“Ah, but there’s no denyin’ there be an anonymous enchantress who served King Kre?imer, aye?”
Griselda’s chin dropped. Luce had suspected this room belonged to an enchantress. And hadn’t Prime Minister Albous mentioned something of the sort when he started teaching Lyra sign language? That he’d seen a reference to such a being under the castle’s employ, centuries before, when they still had a night sky? By the title, Griselda assumed it referred to some exquisite sorceress, not a hideous, gnarled old hag. But there wasn’t a description, and all other mentions had been blotted out.
The only reason anyone’s name would be blotted out was for betraying the royal kingdom. Crony’s admission years earlier in the dungeon: The debt I owe not be yers. It belong to King Kiran’s royal seed. It never occurred to Griselda to analyze those words, to think of them as anything but empty insults about her lack of a crown.
“May-let ye still don’t understand. The Plebeian’s Grimoire . . . found for ye within this very room . . . be mine.” Crony’s words swept the moan that rose to Griselda’s tongue back into her throat where it lodged within a rise of bile. “Though to be fair to our air elemental, he didn’t know me as its author back then. In fact, he didn’t know me at all.”
“A mistake . . . ?” Griselda mumbled. “Elusion gave me your book . . . completely by mistake?”
“Nay. That be fate. The mistake is on ye. Ye chose not to respect the rules of spellcasting. It be a give-and-take. Every grimoire has a hand that writ it. And that hand holds the key to cipherin’ all its secrets and edicts.” Crony’s murky eyes strayed to Griselda’s head. “The recipe calls for antlers culled beneath a new moon.”
“But . . . I made the smugglers follow that instruction to the letter . . . each time.”
“Fool. That not be referrin’ to an actual moon. It be what we call the brumal stags’ seasonal molting, painless to the creature and in step with its species. Had ye understood the language of magic, the reciprocity of nature, ye would ne’er have butchered a peaceful animal for yer own gain. It be as easy as gatherin’ the molted antlers off the ground. See, a poison be released when a wild, enchanted being is attacked. Though it’s buildup be slow, in the end, it’s a grand penalty for any spellbinder’s impatience and ignorance.”
Griselda sobbed, her head pounding as the horns pulsed and grew before her eyes. They were now as long as her pinky. “Is there a cure? You owe a debt to me! You betrayed Eldoria!”
Crony’s silhouette sat flat on her haunches. “Nay. I betrayed meself and one I loved, and the whole world suffered for it. As for yer predicament, ye need only some practice to wear horns with grace. I’d offer to tutor ye, but afraid I don’t be likin’ ye enough.” She smirked—a horrific expression Griselda caught in the mirror. It sent her to her knees, face-to-face with her own warped image. “Take yer medicine, Regent. Ye be reapin’ the rewards of dabbling in things beyond yer ken. Or may-let beyond yer kinship. Would’ve ne’er happened, had ye had a mentor. But ye were too strong to need help from anyone, aye? Such arrogant frippery. Don’t ye see? It take more strength to humble yerself and reach for another’s wisdom, than it do to plummet into the unknown without gripping the proffered hand for anchorage.”
Griselda’s eyes burned. Lustacia’s complaints about headaches over the past few months. Could it mean . . . ?
“And now ye be wonderin’, as well ye should, if the moonlit princess ye carved of lies and lineage will share yer penalty for this error in judgement. The answer be yes.”
Griselda swallowed against that thickening lump in her throat. It tasted gritty and foul—like the putrescence of overturned graves. She smacked her lips, trying to cleanse her palate.
“Be that regret upon yer tongue? Hard to know, I’m sure. As ye’ve no conscience to guide ye in the sampling of sin and remorse.”
Griselda’s chest caved on a choking groan. How did the witch know about her missing conscience? Elusion must’ve told her. Or had the shrouds mentioned it when she’d handed off Nicolet’s memory? More importantly, how did she know about the princess being a fake, that it was one of Griselda’s own daughters?
Griselda’s sagging lips formed the inquiries, but her tongue wouldn’t comply. Hand trembling, she reached toward the glass to touch her hideous, horned reflection, slicing her finger on a serrated edge. The vision of her blood—red and glossy—grounded her. Whatever this curse, it was limited to her outer appearance, not her inward workings.
“Antlers can be cut off as easily as a wart,” she assured herself aloud.
“Not so easily, as they be a part of the skull. May-let an axe would prove effective. But I doubt yer princess will concede to such gory tactics afore the nuptials. Isn’t the coronation to take place first? What will her betrothed say, when there be no balancin’ a crown on her uneven head? Upon finding she be responsible for maiming his treasured gatekeepers, do ye think he’ll still wish to wed her?” The witch clucked her tongue. “All along ye be sure ye pulled it off. Ye ne’er once considered the prophecy might be bidin’ time, awaiting the perfect moment to right all ye’ve put wrong.”
Griselda slumped; was it true? Had she failed? Lustacia had experienced the strange headaches after her. The buildup was slow. Perhaps there was still a chance, if she could expedite the wedding. Have it before the coronation. Every Eldorian bride wore flowers woven through her hair, which would cover any bumps. Griselda could widen her own hennin for the ceremony . . . that would hide her sins long enough to see them wed. Then afterward, she would find a spell to reverse it all. Eldoria’s trio of mages owed their fealty to their queen. Surely they could help.
She veered her gaze to the witch who was chortling softly as if she’d won.
It was then Griselda saw it glistening in the soft light: a seam of black wetness along Crony’s wrists and ankles where the cuffs sliced into her hide. Sucking in a breath, Griselda spun on her knees to face her. “Your hide has softened.” Her trembling, cut finger pointed to the witch’s raw skin. “You bleed just like me.”
It took only a moment to formulate the plan: break off a shard of glass from the mirror and plunge it into Crony’s heart—but the door pushed open with a screech before Griselda could move.
Erwan’s face greeted her from the other side, drawn and panicked.
The regent hurriedly arranged her braids atop her head to hide her horns. She put on her gloves and stood, bolstered by the witch’s vulnerability. “Have you finished already?” she asked, prompting the reluctant knight to speak.
“There’s been a delay, Your Grace. A creature . . . a snowy cyclops crow . . . it brought word that the prince is on his way to Nerezeth—dying. The gruesome bird flew through the corridors, seeking Lady Lyra. Its infernal screeches awoke her, along with everyone in the castle. The council members and servants are all risen now, preparing with their families for the journey. Prime Minister Albous . . . he’s leading Nerezeth’s entourage down here to collect you.”
“I will go out and meet them on the stairs.”
“But our plan . . .”
Griselda’s attention strayed to the baldric at his side and the sword within it. “The plans have changed. It would seem our witch is no longer immortal. Thrust your blade through her heart. Her corpse can rot here. All minds are on the prince now. Cronatia Wisteria was once forgotten . . . blotted out from the pages of Eldoria’s history.” Griselda shot a glance toward the broken mirror behind her, then sneered at the witch’s image looking back from the glass. “Her future is a mere reflection of her past.” Upon gathering her fallen hennin and stepping across the threshold, Griselda dug into her pocket and handed one fiery orb to her knight, along with two final demands. “Do not leave until she takes her last breath. Then once she’s dead, ignite the sylph elm.”
23
The Wonderment of Pebbles and Decay
Luce’s army was both small in number and made up of misfits from the dark market.