Stain

by A. G. Howard

  Joyful birdsongs and the occasional nicker, bellow, or bleat of an animal added to the illusion of life—robust and flourishing. Vesper swallowed back the bitter irony, for this haven that had once nurtured his people was now killing some. The arboretum had been the brainchild of the royal sorceress, Madame Dyadia—along with a handful of Nerezeth’s finest horticulturists centuries earlier—as a means to provide the night realm inhabitants a reprieve from their bleak terrain while offering a frost-free landscape more conducive to harvesting vegetation, training messenger jackdaws, and pasturing livestock.

  However, the same manufactured irradiation that tinted the flora shades of purple had begun to have the same effect on hair belonging to animals or humans. The royal horses’ glossy cremello coats were now forever tinted periwinkle from centuries of breeding within the enclosed pastures. On the tail of that discovery, certain citizens began to show an intolerance to the vegetation grown within the homogenized light—a lung malaise that ultimately caused death.

  The panacea roses of Eldoria’s terrain—a flower that grew only above-ground in wild, pure, undomesticated sunlight—were key in countering the effects. A medicinal tea, brewed from the roots, had been keeping King Orion and others alive. Now the roses were extinct. All of them uprooted and dead at King Kiran’s hand. Thanks to the war, a month had passed since the roses were laid waste, unprotected in bundles that withered in Eldoria’s harsh sunlight. The roots—rotten and unsalvageable—could no longer be planted to grow a new supply.

  A hot rush of rage seared Vesper’s flesh beneath his royal riding vestments. He forced his gaze to the latticework edifice in the distance: the shrine wherein laid his lord father’s inert form. Surrounding the gazebo-styled structure, an assemblage of guards and citizens, laden with furs, waited to escort the royal family back to the castle through the tundra outside once they’d said their good-byes to the king. Some in the group sang haunting hymns to the stars.

  Vesper sought his best friend among the crowd of silvery hair and moonlit complexions. Cyprian’s black-and-silver surcoat was easy to spot, being new and crisp, as he’d only recently made the guard. Their gazes met across the distance and Cyprian sent a mental query that Vesper refused to acknowledge. Instead, the prince willed the entire captive audience to look his way. He wanted their attention for this grand gesture, since the next one would be performed in solitude. No one ever expected their strange prince, night-blind, dark-haired, copper-skinned and bedeviled, to do what was right. Many had expected the worst of him since his birth, and he’d done his best not to let them down. He would give them one final impulsive act before proving them wrong.

  In a clearing at the bottom of the hill waited a figure—draped in a makeshift king’s robe of Eldoria’s colors with a rope cinched about its neck just beneath its bulbous head. Vesper had no lance; didn’t need one. The warriors of his world used their bodies as weapons against the monsters that threatened their livelihood. Focused on the object of his scorn, he pictured King Kiran. Vesper had seen him at a distance when the man came to propose a treaty to his queenly mother. He remembered every angle of his sun-burnished face, every tumble of dark hair, every flash of white teeth. He remembered it as vividly as the wheezing suction of his own lord father’s dying gasps.

  Someone had taken the Eldorian king’s life before Vesper could. Contrary to rumor, no Night Ravagers had been involved. They were only sent above-ground in search of Nerezethite criminals. They never involved themselves in war.

  None of it mattered. For despite that the sun-king received his due reward, Vesper still ached for justice.

  “Are you ready to fly, Lanthe?” he asked. The stallion’s ears twitched eagerly.

  Shifting in the saddle, the prince raised a gloved fist and shouted, “For King Orion! Long live the moon and stars!” He squeezed his knees and an enthusiastic nicker burst from Lanthe’s throat as together they took the plunge.

  Down the hill they raced, Vesper’s fury spiking his pulse to a thundering roar that matched his mount’s hoofbeats. Clumps of grass, torn from the ground, flung upward and pelted them. Lanthe’s harsh rhythm jarred Vesper’s bones, a pain that fed his resolve. He narrowed his eyes against the updraft of wind whipping through his shoulder-length hair.

  The singing had stopped in the distance, and several shouts went up in alarm. They feared Nerezeth’s heir would break his neck; but it wasn’t his neck in the noose.

  Vesper wrapped one gloved hand in Lanthe’s mane and slid sideways, holding on with his legs. They came upon the captive figure in a rush of wind. Shouting, Vesper caught the rope around its neck with his free hand and tugged as they passed. The head ripped free and plopped to the ground—bursting open with a splatter of seeds and stringy pumpkin pulp.

  Vesper spun his horse and dismounted. “A proper beheading,” he grumbled, “ends with a gutting.”

  Taking his rapier, he split the jousting dummy’s decapitated body from neck to groin, gouging out the stuffing, sans any grace of form, until all that remained was a limp casing of gold, orange, and white cloth upon a stake’s drunken slant. The prince stood there and panted—sweat beading on his forehead where strands as purple-black as a winter plum hung across his eyes. Overpowered by the scent of raw pumpkin, he felt vicious and unfulfilled.

  A hand caught his shoulder from behind, and only then did he realize that the people stood silent while startled birdcalls filled the air.

  “Quite a spectacle, Your Grace.”

  Vesper stiffened at the stern voice of Sir Andrian Nocturn, his father’s Captain of the Guard. The prince turned to the serene, delicate features that reminded him more of Cyprian’s each day. “I feel no shame.”

  “That’s what concerns me.”

  Vesper’s ears flushed with heat; he wasn’t being entirely honest. He knew his display had been callow and reckless. But there was a purpose to it. “My people need to know that I will always avenge them.”

  There was movement in the crowd as Cyprian stepped out from the line of guards to make his way over.

  “A true leader inspires harmony and provides anchorage for his people,” Sir Andrian said. “There is a time for vengeance, yes. But it isn’t now. This is the time for you to lead.” Awkward silence ensued as they awaited Cyprian.

  Upon arrival, Vesper’s friend offered him a sympathetic smile. Sir Andrian released Vesper and patted Cyprian’s back in greeting. No doubt the captain considered himself blessed by the night to have a son so calm and reasonable. So unlike their prince.

  Vesper ground his teeth.

  “The queen requests your presence in the shrine,” Cyprian said to Vesper, compassion darkening his purplish eyes. “Your father’s passage is at hand.”

  The prince squashed a pumpkin rind under one heel as he fought the sting burning his heart and blurring his vision. “I should see to Lanthe first.” He stroked his stallion’s purplish-hued flank. The horse nibbled some grass, seeming no worse for wear despite their harried run. “He needs a rubdown.”

  “That’s for the grooms to do.” Sir Andrian picked up Lanthe’s reins. “I’ll take him to the stables. Go now, be the man your family . . . your kingdom . . . needs you to be.”

  Vesper didn’t respond, though he intended to do exactly that. Taking up stride with Cyprian, they followed the path that led to the shrine.

  “Take heart. My father doesn’t appreciate the art of pantomime.” Cyprian eased the tension with his usual good humor. “I, however, am an enthusiast, and I say it was a fine portrayal of Eldoria’s fallen sovereign.”

  A half-hearted grin tugged Vesper’s lips. How long had it been since he’d smiled?

  Cyprian clapped his back. “Shall I clean up his remains for you?”

  “Leave it to the birds,” Vesper answered. He glanced over his shoulder at the black crows and grayish-purple jackdaws flocked upon the ground, pecking at seeds and gathering stuffing that blew softly on the breeze. “His innards came from my eiderdown mattress. Let them nest
in royal luxury.”

  Upon their arrival at the latticework structure, Cyprian returned to the line of guards. Vesper made a point not to look at any faces, then ducked through the tall, arched opening in the framework. He paused inside, careful of the royal pets. The glossy white-and-black crickets scrambled about, their chirping songs the one comfort in this place of sorrow. His sister, Princess Selena, knelt with their lady mother at the king’s deathbed: a dais formed of woven moonflowers and twigs soaked in cinnamon oil. A canopy of crystallized cobwebs hung over his ailing body.

  Being younger than Vesper by two years, and doted on by their lord father, Selena was taking this tragedy harder than anyone. She laid a bouquet of moonflowers on the pillow beside the king’s iron crown and kissed a face resembling Vesper’s own. During Vesper’s younger years, vicious rumors abounded that he was a bastard child . . . that his queenly mother had been unfaithful. King Orion never believed a word of it and was rewarded for his faith, for as Vesper grew into manhood, none could argue their relation. Other than the differences in his coloring, the prince was the mirror image of his father: virile and aristocratic with the same high cheekbones, long, straight nose, and angular jawline. Though now, with muscles atrophied and skin tight and sunken, the great king appeared gaunt. The tracery of veins running beneath his diaphanous skin from neck and ears to cheeks and eyelids seemed to writhe as his choked inhalations gave way to a rattling cough.

  “Lord Father!” Selena wailed at his unconscious struggle to catch another breath. She’d been spending so much time here and in the gardens, her long, pale curls shimmered periwinkle in the dimness, a few shades lighter than her violet tears.

  Queen Nova helped her daughter stand and nodded to the three guards in black-enameled armor behind Vesper. One stepped around to aid the queen but teetered in an effort to miss a cricket. Vesper instinctively reached out to steady him. The guard’s eyes widened beneath his great helm—his expression caught somewhere between fear and revulsion.

  “Thank you, my young lord,” he mumbled while quickly withdrawing from the prince’s grasp. The strain in his voice didn’t match the gratitude of the words. He tried to hide the act of rubbing his arm with a gloved hand. Even through the leather, he considered the prince’s touch tainted.

  Vesper suppressed a growl. He hadn’t asked to be born so useless his people had to alter their way of life. For lampposts to be erected where none used to be. For more trees to be hewn down so they might have torches at every turn—a staple for the only Nerezethite prince who’d been born night-blind in centuries.

  Frowning, Vesper moved aside so the guard could lead his weeping sister out. The prince grasped Selena’s hand as she passed. They exchanged meaningful glances, then she squeezed his gloved fingers before releasing him. He took his place beside their lady mother while the other two guards resumed their positions at the shrine’s entrance.

  The smoldering incense and therapeutic herbs around the deathbed stung Vesper’s nose. The twinge offered a less shameful explanation for his tears. He wiped away the clear streams from his cheeks.

  “It is time to release our king unto his eternal rest, my son,” Queen Nova said with a catch in her throat. “He cannot light his star in the dark firmament until we’ve all said our good-byes.” Her fingertips gently cupped Vesper’s hand where he clenched the scabbard beneath his sable cape.

  Compared to the king’s blue sodalite–encrusted broadsword, hanging as heavy as a bag of apples from a hook on the canopy’s frame, Vesper’s rapier was a customized blade of steel—slight enough for graceful parries and thrusts—with a narrow grip for younger palms and fingers. Moments before, he’d used it to enact his rage upon a cloth dummy. His lord father’s weapon now belonged to him, and he had plans for breaking it in, too. Just as his lady mother knew nothing of his jousting performance yet, he didn’t want her to bear witness to the second act he had to play, either.

  Queen Nova squeezed his hand. He couldn’t miss the starkness of her bluish-white flesh against his black glove. Uncovered, the contrast between their skin was equally startling. Vesper released his scabbard and laced their fingers together.

  Assure him we won’t let his passage be for naught—his lady mother’s thoughts tapped his mind privately, lips pressed tight and tongue held motionless—that you’ll honor his legacy and bring the sun back to Nerezeth; elsewise, more of our people will die from the illness that struck him down.

  Two years ago, Vesper’s head had already aligned with the queen’s. Tonight, he was almost as tall as his lord father had been and had to look down to see into her eyes. The calm resignation there was as different from the disquiet that filled his soul as her pale heather irises were from his own—such a deep brown they were almost black. She’d always said his gaze was unnerving, fierce and unflinching as a raven’s. He used that to his advantage now, to underscore a refusal to respond.

  Her hand stiffened in his. For years, Eldoria has turned away as we siphon day from their skies. Now we must turn away from their offenses.

  No, Lady Mother. He focused on her, so only she could hear his answer. They did not turn away. They are afraid to seek out our smugglers in the Ashen Ravine. Eldorians are cowards, fearful of the flesh-eating shrouds created by their own inherent insanity. Cowards so malicious they uprooted an entire crop of roses whose only crime was pricking a lady’s flesh. Their queen should have had sense enough to wear gloves.

  The uprooting was done in ignorance, not maliciousness. Vesper could feel the vibration in his lady mother’s answer within his own brain. It is the duty of a noble king to set aside his pride. He must think of his kingdom, make compromises for the greater good, hone relations to ensure a peaceful future.

  Vesper pulled free of her touch. The thick, silvery hair that matched the gleaming crystal of her crown fell past her shoulders and hid the disappointment on her face. He was glad for that, as it might have swayed him to tenderness. But why give in to such a weak emotion? Anger was much more productive.

  Before his murder, King Kiran vowed to Queen Nova that one of the precious panacea roses still existed—alive and intact—within the castle’s walls. The blood pact between their kingdoms hinged on it.

  Vesper grimaced and resumed his mental conversation with his lady mother. A treaty should never have been enacted concerning my future reign without my counsel or consent. A prophecy carved by shadows upon the walls of the mystic ice caverns should not be the road map for the rest of my life. Perhaps I don’t wish to marry once I’m crowned. Perhaps I don’t wish to marry at all. Why should my becoming king hinge in any way upon marital status?

  Queen Nova clamped her lips. You’re being entirely unreasonable.

  Why should I be otherwise? You won’t even tell me the details of the prophecy. What were the exact words?

  Set aside your cynicism and I will tell you. Until then, it will only make you angrier.

  The prince couldn’t refute her point. After having gone to Madame Dyadia seven years earlier, and begging her to make him like everyone else . . . after having her refuse to help, insisting that he’d been born as he was for some monumental reason yet unseen, he’d lost all faith in the forces of witchcraft, soothsaying, and the like. Practitioners—be they mages, witches, necromancers, or conjurers—were fickle, choosing only the projects that furthered their personal gain. Elsewise, why couldn’t they use their talents to save a noble king, or to soften a people’s hearts toward their prince’s differences?

  His queenly mother stroked the moonflower bouquet’s stems, her finger straying to caress a strand of the king’s hair lovingly. Your father would’ve agreed with the council’s logic, with my decision. Eldoria will replant the one remaining panacea rose in the soil above Nerezeth’s stairway. After a hearty crop has grown, we will supply all the midnight shadows and stardust Eldoria needs to keep their princess clad in nightsky. In return, their three royal mages will supply us with liquid sunlight, so there will be no more smuggling it. Other than
that, we keep to ourselves until you’re both of age to marry. This joining will be of mutual benefit—an opening for our kingdom to accept you, and also to amend relations with Eldoria. Their princess is said to need shadows as much we need the light.

  Vesper huffed. She’s obviously too pampered. All of Nerezeth’s citizens are sensitive to the sun, but it isn’t anything a slathering of obsidian balsam and layered clothes can’t solve. It’s not as if the sun-smugglers singe to ash each time they traverse into the Ashen Ravine to gather strands of daylight. At least the girl can hide from the sun inside her pristine castle walls. We require parcels of sun to grow food and medicines, so her “need” for comfort doesn’t even compare.

  What has become of your benevolent spirit? Do you forget where you’re standing? his mother scolded.

  He shifted uneasily in his boots. This shrine was hallowed—a tribute to meditation, thankfulness, mourning and communion. When Vesper was smaller, Neverdark itself, alive with magical topiaries and animated leaves that danced on their branches to stir a natural breeze, had been the one place that made him feel hopeful. Even the footbridges—built from enchanted rocks that heated the water and warmed the fragrant air—represented a path to growth, a means to carry his feet to another side where he could cease being the aberrant blemish upon this kingdom, and become the heir and son his parents had wished to have . . . the prince his people needed.