Her eyes swelled, burdensome and scratchy, filled with cruel sand. She picked up the melted knife and offered the only explanation she had. You killed him, trying to defend yourself. The admission sliced into her bones. A body-wrenching sob tore from her chest. You absorbed his spirit. The bog must be enchanted.
The prince’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “I didn’t kill him. I conquered him.” His newfound strength seemed to be waning; he suddenly looked tired. “I am him . . . your beastly brawn that you waltzed with in the embers, that you fed from your hand. I’ve been him all along. Or he’s been me. I can explain—”
A dog’s bark at the thicket’s opening interrupted.
“Prince Vesper! Majesty!” Several concerned voices called, followed by the nicker of horses. Stain choked on a startled breath as the cocker spaniel bounded in. Twigs snapped beneath the dog’s paws on its journey through the brambles.
Knowing the prince’s entourage would be close behind, Stain dropped the knife and clambered to her feet.
The prince tried to stop her but fell to his knees and gripped his chest. “Wait . . .” he groaned.
She wanted to wait, but all her bravery, all her fierceness, was sunken with Scorch’s corpse in the bottom of the bog.
We’ll sort this out. The prince used Scorch’s inner voice again, tearing through her mind like a stampede of hooves, leaving ragged imprints on her heart. Stay with me . . . please.
Too many thoughts surged inside her. One rose above the fray, but instead of buoying her, it dragged her down.
Her dearest friend was gone, his essence somehow locked within a beautiful prince who belonged to two kingdoms, a princess, and a prophecy she had no place in. She couldn’t stay . . . couldn’t belong with him now. All that was left was to get her family back—someone with whom to stand, someone with whom to hold hands as the sun and moon came together when the prince married his songbird bride and tore Stain’s heart in twain.
She held his gaze, seeing Scorch look back from those anguished, firelit eyes. It was too much. Her crickets and shadows had retreated already, taking shelter in the saddlebag free of broken glass—hidden safely alongside the princess’s priceless gifts. Spinning, Stain grabbed the strap before making her escape, desperate to keep and protect the only companions still within her reach.
The prince’s fading pleas pounded both her mind and ears, but she didn’t turn back. Instead, she took a hidden pathway. She retraced the trampled vines left by a Pegasus five years earlier as he thrashed his way out of these brambles, victorious in his freedom—a freedom won at the scarred hands of a nameless little child no bigger than a speck of dust. Which was exactly how small and inadequate she felt right now as each painful step carried her farther into the empty unknown.
Part III
In Which the Rose
Becomes the Thorn
21
Invasion, Bitter and Entrancing
The trees, black as pitch and stooped like withered old giants, waited to greet Stain when she plunged out of the bramble thicket. She was careful not to be seen by the prince’s entourage as she traded muck for ash. A masculine wail ruptured the stillness, punctured her eardrums and heart with the precision of a lance, and stopped her in her tracks.
It was Scorch . . . no, Vesper. Somehow, the two were entwined and unreachable to her. Another agonized wail resounded, and the prince’s plea pounded through her: Stay with me . . . please. Her hands clutched a tree limb, forcing her legs to stand still when all they wanted was to run to him and help.
When another cry rung out, she put one foot forward but stalled as a banshee’s screech overrode the echo. Up above, the monstrous one-eyed crow skimmed along the canopy like a ghostly vision. Stain ducked behind the trunk. She clutched the saddlebag, convinced the bird was seeking her for her thievery. Once it descended and disappeared into the other side of the brambles, she relaxed, relieved more for Vesper than herself. His already cursed body seemed to be reacting to Scorch’s invasion. The odd, enchanted crow could help him in ways Stain never could. Soon he would be riding beside his entourage—with Scorch nestled quietly in his mind—to meet his princess. He would leave all the horrors of the ravine behind and embrace the extraordinary destiny for which he was born.
Stain swallowed against that growingly familiar taste on her tongue . . . the vinegary brine of envy. It burned now, more acidic, thinking of how so much that once belonged to her was being claimed by Eldoria’s castle.
She stood wearily and made her way through the trees. Though she’d seen this view for as much as she could remember of her life, it looked foreign now. The thick, leafy canopies seemed to curl inward as if to chew her up.
It made her dizzy to look at them, so she dropped her gaze. She wandered in a fugue, her mind as hazy as the powdery terrain she stirred with each plodding footstep.
Despite the ash’s stench of decay, her stomach cramped, hunger tunneling its claws deeper, another hollow she needed to fill. She had the skill to forage for food, but was too tired.
The desolation of her walk confirmed the cessation course had begun. Everyone was sleeping. The forest was quiet—spreading its contagion of restfulness.
Stain’s pace slowed. Luce haunted her thoughts. He and Crony had a code, and Stain hoped he’d kept to it, that he’d escaped when their precious companion was taken and was planning a way to save her.
Stain didn’t expect that he’d wait for her help; he’d probably already left. With her frailties, she couldn’t make the trek to the castle under full exposure of the sun. Even wrapped in clothes, and even with it cloudy outside, her flesh would blister and broil as if she stood naked in a fire pit. She knew from experience that the balm protectant Crony made only worked on faint, muted light filtering through small holes in the canopy.
If there was any way to get to the castle on her own, she’d take it.
Lifting the saddlebag higher on her shoulder stirred ripples of movement inside. The night creatures . . . Dregs had said something about the shadows while she was at his booth . . . that they had been meant for the princess, for attire of some sort. But how could clothing be made of shadows, and to what end? In honor of the night prince? Stain knew so little about Eldoria and its history, she couldn’t begin to guess.
The princess went into hiding years ago, shortly after the king’s death, when several inhabitants of the castle were murdered by an evil enchantment—though no victims were given names here. The threat to the princess’s life was so egregious that she withdrew into the dungeon. Then an infestation of barbed honeysuckle vines, meant to protect the palace, had spread into all the nooks and crannies of the kingdom. It was rumored that shadows might have the ability to shrink the gargantuan honeysuckle plants. That was why bringing the moon back meant so much to Eldoria.
Stain’s eyelashes grew heavy as if carved of iron. Her lids drooped and her steps slowed. Her bones felt like iron, too, so heavy it hurt to lift them.
She barely noticed the stench of the burbling quag-puddle skidding her way. Its progress split a path through the ash, sending the powder flying on either side. The sentient spume caught her before she could leap out of its way. Her foot began to sink. Gritting her teeth, she wiggled out of the boot just in time to watch it being swallowed. Before the puddle could capture her bare foot, she hopped to the right and squeezed into a ring of closely woven trees. Their overgrown roots formed a nest that no puddle could penetrate. Spewing out a grumbling belch of bubbles, the quag left the way it came. Letting the saddlebag slide, Stain curled up, heart thudding from the close call. She rested her cheek against the leather. Everywhere else, knotted roots jabbed at tender, bruised flesh.
Loneliness crept into her sleep, fashioning dreams as empty as her stomach. She wasn’t sure how long she’d dozed when something wet shoved against her nape and snuffled, jolting her awake. She turned to find the fox beside her—wearing a snarl that looked suspiciously like a scowl.
She mimed the words: Are you a dream?
His pointed ears lay back and he sneezed a layer of dust from his nostrils. The spray spattered her forehead, assuring her he was real.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been digging through this cesspool of slag for you?” Luce’s silken baritone snapped out of his whiskered muzzle like a whip. “Dregs and Edith said they spotted you out frolicking with Scorch. Crony is in danger, yet you’ve been off with your donkey, wasting precious time.”
Stain threw her arms around the fox’s neck and buried her face in his fur, wanting to drown in his mix of animal dander, man, and flight. I’m sorry, Luce. I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive! She couldn’t risk losing her hold on him to sign the words, and there’d be no hearing her otherwise.
Only Scorch could . . . only Vesper would . . .