“What if you’re caught in a night tide in the badlands?”
“Madame Dyadia’s spiritual wards have predicted clear, starry skies,” Vesper interrupted. “The horses have been shod with steel spikes, so managing the ice and tundra will prove no issue. We should arrive at the Rigamort within eight hours after we leave the castle.”
“And the dangers?”
He huffed. “I’ve battled snow leopards, cadaver brambles, and bone spiders since I was seven. Thirteen years is enough to consider myself well-seasoned.”
She shook her head. “You know I speak of the ravine. There are things in that haunted forest you’ve no experience facing. Quagmires that move, flesh-eating shrouds . . . the murderers, degenerates and thieves.”
“Thieves.” He quirked a brow. “Precisely the reason it’s the perfect route. And I’m taking two of our best sun-smugglers, who know the ravine’s secrets within and without. Now, may I please have a look?” He gave her a tender smile, then nudged her hands aside to reveal the royal gifts. His thumb tracked the elegant lines of a glossy, pearlized hairbrush. His breath caught in appreciation of the craftsmanship.
“The bristles are constructed of the princess’s very own braid,” his queenly mother explained. “Madame Dyadia’s artisans used the sample that King Kiran brought those five years ago, and strengthened the strands with enchantments and fire and wax.”
“Beautiful,” Vesper murmured as he ran his palm across the brittle, silvery fibers. He remembered that braid, how soft it was to the touch. Many a time, he’d imagined how it would feel to caress his bride’s true hair on their wedding night, to follow the long, sleek strands down her naked body where they flared at her waist and framed her spectral flesh.
“And this.” The queen held up a crescent-moon hairpin with three starry, purple jewels in the middle. “We fashioned it in honor of our sigil. These gems are forged of the princess’s own tears, spellbound to stay crystalized until she releases them herself.”
Vesper took the metal pin and turned it in his hand. So delicate and perfect. Just as he imagined her to be.
He grew somber, thinking upon the princess’s latest note. He almost dreaded reading it. Her exchanges about the happenings in her kingdom had always been filled with an underlying sadness. Regret, even. Though her words came across as rehearsed and guarded, she didn’t feel worthy of the crown; that was obvious even without her saying it. He’d battled the same insecurities. According to the prophecy, these differences would make them strong when united. Just as Eldoria would embrace him for his likenesses to them, here in his homeland, Lady Lyra would be revered for those things her people once marked as odd and disquieting.
He was eager to experience that alongside her—for neither of them to ever feel inadequate again.
“What do you think?” His mother broke through his musings.
He laid the pin next to the hairbrush atop the wool. “They’re resplendent. I’ll give them to her when I give her the panacea ring.” Vesper had never forgotten how King Kiran had kept one alive, and how Eldoria’s princess had sacrificed it for his people. After that rose had birthed a bountiful harvest, he took a deep lavender blossom and requested Madame Dyadia use her craft to shrink and preserve it, thus retaining its unique scent. The bloom now sat secured atop a band woven of tarnished copper—a wedding ring to resemble the barren beauty of his world in contrast to the lushness of her own.
“So, now that you have these gifts,” the queen pressed, “will you abandon the witch hunt?”
“These gifts won’t give Lady Lyra what she’s been missing all these years. The harrower witch must be captured for sending her family into captivity in the dungeon, for killing her father and cousin. There is penance to be made, and a spell of madness to be lifted off the castle.”
“Penance. Feels more like vengeance.” Queen Nova folded up the items once more, her silvery eyebrows furrowed.
“Noble vengeance.” Vesper mirrored her expression, a more imposing gesture with his thick, dark brows.
“I’ve seen the snares you’re taking. Incendiary and body-gripping devices do not imply nobility.”
“This harrower witch is immortal. Madame Dyadia assured me she can’t be wounded or killed.” Vesper frowned. “You must know I would never consider using fireballs or pit snares on a typical old woman. But it takes harsher means to entrap someone who’s invincible.”
“It is this invincibility that concerns me. You . . . are the furthest thing from it.”
“She’s one, against me and nine of my most trusted confidantes. She must be contained. How else will my betrothed and her regent aunt feel safe enough to leave their kingdom in her council’s care and ride with us back to Nerezeth for our joint coronation and marriage, unless their persecutor be captured and dealt with? I am honor bound to give the princess back her power. She’s been too long without it.”
“You are honor bound to be her helpmate. Take the iron gate’s safe passage to Eldoria. You may be a few days later, but you’re guaranteed to arrive in one piece. Send your troop to capture the witch—after you’re cured, after you’re wed.”
Vesper’s chin clenched. He could sense his mother’s frustration at not being able to connect to him mentally. He shared it.
Queen Nova shook her head. “I saw the cloak you’re taking for the princess. Your sister is attending the journey to serve as chaperone, yet you’ve given her no such exaggerated wardrobe.”
Vesper had commissioned a hooded lacewing cloak sewn of silk and nightsky, lined with fish scales, and embellished with molted nightingale feathers, fur, and spider’s lace to wrap his princess within on their journey back. Though the moon would be a comfort to her, she hadn’t had a lifetime of puncture wounds in preparation for the harsh terrain. He knew from letters how fearful she was of thorns and nettles and bees. He only hoped her trepidation wouldn’t hinder her acceptance of the royal pets in his castle.
“Selena is accustomed to this land,” Vesper countered. “But Lady Lyra . . . you’ve heard the stories. She can’t even wave an arm out a window without her flesh searing in the light. I can only imagine what brambles will do.”
“The prophecy says that as your shadow-bride, she will be capable of embracing this world and you as you are. I believe those words. Perhaps she simply needs a chance to show her resilience. No better place than Nerezeth to test her mettle. ‘Ours is a land for the daring, and only the brutal of heart can survive.’ Those were your words. You wished to wrap her in brambles yourself before you lost—” She bit her explanation short.
“Before I lost what, Lady Mother?” He growled when she averted her gaze. “For five years you have tiptoed around the subject of that night, of how I’ve felt incomplete since the moment I awoke in my chamber after swallowing the sunlight. You and Dyadia were standing over my bed, here in this castle, yet I felt as if I’d been floating elsewhere for hours. Then there was the sense that some piece of me was missing. Something monumental. It was true, for I could no longer connect to you, my sister, or any of our people mentally . . . no longer have silent conversations between us. You assured me that what I was missing was the princess—that she can put me back to rights. There must be more. I tumble every night into sweat-drenched dreams, with the taste of steam on my tongue and the scent of kindling in my nose; I awaken out of sorts, out of breath, as if I’ve been running and running, somewhere both dark and light. Yet when my eyes open, here I am, tangled within my bedsheets. What don’t I remember? What are you keeping from me?”
The queen rubbed her temple until her knuckles bulged pale under the moonlit flesh that bound them. “Nothing. Once your princess quells the sun’s blaze within you, your nightmares will end.” Her long gown swished as she turned back to the table. “Lady Lyra is as capable as you. Have faith in it. She is your equal already—today. She needs you standing on the steps of her castle, not the witch.”
“It would be ill thought, to leave the witch at large.” Madame Dyadia’s voice rippled like a purr in the stony cell, silencing the crickets. “The wedding itself is in harm’s way, as long as she’s free.”
Vesper scanned their surroundings. The sorceress had slipped in without notice. Squinting, he at last saw her form, leaned against the wall beside the spiked bed, her flesh blending into the gray stone. Madame Dyadia had the ability to move without walking, to float like a night mist, and being descended from primordial chimeras—chameleon-catlike creatures—could match her surroundings at will. Her signature ivory robes trimmed in ebony lace were also ensorcelled to reflect her environs.