Dazed, she watched the slow and cautious eclipse—melding together from every corner and furniture edge like storm clouds gathering capacity. Rising from underneath the beds, their gusts whipped tangles through Lustacia’s dusty hair and ripped at Wrathalyne and Avaricette’s clothes. The three girls dove under the quilts, screaming. Unfazed, Griselda rushed to the middle of the room and tugged on the golden cord that joined the tapestries. Simultaneously, they peeled from the walls to reveal copper panels, stretched ceiling to floor. The light in the room reflected from them—onto the mirror and back again, magnified tenfold, and rent Lyra’s shadows to pieces.
She fell to her knees, unable to open her eyes for the sizzling pain. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she sensed Griselda bending to whisper in her ear.
“That trick you pulled last time won’t work here. Those torches were dying already. These lanterns are fueled by a blend of paraffin and liquid sunshine. Their brilliance will burn for months. The prophecy is flawed, you see. For a princess whose most devoted subjects are the shifting shadows that can’t reach beyond deep corners and dark stairways, has no hope of building an army in a world of eternal light.”
The door opened and closed, the knights’ heavy footsteps tromped closer . . .
Warding off the room’s brightness behind sealed lashes, Lyra was lifted, carried somewhere by strong arms wrapped in metal. Wrathalyne’s and Avaricette’s footsteps shuffled alongside and the girls scolded her for tearing their clothes with her shadows. As for Lustacia, only her sniffles indicated her presence.
The scent of pine surrounded Lyra upon being laid inside the hard and splintery box.
“Drop them in with her, along with the roses,” came Griselda’s command at a distance. Her voice shook with revulsion.
The potent rose scent tickled Lyra’s nose, then something writhing and bristly fell atop her chest, stinging as it curled around her wrists, arms, ankles and legs—like ropes made of thorns. Then another sensation—thumping across her body and spreading out while releasing a wave of flaming pinpricks that pierced through her clothes.
Unable to open her eyes and face her attackers, Lyra screamed—her anguish reduced to lovely melodies. In response, Wrathalyne and Avaricette burst into a rash of nervous giggles.
“Mother!” Lustacia’s outburst broke through. “Your plan was to send her away . . . using the secret tunnel beneath the dungeon—”
“And I will.”
“But you weren’t to harm her!”
“What did you think was to happen? The only chance you have to become Lyra is for Lyra to stop existing. Our knights will use the tunnel to take her body to the mouth of the Ashen Ravine. It will be a gift to the Shroud Collective for letting me live all those years ago. Thus, should anyone ever breech the ravine in search of your remains, they’ll find nothing but a pile of bones.”
“I’ve changed my mind!” Lustacia’s cries clawed at Lyra’s hot, stinging ears.
“Then I will be Lyra,” Avaricette said.
“No, me!” Wrathalyne intoned.
“Hush now. All three of you have a queen’s beauty, but your sister was born with the delicate skin of a princess, and the acumen of a diplomat. The shrouds once predicted my part in reuniting the heavens. I came to realize that role was to train Lustacia. She’s already adept at forging Lyra’s handwriting, and is learning the hand signals our prime minister has taught her.” Behind Lyra’s eyelids, Griselda’s voice drifted near and far—in and out of focus. “Your sister’s destiny is inevitable and set in motion by Lyra’s death. One can’t un-poison someone, after all.”
Lyra’s throat clenched.
“You didn’t tell me you were to poison her!” Lustacia’s cry sounded hoarse. “You didn’t say you’d expose her to those . . . those horrible things—” Her statement ended in a sob.
“Those horrible things are cadaver brambles and rime scorpions, indigenous to the realm of your betrothed. My knights paid a hefty price to have them smuggled in. How else am I to secure the princess’s song for you, unless she screams herself dry?”
“It’s too much, Mother.”
“Oh, please. Lyra’s most at home with night creatures. She delights in threatening me with them. I would think having them surrounding her as life slips away would be a comfort. Do you need to see the note again? The prince’s words to his future bride? You read it one time and lost your heart. You were willing to go along with any plan, if the result was his hand. Will you give him up to her now? Do you love her more than yourself?”
The absence of Lustacia’s answer stretched out interminably as Lyra struggled against the fog in her brain, the fever beneath her skin, and the fissures spreading through her chest.
“Lustacia,” Griselda’s tone softened. “Think of it. One queen ruling both kingdoms. I gave away the best years of my life to win my blood right to this throne. And now, I will get twofold for you. Herein, everything is put to rights, for I am the firstborn. I have suffered and sacrificed in ways my spoiled brother never did. I gave away my very conscience, and power has been easier gained without it. I would suggest you do the same, but since you wish to love and be loved, you must have it intact. So, give me the dirty labors, and I will see that your heart is granted its greatest desire as mine never was.”
Lustacia’s sobs escalated to wails.
Griselda sighed. “Sir Erwan, guard the staircase to the dungeon. Sir Bartley, take Lustacia and her sisters to another cell until it is finished.”
“But we wish to watch, Mother,” Avaricette whined.
“Do it now.”
An assemblage of footsteps stirred all around, then grew distant. The door slammed and locks clacked into place.
The piercing light dimmed as the box’s lid closed, sealing Lyra in. She opened her eyes to the darkness—always her friend and comfort—and watched the glowing scorpion and bramble attackers with horrified fascination. Despite the pain of jutting blue stingers and white thorny binds, they belonged to the night, like her.
Through her tears, she saw her fingers illuminate for an instant, casting a golden glow. It taunted her, triggering the memory of magical ink staining her fingertips and the kind words written at the hand of a prince: I will keep you safe.
She would never know him, and he would never know he was being fooled.
Lyra suppressed an outraged cry, her attention turned to the seashell nestled beside her head.
“Surrender to the pain. You’ll feel better if you scream.” Griselda taunted from the other side of the lid. “How about I get you started, with a song of my own?” She cleared her throat. “See the shell beside your head . . . fill it up until you’re dead. Your father took but one musical cry, but I won’t stop until you’re bled dry.”
Struggling to breathe, Lyra ground her teeth and refused to open her lips.
“Just do it!” Griselda attacked the lid with her fists. The pounding echoed through Lyra’s bones, rattling them. “Ghastly, ghost-faced girl.” Her aunt paused, regaining her calm. “I always knew you were but a smudge staining the walls of this castle. And that one day, I would scrub you out, and you would haunt us no more. I suppose I should thank you. By freeing the witch while we still had her staff, you made this entire setup possible. So I’ll return the favor and tell you how it all ends, since you won’t be here to see for yourself. After you give up your voice, you’ll become drowsy and your breath will slow. You won’t be able to stay awake. And once asleep, you will slip away. Give no thought to your faithful subjects. Any who become too curious or concerned will be cut down one by one. Mia will be first. Someone will attempt to poison our fare and she’ll die a hero, proving her loyalty to Eldoria once and for all. As for the kingdom, Lustacia and I have it well in hand. You can slumber in eternal peace knowing this, little perfect princess. That is my gift to you.”
Hot tears raced down Lyra’s cheeks. She writhed beneath the fire lancing her skin, tormented by dear Mia’s fate. She had to save her. She had to be here for her kingdom, to be the queen her father always hoped for her to be. Emotional turmoil boiled over to feed the flames already searing her veins. A thousand puncture wounds filled with blazing venom bled into her mind and melted her thoughts into a red slag. The harder she tried to hold her pain in, the hotter her fever grew. Screams built behind her chest and throat until eruption became her last hope for relief.
Stretching her jaw wide, she turned her head and retched up bile, venom, and tainted milk. Then came the deeper purge . . . the musical screaming and screaming and screaming that scraped her hollow until no more sound would come.
The empty ache in her throat and the stench of sickness grew distant as her shadows returned to her in the darkness. They broke her binds, tamed the scorpions, and numbed her wounded skin with airy caresses. Her eyes grew heavy as her shadows carried her to a place of rest—with no interruption of nightmares, with no fear as to what fresh horrors tomorrow might bring. She took the hand Death offered, and fell asleep.
8
Pearls in the Ash