by A. G. Howard
This man was under some sort of bewitchment.
Stain covered her mouth as the knife stopped where the shell surrendered to natural, soft flesh on the back of his wrist. There the blade sank in, cutting a long slit. She expected beads of bright red to swell at the site, but instead, a stream of gold drizzled free—as radiant as the liquid light that clung to the trees at the ravine’s entrance.
A man who bleeds sunshine.
“Do you wish to use it for ink?” Selena wiped the golden blood from the dagger, then drew a small vial from one of the three saddlebags beside her. “I brought a quill and parchment.” She placed a stack of black paper next to him.
“No need to write anymore,” the man answered. “By tomorrow, I’ll speak to her in person. At last I’ll know her.”
His sister positioned the vial to capture the glittering stream at his wrist. “You know her already. You’ve been exchanging notes for years.”
“Yet she feels like a stranger. Doesn’t feel right, for a marriage. Do you remember Lord Father’s pet name for our lady mother?”
Selena beamed—a smile that transformed her delicate features from pretty to stunning. “His Northern Star.” Using a bandage, she blotted away some lustrous blood that had overrun the vial’s mouth. Her silvery eyebrows arched. “Perhaps their great love gave us unrealistic notions of romance?”
“Perhaps. But you will have what they did. Cyp confessed his affections today, when he thought you were both to die in the fire. And you didn’t for a moment question if it was sincere, nor did you hesitate to return the sentiment.”
“He told you?” Selena’s face flushed, making the bluish veins behind her thin skin more prominent. “He should’ve waited. We’ve more important things to think about on this journey.”
The ravager grinned gently. “Cyp told me because he knew I’d be happy for the both of you. There’s no shame in celebrating the discovery of love, especially between friends. You’ve walked alongside one another for years on the same terrain—carried one another through the loss of your fathers. You’ve shared goals and secrets. You always find middle ground, ways to compromise, even when you disagree. Friendship is a measuring stick for love. Would that my intended and I had such a tool to gauge our relationship. It would ease the responsibility of consolidating two such different kingdoms.”
Stain’s ears perked at the words intended and consolidating kingdoms. This was the night prince, come for his princess in Eldoria’s castle—wearing a disguise. How careless of her not to suspect . . . not to question . . . having played at masquerades for so long herself.
The prince’s sister drew back and corked the small vial now filled with effulgent liquid. “I think, because our people no longer practice arranged marriages, it’s harder for you. But even if a betrothal is nontraditional, the love that grows from it can still be real and true.”
He chuckled—a cynical gesture—and pressed a piece of gauze against his incision to slow the seeping driblets. “Ah, good to know. For there’s nothing traditional about my love story, to be sure.” His full lips pressed tight. “A flawless, fragile lady is supposed to be my missing half—to complete me—scarred and hardened as I am. Yet I know nothing of her. So often her letters feel rehearsed. As if she’s writing what she believes one of her station should say, or what she thinks I wish to hear. Yes, I want the romance . . . the poetry. But those are ideals a king can set aside, if only his queen will speak from the heart—as one confidante to another—responsibilities and status notwithstanding. I want my partner’s thoughts and feelings, in earnest.”
“That’s reasonable. Be patient. You’ve never even seen her face. I predict, the moment you meet and spend time together, all pretentions and doubts will fade. As Madame Dyadia said, you will know her by her voice.”
He sighed. “Once I hear her song, from her lips instead of a seashell, only then will I know that my people and I can be cured.” There was a ragged edge to his voice—as if he’d been holding out for such a moment for an eternity. “The truth of it? Only then will I know the foretelling was worth believing.”
The man turned his face to the fire, hiding doubts within the long shadows cast by his cheekbones and dark eyelashes. Stain ducked behind her tree, peering through a juncture of branches that brought her to his level. How profound, to see that dark gaze up close—as inscrutable as a blackbird’s. How had she overlooked that detail earlier? She’d been too busy comparing it to night shadows and crickets.
His lustrous blood attested he was truly forged of sunlight. All this time she and Scorch had made a mockery of the fairy tale. She’d never dreamed the descriptions could be taken literally: a prince with the eyes of a raven, to marry a princess who spoke like a songbird.
Stain cupped her barren throat. Ever since the day she’d awoken in Crony’s home, she’d accepted the inability to make sounds or speak. Yet the fairy tale had always left her covetous for a voice. Now, seeing those details coming to life, the envy heightened, coating her tongue with a briny-bitter taste.
It was just another reminder of how different she was from others in the world. Everyone other than Scorch . . .
She glanced at the thorny maze in the distance where a glowing spark glimmered behind some tangled vines.
“At least there’s one small triumph today,” the prince said, recouping Stain’s attention. “No more hiding behind ink and parchment.” He pushed aside the stack. The movement loosened the gauze on his arm and spurred a few remaining droplets to smear upon the paper’s black surface, a bright and glittering counterbalance to the darkness.
Stain slammed her eyelids shut, her mind flashing to that odd dream of golden words upon black pages from years earlier. Opening her eyes, she studied her fingers, thinking upon their scalding, bright magic. Somewhere inside her was the missing detail . . . the explanation for why she had sunlight beneath her skin like this man. She cursed Crony and Luce for stealing those answers, for leaving nothing but a residue to cling to.
Shaking off her anger, she looked up once more. Princess Selena stitched her brother’s incision. It oozed red now, as if his blood had been cleansed by the draining. She tied off some black thread and cut it. Before Stain could blink, his skin had healed to another scar—absorbing the stitches in the process. More magic.
“I wonder how many that is now?” The prince patted the raised white welt. “Perhaps enough I can double as a patchwork quilt.” The edges of his mouth twitched. “Let’s play a trick on the castle’s seamstresses . . . hang me on the wall naked beside their finest creations. See how long it takes them to notice.”
Stain stifled a surprised laugh at his wit. Her own scars stared back at her, providing an intimate awareness of how desecrated he must truly feel. Though some of her wounds had been made through experiences and adventures she chose, there were others inflicted upon her, robbing her of any choice.
Princess Selena laughed, as if buoyed by her brother’s momentary lapse into humor. “You might’ve got by with it in your youth—bedeviled, rebel prince that you were. I can think of several maids who would swoon at the prospect of such a sight even now.” Clucking her tongue, she tucked all the articles away in the bag, including the papers. “However, I hold you to a better standard. That behavior would be entirely unbecoming of the king.”
The king. One half of the couple who would return unity to the heavens. Stain’s heart sped, keeping rhythm with the rain drizzling into the fishing tarn. It hit her suddenly: she’d attacked royalty, offset an honorable quest to mend their realms. And now, aware of the prince’s condition, seeing his humanness, she felt even sorrier for her preconceptions—for judging the Nerezethites without knowing intimate details of the realm’s traditions.
Cloth rustled as the prince opened another saddlebag and a cylinder of unusual silken fabric unrolled, revealing feathers, fur, and lace that swirled like rippling water in a cave. Within the pleats rested a handful of treasures: an ornate hairbrush of pearlescent opal with steel
bristles, an amethyst-jeweled hairpin, and a ring whose setting consisted of a miniature lavender rose. This too was magical, as the blossom somehow thrived without soil, water, or roots. Its perfume—so potent it reached Stain even without a breeze to carry it—reminded her of the blackened bouquet from earlier . . . those withered roses the shrouds hoarded as a macabre keepsake from her entry into the ravine. Another similarity between her and the prince. They shared sunlight somehow . . . scars . . . and a history with these strange flowers.
Confusion surged—a woozy sensation. Her knees weakened. She gripped the rough tree bark to keep from reeling.
Compose yourself. Scorch’s voice ignited in her mind. She sensed his return, behind her where the trees thickened. You need your wits about you so we can execute my plan.
No, Stain answered as the prince leaned closer to the fire, his complexion waxen and drawn, as if siphoning the golden solvent from his body had weakened him.
Yes. Scorch grunted low in his throat. He’s unsteady now. It’s the perfect opportunity.
We can’t kill him. Her heart pounded in her chest as the thought flickered between her and her winged companion, hot and bright as the blaze reflected in the prince’s deep, haunted eyes. He’s royalty.
Could that be why Luce had been so upset with her earlier? Had he known the ravager’s true identity all along?
What have I told you about royalty? Scorch’s response was gruff. They are the vilest of all humankind. Selfish, power hungry. Cruel. They’ll kill anyone who threatens their status, even their own subjects.
Stain tightened her stance. This prince didn’t seem selfish. And cruel? Earlier, when she first met him, his words were kind and noble—offering her help. Now they centered around concern for his people and the broken skies, inasmuch as himself.
We must act now.
Stain ignored Scorch’s snarling command and the faint smell of smoke curling around her—focused instead on the quiet conversation still taking place between the prince and his sister.
“I just don’t understand how it’s all to be.” He held the ring up to the campfire, pinching the rusty-brown band that matched the color of his forefinger and thumb. Firelight and shade alternated along the whorl of lavender petals, brightening some to a satin sheen while darkening others to velvet depths. The jewelry was tiny in his large, slender hand. “How my marriage to Lady Lyra will align the moon and sun so both kingdoms can benefit. How it can cure my poisoned blood and save our people. Can magic be so strong?”
“It was strong enough to separate the heavens, to keep you alive in spite of the sun’s taint.” Selena traced the intricate lines of the hairpin. “Strong enough to capture a princess’s teardrops in this pin and harden her hair to bristles of steel for this brush. We must have faith it can ameliorate all the wrongs. Put things back to right.”
Stain touched the corners of her eyes . . . as dry as they’d been since she could remember. Then her hand slipped over her forehead and caressed the downy fuzz from her crown to her nape, once silvery-white, now a shade of blackberry not unlike the prince’s own. Something inside her woke—a stir of jealousy, knowing that she would never have use for such beautiful items since her own hair didn’t grow? Or something more?
“Faith,” the prince’s growl stole her breath. “Faith in a prophecy—nothing but an amalgamation of words arranged prettily upon an ice cavern’s wall. Belief that every event is a stepping-stone. That everyone we meet serves a purpose.” He rewrapped the gifts in that dark, swirling fabric and placed them inside the saddlebag. “The prophecy has colored every decision we make . . . every challenge we stumble upon. At each crossroad, we stop and wonder. How do our wounded stags figure into this? Our dying people? How does that boy we seek—bleeding, scarred . . . so poverty-stricken he has no shoes—fit in? What of the ancient mystic that Leo’s team is taking to Eldoria’s castle as we speak, or our reserve of midnight shadows and spiders they took to break through the enchanted honeysuckle walls?” He clasped his sister’s hand. “Selena, by hanging our confidence upon magic, we’re shirking our own accountability, our capacity to reason and surmise. You met the prisoner yourself. You heard me interrogate her. She’s nothing like Dyadia said. We all saw her humility, her gratitude when we shared our food with her, the gentleness in contrast to her ugliness.”
Selena pursed her lips in thought. “She was very respectful to you. To all of us, in spite of her captivity.”
The prince closed the flap on his saddlebag, his expressive eyebrows pinched tight. “I made a mistake, sending her to be punished on mere faith. We haven’t any proof of wrongdoing . . . not even the box marked ‘princess - revolution.’ Nothing other than an albino crow’s word and Regent Griselda’s suspicions. Enough of faith. It’s time we take control of fate and make things right on our own. Whether or not Luna and Nysa can track the orphan boy, we leave for Eldoria when the cessation course begins. I wish to consult with the princess as soon as possible. Even a horned harrower witch merits a trial—a chance to defend herself.”
Albino crow . . . harrower witch . . . punishment and trials. Stain’s fingers dug deeper into the bark’s crevices as the words spun in her brain.
Scorch huffed. As I said. Royalty is not to be trusted. You’ve heard what happens to those who end up in Eldoria’s dungeons. Your toothless friend from market is a prime example. I assure you, the punishment is far worse for those who practice magic outside of the Regent’s requests. Had the prince already been dead, your precious Crony wouldn’t be in danger now.
Stain squeezed her eyes shut as Scorch’s truths sliced her to the core.
Everything that had transpired between her and her guardians earlier—their betrayal of her memories, their lies—fell away in light of Crony’s predicament. Dregs had mentioned seeing the soldiers. Stain hadn’t given it a second thought . . . but it was she who led the troop there. An albino crow had crossed their threshold, magical enough to bypass the nightmare wards. And Stain heard the dog barking when she left. She led them straight to her family, then abandoned them. And unless Luce had escaped, he was captured, too. Or worse. She gasped at the thought, a burst of air that proved too loud.
The prince and his sister scrambled to standing, their tense bodies turned her direction.
“Who goes there?” the prince called out. He wavered on his feet, still unsteady.
His sister coaxed him to sit beside the fire. Drawing out her dagger, she shouted toward the other two tents, her gaze never leaving the surrounding trees.
A loud rumble of thunder broke overhead—an ominous portending. Pulse skittering through her wrists, Stain crouched low and dragged the bag around to her chest. Her spine ate into the bark. Her hands clamped like iron bars across her lips. Every nerve prickled beneath her skin, every bone stiffened to near breaking. She was voiceless, incapable of pleading Crony’s case; and she, too, would be captured and placed in chains.
Fabric rustled as the other tents opened and their occupants leapt out. Rushing footsteps, crackling leaves, shuffling ash—growing ever closer.
Witless mite, Scorch snapped. Once again, I must save you. Glowing, orange sparks drifted in the greenish haze around her. I’ll catch fire to their tents and set loose their horses to draw the others away. When he’s alone, you slash his throat. No hesitation. You owe me that.
Yes. Stain agreed, dragging out the knife. But she had her own plan. The prince mentioned searching for the boy . . . for her. She would lure him to the moon-bog where she first met Scorch. It was close—and the perfect place wherein to trap someone unfamiliar with the terrain.
The prince must live to be Stain’s bargaining chip. For surely the prophesied king’s life was valuable enough to trade for a lowly witch’s safe return.
19
The Murkiness of Fate and Other Illusions
The storm must have been enchanted . . . or so most Eldorians believed. Other rains had drenched their skies over the past five years, yet these were the first to feed th
e honeysuckle plague more rapidly and vigorously than sunlight itself. Within hours of the rumbling thunder and splattering raindrops, the pink blossoms swelled to the size of cabbages, calling more stinging bees to their syrupy pollen. The foliage and thistles tightened around every cottage like a bristly green fist, in the same as it held the castle’s courtyard, walls, and towers, effectively nailing all doors and windows shut. The thoroughfares—which had worn the green cloaks for years—undulated and rolled, resembling the spiny tongue of some mythical lizard and making it impossible to walk upon.
Citizens huddled in their dimly lit homes—weak from lack of physical labor and play, malnourished from lack of hearty food, chilled to the bone from lack of sunlight upon their skin. They peered out of slits in the vines covering their windows, watching for the arrival of the night prince and his infantry of spiders and shadows. A prayer went up to their golden sun, that together with their princess—a ghostly figment occupying the palace dungeon—Prince Vesper could bring back their freedom to walk outside. Prejudice had been traded for tolerance, a by-product of harsh experiences shared. Even those who once laughed at the ill fate of Nerezeth, buried beneath blizzards that muffled all sound and barren of fragrant flowers, were looking forward to snowflakes falling silent from moonlit skies—as winter evenings would mean a land untainted by cloying perfume and the constant buzz of bees.
Griselda’s royal spies, armored infantrymen with axes hung at their waists and white gold lining their purses, hacked through the honeysuckle vines to forage for news of the kingdom’s state, and the condition of people’s spirits. Upon learning that many commoners believed there was no longer a princess—as in all these years she had not been seen even by the castle’s twenty-some inhabitants—Griselda smiled. At last, people were at their most desperate, providing the perfect opportunity to introduce the queen-in-waiting she had so diligently crafted.
