by A. G. Howard
Horns. A gush of ice water sluiced through Griselda’s veins as the knots upon her scalp tingled. She leaned against the door, the latch jabbing into her lower back. “It can’t be.”
“What else could it be?” Crony chuckled, dark and taunting.
Griselda thrust aside her gloves and parted the braids piled atop her head, revealing the bumps beneath. Blindly, she felt where prongs had formed since she’d examined them last. She gasped and stumbled to the corner opposite the witch, whipping a gown off Arael’s mirror—the one her brother so painstakingly glued back together after Lyra’s clumsy attempt to find herself at the age of twelve.
There was no mistaking, even in the jagged reflection. The growths upon Griselda’s head, though no bigger than butter beans, were identical to the brumal stag antlers she’d so diligently crushed to powder over the past six months. Her jaw dropped—every question, every expletive of disbelief, locked within her chest. “What sunless perdition is this?” she managed to whisper.
“Now ye be askin’ the right questions. And I be the one with answers. After all, it be these hands who conjured this very tunnel and the room we be occupyin’ . . . that invoked the enchanted doorway leadin’ here from the Crystal Lake. And the creature that guards it be crafted of a dying man’s nightmares . . . stolen, as ye might’ve guessed, at these hands. Allow me to introduce meself proper.” The witch waved her withered palms in a flourish as grand as she could manage with shackles. “Cronatia Wisteria—Eldoria’s enchantress, at yer service.”
Griselda couldn’t tear her gaze from the mirror. “You lie. There’s no such name in our kingdom’s history . . .”
“Ah, but there’s no denyin’ there be an anonymous enchantress who served King Kreśimer, aye?”
Griselda’s chin dropped. Luce had suspected this room belonged to an enchantress. And hadn’t Prime Minister Albous mentioned something of the sort when he started teaching Lyra sign language? That he’d seen a reference to such a being under the castle’s employ, centuries before, when they still had a night sky? By the title, Griselda assumed it referred to some exquisite sorceress, not a hideous, gnarled old hag. But there wasn’t a description, and all other mentions had been blotted out.
The only reason anyone’s name would be blotted out was for betraying the royal kingdom. Crony’s admission years earlier in the dungeon: The debt I owe not be yers. It belong to King Kiran’s royal seed. It never occurred to Griselda to analyze those words, to think of them as anything but empty insults about her lack of a crown.
“May-let ye still don’t understand. The Plebeian’s Grimoire . . . found for ye within this very room . . . be mine.” Crony’s words swept the moan that rose to Griselda’s tongue back into her throat where it lodged within a rise of bile. “Though to be fair to our air elemental, he didn’t know me as its author back then. In fact, he didn’t know me at all.”
“A mistake . . . ?” Griselda mumbled. “Elusion gave me your book . . . completely by mistake?”
“Nay. That be fate. The mistake is on ye. Ye chose not to respect the rules of spellcasting. It be a give-and-take. Every grimoire has a hand that writ it. And that hand holds the key to cipherin’ all its secrets and edicts.” Crony’s murky eyes strayed to Griselda’s head. “The recipe calls for antlers culled beneath a new moon.”
“But . . . I made the smugglers follow that instruction to the letter . . . each time.”
“Fool. That not be referrin’ to an actual moon. It be what we call the brumal stags’ seasonal molting, painless to the creature and in step with its species. Had ye understood the language of magic, the reciprocity of nature, ye would ne’er have butchered a peaceful animal for yer own gain. It be as easy as gatherin’ the molted antlers off the ground. See, a poison be released when a wild, enchanted being is attacked. Though it’s buildup be slow, in the end, it’s a grand penalty for any spellbinder’s impatience and ignorance.”
Griselda sobbed, her head pounding as the horns pulsed and grew before her eyes. They were now as long as her pinky. “Is there a cure? You owe a debt to me! You betrayed Eldoria!”
Crony’s silhouette sat flat on her haunches. “Nay. I betrayed meself and one I loved, and the whole world suffered for it. As for yer predicament, ye need only some practice to wear horns with grace. I’d offer to tutor ye, but afraid I don’t be likin’ ye enough.” She smirked—a horrific expression Griselda caught in the mirror. It sent her to her knees, face-to-face with her own warped image. “Take yer medicine, Regent. Ye be reapin’ the rewards of dabbling in things beyond yer ken. Or may-let beyond yer kinship. Would’ve ne’er happened, had ye had a mentor. But ye were too strong to need help from anyone, aye? Such arrogant frippery. Don’t ye see? It take more strength to humble yerself and reach for another’s wisdom, than it do to plummet into the unknown without gripping the proffered hand for anchorage.”
Griselda’s eyes burned. Lustacia’s complaints about headaches over the past few months. Could it mean . . . ?
“And now ye be wonderin’, as well ye should, if the moonlit princess ye carved of lies and lineage will share yer penalty for this error in judgement. The answer be yes.”
Griselda swallowed against that thickening lump in her throat. It tasted gritty and foul—like the putrescence of overturned graves. She smacked her lips, trying to cleanse her palate.
“Be that regret upon yer tongue? Hard to know, I’m sure. As ye’ve no conscience to guide ye in the sampling of sin and remorse.”
Griselda’s chest caved on a choking groan. How did the witch know about her missing conscience? Elusion must’ve told her. Or had the shrouds mentioned it when she’d handed off Nicolet’s memory? More importantly, how did she know about the princess being a fake, that it was one of Griselda’s own daughters?
Griselda’s sagging lips formed the inquiries, but her tongue wouldn’t comply. Hand trembling, she reached toward the glass to touch her hideous, horned reflection, slicing her finger on a serrated edge. The vision of her blood—red and glossy—grounded her. Whatever this curse, it was limited to her outer appearance, not her inward workings.
“Antlers can be cut off as easily as a wart,” she assured herself aloud.
“Not so easily, as they be a part of the skull. May-let an axe would prove effective. But I doubt yer princess will concede to such gory tactics afore the nuptials. Isn’t the coronation to take place first? What will her betrothed say, when there be no balancin’ a crown on her uneven head? Upon finding she be responsible for maiming his treasured gatekeepers, do ye think he’ll still wish to wed her?” The witch clucked her tongue. “All along ye be sure ye pulled it off. Ye ne’er once considered the prophecy might be bidin’ time, awaiting the perfect moment to right all ye’ve put wrong.”
Griselda slumped; was it true? Had she failed? Lustacia had experienced the strange headaches after her. The buildup was slow. Perhaps there was still a chance, if she could expedite the wedding. Have it before the coronation. Every Eldorian bride wore flowers woven through her hair, which would cover any bumps. Griselda could widen her own hennin for the ceremony . . . that would hide her sins long enough to see them wed. Then afterward, she would find a spell to reverse it all. Eldoria’s trio of mages owed their fealty to their queen. Surely they could help.
She veered her gaze to the witch who was chortling softly as if she’d won.
It was then Griselda saw it glistening in the soft light: a seam of black wetness along Crony’s wrists and ankles where the cuffs sliced into her hide. Sucking in a breath, Griselda spun on her knees to face her. “Your hide has softened.” Her trembling, cut finger pointed to the witch’s raw skin. “You bleed just like me.”
It took only a moment to formulate the plan: break off a shard of glass from the mirror and plunge it into Crony’s heart—but the door pushed open with a screech before Griselda could move.
Erwan’s face greeted her from the other side, drawn and panicked.
The regent hurriedly arranged her brai
ds atop her head to hide her horns. She put on her gloves and stood, bolstered by the witch’s vulnerability. “Have you finished already?” she asked, prompting the reluctant knight to speak.
“There’s been a delay, Your Grace. A creature . . . a snowy cyclops crow . . . it brought word that the prince is on his way to Nerezeth—dying. The gruesome bird flew through the corridors, seeking Lady Lyra. Its infernal screeches awoke her, along with everyone in the castle. The council members and servants are all risen now, preparing with their families for the journey. Prime Minister Albous . . . he’s leading Nerezeth’s entourage down here to collect you.”
“I will go out and meet them on the stairs.”
“But our plan . . .”
Griselda’s attention strayed to the baldric at his side and the sword within it. “The plans have changed. It would seem our witch is no longer immortal. Thrust your blade through her heart. Her corpse can rot here. All minds are on the prince now. Cronatia Wisteria was once forgotten . . . blotted out from the pages of Eldoria’s history.” Griselda shot a glance toward the broken mirror behind her, then sneered at the witch’s image looking back from the glass. “Her future is a mere reflection of her past.” Upon gathering her fallen hennin and stepping across the threshold, Griselda dug into her pocket and handed one fiery orb to her knight, along with two final demands. “Do not leave until she takes her last breath. Then once she’s dead, ignite the sylph elm.”
23
The Wonderment of Pebbles and Decay
Luce’s army was both small in number and made up of misfits from the dark market.
Toothless Edith and Winkle, the woodland dwarf, came along due to their extreme dislike of Regent Griselda, having butted heads with her when she was a young, spoiled princess. Winkle, who barely came to Stain’s waist, had braided his long moustache into his beard to emulate whiskers that complimented his bunny suit. The small wooden box tucked beneath his left arm contained rats, as indicated by the scratches and squeaks within. He planned to turn them loose in the regent’s bed. Edith was dressed in a clean tunic and breeches like Stain. In one hand, she held her enchanted mirror. In the other was a basket covered with a cloth too thin to smother the stench underneath—worse than moldy cabbage and skunkweed combined. The paste, made of cow cud crackers and fermented dung beetle saliva, would be stirred into Griselda’s next meal.
Neither knew how or when they’d enact their plans, but anything they might do to belittle, terrorize, or frustrate Griselda along the way—such as helping a prisoner escape her keep—was high on their priority list. Dregs, walking tall in his pedestal shoes, came with a more selfless motive—shocking as that was for a hoarfrost goblin. His cousin, a smuggler named Slush, had some long-standing business with the regent, of which Slush never gave details. He and his crew had planned to meet Dregs the previous day for a drink at the Wayward Tavern, to celebrate the conclusion of those dealings. When they failed to appear, Dregs suspected they’d crossed the regent and been thrown into a cell alongside Crony. He had come to free them and send them back to Nerezeth.
The sunlit journey out of the ravine—one that Stain never imagined she would take—was bittersweet. The sky rose above her, endless and beckoning. She wanted to run toward the banks of the Crystal Lake at breakneck speed, wanted Scorch to be there alongside her. Instead, the day’s many losses and what awaited in Eldoria tainted the experience. Still, being outside the oppressive forest in the open air, daylight, and soft grass, her footsteps lifted higher, freed from gray billows of ash.
Stain’s body pulsed with energy—beyond what the quick supper of cheese, bread, and tea Luce had thrust upon her at home could’ve sparked. Sound became a living thing in the meadow all around her. Fluttering butterflies, chittering squirrels, gurgling water, and most of all, trilling birds. Their melodies charmed a sympathetic twinge within her throat, running deep into the dip between her clavicle. Unable to follow their notes with her own vocal cords, she fell into a quiet despair. She was as voiceless as the wind, yet held none of its power to alter the world with its presence.
The colors renewed her sense of wonder, momentarily. No one ever told her that one could taste color. Even muted behind the nightsky, green became the flavor of moss, fresh rain, and spring flowers. Blue was next, riding a lake-scented breeze that caused the nightsky to stick to her eyelashes before the magical cloth remembered to change positions and hover freely around her face. The rainbow-scaled fish that leapt in and out of the lake formed a prismatic tang upon her tongue. And then followed white, as clean as the plumed wings of swans, guiding them down from the sky to float atop ripples left in the fish’s wake.
She passed Luce upon their arrival. Her fingers raked his, the nightsky molding around their joined hands for an instant until she pulled free. She shared his ache to fly, an even deeper yearning now with her Pegasus gone.
Luce readjusted the bag upon his back and started forward once more, going slower so their three accomplices could catch up.
Stain braved sliding down to the margins where gray and pink pebbles crunched beneath her feet. Their pale shades tasted of comfort, warm even through her boot soles. And then she noticed it, the most extraordinary flavor of all: yellow. Sunrays imprinted their shimmer on her cape—comforting like a sip of spiced cider, a horse’s musky hide after a brisk run, or her fingertips in that moment before they sizzled, aglow with the promise of life. She impressed that moment of true light upon her heart . . . on the chance she and her companions might be thrown into the dungeon, unable to ever sample the delicacy again.
On the other side of a small hill, the castle came into view. In earlier years, Stain had climbed trees to see out of the ravine’s sunken bowl, glimpsing Eldoria through tightly knitted branches and thick leaves. Back then, the honeysuckle growth had only begun and the kingdom remained resplendent with its sparkling white fortress skirted by well-kempt cottages, plentiful farms and gardens, and busy thoroughfares. Today the castle still jutted from the epicenter, but its gleaming windows, glittering walls, and elegant towers and turrets were smothered by nettled, drossy vines; the same plague strangled every cottage and thoroughfare like a rumpled green skirt. The honeysuckle—a deep, bloody pink from the rain—hung in clusters like plump leeches, sucking away hope and freedom. And the jarring buzz of bees could be heard even from afar. Instead of a thriving metropolis, Eldoria now resembled the ruins of some ancient, forgotten place fallen to hazard and woe—an architectural boon of mankind reclaimed by nature in its most unnatural form.
The kingdom’s isolation affected Stain as if it called to her, as if it belonged to her. How she wished she could thrust her fingers into those bristly vines and renew the beauty and majesty that lay dormant beneath. But that honor belonged to the prophesied prince and princess. She had no part beyond this moment: rescuing Crony and seeing her safely back to the ravine where they would live in seclusion for the rest of their days. Yet she longed for a role in grander schemes. Interactions with the people of this land. A life of consequence like the one spread out at the tender, privileged feet of the princess.
At last, Stain and her companions arrived at the doorway to the secret tunnel leading into the dungeon. Though instead of a doorway, it was a deep, dark pit. An untrained eye couldn’t see it, hidden as it was by an outcropping of mossy rock slanted like a roof at the edge of the lake. The hole—brimming with water—favored a wishing well and had the same proclivity to prey upon a mind’s fancies. Stain peered within then leapt back when a sea serpent’s scaly coils rippled, stirring a formidable wave. A giant head surfaced with fangs opened on a hiss—as chilling and fetid as a demon’s breath—that plastered her hood to her skin.
“You’ll need this to clear the way,” Luce said, withdrawing a hand from his pocket.
Me? She mimed the word with quivering lips.
“I can’t open this door. You have to do it. Drop the key onto the serpent’s tongue.”
She shuddered at the thought of facing the fange
d creature alone. But Luce wouldn’t pass off the task unless he had no choice. He wanted to save their friend as much as her.
Trembling, she held out her upturned palm.
Much like the doorway wasn’t a doorway, the key Luce dropped into her palm was little more than a pebble. Leaning over, Stain held her breath and waited for the snake’s reappearance. Its head lifted and its jaws unhinged. Stain tossed the pebble onto a forked tongue the size of a shovel. The serpent clamped its fangs shut and submerged once more.
Stain stood beside Luce, her skin chilled with nervous prickles, wondering what would happen next. She hadn’t long to wait before the entire scene below resolved to steam. Once the mist cleared, all the water had dissipated. A glistening white stairway came into sight, winding far into the dark pit, formed of the serpent’s coils now hardened to a statue of salt. Either the snake had been an illusion, or a shifting, spectral guardian who had an appetite for stone and once satiated, repaid the favor with safe entrance.
Luce admitted to not being sure either way, and when asked by Stain where he got the pebble, cryptically replied, “It’s a typical piece of rock, soaked in a mixture of brine along with a bloody thorn pulled from a mongoose’s paw, and a few other arcane ingredients. I found the recipe upon the pages of a grimoire years ago . . . perhaps I’ll show you one day, should that book ever reach its rightful owner again.”
Luce lit a torch and led the way. Stain took the first few steps down behind him. As soon as she was out of the sun’s reach, she lifted off her hood. The cape’s nightsky elements withdrew into the silk—leaving her face and hands bared once more. From there, she took the long stairway with her four compatriots as the cape’s lace hem swished freely at her ankles.
Luce was quiet. Stain knew his moods well and dreaded what he must: that Eldoria’s mages had already imprisoned Crony in some perpetual form of torture, leaving them helpless to intervene.