Stain

by A. G. Howard

  Stain considered his insight, and at closing time, after all the other shopkeepers and patrons had left, she shared a plan with her guardians.

  Crony wrinkled her brown forehead upon hearing it. “Aye, that be a big undertaking with some painful sacrifice. Ye up for it?”

  Stain nodded, and Luce grinned in approval before shrinking to his fox form. He kept watch around the abandoned market, running in and out of the trees and booths to be sure no one witnessed Stain using her gold fingertips to feed the mud she’d spread all across the booth. The fiery burn was worth it, for the blooms took root. Not only that, by opening time the next day they’d multiplied—a riot of red, fuchsia, blue, and apricot petals covering the skeletal booth from top to bottom. Their sweet perfume overpowered the usual funk of decay permeating the marketplace.

  Crony had record sales that day; patrons crowded around her memory booth, as it couldn’t be missed. If a patron didn’t see the blanket of bright colors, they smelled the enticing scent. Everyone was captivated by the enchanting flowers they assumed the witch had conjured, asking to buy them. When she said they weren’t for sale, they instead bought everything else lining her shelves, even her chimes for “kinder sleep.” The long cylinders of glass—strung together with wire to hang over one’s bed—were captured memories of bedtime stories and lullabies. In the past, they’d been shunned by the jaded criminals. However, something about seeing the flowers flourishing in a wasteland—strong in spite of their frailties—softened even the hardest heart that day, making everyone nostalgic for gentler times.

  Soon it became a competition to see who could have the most colorful and eye-catching booth; to see who could draw the most patrons. Even now, none had beat Crony’s record, but their attempts made for a much prettier hub, and in return, happier shopkeepers and patrons. And the best reward of all had been Crony’s smile. It wilted an entire line of flowers on their booth that day, but it had been worth it for the memory.

  Every memory Stain had revolved around Scorch, Luce, or Crony, having lost all others to amnesia. That big gaping hole inside her and her past forced her to never take life for granted. To make each experience bigger, brighter, and bolder, so she could fill that emptiness with meaningful things.

  Today something smelled meaningful on the air as Luce and Stain arrived at the break in the tree trunks that formed the market’s entrance. However, the strange, underlying scent faded beneath the aroma of fresh-baked cookies, the stench of body odor, and the sticky-spice of black-current mead.

  Scorch stopped at the thicket’s edge and pawed his front hoof through the ash.

  “Good day then, donkey.” Luce offered a haughty bow to the Pegasus and strode in, an unspoken summons for Stain to say her good-byes.

  Scorch’s ears lay back; he looked ready to blaze the entire market down. He was always grumpiest when time to part ways.

  Stain placed herself between the Pegasus and the entrance. She felt everyone’s eyes on them, aware of how odd they appeared: the puny foundling “boy” and his massive, wild companion. She barely came to Scorch’s chest, yet he had restraint enough not to tromp over her when she stood in his path. Though Scorch never wanted to speak of his past—that time before he’d found his way to this ravine—the Pegasus must have been preyed upon aplenty, for he trusted no one . . . other than her.

  Stain repositioned the pouch’s strap on her shoulder and asked him the same question she did each time she left to work: If I allow you to come in this once, would you behave?

  He snorted and smoke curled from his nostrils. If by behave, you mean torch the stalls to the ground, set fire to the screaming crowd, and raze their embers with my hooves, yes.

  She grinned. We could stay together if you would at least pretend to be civil. It’s all about diplomacy. Luce has been teaching me—

  Being civil isn’t what’s kept me alive and free, is it?

  The scars upon his glossy black hide—people’s attempts to shoot him full of arrows tied to nets, or slice him with a sword to slow his canter—attested to that fact. Stain had seen the hungry way the ravine’s denizens watched him. So much fire within him, boundless and regenerative. Should someone manage to bottle it, they would bid a fortune at one of these booths. Yet somehow, he always escaped then took to the air to heal. That’s how his magic worked. The act of flight—either in the ravine where the gray-green canopy stretched highest, or over the ocean in the wide-open skies—sutured his seams. Should his wings ever be broken, it would be his downfall. No one knew his weakness but her, and she’d go to the grave with it.

  She removed a glove to rub his downy muzzle. Have a good day then.

  He blew a charred breath across her. The warmth spread to her toes, much like the cinnamon cider Crony made on the stormiest days, when rain managed to drizzle through the canopies.

  Stay clear of the moon-bog, Stain scolded. She then spun toward the onyx walkway, about to head for Luce some ten stalls down where he strung glassy memories on pegs in Crony’s flower-coated shop.

  Scorch nickered and Stain looked back.

  Don’t you sense the change on the air? We should explore.

  Yes, there was that meaningful scent again. Something that smelled musky like Scorch’s equestrian hide, but raw instead of roasted. Similar to the scent of rain, yet different. Starker and more brittle. She couldn’t quite place it, but now that she stopped to focus, her every sense stood on end, as if reaching for the answer.

  The problem with living here, so isolated from the kingdom, was the absence of town criers. Most denizens stayed to the periphery of Eldoria if they ventured out at all, and it was rare for the ravine’s brambles to allow anyone to enter unless they had a stench of death or vice about them. As rumors were more exciting than fact, any morsel of news that made its way in had already been chewed up, spit out, and chewed again—into a tale fascinating enough to justify the telling. Once it hit the marketplace, it was as unrecognizable in its origins as a lump of masticated meat.

  There are strange horses about, Scorch offered the answer without Stain even asking. From the night realm . . . the crust of ice is stale on their coats. Ten riders; three females, seven males. They may be assassins, if the oily scent of eel is anything to go by.

  She did a full about-face. You know all of that from one sniff?

  His inscrutable dark eyes stared down unblinking at her, assuring her of the folly in such a question. She shouldn’t be surprised; he’d known she was a girl since the moment they met. Of course, she’d always assumed that was because he could hear her voice in his mind as she could his.

  Wouldn’t you like to see who they’re out to kill?

  She bit her lip at the baiting query. Scorch knew she hated violence almost as much as he reveled in it; but he also knew she could hardly resist the opportunity to see a Nerezethite in the flesh.

  She’d come to believe that the night realm must be her home. She couldn’t belong to the day, in a place that would burn her alive should she ever venture out of the shade. Who she was and how she’d come to be here were the real mysteries. Mysteries she’d been trying to solve, though it was difficult while keeping a low profile.

  Somewhere out there, she must have a mother and father or siblings . . . someone who missed her, not just an unseen enemy who had hated her enough to see her dead. But it was fear of facing said unseen abusers that kept her cautious. That, and Luce and Crony. To date, they had never allowed her to wander close to the overgrown cave—the Rigamort entrance to Nerezeth tucked at the farthest end of the ravine. But Stain knew of it. And what they didn’t know was how often she and Scorch trekked over, weaving their way through the labyrinth of thorns surrounding it. They went to observe. To wonder. To contemplate. One day, she would plunge inside that cave. It was a matter of convincing Scorch to accompany her. He, who raged into every situation headfirst and unafraid, seemed skittish to go within. She assumed stepping into a land cloaked in ice might threaten his flame, though there were other danger
s to consider.

  In the market, Dregs sold the preserved corpses of cadaver brambles and rime scorpions. The hoarfrost goblin regaled anyone who would listen with tales of the gore and blood that went into capturing them. However uneasy the dead creatures made Stain, they also made her sad. They were familiar somehow, and she wondered if she might ever see any alive.

  Why spend the day toiling with a flea-bitten fox—Scorch interrupted her musings—when you could walk in the shade of a grand Pegasus, or climb the trees alongside him as he flies? I always give you splendid adventures. His eyes lit brighter on a dare. Just think, we might even trail the Nerezethites back through the Rigamort. With them forging the lead, I could be tempted to venture within. And you can find those answers you seek. Come along.

  Stain’s pulse leapt at the offer, though she didn’t quite trust he’d follow through unless it would somehow benefit him. In the past, she’d asked him many times to seek answers for her by flying over Eldoria. He insisted he could only soar in the open above the ocean, that to go anywhere else would risk his freedom.

  Stain glanced over her shoulder at Luce. He’s given me a tithe. I must stretch it into five and complete today’s barter if I want to earn time off.

  All these tricks he has you perform are beneath you.

  He’s teaching me to negotiate. It makes me better at my job here.

  And the flowers he forces you to grow . . . in spite of the torment it brings you. What of that?

  Luce says when someone has the ability to inspire happiness or beauty, and restore balance, they should use it. Even if it hurts a little.

  Scorch’s gaze lit to the soft orange of guttering candles. A lowly dog is not the master of man.

  Stain smiled at his vanity. Nor is a horse. Human responsibilities aren’t to be taken lightly. Unless today I might be a Pegasus, vicariously? If I can ride you and we fly together to spy on the ravagers . . . She liked that idea. To be safe upon Scorch’s back would offer anonymity. Being high overhead, out of reach but with a bird’s-eye view.

  Scorch shook his elegant neck, loosening the embers fringing his mane to drift toward her. Stain’s temporary bout with hope faded. She anticipated his answer even before he thought it, as they’d had this conversation countless times: Only when the sun and moon share the sky, will I carry you.

  She popped the airborne embers like one would an ensemble of soapy bubbles. She barely felt the heat. And then you’ll belong to me, my beastly brawn, and together we’ll solve the riddle of my past.

  Scorch’s nostrils flared as fire-bright as his eyes. There’s as much chance of that as of the fairy tale coming true, tiny trifling thing.

  She’d heard snippets of the fairy tale spouted about the marketplace. A princess in Eldoria’s palace was to marry a prince from the night realm. The prince had sunlight brewing beneath his skin, and the princess was formed of moonlight and could sing like a bird.

  According to lore, should the two unite, they would have power enough to reconcile the sun and the moon.

  Stain pretended to share Scorch’s cynicism—cracking bawdy jokes at the absurdity. However, deep in her heart where no one could see, she longed for it to be true. For then she could at last fly with Scorch, outside in the open night skies, escape this barren exile under the trees and the hollow past that seemed to always mock her here upon the ground.

  Perhaps she could even coax him to give Luce a ride. She’d only accompanied Luce and Crony to steal memories in the ravine a few times before Luce started insisting she stay home. He hated for her to see him eat the corpse’s heart, liver, or lungs so he could retain his sylphin beauty. Though he tried to hide his shame and longing, Stain sensed it, just as she sensed how he missed flying.

  She understood. Not being able to admit missing something was very like missing something one didn’t quite remember having. Both left an emptiness that couldn’t be filled.

  I have a theory. Stain contained a wave of sadness by teasing Scorch. The prince has come to claim his princess. That’s the ice you smell.

  A princess so delicate she can’t sleep upon a feather bed without bruising. So cowardly she won’t leave her castle walls for fear of the thistles and bees that surround it. Instead, she waits for someone to come and bleed for her freedom. I hardly see why a roughened night prince would want such a tender maid to share his throne of thorns.

  Stain tilted her head. It’s said the princess has the voice of a nightingale . . . that she’s beautiful as a swan.

  Scorch grunted. Does a falcon seek company with a swan amidst the lilies of a pond, or sing duets with a nightingale? Or does he soar through the storm alongside his equal, the hawk? Walking the same rocky path. Swimming the same choppy currents. Sharing courage enough to face a thicket of briars with nothing to gain but pain and flame. That’s the true measure of a companion’s worth.

  Stain smiled then. In spite of his constant condescension, Scorch valued her scars and all the things that made her difficult to look upon. Humans could learn a lot from animals, as they looked with their hearts instead of their eyes.

  The rumors have an appointed day and hour, she teased again. Now that the princess is old enough to reign, they say time is near. She raised her brows, telling him without words that he’d best be ready to pay up.

  They also say time flies. As do I. He turned then to head into the trees, gracing her with a view of his spark-gilded tail swatting against dark flanks—as if she were a gnat pestering him. I’m bored of this parley. I’ll not mourn your absence today. Perhaps I’ll not seek you out again at all.

  Perhaps, Stain answered, pulling her glove back into place. Then she turned and grinned, knowing he’d threatened the same for five years. He’d be back to report whatever he found on his adventure when the shops closed for the day; this time, he might even have some answers for her.

  Stepping into the marketplace, her boot soles slapped the slick black walkway. She passed stall after stall, enacting her boyish gait. Crony’s and Luce’s reputations alone would’ve been enough to protect her, had anyone seen beyond the masquerade. But no one cared to look any closer: scarred skin that appeared grimy no matter how hard she scrubbed, due to a daily dose of sun protectants; shorn hair that never grew, greasy from a paste of crushed blackberries which left a residue even when clean. Not to mention breasts so small that binding them was unnecessary as long as the clothing was baggy.

  Stain didn’t mind not catching anyone’s eye. Being mistaken for an unkempt boy had fooled whoever dropped her in this wasteland to die and gave her an advantage, should she ever discover who they were.

  Stain hurried past the first five booths where edible fares waited for purchase. The scent from Brannigan’s Breads and Cookies made her mouth water. The booth’s banner was a golden loaf stitched in thread upon a blue swatch of cloth. Her meager breakfast had left a hole in her belly, but she hadn’t time nor payment for filling it. Contrary to past bartering tasks, Luce hadn’t given her any gold, sterlings, or coppers—the three forms of payment preferred by the retailers.

  Today her pouch held one item alone, vendible only to a particular recipient. Haggling without traditional currency added another challenge alongside having no voice. Luce maintained that her limitations needn’t limit her; that by using her mind and listening skills, the observations she’d garnered of each shopkeeper’s personal interests over the years could make her the wisest diplomat in the marketplace.

  Now Luce was putting her to the test.

  “Fresh sugar cookies, little sprout.” Puppy-eyed Brannigan’s yipping voice taunted her. The baker had once bred greyhounds for a nobleman in Eldoria, before he’d been caught racing them illegally to line his own pocket. Since then, he served the lowest of the low, adapting recipes he’d used for dog biscuits. Surprising how good they were. “Two sterlings for a dozen. Have some silver weighing down your bag?”

  She averted her gaze, moving onward as three more booths passed in her peripheral. One was a candy shop with
elaborate white-and-red peppermints twisted in the shape of skeletons. Blood and Crème Confections was run by a bald, cross-eyed butcher known only by the name Vice. He’d lost his business after stocking his meat hooks with his murdered partner’s remains. Then came a cheese-and-liquor stand under the keep of Alyse, a portly woman who held a steady discourse with her two dairy cows tied alongside the booth—selling only to whom they approved. Next stood an herb dispensary owned by a woodland dwarf named Winkle, who, after being cast out of the castle as the royal ratcatcher some years ago (he’d offended the king’s sister by chasing a rat into her chambers where it scampered across her bare feet), now pilfered wares from village gardens by disguising himself as a large rabbit.

  Stain paused at Edith’s Edibles, where dried vegetables and fruits, salted meats, fried mealworms, and honey-glazed beetle larvae were the specials. Some might cringe at the menu, but tastes varied as much as people’s appearances. Old Toothless Edith knew this better than anyone, having worked for the royal kitchens some thirty years ago, until she and the finicky princess had a falling out. Edith was caught incorporating less than savory ingredients into Princess Glistenda’s breakfast for spite, and was thrown into the dungeon and plucked of all her teeth for her trouble. After serving a five-year sentence, she came here to stay, deeming herself too ugly to face the world again.

  Stain glanced down the line where Luce leaned inside Crony’s booth, forearms relaxed atop the counter. No mistaking the expression on his celestial face: Get to it then.

  Soon the walkway would be crowded with shoppers, and bartering options would dwindle. Stain’s nose crinkled and she eyed all twelve booths. Luce had given her a difficult puzzle: only one piece to start with, and five chances to grow it. Her end goal was to purchase a special item from Dregs—Luce had already specified what it should be, and it was something the hoarfrost goblin wasn’t likely to part with for cheap. Unless she could find the perfect payment with which to negotiate . . . something Dregs couldn’t resist.