Stain

by A. G. Howard

  Lifting the saddlebag higher on her shoulder stirred ripples of movement inside. The night creatures . . . Dregs had said something about the shadows while she was at his booth . . . that they had been meant for the princess, for attire of some sort. But how could clothing be made of shadows, and to what end? In honor of the night prince? Stain knew so little about Eldoria and its history, she couldn’t begin to guess.

  The princess went into hiding years ago, shortly after the king’s death, when several inhabitants of the castle were murdered by an evil enchantment—though no victims were given names here. The threat to the princess’s life was so egregious that she withdrew into the dungeon. Then an infestation of barbed honeysuckle vines, meant to protect the palace, had spread into all the nooks and crannies of the kingdom. It was rumored that shadows might have the ability to shrink the gargantuan honeysuckle plants. That was why bringing the moon back meant so much to Eldoria.

  Stain’s eyelashes grew heavy as if carved of iron. Her lids drooped and her steps slowed. Her bones felt like iron, too, so heavy it hurt to lift them.

  She barely noticed the stench of the burbling quag-puddle skidding her way. Its progress split a path through the ash, sending the powder flying on either side. The sentient spume caught her before she could leap out of its way. Her foot began to sink. Gritting her teeth, she wiggled out of the boot just in time to watch it being swallowed. Before the puddle could capture her bare foot, she hopped to the right and squeezed into a ring of closely woven trees. Their overgrown roots formed a nest that no puddle could penetrate. Spewing out a grumbling belch of bubbles, the quag left the way it came. Letting the saddlebag slide, Stain curled up, heart thudding from the close call. She rested her cheek against the leather. Everywhere else, knotted roots jabbed at tender, bruised flesh.

  Loneliness crept into her sleep, fashioning dreams as empty as her stomach. She wasn’t sure how long she’d dozed when something wet shoved against her nape and snuffled, jolting her awake. She turned to find the fox beside her—wearing a snarl that looked suspiciously like a scowl.

  She mimed the words: Are you a dream?

  His pointed ears lay back and he sneezed a layer of dust from his nostrils. The spray spattered her forehead, assuring her he was real.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been digging through this cesspool of slag for you?” Luce’s silken baritone snapped out of his whiskered muzzle like a whip. “Dregs and Edith said they spotted you out frolicking with Scorch. Crony is in danger, yet you’ve been off with your donkey, wasting precious time.”

  Stain threw her arms around the fox’s neck and buried her face in his fur, wanting to drown in his mix of animal dander, man, and flight. I’m sorry, Luce. I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive! She couldn’t risk losing her hold on him to sign the words, and there’d be no hearing her otherwise.

  Only Scorch could . . . only Vesper would . . .

  Her eyes squeezed shut against a fresh swell of loss. She held on to Luce for dear life—longer than she’d ever hugged him, and tighter than she’d ever dared. Hunger, exhaustion, and emotion shook her body from the inside out.

  Luce’s canine spine twitched. His tail brushed her leg and red glitter and silver smoke spun around them both. She hugged him throughout the transformation: as his long muzzle shifted to masculine features—sharp cheekbones, nose with a shrewd, pointed tip, and a stern yet pretty mouth; as shoulders, slender and solid, came into being to cradle her temple.

  When she finally opened her eyes, they were both on their knees and his arms held her—a warm, comforting wreath of human flesh and bone. Together, the two of them filled the nest of roots. She snuggled into the shirt that was just moments ago a white strip of fur between two forelegs. His talisman of braided hair, the one that matched hers, pressed into her cheek. A reminder of Crony. A reminder of family and safety.

  “There, now . . .” Luce’s voice held a note of bewilderment. He stroked her scalp, bestowing a tenderness he rarely showed. “We hurt you, but that was never our aim. The secrets we kept were meant to help. One day soon you’ll understand.”

  She gave no answer, but her body settled into a melting numbness. Once she stopped quaking, he stretched her to arm’s length.

  “Let’s have a look.” He gently examined her, studying the new burns, scrapes, and punctures. He winced, his orange eyes glimmering bright. Glancing at her clothes, he flicked a glare to her face. “You’ve no business being out in the ravine in such a state.”

  Stain assumed he referred to her lost boot and looked down. Her vest was almost completely burned away. Underneath, her damp white shirt—threadbare to near transparency—hugged her skin. Humble as her attributes were, her femininity was unmistakable. The rips in her clothing must’ve been a result of the explosion in the bog. Too much was going through her mind when she roused to even consider her appearance. She’d been preoccupied with finding Scorch and distracted by the prince: touching him as he slept . . . arguing with him when he woke . . . laying across his chest with nothing but threads separating their flesh.

  Gasping, she folded her arms over her shirt.

  The points of Luce’s teeth broke through his downturned lips. He peeled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Did anyone see you, other than your Pegasus?”

  Stain didn’t know how to answer that.

  “Dammit. Tell me. Does anyone know you’re a girl?”

  The ravager, she signed, moving only her fingers and keeping her arms in place. The prince, she corrected.

  “Wait, you know he’s a prince? And he realized you’re a girl?” Luce’s fox ears perked forward; he almost seemed thrilled at the prospect.

  Stain nodded, confused by his reaction. But he would’ve known anyway. Even if he hadn’t shredded them . . .

  Luce’s cheeks burnished as red as his hair. “The prince did that?” He gestured to her ragged clothes hidden beneath his jacket.

  Stain nodded, but before she could explain the explosion, Luce interrupted.

  “The prince ravished you?” There was nothing silken about the sylph’s voice now. It was the sound of a storm: thunder, hail, and cracking gales. “I will maim him. And then I will kill him.”

  Stain shook her head and stirred her hands to action. No. He’s noble . . . important. He’s the prince of the prophecy.

  “I’m well aware. That’s why I intend to maim him first. Then once he’s served his purpose, I’ll kill him. Nobility is just as vulnerable as any other human. I’ve experience in the matter.”

  She meant to ask for details—if he referred to the Eldorian princess the shrouds had mentioned—but he was already on his feet. Fed by his anger, his otherworldly incandescence bathed the roots and tree trunks in celestial light.

  You’re misunderstanding. Stain attempted to reason with him. The prince didn’t mean to do this. It was an accident. Scorch . . . She stopped then, her shoulders slumped. There was no reasonable way to finish that explanation.

  Luce snapped his fingers. “I knew it! I told Crony that flying donkey would be the undoing of everything. He fought with the prince again, and you had to break them up. I hope His Highness got another good stab in. It’s time that jackass learns some manners.”

  Stain scrambled to standing. Never speak another word against Scorch. There will be no more. She forgot her modesty and dropped his jacket, freeing arms, hands, and fingers to unleash an erratic stream of words. No more influence from his lack of manners. No more distracting me from my work. No more frolicking with him through the ravine when I should be tending flowers. We’ll never be together again! She sobbed—an airy scruff that scraped her windpipe. Scorch is gone. He and the prince . . . they’re . . . everything is gone. Are you happy?

  Luce dropped to his knees, squeezing her shoulders. His sudden change in mood disturbed her as much as the admission itself. “The prince died? No, no, no. That can’t be. Did they kill each other? Stain, what happened out there?”

  She tried to
explain, her fingers taking Luce where her mind feared to tread. I don’t know . . . it’s hard to . . . She fisted her hands, then made another attempt. He’s not dead. Neither of them is dead. They’re just . . . together.

  “Together?”

  Their spiritual coalescence was still too raw and confusing to put into words. Besides, to dwell on the loss would only get in the way of what needed to be done.

  We’re wasting time. Isn’t that what you said? I know about Crony . . . she’s being taken to Eldoria’s dungeon. Recalling the questions the prince asked her, Stain sought her own answers. Is she guilty of conspiring against the princess? Does she harbor ill will for her?

  Luce blinked, as though to extricate himself from the dangling threads of their abandoned conversation about Scorch. “Ill will is the furthest from what Crony feels. And the only thing she’s ever conspired to do is what’s right.” He frowned, as though remembering their companion was a thief who’d stolen more than just memories from the dying. “Well, at least where it concerns the princess.”

  Then you have to get to the castle and plead her case. The prince means to see her have a fair trial.

  “Best intentions aside, there hasn’t been a fair trial in Eldoria since that bloodthirsty regent—” Luce curled his nose, like a dog scenting something foul. His gaze dropped, as if he couldn’t look her in the face. “Since the king’s death. I’ll be breaking Crony out of the dungeon before any trial.”

  So, you have a plan?

  “Yes.” He stood again. “Along the Crystal Lake’s banks, there’s a way to avoid the honeysuckle plague. It leads directly into the dungeon via a secret tunnel—a shortcut. I know where the door is hidden, and I’ve a key to unlock it.”

  It was more than Luce’s height making her feel small now. It was her inability to leave this wasteland. Can I do something from here? I want to help. I would give anything to accompany you . . .

  “If you want to come, then you will. Crony’s depending on it, in fact.” He gnawed at his lip, obviously rethinking. “She’ll want to see you, I mean to say. You don’t realize how important you are to her . . . how much happiness you’ve brought into her life. With the flowers; with your smiles; with those eyes that seek good and beauty in everything, and that brave heart that wishes to help others see the same. You are her family. She needs you.”

  Stain stared, overwhelmed by the unexpected praise. He held her gaze for a beat before looking away. She sensed the rest of what he couldn’t say—that he shared Crony’s sentiments himself.

  Hands twisted into silent knots, she glanced down. The sweetness of Luce’s faith nestled behind her long lashes, warming her eyes. For hours, her head had been telling her that Crony and Luce would never hurt her intentionally; now her entire self believed. In time, they’d explain their lies. The only truth she needed to know today was that they loved and depended on her as much as she did them.

  Luce cleared his throat and burrowed his hands in his pockets. “I’ve a way to transport you through the sunlight safely. Dregs uses boxes lined with nightsky to bring his live shipments here. It’ll be a tight fit, but you’re young and spindly. He’ll even provide the wheeled cart that goes with it.”

  Stain cringed. She wasn’t sure what nightsky was, but what concerned her was being shoved within a coffin again . . . the same way she arrived years ago. Though she couldn’t remember that grim journey, the thought suffocated her—made her lungs tight and the puncture marks on her skin pulse as if they were tiny mouths gasping for air.

  Forcing her fingers apart, she asked: When do we leave?

  “After we gather some weapons from home. I suppose I’ll piggyback you, considering you’re shoeless again. Oh, and I’ve arranged for an army.”

  An army? Stain’s stomach interrupted with a loud growl, distracting Luce from her question.

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  She shook her head, signing again about the army.

  Luce lifted the saddlebag at her feet. “Yes, yes. Storming the castle requires reinforcements. They’ll meet us at the ravine’s entrance. Where’d you get this bag? Is there any food inside?” He dug through the contents, sending shadows and crickets deeper inside. He looked up, gaping. “You got them back.”

  Stole them back . . . along with a few other items. She wondered how the prince would react once he realized; if he would despise her for stealing from him again. Or, if through Scorch’s sentience, he would somehow understand her desperation—for the Pegasus knew her, within and without.

  As for Luce, he seemed unconcerned that she’d stolen from Nerezethite royalty. He placed the saddlebag on the ground and withdrew that odd fabric wrapped around the princess’s gifts. The brush, hairpin, and ring tumbled free into the bag, inhabiting pockets of darkness alongside the night creatures. Curiosity sharpened the sylph’s features upon noting the treasures, but he was otherwise occupied—riveted to what unfolded in his hands: a hooded cape lined with rainbow-colored fish scales and embellished with violet-black feathers, silvery fur, and glistening cobwebby lace. It surged in his grasp, reaching toward Stain. Eyes wide, he released it.

  Stain caught a breath as it floated toward her. The feathers, fur, and lace draped her form, arranging itself into a regal cape. Once settled, an ethereal darkness seeped across her like a cloud invading the sun—a cooling, velvet obscurity. Soon she was eclipsed by the hovering haze; it was somehow sentient, anticipating and following her every move. From her scalp to her fingertips and all the way to her half-booted feet, not a glimpse of skin or clothing showed through.

  She viewed Luce from behind the screen, mesmerized by how it muted his luminous skin and bright hair while still allowing her to see with clarity. A bitter tang stamped her tongue, as if she’d tasted a similar compromise in the past—relinquishing vivid colors for the freedom to stand in the light.

  Luce circled her, observing from head to toe, his expression somewhere between fascination and pride. “Well, well, well. You could not have bagged more suitable plunder. It appears you won’t be stuck within a box after all. Today, you take your first step into the sun.”

  Not far off, in the moon-bog’s bramble thicket, there was another who faced the sun, although the prince didn’t step within willingly. Agonizing thrashes of fever and gold threatened to sweep him under. The scent of smoke, singed clothing, and blistering skin turned his stomach. He lay there, unmoving, convinced that embers embroidered his bones—and if he dared jostle, his very skeleton would disintegrate to ash.

  Each inhalation of air tasted of soot and scalded his lungs. To withstand the torment, he kept his eyes pressed shut and teeth clenched, limiting exchanges to one or two words per smoky breath. He lost his ability to mentally connect again, for it took all his concentration to hold still.

  He wanted his sister to know of his miraculous discovery. I found my equal, he wished to say. Her voice lives within that part of my mind I thought I’d lost. The prophecy’s wrong. She’s not a princess. She’s the antithesis of all that’s pampered and frail—mighty and scarred as a battle-worn blade; feral and cunning as a wolf; a foundling, a thief, my most loyal friend. She’s the only one who can cure me. I need her. Find Stain! But he was left alone in his mind with the empty, unanswerable echoes, powerless to spend the effort.

  His troop knelt beside him, though not too close. The heat emanating from his feverish body singed the brambles beneath him. Only Dyadia’s wretched white crow could touch his smoldering flesh with its beak.

  “Stain.” Vesper sloughed the word off a tongue and lips as dry and cracked as winter bark.

  “Why does he keep saying that?” Cyprian asked, weariness weighing down his voice.

  Leaning over her brother’s right side, Selena gasped. “Oh, moonlit skies . . . no. The plague is infecting his eyelids! If we can see it, he can’t look past it. All he sees are glittering stains of gold—” A sob silenced her.

  Vesper growled at her misconception. “Thief.” It expe
nded such effort to push any sound beyond his stiffening vocal cords, he could merely whisper.

  Selena stroked his hair with a gloved hand. “Your welfare is more important than stolen gifts. We’ll find the boy and bring him to justice, once you’re cured.”

  “Her,” he mumbled. “Find . . . her!”

  Cyprian clasped his shoulder with a glove. “We are, Your Majesty. The princess is only a two-day journey from here. We’ll get you there. Please, just hold on.”

  “Her voice.” Vesper sipped a breath tainted with smoke and embers. “Inside.” Another scalding breath. “My head.”

  The crow poked and prodded, an uncomfortable intrusion against the chaos roiling beneath Vesper’s skin. The bird was checking for any remnants of flesh still malleable. Dread chased that thought as the ping of metal greeted his ears from taps gently applied to his chest, his neck, his chin.

  “Dyadia, we need you here!” Selena demanded. “Not this callous sack of dusty feathers. Come to us now!”

  A flutter gusted beside Vesper’s ear, then a woman’s croak of pain. Following an icy burst, the sorceress possessed the bird’s body. Vesper peered long enough to see Dyadia’s cat’s eye scouring him, having taken the place of the bird’s pink iris. He let his lashes seal again as blinding vines of gilt crept across his vision. The shocked murmurings of his companions, noting the flaxen hairs overtaking his eyebrows, dragged him deeper into despair.

  “You found him like this?” Dyadia’s question broke through in place of Thana’s blood-curdling caw.

  Selena tried to answer but a sob caught in her throat.

  “Yes.” Cyprian took over. “He’s been trying to speak, but we have to piecemeal what he says. It makes little sense. Something about the thief and the Pegasus and the bog. Luna tracked signs of a struggle imprinted in the mud. Horse hooves and Vesper’s boot prints leading to the edge, then drag marks leading out, made by a man’s hands and knees. He’s singed from head to foot, yet wet. We think they both fell into the bog, but only Vesper came out. It appears he killed the beast, and the boy attacked him out of anger. There are signs of them rolling on the ground then tracks signifying the thief escaped that way.”