father was to travel to Nerezeth to bargain with Queen Nova, Lyra secretly hid beneath the bed in the king’s chambers to stay close to him until he left. Sir Nicolet had visited to speak privately with the king as he sat his desk, gluing the pieces of her mother’s broken mirror back together. “You will stay behind and watch over Lyra,” her father insisted. “When you hear of my returning, wait at our secret meeting place where I’ll give you an update.”
Lyra had kept the clandestine conference to herself, and hoped against all hope that Sir Nicolet was still waiting in that secret place and would come out soon.
Griselda tsk’d at her daughters. “There will be no moving into Sir Nicolet’s chamber. He’s an experienced knight. We must have faith he’ll return unharmed. Now, come choose your favorite embellishments.”
Avaricette dropped the plate of cherry-jams she’d been munching upon, sending them rolling around on the floor; Wrathalyne set aside one of Queen Arael’s gardening books she accused of being “mundanian and pedantic”; and Lustacia stood from sorting through rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds. Her eyes met Lyra’s and glistened with something akin to compassion before she joined her sisters. Candlelight bounced off their expertly coiffed locks as they stepped together to the wardrobe, finding favorite gowns to be used as scrap materials for their own ensembles.
Lyra hedged into a corner where the moths had gathered—where the shadows swirled thick as a black cape.
The moths, spiders, and occasional rat occupying the castle were the only night creatures left behind after Eldoria’s victory over Nerezeth. Since then, most of their slimy, spindly-legged, and fuzzy-winged kin had migrated to the starlit realm. Lyra was grateful some chose to stay. They were outcasts like her, and she shared their desire to stay hidden.
Her father had always told her, “Beware the light.” Over her lifetime, she’d come to understand the true meaning: Beware the light, for those who love it hate you.
Just as that thought occurred to her, the beating of the moths’ wings blended to a murmur: “Be-be-be-ware-ware-ware, be-be-be-ware-ware-ware.”
Lyra looked up at them, stunned. Her cousin Lustacia stirred from admiring a plum underskirt embroidered with gold-beaded ivy, as if also hearing the airy mantra. Her gaze locked on Lyra for all of three blinks, then she furrowed her brow and looked down, as though convinced she’d imagined it.
But it wasn’t imaginary. Lyra’s chin trembled. The moths’ wings had echoed what was in her mind, as if they were the mouthpieces for her defective tongue. For the first time in her life, her unspoken words had reached someone’s ears.
A sense of belonging welled within, filling spaces that had been empty ever since her birth. She decided she loved moths . . . and they loved her, even more than her family did.
Griselda stood beside her mother’s torn mattress, ripping out goose down and tossing it in the air. Dancing beneath the feathers, her cousins raided every corner of Queen Arael’s room. Jewels, gowns, and tapestries littered the marble floor—a lush and glittering rainbow of violation and gluttony. Wrathalyne and Avaricette knocked over knickknacks and gimcracks that had once been important to Lyra’s mother for some sentimental reason she would never know.
Her cousins’ antics moved ever closer to a potted lavender rose upon the dresser—that tempting bloom Queen Arael had brought back after being pricked by its thorn. It was the one remaining piece of the rosebushes King Kiran had kept alive, albeit hidden away. In his queen’s superstitious mind, she believed its magical reach was not limited to death, but to life as well, much like the sylph elm within their garden. And such things should always be protected. So the king had honored her dying wish to let it live, keeping it harbored within her room and opening the curtains to give it sun.
Lyra couldn’t trust her aunt to con
tinue the tradition. Under her keep, the rose would die of neglect. So, before the flowerpot could topple, Lyra lunged forward into the candlelight, sweeping it up.
No one noticed. The servants had left, and her aunt and cousins were kicking the spilled cherry-jams atop the pile of pastel gowns from the queen’s collection that Griselda had proclaimed unflattering and out of style; soon, all the candies were trampled to a gooey mess, and red footprints smeared across the fabrics in the wake of Lyra’s dancing cousins.
Lyra’s eyes stung. Griselda had scolded her harshly yesterday for staining the great hall’s pristine marble with her discolored tears at her father’s interment. To save her mother’s floor, Lyra slunk along the wall, arms hugging the potted plant tightly. Only when she was two steps from the doorway did she notice that the shadows had clustered around her, camouflaging her movements. She’d felt a fondness for them ever since first wearing the nightsky hood, but until today, didn’t know they felt the same.
A half smile lifted Lyra’s lips as she stepped outside the chamber and into the empty corridor with the moths and shadows at her side. She chanted in her mind: Quiet-quiet, hush-hush. Be the feral beast they say you are . . .
Quiet-quiet, hush-hush. The bugs’ flapping wings echoed the command. Hearing her words upon the rustles made her smile flourish.
Tiptoeing, she nuzzled the fragrant rose, careful to avoid the thorns climbing the stem. The petals smelled crisp, like fresh-fallen snow. She shouldn’t know such a detail. Perhaps her shadowy, winged companions imparted a wisdom they shared with all other night creatures. Or perhaps the flower told her itself—like the tempting whisper that had drawn her mother to touch it in the first place.
The scent of coolness frosted Lyra’s heart, so no fear could penetrate. She braved taking a turn toward a part of the castle her father had forbidden her to explore. It was the one safe place for the moth and shadows trailing her . . . the one safe place for her to cry her violet tears . . . the one place her cousins had said she belonged, and the only haven she had left in this fortress that had once been her home.
