by A. G. Howard
Soon, the ash gave way to a wet, thick sludge. A thicket of interlaced briars rose in the distance to form an enclosed dome, hunched and dark like a mud-slicked wolf. A sense of impending danger bristled Vesper’s nerves. Something bad had happened here. The sight alone made him feel trapped. He struggled against the sense of being stuck . . . pulled under . . . drowning. But he pressed on, his resolve stronger than the cryptic foreboding.
Lanthe slowed to a trot, ribs rising and falling rapidly where Vesper’s thighs and calves straddled him. The stallion came to a stop at a slit in the brambles where the boy had vanished within. Vesper’s odd instinct told him there was a bigger entrance somewhere, large enough for a horse, but were Lanthe to venture forward, they could both get trapped within the bog.
How he knew there was a bog inside, Vesper couldn’t say. It was the same strange knowing that told him there was a fishing tarn earlier. Though the stench of dead and dying things might have sparked the idea this time.
Dismounting, Vesper slapped Lanthe on his flanks—a signal to the horse to go home . . . or in this case, to find someone he knew. The prince watched as the stallion trotted in the same direction they’d come. Lanthe’s sense of hearing and smell would lead him back to the camp, and Vesper’s troop could use the horse to find his whereabouts.
Plunging through the thin opening, Vesper gripped the knife at his waist and raised his metallic forearm in front of his face like a shield. His boot soles sucked in and out of the mucky ground. Thorny shrubbery snatched at his clothing, piercing through. Aside from the reek of decay that burned his eyes and coated his tongue, he hardly noticed; it was no different than being home and facing the Grim. There was even a similar glow like moonlight guiding his footsteps.
He wound through the brambles: left, right, and left again. When at last he broke through, he was face-to-face with the thief. An odd, silvery-blue glimmer emanated from the bog, gilding the brambly surroundings and the boy’s appearance. Aside from new burn marks upon his torn clothes, he was cleaner now and donned a pair of boots. His long lashes glistened, as silver-white as hoarfrost, and his scars stood more prominent against his scrubbed, grayish-tinted skin.
The pouch with the night creatures rested across one shoulder. The prince’s saddlebag hung from his other hand, swinging precariously above the gurgling bog. The slimy surface rippled as a snakelike projection resembling a fern leapt out, trying to snatch the pack.
Vesper’s nerves prickled beneath his skin at the dangers within that oddly glowing murk; he could almost feel them wrapping around his neck. He had to get out . . . had to find a way to reason with the thief so he could get them both to safety.
He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “What is your name?”
The boy furrowed his brow.
Vesper raised his hands and prepared his fingers, hoping he hadn’t overestimated the orphan’s knowledge of the ancient language. My friends call me Vesper. And you are?
The boy drew the pack away from the water so it hung on his elbow, his expression awed. His hands trembled as they lifted and formed a response. You know how to speak to me.
The prince smiled. Yes.
An expression, akin to surprise, twitched the boy’s pretty lips and he pointed at himself and signaled: Stain.
Vesper nodded. That’s all right. We’re both a bit of a mess, aren’t we? I’ve been wanting a bath all day.
The boy snarled—an airy, frustrated sound. My name is . . . He dropped his hands in mid-sentence and glanced at the bog, as if considering whether to cast the saddlebag in after all.
Vesper signaled: Put the treasures down, please.
With a shrug, the orphan dropped the saddlebag behind him on the other side of a pile of rocks.
Thank you, Vesper gesticulated. I have questions, and you appear to need some funds. I’ll pay you for answers.
The boy grimaced. No answers until you give my mother back.
Vesper raised his brows. He’d been wrong, assuming the boy didn’t have a family. “Your . . . mother,” he spoke aloud, forgetting to use his hands.
The lad positioned his thumbs at his temples, like horns. “The witch?” Vesper asked. “Is she the one who taught you the ancient language?” It made sense. As an immortal, she’d been alive from the time of the drasilisks.
The boy moved his hands and fingers so fast, Vesper had to concentrate to read the words: No answers . . . no bargain . . . no trade until you bring my family back. Safely. Then I will give you your treasures and let you leave. I want your word, Prince.
“So, you know I’m royalty,” Vesper answered, hoping the lad wouldn’t notice him inching closer.
Which means nothing. You’re no better than the ilk that tossed me out of the castle like rubbish.
Vesper stopped in his tracks. “Which castle would this be?”
The boy’s mouth gaped slightly, those unique eyes widening. He’d disclosed more than he’d intended.
“Eldoria’s palace,” Vesper reasoned aloud. Hedging forward again, he kept his gaze locked to the stripling’s. “I know you didn’t come from mine. I would never forget someone with your pluck and talents—nor would I forget such a face. But you’re a contradiction, aren’t you? Your eyes . . . they’re born of stars and moonlight.” Vesper tried to suppress the appeal those epicene features held for him. “Why were you tossed out of the castle? Were you spying on the princess?”
The boy’s long lashes quivered—like the downy barbs of feathers on the wind. Vesper’s fingers itched to touch them, to see if they were as soft as they appeared. He had closed enough space that he wasn’t more than an arm’s length away. All he needed to do was reach out. He bit back an oath, resolved not to lose himself to the oddly tender compulsion.
The thief stepped backward until his heel scraped against the rock pile. I . . . don’t know.
“You don’t know,” Vesper repeated, picking up the hanging threads of their conversation. “For which question is that the answer?”
The boy gulped a breath and his fingers clenched the pouch at his shoulder. He dropped his hand to respond. Both. I remember nothing before waking in this ravine. Nothing of my life, or what I was doing. Only that Crony took me in.
Vesper wrestled a wave of sympathy. “So, in the time you’ve known the witch, has she shared her plans for the ‘princess revolution’? Do you know of her conspirings against the castle? Tell the truth, and perhaps I can help her.”
The boy’s face changed, the grit and resolve softening to a sincere frown. She’s not just a witch. She has a name. Crony. She’s my family. And she’s never once mentioned your precious princess in the five years I’ve known her.
“Five years.” Vesper mouthed the words. That was around the time he swallowed the sunlight . . . around the time he lost some crucial part of himself. This couldn’t be by chance.
The marshy bog gurgled again and a shimmer from the movement reflected on the thief ’s face, reminding Vesper of their dangerous surroundings. Determined to resolve this discussion at camp, the prince leapt forward. His captive lurched backward and stumbled across the pile of rocks. Vesper lunged to catch him before he busted his head. The stripling reached back for Vesper’s left arm and found balance atop the rock pile, making them the same height. His pouch slipped off and the jars crackled as they broke upon the rocks.
Neither the prince nor his captive reacted, too intent on what was taking place at their point of contact. As the boy gripped Vesper’s metallic forearm, the shell of infected flesh began to soften. Vesper’s coppery skin showed through—an imprint of the boy’s warm grasp.
Warm. Vesper couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d had any feeling in that part of his arm.
Their gazes met, and in those lilac eyes, Vesper saw moments he’d never lived, yet somehow knew existed, for they had altered him profoundly: the flash of dusk igniting that gaze to amber . . . eating apples from the palm of that small, grimy hand . . . an unconventional dance ben
eath a leafy sky.
Then, he saw a shock of fire, thorns, and pain.
The boy winced, stretching his mouth in a soundless scream. His fingertips lit up with golden light—an effulgence that matched Vesper’s sunlit blood. It spread along the thief ’s arm and flashed through his entire body—a surge so dazzling it rendered Vesper blind for an instant. His breath hitched and he pulled back.
When the prince’s vision returned, the boy appeared ill. He stepped off the rocks and sat. The glow in his body withdrew, converging in his hands. His drab complexion paled to an even sicklier hue as he dug his fingers into the slimy ground.
Flowers sprung up from the mud—blooms of crimson, bright pink, blue, and orange appearing around the boy’s torn fingers. Like a beautiful contagion, more blossoms followed, spanning the sodden distance between him and Vesper. Varicolored petals opened around the prince’s boots before continuing through the thicket, climbing the twigs that formed the domed roof, and overpowering the stench of the bog with a heady perfume. Vesper’s mind spun. He stood beneath a vivid, ambrosial rainbow, in a softly glowing world that had once been colorless and stagnant. It was as if he’d fallen through the earth and landed within Neverdark, back in his childhood when the arboretum still brought him wonder and awe.
Speechless, Vesper studied his metallic arm where it retained the imprint of that small hand. It was as if the boy had cured a part of him by absorbing his sunlight and sending it into the ground. Their eyes met once more, but before Vesper could say a word, a huge crash broke through the bramble wall closest to him.
The Pegasus barreled in and looked from Vesper to the boy—now slumped over bent knees, panting. Armed with nothing but his knife, Vesper spun to face the beast. The Pegasus reared up, eyes, mane, and tail ablaze, hooves aimed for Vesper’s head.
Vesper ducked left. He slipped in the mud, squashing flowers as he fell, and landed inches from the bog. The hum of his blood became a voltaic buzz, pulling toward the beast as if magnetized. Vesper fought it, trying to put distance between them. Still clutching the knife, he bent one knee and pushed up, but the snap of a bracken caught his arm. With a jerk, the vicious fern dragged him off the banks and into the deep. His liquid surroundings undulated between luminous and murky. He kicked out his good leg so he could surface. He choked on the taste of decay then capsized as the Pegasus plunged in beside him, fully submerging them both.
Vesper opened his eyes in the silver-blue depths. Smoldering feathers, hooves, and flame surrounded him. His legs tangled with the stallion’s, his hair enmeshed with the barbs of the opened wing. Vesper took his knife and aimed for the beast’s heart. The instant the blade found its home with a meaty thrust, a lancing agony ruptured within Vesper’s own chest. Air escaped in a gush of bubbles. A brilliant light detonated with a loud blast in his head, as piercing and agonizing as cannon fire. His skull seemed to shatter on the implosion. He surfaced for an instant, sipping another breath, but was dragged under again.
Vesper fought the Pegasus’s sinking body, its tail having wrapped around his neck. Everything around them blurred. Amidst that suffocating myopia, the past collided with the present. In his mind, Vesper returned to the ice cavern under the sorceress’s spell, his body broiling with sunlight. In that moment of destruction and creation, when Madame Dyadia rent him in half and trapped his pain, rebellion, and pride inside a new vessel, he’d struggled to put a name to it. Now he could see it clearly: four legs, hooves, and a body of shadow with wings of flame. A Pegasus.
Vesper tugged at the snare constricting his windpipe, trying to stay focused. Those sweat-drenched dreams over the past five years had been his only ties to his missing piece: the taste of steam, the scent of burned wood, the running, running, running alongside a trusted friend—a girl who masqueraded as a boy—here in the Ashen Ravine.
The epiphany slammed into him. With wildness born anew in his heart, he stared, unflinching, at the truth. There was no dying Pegasus dragging him down. There was only Vesper himself, whole again, alone in the depths with a bracken around his neck—holding him captive beneath the sludge. His lungs begged for breath. He wrestled the binds, wanting only to get back to her . . . to Stain. His playmate, his confidante, his tiny trifling thing.
20
A Waltz among the Embers
Slumped on the rocks, Stain watched orange and red bubbles rise from the moon-bog and burst in midair. In the wake of Scorch’s plunge, a churning, chaotic and violent as a monster’s heartbeat, rendered everything beneath the surface imperceptible.
She didn’t have to see to know that the prince and the Pegasus were fighting, fully submerged. The fools would drown if she didn’t stop them.
She attempted to stand, but her surroundings spun. She fell back onto the rocks and clenched her fuzzy scalp with aching hands. Sowing a thicketful of flowers had left her more depleted and agonized than she anticipated. How had she done it? Never before had her sun-power covered such a distance, and so swiftly. Then rationale prevailed, and she knew: it happened because she touched Prince Vesper’s arm; his curse infected her, rushing sunlight through her entire body. She’d had no choice but to channel it somewhere, the ground and brambles her only options.
She would’ve pulled free of him sooner, before the sun’s intrusion, but she saw something in those penetrating eyes: a glimpse of those times she’d felt most alive—most like herself. When she’d waltzed in the embers, when she’d fed Scorch a handful of apples, that first glimpse of identity through his eyes. She would’ve embraced any agony to be there again, to remember. But those were moments made with Scorch—so how had the prince revived them?
The bubbles expanded in the bog’s depths and sloshed a glowing wave against the banks. A tangle of thick, dark hair surfaced, then jerked beneath again. Scorch’s tail or the prince’s head . . . she couldn’t be sure with the pain blurring her vision. The gnawing, burning throbs that often pooled in her fingertips ran all the way to her elbows and shoulders. Even her bones felt hot, aching through to the marrow.
She curled her chest over her knees, fighting a bout of nausea.
Scorch was going to kill the prophecy. The Pegasus had rushed upon the scene. He took one look at her and deduced she’d been hurt at the prince’s hand. As always, he’d assumed the worst and attacked.
In her state, she had been too weak to stop him. What would she have said, anyway? That when she’d touched the prince, every moment that followed had spun out of control? That at the same time, the event seemed orderly, as if it had been laid out, brick by brick—a bridge between two paths that never should’ve crossed?
Never could’ve crossed.
Yet they had.
Magic was at work in the prince’s destiny, but why would it involve her? She was no one. Unless . . . unless she was more than she’d dreamed, as the mother shroud had said. There must be some explanation for the parallels she’d seen between her and this man—for the way their skin-to-skin contact had been so all-encompassing it bordered on combustible.
Clearing her head with a breath of charred decay and flowers, she shoved her sore palms against her knees and stood shakily. This wasn’t the time for introspection. She had to save the prince from Scorch’s bestial temper, for it was her doing that brought them both here together.
Dragging through the sludge’s suction, she struggled for balance on her way toward the bank. At the edge, she gripped a bramble vine between its thorns. She bit back the bile rising in her throat, wanting to avoid another wound, another scar. She’d suffered enough pain today—emotionally and physically. Yet that hadn’t stopped her in the past, and it couldn’t stop her now. She prepared to tie the thorny rope around her waist as she had all those years ago, so she could dive in.
A chorus of sound from behind gave her pause. She looked over her shoulder. An invasion of chirping black crickets hopped out from the rocks. She’d forgotten about the jars breaking when she’d dropped them. A whirlwind of shadows followed the bugs—having no reason
to hide in this dim, barbed thicket.
She barely had time to react as they surrounded her and forced her to drop the brambly vine and retreat from the banks. The shadows nudged with gusts of chilled air and the crickets rubbed their legs, composing a song so high-pitched she had to step back to save her ears.
She wasn’t afraid; not for herself. The shrouds had said such creatures were once her protectors. Even with their presence so new to her, she sensed they were trying to keep her safe.
What they didn’t realize was that by shielding her, they were endangering their night prince. Her chest tightened on the thought, bewildered as to why she cared. It was Scorch who was her dearest friend. So why was she driven to save both of them with the same desperate need? She wanted to believe her desire to help the prince centered around Crony’s welfare, but there was more. She’d heard him pour his heart out to his sister—witnessed his humanity and vulnerabilities. He was a good man.
Let me through . . . she pleaded, craning her neck to see around her creeping, boisterous protectors. They’ll kill each other.
Their barricade didn’t relent. They had pushed her several foot-lengths from the bank when a muffled roar bulged the bog’s surface; a swell of fire and water thrusted her back and thudded her head against the ground. Everything went dark.
The sound of rhythmic chirrups roused her. She groaned, unsure how long she’d lain there. A headache pounded the back of her skull. Her eyes struggled to open, but bog sludge had tangled her lashes—making the effort near impossible.
Yet she needed to look. Something was lying beside her, large, warm, and breathing. Long, silky hair tickled her cheek and the featherlight movements along her scalp felt like a horse’s muzzle. With a start, she realized it was crickets crawling across her head. She launched to a sitting position and spit on her hands, rubbing her eyes until her lashes came free.
