Stain slammed her eyelids shut, her mind flashing to that odd dream of golden words upon black pages from years earlier. Opening her eyes, she studied her fingers, thinking upon their scalding, bright magic. Somewhere inside her was the missing detail . . . the explanation for why she had sunlight beneath her skin like this man. She cursed Crony and Luce for stealing those answers, for leaving nothing but a residue to cling to.
Shaking off her anger, she looked up once more. Princess Selena stitched her brother’s incision. It oozed red now, as if his blood had been cleansed by the draining. She tied off some black thread and cut it. Before Stain could blink, his skin had healed to another scar—absorbing the stitches in the process. More magic.
“I wonder how many that is now?” The prince patted the raised white welt. “Perhaps enough I can double as a patchwork quilt.” The edges of his mouth twitched. “Let’s play a trick on the castle’s seamstresses . . . hang me on the wall naked beside their finest creations. See how long it takes them to notice.”
Stain stifled a surprised laugh at his wit. Her own scars stared back at her, providing an intimate awareness of how desecrated he must truly feel. Though some of her wounds had been made through experiences and adventures she chose, there were others inflicted upon her, robbing her of any choice.
Princess Selena laughed, as if buoyed by her brother’s momentary lapse into humor. “You might’ve got by with it in your youth—bedeviled, rebel prince that you were. I can think of several maids who would swoon at the prospect of such a sight even now.” Clucking her tongue, she tucked all the articles away in the bag, including the papers. “However, I hold you to a better standard. That behavior would be entirely unbecoming of the king.”
The king. One half of the couple who would return unity to the heavens. Stain’s heart sped, keeping rhythm with the rain drizzling into the fishing tarn. It hit her suddenly: she’d attacked royalty, offset an honorable quest to mend their realms. And now, aware of the prince’s condition, seeing his humanness, she felt even sorrier for her preconceptions—for judging the Nerezethites without knowing intimate details of the realm’s traditions.
Cloth rustled as the prince opened another saddlebag and a cylinder of unusual silken fabric unrolled, revealing feathers, fur, and lace that swirled like rippling water in a cave. Within the pleats rested a handful of treasures: an ornate hairbrush of pearlescent opal with steel bristles, an amethyst-jeweled hairpin, and a ring whose setting consisted of a miniature lavender rose. This too was magical, as the blossom somehow thrived without soil, water, or roots. Its perfume—so potent it reached Stain even without a breeze to carry it—reminded her of the blackened bouquet from earlier . . . those withered roses the shrouds hoarded as a macabre keepsake from her entry into the ravine. Another similarity between her and the prince. They shared sunlight somehow . . . scars . . . and a history with these strange flowers.
Confusion surged—a woozy sensation. Her knees weakened. She gripped the rough tree bark to keep from reeling.
Compose yourself. Scorch’s voice ignited in her mind. She sensed his return, behind her where the trees thickened. You need your wits about you so we can execute my plan.
No, Stain answered as the prince leaned closer to the fire, his complexion waxen and drawn, as if siphoning the golden solvent from his body had weakened him.
Yes. Scorch grunted low in his throat. He’s unsteady now. It’s the perfect opportunity.
We can’t kill him. Her heart pounded in her chest as the thought flickered between her and her winged companion, hot and bright as the blaze reflected in the prince’s deep, haunted eyes. He’s royalty.
Could that be why Luce had been so upset with her earlier? Had he known the ravager’s true identity all along?
What have I told you about royalty? Scorch’s response was gruff. They are the vilest of all humankind. Selfish, power hungry. Cruel. They’ll kill anyone who threatens their status, even their own subjects.
Stain tightened her stance. This prince didn’t seem selfish. And cruel? Earlier, when she first met him, his words were kind and noble—offering her help. Now they centered around concern for his people and the broken skies, inasmuch as himself.
We must act now.
Stain ignored Scorch’s snarling command and the faint smell of smoke curling around her—focused instead on the quiet conversation still taking place between the prince and his sister.
“I just don’t understand how it’s all to be.” He held the ring up to the campfire, pinching the rusty-brown band that matched the color of his forefinger and thumb. Firelight and shade alternated along the whorl of lavender petals, brightening some to a satin sheen while darkening others to velvet depths. The jewelry was tiny in his large, slender hand. “How my marriage to Lady Lyra will align the moon and sun so both kingdoms can benefit. How it can cure my poisoned blood and save our people. Can magic be so strong?”
“It was strong enough to separate the heavens, to keep you alive in spite of the sun’s taint.” Selena traced the intricate lines of the hairpin. “Strong enough to capture a princess’s teardrops in this pin and harden her hair to bristles of steel for this brush. We must have faith it can ameliorate all the wrongs. Put things back to right.”
Stain touched the corners of her eyes . . . as dry as they’d been since she could remember. Then her hand slipped over her forehead and caressed the downy fuzz from her crown to her nape, once silvery-white, now a shade of blackberry not unlike the prince’s own. Something inside her woke—a stir of jealousy, knowing that she would never have use for such beautiful items since her own hair didn’t grow? Or something more?
“Faith,” the prince’s growl stole her breath. “Faith in a prophecy—nothing but an amalgamation of words arranged prettily upon an ice cavern’s wall. Belief that every event is a stepping-stone. That everyone we meet serves a purpose.” He rewrapped the gifts in that dark, swirling fabric and placed them inside the saddlebag. “The prophecy has colored every decision we make . . . every challenge we stumble upon. At each crossroad, we stop and wonder. How do our wounded stags figure into this? Our dying people? How does that boy we seek—bleeding, scarred . . . so poverty-stricken he has no shoes—fit in? What of the ancient mystic that Leo’s team is taking to Eldoria’s castle as we speak, or our reserve of midnight shadows and spiders they took to break through the enchanted honeysuckle walls?” He clasped his sister’s hand. “Selena, by hanging our confidence upon magic, we’re shirking our own accountability, our capacity to reason and surmise. You met the prisoner yourself. You heard me interrogate her. She’s nothing like Dyadia said. We all saw her humility, her gratitude when we shared our food with her, the gentleness in contrast to her ugliness.”
Selena pursed her lips in thought. “She was very respectful to you. To all of us, in spite of her captivity.”
The prince closed the flap on his saddlebag, his expressive eyebrows pinched tight. “I made a mistake, sending her to be punished on mere faith. We haven’t any proof of wrongdoing . . . not even the box marked ‘princess - revolution.’ Nothing other than an albino crow’s word and Regent Griselda’s suspicions. Enough of faith. It’s time we take control of fate and make things right on our own. Whether or not Luna and Nysa can track the orphan boy, we leave for Eldoria when the cessation course begins. I wish to consult with the princess as soon as possible. Even a horned harrower witch merits a trial—a chance to defend herself.”
Albino crow . . . harrower witch . . . punishment and trials. Stain’s fingers dug deeper into the bark’s crevices as the words spun in her brain.
Scorch huffed. As I said. Royalty is not to be trusted. You’ve heard what happens to those who end up in Eldoria’s dungeons. Your toothless friend from market is a prime example. I assure you, the punishment is far worse for those who practice magic outside of the Regent’s requests. Had the prince already been dead, your precious Crony wouldn’t be in danger now.
Stain squeezed her eyes shut as Scorch’s truths sliced her to the core.
Everything that had transpired between her and her guardians earlier—their betrayal of her memories, their lies—fell away in light of Crony’s predicament. Dregs had mentioned seeing the soldiers. Stain hadn’t given it a second thought . . . but it was she who led the troop there. An albino crow had crossed their threshold, magical enough to bypass the nightmare wards. And Stain heard the dog barking when she left. She led them straight to her family, then abandoned them. And unless Luce had escaped, he was captured, too. Or worse. She gasped at the thought, a burst of air that proved too loud.
The prince and his sister scrambled to standing, their tense bodies turned her direction.
“Who goes there?” the prince called out. He wavered on his feet, still unsteady.