Metamorphosis Most Foul
With Eldoria’s cessation course underway, heavy drapes had been drawn to block the unrelenting sunlight—more from habit than necessity, as the honeysuckle vines managed to obstruct most windows in the castle at present. The glossy marble halls and corridors mirrored the bluish glow upon Griselda’s hands as candles winked from beneath their tinged-glass domes like wily accomplices.
Carrying her gloves as a precaution, she kept her footfalls light upon the floor while making her way to the lower wings. She rearranged the hennin upon her head, warmed by a sense of smugness. She had kept the secret of the witch’s arrival for two days. And then fate once again smiled upon her, bringing the prisoner to the castle while everyone slept. No one on the council even knew about their prisoner yet; no one had been apprised of the contents within the jackdaw’s sealed missive but Griselda’s daughters and her two loyal knights. The ambitious soldiers, stationed at the outer bailey and gate, all hoped to win an honored place within the king and queen’s guard once “Lyra” married Prince Vesper. Thus, they had agreed to their regent’s command—to hand off the witch to her first knights upon arrival—without question.
After a momentary brush with panic, Griselda had come to realize she couldn’t have timed everything better herself. She’d already sent her daughters to bed within the chambers where they’d been staying—free at last of their underground imprisonment. The queen’s posh room belonged to Lustacia now, as the entire kingdom did. Avaricette and Wrathalyne had been quick to take advantage of their own inflated status by claiming Sir Nicolette’s room as theirs and working every servant to the bone over the past two days redecorating for them.
Two hours ago, when the witch first arrived, the Nerezethite guard named Thea apprised Griselda that Prince Vesper and the rest of his entourage should be close behind.
So, as Sir Bartley and Sir Erwan led the prisoner to the dungeons, Griselda put her soldiers to work with their axes alongside the four heavily dressed Nerezethite escorts, suggesting they use their supply of spiders and moonlit shadows to carve a path through the honeysuckle vines and bees in preparation for the prince’s appearance. Griselda’s maneuver served a dual purpose: keeping Prince Vesper’s subjects preoccupied while she questioned, then silenced the witch; and staunching any chance that the night realm’s eight-legged vermin would be brought within her castle walls.
Now alone, Griselda took the spiraling stairs into the bowels of the castle, following the torches Erwan had lit for her. As much as she despised darkness and shadows, she celebrated. This was the final loose thread, then no more traversing the dusty subterranean like a begrimed beetle.
Upon reaching the end of the dungeon’s corridors, she pushed the cornerstone to open the hidden underground tunnel. Inside, she pulled a latch. Clicking and clacking, the entrance rearranged itself into a solid wall, closing the tunnel off.
Gripping her lantern, she plunged even deeper beneath the ground. Sir Erwan bowed upon her arrival as she turned a corner—the torch beside the locked door casting fretful lines across his yellowish-brown complexion. She glanced at the darkness where the tunnel continued to wind out of sight. Somewhere at the end, less than a quarter of a league, it opened to the enchanted outlet that led to the Crystal Lake and the Ashen Ravine beyond.
Nostalgia curled through her; it seemed so long ago that she’d come here with Elusion; but that wasn’t the fond memory she embraced. It was the moment she sent her niece’s corpse through that tunnel that warmed her. Griselda’s one regret was that she didn’t dump Lyra’s remains within the ravine herself . . . that she didn’t get to see the shrouds feast on her ghastly flesh.
She cleared her throat against the suffocating stench of loam and subsoil, her attention on Erwan again. “Has the prisoner spoken?”
“Not a word. Even when I chained her up. The Nerezethite escorts said she was silent on the journey as well. It seems she impressed the prince with her humility and cooperation.” Erwan shrugged. “They suspect he might want some say in how we handle her arraignment.”
“A shame she’s going to attempt escape with a conjuring flame . . . that she’ll destroy all the cells beyond recognition before he arrives.” Griselda dragged a pouch out of one pocket. She placed the mixture of saltpeter, wood ashes, and tinder-bat dung into Erwan’s leather glove. “Use utmost caution. When combined with the vinegar, it will form an incendiary so potent, anything it’s been brushed upon becomes flammable. Wood, fabric, plants, dirt, or stone. Whether wet or dry, it will spark.” Their ultimate goal was to bury the witch alive in the hidden tunnel while making it appear as if she’d been trapped beneath fallen stone in a collapsed cell. “Once mixed, brush it everywhere in the cells—floor to ceiling—then spread a line to the secret tunnel’s entry. It’s the only way we’ll precipitate a cave-in. Take care not to get any upon the stairs or your feet. Leave a pathway from which we can walk out.”
Erwan’s brow furrowed to a worrisome scrawl. He was always squeamish about handling potions or elixirs. “You mentioned wanting some for the sylph elm in the garden. How much should I set aside?”
Griselda shook her head. “I made a batch earlier. I’ve already coated the trunk. It is not to be ignited unless I give the command, and only if he refuses to cooperate.” She had warned all the soldiers to watch for a red-haired man too beautiful to be fully human; told them as little as they needed to know, but enough that they would guard their ears against his persuasive voice. Elusion wouldn’t dare attempt to enter Eldoria as a fox, for his pelt would be a precious temptation to any self-respecting hunter. She couldn’t deny the spark in her blood, knowing upon his arrival they would either resume their past partnership or she’d burn his wings to ash.
“So, I’ll retrieve you when I’m ready to torch the dungeon.” Erwan began to leave, but Griselda grasped his elbow.
“A torch won’t suffice.” She showed him two orbs, aglow with swirling turquoise light. “We’ll toss these from the stairway. I’ve altered a recipe, using our accursed honeysuckle petals and liquid sunshine. Only the purest strand of moonlight can extinguish the flames these will birth. No water, sand, or any commonplace means can stop them. The blaze will burn until it’s eaten anything and everything combustive around it.” She dropped both orbs into her pocket once more.
Erwan’s chin tightened. “It could take some time to assure all is well coated. Should Bartley give me a hand?”
“He’s overseeing the honeysuckle slashings.” She took off her hennin and patted her hillock of twisted braids, searching for the knots beneath. Pressed against the hat’s base, their itch had become unbearable. She glared at Erwan’s obvious interest in her lumpy hair. “One of you has to watch the gloom-dwellers. Should they get too warm in the sunlight while wearing those mummified costumes, they’ll need to come in and rest in the guest wing. Can’t have them wandering down here.” She smiled. “Of course, should they find their way before the flame is ignited . . . well, that’s completely out of our hands, isn’t it? The witch has already murdered many of Eldoria’s own. Should a Nerezethite be captured in the fray, it will only confirm how dangerous she is. Considering her immortality, keeping her buried will prove wisest for everyone.”
Erwan’s gray eyes clouded, sure indication he was attempting to think for himself instead of blindly obeying her command. “Then, it would no longer matter what secret memories she holds. Why question her since she’ll be silenced? She might refuse to speak, or use sorcery to rattle you. Go to bed, make it appear you’ve been asleep for hours by the time the cave-in happens. Wash your hands of this, put on your gloves, and call it done.” At that, his gaze fell to Griselda’s clenched, tinted fists.
Glaring, she tucked her gloves into her empty pocket, keeping her hands bared. “A lazy man’s logic, which is why only a woman can do the job. One must not rest until the trophy is won and mounted upon the wall. I need to be sure she hasn’t imprinted Sir Nicolet’s final memory on someone else. And what have I to fear of a harrower witch’s sortilege? She knows nothing of potions or poisons that can alter a life . . . she only deals in the dead and dying. Once she sees the enchanted blood staining my skin, she’ll know I’ve harnessed powers beyond her own. For that, she should fear me. Without having an ounce of inborn magic in my fingertips, without needing a guide, I’ve won the thrones of two kingdoms.”