by A. G. Howard
The room fell to pitch-black. Stain’s shadows whirled at her command, their gusts snuffing out the torch and leaving only her eyes reflected back from the mirror, slicing through the darkness like shards of voltaic amber.
She spun as the shadows piled upon the screaming knight. Bury him, came the thought unbidden. Bury him like he’d tried to bury me. If she had the power, she would’ve carried him to the ravine, let his sins fill the forest’s lowlands with enough ashes to reach the sky.
Eat him alive.
Upon her charge, the shadows pounded him with isolated bursts of wind, shredding his uniform, ripping at his hair, tearing the loosened bloody tufts from his scalp. He struggled against the shackles at his ankles.
Stain ground her teeth and stepped closer as the crickets slipped off her head. Hopping along the ground, they migrated with the moths to find safety under the discarded gowns.
He wants to stand . . . help him. Stain waved an arm and lifted it high.
Her shadows jerked the knight up so he hovered on bleak gusts of air, nailed in place by the chains at his feet. He begged for mercy again as the shreds of his surcoat twisted around him. His arms flailed, his head bobbed front to back. Spotlighted in the dim glow of her eyes, he looked like a wooden puppet frayed by too much play . . . loved to the point of rot and ruin. She wondered how much real damage her shadows could wreak, if they had the power to tear him apart at the seams.
The violent thought both frightened and tantalized her.
Scorch’s harsh wisdom returned, having burned its brand upon her heart: “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.”
How she wanted him here now, to show her the way to brutality. Her mouth stretched on a soundless, frustrated wail and the shadows reacted, tugging the knight’s upper torso back and forth in midair like an inverted pendulum. If she allowed them to drop him, his skull would hit the ground with a cracking thud.
“Ye need him alive.” Crony’s voice broke through, a bright beam piercing the savage murkiness of Stain’s thoughts. Her guardians had been whispering in their dark corner throughout her rampage, but so intent on revenge, she pushed them out of her mind. As if to bring clarity full circle, the torch relit, revealing Luce and Crony standing beside it—sympathy shifting over their features with each flicker of firelight.
“Let the man speak, wee one.”
Stain commanded the shadows to unlock his shackles. Luce stepped through the receding gusts of wind to lift the knight by his torn surcoat. He held him pressed to the wall—the torch inches from his head—hot and imposing.
Sobbing, Erwan covered his muddy, bloodstained face with his fingers.
Luce exchanged glances with Stain, his eyes as bright with bloodlust as hers had been moments before in the mirror. “She has every right to vanquish him.” He directed the statement to Crony. “If she needs to keep her hands clean, let me be the executioner.” Gripping Erwan’s hair, Luce jerked his head to one side to expose his jugular. “You can get her answers from his final memories as he dies.”
Crony placed a hand on his tense shoulder. “Nay. He must be the one to give them willingly without me usin’ me memory magic. It be the only way.”
The knight stopped sobbing then, at last realizing he might yet live. He collapsed in Luce’s hold, limbs limp and forehead resting on the slyph’s shoulder. His fight with the shadows had cost him his bodily functions, and the urine dampening his pant legs commingled with dirt and rose petals to form a moldering malodor.
Luce crinkled his nose. “You disgust me, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’ve the standards of a flea-bitten dog.” His jaw twitched and he met Stain’s glare. “What say you, Majesty? Do I release this maggot, or hold him for you as you enact your fury? I will do as you bid.”
Lyra took a breath. Majesty. Luce said it differently than the knight. Not with fear, but with veneration. It calmed her, renewed that part of herself that had always hated violence, despite that she’d been abused and lost her memories.
Her attention returned to the royal portrait. This father was kind. She could see it in his gentle mien. His coloring reminded her of Vesper: russet complexion and dark gaze. The princess who barely came to his waist was vastly different—a colorless face and winter-shade eyes, her gauzy gown pale against the vivid depth of his velvet surcoat, gold belt, and crimson stockings. Yet the child was smiling. She knew she was accepted and loved, and there was no mistaking by whom. Paternal ownership warmed the king’s own smile as he looked down on her—a genuine pride obvious even in the torchlight.
That king wanted his princess to have a wondrous future . . . to be revered for her heart, for her soul. To earn her subjects’ devotion. Even without remembering him, the image said this much to Stain. This king wouldn’t have given in to brutal passions.
But who was this king? If Stain was a princess . . . which princess might she be? Sir Erwan said she didn’t have a voice when he’d cast her out, and since a songbird princess lived within these ivory walls already, who did that leave? Was Stain a cousin, a sister?
She knew nothing about the royal family’s history.
Crony was right. She needed answers . . .
Who am I? Stain signed the question to the knight, her fingers wobbly.
“Tell her,” Luce interpreted the hand signals, “her given name.”
Erwan’s head lolled off Luce’s shoulder. The man let it hang there until Luce shook him. “Answer, swine, and answer truthfully. Elsewise, I’ll turn you back over to the shadows and feast upon what’s left of your carcass after they’re done skinning you alive.”
Erwan answered hoarsely. “You are . . . Lyra of the House of Eyvindur. The one true daughter of King Kiran and Queen Arael. The princess of the prophecy.”
Stain clamped a hand across her lips. Eldoria’s king and queen, rumored to be kind and noble rulers, had died years ago. To know she was theirs cut deep—severed the threads that had held together any hope to find her parents one day, any chance to feel what is was like to be in their arms.
Her throat swelled with suppressed sobs, yet even in grief, she grasped the full scope of the knight’s confession. She was the true princess of Eldoria.
Not Stain. Lyra. She wrapped herself within the name, wearing it like armor, drawing strength from the power behind it; strength enough to face all of the truth.
Where? She pointed to her throat, fury and agony simmering just below the surface. Her shadows drifted closer, held at bay but ready to act.
Luce shoved the knight’s body higher against the wall. “Lady Lyra wants to know what became of her birdsong voice. I’m rather interested in that detail myself.”
The knight covered his neck and stared at Luce’s snarling teeth, obviously fearing his own throat’s fate should he answer.
Lyra bid Luce to release the knight and step back. Cursing, Luce conceded.
Erwan slid to the floor and cringed at the imposing shadows. “It was stolen from you with an enchanted device . . . and given to another.” He braved a glance at the gowns draped around the room. “These dresses hide your keepsakes. The lots of your life from the time before you left. They were stashed here because she couldn’t bear to look upon them, to face what she’d taken from you.”
She? Lyra mimed the word between gritted teeth, moving into the light so the knight could see her lips.
“The other princess, Lustacia . . . your cousin who took your place. She went along with it, but only for love of the prince. She has regrets, unlike . . .” The knight slumped, the emotional and physical stress taking a toll.
Luce growled. “Spill the names of any accomplices, and we’ll let you rest.”
“Sir Bartley, the Regent Griselda, and her three daughters—your aunt and cousins.” Erwan murmured the last part in Lyra’s direction, his head dropping into his hands. “But everything was done at the regent’s command.”
A growl curdled low in Luce’s throat. “Ah, there’s more than one singing bird in this castle. Though the regent will be none too happy when she hears how prettily you crooned today. And I get to be the one to tell her.”
“She’s not here to tell!” Erwan shouted, flinging his hands from his face. “They’ve already left for Nerezeth; the wedding is to take place upon their arrival. Only a handful of Eldorian guards stayed behind to watch the castle . . . none of whom know anything about this. Should you tell them—they won’t believe you. They’ve already seen and heard the princess of the prophecy; she has all the traits. Looks enough like the child in the portraits to convince anyone. She even has shadow guards. And they’re too far ahead. You’ll never catch up . . . never make it to Nerezeth in time to plead your case before the wedding.”
Luce forced him up again so they were nose to nose. He sneered, sharp white points pressing into his lower lip. “I will if I fly.”
Lyra took a broken breath, wondering what she could possibly have done as a child to warrant such treatment from her own family. She sought Crony’s tender muddy gaze, her roughened arms, her scent of myrrh and decaying flowers.
Crony stepped forward and cradled Lyra’s chin in her withered hands, waiting.
Why did my aunt hate me so? Lyra signed. To take everything from me?
Crony drew her close. Lyra melted into her. Crony’s scabrous fingers smoothed her scalp, catching upon the fuzz. “Some people harbor so much thorns inside, it strangles out all the beauty. The kingdom under yer aunt’s keep—smothered by nettles and vines—be a reflection of her heart. A rosebush with nary a rose. It weren’t ye that caused it. It were her own dark devices and hatred that drived her. That ugliness be makin’ its way out as we speak. It’ll be what vanquishes her in the end. Have faith in that.”
Lyra snuggled deeper into the embrace. Her shadows sank to the floor around her. The crickets and moths crept out to join them.
“You’ll never win . . . the regent always has an alternate plan,” Erwan grumbled.
Luce cuffed the side of his head, eliciting a yelp. “That’s why I’m here, lump. To be the crimp in all her plans.” He tossed a glance to Crony. “Now? Are we done? Is he mine?”
“Aye, he be yers. But I’d rethink killin’ him. Take him with us to seek out the sylph elm. We need yer wings and can’t afford any holdups. Though the castle be mostly abandoned, we may happen upon a guard or two. He can be an asset.”
Luce lifted Erwan’s face. “Yes, an asset. All you need is motivation.” He caressed the side of the knight’s face as a lover would, then lulled his voice to that silken cord of persuasion. “I’m intimately aware of Lady Griselda’s charms. How she excels in controlling the men of her life. Look at all she coerced you into doing. She’ll never take the blame without dragging you down, too.”
Erwan caught a breath—captured in Luce’s spell. “I tried to tell her she was growing too brash,” he answered. “She never listened.”
“Of course you did,” Luce agreed through a sneer. “No doubt you’ll lose your head over this. Wouldn’t it be delectable, if first you could have the upper hand just once? Go out like a man. Shake her tree and rattle some branches. What say?”
“Yes, a man.” Erwan’s response was threaded with a dreamlike quality. “She needs to see me as a man.”
Stain had seen Luce use his sylphin charms before, digging into a victim’s mind to discover their hidden desires. Erwan had obviously harbored hostility against Griselda for drawing him into this dangerous plan, and the regent’s mistreatment of him nurtured the grudge.
Luce’s ability to persuade and entice made him all the more dangerous in his aerial form, when he could be heard without being seen, when he could trick his prey into thinking he was their own inner voice. Were he to get his wings back today, to become ethereal again, he would be a formidable ally for Lyra’s rise against the fake princess.
But why were his wings here? Had the regent played a part in his punishment? Did it have something to do with Luce saving her from the shrouds? Why would he have saved her in the first place? The woman appeared to poison every life she touched. But still reeling from her own discoveries, Lyra couldn’t find the strength to ask such questions.
“Ready to go?” Luce asked his victim.
Erwan nodded, entranced.
Luce glanced Lyra’s way. “You are not alone. We’re with you, to the end.” He tipped his head to Crony, then dragged Erwan across the room and flung open the door. The three shopkeepers toppled in, having had their ears pressed to the wood.
They scrambled to their feet and gawked at Lyra.
“Ya ain’t no boy, you’re a long-lotht printheth!” Edith was the first to speak. She turned to Winkle. “She one of uth! She wath wronged by Lady Grithelda.”
“We’ll avenge you, Highness!” Winkle squeaked and bounced around the knight in a fit of rage, his bunny ears wriggling.
Dregs gawked at the shadows, crickets and moths surrounding Lyra, his bulbous eyes round as tea saucers. “A child of the day realm holding sway over the night’s helm. Indeed, our slates be writ by the fates.”
All three of them exchanged stunned glances, then dropped to their knees. Upon forcing the knight to kneel, Luce did the same.
Lyra stepped forward. Thank you, she mimed, wanting more than ever to shout—in grief, in fury, in gratitude.
Crony waved to the open door. “Dregs and Winkle, ye two go with Luce. I be behind ye shortly. Edith, stay outside the door. I’ve a proposal for ye.”
Everyone left, leaving only Lyra and Crony. Once the door clicked closed, Lyra spun, bidding her shadows to whisk through the room and drag the tattered gowns from the items hidden along the walls. She touched all they unveiled: more portraits—some of her queenly mother with a bump in her belly that would one day be her, then others of both her parents, young enough to be newly wed, looking at one another adoringly, as flawless and beautiful as polished copper statues; a small tower of panacea roses—stems tied with silver ribbon and petals withering and curled; and a stack of black parchment letters, each with the title Princess Lyra and a date written in golden ink on the front.
Lyra examined her golden-tipped fingers. Only hours before, the prince had spattered his sparkling blood upon matching papers in the ravine. She walked to the pile and lifted one. The royal seal of Nerezeth—a silver-wax crescent moon beside a nine-pronged star—was broken on all the letters. They’d been opened, read and answered by someone other than her. Someone pretending to be her.
Feeling Crony come up from behind, she turned. I saw the mother shroud today. The words tumbled from her hands. When I ran away from you and Luce, I went to her lair seeking answers of my past. She predicted this . . . that there was more to me than I knew. She said to know myself, I’d need to have hair of steel and tears of stone, that I’d need to prove hard enough to wrap myself in spikes, yet soft enough to walk through stars without crushing their legs. What does that mean? It all sounds impossible.
Crony’s transparent eyelids widened, indicating more interest than surprise. “I’ve ev’ry faith ye can do the impossible. Ye proved it by yer will to o’ercome death when I found ye.”
You knew all along. This is why you and Luce taught me about the outside world, about being diplomatic and making peace with others. You knew I was heir to Eldoria. Why did you take my memories, Crony? Where are they? Why do you keep them from me still?
Crony averted her gaze, regret weighing upon her serpentine features. “That be the only way I could bring yer soul back from the dead, by pilferin’ yer memories of being alive. I can’t be sayin’ more than that. Might it be enough, that Luce and me saved ye and cared for ye?”
Lyra squeezed her fingers into knots, then nodded. After everything that had happened in this room, she understood there was something beyond the witch’s power that held her within its thrall. A nightmare of her own that she couldn’t outrun.
“Good.” Crony caught
her hands. “I be seein’ that ye’ll get yer past back. But first, ye must win all that’s yers in the present. Ye must be strong enough to claim it without yer memories. Remembrance be yer reward in the end.”
Lyra clenched her teeth, inspecting her reflection again: scruffy-headed, gray-tinged scarred skin, dusty tunic and breeches.
How am I to be a queen, when I know nothing of ruling? How am I to prove I’m a princess to any kingdom . . . the princess, no less? I look nothing like the prophecy dictates. And I’ve no nightingale’s song bursting from my lips. I’m unremarkable in every way.
“Ah, but ye can learn to rule, when yer heart already be wise and merciful. And ye can spit and polish to look the part of royalty. That be yer advantage o’er yer impersonator. No matter what be on the outside, one can’t change their innards. Ye are Prince Vesper’s singular match, for yer strengths balance his own, just as the prophecy say. When it come down to it, that be more important than any external shell, aye?”
Lyra caught a sharp breath. Scorch had said similar words, all the years they ran together. Her dear, precious Scorch . . .
As if reading her pained expression, Crony drew closer. “Are ye thinkin’ of all ye be leavin’ behind in the forest?”
Lyra sighed, forcing herself to relay what she could hardly bear to remember. I’m not leaving Scorch behind. He died . . . but he didn’t. His essence united with the prince when they both fell in the moon-bog. There was some dark magic at work. She felt ridiculous trying to explain. It doesn’t make sense. But it’s true . . . I lost him already.
Crony shook her head. “May-let ye only thought ye lost him. May-let the magic was within the prince himself, and ye gained them both.” She withdrew a black letter, not from the pile, but from her cloak. It was addressed to Lyra, like all the others, and was dated three years earlier.
Lyra took it, raising a puzzled brow.
“Sir Erwan and me had a bit o’ time in this room alone, awaitin’ rescue. When the knight was in his thrall, I bade him into handin’ me some letters.” She shrugged. “This one I found most interestin’, more so now.”