by A. G. Howard
“There may be a way for me to reach the heavens yet,” Crony answered cryptically.
Luce’s expression looked like an open wound. “Were you even planning to say good-bye? A proper one, I mean. A messy half-hearted letter doesn’t measure up when we’ve had each other’s backs for so many years.”
“Enough talk. Let’s be hurryin’ this plan along.” Crony had chosen not to tell Lyra that Prince Vesper was at death’s door. The child had enough to process as it was, and enough pressure upon those wee shoulders to prove heself. If only Crony could do more; if only she could intervene . . . tell Luce all she knew of Griselda’s crimes, tell him of the proof growing from the wretch’s very head, the brumal blood staining her hands. That accursed vow of noninterference had become the bane of Crony’s existence.
“I want to know.” Luce held his voice to a strained whisper, bringing the witch’s mind back to the here and now. “Will Stain . . . Lyra . . . and I see you again when we return?” He gripped her wrist gently.
Crony gasped as he touched the raw places made by the shackles.
Scowling, Luce pushed up her sleeve and rubbed a finger across the lacerations. “What is this?” he murmured. “You’re bleeding?”
“Did you hear that?” one of the guards down the corridor said. “Around the corner back there, coming from the east hallway . . .”
Several pairs of boots clomped their direction. Luce nudged Winkle, and the dwarf tipped over his box.
Ten rats scurried out, their claws clicking on the white marble. Winkle shooed them the right direction with his bunny paws, his long ears wriggling with the effort. Shrill squeaks and wiry tails led the way as the rats shot around the corner toward the guards.
“Two things left undone,” Erwan murmured out of the blue, slowly waking from his trance. “Prove I’m a man.”
Crony cupped a hand across the knight’s mouth. Luce gestured with his chin for Winkle to head back the way they came, toward the dungeon and the hidden tunnel—his part done.
Winkle wished the rest of them luck, then bounded off, his hopping feet indiscernible over the melee of stampeding rats, clanging swords, and shouting guards still out of sight in the adjacent hall.
“Grab the rodents! The regent’ll have our heads if those things stay loose!”
“Get it . . . that one, there!”
“Those three are going for the upper level. If they make it to the regent’s chambers, she’ll grind us up for meat pie!”
“I’ve got one! Ouch . . . ah, drat! He bit me. No, he’s off to the kitchen!”
“Split up!”
Five sets of boots clomped away from the intersecting corridor, taking the stairs—both up and down. Empty echoes rang in their wake.
Luce turned again to Crony, wearing a troubled frown.
“The prince be dyin’, Luce. He be under a sleeping death to hold off the curse till he can be cured. And as his soul’s other half be our girl’s beloved Scorch, she’ll ne’er forgive us if we cost her the chance to save ’im.”
Luce’s jaw sagged open. “The flying donkey . . . is a prince?”
“The prince,” Crony corrected.
Looking more frazzled than she’d ever seen him, Luce glared at Erwan, who was still mumbling about being a man. Crony nodded, unspoken confirmation that she had the knight in hand.
Luce shifted to fox form. He shook off the cloud of sparkles clinging to his whiskers and muzzle as he trotted behind Dregs, tail dragging on the floor. The goblin stopped at the door, grunted as he hefted Luce’s furry form into his arms, then stomped the soles of his pedestal shoes seven times.
Higher and higher they lifted, until the goblin stood face-to-face with the window. Balancing Luce upon one shoulder like an infant, Dregs swung the beveled glass on its hinges, inviting the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle in. Luce twisted around and hooked his front paws over the opening then dragged himself through, his tail’s tip the last thing to be seen as he fell inside.
Crony winced upon hearing the resulting yelps, sure he’d landed on a thistle or twenty. She kept her gaze on the window. Seeing red glitter and smoke, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Dregs shrank back down and headed for the stairs to seek his cousin Slush. As he passed Crony, he tilted his chin her direction. She nodded her gratitude and he slipped out of sight.
The garden door flung open, revealing sunlight filtering through a tunnel of thick, bristly vines along with the chronic hum of bees. Luce, picking off several burrs embedded in his sleeves and pant legs, motioned Crony in. Bracing Erwan’s shoulder blades, Crony pushed him across the threshold then followed, Lyra’s crickets in tow. Luce shut the door and bound the latch with several vines to keep the guards at bay should they return. He then took up the end of their trio, careful not to step on the bugs.
On all sides and overhead, vines, thistles, and cabbage-sized pink blooms smothered wrought-iron benches, dried-up water fountains, and a variety of flowers. The sad, scant heads of marigolds, heliotropes, and gardenias twisted in odd directions, subsisting off what little sunlight they could find. Bees, too busy to care about the intruders, buzzed to-and-fro gathering nectar. It was a struggle to breathe in the thickly sweet air as Crony pushed Erwan forward where the vines opened to a curving path. The trail led directly to the sylph elm rising high and proud.
“It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” Luce said behind her, referring to the bright yellow canopy just a few feet away. Upon the lowest branches on the right side, two vivid crimson leaves stood out, easily within reach to anyone standing beside the trunk. They swayed as if on a breeze, though no wind could breach the vines surrounding them. Luce squeezed Crony’s shoulder. “They’re calling to me. I’ve waited so long,” he whispered.
“Aye, ye have.” Releasing her hold on Erwan, Crony patted Luce’s hand.
As if the knight had been waiting, he leapt forward, digging into a pouch beneath his surcoat. “Two things left undone,” he said, coherent now. “Burn the tree.” He withdrew an orb, the size of a marble and alive with pulsing turquoise light. Before Crony could reach out to stop him, he tossed it toward the sylph elm.
The ball hit the trunk, burst, and erupted into flame. Instantaneously, the blaze rose high—bright turquoise, pink, and white hot—spreading from leaf to leaf, making its way up the canopy far too fast for any earthly fire. Luce’s wings flapped, trying to get free from their branches.
“No!” Luce nudged Crony aside and stumbled toward the elm.
“Kill the witch,” Erwan said beneath his breath. He withdrew a dagger from his boot and lunged for Crony. Luce tore his gaze from the burning tree. Snarling, he leapt between Crony and the knight. The two fell to the ground and rolled: a blur of red hair, a torn white surcoat, and a shiny silver blade.
Grunting, Luce got the upper hand and snatched at a nettled vine, wrapping it around the knight’s neck. He tightened the noose while Erwan struggled, his angular eyes bulging.
Crony turned to the tree. Embers gathered at the edge of the wings. Her companion yelled for her to stop as she hobbled straight up to the trunk—now nothing but kindling. The flames lapped at her once impervious hide, peeling it away in foul-scented blisters. The heat singed her hair, charred her horns, and caught fire to her cloak. Her transparent eyelids offered no reprieve from the brilliance. Unable to see, she reached up and swatted at all the leaves within reach, hoping to free the wings.
A gust fluttered by her head as she collapsed, blind and in agony. The sound of flapping gave way to the bone-snapping crack of the knight’s neck, then Luce’s exultant shout. Even without sight, Crony knew the wings had found their home. The crackling flames silenced, the fire burning itself out. Smoking wood and soot intertwined with the honeysuckle perfume.
Crony throbbed all over . . . as if the flames still lapped at her. She tried to move, but couldn’t. She’d never known all-encompassing pain or how debilitating it could be.
On the other side of her sightless
eyes, Luce dropped down next to her, his triumphant cries breaking into a wail. “Why?”
“That fire were enchanted, born of sun . . . nothing could’ve stopped it but purest moonlight. Ye ain’t have that, nor do I.”
“You know that’s not what I meant! What were you thinking?”
“Ye chose me o’er yer wings.” Her parched words raked from her throat like shifting ash.
“Because you’re no longer immortal, you foolish old bird. I was trying to save you, and you made it all for nothing!”
She sought him with her hand, sighing when she felt the swoop of ethereal feathers at his shoulder. “Nay. Ye made a selfless choice and the fates rewarded ye. I no longer be immortal, but ye are ageless.”
“We were both supposed to be rewarded; we went into this as partners, remember?” On the other side of the black void, she could hear him shrugging free of his jacket. Her naked body shuddered as the cloth covered her sticky and blistered hide. “Tell me how to help you.” His voice wavered, his hands running across the cloth, gentle as raindrops. A cool wind soothed her skin in their wake. He’d changed to his celestial form, no doubt fearing his corporeal touch would cause more damage.
“Go to our princess.” Her throat tightened, her breaths rattling in her chest. “See this done so she have the life she be born to.”
“You expect me just to leave?” The wind rushed over her faster now—driven by frustration. “What am I to tell her when she asks of you?”
“That it finally be dark, me dandy dog. That I remember now, what it be like to close me eyes and have oblivion. But ye wait to tell her until the prophecy be completed.”
He growled. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“This be the only way it can end, me doggish dandy.”
There was a strangled inhalation. “Your penalty for bringing a life back from the brink was death. You’ve known since the day Stain came into our lives . . . yet you never told me.”
“And yer ne’er to tell her neither. Not all the days of her life. Now go, or everythin’ we’ve done be for naught.”
Luce howled—the hapless cry of an animal snared by a steel trap and forced to chew off a limb. Gusts of air burst through the garden, shaking the vines and leaves all around her, stirring the dust beneath her. She didn’t have to see to know when he’d vanished; she could feel his absence in the silence. In the stillness. Even the bees stopped buzzing, chased away by the smoke. With each piercing breath, with each pound of her heart and rush of blood, her skin mourned. She wasn’t sure how she could hold on long enough, but she had to.
Around her smoldering ears, a tender chirping song erupted. Crickets.
She would’ve smiled had she any lips left. She once told herself it would be worth it all, so long as she could hear their symphony in the darkness one last time before taking her final breath. Little Stain had made that possible. “Thank ye, wee one. Ye see to yer part, and I’ll see to mine.”
The cheery chirrups comforted the witch’s heart, gave her the strength to concentrate on Thana . . . calling to the bird with her cracked, sandpaper voice.
In moments, Thana’s spine-curdling caw answered alongside a beating of wings overhead. The gentle peck of a beak prodded the jacket covering Crony’s chest. “Aye there, wretched beast.” Crony’s tongue tasted of smoke and nectar. “Call to yer mistress. Tell her I kept me hands clean. It all be done by fate. I be at death’s door. She be me eyes now. Everything must befall at the proper time.” Crony hoped Dyadia would at last open her mind and heart to her. They had unfinished business. She’d like to make peace before it ended.
The large bird nested along the crook of her neck, its downy feathers a welcome torment against her raw flesh. The crickets sang louder as Crony waited, as if they could see Lachrymosa’s final memory stretching within her skull, pressing to get out. May-let, even more, they could sense the alignment of things; very soon now, all would be as it was in that golden time before Crony stole away a sorcerer’s dying breaths and tore the world in twain.
26
Invasion, Sweet and Savage
Within Neverdark’s latticework shrine, Prince Vesper had been laid upon the dais, cradled by a cushion of moonflowers and twigs. A canopy of glassy cobwebs, attached to four wooden stakes, hung a few feet above him, sparkling in the ceremonial luminary’s starry light. Fragrant curls of cinnamon incense comforted and anchored the prince’s spirit to his inert body. Dressed in royal robes, fur-trimmed tunic, stockings, and boots, he was regal and elegant; those who kept vigil commented on how he favored his kingly father of bygone years, but only in form. For all intents and purposes, Vesper appeared dead, or rather he appeared to have never been alive to begin with.
He looked more like a tribute—a gold-gilded likeness of Nerezeth’s evening star—from his toes to the lovely bow of his upper lip. If not for the untouched flesh between his eyebrows, along his straight nose and reaching to his nostrils, forestalled from surrendering to the curse by Dyadia’s quietus thrall, there would be no hope to revive him. As it stood, hope was all Nerezeth had, and even those who had once considered him bedeviled prayed for his recovery. They could no longer deny his sacrifices, starting with that first sip of sunlight. However rash, the action was one of a monarch-in-the-making—a king who would one day love his people even more than himself.
Crowds had congregated around the shrine since the prince’s arrival—Nerezethites of all walks praying to the stars for his health. The final observance, consisting of over seventy commoners, had recently been cleared out. Now none remained in the arboretum other than two of the prince’s most trusted men—Lieutenant Cyprian and Lord Tybalt—who guarded the shrine’s entrance.
A regiment of five watched the heavy exterior door to Neverdark’s iron edifice itself, waiting outside in the snow and biting wind to usher Eldoria’s princess into the world of manufactured sunlight and astonishing botany. Her entourage had arrived at the obsidian castle some half-hour earlier, where “Lady Lyra” delighted everyone with her ability to speak—having learned to shape words and sentences with her singsong voice while in seclusion over the years. Most surprised of all was Prime Minister Albous. When he tried congratulating her in their ancient sign language, Regent Griselda quickly pulled him aside. She requested his help as she and her two daughters joined Queen Nova in the throne room to oversee the placement of Eldoria’s colors around the dais for the coronation.
In the meantime, Selena, joined by a half-dozen Nerezethite guards and Eldorian soldiers alike, escorted “Lady Lyra” to the shrine, where Madame Dyadia was to meet them shortly to awaken the prince. Once inside the arboretum, Selena and the night guards took off their heavy furs, accustomed to the balmy gardens and meadows brushed with soft violet-gold light. The Eldorian guests paused to admire the landscapes. Fragrant and colorful foliage stretched out for several leagues in every direction, interrupted only by the wooden-and-wire edifices of the jackdaw aviary and the livery where the royal birds and horses—their coats and feathers tinged with a soft purplish hue—ate, trained, and frolicked within their enclosures. In a distant pasture, Eldoria’s blood-bay stallions had been turned out to graze.
The springtime atmosphere convinced Eldoria’s princess to stay within her nightsky suit, as she claimed to be leery of the fireflies afloat overhead—fed with the same mix of pollen and sun that had cursed the prince. She had learned to play her part and play it well. Under her mother’s guidance, she’d packed her “shadow attendants” within a bag which now waited in her guest chambers. For though her goblin apparitions could pretend to shy away from light, they didn’t disappear in the sun as true shadows did.
Selena led the entourage across a winding path and the footbridge, unaware that it wasn’t the true princess’s footsteps crossing over enchanted rocks and steaming water beside her . . . unaware that the glowing moonlit complexion, silver hair, and songbird voice belonged to another, who was in fact only moments away from arriving.
B
ack in Eldoria, within a humble dirt room belonging to an equally humble witch, Luce had returned, this time in his ethereal form—translucent and untouchable. While Edith completed the elixir, he swooshed about the walls, refusing to allow Lyra to corner him. Each time she asked of Crony’s whereabouts, the higher in the room he spun. Only when Edith finished her task did he materialize, with his red, feathery wings swooping high behind him. Lyra touched the feathery appendages and her fingers skimmed through, appearing on the other side as if the wings were a mirage. They were beautiful, but instead of being elated to have them again, her guardian was stoic—tragedy written in his eyes and carved into every ageless feature.
Lyra signed: You are a creature of flight and capriciousness again. This should be the happiest moment of your life.
He ground his teeth, holding his emotions at bay as he always did. “Crony gave up something precious for these wings.”
What did she give up? Lyra asked, but again received no answer. Luce’s silence pained her enough she hugged him until his muscles relaxed . . . until Edith brought over two vials of smoking, amber liquid that smelled as pungent as rust and as salty as the ocean.
Before taking her vial, Lyra made a promise: As queen of Eldoria, I will use all my resources to win back whatever Crony lost. She saved me, and mothered me. You and I will have ample time to show her our gratitude. She’ll outlive us all. Take heart in that.
Luce only clinked their vials together and told Lyra to drink to their success.
She downed the magical elixir in the same instant as her sylph guardian—each holding the other’s free hand. Before she could blink, she dissipated to a thousand particles, as if she were made of butterflies, leaves, dandelion fluff—all things that careened and floated on the wind, lightweight and carefree. There was a rush of warmth, and then a slash of cold. When she came together once more, she and Luce stood toe to toe in a latticework dome with glowing white spiders scrambling along the floor or hanging from the ceiling on tendrils of web. Even though Luce still had his pack with the mysterious boxes on his shoulder, Lyra searched for the saddlebag’s straps atop her own, and was relieved to find her treasures had made it as well.