by A. G. Howard
Lyra ran her fingertips along the golden script. The ink leapt up in response, as though it was magnetized and her fingers were metal. It lit her skin, warming it with needlepoint stings—an encroaching sensation that filled her from head to toes. She broke loose and the ink fell back onto the paper, reshaping the words:
My Dear Princess Lyra,
I hope this finds you well. I was encouraged to hear of Prime Minister Albous’s work with you on your signing. I understand what it’s like to be hindered in communications with others. Since the moment of my curse, I’ve lost the ability to speak mentally, mind-to-mind, with my people. Perchance one day I may learn to use your ancient signings myself—for my subjects, and for you and me, so we might communicate easily. You asked in your last note how I came to be cursed two years ago; it was an arrogant impulse. The day my lord father died, I swallowed sunlight to become powerful enough to heal my people on my own; instead, I almost followed my king’s eternal passage to the stars. Nerezeth’s sorceress saved me. I had a dream while under her spell, that something hovered above me with wings of shadow and fire, but then it slipped from my view before my ensorcelled mind could reason it out. When I awoke, I felt incomplete. The only thing that gave me peace was your song; upon hearing it, I knew that finding you would make me whole again. So, in return for this great gift, I hope to make you stronger and able to face the sun. These letters are written in my blood, rich with sunshine. We’ve found that it has the ability to desensitize Nerezethites to daylight. And as you are so alike them in that way, I’m hoping touching these letters will enable us to share a dance upon my arrival to Eldoria. To not only join lives, but to join hands as an example to our kingdoms.
Yours in both night and day,
Prince Vesper
Lyra froze as bits and pieces of the prince’s explanations in the moon-bog made sense: The part of me I thought I’d lost was here all along, with you, having silent conversations. Vesper had said he didn’t kill Scorch; he’d been so sure of it: I am him . . . your beastly brawn. I’ve been him all along.
Gasping, Lyra looked up at her guardian.
“Aye, there indeed be magic at play, wee one. But it started five years afore, when his spirit split in twain.”
Lyra folded the letter, overcome. It was too much . . . too much all at once.
Crony picked up a wilted rose and sniffed it. “Our arrogant Pegasus seem to have a carin’ side after all. It remained in Nerezeth with the prince. A boy who learnt to speak in sign for a girl he’d yet to meet, and drained his blood letter after letter, just so he might touch her.”
Lyra couldn’t respond. She’d suspected the prince was a good man after eavesdropping earlier. Still, she left him when he was hurting and confused . . . she ran because she couldn’t face the pain of her truest friend being locked within him, and torn from her forever.
Regret, deep and winding, strangled her heartbeat. She clutched the note tighter and dropped to her knees. One corner of the parchment curled down, exposing the script again. Ink touched her skin, tinting it gold like the prince’s. She moved her hands to the withered roses piled beside her, draining the sunlight out of herself until the blooms burst with new life. Her shoulders slumped, body weak and aching from the effort.
Crony clucked her forked tongue. “Methinks ye had time to read one of these letters, afore ye were put in a coffin and left for dead. The prince shared his blood to help ye. But may-let the fates had another purpose in mind—to help him.”
Crony’s words struck Lyra’s conscience. She asked herself again, just as she had in the moon-bog: Could she drain the sunlight from the prince and release it elsewhere, act as a conduit to cure him?
Fear skittered through her spine upon considering how weary she felt already. Would she survive such a monumental transaction? But knowing he was Scorch—the one she’d laughed, quarreled, and ran with over the past five years—made the question moot. She loved him enough to try.
I should’ve saved him already, she told Crony. She dragged a velvety rose into her lap, its perfume taunting and accusatory. I just left him there. I didn’t think it possible. How could it have been possible? How can any of it be?
“Magic be boundless. Consider how the prophecy found a way to unite its prince and princess, in spite of others’ meddlin’ hands. How it give ye time to know one another . . . to become helpmates, friends—”
Equals. Lyra’s fingers finished Crony’s thought. What if Vesper marries the imposter before I make it there? He doesn’t know I’m Lyra. He thinks she is, that she’ll heal him. What if I’ve lost him already?
Her guardian took her hands in hers. “As a foundling girl, ye loved a horse who all along was a boy. And now that ye know, yer afeard of that love bein’ one-sided enough he’d marry another over ye? That horse still live within him. He’ll crash through walls, shatter bones, and defy his destiny to be with his quiet, orphan girl. Ye had the courage to save him as a Pegasus. Tell me, what lengths will ye go to, to save him as the man?”
I’ll do anything. Lyra’s latent ferocity reappeared. She rubbed her nose, feeling as inept as Vesper about how the two of them could possibly fix the disjointed skies. I’ve moonlight in my blood, and the prince has sunlight in his. Is this how the sky will be united? When I save him?
“The pieces’ll fall into place as they will. All ye need do is concentrate on helpin’ the prince.” Crony smiled then—that turn of wormy lips and pointed teeth that brought soldiers to their knees.
Yet it was that smile that gave Lyra strength to stand, her legs no longer shaky. It was that smile that had built her up from a nameless orphan to a member of the forest . . . one who served a purpose and had a family. And today it would give her strength to be the princess Vesper and their two kingdoms needed.
She hugged Crony again, long enough to feel their heartbeats hammering between them. Forcing herself to break the embrace, she signed: Thank you for saving me; for giving me a home. Such a great sacrifice for a free-spirited harrower witch and a sylphin fox.
“Nay, it be a great honor, wee one.” Her rough fingers tilted Lyra’s chin high. “Hold yerself up as the princess ye be. If ye believe it, so will they.” She motioned to the pile of letters. “Now learn the prince’s side of yer beast’s heart. Then clean yerself and prepare. When Luce returns, ye two will leave for Nerezeth.”
You mean when Luce returns, we all leave, right? Lyra gesticulated.
“I’ve me own role to play, here in this realm.” With that, she stepped over to the shelves on the wall and took down several jars. Placing them in a box on the ground, she returned her attention to Lyra. “It will work out best this way, ye’ll see.”
Lyra sensed something ominous in the response. As the witch started toward the door, she turned one last time to look at Lyra.
Lyra moved her fingers: I’ll see you soon . . .
Crony tipped her horns to one side then limped out.
I love you, breathed Lyra before the door closed. Knowing Crony hadn’t heard, Lyra commanded her crickets to squeeze under the threshold and follow the harrower witch. She had bargained them for Crony, so they belonged to her; they would stay with her, sing to her, and keep her company until Lyra and Luce returned.
That gave Lyra some small comfort.
Clean up . . . prepare. She stripped down and washed off with the water supply in her saddlebag, rubbing herself dry with rose petals. The clumps of discarded clothing and gowns, frayed and moth-eaten, awaited. After looking for some fresh undergarments, she sought the dress her mother had worn in the portrait as a young newlywed queen. Nose tickling from the mustiness, Lyra stepped into the gauzy, torn silk, the same pink shade as pebbles at the Crystal Lake. She tucked the talisman of Crony’s hair beneath the neckline, then covered the gown with its velvet tunic, as emerald green as the grass she’d walked on today. Embroidery and tattered lace bedecked the neckline and hems—like sprawling vines and withered petals. At one time there were beads and gems, but they’d
been plucked away, leaving frayed threads.
This gown used to be spectacular, yet looking at herself in the mirror, scarred and scalped, with dirty boots upon her feet in place of elegant slippers, it fit her better as lovely rags. Disrepair complemented her peculiarities in the same way perfection would’ve detracted from them.
Humility warmed her cheeks, giving the veins beneath her skin prominence even through the gray tinge. She looked nothing like her parents, and never would. All she could hope for was to look like herself, that one day the grayish tinge would wear away so her moonlit complexion could glow again. Her flaws stood out vivid against the gray. Each scar had a story to tell, each bruise and scratch was the beginning of another—evidence of a subtle strength. Perhaps that was the true reflection of her mother and father.
She mimed a mantra while sorting through Vesper’s many notes: My prince. My kingdom. My life. Her battle cry, silent but empowering. The moths took flight around her, echoing with their wings: My life, my life, my life.
At last she understood her calling, her identity. She would make her parents proud . . . reclaim what had been stolen, save the night realm’s prince, and unite the sun with the moon—whatever it took to see it all done.
25
Of Life and Death
Eldoria’s military—over two hundred strong—escorted Griselda and the princess’s retinue to Nerezeth’s iron stairway on regal blood-bay stallions. The infantry wielded halberd blades to cut paths through the honeysuckle for the wedding entourage. Upon arrival at the stairway, half the soldiers stayed at the base of Mount Astra, camping outside the panacea rose hedgerows to await the new king and their queen’s triumphant return. The other half accompanied the entourage across the night realm’s snowy terrain and to the obsidian fortress. Queen Nova sent her own infantry—though scanter in number due to illness—to meet their Eldorian guests and assure they had safe passage down the stairs and through the Grim. She opened her drawbridge without question, the welfare of her son her upmost priority. There was a blood pact upholding the peace, and once the marriage took place, their kingdoms would be united under the same sky again. Both Nerezeth and Eldoria needed this union, making the threat of war an obsolete and pointless consideration.
Back in Eldoria, where the real princess waited in her hidden room of dirt, forty guards occupied the palace’s outer bailey, postern gate, and battlements—using axes to clear away bristled vines for temporary walkways in the sunlight. The commoners sat inside their cottages, looking through any opening in the honeysuckle plants cloaking their windowpanes, hoping soon to greet the soft glow of moonlight that would kill the plague.
Inside the ivory castle, curtains were drawn and the corridors and chambers abandoned. Silence wreathed the halls, interrupted only by the banshee cry of Thana somewhere up high in the towers. There were five guards holding vigil at the doorway to the royal portico garden. Griselda had stationed them with swords drawn, insurance against her fear that only Elusion could derail all her hard work and wicked machinations now.
The regent was right to be afraid.
Crony found Luce hiding where the north and east corridors intersected down the hall and around the corner from the garden’s entry. An entranced Erwan—along with Dregs and Winkle—was hidden alongside him. The shopkeepers had their heads together, positioned beneath a candlelit sconce while looking within Winkle’s box and whispering.
Crony leaned against the cool, marble wall, wishing she’d had her staff for the walk here. Those bothersome shackles and chains had left her ancient bones stiff.
Around the corner and in the distance, the guards talked amongst themselves. They debated a variety of subjects, from which of them might be appointed to the queen and king’s royal guard to how beautiful the princess had looked in her wedding trousseau and what a shame she had to cover up with nightsky for the walk to Nerezeth. When a disturbing caw drifted from far overhead, talk fell to why the night sorceress’s giant crow still frequented their palace.
They couldn’t possibly know what Crony knew: that the bird was seeking her. She would call the one-eyed beast herself, when the time was right.
“What be the plan?” she whispered to Luce. She would’ve offered to lock the guards within a nightmare thrall, but her frail body hadn’t the strength to attempt one again so soon.
Luce leaned close and motioned to Winkle’s long-eared hood. “Our resident bunny is to send the guards on a chase. Erwan says their top priority is to keep the castle undefiled while the regent is away. She doesn’t want to return to any infestations. Obviously, I’m included on her list of vermin.”
“So, we send ’em runnin’. Then we’re in?”
Luce shook his head. “Our worthless knight doesn’t have a key to the garden.” He glared at Erwan, who could barely stand on his own, drifting in and out of consciousness. Luce had him propped against the wall. Candlelight flicked across his mud-and-bloodstained face. “Dregs will have to use his shoes to reach the window.”
Luce and Crony both peered around the corner, observing the beveled portal glass high above the garden door where soft streams of sunlight slanted in. With a solid push, it would swing open to allow fresh air into the castle.
Crony frowned as they withdrew into the adjacent corridor again. “It be small. Even a goblin won’t fit through there.”
“No, but a fox will. I’ll hitch a ride with Dregs, slip in, and unlock it from the other side.”
“There be the honeysuckle bristles.”
Luce shrugged. “Erwan said a pathway was cleared for the regent a couple of days ago. I doubt it’s fully grown back yet. And if it has, small matter. If a little girl can face a coffin full of cadaver brambles and scorpions, I can face a few thistles in my fur.”
“Thistles the size of sewin’ needles.” Crony glanced at the trail of crickets coming up behind her. “A shame these tiny bits aren’t as adept at opening locks as the shadows, aye?”
Luce gave her a lopsided grin. “How did they come to follow you?”
She suppressed smiling back. Though Luce had grown accustomed to her gruesome expressions, Dregs and Winkle hadn’t built up the tolerance. And were Erwan to witness it, he might be shocked out of his trance. “Our girl decided I needed an escort of me own.”
Luce’s grin turned winsome. “Eldoria’s gain will be our loss.”
Crony lowered her head, her horns weighing heavier than she cared admit. Or may-let that was her heart dragging her chin down. “Ne’er thought I’d see the day we’d be nostalgic for our parentin’ years.”
“Speak for yourself.” Luce stood tall and straightened his lapels. “I’m no parent. I’m rather more . . . the dashing uncle.”
Winkle and Dregs chose this moment to glance up at them and snicker softly.
Luce snarled. “What are you laughing at? Ever seen what a fox can do to a rabbit?”
Winkle smacked a hand across his whiskery facial hair.
Crony snorted. “Don’t be cross, me comely cur. They be seein’ anew yer soft spot for our ward. And yer sentiments be premature. Yer to see her through to the end, as ye promised.”
“About that.” Luce twisted his lips in thought. “When I’m in flight, I become a spirit . . . wind and air. Even should I have my wings”—his features shifted to contained eagerness, as if at last grasping the glorious possibility—“I can’t carry her unless she’s small enough to fit in my pocket. I can only carry myself and the clothes upon my back. Am I to fly ahead and forestall the nuptials?”
“Nay, ye go together. Ye can use yer wings and sylphin talents as a distraction when ye get there; clear the way for our princess to heal her prince.”
Luce peered around the corner to ensure the guards remained preoccupied, then retreated back into their hallway. “But if we don’t fly, how will we get there in time? It takes days, and that’s by horse.”
“Edith. A minute ago, in the dungeon, I gifted her one of Lachrymosa’s final memories. It be havin’ nothin’
to do with kingdom business, so me hands be free of interference.”
“You gave her a memory weave?”
“Only containin’ a small spell. The most important memory still be occupied here.” Crony thumped a fist against her skull. “The sorcerer had a determinate elixir. It homes in on a subject’s locale and transports ye directly to their side in a blink of an eye, if ’n ye have a sample of said subject to add to the brew. I boxed up the ingredients she be needin’, and she have the prince’s blood upon his notes. Edith be in the tunnel with our princess now, preparin’. She’ll be ready, upon yer arrival.”
Luce’s orange eyes shimmered. “So you told Edith all of it? That the tunnel, the gateway, and the room once belonged to you?”
“She knows all she need be knowin’.” Crony felt a tug of nostalgia for past days. She missed using her magic for the royal family, using it for good. Had she her druthers, she would’ve been the one to take Lyra to win her throne. She would’ve seen King Kiran’s daughter victorious. It wasn’t to be, but she still had her part. And Thana would help her accomplish it.
Luce’s red eyebrows furrowed. “Are you convinced of Edith’s ability with spells and elixirs? What if she accidentally turns us into toads?” He brushed his forehead with a thumb. “I doubt even I could make warts attractive.”
Crony rolled her eyes. “She be a cook—adept at readin’ recipes, at mixin’ and stirrin’. And she have a respect for nature and givin’ back what’s taken. That’s all she be requirin’. In fact, when this be done and behind ye, see that she receives me grimoire. It be hers now.”
“Wait . . .” Her companion’s features took on that canine quality—a feral mix of wariness and suspicion. “Are you saying Edith’s to be your successor?”
“Aye, she be inheritin’ me harrowing skills very soon.”
“You really are leaving then, like you said in the note? Why? And where? It’s too late for you to join the other immortals in the heavens. You made that choice long ago.”