Within the first year, Eldoria’s efforts to capture the slippery spy associated with the witch responsible for Lustacia’s, Sir Nicolet’s, and King Kiran’s murders ended abruptly when a scourge of dementia infected the castle’s occupants.
Mere weeks after Griselda first holed up in sanctuary with her two daughters and the kingdom’s princess (her grand deception having gone off without a hitch), Mia sampled a pigeon pie to be delivered to the royal family. She suffered stomach cramps so piercing, she imagined the birds pecking her from the inside. The maid tried to cut them out, and her dying screams could be heard throughout all wings of the castle. Wrathalyne and Avaricette assured their mother that this must be the only drawback to living in the dungeon, insulated from all sound, since they would have delighted in hearing the poisoned fruits of Griselda’s labor firsthand. Lustacia, undergoing a steady transformation to Princess Lyra, sat out of the conversation entirely. Other violent self-induced deaths followed over the next twelve months, including Matilde the cook’s and Brindle the jester’s, to name but a few. Griselda stopped short of Prime Minister Albous, allowing him to live for two reasons: one, he was respected for his wisdom in diplomatic strategies and the upkeep of the kingdom, even by Griselda herself; and two, because the death of a member of government would’ve been cause for closer scrutiny. By focusing her vengeance on a handful of servants, it was easy enough to blame the witch, yet again.
Griselda conferred with Eldoria’s royal mages, convincing them that the hag not only placed a spy in their midst, but a curse upon the castle as well. Each person who lived within the walls had been exposed to the mental malaise, which meant the royal army must remain on the grounds at all times on the chance a hysterical mob might erupt. This put an end to the military expeditions to the Ashen Ravine in search of the witch, whom Griselda secretly preferred never be caught and questioned. The change in orders mattered little to the army, since up to that point the forest had been impossible to breach, due to the thorny briars that closed off the entrance upon the arrival of any soldier. Most everyone moved out of the castle for fear of going mad, leaving behind less than thirty occupants. Only the extended royal household remained, including three council members and their families along with the most necessary servants—all under Griselda’s close supervision.
With the harrower witch still at large, the shimmery triplets decided protection for Eldoria was of utmost importance. From their home upon Mount Astra, the mages sent out incantations simultaneously in their bass, baritone, and tenor voices. However, though they spoke in unison, each had his own idea of what they should evoke. The first called forth an impenetrable camouflage that would feed off the sun; the second conjured a scented curtain to soothe the senses and counteract the witch’s curse of mania; and the third beckoned a palisade with bite enough to ward off outside dangers.
A living sheath of honeysuckle vines rose in answer, creeping up to cloak every cottage, thoroughfare, and fence in the land, then enveloping every wall and tower of the castle. All but the windows and doors disappeared within the blossoming pink-and-green armor. However, as often happens when too many wands stir a pot, the magical entree ripened to something unruly and unexpected. A coating of burrs—as large as a babe’s fist and as pointy and vicious as the bronze needles used by the castle’s seamstresses—coated each leaf and stem. The fragrant, blushing blooms attracted swarms of stinging bees. Traversing to farm or market proved difficult; one had to wear thick clothes, boots, gloves, hoods, and masks to protect skin and hair, along with carrying torches—treated with fire repellent to release heavy smoke in lieu of flame—that could clear a path through the bees. These preparations made going outdoors hot and uncomfortable. Children could no longer play outside for risk of their tender flesh.
Spurred by the people’s unrest, the mages attempted to reverse what they had wrought, but no amount of magic had any effect on the flowering vines, which daily grew thicker and stronger due to the never-waning sun. The burrs themselves prevented pruning or tearing away the roots. Fire only seemed to make them grow bigger. The only thing that shrank the stickers so the greenery could be stripped down was to douse them with the selfsame midnight shadows sent by Nerezeth for the princess’s nightsky fabric. Sadly, there would never be enough to sprinkle upon the entire kingdom. Only a powerful wash of moonlight cast down from the heavens could counteract the regenerative power of the sun and provide time for the plants to be uprooted. Since there was no night to counter the day, there was no hope. The mages considered conjuring up a plague of spiders to capture the bees, but knowing many Eldorian citizens shared the regent’s disdain for creatures of darkness, it would be trading one problem for another.
So, things were left as they were, and a people who had once spent every waking moment outside stayed ensconced within their homes except when absolutely necessary to venture out. The bustling land of perpetual light became a lonely and quiet place, with its occupants peering at the radiant sky and lush landscapes from windows and doorways, rarely feeling the sun on their faces. For the next several years the Eldorians stayed tucked away, sad and miserable, awaiting Nerezeth’s prince to come claim his bride, relying on the prophecy of “night and day united” to offer a reprieve from their enchanted prison.
For Griselda’s part, she rejoiced. Though in the beginning Wrathalyne and Avaricette grumbled about giving up their freedom for their sister’s happiness, Griselda was able to staunch their jealousies by assuring them that being sisters to the queen had its advantages . . . handsome knights from both kingdoms at their beck and call, for one. After that, she and her daughters adjusted to life in their luxurious, paraffin-sunlit dungeon cell. What did it hurt for the villagers and subjects to have to hide away as well? Despair and suffering would lead to loyalty and gratitude.
Griselda knew that one day, they would all thank her. Just as the shrouds had predicted, she was bringing the prophecy about by making her daughter fit the princess’s mold. Soon Lustacia would meet every detail word for word.
10
Apron Strings and Winged Things
Unbeknownst to Eldoria’s smug regent, within the dark metropolis of the Ashen Ravine, the real princess lived on, as did the harrower witch who knew Griselda was preening an imposter. And Crony had a different outlook on prophecies.
In the witch’s centuries of experience, a foretelling would see itself fulfilled in absolution no matter who tried to interfere. This gave her comfort, considering the child she once saved no longer had a birdsong voice, nor lustrous silver hair, nor was she even a girl, at least to the goblins, murderers, degenerates, and outcasts living there. To the ravine’s occupants, she was known simply as Stain, the wraith-like boy—origins unknown—who had wandered into the forest five years earlier and been taken in by the witch and her cohort for a set of extra hands. Even the shrouds themselves still believed her to be a boy, for the shadows and scorpions had never let them close enough to learn otherwise.
Yet there were two things the princess possessed that could never be compromised or taken away: her father’s noble spirit and his royal blood. Crony hoped those would be enough to lead her back to her identity and the throne—and soon—for now that the princess was seventeen, Prince Vesper’s arrival in Eldoria was imminent.
Crony stepped into her yard, feeling the press of time more than usual. The cessation course had ended an hour ago, and she needed to be rid of her two tenants for the day. She didn’t want an audience for the dark task she must undertake. She didn’t want Luce to know why she moved slower of late . . . that her bones had begun to brittle . . . that her blood ran sluggish and her heart puttered with a lackadaisical beat.
The old witch knelt, knees creaking, to study the flowers on either side of the rock pathway leading to her door. She leaned close enough their delicate perfume tickled her nostrils. They looked like brushstrokes of red, fuchsia, blue, and apricot floating atop the shifting ash.