Stain

by A. G. Howard

  I thought you had stumbled into their trap.

  You should’ve known better.

  How? You wouldn’t answer me! Shutting your mind to mine gave my thoughts a wide vastness in which to wander.

  He stomped a hoof, managing to look majestic in the process. You came here for something more. The creature said you were seeking yourself. What did she mean?

  Stain disclosed all she’d endured today after they parted ways—how she’d been betrayed by those she considered family.

  I told you. You can never trust humankind.

  Stain’s fingers clenched tighter around her bag’s straps. She’d known better than to expect sympathy. But I am humankind, yes? Or am I something else?

  You are like me. A rare peculiarity. Covert as the wind. Unidentifiable. Forfeit and untamed. I came into this place like you. I awoke here in a ring of smoke and flame. If there was anything before that, I remember none of it. The difference is I embraced this oblivion as a benefit and moved on without looking back.

  What? This time, Stain stomped a foot. For her, the gesture was much less elegant as she winced against the throbs shooting through her shredded toes. You always said you didn’t wish to speak of your past. Not that you couldn’t remember.

  I don’t wish to speak of it. It bores me. I don’t need family. I don’t need history. I simply need to be. In the moment, living and free.

  The heat and smoke swelling around them burned Stain’s eyes. But I do need those things. And you knew that. If nothing else, it would’ve helped me not feel so alone.

  I’m on your doorstep each day. Waiting for you. Walking, flying, running with you. I am your cure for loneliness and all the family that you, in your weak humanness, will ever require. Am I not?

  Stain wanted to argue, but in all their years together, this was the closest he’d come to admitting affection for her. There was a proverb she’d once heard . . . something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Since she could never seem to make this particular horse understand the human side of things—that being family should mean more than playing together and having adventures, that there was the expectation of sentiments spoken in earnest, hugs and kisses given freely, and aid offered without bargains—she shrugged, the closest she’d come to agreeing with him outright.

  Good. Now that you’re done pitying your lack of self, let us leave this place before the Shroud Collective returns. His dark eyes reflected the holocaust. Once the tree trunks extinguished, the flames would find no other kindling along the barren ground.

  Scorch did an about-face, and Stain followed where his wounded wing dragged a path through the ash. She took the incline in silence, wordless and riddled with confusing thoughts. Who was the marked princess the creatures spoke of? And did Luce help with that girl’s escape like he had hers? Why had Stain been wearing an Eldorian page boy’s clothes when dropped here?

  So deep in her musing, she barely noticed they’d reached the top. No wayfaring puddles had crossed them, deterred by the scent of charbroiled wood and smoke.

  The Pegasus’s hooves clopped onto the onyx pathway. He paused and bent his glossy black neck, waiting for Stain to catch up. His eyes scolded her the moment her foot met the trail.

  She clenched her teeth. I know, I owe you a service.

  He huffed through his nostrils and shook his mane in a nod.

  In the dim light, Stain caught sight of the molten blood dried upon the hinge of his beautiful feathered wing. Let me start by treating your wound.

  She reached into her bag, pushing aside the ravager’s knife to find the ointment. The knife’s handle poked out and Scorch nudged her hand away to lift the blade between his teeth. He dropped it at her feet with a clatter.

  This is all you need to treat me. Only by draining the Night Ravager of his blood will my wing be healed. You will repay your debt by helping me see him dead.

  18

  The Beauteous, the Beastly, and the Bewitched

  The way to the fishing tarn was mostly deserted when Scorch and Stain took to the lofties. Stain had unrolled and tied her bandages into one long, sturdy strip. After wetting it for fireproofing, she’d wrapped the length around Scorch’s back and belly to bind his limp wing in place along his rib cage. When she finished, it folded against his side like the healthy wing did naturally for easier maneuvering through trees and thickets. Stain also insisted on using the ointment, although Scorch deemed it a waste, as it wouldn’t help him fly.

  It was hard watching him stay grounded; he almost always flew in this tallest part of the forest. And if it was hard for her to watch him, she could only imagine how difficult it was being him. She would’ve chosen another route, but they needed to avoid her home.

  Stain wasn’t ready to encounter her guardians yet. She had plans to storm the threshold later and drop the shroud’s riddles at their feet. By having bits of truth to reason with, by demonstrating her need to know herself—a desperation so profound she had faced the collective alone—she hoped to shock and shame Crony and Luce into confessing the rest.

  This had to wait, though, as she had a service to fulfill. A service that made her stomach wobbly. She watched her boots trudge through the ash. Just a few hours earlier, she was contemplating recompense for Scorch’s wounds. But now, after having faced her own near death, she reconsidered.

  Distracted, Stain barely looked up in time to see Toothless Edith and Dregs leaving the Wayward Tavern a short distance ahead. Scorch’s every muscle tensed beside her.

  Hide behind the brambles there, she insisted, giving his chest a nudge. He grunted, but obliged.

  Her acquaintances were in rare form. Dregs walked tall as any man with the pedestal shoes that matched his hat, escorting Edith, who was dressed as fine as any lady in a velvety gown Stain had never seen. She’d pulled her hair into a bun and even had lipstick in place. She spoke loudly to Dregs, no longer seeming to care about her lisp.

  “Thain!” Edith hollered. The old woman waved a lace hanky Stain’s direction. “Beth trade I ever did make!” She had the mirror in her other hand, keeping it turned on herself as she spoke. Tilting her head, she admired her face, her features blissful if not beauteous.

  Dregs spun in his high heels. “I second that, and tip my hat.” He tapped the felt brim that shaded his bulbous eyes. “My booth is at your disposal, should you ever have another proposal.”

  Stain nodded a thank-you and hoped they’d be on their way.

  “Wait. Did ya fall inthide a fire hole, boy?” Edith dragged her gaze away from the mirror long enough to look Stain over from head to toe. “Ya be a bit more torn than usual, and thkorched to boot.”

  “Scorched indeed, and his clothes are but weeds.” Dregs flicked the icicle-shaped growth at the end of his long nose, as if in thought. “Earlier, there were night soldiers and a dog nearby . . . five we saw, with intent in their eye. Walking the wood and headed that way,” he pointed the direction Stain and Scorch had avoided. “Be a dangerous lot to engage in horseplay.”

  She forced a shocked expression to assure them she’d be cautious. An out-and-out lie. The fact that there were five of the soldiers walking about on foot with the dog meant Scorch’s plan had just been simplified by half. That would leave only five at the Nerezethite camp with their mounts. And since neither Dregs nor Edith had mentioned ravagers among the wanderers, the assassin must be one who stayed behind.

  Both the goblin and the old woman suddenly shifted their gazes across her shoulder, wearing horrified expressions as Scorch lumbered out from behind the brush—his mane and tail glowing hot, embers alight in eyes wild with rage and resolve. Against Stain’s bared nape, warm gusts stirred from his healthy, flapping wing. Even with the other wing pinned back, he posed a formidable threat.

  They’re harmless. Leave them be. Stain placed a hand upon his velvety muzzle as he towered beside her.

  They dared speak my name.

  They didn’t. They were referring to my scorched clothes, and you know tha
t. They’re guilty of nothing but enjoying life for the first time in some while.

  He snorted. They’re in our way. Send them off, or their last taste of life will be the lick of my flame upon their charred tongues.

  Wearing an apologetic frown, Stain waved good-bye to her friends—insistently. As if waking from a trance, the two stumbled toward a thicket that opened in the direction of Crony’s, their retreat not nearly as refined as their entrance.

  Scorch trudged onward and Stain followed, prisoner to a promise she wished she’d never made. The cessation course would soon be underway. It made her stomach lurch to think of attacking the ravager and other four soldiers in their sleep.

  The trees drooped lower once they abandoned the lofties. A rainstorm brewed outside, and the fresh scent of moisture mingled with a tapping across the leafy canopy offered an oddly tranquil backdrop to their murderous venture.

  Scorch avoided a patchy opening where the rain rolled from one leaf to another. Normally, Stain would have to duck around such a space herself, as sunlight filtered in. But with it cloudy, she was able to walk under the miniature waterfall. She lifted her face, washing off the blood caked on her lips, cheeks, and forehead. Water beaded along her lashes, coating them like dew gathered upon spindly webs. She followed next with her arms, rinsing her wounds as well as possible with the sparse supply.

  How she wished to be outside in truth. To actually stand in the storm. To feel the rhythm of the drops race along her skin, to see them fall from an open sky in sheets—a glimmering dance of crystal in the sunlight.

  Sighing, she sipped some droplets to appease a niggle of hunger. Then she dragged the ravager’s knife from the bag and caught up to Scorch. She wished the assassin’s blade could be used to catch a fish dinner rather than to take a man’s life.

  I’ve never killed anyone, Scorch. She sent her companion the thought, so hesitant it would’ve been a whisper had it been spoken aloud.

  He didn’t slow his pace. His only acknowledgment was the swish of his tail. Not that you can remember, you mean.

  Stain poked the knife’s point into her thumb’s tip, indenting the pale flesh. Her sunlit magic pooled beneath her skin and warmed the silver blade to a reddish heat. The resulting burst of agony caused her to tuck the knife away in the bag. She shuddered. I give life to the flowers smothering in the soot. Surely, I can’t take a life. I was just a child when I came here.

  A baby serpent’s venom is deadlier than that of his parentage. We are all born with a will to survive. In some of us, you and I for example, that will is greater than most. A grave injustice was done to you . . . someone abused you. You are made of life and death, according to the mother shroud. I would like to think you had a taste of vengeance before being cast aside. And if you didn’t, I’ll see that you have revenge one day. Whoever hurt you will answer to both of us. And now I should like your help to get the same satisfaction.

  Stain grimaced. He cut you only once.

  It’s more than that. I smelled my death in him. Then he attacked me, proving me right.

  Stain clamped her teeth. You speak of the instinct to live. Yet you won’t acknowledge that the ravager cut you for that very reason . . . to protect himself. To protect his companions. You were the one who instigated the attack.

  Upon this, Scorch paused, his left wing tugging awkwardly in its binds. His ears lay flat against his head. The danger called to me from within the thorny maze. His blood asked to be spilled before I even encountered him. I had no choice but to act.

  Stain moved around his powerful flanks and twitching muscles, getting ahead. She walked backward to watch him, knowing every root and gurgling pit by memory. And he reacted. There are consequences to everything we do. Will you ever step outside of your beastly brawny stubbornness and learn to stop and reason for that?

  Scorch’s eyes lit to orange. There is no place for reason within a beast’s heart. Instinct is my master. You would do well to remember that, and squash these tender emotions that weaken and blind you. Had you acted on instinct earlier, you would’ve stepped aside while I trampled him, and we wouldn’t be having this argument now.

  He started forward again, his silver hooves plodding through the powdery groundcover. She spun to follow at his right, reaching up to grasp his dark mane when the ground grew uneven and sent shooting pains through her toes and ankles.

  He moved closer and curled his healthy wing around her. She leaned her temple against his shoulder, feeling tendons grip and slide beneath his satiny coat. The scent of horse musk intertwined with smoke to fill her nostrils.

  Am I not your friend, tiny trifling thing? he asked as they loped in synch with one another.

  Thunder rolled in the sky, shaking the leafy roof above her wet head and the ground beneath her weary feet. Yes. The dearest one I’ve known.

  Because I’ve never lied to you.

  She captured a black curl draping his neck and twisted it around her fingertip, stirring sparks to scald her skin. Other than withholding your absent past.

  Scorch released a sooty puff from his nostrils. I told you I didn’t wish to speak of it. That was no lie.

  Stain clucked her tongue, the only sound of derision she could make.

  And I’m not lying now. Scorch flicked an ear, ignoring her. There is danger in this man.

  Well, he is an assassin.

  No. He’s something more. A personal threat to me. I tasted it. I scented it. Something in his blood wants to bind and suppress my flame. If it’s too much for you to stab him in his heart, then lure him out of camp—away from his companions. I’ll see to the rest.

  Their mental conversation ended as the aroma of roasted fish marked their arrival to a grove of trees around the campsite. Stain’s mouth watered and her stomach grumbled.

  Hush. Scorch sent the silent demand while leading them to a spot behind a scattering of thick, wide trunks that enabled a view of the camp-front without being seen.

  Stain was about to argue that she had no control over her stomach’s protests when he interrupted again: Wait here. I’ll scout a plan of attack.

  Stealthily, he slipped from tree to tree until he reached the labyrinth, where the thorny walls—tightly bound and towering all the way up to the canopy—offered camouflage with tiny openings for peepholes.

  To free her hands, Stain looped her arms through her bag’s straps, hanging it secure at her back. She then peeked from behind the tree. There were three enclosures set up in the distance: two, set apart beside the horses that had been relieved of their armor and fixed with feedbags upon their muzzles—more serendipity, as they wouldn’t smell Scorch and panic. Since there were six mounts, it reasoned that the scouting party Dregs had mentioned had returned for their horses, but only four left again. The caged birds she’d heard screaming during the chaos in the labyrinth must have also gone with the scouts. Stain hoped they had the dog with them, too.

  In the two farthest tents, the flaps were shut, and snoring sounds drifted out.

  The third enclosure, straight ahead, was propped next to the fishing tarn: a tall embankment of rocks tapering to a wide circle of stone beneath an opening in the canopy. The basin captured rain and dew, never drying up. Water trickled into it now with a soft, rhythmic patter. Sporadically, fish leapt out and plopped back in with a splash.

  This tent’s flap remained open, and Stain saw her leather pouch from earlier, which meant they had found her jars of night creatures. Her mind scrambled for some way to get them back. Moving carefully from one tree to another revealed more of the scene. The silhouette of a man in a white shirt and black leathery breeches—tight enough to conform to his sinewy, masculine lines—sat within the opening on a blanket. Beside him crouched a moonlit girl dressed in a soldier’s uniform. A long, silvery-purple braid curled from her nape to rest in her lap like a pet snake. She had bandages, reminding Stain of those holding Scorch’s wounded wing in place . . . her hands grew clammy at the reminder of how wrong this day had gone.

&
nbsp; In the distance, the girl held a dagger over a campfire where the remains of their savory meal burned in the flames—fish scales and bones turning to ash. The girl’s silver blade burnished red, and the man mumbled something under his breath. He rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a metallic golden sheen along his forearm—either a vambrace or some similar piece of armor.

  Everywhere else, his skin was the deep red gold of burnished copper, beautiful, but bearing no resemblance to a moonlit-kissed Nerezethite. He appeared instead to be of Eldoria, bronzed by the sun. So why was he riding with soldiers of the night realm?

  Soundless, Stain eased from behind one tree to another and another, utilizing the dense growth until she was a few feet from the edge of the tarn. She stopped when she could feel the water droplets as they splattered and hear the man and woman as they spoke.

  “I’m ready, Selena,” he said, gesturing to the dagger. Stain recognized the ravager’s voice at once. Although young, like she assumed, in other ways he looked very different than she’d expected.

  His hood had been removed, and thick hair—as purply dark as the winter plums Dregs offered for purchase on special occasions—hung to his shoulders in messy waves. The skull-face paint was gone as well, revealing high, angular cheekbones with a long, aquiline nose that suggested regality. A straight, pale scar, raised and thin, started beneath his left cheek and ran to his strong jawline, disrupting his smooth complexion.

  “Would you rather I do it this time?” the girl named Selena asked.

  “No, dear sister . . . I still have use of my hands. It’s enough you have to watch.” His forehead was wide and expressive under tendrils of disheveled hair, and thick, black eyebrows punctuated his words, furrowing or rising in cadence with his deep, soothing voice.

  He cringed, sliding the red-hot blade along the golden vambrace on his arm. Only it wasn’t armor; for where the dagger’s sharp edge skated along the surface, fine hairs raised in its wake as if magnetized. That metallic shell was his skin . . . a part of him, like a crab’s carapace.