Stain

by A. G. Howard

  She nodded at Selena in gratitude.

  “I’m glad you approve. It suits you.” Selena handed Lyra the mirror so she could produce a peach velvet caul embellished with braided silver ribbons and pearls from her bag. A scarf of creamy white silk billowed from the back like a tail of mist and sky. “Vesper brought you a fur cape to protect from the snowfall. And this will offer warmth in lieu of hair.”

  Lyra stopped her from setting the hat atop her scalp . . . the mention of hair tangling in her thoughts. Mistress Umbra’s prediction resurfaced: “You will need to have hair of steel and tears of stone.” Alone it made little sense, but when paired with that overheard conversation between Selena and Vesper about the wedding gifts, it began to adopt a hazy meaning. Selena said enchantments had captured Eldoria’s princess’s teardrops in gemstones on the pin, and had hardened strands of her hair to bristles of steel in the brush.

  Gemstones and steel. Tears of stone, and hair of steel.

  Lyra dug through the saddlebag at her feet, finding the brush and pin. She held them up to Selena. Mine, she mimed.

  Smiling gently, Selena set the caul aside and took them. “Yes, they are yours. Gifts for Vesper’s betrothed.” She flicked a glance to Lyra’s fuzzy head, sympathy tugging at her silver eyebrows. “Would you like to fasten the pin to the cap?”

  You told Vesper to have faith in the magic. Lyra gesticulated the words Selena had said to her brother, as close as she could remember them. Magic, to fix all the wrongs and put things back to right. She pointed to the brush bristles then her scalp: My hair that won’t grow. She gestured to the pin’s gems and her eyes: My tears that won’t flow.

  Shocked perception crossed Selena’s face. She lifted the brush and scraped the stiff bristles across Lyra’s downy scalp. Upon contact, the bristles softened then began to shorten. Lyra held the mirror up, watching . . . waiting. She and Selena both caught a breath as the stubble all across her scalp lost its dark tint in the wake of the diminishing bristles, and a silvery fuzz took its place. The fuzz thickened and grew to wavy strands—lustrous and long—a full head of hair that passed her shoulders within moments, continuing on until the length reached her hips.

  “Oh my stars and moon,” Selena whispered, her eyes bulging. She held up the brush that was now nothing but a handle. “We must show Vesper.”

  Wait, Lyra mouthed the request and pointed to the pin.

  Swiftly braiding a portion of the shimmery strands at Lyra’s temple, Selena clipped it into place with the pin. The moment Selena drew her hand back, the three gemstones leaked free of their mounting—a deep violet liquid that streamed down Lyra’s face. Some ran into her eyes; the rest spread across her forehead and coated her cheeks, jaw, and neck.

  Still gaping, Selena handed Lyra the wet cloth to blot the liquid. The gray tinge that had stained her skin after years of using the sun protectant lifted away and transferred to the fabric, revealing a glowing, moonlit complexion.

  Lyra smiled at her reflection, seeing the girl in Crony’s enchanted looking glass—the cherished daughter in the portrait with her kingly father, who hadn’t yet encountered the trials that awaited her. She was the image of that princess at last, with all but one exception: every scar, scrape, and bruise remained—a tribute to the challenges she’d faced since then. A tribute to the queen she would be.

  Lyra didn’t notice Selena’s absence until she heard two pairs of footsteps rushing up behind her. Lowering the mirror, she turned.

  Luce gawked, speechless for the first time since Lyra had been in his keep.

  Vesper, on the other hand, whistled low as he took her in her appearance—from her hair to the glittering, gauzy skirt that rustled between them. “Such brutal beauty.” His gaze skimmed the braid that framed her face, then trailed the scars upon her forehead, cheek, and the curve of her neck. “How did this happen?”

  She held up the brush handle, her eyes tingling with a foreign weight that blurred her vision. As she blinked, liquid warmth trickled down her face. After licking the saltiness from her lips, she reached up and caught one tear that clung to her lashes. It smeared across her fingertip: violet and sparkling, and more precious than any amethyst.

  The astonishment on her prince’s face as he watched her through Scorch’s eyes, her playmate who’d never seen her cry, gave her a rush of exhilaration.

  “You’ve renewed my faith in the prophecy, Lyra.” His body tensed against the struggle to honor Luce’s conditions and not take her in his arms again.

  She reveled in the moment, holding power over this one who had often bettered her in every game. She caught his hand. Pushing up his cuff, she traced the scar on the back of his wrist, the last wound he would ever inflict by draining his golden blood, and silently dared him to do the same. Abandoning all control, he traced the path of her tears—from her cheeks, jaw, and neck, then down to the beaded neckline that dipped beneath her collarbone—sending a blush of delight through her body.

  “Restraint, young majesties,” Luce threatened with a growl.

  Vesper drew back, and Lyra smiled at him. Now we have our magical edge. She kept the thought private between them.

  The muscles in Vesper’s throat contracted on a hard swallow. “You’re right.”

  “Want to clue the rest of us in on the conversation?” Luce pressed.

  “She’s not to ride with me on Lanthe,” Vesper answered, his gaze never straying from hers. “She’ll lead, so every eye will be turned on her. All these years, our kingdoms have hoped for the princess of the prophecy, awaited some living fairy tale to unfold before their eyes. We’ll give it to them: a princess aglow with moonlight and silver—a survivor of ash and thorns—riding through the gates, triumphant, astride a brumal stag, the epitome of hope itself.”

  29

  Spikes, Stars, and Latent Memoirs

  Six hours after Nerezeth’s heir apparent, his royal sister, his first knight, and four trackers journeyed to the Rigamort to prove the prince’s theory behind the burst of life that had cured his blood and melted the snow, they returned with more than answers. They returned with another miracle.

  Upon arrival, Prince Vesper sent his royal trackers ahead to advise the castle’s heralders to blast the trumpets. Drawn by the sound, nobility, servants, and honored guests alike stirred from their feast-induced stupors and either gathered in the courtyard beneath the stars or looked out of windows at the snow-covered expanse beyond the gate.

  As the procession came into view, the trumpets blared louder, shaking the castle to its icy roots. For five years, the Nerezethites had anticipated this event: the fulfillment of the prophecy—a princess to save their prince, heal their land, and align the skies.

  Now there were two. One within the castle looking down from a tower, whose silver hair and birdsong voice had purportedly cured the prince and sent a rash of flowers to melt the wintry terrain; and another whose hair gleamed like ripples of liquid metal under the moon in the blizzard’s fleecy winds as she rode upon a majestic brumal stag to the gates, trudging through drifts of snow so high they swallowed the stag’s legs up to its knee joints. The prince and his troop of three brought up the rear on steeds, with five more brumal stags following in their wake.

  Word quickly spread, via the trackers, that this latest princess—a spectacle of glittering lace, glowing skin, and lilac eyes that flashed amber in the darkness—was rumored to have been the prince’s true liberator, that she crossed through the badlands after defeating the Grim with her flood of flowers and sunlight. She had scars and scratches aplenty to substantiate the claim, and had also won the respect and loyalty of the lowliest and most mistrustful of their world, which explained why a cavalcade of hoarfrost goblins walked behind the brumal stags in a rare show of solidarity.

  It was difficult to refute this new princess’s claim, being seated as she was astride an enchanted, untamed creature that hadn’t set a clawed foot outside of the Rigamort for centuries. As most Nerezethites had never seen the solitary creature
s, the vision of six inspired a mix of hope, confusion, and euphoria.

  The castle buzzed with debates between Eldorians and Nerezethites as to which girl was the true princess of the prophecy. Everyone had their favorite.

  But how to choose? How to be sure? Only one princess could marry the prince, and only the prophesied pairing would bring the skies together again, which was the most crucial consideration of all. Crucial enough that a death sentence was hanging in the air, awaiting whichever girl would prove counterfeit.

  A convocation of the two kingdoms’ councils would decide. The anticipation was palpable amongst the crowds gathered in the corridors of the great hall as they awaited the verdict being decided behind closed doors.

  Neither princess attended. They were isolated to their own towers, their doors watched by both Eldorian and Nerezethite guards. One of them was an imposter, so neither could be trusted to speak on their own behalf until they’d proven their claim to Eldoria’s throne by some credible means.

  Credible indeed. With the convocation ended, Griselda followed Sir Bartley through the crowds held at bay by a line of guards, arriving at her chambers where Lustacia awaited under lock and key. Nodding, the Nerezethite guard closest to the door let Griselda within. Her knight exchanged an uneasy look with her but stayed outside to give her and her daughter privacy.

  The moment the door closed, Lustacia scrambled from the table where she’d been eating. Her goblin apparitions pounced upon the food tray in her absence. Being half-corporeal and half-spirit, they still required small doses of nourishment. The shadowy forms scattered chunks of fish pie and smears of jellied cream across the table in their wake.

  Griselda turned up her nose at their lack of manners.

  “Well?” Lustacia blotted crumbs from her lips with a napkin. She had changed into a more comfortable ensemble—a navy velvet gown with simple beading about the neck and wrists. “Did you see her up close? Her gaze was so like Lyra’s. Even from up here it glinted in the darkness as she rode through the gate.” She wrung the napkin in her hands.

  “A glint no different than every other gloom-dweller’s.” Griselda strode to the chair and peeled off her gloves and hennin, still unnerved by the memory of the procession, an unease compounded by the tingling of her antlers upon the arrival of the stags. “Show me one Nerezethite, other than the prince, that doesn’t have those spectral, wolfish eyes.”

  “Did you hear her speak? If she has a voice, we’ll be all right. Won’t we?”

  “She wasn’t at the convocation; she’s been locked in a tower, just as you have.”

  Lustacia flung her napkin down and twisted her pale hair into a side braid. “Ava and Wrath visited me earlier. The guests are saying she uses sign language with the prince and his sister. There’s a mystery surrounding her origins, for she has no memories. She has white eyelashes that curl up to here.” Lustacia indicated her forehead. “Add that to the fact that she goes by the name Stain.”

  Griselda groaned, too perplexed to even attempt hiding her reaction.

  Lustacia’s eyes narrowed. “You used to call her that. It must be—”

  “Impossible.” Griselda snapped. “The poison had no antidote. I chose it for that reason. She died because no one could have stopped it. And death is irreversible. No, this is that witch’s doing. She heard me call your cousin a stain when she was first imprisoned in our dungeon. The old hag must’ve escaped Erwan somehow, and is here pulling the strings.” There had been mention of a red fox loitering around the gates earlier, though it hadn’t been seen since the prince returned. It had to be Elusion, another indication of Crony’s presence. At least it appeared he was locked in his vulpine form, which meant Erwan got one thing right: he’d burned down the sylph elm before Elusion got his wings. “The witch has thrown her own imposter into the mix to spite me. Some native Nerezethite who has charmed the prince, perhaps with a love-spell. But the hag made a mistake leaving this in the shrine.”

  Griselda picked up the bag Sir Bartley had brought in just after Lustacia returned from spying beneath the prince’s stairwell—having overheard his and his sister’s plans to ride out in search of someone else . . . someone by the name of Stain.

  Fortunately, Bartley had found the bag in the shrine, just as Griselda had expected. Her premonition had been correct, as it had contained all she needed to prove that foul play against the real princess—her daughter . . . niece—was afoot.

  Lustacia knelt on the floor beside Griselda’s knees. “So, you gave them the box. What did they say?”

  Griselda regaled the pertinent details orally, all the while mentally reliving the exchange. Attending that wretched assembly, being under everyone’s scrutiny, had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Prince Vesper had sat at one side of the long table with Queen Nova, Madame Dyadia, Selena, and four Nerezethite council members. He’d positioned himself directly across from Griselda instead of choosing her prime minister, her first knight, or any of the five councilmen from her court. It was an intentional move, meant to intimidate. Like most Nerezethites, he was tall but lithe—corded muscles wrapped around elegant bones. Yet he had a presence about him, a feral confidence that made him more imposing than a beefier man of weight and stock.

  The quandary was presented before the assembly. The prince laid out an empty opal handle that was once a brush, and a hairpin that had lost its jewels, claiming the girl he brought back from the Rigamort had freed the spell upon them both. Then he deferred to his mother to mediate the proceedings.

  When the question fell to Griselda as to her thoughts on the dilemma they faced, she offered her well-rehearsed words:

  “We are victims,” Griselda said, “to the malice and mischief of Crony, the harrower witch. Everything is her doing. From His Highness’s rejection of my dear niece, Lyra, who’s kept herself pure for him and exchanged heartfelt letters for five years, to this imposter who’s appeared at the last hour with artifacts that were meant to be wedding gifts—admitted to have been stolen. You must see, without the purported silver bristles and amethyst stones, we can’t even be sure these are the same articles. I conjecture the witch is casting aspersions upon this marriage—predestined to cure both our kingdoms of their half lives of perpetual day and night—for some sort of petty revenge.”

  “Do you have proof of your claim?” asked Queen Nova.

  Forcing herself not to cringe at the white crickets clinging to the queen’s neckline like a string of pearls meant to complement her silvery hair, Griselda unveiled the box she’d wrapped in cloth. The words “princess - revolution” were scripted across the scaly surface.

  Several of the council members gasped upon seeing the drasilisk lining.

  “Some days ago, Queen Nova sent a missive to our castle via jackdaw,” Griselda continued, “warning me of a box that belonged to the witch and held within it plans for a rebellion against my niece. It was found within your shrine today after my niece cured his curse. None else could fabricate such a piece, as drasilisk hides ceased to exist centuries ago. This is proof we’ve fallen prey to the witch’s manipulations, for she’s an immortal and was here when the monsters ran rampant in our shared sky. It also explains this imposter’s use of the ancient sign language . . . for Crony knows it herself.”

  “I can attest to that,” Madame Dyadia spoke up, an accusatory glint in her catlike gaze. “And I spied that very box through my bird’s eye in the hands of Cronatia.” She gestured for Griselda to pass it closer.

  Griselda slid it across the table with gloved hands.

  Dyadia lifted it, turning it over. “There’s a spell in place. A temporal lock. It can’t be opened until the proper time, whenever that might be. It appears there’s some credence to Regent Griselda’s claim.”

  The queen lifted a graceful hand to silence the council’s murmurings. “I understand my son had the witch sent to your dungeons. Are you saying she has an accomplice here, in my castle?”

  Griselda folded the empty cloth
and laid it on her lap. “Yes . . . no. Perhaps. It’s possible she escaped. She has done so before. She’s wily and dangerous. She killed my brother and his first knight.”

  “And your youngest daughter, Lustacia,” the prince offered, though it sounded suspiciously like a barb.

  “Yes. I’m sure you can understand the omission.” Griselda feigned a tremor in her voice. “It’s painful to speak of her death. Even after so many years.”

  She sensed the prince watching her, his predatory glare so intense she felt her skin growing hot, as if it might catch flame. When she dared look his way, she could’ve sworn she saw a piercing orange flicker in those black depths—like a candle’s wavering beam reflected off onyx stones. He raised an eyebrow and offered a smile. Not one of sympathy. An assured, almost smug, turn of the lips.

  “Here are my thoughts on the matter,” he’d said in that moment, his gaze never leaving Griselda’s. “Considering it’s both our kingdoms’ welfare at stake, and it’s my life being bound to another, there’s only one means to know beyond a doubt which girl is my true equal. Everyone’s been seeking a raven-eyed prince and a silver-haired princess. But we can agree that appearances can be altered. What cannot, however, is a person’s very essence. The prophecy clearly states that on their own, the prince and princess are to conquer one another’s worlds. I did this already, finding my way through the ravine’s thorn labyrinth, surviving the moon-bog. Since no one can prove if the flower trail that led from Neverdark to the Rigamort was enkindled by a song or a kiss, I propose giving both girls one last test to see who truly conquered this realm today.”

  Griselda paused relaying her unsettling recollection of events, her throat growing tight.