by A. G. Howard
A half smile tugged at Lyra’s lips. There it was, displayed on a shelf at Percival’s Frills and Footgear—a prize Dregs would desire with all his frosted little heart. Now to bargain her way to it. That’s how the game of diplomacy and barters was played.
She opened her pouch’s flap. Inside was an enchanted handheld mirror that could make a person see either their inner beauty, or if they had none, their demons. It was from Crony’s stash—one of many magical tokens stolen off corpses over the centuries. Stain hated to let it go; many a time she’d held it up for herself at home.
She did so now, standing directly beneath a lightning-bug lantern to watch the transformation only she could see in the reflection: a rag-tag boy becoming a girl with long silver hair and luminous moon-kissed skin—free of scars or smudges.
Shaking her head, she chided herself and tucked the mirror away again. She’d once told Scorch what she saw in the mirror. He had threatened to crush it beneath his hooves, telling her that entertaining perfect, pretty fantasies would make her weak and gullible.
This looking glass would mean nothing to a goblin, as the magic worked only on people; that’s why Luce had chosen it. To make Stain think . . . who would be most tempted by such a prize? She turned back to Edith’s Edibles and stepped forward.
Edith’s gummy smile greeted her—a gaping hole of slime and empty sockets amidst a wrinkled saffron complexion.
“Mornin’, boy. Thomthin’ caught your eye on my shelvth?” A whistling lisp edged her words, a flaw that made her reluctant to speak. But with Stain, who couldn’t even make a sound, Edith felt comfortable enough to be herself without fearing ridicule.
Stain nodded, pointing to a jar labeled: Cow Cud Crackers. The snacks were as repulsive as they sounded—flat, misshapen, and the greenish-black of tobacco spittle. True to their name, the main ingredient was predigested balls of food taken from the mouths of cattle on the way to slaughter. Stain couldn’t imagine who, other than a cow, would wish to eat such a thing, but it was that very logic that made this the ideal wage for her next stop.
“They be five copperth for a dollop,” Edith insisted, her small eyes sharpened. She hadn’t moved toward the jar yet, obviously noting that Stain’s pouch didn’t jingle as she wrested it open. “Ya ain’t got the meanth to pay, boy. Go bribe your keeper for coinage.” She jerked her thumb toward Luce, who was still watching. He tipped his head Edith’s direction, delivering a seductive smile. Stain had watched that expression put many a woman in dizzy, happy stupors for days.
Edith, to the contrary, choked back an embarrassed grunt and bowed her head, shoulders hunched, as if she wished to crawl beneath her booth’s counter. Her reaction made this exchange all the more gratifying, knowing it would bring the old woman some happiness.
Just as Edith turned to Stain with “No money, no deal,” on her tongue, Stain held up the mirror, aiming the reflective surface her direction.
A soft flash of light bounced across Edith’s face, indicating the glass clearing, then a moment of disbelief before Edith’s jaw dropped and her graying eyebrows lifted. She touched her cracked lips, tracing a smile. Blissfulness softened the sad lines around her eyes. “Ith that . . . me?” She reached for the handle but Stain pulled back, pointing to the crackers and then the mirror.
“Yeth! Yeth. A bargain. I’ll bargain with ya, boy.” Edith scooped up some crackers and dropped them into Stain’s leather pouch. In exchange, Stain offered the mirror. She walked backward on her departure, smiling while Edith whispered to her reflection as if it were an old friend she hadn’t seen for years. When the shopkeeper turned and batted her eyes at Luce, Stain had to suppress a laugh.
After the first trade, it took Stain close to an hour, going from booth to booth, following the strategy she’d laid out. Her second stop was Alyse’s Dairies and Brews, where she bartered with the cow cud crackers for a wheel of cheddar; Alyse’s doe-eyed advisors could hardly tell their owner not to make the trade, for what ruminant beast doesn’t love chewing cud? Next, Stain stopped at Winkle’s. The dwarf had a falling out with Alyse weeks earlier when he’d accused her of smelling like a dairy farm; both she and her heifers were so offended, he could no longer buy cheese there. This posed a unique problem, as his rabbit costume was old and fraying and he’d been patching it up with rat and rodent hides. Having nothing to arm his traps of late, Winkle was eager to take the wheel of cheese in exchange for a handful of anise, which Stain then carried across to Jeremiah, owner of Potions, Elixirs, and Magical Necessities. Amidst shelves stacked with wands, chalices, and cauldrons were bottles of magical liquids. Jeremiah used anise for a special fragrance one could wear to ward off evil eyes and ill thoughts. In a metropolis filled with stinky, angry degenerates, this was a product high in demand. Being a businessman, Winkle had raised the price of anise to an outrageous amount, and Jeremiah had been unable to afford it. He’d run low on supplies and could no longer make the fragrance, which in turn made everyone angry with him. Now, with Stain’s help, he had a supply again, practically for free. He would’ve been a fool not to trade for the plume agate Stain requested. She took the gemstone to Percival’s Frills and Footgear where the bare shelves gathered dust. Having lost his wife to another man months earlier, the artisan had also lost the ability to design new magical accessories. It was rumored he might sell his booth and retire. When Stain presented him with the agate—a stone whose mystical properties were known to boost creativity—Percival instantly had an epiphany for a new line of bronze-spiked necklaces that could double as nooses for unfaithful wives. Thrilled to have his muse back, he handed over the requested pair of shoes without question. Stain basked in her victory. Had Percival known who they were for, he’d probably not have been so agreeable, considering Dregs was the one to introduce Percival’s wife to her new lover in the first place.
Stain flaunted the shoes, dyed the yellow-green of fresh figs, by waving them in Luce’s direction. He was busy with a customer, wrapping up a memory that had been activated by Crony days earlier to form a stained-glass portrait of a child and father on a fishing trip. Still, Luce managed to cast her a sidelong glance and shake his head, reminding her the ultimate prize had yet to be won.
Stain wedged herself in a small space between two stalls, ducking out of the now crowded fairway to slip off her boots. The chartreuse shoes magically conformed to whomever wore them, which meant they’d be as perfect for Dregs’s little feet as they were for hers. She left her own boots hidden in the nook, then tromped three booths down, where a sign, black with silver lettering, welcomed customers: DEEP IN THE NIGHT—DARK CURIOSITIES FOR DAY DWELLERS.
Dregs’s booth was the most morbidly fascinating by far. He sold items smuggled in from Nerezeth: salamanders that once affixed themselves to a wearer’s feet and ankles, forming the most beautiful rainbow-scaled slippers; crickets that once sang chirping symphonies; and shadows that in the night realm followed one’s every move like a second skin. The morbid part was that these things were now dead. People of the day realm didn’t trust the night’s creatures, and wanted them only as empty trophies to place upon a wall or lock within a box for when a visitor needed to be entertained or an enemy to be threatened. Thus, Stain’s challenge: to bargain for a living supply of one of Dregs’s most popular items: moths. He kept them hidden under the counter, waiting to be smothered for fresh displays.
Dregs cocked his head upon seeing her, and the icicle growths upon his chin caught a sparkle of light from the lanterns. “If it isn’t the Stain, here to pull at the reins.”
She nodded in greeting and pointed to the counter, making a downward motion to signify the living items underneath.
Dregs puffed through the long, crooked tip of his nose. “White gold only is currency enough, should you wish to see my breathing stuffs.” He was playing games, knowing that though Luce and Crony had a bevy of stolen wealth hidden away, they rarely spent it.
Narrowing her eyes, Stain stomped the soles of her shoes upon the ground seven
times each. In an instant, the soles thickened. Stain’s stomach rocked as she grew taller and taller, until she loomed over the booth, level with the sign at the top. She pointed to a picture of a flying moth painted in silver ink next to the lettering.
Dregs gaped, then clambered atop his step stool to view her feet over the counter.
“Pedestal shoes in the shade of chartreuse . . . how did a boy such as you come by such a coup?”
Stain shrugged, then tapped her toes seven times, deactivating the soles so they shrank and returned her to the proper height. She gestured again beneath his counter.
Dregs salivated, his glossy marble gaze stuck on her feet. “Were I to step within and stand, I could walk as grand as any man.” His sharp-toothed smile split wide open.
The greed in his eyes inspired Stain to raise her price. Luce would be impressed if she could bargain even more from the goblin than originally planned.
She held out two fingers.
Dregs snarled, but she knew she’d won. She took off the shoes and stood barefoot, the onyx walkway slick and warm beneath her bare soles. Dregs grabbed the heels and placed them on his own feet, giddy. After growing tall enough to look Stain in the eye, he withdrew three jars from their hidden spot under the counter. “Three from which to choose. Two is the price of the shoes.”
In one, crickets climbed their glass walls—a black wave clambering atop one another to reach the holes punched in the lid. Crony was always commiserating over missing the sound of cricket songs. Stain couldn’t resist the chance to make her smile, so she pointed to the insects, fully intending to choose the moths as her second option. Dregs waved twiglike fingers over the two remaining jars. Inside one, moths fluttered in a frenzy of activity. Stain started to point to them, but hesitated, intrigued that the final jar was wrapped in black fabric. She peered within a peephole cut in the side, seeing shadows clinging to the opposing edge under the lid.
“Midnight shadows, they are. On hold for the castle afar. The princess requires special attire. I’ll send to Nerezeth for mores, should you claim these as yours.”
Stain had never seen a real shadow—that she could remember. Once, while gardening together, Crony had mentioned their history. After the world split beneath its magical curse, shadows became indentured to moonlight and candlelight, a completely different creature than the patches of darkness here in the ravine. Shade was cast by sunlight, and was the warden of Stain’s prison, for to venture outside of it would burn her alive. Crony had told Stain that one day, she would see shadows for herself and understand the magnitude of their differences, for shadows offered freedom where shade offered only respite.
Stain had always wondered what that meant.
She shot a glance to Luce, who was busy with a line of customers. Taking a deep breath that filled her nose with myriad odors from the milling crowd, she weighed her options. She wanted to pick the moths, not just because Luce specified them, but to save them from being smothered. Yet she had only one choice left.
Luce would be angry, unless she could convince him that midnight shadows, so rare in the day realm, must have more value. With that, her decision became clear. She tapped the cloth-wrapped jar.
Dregs’ frosty eyebrows raised and his shoes lifted him taller so he was looking down on her. “Ah, be you careful with these, if you please. A touch of the sun and they’ll come undone. Tuck them into a dark room where they can loom; light a flame, and they’ll join you in a game.”
Stain nodded a thank-you as he handed over the two jars. Before she could even take a step toward Crony’s booth, a familiar voice shouted inside her mind: Danger. Kill. Fly.
Her heart jumped into her throat. Scorch was in trouble.
Gloved hands trembling, she stuffed the two jars into the pouch slung over her shoulder. In too much a hurry to grab her boots, she sprinted out of the market and scrambled into the trees—her arms and legs straining as she leapt from one branch to another, the fastest mode of travel in the denser parts of the forest—not daring to look back when Luce shouted her name.
14
The Gallantry of Savagery
Over the past several years of disuse, the thorny maze that camouflaged the cave opening from the Rigamort into the Ashen Ravine had grown even more thick and winding, so that even Alger and Dolyn were intimidated by the tangles. Though it limited the already muted light filtering through the canopy overhead, Prince Vesper appointed himself the lead. At least the black, twining palisade with spurs as big as an eagle’s talons would assure no tender-skinned Eldorian would dare pass this way, which meant no unwanted encounters. The prince was still feeling weak after having drained some golden blood to paint streaks across the Rigamort’s rocks and walls—giving the stags sunlight to absorb until he could send a new supply.
Before venturing through the labyrinth, the troop trussed their horses in barding again. Then they resumed riding single file through the slim openings. Vesper soon came to see they weren’t to be as sheltered as he’d hoped. As the lead, he should’ve paid closer attention, should’ve noted the faint scent of smoke, or glimpsed the subtle orange flashes illuminating small openings in the gnarled labyrinth from far in the distance. But he’d been too beguiled by how familiar the surroundings looked here, in a place he’d never been: a dim, hazy world he’d only envisioned through lore shared by children at play or details offered by Nerezeth’s assassins and sun-smugglers.
Uncountable pathways sluiced the maze, most leading to dead ends. Yet the troop trudged forward, having no occasion to stop and turn about, all due to Vesper. He knew exactly when to duck, where to turn, or how to swivel Lanthe’s reins to avoid false routes in the circuitous brambles and forge safe passage. It wasn’t a memory. It was a learned rhythm for the path that had no sense belonging to a prince from the night realm who had never set foot in the ravine.
So preoccupied with this anomaly, he didn’t see the boxy clearing until he and Lanthe stumbled onto it. He hadn’t expected it to be there; it clashed with that strange intuition guiding him. He realized it was freshly made: brambles burned to the ground, smoldering cinders blending with the gray ash.
From left to right, towering vines crackled with sparks. Some crashed into one another with loud, snapping thuds—having lost their supportive infrastructures—and closed off extra pathways. The noise and movement spooked Lanthe. Vesper settled the stallion enough to coax him into the clearing, only to find himself surrounded by impenetrable tangled walls with only two openings. One, the pathway where his companions would soon siphon through behind him, and the other a few feet ahead where black smoke masked any chance for a visual.
The clearing, narrow and rectangular, left little room for the others; possibly one rider and horse could fit alongside him. Vesper raised his hand, halting his companions before they could enter. Suffocating heat filled his lungs and melted the paint on his face. He held tight to the reins and pressed his knees firmly into Lanthe’s ribs to calm the stallion’s nervous, dancing hooves. The horse’s ears flattened; there would be no going forward until the smoke dispersed. But Vesper suspected his mount’s reaction was to something other than the remains of the fire, for he sensed it, too.
Within that pitch-dark cloud that blocked the opposite entrance, something pulled at Vesper’s sunlit blood—an aching, visceral tug—like a lodestone called to metal. The sensation made his thoughts fuzzy, bewitched. He had to get through, to find what had razed the vines and thorns—even if it meant going afoot.
The prince motioned to Cyprian. His first knight entered the clearing and together they slid from their saddles, ankles sinking into the ash. Their boots provided coverage up to their knees, which would aid their trek through the thorns once they plunged within.
Cyprian drew his sword and Vesper unsheathed the knife at his waist, deciding a smaller weapon might be easier handled in this cramped space. He took the lead. He felt rather than saw Cyprian cast a glance back at the others, no doubt sending silent assurance to Selena th
at he’d watch over her brother. Vesper had caught the worried expression upon her face—clear even beneath the thick smear of sun protectant coating it—when she’d stalled on the edge of the opening. Nysa must have sensed her mistress’s tension, for she began to bark. Vesper would’ve just as soon asked Selena and Nysa to accompany him . . . his sister was better with a dagger than Cyprian, who was more a swordsman. But as third in line, Selena had no room to enter, and dismounting inside the path would be complicated.
Vesper’s ears strained for sounds beyond falling vines, popping sparks, and Nysa’s yipping. Inching forward, he heard something panting. He proceeded, led by that all-encompassing pull.
Smoke curled around him, stinging his eyes and nostrils. Without warning, something huge crashed out from the path. Caught off guard, the prince and Cyprian floundered rearward. A bugling roar shoved them against their mounts, who reacted with squealing neighs.
A magnificent black beast crowded in: hooves, fetlocks, and mane alight with embers. A horse, but so much more. Its wings spanned so wide it couldn’t open them fully in the tight clearing. Vesper swallowed a gasp and held his knife up, as ineffective as threatening a wildfire with a dewdrop.
He’d seen flying horses in paintings and historical scrolls. When he was young, irresponsible, and angry, he used to dream of riding a Pegasus into the stars, away from his kingdom’s responsibilities and all those who feared or judged him for his differences.
Yet he’d never heard of one that could breathe flame.
