by A. G. Howard
Griselda sent word by her infantryman, back to the castle keeps and cottages, that the princess was to make an appearance in the highest southern tower just before the wink of twilight. As every townsperson with a westward-facing window or door used axes and gardening shears to widen their line of sight, Sir Erwan did the same for the tower’s dormer.
Griselda dressed herself, her two daughters, and “Lyra” in their finest tight-laced court gowns, fur-lined mantles, and cone-shaped hennins. Though Griselda despised the beribboned headdresses, today was about tradition and propriety. So, accompanied by her two trusted knights, Regent Griselda led her family in a royal procession. They started at the bottom of the dungeon’s staircase and wound up toward the turret’s dormer window—the very one from which Lyra had looked down upon her kingdom through blue-tinged glass, years ago.
The procession grew longer as they ascended each flight—council members, subjects, and servants attaching to their tail like a gemstone rolling up hill and gathering moss.
Anonymous whispers bounced off the white marbled walls and floors.
“See the princess’s star-struck beauty,” said one.
“I’d forgotten how silver her hair and lashes,” said another.
“She practically glows with moonlight and grace,” said a third. “We needn’t have worried. Nerezeth’s dark prince will worship her upon first sight. Told you she’d grow into her own, didn’t I?”
“She’s more than grown into her beauty,” said a fourth—the words erupting from the end of the procession on a booming bass. “She’s grown in diplomacy, wisdom, and fairness under the council’s written disciplines, and is now fully prepared to rule our kingdom. Perhaps she might offer us a blessing, in her special language?”
This voice Griselda recognized even before seeing the cropped black hair and intelligent green eyes among the assembly. Of everyone they needed to convince, Prime Minister Albous would be the most difficult. He was the one soul, still living, who had spent more time with Lyra during her last few months than anyone else. Though he hadn’t seen her in years, he hadn’t forgotten his special rapport with the small princess—a closeness that would be difficult for Lustacia to emulate since she had stopped practicing the ancient sign language. The most she could offer was a greeting, and two or three phrases . . . certainly not a poetic blessing.
Thus, Griselda chose that moment to unleash her final, most brilliant deception.
She tapped Lustacia’s elbow. Responding with a slight nod, “Princess Lyra” turned in front of the turret door to face the assemblage. Opening her pale, purplish lips, she released a nightingale’s warble that echoed through the corridors—silver and pure.
Her audience, adrift atop the mellifluous notes, grew as silent as stone. The princess beckoned with her palm upturned and three fingers curled—a regal gesture that might’ve been mistaken for a hand signal. Her flaring sleeve stirred at her wrist, and the shadows that had been darkening the floor and walls alongside her and her sisters and mother peeled free and hovered in midair. There were but five—one for each goblin smuggler Griselda’s spell-chant, brumal-blood potion had warped and reshaped. They were half-lights now, dimmed to only a portion of their customary mass—mere wraiths in a world of solidity. However, it was that vaporous form that allowed them to swoop and shudder with such ferocity they appeared to be a multitude of shadows.
The audience ducked and gasped, no longer mesmerized, but afraid.
“The day of fate is at last upon us,” Griselda said as the goblin-fray darkened the cathedral ceiling like a gathering of storm clouds. Turning to face Lustacia, the regent dropped to her knees. Wrathalyne and Avaricette exchanged wry glances and knelt beside their mother. “Soon, the moon will rise and cleanse our kingdom of the plague. It is time we join Princess Lyra’s shadow attendants in celebration, and give allegiance to our queen.”
As one, each person around them dropped to their knees, including Albous and the members of council.
Griselda’s pride kindled bright as hand signals were all but forgotten for the princess’s authority over the shadows. No one would dare question her daughter’s legitimacy now.
Their princess humbly dipped her head. The translucent, beaded veil erupting from her hennin’s tip gilded her silver hair like a layer of frost. The picture of elegance and majesty, she turned and strode into the turret.
“Our royal family wishes privacy as the princess first reacquaints her kingdom,” Griselda insisted. She and her daughters followed at Lustacia’s heel. The “shadows” swept down, blocking anyone who would enter, until Sir Erwan and Sir Bartley took their places outside the closed door under which the shadowy creatures disappeared.
As their sooty forms seeped into the turret like black smoke, Griselda made a wide berth to avoid the half-light goblins’ annoying antics. Avaricette and Wrathalyne squeaked and grumbled when the cursed beings sniffed them and swirled in and out of their gauzy gowns. Though Griselda had managed to change their forms, she’d been unable to curb their obnoxious personalities.
“Mums!” Wrathalyne screeched, tucking a fallen lock of auburn hair beneath her hennin. “When we finally turn them back to goblins, will they still be so clingy and vexalatious?”
Avaricette snorted and withdrew a half-gnawed sweetmeat from her pocket. “Vexatious, you imbecilic ninny.”
“Oh? If I’m a ninny, you’re a toad.”
Avaricette popped the confectionery between her lips and winced upon biting down. “For an aspersion to be effective, it must make sense. Goats are illiterate, as are you. How am I like a toad in any way?”
“Your lack of teeth.”
Avaricette slapped a palm over her cavity-filled mouth and shoved her sister with her free hand, who in turn shoved her back. The goblin wraiths whirled around them gleefully, egging it on.
“Enough!” Griselda shouted, then gentling her voice, called to her youngest, who already stood at the window, waving in a dream state at any who could see her through the blue-tinged glass. “Princess, please contain your most loyal subjects.”
With a sigh, Lustacia motioned the wraiths over. They sank into the floor, becoming imprints of her movements once again, like any good shadow. Griselda settled at her daughter’s side and opened the rain-streaked window enough to let in the joyous shouts and applause from below.
“Hear how they adore you, daughter. You have won your kingdom’s heart. This is a day of victory.”
Lustacia frowned.
Griselda clucked her tongue. “Just because you look the part of a gloom-dweller, doesn’t mean you have to share their dour moods.”
Lustacia shook her head, closed her eyes, and inhaled a deep breath.
Honeysuckle drenched the humid air—so potent and sickly sweet it burned away all other sensory cues from the palace garden adjacent to the tower.
“I miss the flowers of my childhood,” Lustacia said—the lyricism of her voice cushioning the ears like a lullaby. “The licorice sway of pink carnations, the vanilla brush of violet heliotropes, the powdery flutter of white gardenias. None can be seen, smelled, nor heard through those wretched thistly vines. I can only make out the sylph elm now.” She glanced over her shoulder across the room where her sisters snooped through dusty trunks for forgotten jewels or treasure, then turned again to the cursed kingdom outside the window. “The leaves are changing color. That was Lyra’s favorite thing to watch for. At last it’s come, and she’s missed it.”
Griselda scowled at the attempt to guilt her for robbing them of childhoods, for cutting short her niece’s life. But her scowl softened as she noted for herself the fringed leaves of vivid yellow overtaking the red that billowed out from the glistening, encroaching vines. She’d been waiting for those leaves to change, too. Hoping they might lure Elusion back to the castle and her bed. An air sylph’s charm was always good to have on hand.
Lustacia wound a silvery strand of hair around her finger, growing dreamy again. “There’s a path that leads to
the sylph elm where the vines don’t grow. It must be the tree’s own enchantment, acting as a barrier. Your brother . . . our uncle. The king. He used to tell us a story about when the leaves changed, that a cursed sylph—”
“Could win back its wings and return to the skies?” Griselda huffed. “A farcical bedtime tale.”
“Truly?” Lustacia put her back to the window, steadying her lilac gaze upon her mother’s face. “More farcical than this?” She gestured to herself, and to the illusory shadows at her feet. “I agree with Wrath. Return the goblins to their original forms. They’ve played their part.”
Griselda clenched her jaw. “Every time I believe you’ve wizened enough to be queen, you disappoint me with that misplaced sense of mercy. Good that you’ll have me as your counselor.”
Lustacia hid her profile behind the beaded sweep of her veil. “I think my counselor should be someone with a conscience.”
The words were meant to cut, and indeed something coiled within Griselda’s chest. It was, however, more like a snake preparing to strike than a wounded creature curling upon itself for protection. “You’re not thinking at all. You still have to convince the prince you’re Lyra. After that, you’ll have to convince his entire kingdom. This will be impossible if no shadows respond to you. And these are the only ones who ever will, unless you’ve managed to befriend one or two in the dungeon over the years?”
Lustacia worked the hennin from her hair and tossed it down. The goblin shadows reflected every defeated motion. She rubbed her head, fingers digging into her hairline. Rolling her shoulder, she moved out of view of the cheering audience. “I abhor everything we’ve done. It pains my head to think of it.”
“Yet, you went along with it all.”
Lustacia’s eyes filled with tears. “Out of obligation. You stole hope from the man I love. And now it’s up to me to give him empty promises. All those letters he’s written. He’s sincere, perceptive, and kind, but so broken; he expects me to have some missing piece of him, to make him whole. You took that away. She’s gone forever, as is his chance to live. He’s coming here so I can watch him die of a terrible curse.” Her tears fell in clear streams.
Griselda plucked her own hennin off, fingers massaging the knots in her hair above her temples. They’d been stinging almost nonstop today. “Best you learn to curb your weeping. Unless you first stain your face with blackberry juice, so your prince will mistake them for the lines of your tears. And enough with the gloom and doom. Because Lyra is gone, you’re the only one who can save him. That gives you all the power.”
“How can I save the prince, when I’m not his other half? Here you are promising the sun and moon to our subjects, when I can’t even command a shadow. Even if no one else can see through me, the prophecy’s magic might. Have you ever considered that, Mother? Even once?”
As if on cue, the sky dimmed as the sun surrendered to that dusting of twilight, heralding the start of the cessation course. Everything looked foreign and distorted in the temporary darkness, the honeysuckle plague taking on the semblance of a swarm of drasilisk nestlings in mid-hatch. For one breath . . . one heartbeat . . . Griselda harbored doubt.
Then the sun brightened again behind its swarm of clouds, and returned the world to perfect clarity, resolving the scene to all that Griselda had wrought through conspiring and trickery—confirmation of her control over both magic and fate.
She removed her gloves, revealing the glossy bluish-white tint upon her palms and fingers, the residue of the brumal-stag murders she couldn’t seem to wash away. “I was told years ago that the heavens’ splendor would be returned at my hands. Thus, I etched my own path. As you said, there is no Lyra now—at my hand. And of every lady in our two kingdoms, you’re the only one with the physical traits specified by the prophecy—at my hand. All you need to cure the prince’s cursed heart is her songbird voice, and you have that as well—at my hand. Just as these things have fallen into place, so shall the sun and moon. Whatever I must do to see it done, I will. Have faith in me, in this opportunity I’ve given you. You are the real princess, for I have made it so.”
A sudden knock at the door startled a yelp out of Lustacia.
Griselda gloved her hands and put her headdress in place. “You may enter.” She flashed a glare at her daughter. “Stop being so skittish. There’s no one who can stand in our way now.”
The door opened enough for Sir Erwan to step within. He swung it shut behind him. “I intercepted a missive sent via jackdaw. Prince Vesper’s troop captured the harrower witch. They’re bringing her here to be questioned by the council. They should arrive within two days.”
Lustacia gripped her mother’s arm, her expression a mix of horror and haughtiness. “It would appear, Mother, that your ‘no one’ will soon be deposited at our castle gates.”
A chill skittered through Griselda’s chest as all her blood drained into her feet.
Inside the Ashen Ravine, cinder and flame rained down—a storm more ravaging and violent than the rains outside.
The attack happened so quickly the prince had little time to react. A bugling roar cracked and the Pegasus broke through the trees, galloping toward the camp. Sparks trailed his hoofbeats. His mane, tail, eyes, and nostrils glowed with an incandescence both blinding and searing. One giant, lone wing spread out—a harsh slap of feathers, tendons, and hollow bones that shoved Vesper onto his back.
Braying in triumph, the Pegasus veered left toward the horses, scattering Vesper’s companions in the chaos. Fire lit the farthest tents and smoke filled the campsite—billowing black curls that converted shouts to hacking coughs and snaked across the horses, spooking them. Eyes wild, the six mounts strained until the lead ropes snapped free of their branchy anchors. Before Vesper’s companions got to their feet, the Pegasus rounded up the loose horses and drove them toward the thorny labyrinth.
Prince Vesper rolled to his stomach, squinting through soot and heat. His head buzzed with grogginess from the draining of his blood. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward the fishing tarn and the water flasks. They couldn’t hold enough to staunch the fire, but their contents would stifle the sparks along the edges of the blankets Selena and Dolyn were using to smother flames.
Cyprian and Tybalt drew swords and sprinted after their mounts. Vesper tossed the water flasks in his sister’s direction, then stumbled toward his open tent, determined to get his sword and follow the two men. He’d barely dragged the hilt toward him when his blood sang again, that strange reaction to the winged beast. The thrumming spread through his metallic shin, forearm, and abdomen, rocking the bones behind them—making it difficult to move. In this state, he would be artless with weaponry, but he refused to be completely useless. If Cyprian and Tybalt could hold off the Pegasus, he could lasso their mounts.
He found a coil of rope, then gave a shrill whistle. Lanthe responded, darting out from the herd before the rest plunged through the labyrinth’s entrance. The Pegasus drove the others inside—into the boxed clearing Vesper had faced earlier. The winged beast pivoted, then kicked his back legs. The entrance vines snapped at the impact of his flying hooves, falling and tangling—effectively locking the horses within.
Whinnying, the Pegasus raced past Cyprian and Tybalt, razing them with his wing to knock them off their feet. The beast slanted a glance into the trees next to Vesper’s tent. The same intelligence sparked in his eyes that Vesper had seen earlier. The Pegasus switched his tail in a loud snapping motion, almost as if impatient, then disappeared into a thicket the opposite direction.
Lanthe arrived, stirring up ash with his hooves. Vesper stood, swaying, and prepared to vault onto his back.
The boy came out of nowhere, armed with Vesper’s stolen knife. His willowy body barreled into the prince’s chest before he could mount. Lanthe reared in surprise, skittering backward. The prince’s metallic shin torqued and he lost balance, but managed to catch the lad’s sleeve and jerk the knife from his hand. Growling, Vesper dragged the orphan d
own with him, both of them plopping into the ash with a thud. Head-butting Vesper in the shoulder, the boy twisted free and ducked into the tent. On his way out, he sneered down at the prince—holding the saddlebag with Lady Lyra’s gifts and the leather pouch containing the jars of night creatures—before Vesper could shake off the humming within his metal plates and get to his knees. The little thief lunged toward the trees, looking back at Vesper for several beats, the expression on his gray-stained face unmistakable: Catch me if you can. Then he was gone.
Lanthe pranced forward again. Vesper picked up his knife and tucked it in the empty sheath at his waist. He stood, dragged himself up to the stallion’s withers, then swung a leg over his bare back.
Selena and Dolyn had the fire under control and sorted through the seared wreckage for anything salvageable. Farther away, at the labyrinth, Cyprian and Tybalt chopped at the maze’s entrance with their axes. The horses nickered within, overwrought but slowly realizing they were safe.
Vesper’s gaze followed the path the Pegasus had made, marked by the flickering cinders left in his wake. This had been a plan. All of it. The Pegasus and the orphan worked together to steal back the lad’s jars of crickets and shadows. The princess’s gifts must have caught their eye while they spied upon the camp. The opal hairbrush, amethyst hairpin, and panacea ring were priceless and irresistible to a thief; but Vesper wanted them back for more reason than that. The pack contained the hooded lacewing cloak of nightsky that the princess would need to safely make the trek out of her castle to Nerezeth’s palace.
Fearing he’d lose the gifts, and even more fearful that he’d lose the boy should he hesitate, Vesper shouted. “The orphan stripling stole the princess’s gifts! I’ll return once I have them in hand.”
Selena rushed in his direction. “Wait until we free the mounts! Let us accompany—”
Vesper kicked Lanthe into a gallop before his sister could finish. He drove the stallion into the trees, ash swirling around them in time with the thrilling pace. Vesper and his mount ducked under low-hanging branches and leapt across noxious quag-puddles, guided through the dim haze by the slip of the boy in and out of the trees ahead. Even when he lost sight of the thief, Vesper found their way again, led by that same inexplicable intuition that had carried him through the labyrinth earlier.
