Stain

by A. G. Howard

  He’s wounded, Luce. He’s bleeding.

  “Dammit, Stain. You’re bleeding, too. He can wait.”

  Until when?

  “Until I get you home and have Crony dress your wounds. All you needed was more scars. Top it off by the fact that you didn’t even get the moths. Shadows and crickets! What did you think to accomplish with those?” He cursed under his breath.

  Stain fell limp, bobbing along with Luce’s gait, letting his scent of feathers and fur soothe her panicked state. He’d been so angry when she told him she lost the items from market. Why did he care, considering he was unhappy with her selections anyway?

  She suspected he’d wanted the moths so he might watch them fly, to live his lost ability vicariously through them. For that reason, she could tolerate his harsh scolding.

  “You know, we didn’t save you all those years back just to watch you rip yourself to shreds again. You’ve no idea the crimp you’ve made in the plan.”

  Those words gave her pause. She was used to being at the whipping end of Luce’s tongue. From a sylph’s perspective, grumpiness was the equivalent of chivalry. And it wasn’t the first time he’d referenced saving her. Yet he’d never made it sound as if there were a motive. A plan, in fact. She readied her hands to insist he explain, but he took back the conversation with an annoyed snarl.

  “Whatever possessed you to leave the market and attack a group of strangers in the first place? You’re in rare form today.”

  Stain dropped her arms. Form. What form should she take? She had no idea who she was, or where she came from. Perhaps she belonged with those strangers. Yet she no longer wanted to be of the night realm, after having seen their cruelty firsthand—a hunger for violence woven within the very fibers of their costuming: the assassin’s hooded face painted with smears like a melted skull with empty sockets; his skintight assassin’s uniform that shimmered like scales along his tall, masculine frame—appearing lethal as a black snake; and his silver sword, tainted with her dearest friend’s blood. Today she’d learned how little those of the night realm thought of life. Which left her to surmise that she was dropped here to die because their kind didn’t know how to care. No wonder no mother or father was looking for her if Nerezeth was her home.

  Oh, they were a tricky lot . . . appearing to be kind and helpful to lure their prey into their trap. Like the ravager, when he managed a voice that somehow seemed familiar, that soothed with deepness and gentle words. He’d offered her water, shoes, food. She’d known better than to fall for it.

  Trust no one on royal business—either of the day realm or the night. Scorch had taught her that, as had Toothless Edith and every other nefarious neighbor who shared this forest. Royalty and the like were as dangerous as sunlight.

  She cringed, thinking upon the Night Ravager’s last words to her: You don’t belong here.

  Her eyes had given her away. They rarely glowed in this place, as the shade wasn’t dark enough. But surrounded by tangled walls and sooty smog, it made the difference.

  She’d been foolish to look back, but his own eyes had captivated her. They were wrong for a Nerezethite’s—yet they were made of night. As mysterious as the shadows she’d bargained for at market, and as all-encompassing as the wave of crickets climbing the walls in their glass jar. His gaze held both wisdom and confusion—twisted like the ravine’s trees that divided their roots and trunks between the moon and sun.

  She wondered how striking the contrast would be against silver hair and bluish-white skin, when not covered by his uniform, gloves, and face paint. Then she bit back a groan, disgusted by her own fascination.

  “Did the ravager say anything to you before I got there?” Luce asked, as if he stepped inside her mind and watched her thoughts pass above him like clouds.

  Stain allowed her hands to sway, answerless. He was angry enough already. What would he think if he knew she’d actually lost all sense upon seeing Scorch’s blood and screamed at an assassin in sign language? Though the ravager couldn’t possibly know what she said, she’d gone one step farther and threatened him with his own sword before stealing his knife. The flat side of the cold blade still pressed against her skin where her ribs wedged under Luce’s arm.

  She couldn’t even entertain the possibility that her careless, spiteful reaction might have put them all in danger.

  “Crony should be here. Where is she?” Luce let the question hang as he stepped out of the thicket of trees and onto their home’s isolated plot. As he stepped across the framework that separated the bedrooms, she prepared her muscles to launch.

  Luce was too quick. He dragged the talisman from around her neck and over her head, pocketing it in his red jacket in the same moment he deposited her atop her mattress. She bared her teeth and he offered a wry smile as he dropped her boots beside her with a thunk.

  The shoes would be of no use now . . . no crossing the threshold into the yard without her talisman. Luce had effectively imprisoned her without walls. Sometimes she hated his sly, clever ways just as she admired them.

  Her eyes darted around the four rooms to put a plan together. Some way to distract Luce, pick his pocket, and break free.

  She removed her gloves. Luce’s slender shoulders strained the fabric of his jacket as he turned his back and lifted aside the curtains covering Crony’s shelves. After years of being his ward, Stain was immune to his charms—the one advantage she had over most women and men in this forest. However, he wasn’t immune to her charms. His affection for her was of a parental sort, far more powerful than lustful attraction. She’d rely on that.

  Luce splashed some water into a cup, then upon finding a tin of healing ointment and thin strips of muslin—bleached and gathered into rolls—he came to sit cross-legged on the ground beside her mattress.

  He offered her the drink. She sipped, widening her eyes until her long white lashes fanned high, knowing how the pleading expression affected him.

  Setting the empty cup aside, she signed with her scarred hands: Wouldn’t Crony rinse the wounds with hot water first? And might I have some mint-and-lavender tea to ease my pain?

  It was perfect. A fire. Something to heat Luce through so he’d take off his jacket.

  “I suppose Crony would boil water. Once again, you’re forcing me to be nursemaid. A role I’ve no desire to play.” Luce’s jaw twitched, an annoyed gesture that only enhanced the dangerously beautiful lines and angles of his face. “For that, no ambrosial tea for you. Something bitter, something medicinal. An elixir of persimmons and fish oil to cleanse your innards as well as your outwards is what you’ll be drinking.”

  Stain offered no argument, resolved she wouldn’t be here long enough to partake in said refreshments.

  He lit a small flame in the fire pit and placed a kettle on the iron hanger atop it. The scent of smoke and roasting wood escalated her need to find Scorch to the point it itched beneath her skin.

  While waiting for the water to boil, Luce returned to sit across from her. The flames lit the greenish, hazy surroundings. His red hair and suit flickered in vivid hues.

  “You never answered my question. Did the ravager say anything to you?”

  Stain decided a half-truth would serve. He offered me food, water . . . clothing. He believed me a boy. Called me son. This admission made her snarl. Until today, it had never bothered her to be thought of as boy.

  Luce sighed. “Son . . . and then you kicked ash in his face on our way out. Not exactly the best first impression.”

  Stain shrugged. What difference do impressions make? It’s not as if I’m to see him again. It’s not as if it matters.

  “It matters more than you know,” Luce whispered under his breath, fisting the rolls of bandages in his lap.

  Why? He can’t possibly be behind what happened to me. Though she wasn’t sure precisely how long she’d been in the world, she sensed that she and the ravager were close in age. He’s not old enough to have left me here all those years ago.

  “Age aside,
assassins are a dangerous lot. Wouldn’t want them coming around and causing trouble.” Luce’s orange eyes narrowed and he ground his pointed teeth, a sure indication he was lying. He looked more canine than human in moments when he felt cornered.

  Stain shook her head. There’s more. Something you’re not telling me . . . Her hands paused as she thought back on that moment years ago when he carried her out of the brambles after she first met Scorch. She’d so easily forgotten what Luce had said, overlooked its significance. Having him carry her shredded body again just now brought everything full circle.

  She forced out questions, although she feared the answers: You once said that you wouldn’t have me costing you your wings again. What did that mean? Luce . . . why did you lose your wings? Did it have to do with me?

  Sweat beaded his brow. He loosened the top buttons on his white shirt, exposing his talisman necklace. Then he peeled off his jacket and draped it over one knee. “You’re not to blame for any of my losses. I made feckless choices because I could fly so high in the clouds, I was immune to consequences. So, I was punished by losing my ability to escape. That’s all.” He was placating her, tucking paper-thin replies within pretty frames to distract from the emptiness of the words themselves.

  You know, don’t you? The possibility made her signing clumsy and her stomach queasy. Where I’m from . . . where I belong. You’ve known all these years and have been keeping it secret. If you care for me at all, Luce . . . you will tell me. Now.

  His expression softened. “We found you in the lowlands, shaved, broken, and spilling out of a handmade coffin, about to be eaten by shrouds. We had to bargain for you. That’s all I can say. You must understand . . . not every secret is meant to harm. Sometimes a past is obscured for charitable reasons. For protection. Perhaps the reasons aren’t so insignificant as one person, but even bigger. Others who share the world.”

  Stain clenched her fingers around the bandages that had come unrolled between them. They bargained for her? With what? His wings? And he made it sound as if her past had been hidden purposefully. She held her breath and studied the sparkling glass tokens hanging about the room—final memories of the dead.

  Perhaps of the living, too.

  She gestured to the trinkets: Do any of those belong to me?

  Luce’s jaw muscles spasmed as he debated the response.

  “Shushta yer trap, ye prattling cur!” Crony’s shout carried across the path leading to the front of the house. “Ye said enough already!”

  Luce swiveled around to meet her stare. Both of them startled when a white crow dropped from the branches above. It swooped over Crony’s head then into the rooms, large wings stirring gusts that disturbed the fire and caught strands of Luce’s hair. The creature landed on the cedar chest, taking up half of the lid. It was beastly, its one eye as bright pink as the sky after the flash of twilight when the sun returned.

  Luce leapt to his feet, dropped his jacket, and lunged at their grotesque guest. Stain yanked his jacket over, fishing out her necklace. She stuffed it, along with the tin of ointment and bandages, into her vest.

  Caw-caw! the crow screeched, escaping Luce’s clutch.

  Only it wasn’t a screech or a caw . . . it was a shrill, wordless lamentation—like wails sung by the dead and dying. Stain slapped her palms across her ears. White feathers fluttered down in a dreamy sequence as Luce chased the bird, and in the muffled silence, Stain wondered if that’s what snow looked like upon falling. Had she known at one time? Had that memory been taken from her along with the others?

  A dog barked in the distance and prompted Stain to stand on her tender feet just as Crony crossed the threshold. Stain’s eyes held her guardian’s muddy gaze, and like the first time she awoke to the witch’s blindfolded, slumbering face, she couldn’t see the goodness and affection for the murkiness there.

  You lied. It wasn’t . . . amnesia. Stain’s hands moved in such a spasmodic manner her accusations came out disjointed. My memories. You took them. Sold . . . or hid? Where? Why?

  Her cheeks prickled with heat as she awaited an answer.

  Crony averted her gaze and tipped her skull staff toward the crow, the flames in the fire pit glimmering off her black horns. “Thana, be ye gone, old bird! Tell yer mistress I’m minding me own, so she should do the same!”

  Luce, who’d managed to catch the crow by its tail feathers, released it. It soared up, up, up, into the trees with thudding flaps until the canopy swallowed its hideous cries.

  Luce watched with a strained expression. Stain wasn’t sure if the reaction was one of envy, or of remorse for all the secrets. The loose feathers still drifted, as if carried by an invisible force. Stain reached up and caught two, her eyes burning—a cruel tease to empty sockets.

  Her life was a lie. She’d known that already. But she never realized Crony’s and Luce’s lives were lies, too. For they’d both been lying to her. She could have no revenge, because in every way, they’d been her family. They’d made her trust them. They’d made her love them.

  She crushed the feathers in her hand and tossed the clump toward Luce, feeling as lost as his wings. Catching up her boots, she leapt across the threshold before either of her shouting guardians could stop her. Unless he transformed to fox form, Luce would never catch her. And if he tried, she would take to the trees.

  She heard the dog of earlier barking once more, but it was distant. Just to be safe, she altered her route and stopped to slide into her boots. Forcing the leather over her damaged feet intensified the stabbing jabs of each puncture mark. Still, she pressed forward at a full sprint. The air stung the welts on her skin where thorns had left their mark. She’d learned long ago how to shut out discomfort, how to function in spite of it—on that day she met the one soul who had never lied to her: the beast of sky and wind and feathers and flame, who cared only that she ran alongside him—evenly matched.

  The tin of ointment rattled next to the knife in her vest. She would see that Scorch would heal and fly again. Then she would avenge his wounds, as she could never avenge her own.

  16

  The Lachrymosity of Reminiscing

  Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and a crow keened in answer, loud and earsplitting—a discordant symphony of the natural and unnatural. Crony hoped wherever Dyadia’s nettlesome bird was flying, it would lead the prince to Stain. But Dyadia didn’t yet know the truth of the girl’s identity, which meant the prince didn’t know, either. And without him, how would the princess ever find her way to Eldoria’s castle to claim her fate? Wasn’t he supposed to be the lure to lead her there?

  Crony had never wanted to return a set of memories to their rightful owner more than now. But if she did, the world would forever remain split in half. She couldn’t stop seeing Stain’s wounded expression, and it scored her innards as if she’d been running through the brambles herself, turned wrong side out. Crony and Luce had agreed neither of them should take chase . . . that it would only make her run farther, harder. The girl needed time with her Pegasus. If anyone could comfort her, the horse could. They had a strong kinship, those two. Crony had attempted to offer the child such a foundation herself, but a house built on mislaid bricks is destined to crumble.

  None of this would have happened if Luce had kept his muzzle shut.

  The witch stared at her sylphin companion across the short expanse of their skeletal kitchen, frowning. “What was ye thinkin’, dandy dog?” She was tempted to wrap him in filaments from her horns and string him up in the branches like all the stolen memories . . . those Stain assumed were her own. “Ye and yer blabbering tongue. Did the fleas wriggle themselves into yer brain and suck out all yer common senses?”

  “That’s hardly fair. You know as well as I that parasites are lazy. It’s too far a climb from my tail to my head.” Luce’s smug frown looked every bit as fierce as her own must.

  Her lips twitched. If she wasn’t so furious, she could try a smile. See if that might bring him some humility.

&
nbsp; The tea kettle whistled, breaking Crony’s and Luce’s unblinking stares.

  “You know I’ll have to go after her soon.” Luce made his way to lift the kettle from its hook. “The cessation course starts in a couple of hours. She doesn’t need to be out there in such a state.”

  “May-let she does.” Crony found two teacups, cracked at the rims but suitable enough to hold water. She crumpled a handful of tea leaves and dried mint into each. “May-let her prince will find her now.”

  “She already found him.”

  Crony’s body tensed. “Where . . . when?”

  “She was with him in the labyrinth when I saw them.”

  “And . . . be he worthy of her? All that we hoped?”

  Luce shrugged. “Not sure yet. They were fighting on the ground. Considering the man could easily have bested her in size, there’s something to be said for his gentleness. He was dressed as a Night Ravager; I only recognized him by his dark eyes. But there was no communicating between them. Instead of bargaining for the moths, Stain had nothing but shadows and crickets in jars, and bloody good they did.”

  Crony thought back to the day when she’d shared the memory with Luce . . . the one where Stain was still Lyra—princess in the castle. The child had used moths to tell her aunt she would never be her mother. The first time Crony viewed it, she felt a warm flash of pride, even though she barely knew their young ward then. After Luce watched it, he suggested they arm Stain with moths so she might speak to the prince through the insects. He even arranged for Stain to get them herself by bargaining, thus keeping Crony and Luce from technically interfering. A shame that had fallen through.

  “Where be the shadows and crickets now? May-let she can use them somehow, to intrigue him with their fealty to her.”