Crony ignored the squishing and gobbling and walked toward an opening in the branches where strands of sunlight filtered in. She held up the knight’s first captured breath in its glass frame, waiting for an image to reveal itself.
Luce sighed deeply from behind—more a sound of disdain than content. She peered across her shoulder. He wiped his face clean with a sleeve then scattered leaves and soil atop the empty hole in the knight’s chest, as eager to cover up his gluttony as he was the corpse.
“So, what do you have then?” Luce stood, all levity gone from his expression.
Crony turned back to her trinket. The sylph’s height allowed him to look over her head and around her horns.
“A glimpse of a cherished childhood?” he asked, close enough his warm, blood-scented breath brushed her temple. “The love of a beautiful woman?”
Within the sandwiched planes, a multitude of monotoned shapes danced in slow motion. Crony brought the glass closer. “Patience, me doggish dandy. The image still be forming.”
In this raw state, a captured memory could only be seen by her eyes and heard by her ears. Even after she gave life to the tableau so anyone could watch it unfold across the glass, only her magic could bridge the moment to another’s mind and imprint it there, making it their own. At least in this kingdom. There was one other with magic enough to manage a memory animation or weave. But Crony hadn’t had contact with them in centuries.
Brushing off the melancholy thoughts, Crony concentrated on her prize. She hoped Luce’s guesses were correct about their dying man’s last memories. Happiness was the most lucrative. The patrons who came seeking her wares were covetous souls, always yearning for the satisfaction they’d never had.
However, violent and disturbing memories had their place, too. Those she saved for weapons to unleash upon enemies—a tactic that had won her a feared and revered status among even the deadliest miscreants occupying the ravine.
At last the jumbled scene unfolded with clarity and the sound reached her ears in sync with the images. The king, along with the dead knight lying behind her, spoke in hushed tones. The memory came to an end as the king and his confidante were attacked by the same three Eldorian guards who had escorted King Kiran to the battlefield and back.
Crony hissed. “Traitors.”
“Who?” Luce asked. “Tell me what you see . . .”
So shocked by the man’s memory, Crony didn’t notice the approaching footsteps. Luce’s vulpine senses kicked in before the four Eldorian soldiers stepped through the foliage surrounding them. He transformed into the fox and snatched Crony’s bag of glass with his teeth, escaping into the underbrush.
“What have we here?” One of the soldiers—hot and sweaty from military drills—caught Crony around the neck from behind. Her glass trinket fell to the ground and cracked. The trapped breath released on a wisp of shimmery flakes. Crony inhaled it before it could blow away and be a memory lost forever. Held safe within her, she’d have the means to imprint it upon someone still, should the time come.
“Appears to be a witch of the wilds,” a female soldier answered as she lifted the skeletal staff. The woman wrinkled her dirt-smeared nose upon seeing the squirrel’s tail tucked at Crony’s waist. “She reeks of dead things.”
“And thievery to boot,” a third soldier added, finding the knight’s armor tucked into the rock’s edge.
Crony lunged to escape but was helpless against her captor’s vise.
None had discovered the knight’s corpse until the fourth soldier nearly tripped over it. He knelt to rake the leaves and dirt away. His face paled. “Sir Nicolet.”
The other three soldiers gasped in unison.
“Lady Griselda has been searching for him,” said the man holding Crony. He tightened his grip when she tensed. “Murderer!”
Crony struggled against the rough hands wrestling her to the ground, but spoke not a word in defense as a dark bag came down over her head, blocking out all light. Why complain? At least she had her oblivion.
3
The Splendor of Velvet and Vermin
Following King Kiran’s death, darkness blighted Eldoria’s spirits—a mockery in a land where the sun never waned.
Only one day after the burial, and war loomed once more. Soon, the infantry would go by foot to Nerezeth’s iron staircase with orders to dig their way through to the gates. There was rumor the bedridden King Orion had been bonded somehow to the lavender-colored roses that were uprooted over a month ago, and by now, his fight to live would have dwindled and he would be easy to quash. Griselda wanted to ensure death would be at Eldoria’s hands. No one in court believed Nerezeth’s claim of being innocent of King Kiran’s blood, and there was a statement to be made.
Within the castle, a statement was being made as well. Along with her daughters, Griselda was moving to the north wing. “I should stay close to my niece,” she said. “I must keep her safe.”
Lyra had felt safe on this side of the grand ivory fortress, where the curtains stayed drawn and shadows slipped in and out, playing hide-and-seek with the candle flames. Here, she could escape her burden of heavy trappings and run about the winding halls and stairways half-dressed, unmasked, barefooted, and free to be herself. All her life, it had been only her and her father’s advisors—along with his most trusted knight, Sir Tristan Nicolet—occupying the northern tower, chambers, and corridors. This place had served as her playground in the waking hours, and a haven when time to rest. But when Sir Nicolet didn’t attend the king’s funeral or return to the castle, rumors abounded that he had also fallen prey to the Night Ravagers. Now, with both him and her father gone, a chilling change was on the air that smelled dank and moldering, like loneliness—despite all the people milling about.
Lyra crept in and out of dark corners as servants she barely recognized marched back and forth with trunks and baskets. To cross their paths won her fearful glances and curious glares, more biting than the sun’s rays had ever been. Her aunt’s servants had lived with her on the east side, leaving them as much strangers to Lyra as she was strange to them.
Finding a safe spot beneath a stairwell, she spied on a blond chambermaid walking alongside another with dark hair and a limping gait, both carrying baskets of linens and dried flowers that smelled musky and sweet.
“’Ave you ’eard?” the blonde asked the brunette, oblivious to Lyra’s presence. “Brindle and Matilde ’ave been exiled to the servants’ quarters. They’re only to come out for meal preparations. Regent Griselda says they been forgettin’ their places, wiling away work hours playing with the princess.”
“That sounds right enough,” the other answered. “A cook belongs in the kitchen preparing food, and a jester in the dining hall delivering jokes to aid with digestion. Don’t know why anyone would choose to be here in the darkness with that feral little beast anyway. So unearthly silent . . . and those eyes, the way they glint? It’s enough to give ya nightmares for weeks.”
Lyra backed herself deeper under the stairwell, lowering her gaze to keep it hidden.
The blonde stalled and looked around to be sure no one overheard. “Well, ’tween you and me, I’m relieved I didn’t get assigned to attend ’er. There’s rumor those lashes be made of metal shavings. That’s why they’re so jagged and silver-white. Can you imagine getting sliced by all them?”
Lyra touched her lashes, their softness belying the maids’ accusations. She wished to tell them how wrong they were. But how could they listen when she had no words? She could write them a note, but not everyone in the castle could read.
The brunette shivered. “Who’s to tend her then? I thought the regent had a falling-out with Mia.”
“Put ’er foot down, is all. Told Mia she’d still be permitted to be the princess’s personal maid, but only at the beginnin’ and endin’ of the cessation course. To ’elp bathe and prepare for bed, and in the mornings to dress for the day. But the regent said she’d keep a close eye on things, so Mia mightn’t come between Lyra and ’er true family.”
Lyra teetered on a tightrope of emotions—itching to jump out and defend Mia, but at the same time tempted to slink away like an unwanted ragdoll. As they passed, she compromised and slipped from her hiding spot to follow silently.
Their small procession stopped at her mother’s room. Her aunt had insisted the queen’s chambers should be her own, “until the princess comes of age enough to appreciate its splendors.”