Crony whispered again to Luce: “I don’t know ’bout ye, but I be feelin’ a new thirst in me roots of late. Shall we bargain with the fleshless devils and save the girl? Turn over our old ne’er-do-well leaves for a chance at atonement?” Casting him a sidelong glance, she waited.
His long pink tongue lolled out in a half grin. “Are you saying what I think? You’re to perform the trick that outshines all tricks? Recall her from the other side of death?”
Crony suppressed a tremor of panic along her spine, wishing she could share his eagerness. What Luce didn’t realize was that summoning a mortal back from the dead came at a heavy price—her own immortality. Her hide would soften with age; all the years she’d outrun would catch up. And her innards would no longer be impervious to sickness or toxins.
This information she would take to her grave. Were he to know, her sylphin companion would try to talk her out of it, and she needed all the courage she could muster. If anyone was worthy of a second chance at life, it was this broken child, and truth be told, Crony had been anticipating . . . and fearing . . . this moment for centuries. “If ye wish to see me greatest trick, first ye must perform a grand gesture yerself.”
Luce tilted his head in a purely canine manner, curiosity clear in his puppy-eyed expression.
“I can’t be takin’ on such responsibility alone,” Crony explained. “Will ye help me? Stand by the princess in thick and thin? Be there, if for some reason I can’t.”
“Why wouldn’t you be there? You will outlive us all.”
She squeezed her staff for comfort. “I’ve been known to take a trip or two for leisure. Ev’ry lady needs her private moments for reflection.”
“Ha! Of course. You’re the essence of ‘every lady.’” He twitched his whiskers.
“As for yer help, will ye do it? Give me a tail wag for yay, or a bark for nay.”
Glaring at her, Luce flicked an ear in annoyance. “You’re aware I can talk.”
Crony smiled freely. Here in the ravine, everything was either as good as dead, or the cohort of death already, so there were no flowers or grasses to wilt. “Aye, but we be making a contract. I need yer pledge, me courtly mongrel, that in either form, yer whole body be willin’ to see this through to the very end. The very end bein’ yer fat, fluffy tail.”
Growling softly, Luce gave said tail two shakes, but no more. She was happy to accept it. Let him keep what remained of his dignity.
As for herself, Crony shuddered at the thought of relinquishing her armor; but she would hang her courage on one hope: to live long enough to watch the girl win her prince, claim her throne, and bring the nights back. It would be worth it all, so long as Crony could hear a symphony of crickets in the darkness one last time before taking her final breath.
Her lot decided, Crony stood, staff in hand. Fur bristling, Luce snarled a warning, and together they stepped from behind the stump and into the midst of the collective.
The wee princess died the instant her unlikely saviors finished bargaining for her remains, though the witch managed to capture the tail end of her final breath and the memory tied to it. That’s all Crony needed to bid a spirit from beyond, and to split a past wide open so she could carve out the identity hidden in the nooks and crannies of a person’s mind.
To Crony’s relief, the shadows and scorpion army receded once the flesh-mongering shrouds withdrew, seeming to understand their charge was now in healing hands. Crony and Luce left the pine box and roses behind. By the time Luce shifted to his human form to carry the princess out of the lowlands, the girl’s breathing had resumed and her lashes, having been trimmed down to stubs, grew long before their very eyes. Luce studied her shaved head, her troubled, sleeping face cradled in the crook of his arm. Her breath ruffled the red hair draped across his shoulder.
Crony had never seen the capricious sylph look more somber. He would see this through to the end, in spite of his selfish past. Or may-let because of it.
Once home, with the princess unconscious, the witch began her task. Using the captured memory to lure others out, Crony sandwiched them between paper-thin glass triangles and sealed them after blowing her own breath across. She continued the process, joining one contained memory to another with magical threads that streamed like lightning from her horns, similar to a spider using its spinnerets. Crony labored, withdrawing the next and the next and the next—hundreds upon hundreds—over two cessation courses and into a third day while Luce managed her booth in the market and restocked herb supplies.
Upon finishing, Crony stood back and viewed the stack of memories, folded together with glowing thread down their spines. It resembled a fat, miniature book made of stained glass. Were she to animate it, at the turning of each page a new scene of the princess’s life would play out. She’d taken care to leave the princess’s memories of language, communication, the written word, and knowledge of the natural world intact, so as not to risk a blank mind and stunted acumen. It was this intricate mental probing that made a memory-cleanse such a challenging venture.
Crony drizzled a healing potable between her ward’s drowsing lips, as she had done over the past two days to keep her alive. The witch sipped some for herself, feeling a sudden weariness, due to her own exchange—immortal advantage for mortal limitations. For the first time in all her years, she ached deep within her bones. Once Luce left for market, Crony hid her eyes behind a blindfold, curled upon her mattress, and slept.
In the next room, the girl continued to sleep as well, having nothing left to dream of but the residue of memories in blurred colors and fuzzy stimuli: the salty flavor of tears; a velvety rain of lavender rose petals; a red-leafed tree standing vigil in a courtyard so stark white it singed the eye; gauzy dresses in soft pastels, minty green, buttery yellow, and sugared blue; fuzzy gray moths and biting brambles; and golden ink catching fire to black paper and curious fingertips.
The scent of decomposing leaves, combined with something medicinal, seeped into the girl’s consciousness. She awoke to the sensation of her hands burning.
No, not just her hands—every facet of her skin . . . itching and blistering. She attempted to move, her bones sluggish. Her teeth ground together and she would’ve groaned, but her vocal cords quivered—as inefficient as a lute with no strings. She tugged at bandages wrapped around her limbs, neck, and torso, beneath an ankle-length gown and a threadbare blanket, trying to remember where . . . how. And most essentially, who.
She couldn’t remember a name, or even her own face. The unknowing sat upon her chest, weighing her down and stealing her breath. She moved her hand up to her throat where a necklace rested atop her collarbone. Lifting the circular charm, she studied it in the soft light. It appeared to be a braid of white hair wound upon itself. Was it important to her? Sentimental?
A distant, piercing roar—feral and inhuman, like a horse bugling in fury—sent her scrambling to sit up, rebelling against reluctant muscles and throbbing flesh. She could see her surroundings clearly, despite the thick, leafy canopy stretched overhead that stifled the light. It was as if she’d awakened within the belly of a skeleton. There were no walls here, nor doors, nor windows. Only a framework of wood. Yet there was no breeze either, no moving air or birdsongs, no sounds of nature other than a rustle beneath and around her mattress—as if the ground itself moved.
A soft snore, from a blindfolded figure, curled up and sleeping a few feet away, gave her pause. She didn’t recognize the hideous reptilian face, or the black, curving horns, or the gaping, muddy lips.
Dread chilled the blood in her veins as she looked upon her bandages. Something terrible had happened. This creature had captured her. Tortured her.
The bugling cry sounded again, but this time, the girl heard a shout woven within—a raspy, male voice underlining the horse’s helpless indignation, as if they spoke in unison. She caught a breath, stretching lungs that ached as if carved hollow. Her captor slept on, so firm in its sleep not even a third roaring neigh woke it.
The girl backed away, pushing through warm, powdery ash across a stone floor, avoiding dilapidated furniture and wooden planks until she’d crossed the threshold into a yard. Spinning around, she stumbled along a path, out of the small grove and into the thickening trees. With each step, her body acclimated to her injuries, her movements awkward but gaining strength.