She did a full about-face. You know all of that from one sniff?
His inscrutable dark eyes stared down unblinking at her, assuring her of the folly in such a question. She shouldn’t be surprised; he’d known she was a girl since the moment they met. Of course, she’d always assumed that was because he could hear her voice in his mind as she could his.
Wouldn’t you like to see who they’re out to kill?
She bit her lip at the baiting query. Scorch knew she hated violence almost as much as he reveled in it; but he also knew she could hardly resist the opportunity to see a Nerezethite in the flesh.
She’d come to believe that the night realm must be her home. She couldn’t belong to the day, in a place that would burn her alive should she ever venture out of the shade. Who she was and how she’d come to be here were the real mysteries. Mysteries she’d been trying to solve, though it was difficult while keeping a low profile.
Somewhere out there, she must have a mother and father or siblings . . . someone who missed her, not just an unseen enemy who had hated her enough to see her dead. But it was fear of facing said unseen abusers that kept her cautious. That, and Luce and Crony. To date, they had never allowed her to wander close to the overgrown cave—the Rigamort entrance to Nerezeth tucked at the farthest end of the ravine. But Stain knew of it. And what they didn’t know was how often she and Scorch trekked over, weaving their way through the labyrinth of thorns surrounding it. They went to observe. To wonder. To contemplate. One day, she would plunge inside that cave. It was a matter of convincing Scorch to accompany her. He, who raged into every situation headfirst and unafraid, seemed skittish to go within. She assumed stepping into a land cloaked in ice might threaten his flame, though there were other dangers to consider.
In the market, Dregs sold the preserved corpses of cadaver brambles and rime scorpions. The hoarfrost goblin regaled anyone who would listen with tales of the gore and blood that went into capturing them. However uneasy the dead creatures made Stain, they also made her sad. They were familiar somehow, and she wondered if she might ever see any alive.
Why spend the day toiling with a flea-bitten fox—Scorch interrupted her musings—when you could walk in the shade of a grand Pegasus, or climb the trees alongside him as he flies? I always give you splendid adventures. His eyes lit brighter on a dare. Just think, we might even trail the Nerezethites back through the Rigamort. With them forging the lead, I could be tempted to venture within. And you can find those answers you seek. Come along.
Stain’s pulse leapt at the offer, though she didn’t quite trust he’d follow through unless it would somehow benefit him. In the past, she’d asked him many times to seek answers for her by flying over Eldoria. He insisted he could only soar in the open above the ocean, that to go anywhere else would risk his freedom.
Stain glanced over her shoulder at Luce. He’s given me a tithe. I must stretch it into five and complete today’s barter if I want to earn time off.
All these tricks he has you perform are beneath you.
He’s teaching me to negotiate. It makes me better at my job here.
And the flowers he forces you to grow . . . in spite of the torment it brings you. What of that?
Luce says when someone has the ability to inspire happiness or beauty, and restore balance, they should use it. Even if it hurts a little.
Scorch’s gaze lit to the soft orange of guttering candles. A lowly dog is not the master of man.
Stain smiled at his vanity. Nor is a horse. Human responsibilities aren’t to be taken lightly. Unless today I might be a Pegasus, vicariously? If I can ride you and we fly together to spy on the ravagers . . . She liked that idea. To be safe upon Scorch’s back would offer anonymity. Being high overhead, out of reach but with a bird’s-eye view.
Scorch shook his elegant neck, loosening the embers fringing his mane to drift toward her. Stain’s temporary bout with hope faded. She anticipated his answer even before he thought it, as they’d had this conversation countless times: Only when the sun and moon share the sky, will I carry you.
She popped the airborne embers like one would an ensemble of soapy bubbles. She barely felt the heat. And then you’ll belong to me, my beastly brawn, and together we’ll solve the riddle of my past.
Scorch’s nostrils flared as fire-bright as his eyes. There’s as much chance of that as of the fairy tale coming true, tiny trifling thing.
She’d heard snippets of the fairy tale spouted about the marketplace. A princess in Eldoria’s palace was to marry a prince from the night realm. The prince had sunlight brewing beneath his skin, and the princess was formed of moonlight and could sing like a bird.
According to lore, should the two unite, they would have power enough to reconcile the sun and the moon.
Stain pretended to share Scorch’s cynicism—cracking bawdy jokes at the absurdity. However, deep in her heart where no one could see, she longed for it to be true. For then she could at last fly with Scorch, outside in the open night skies, escape this barren exile under the trees and the hollow past that seemed to always mock her here upon the ground.
Perhaps she could even coax him to give Luce a ride. She’d only accompanied Luce and Crony to steal memories in the ravine a few times before Luce started insisting she stay home. He hated for her to see him eat the corpse’s heart, liver, or lungs so he could retain his sylphin beauty. Though he tried to hide his shame and longing, Stain sensed it, just as she sensed how he missed flying.
She understood. Not being able to admit missing something was very like missing something one didn’t quite remember having. Both left an emptiness that couldn’t be filled.
I have a theory. Stain contained a wave of sadness by teasing Scorch. The prince has come to claim his princess. That’s the ice you smell.
A princess so delicate she can’t sleep upon a feather bed without bruising. So cowardly she won’t leave her castle walls for fear of the thistles and bees that surround it. Instead, she waits for someone to come and bleed for her freedom. I hardly see why a roughened night prince would want such a tender maid to share his throne of thorns.
Stain tilted her head. It’s said the princess has the voice of a nightingale . . . that she’s beautiful as a swan.
Scorch grunted. Does a falcon seek company with a swan amidst the lilies of a pond, or sing duets with a nightingale? Or does he soar through the storm alongside his equal, the hawk? Walking the same rocky path. Swimming the same choppy currents. Sharing courage enough to face a thicket of briars with nothing to gain but pain and flame. That’s the true measure of a companion’s worth.
Stain smiled then. In spite of his constant condescension, Scorch valued her scars and all the things that made her difficult to look upon. Humans could learn a lot from animals, as they looked with their hearts instead of their eyes.
The rumors have an appointed day and hour, she teased again. Now that the princess is old enough to reign, they say time is near. She raised her brows, telling him without words that he’d best be ready to pay up.
They also say time flies. As do I. He turned then to head into the trees, gracing her with a view of his spark-gilded tail swatting against dark flanks—as if she were a gnat pestering him. I’m bored of this parley. I’ll not mourn your absence today. Perhaps I’ll not seek you out again at all.
Perhaps, Stain answered, pulling her glove back into place. Then she turned and grinned, knowing he’d threatened the same for five years. He’d be back to report whatever he found on his adventure when the shops closed for the day; this time, he might even have some answers for her.
Stepping into the marketplace, her boot soles slapped the slick black walkway. She passed stall after stall, enacting her boyish gait. Crony’s and Luce’s reputations alone would’ve been enough to protect her, had anyone seen beyond the masquerade. But no one cared to look any closer: scarred skin that appeared grimy no matter how hard she scrubbed, due to a daily dose of sun protectants; shorn hair that never grew, greasy from a paste of crushed blackberries which left a residue even when clean. Not to mention breasts so small that binding them was unnecessary as long as the clothing was baggy.