He dragged out the princess’s latest note from his pocket, then laid down upon a bed of nails to read it. Every cell in the dungeon had beds like this one. Each had hinged lids, also lined with iron spikes. An indention was made for the face, the pointed tips filed down to protect the eyes. Thus, the lid could be pulled into place atop a supine body—to torment the flesh on both sides.
Lying there, with the points pressed against his nape, spine, shoulders, torso and limbs, he considered closing the lid. In Eldoria, the nailbed would be a torture device. Yet, in his kingdom it provided training for young men and women alike who wished to serve in the royal infantry, not for self-flagellation, but to toughen their skin. Wearing metal armor outside the castle walls proved more detrimental than helpful, due to sleet storms that immediately froze to ice. Within minutes, the weight of a suit of chain mail could double or triple and harden beyond all movement, rendering its wearer as good as paralyzed. Instead, they crafted their armor out of rainbow-scaled fish skins insulated with leather, naturally water-resistant, lightweight and flexible—attributes that unfortunately also made them permeable by the creatures of their terrain. Thus, their skin had to serve as a third layer of protection.
After years of training, Vesper understood the pressure points and how to position one’s body to reap the least damage. The iron stabs kept him grounded . . . reminded him of his youth when his kingly father accompanied him to the wilds, where he learned to battle both cadaver brambles and rime scorpions. Day after day, Vesper endured searing stings and punctures—for longer stretches each time—until at last he could withstand the pain and had built up an immunity to both kinds of venom, much like his blood desensitizing people to the sunlight’s burn.
The prince now had scars enough that it no longer hurt to be pricked by thorns or nails. In fact, he had more scars than most, after uncountable incisions to drain the resurgence of toxic sun in his veins—each sewn shut with magical thread that left him healed, but flawed. Surprisingly, he could hardly feel the fiery infestation internally; there was minimal pain other than his dismal dance with the blade.
His hand clenched the knife sheathed at his waist. Even his face had suffered a cleansing gash, leaving a scar along his left cheek that could be partially masked beneath a beard. But pain and vanity were the least of his worries. Of late, the golden tinge in his blood grew thicker, more difficult to leech away. One day, it would stop flowing, and his heart would cease beating.
Other than the welfare of his people, this was his greatest concern. And that was why the princess was his only hope. His kingdom’s only hope.
“You should be sleeping.” The statement was followed by a wave of pearly crickets swishing across the floor.
Vesper tilted his head. His queenly mother’s silhouette stood in the doorway, draped in shadows cast by the torch. Her pets settled into the corners to chirp merrily. The queen held a small bundle in her arms. In the dimness, her eyes glinted amber—a contrast to the icy silver of her crown and hair.
“As our cricket subjects are zealously proclaiming, Lady Mother, this is a time for celebrating, not sleeping.” He rolled to his side and winced as a nail pierced his skin, just beneath his lowest rib. So, there were still a few tender places left on him. He rather liked the proof of humanity, knowing he wasn’t yet a man of metal and stone.
His grimace gentled as he refolded Lyra’s unread letter and pressed his boots on the floor to stand. “What do you have there? Is it the midnight shadows and spiders? I thought Cyprian was to gather those.” Vesper and his troop were taking an abundance of both, to intimidate the bees and shrink the thistles so they could break through Eldoria’s honeysuckle-imprisoned stronghold and claim his bride.
“Your first knight has no part in this. These are personal gifts for the princess from myself and her late father . . .” Her explanation fell short as her eyes narrowed. She laid the bundle atop a small stone table. “You’re bleeding.”
Her familiar scent of snow and crisp cranberry wine drifted around him as she raked a fingertip across a swirl of glittery gold mixed with bright red seeping into his white tunic along his rib cage. She gasped when she grazed his abdomen—as ungiving as a plate of armor—where the ripples of his muscles had been captured in a metallic sheet of gold that was slowly petrifying toward his chest.
It wasn’t the first of such a patch. He had a golden left forearm, and a golden right shin. He couldn’t bend his wrist, but considered himself fortunate it hadn’t affected his sword arm . . . and though he walked with a slight limp, he could still sit a horse better than any man or woman in his kingdom. This newest golden infestation, causing no obvious mobility issues, had been easier to hide.
He tried to delay the horror creeping across his lady mother’s face. “We should take any open wounds as a good omen, yes? The day I stop bleeding—”
“Dare not say it.” Queen Nova’s voice trembled. “This one . . . it’s so close to your heart.” Her silver hair hung free, the long strands serving as a curtain to the orange, flickering light. Within that slant of purple shade, her expression resembled a bruise.
Vesper lifted her chin. “I wonder, what are you to do with your time, once you no longer have to fuss over me? When my blood runs pure red, and I’m strong and whole once more? Have you a hobby in mind? Perhaps calligraphy. As crowned king, I’ll have leverage to arrange a spot for you on the chancery.” He winked and wiped the gold-tinged blood from her hand onto the back of Lyra’s letter. It left a smear of pinkish, flaxen glitter against the cream-colored parchment.
Queen Nova managed a reluctant smile. “I’d rather be a chronicler. Recording history would be more stimulating than scripting charters and writs upon sheepskin hour after hour. Though I hope never again to see another vial of golden ink.” She pressed the princess’s letter to his chest and patted his cheek. “You need a shave, if you and your first knight are still masquerading as Ravagers on this journey.” Having said that, she withdrew to the table where she began to open the bundle.
Vesper tucked the note into his pocket and absently rubbed a knuckle over the dark whiskers hiding his scarred cheek. Cyprian would have an easier time preparing. The only places hair grew on other Nerezethites were their heads, eyebrows, and lashes, leaving Vesper as the singular man in his kingdom who could grow a beard.
It was Cyprian who had proposed they wear disguises for their trek through the ravine. The two of them, swathed in fitted black eel-skin uniforms and skintight hoods that covered their hair, would present an imposing sight. An assassin’s party would inspire fear in the hearts of the depraved populace there, instead of tempting thievery or hostility. The others in the group, including Vesper’s sister, Selena, would be dressed as foot soldiers.
Vesper crossed to the queen while assuring his stiff leg didn’t crush any crickets. “How did you know where to find me?
“I asked Cyprian of your whereabouts. He told me you were to meet here with Madame Dyadia.” She glanced about the room for the sorceress.
The prince took over where his mother had left off, working free the purple wool knotted around the gifts. “Our sorceress sent Thana on an errand. I’m awaiting the bird’s report before we leave.”
“A report about the witch?” His queenly mother’s lip curled on the final word.
Vesper pushed aside some hair that had slipped from the rest of the shoulder-length strands bound with a tie at his nape. He looked down to meet her gaze—a soft heather in the torchlight.
“Yes. I still plan to find her.” He resisted the urge to use the imperialistic tone reserved for political and militaristic councils, loathe to pull rank with her.
For three years, he’d been serving as king. Although he would not officially wear the crown or title—or even sit the throne—until his coronation, what he said was law, and everyone respected that. Even those who still thought him unusual, who looked upon him as foredoomed. Yet this dear lady who’d birthed him couldn’t see past the toddler she once held in her lap when he’d scuffed a knee or couldn’t sleep.
“Time is not a luxury for you, my son.” She stalled his attempt to reveal the items inside the woolen wrapping—her hands glaring bright against his own. The crickets’ chirping escalated to a bothersome pitch. “Taking the ravine’s passage . . . it could add weeks to your trip.”
“Quite the opposite. By taking the Rigamort into the Ashen Ravine, we’ll save at least three days. The ravine’s magical effect on distances will result in a two-day journey from there to Eldoria, as opposed to five were we to go north and take the iron stairway.” Though the stairs were shallow and wide enough for horses to maneuver with ease, they had to be dismounted and led. It was a long climb, and the journey around Mt. Astra to reach Eldoria’s palace was equally long.