Laurent could only stare. If he wasn’t mistaken, Ophelia was a transplant. She certainly wasn’t descended from any of the original witches who’d settled alongside humans in Paimpont. Still, word of her arrival years ago had spread like wildfire; Ophelia quickly made a name for herself as the town enchantress, unique in the fact that she made a living by bartering simple spells and charms in exchange for goods.
In that way, magic was useful in a pinch, good for removing coffee—or blood—from garments, or keeping insects off one’s crops. But Laurent had never heard of the kind of magic capable of purging an entire language from a person’s linguistic arsenal. Such a spell or potion would surely require the very type of dark ingredients and magic prohibited by kingdom law. Ophelia could be executed on the spot, were she discovered practicing it.
The irony of it all promptly shattered his disbelief. Laurent covered a dubious smirk with his palm. “You humans only allow witches to reside among you because their powers are beneficial from time to time. Either that, or you’re afraid of what mischief they might get into if you didn’t keep an eye on them.”
“Irrelevant.” Vivien waved dismissively. “Drastic situations call for drastic measures. I have no real qualms with the magicfolk. They don’t have fur, or oozing warts, or fangs…” She suppressed a grimace before continuing. “The princess turns twenty years old in five days’ time, on the day of her ceremony. She has everything in the world she could want, except her public's affection. Ridding her of that useless ability would only be a boon to her.”
She was partially right, and he hated admitting it. But deep down, Laurent didn’t consider the princess’s unusual power useless at all. In the years following the discovery of her Darkling Tongue, Laurent secretly relished the idea of a monarch who would possibly be open to forging a mutually beneficial relationship with Brocéliande.
But instead, perhaps the girl’s ability would alienate her enough from her own people so that she would be unable to win their loyalty in the end. Such an outcome would not be beneficial to his cause, either.
Any other vampire would have jumped at the chance to kill a human noble. Regardless, assisting a Le Tallec felt wrong in his gut.
His warring thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a blinding flash. Laurent rubbed his eyes and blinked the remnants of light away. An ethereal blue orb the size of an apple floated inches from Vivien’s face. By light of the Will-O-Wisp, she was already scribbling hastily onto a piece of parchment. When she finished, she pocketed her quill — what else did the woman have in those dress pockets? — and slipped the folded parchment into an envelope. She mouthed something to the wisp, shot it a sharp look, then nodded. The lone forest spirit bobbed coherently, then soared away through the treetops. Though the glowing anomalies were commonly used to relay messages to nearby witches, Laurent was shocked Vivien would even bother summoning one.
“I’m alerting Ophelia of the unfortunate circumstance Miss Trécesson finds herself in, and that she should be expecting a visit from the princess within the next few days. I’ll have a sparrow deliver this to the castle courier before dawn.” She twirled the envelope between her fingers.
“And what is that?”
“A forged note to the princess,” she replied, trailing a corner of the parcel along the pout of her bottom lip. “An invitation from Ophelia, offering to rid her of her Darkling Tongue. I’m only expediting the process here. Poor girl is wasting away in that tower room of hers. I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to embark on this quest for that reason alone.”
“This is mad,” Laurent breathed. “The coronation is only days away, and you expect her to make this journey alone, with no magic to aid her?”
“She’s resourceful. If she wants to make it to her own ceremony, she’ll have to be.” Vivien waved her fingers playfully toward Laurent’s grimace. “Not to worry, Darkling. You’ll get your queen. Feisty little thing, she is.” She rolled her shoulders back and sighed. “This will be beneficial for us all. We both get our ideal ruler—free of her curse, and presumably compassionate towards you monsters.”
Laurent’s garnet eyes zeroed in on her exposed neck, on the throbbing vein running alongside it. He ran a hand over his face to gather his racing thoughts. It was a daunting journey; he knew as well as Vivien that it would be impossible to see through. No Darkling would dare attack the princess in the castle, but anyone—royal-blooded or not—who entered Brocéliande of their own will instantly became free game.
Best to deal with that when the time came.
Laurent swallowed, hesitantly fingering his silver bow tie. “You do know how extraordinarily dangerous this will be for her?”
“Without a doubt.” Vivien approached the Darkling until she was just within reach, then ran her nails along the leather trim on his vest. “But you know as well as I, nothing extraordinary comes free of sacrifice. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Her glacial eyes challenged the embers in his. Without hesitation or any trace of fear, she reached up to tenderly brush her thumb across his cheek.
He kept his mouth shut, in case his fangs dared sprout.
“One more thing,” she whispered, gripping his lapel with one hand.
Laurent gulped. “Sure.”
“You’re brave to defend one of our kind like that, especially the heiress apparent. However, I fear her god-forsaken talent will only lead to her own downfall. Nonetheless, we can only hope,” she added, tightening her grip on him and brushing her warm lips against his jaw. “Long live the Queen.”
And just like that, she drove the stake in and upward, lodging it deep into his heart.
* * *
Stepping back, the duchess watched as he slumped into the grass. In a poor last attempt, the vampire grasped helplessly at the stake in the center of his chest, desperation mangling his vulcan features. But it was too late.
Not even the head of the Brocéliande vampire coven was resistant to blessed Hawthorne bark.
She had come with a plan and left with a better one. The princess would fall waste to the trappings of the forest, while the throne fell under more suitable management—and really, who would miss her? Still, if all else failed, nobody in their right mind would permit her reign or resume aide to Brocéliande especially after the retribution that would ensue once Laurent Beaulieu was found dead in the middle of the woods.
Retreating into the shadows, Vivien silently thanked the crumpled corpse and the rest of his precious creatures. With far less self-control than even Laurent had wielded, they were sure to rip the princess limb from limb.
1
At the stroke of midnight, Lilac paced restlessly, puffing loose strands of hazelnut hair out of her eyes while knotting the last piece of torn bedsheet onto the end of a long rope of tied fabrics. It would have been an easier task, had she done so sitting upon her duvet, but her nerves simply wouldn’t allow it. She hadn’t left the palace grounds in nearly a decade. Tonight, that was about to change.
Keeping on her toes, she was careful to tread only on the animal pelts strewn across her bedroom floor. Vair, foynes, vulpes—all the decadent furs that one could acquire through the fur trade. A couple times of sneaking late night food and drink from the kitchen had taught her that keeping on the lavish rugs muffled any creak of the floorboards. The rugs had been a birthday gift from a once-visiting sultan in the East, which had seemed strange at first—until she found out the rugs had been sent as a token of affection for her mother, Marguerite. The queen had discreetly passed them on to her daughter so the king wouldn’t notice; Lilac would have informed her father had he not been dealing with his own mistress habit himself.
Fair’s fair, she supposed.
Finally finished with her escape line, she tucked the annoying wisps of hair into her bun and began tossing clothes into a burlap potato sack she'd found after supper. She was unsure what was travel-appropriate, as she’d been forbidden from nearing the Brocéliande tree line before she was old enough to walk. Sighing, she s
ettled for the pieces that fit comfortably: plain undergarments, a pair of old brocades she prayed still fit, a half loaf of bread, and an armful of cold pastries and dumplings acquired from breakfast.
As an afterthought, she nestled in a box of matches also nicked from the kitchen; for the last hour, she had mulled over bringing a torch or lantern to light her way, but there was no need to turn herself into such an obvious beacon to hungry Darklings. The moonlight would have to suffice, but matches could still come in handy for warmth.
The princess glanced around her room, knowing she was forgetting something crucial.
Preventatives. Standing on the edge of her bed, she reached up to untie the twine holding the bundle that hung on the bedpost: a misshapen garland containing a tiny bottle of witch's salt and beads of iron and silver, and three bulbs of garlic. The bushels, netted in cordage crafted from blessed Hawthorne bark, were found in almost every room of the castle; surely, they wouldn’t miss hers. She dropped the bushel into her potato sack with a satisfying plop.
Last, she produced a sleek silver dagger from her bedside table drawer. It was an ornate weapon, but otherwise simple; the pommel end of its jeweled, crossguard hilt boasted an etching of the kingdom’s signature animal, a lone ermine.
The weapon had been passed down, an inherited gift from an ancestor somewhere down her father’s lineage. He never seemed sure of the blade’s actual origin, though he did enjoy telling her bits of what he believed he knew here and there, usually after supper as he slumped over a glass of mead. The story constantly changed. Some nights, it was a former monarch who had owned it, perhaps her fourth or fifth great-grandfather, the king would say. Other times, it was a vagabond who’d stolen it from a foreign ruler and traded it to her family for a substantial sum of money. The only thing her father had seemed sure of was that not one person alive actually knew where it came from, nor the identity of the original owner.
It was perfect for fending off monsters., crafted with an enchanted alloy containing a mixture of soft and hardy metals the creatures were horribly allergic to. Consequences of a Darkling’s contact with the weapon included anything ranging from an unpleasant cluster of boils, to sudden combustion—according to Henri.
Personally, Lilac didn’t care. Impaling anyone through the heart seemed like it would do the trick just fine.
Biting her lip—a nervous tic her mother always hated—she shook out her bun, tied her hair back into a low ponytail, and inhaled deeply as she raised the dagger. She reached back and, on the exhale, she chopped her hair a few centimeters past the knot. With a solid thud, her discarded hair hit the floor.
For the first time in her life, the ends of her tresses fell just past her shoulders, instantly bringing out her natural waves now that there was less weight to them. Feeling like a brand-new woman, she grinned nervously and slid the glinting dagger into the scabbard on the cowhide belt at her waist. The cut locks were promptly thrown into the fireplace crackling at the foot of her bed.
One last time, she tiptoed out to her marble balcony to glance down at the trees. The forest, Brocéliande, stretched on for miles, a juniper sea of shadow and lore. Frightening and full of tall, dark beings who would eagerly mangle and devour her. At least, that’s what she'd always been told.
Still, her stomach knotted in excitement. It would be a harrowing journey, but enticingly so. Especially for someone who hadn’t experienced a moment of adventure in her life for many years. She’d spent many an evening admiring the view. On clear nights, if she squinted hard enough, she’d spot the speck of vibrant color—
the kingdom’s charming market town nestled at the very center of the woods, in between the High Forest and Low Forest.
She'd only been there once with her mother, years ago. They’d stopped in the square on their way to a soirée at the duke’s sprawling estate, which sat on the far edge of town.
From what she could remember, Paimpont was not large at all. It was a cramped village, sandwiched between the local marsh to the north, moorlands to the south, the castle and High Forest to the west, and the forbidden Low Forest to the east. Lilac remembered the awe she’d felt as their carriage passed the ancient abbey and entered the heart of the town; a decent amount of pubs, shops, and framework homes lined cobblestone streets, each structure uneven and more dilapidated than the last.
They’d gone on a market day, when groups of villagers scattered the road; there were elderly women angrily chasing after giggling toddlers with their wooden walking sticks while the parents tended to the market.
To her pleasant surprise, the town had been run amuck with enormous, chestnut-coated horses that day.
With their aproned handlers, the magnificent brown beasts stomped through the market selling a wide variety of goods, while static carts lined the walkways with meats and cheeses from the fromagerie.
The short visit was more than enough time for her to realize that visiting the town wasn’t as bootless an errand as her parents had led on. Leading the kingdom one day sounded tedious, but if it meant interacting with the friendly townsfolk and spending time there occasionally, it didn’t seem so dreadful after all. Paimpont was not stifled with the same grandiose appurtenances of the castle, and the young princess admired everything about that.
Years later she felt the same way, even if the townsfolk had grown to fear her.
But a cure was out there. She'd always felt it, deep in her bones. A cure that would destroy the darkness inside her forever, making her the perfect heiress to the throne once again.
She’d quickly grown tired of the riots protesting her upcoming coronation; tired of her humiliating reputation of being wicked and wrong for the position, and the pressure it had put on her parents to surrender the throne to one of the other prominent families vying for power—waiting for the Trécessons to slip up just enough; some days, it felt like her parents were dangerously close to giving in.
The princess was tired of repeatedly walking in on hushed conversation, of which she unfailingly was the topic; tired of the alchemists her father hired on a sort of turn-by-turn basis in attempts to fix her. And some days, she felt like her parents were dangerously close to giving in. Some days, so did she.
That is, until that morning after breakfast. On her way back up to her tower, she’d received an unmarked gold-leaf envelope from the castle courier.
Dearest Lilac, the note read in scrawling, looping cursive.
I hope this letter finds you well.
My name is Ophelia, and I hold the key to what your heart desires most. I am not only able, but willing to conjure the remedy you require to return to normalcy. I offer this to you at no price but one: courage, for there is no timely way to reach my cottage in Paimpont except the direct path through Brocéliande.
Find any brook through the High Forest and follow it; this will lead to the main river. The only inn sits along the water, closer to your castle. There, you can take refuge early on in your quest if need be. Follow the river downstream, for it leads east to the village farmland. Paimpont is but a short walk south of the marsh. Your coronation draws nigh. Godspeed.
The Witch of Lupine Grotto
She snatched the crinkled parchment off her vanity and smoothed it out before stuffing it into her bag. Now, she thought smugly, I have proof of that cure.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror. A maroon tunic over an eggshell shift were the plainest clothes she owned, and it hopefully wouldn’t draw much attention, especially with her new hair.
She'd left the tower before, if only to spend time in the garden hedge maze among her mother’s roses while remaining hidden from the outside world. But this was different. She was going out, venturing off castle grounds. The next time she stood in the same spot would likely be during a flogging from her mother—if not worse.
But at least… At least she'd be free of her curse. At least she’d be normal again. Normal enough to get by.
She fastened her makeshift rope around the leg of the en
ormous bed frame. At her balcony railing, Lilac carefully wrapped the fabric around her right leg, imitating the silk trapeze artists that graced the ceilings at her mother’s soirées. She shut her eyes, faced the biting cold and readied herself—when a knock rapped upon her door, so muffled she barely heard it.
“A moment, please!”
The words had escaped her lips before she was able to stop herself. Lilac nearly fell over herself trying to free her limbs from the rope. Her fingers fumbled around the hardened knot of fabric wrapped around the balcony, but as she’d intended a second ago, it would not budge. Swearing under her breath, the princess shut the balcony doors and raced to answer her own. Just before gripping the doorknob, she remembered something—she quickly pulled what was left of her hair behind her, into a sleek, ribboned bun—then yanked the door in.
It was a guard—but not just any guard. Renald was head of the castle sentry, and one of her parent’s closest confidantes.
An unpleasant mixture of relief and adrenaline burned her stomach. “Hey, Ren,” she said, keeping the crack of her door tight. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Everything all right?”
Renald opened his mouth to speak, then paused, one corner of his lips drooping into a lopsided frown. “I could ask the same. What’s that ‘orrid stench?”
Lilac’s stomach flipped. Her chopped hair was still crackling in the fireplace, the smell growing more and more concentrated because she’d shut her balcony doors. “It’s—” she cleared her throat — “I’ve been wondering the same, I reckon they collected rotten firewood again.”
She watched him fan the putrid air with his palm, praying she hadn’t just cost someone their job.
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