Stain

by A. G. Howard

  The crow tapped Vesper’s hardening chest. “There’s been a surge of magic here. It thrums through his body. The bird’s beak never lies. Our prince, our king, is whole again.”

  “What?” Selena asked, sniffling. “I don’t understand.”

  “Years ago, I cast out part of him to slow the sun’s infestation. He defeated it here today . . . reabsorbed it. But too soon. This was meant to happen in the princess’s presence, so her moonlight could cleanse his blood. Now the plague is twofold. We’ve little time before it claims his heart and lungs.”

  “Stain!” Vesper forced out the wail on a gust of fire-tinged air. The taste of smoke choked him. His windpipe tightened against a cough and locked the pressure within. The muscles in his body began to spasm involuntarily.

  “Tybalt, Dolyn!” Cyprian’s desperate shouts launched everyone into action. “Help me get the prince onto Lanthe. We ride to Princess Lyra immediately! If we hurry, we’ll arrive only a half day behind our companions.”

  “No,” Dyadia said. “His betrothed will have to come to us. Give him the draught I sent. The valerian and passionflower will control his pain. I must convince his mind and body that he’s dead. A quietus thrall is the only means to hold off the sun’s invasion, but the spell is ancient and temperamental, and must be conjured in a sacred place of life and death. Somewhere familiar to the recipient, in which their spirit can take sanctuary. I’ll perform it here at Nerezeth, inside the shrine. Bring him at once. I’ll return to my body and await you. Send Thana with a sealed missive for the princess and her regent. Tell them Lady Lyra is required at his side . . . the nuptials must take place the moment they arrive in the night realm.”

  “We can’t go the shorter route . . . the avalanche sealed the Rigamort’s entrance,” Selena said, her voice heavy with frustration.

  “We’ve no choice but to head for the iron gate,” Cyprian agreed. “If we hurry, we can make the five-day trip in three. We move now!”

  There was a rustle of feathers and footsteps, then a glass vial touched Vesper’s mouth—cool and smooth. A soothing liquid, flavored of fruit and sour wood, trickled down his narrowing throat. Darkness blotted his pain; drowsiness suspended his senses. Relieved, he tried to say thank you, but his lips wouldn’t comply. They were petrified.

  Vesper realized with horror that it was too late. There would be no marriage, no reconciliation of sun and moon, no saving his people from their illness. His worst nightmare had come true: he was a man of metal and stone.

  22

  Metamorphosis Most Foul

  With Eldoria’s cessation course underway, heavy drapes had been drawn to block the unrelenting sunlight—more from habit than necessity, as the honeysuckle vines managed to obstruct most windows in the castle at present. The glossy marble halls and corridors mirrored the bluish glow upon Griselda’s hands as candles winked from beneath their tinged-glass domes like wily accomplices.

  Carrying her gloves as a precaution, she kept her footfalls light upon the floor while making her way to the lower wings. She rearranged the hennin upon her head, warmed by a sense of smugness. She had kept the secret of the witch’s arrival for two days. And then fate once again smiled upon her, bringing the prisoner to the castle while everyone slept. No one on the council even knew about their prisoner yet; no one had been apprised of the contents within the jackdaw’s sealed missive but Griselda’s daughters and her two loyal knights. The ambitious soldiers, stationed at the outer bailey and gate, all hoped to win an honored place within the king and queen’s guard once “Lyra” married Prince Vesper. Thus, they had agreed to their regent’s command—to hand off the witch to her first knights upon arrival—without question.

  After a momentary brush with panic, Griselda had come to realize she couldn’t have timed everything better herself. She’d already sent her daughters to bed within the chambers where they’d been staying—free at last of their underground imprisonment. The queen’s posh room belonged to Lustacia now, as the entire kingdom did. Avaricette and Wrathalyne had been quick to take advantage of their own inflated status by claiming Sir Nicolette’s room as theirs and working every servant to the bone over the past two days redecorating for them.

  Two hours ago, when the witch first arrived, the Nerezethite guard named Thea apprised Griselda that Prince Vesper and the rest of his entourage should be close behind.

  So, as Sir Bartley and Sir Erwan led the prisoner to the dungeons, Griselda put her soldiers to work with their axes alongside the four heavily dressed Nerezethite escorts, suggesting they use their supply of spiders and moonlit shadows to carve a path through the honeysuckle vines and bees in preparation for the prince’s appearance. Griselda’s maneuver served a dual purpose: keeping Prince Vesper’s subjects preoccupied while she questioned, then silenced the witch; and staunching any chance that the night realm’s eight-legged vermin would be brought within her castle walls.

  Now alone, Griselda took the spiraling stairs into the bowels of the castle, following the torches Erwan had lit for her. As much as she despised darkness and shadows, she celebrated. This was the final loose thread, then no more traversing the dusty subterranean like a begrimed beetle.

  Upon reaching the end of the dungeon’s corridors, she pushed the cornerstone to open the hidden underground tunnel. Inside, she pulled a latch. Clicking and clacking, the entrance rearranged itself into a solid wall, closing the tunnel off.

  Gripping her lantern, she plunged even deeper beneath the ground. Sir Erwan bowed upon her arrival as she turned a corner—the torch beside the locked door casting fretful lines across his yellowish-brown complexion. She glanced at the darkness where the tunnel continued to wind out of sight. Somewhere at the end, less than a quarter of a league, it opened to the enchanted outlet that led to the Crystal Lake and the Ashen Ravine beyond.

  Nostalgia curled through her; it seemed so long ago that she’d come here with Elusion; but that wasn’t the fond memory she embraced. It was the moment she sent her niece’s corpse through that tunnel that warmed her. Griselda’s one regret was that she didn’t dump Lyra’s remains within the ravine herself . . . that she didn’t get to see the shrouds feast on her ghastly flesh.

  She cleared her throat against the suffocating stench of loam and subsoil, her attention on Erwan again. “Has the prisoner spoken?”

  “Not a word. Even when I chained her up. The Nerezethite escorts said she was silent on the journey as well. It seems she impressed the prince with her humility and cooperation.” Erwan shrugged. “They suspect he might want some say in how we handle her arraignment.”

  “A shame she’s going to attempt escape with a conjuring flame . . . that she’ll destroy all the cells beyond recognition before he arrives.” Griselda dragged a pouch out of one pocket. She placed the mixture of saltpeter, wood ashes, and tinder-bat dung into Erwan’s leather glove. “Use utmost caution. When combined with the vinegar, it will form an incendiary so potent, anything it’s been brushed upon becomes flammable. Wood, fabric, plants, dirt, or stone. Whether wet or dry, it will spark.” Their ultimate goal was to bury the witch alive in the hidden tunnel while making it appear as if she’d been trapped beneath fallen stone in a collapsed cell. “Once mixed, brush it everywhere in the cells—floor to ceiling—then spread a line to the secret tunnel’s entry. It’s the only way we’ll precipitate a cave-in. Take care not to get any upon the stairs or your feet. Leave a pathway from which we can walk out.”

  Erwan’s brow furrowed to a worrisome scrawl. He was always squeamish about handling potions or elixirs. “You mentioned wanting some for the sylph elm in the garden. How much should I set aside?”

  Griselda shook her head. “I made a batch earlier. I’ve already coated the trunk. It is not to be ignited unless I give the command, and only if he refuses to cooperate.” She had warned all the soldiers to watch for a red-haired man too beautiful to be fully human; told them as little as they needed to know, but enough that they would guard their ears against his persuasiv
e voice. Elusion wouldn’t dare attempt to enter Eldoria as a fox, for his pelt would be a precious temptation to any self-respecting hunter. She couldn’t deny the spark in her blood, knowing upon his arrival they would either resume their past partnership or she’d burn his wings to ash.

  “So, I’ll retrieve you when I’m ready to torch the dungeon.” Erwan began to leave, but Griselda grasped his elbow.

  “A torch won’t suffice.” She showed him two orbs, aglow with swirling turquoise light. “We’ll toss these from the stairway. I’ve altered a recipe, using our accursed honeysuckle petals and liquid sunshine. Only the purest strand of moonlight can extinguish the flames these will birth. No water, sand, or any commonplace means can stop them. The blaze will burn until it’s eaten anything and everything combustive around it.” She dropped both orbs into her pocket once more.

  Erwan’s chin tightened. “It could take some time to assure all is well coated. Should Bartley give me a hand?”

  “He’s overseeing the honeysuckle slashings.” She took off her hennin and patted her hillock of twisted braids, searching for the knots beneath. Pressed against the hat’s base, their itch had become unbearable. She glared at Erwan’s obvious interest in her lumpy hair. “One of you has to watch the gloom-dwellers. Should they get too warm in the sunlight while wearing those mummified costumes, they’ll need to come in and rest in the guest wing. Can’t have them wandering down here.” She smiled. “Of course, should they find their way before the flame is ignited . . . well, that’s completely out of our hands, isn’t it? The witch has already murdered many of Eldoria’s own. Should a Nerezethite be captured in the fray, it will only confirm how dangerous she is. Considering her immortality, keeping her buried will prove wisest for everyone.”

  Erwan’s gray eyes clouded, sure indication he was attempting to think for himself instead of blindly obeying her command. “Then, it would no longer matter what secret memories she holds. Why question her since she’ll be silenced? She might refuse to speak, or use sorcery to rattle you. Go to bed, make it appear you’ve been asleep for hours by the time the cave-in happens. Wash your hands of this, put on your gloves, and call it done.” At that, his gaze fell to Griselda’s clenched, tinted fists.

  Glaring, she tucked her gloves into her empty pocket, keeping her hands bared. “A lazy man’s logic, which is why only a woman can do the job. One must not rest until the trophy is won and mounted upon the wall. I need to be sure she hasn’t imprinted Sir Nicolet’s final memory on someone else. And what have I to fear of a harrower witch’s sortilege? She knows nothing of potions or poisons that can alter a life . . . she only deals in the dead and dying. Once she sees the enchanted blood staining my skin, she’ll know I’ve harnessed powers beyond her own. For that, she should fear me. Without having an ounce of inborn magic in my fingertips, without needing a guide, I’ve won the thrones of two kingdoms.”

  Griselda stopped short of admitting the role Elusion’s grimoire played. However, she’d be sure to share that detail with the prisoner. The witch should know her loyal fox was responsible for her eternal entombment. It was a knife twist too delicious to resist.

  “Get started on the preparations. I’ll need you to help me box up and carry out the keepsakes and magical stock before we destroy the entrance to the dirt room. Apprise me when you’re done slathering the cells.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Upon hearing his mechanized exit into the dungeon, Griselda opened the door and stepped within, assailed by each and every fragrant panacea rose sent to Lustacia over the years. Other than the moth-eaten gowns covering Prince Vesper’s letters, withering bouquets, and her dead niece’s keepsakes, dirt dominated the room’s motif—floor, wall, and ceiling.

  The prisoner crouched in the middle of the floor, wrists and ankles locked within joint shackles staked deep into the ground. If not for the torchlight gleaming off the iron chains, she’d be practically invisible. From her muddy eyes to her scaly toes, everything about her exuded the same unremarkable brown of dust. With her awkward posture, she favored some oddly horned turtle that might topple at any moment and get stuck on its back.

  Griselda smiled and perched her lantern atop a wooden crate. “Here we are again, witch. Me, standing over you—chained up and at my mercy like a vagrant mongrel.”

  The prisoner flitted out her forked tongue. “The name be Crony. And I’ve no need for mercy. I’ll still be standin’ when yer naught but a pile o’ bones for me to gnaw upon.”

  Griselda’s fingers fisted. “Immortality aside, you’re forgetting the interim. I can make this portion of your eternity miserable.”

  “I forget nothin’. Not me own thoughts, or the thoughts of another. I recognize yer knight’s voice. Erwan be his name. I remember his face, just the way he looked through Nicolet’s eyes, the instant he hammered his skull with an iron mace.”

  Griselda shook off the chill that coursed through her blood. “So, you overheard my conversation with my knight. Eavesdropping doesn’t speak to your acumen; it speaks to your desperation. The quicker we do this, the quicker I release you back into the wilds.”

  “We both know ye not lettin’ me go this time. And the wee princess not be here to convince ye. Pity. Would like to have seen her now that she be a lady, to thank her and her shadows and bugs, afore ye bury me alive.”

  Griselda flinched despite herself, remembering how Lyra had bettered her that day in the dungeon cell. How she’d left her in the darkness, alone and frightened. “She’s sleeping. And she’s long outgrown her sympathies for the likes of you, along with her affinity for playing with shadows and bugs.”

  “Did she, now? Don’t be soundin’ like the princess of the prophecy . . . silver-haired, songbird, friend of all things shadowed and dark. Of course, it be barmy, expectin’ she’d be just as the foretelling dictates. After all, prophecies find their true, clear way, even if the details get muddied.”

  The thud in Griselda’s chest belied the calm she forced into her features. “Enough blathering. You know the fate that awaits you. But you can do something charitable first. You can win deliverance for your friend Elusion.”

  Crony’s serpentine face sagged, as if taken aback.

  “Yes,” Griselda taunted. “He’s here and I’m holding him prisoner. But, as you seem to be somewhat aware, I’ve a fondness for him. Should you cooperate, I’ll allow him to claim his wings again. I believe that means something to you?”

  The witch’s head bowed, as if defeated. “Aye, it do.”

  “So, I’ll give you my word. Tell me all the details of Nicolet’s final breath, and assure me no one possesses that memory but you, and your friend reaps the benefits.”

  “He came alone then, did he?” The witch rearranged her spine with disgusting popping sounds, as if growing tired of the squatted position. “Straight up to yer castle gates and into the hands o’ yer guards?”

  Griselda shifted her feet, a dirt clod crunching beneath her shoe. “Yes. Who else would’ve accompanied him, and how else would he have arrived? It’s not as if he can flutter down from the sky . . . yet. So, do we have an accord? The details of Nicolet’s memory and its whereabouts will buy Elusion his freedom and true form. You can win him the ability to fly again.”

  Crony’s muddy eyes flickered with something akin to amusement. “I took two breaths from Nicolet’s dyin’ corpse, not just one. So there be two memories ye need have fearin’. The first is the other half of the memory I shared with yer constable, and will damn ye and yer faithful knights for yer brother’s and Nicolet’s murder. The second will destroy ye alone, in ways ye never imagined. One I’ve locked safe within meself, but the other I shared with the Shroud Collective, who be a very talkative lot. Up to ye to find out which memory be where.”

  Grinding her jaw, Griselda kicked dirt into Crony’s face. “You care so little about your sylphin friend?”

  The witch blinked her transparent lids and grit crumbled out from the corners of her eyes. “Ye be a maste
rful liar and strategist, Regent, but Elusion be even better. He’ll arrive under yer nose. And it will be yer own feathers that get ruffled and singed, not his wings upon a tree.”

  Griselda twitched with rage. “If you weren’t immortal . . . I would kill you with my bare hands.”

  Crony sighed. “Aye, if but this were a fairy tale, we’d all get our druthers and wants.”

  Griselda spun for the door, her face and ears burning. “I hope you’ll be at home here, amidst the mildew and decay of unwanted, forgotten things. For this will be your eternal tomb.” She began to open the latch, then remembered the final knife twist. “I’ll tell Elusion, once he arrives, that he has himself to thank for your burial. The book he gave me has served quite useful.”

  “The Plebeian’s Grimoire.” Crony’s chains jingled. “It prefers to be called by name.”

  Griselda turned. “What? How would you—”

  “I do be at home in this place,” Crony interrupted, eyeing the shelves and the small crates lining the walls. “Always knew I’d return; is why I kept bits o’ me tucked away here and there . . . awaitin’. One’s past always be a mirror to their future.”

  Griselda shook some dust off her skirt’s hem, trying to make sense of the witch’s senseless chatter. “Your past here? Our time together five years ago meant so much to you? How I wish I had the choke pear . . . fond memories, hearts and roses, and all that sentimental rubbish.”

  “Ye do appear a bit flimsy without the razor extensions to yer hand. That brumal blood upon yer palms be a beggarly substitute.”

  “Yet it’s easier to hide,” Griselda answered, refusing to be shaken. She took out her gloves in demonstration.

  “Aye. Hands can be hidden. Shame ye can’t say the same for horns.” Crony tilted her head, her own horns catching a flutter of firelight from the torch on the wall.