Stain

by A. G. Howard

  Two weeks passed and Stain used the time to heal, though Scorch didn’t visit again. While Luce and Crony went to market, she was permitted to explore, but only if dressed as a boy. Crony insisted this disguise was necessary to keep word from getting out that a girl was living in the forest, to protect her from whoever had left her for dead. Her guardians delayed her introduction to the inhabitants, so Stain could practice a boy’s mannerisms and appearance. This she did in solitude each day while hidden in the maze of trees and brambles close to their home.

  During her solitary wandering, she dropped slices of dried apple on the path she walked. At last, one day, he clomped behind her. She turned, holding the remainder of the apple in her hand: brushed with honey and rolled in oats—an irresistible treat to any horse. But he wasn’t just a horse. He was feather, flame, and shadow, a mythic creature fueled by pride.

  The Pegasus looked up from eating the last slice on the ground.

  She stretched out her palm, the oaten-apple balanced atop her scars.

  His nostrils flared, proving he smelled the treat. He nickered. Toss it here.

  You must eat it from my hand, Scorch.

  He pawed, his hoof stirring up ash. I am not a trained pony, witless mite. And I can find my own apples.

  Not like this one. She took several steps forward, though her feet shook within her boots. She’d forgotten how lofty and intimidating he was when not half-sunken in a bog. I made it special for you. To bring you happiness.

  He snorted and smoke escaped his nostrils. Trampling humans. Burning them to cinders and crunching their bones to powder beneath my hooves. That’s what makes me whicker with happiness.

  She noticed three arrow shafts sticking out from his flanks. He must’ve recently enjoyed such a tirade. Why do you hate humans?

  They are beneath me, yet they wish to tame me.

  Her fingers curled around the apple to feel the rough, sticky coating, then opened again. I don’t seek to tame you. I seek a partnership. I’ll take nothing you’re not willing to give. No arrows, no ropes, whips . . . no reins or saddles. Meet me halfway. Compromise tastes sweetest when offered by a friend’s hand.

  His eyes sparked with a gentle flame. What does a Pegasus need with a friend?

  A friend is loyal—a second defense against danger. I’ll be your eyes on the ground when you’re flying. I’ll be your ears when you’re too high to listen. And I’ll be your hands should you ever be trapped again.

  He lifted his smoldering wings to their impressive span and took three steps until he loomed over her. You are no bigger than a speck of dust. Too small to be of any use.

  Her whole body trembled now. She stiffened her bones to hide it. I’ve already proved my fierceness is a match for yours.

  If you are so brave, then walk the final step toward me.

  She stretched her arm out as far as it would go, forcing her hand not to shake. Sometimes it takes more courage to stay in place than to move. I’m standing my ground.

  Her fingers lit up to that burning sensation that was almost unbearable.

  Grunting, Scorch clopped forward, his smoky breath bridging the small space between them. His inscrutable gaze met hers. He arched his neck and nuzzled her fingertips until the agonized light faded, calmed by the contact.

  Thank you. Cautiously, Stain lifted her free hand to scratch the soft place behind his right ear. His tail swished in contentment as his lips moved to nibble the sticky bits of apple on her palm.

  She leaned closer, pressing forehead to forelock. Her long lashes caught on the wisps of mane that flopped down between his ears. It is as I told you, Scorch. Her thoughts were but a whisper. Friendship has many rewards. I can help with the arrows . . .

  He broke loose and jerked his neck before galloping off into the trees. Stain smiled. Though her past still eluded her, her present no longer did. She had a friend and a family; she wouldn’t be alone in this journey.

  Five years came and went, much slower than a wink of twilight in the day realm, or a blink of dawn in the night. Both Nerezeth and Eldoria kept to themselves, other than the exchange of imports and exports necessary for the welfare of their people and princess, respectively. Such trades were conducted at the base of Mount Astra, where a tunnel channeled through the burgeoning harvest of panacea roses and led down to Nerezeth’s iron gate.

  Within the first year, Eldoria’s efforts to capture the slippery spy associated with the witch responsible for Lustacia’s, Sir Nicolet’s, and King Kiran’s murders ended abruptly when a scourge of dementia infected the castle’s occupants.

  Mere weeks after Griselda first holed up in sanctuary with her two daughters and the kingdom’s princess (her grand deception having gone off without a hitch), Mia sampled a pigeon pie to be delivered to the royal family. She suffered stomach cramps so piercing, she imagined the birds pecking her from the inside. The maid tried to cut them out, and her dying screams could be heard throughout all wings of the castle. Wrathalyne and Avaricette assured their mother that this must be the only drawback to living in the dungeon, insulated from all sound, since they would have delighted in hearing the poisoned fruits of Griselda’s labor firsthand. Lustacia, undergoing a steady transformation to Princess Lyra, sat out of the conversation entirely. Other violent self-induced deaths followed over the next twelve months, including Matilde the cook’s and Brindle the jester’s, to name but a few. Griselda stopped short of Prime Minister Albous, allowing him to live for two reasons: one, he was respected for his wisdom in diplomatic strategies and the upkeep of the kingdom, even by Griselda herself; and two, because the death of a member of government would’ve been cause for closer scrutiny. By focusing her vengeance on a handful of servants, it was easy enough to blame the witch, yet again.

  Griselda conferred with Eldoria’s royal mages, convincing them that the hag not only placed a spy in their midst, but a curse upon the castle as well. Each person who lived within the walls had been exposed to the mental malaise, which meant the royal army must remain on the grounds at all times on the chance a hysterical mob might erupt. This put an end to the military expeditions to the Ashen Ravine in search of the witch, whom Griselda secretly preferred never be caught and questioned. The change in orders mattered little to the army, since up to that point the forest had been impossible to breach, due to the thorny briars that closed off the entrance upon the arrival of any soldier. Most everyone moved out of the castle for fear of going mad, leaving behind less than thirty occupants. Only the extended royal household remained, including three council members and their families along with the most necessary servants—all under Griselda’s close supervision.

  With the harrower witch still at large, the shimmery triplets decided protection for Eldoria was of utmost importance. From their home upon Mount Astra, the mages sent out incantations simultaneously in their bass, baritone, and tenor voices. However, though they spoke in unison, each had his own idea of what they should evoke. The first called forth an impenetrable camouflage that would feed off the sun; the second conjured a scented curtain to soothe the senses and counteract the witch’s curse of mania; and the third beckoned a palisade with bite enough to ward off outside dangers.

  A living sheath of honeysuckle vines rose in answer, creeping up to cloak every cottage, thoroughfare, and fence in the land, then enveloping every wall and tower of the castle. All but the windows and doors disappeared within the blossoming pink-and-green armor. However, as often happens when too many wands stir a pot, the magical entree ripened to something unruly and unexpected. A coating of burrs—as large as a babe’s fist and as pointy and vicious as the bronze needles used by the castle’s seamstresses—coated each leaf and stem. The fragrant, blushing blooms attracted swarms of stinging bees. Traversing to farm or market proved difficult; one had to wear thick clothes, boots, gloves, hoods, and masks to protect skin and hair, along with carrying torches—treated with fire repellent to release heavy smoke in lieu of flame—that could clear a path through the bees. The
se preparations made going outdoors hot and uncomfortable. Children could no longer play outside for risk of their tender flesh.

  Spurred by the people’s unrest, the mages attempted to reverse what they had wrought, but no amount of magic had any effect on the flowering vines, which daily grew thicker and stronger due to the never-waning sun. The burrs themselves prevented pruning or tearing away the roots. Fire only seemed to make them grow bigger. The only thing that shrank the stickers so the greenery could be stripped down was to douse them with the self-same midnight shadows sent by Nerezeth for the princess’s nightsky fabric. Sadly, there would never be enough to sprinkle upon the entire kingdom. Only a powerful wash of moonlight cast down from the heavens could counteract the regenerative power of the sun and provide time for the plants to be uprooted. Since there was no night to counter the day, there was no hope. The mages considered conjuring up a plague of spiders to capture the bees, but knowing many Eldorian citizens shared the regent’s disdain for creatures of darkness, it would be trading one problem for another.

  So, things were left as they were, and a people who had once spent every waking moment outside stayed ensconced within their homes except when absolutely necessary to venture out. The bustling land of perpetual light became a lonely and quiet place, with its occupants peering at the radiant sky and lush landscapes from windows and doorways, rarely feeling the sun on their faces. For the next several years the Eldorians stayed tucked away, sad and miserable, awaiting Nerezeth’s prince to come claim his bride, relying on the prophecy of “night and day united” to offer a reprieve from their enchanted prison.

  For Griselda’s part, she rejoiced. Though in the beginning Wrathalyne and Avaricette grumbled about giving up their freedom for their sister’s happiness, Griselda was able to staunch their jealousies by assuring them that being sisters to the queen had its advantages . . . handsome knights from both kingdoms at their beck and call, for one. After that, she and her daughters adjusted to life in their luxurious, paraffin-sunlit dungeon cell. What did it hurt for the villagers and subjects to have to hide away as well? Despair and suffering would lead to loyalty and gratitude.

  Griselda knew that one day, they would all thank her. Just as the shrouds had predicted, she was bringing the prophecy about by making her daughter fit the princess’s mold. Soon Lustacia would meet every detail word for word.

  10

  Apron Strings and Winged Things

  Unbeknownst to Eldoria’s smug regent, within the dark metropolis of the Ashen Ravine, the real princess lived on, as did the harrower witch who knew Griselda was preening an imposter. And Crony had a different outlook on prophecies.

  In the witch’s centuries of experience, a foretelling would see itself fulfilled in absolution no matter who tried to interfere. This gave her comfort, considering the child she once saved no longer had a birdsong voice, nor lustrous silver hair, nor was she even a girl, at least to the goblins, murderers, degenerates, and outcasts living there. To the ravine’s occupants, she was known simply as Stain, the wraith-like boy—origins unknown—who had wandered into the forest five years earlier and been taken in by the witch and her cohort for a set of extra hands. Even the shrouds themselves still believed her to be a boy, for the shadows and scorpions had never let them close enough to learn otherwise.

  Yet there were two things the princess possessed that could never be compromised or taken away: her father’s noble spirit and his royal blood. Crony hoped those would be enough to lead her back to her identity and the throne—and soon—for now that the princess was seventeen, Prince Vesper’s arrival in Eldoria was imminent.

  Crony stepped into her yard, feeling the press of time more than usual. The cessation course had ended an hour ago, and she needed to be rid of her two tenants for the day. She didn’t want an audience for the dark task she must undertake. She didn’t want Luce to know why she moved slower of late . . . that her bones had begun to brittle . . . that her blood ran sluggish and her heart puttered with a lackadaisical beat.

  The old witch knelt, knees creaking, to study the flowers on either side of the rock pathway leading to her door. She leaned close enough their delicate perfume tickled her nostrils. They looked like brushstrokes of red, fuchsia, blue, and apricot floating atop the shifting ash.

  Many of the ravine’s occupants carved out homes within the massive tree trunks, or some perched up high in canvas tents balanced on the branches. Others braved sleeping out in the open in the lowlands where the ash was thinner, though to do so risked being swallowed by a wandering quag-puddle or dragged by vines into the domain of the shrouds.

  As for Crony, she’d claimed a secluded, airless grove. Her home was a scaffold with no walls, set atop a floor of wide, flat rocks to keep out quag-puddles. The wooden frame—fashioned of willow, the most receptive wood to magic—was propped between a circle of black trunks and nailed slipshod into place, forming three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a doorway around her dusty furniture. The discarded furnishings from Eldoria’s citizens partnered ideally with her cadaver abode: chairs purging their cushioning from ripped-out seams, torn mattresses restuffed with straw and rotted leaves, ottomans made of upended boxes, a fire pit hedged in with broken bricks, one splintering cedar chest, and several busted casks that smiled like snarl-toothed jesters.

  The windows were empty frames as well, each crafted of four pieces of wood nailed together and hanging midway in the air, supported by wires secured to the intertwined tree limbs overhead.

  Luce liked to tease her about the absurdity of windows in a home devoid of walls, but Crony insisted even an old, grubby witch needed some semblance of refinement. Upon each sill sat a fractured vase or chipped teacup packed with bird feathers or fresh flowers. Silk and velvet patchwork valances lined the top of the window frames, stitched from clothes Crony had peeled off the best-dressed corpses she’d pillaged. Similar patchwork curtains stretched overhead from the branches to the floor to hide the princess’s room—an addition she’d made for the girl’s privacy. Any leftover fabric covered Crony’s supplies: potions, potables, and food stores, all tucked within stairstep branches and knotholes serving as shelves and cupboards in the kitchen. She’d lost her spell-recipes centuries earlier but knew the important ones by memory.

  Some might think hers a primitive way to live, but there was no need for windowpanes or sturdy walls in an enclosed wood where the rains never penetrated and the winds never wailed. In the civilized world, walls, roof, and glass kept the wilds out. But being of the wilds herself, Crony welcomed such things—moldering moss, ash, and grime alike.

  In this wasteland, the mortal occupants were the vermin. To stave them off, Crony had infused her house’s framework with horrific visions—an attack by phantasmal, skull-faced figures in dark robes; a growing quagmire enveloping the surroundings; falling face-first into a pit of vipers—memories of the dying so vivid the prowler would believe them to be their own.

  In the earlier years, Crony had often returned home from the market or hunting to find a would-be attacker or thief rolled up in fetal position beside the door’s frame. Today, her reputation preceded her, making it a rare occurrence for anyone to enter even her yard.

  Thoughts of said yard drew Crony’s attention back to the rainbow at her knees—the only flowers in the whole ravine, other than the ones decorating her shop. She barely heard Luce’s footsteps shuffling over until two feet stopped at her side, encased in dusty black boots. He wore his human form today and looked ostentatious and completely out of place here in his red fineries.

  “They’re withering.” A canine growl punctuated his observation as he nudged a cluster of larkspur with his boot’s toe. “She’s been neglecting them to spend time with the jackass.”

  Crony hesitated to respond, half-amused by Luce’s annoyance, but also saddened. Before the princess had come, Crony’s and Luce’s lives had been limited to shades of black and gray, like everyone else’s in this accursed place. Nothing but ash and brambles met the eye. I
n so many ways, the princess had brought color to their world. Crony wondered how long the flowers would last once she and Luce lived alone again. Though in truth, she didn’t expect to be alive long enough to know.

  Jaw clenched, Crony shoved a hand beneath the sooty ground cover and found it hot to the touch. “May-let it has more to do with the heat than any negligence. It be blistering in Eldoria. Though me bones decry a storm on the horizon.” The ravine was always cooler than Eldoria; but the ash writhing about their ankles carried hints of the kingdom’s weather, being warmed by patches of sunlight that seeped through thinner spots in the canopy.

  Luce bent down to pluck a stalk of columbine. The periwinkle petals and maroon foliage stood out vivid against his luminous flesh. “You’re just looking for excuses. She’s growing irresponsible. Goes off with her fancy donkey until all hours. Exploring every inch of this ravine. She’s lucky the shrouds haven’t eaten them both.”

  “Ye bein’ a bit hard on her. Seein’ as she helps us in the market each day.”

  “But her heart’s rarely there. She’s always wishing to be with him, caught up in frivolities that can’t possibly lead her to the throne. You’re the one who says she needs to practice her gifts and ‘political’ skills, however difficult and boring.”

  “Aye, since we can’t be touting who she is.”

  “Exactly so. We can’t even share her age. Her responsibilities are the only way she’ll rediscover her identity. It’s time she starts taking them seriously. And to that end, I aim to see she rectifies the garden today, before we head out.”

  Crony glanced up, stifling the smile that wanted to break free. She couldn’t risk withering the flowers further.

  “What?” he asked, his dazzling face scowling down on her.

  “Just ne’er thought a doggish dandy would fit the parental mold so ably. Those apron strings will need to be loosed one day soon.”