Stain tried not to listen, didn’t want to relive a goblin’s claim of being entranced by the beauty of the princess’s nightingale songs, and the otherworldly glow of her hair and flawless skin. It made her stomach clench to imagine the sun-prince at last acquainting the moon-kissed princess of his destiny with a Pegasus prancing inside his head.
The tail end of Dregs’s soliloquy recaptured her attention: “—see them both today, even if hidden in alcoves or under furniture is our only way. Can’t miss this exciting time of history and boon, when at last the sun will welcome the moon.”
Stain fisted her hands under her cape. She could’ve been content to continue her humble, sequestered masquerade in the forest had Scorch still been at her side . . . had she not, this very day, greeted the sun without him there to share it. She missed his austerity, and how he always put things in perspective. He would’ve convinced her she didn’t need silly, petty indulgences such as a home beneath endless, bright skies, or the enchanted gifts within the saddlebag across her shoulder, or a prince’s touch lighting up every nerve with a fascination so acute yet foreign it made her want to learn more about him. That was most ironic of all, considering said prince now held Scorch trapped in a coppery citadel of human flesh, sinew, and bone that she had no hope of invading.
If she hadn’t lost Scorch’s grumbling voice and comforting presence to Vesper, she wouldn’t have unlocked the restlessness she’d always kept hidden away.
Or was it Vesper himself who had unlocked it? Watching the prince from behind a tree; glimpsing his poet’s heart as he spoke to his sister of wanting a love built on friendship; observing his struggle to be a fair ruler against everything the prophecy or others dictated he do; and admiring his courageous battle against a curse that seemed to somehow be spreading beyond his scarred, broken flesh and into his people.
His earlier wails rang within her memory, and shame vibrated her bones. She’d been a coward to run, to not return when he called for her. True, she owed her utmost devotion to Crony, who had saved her all those years ago. But her inability to face seeing him again had played as big a role as loyalty. She could conquer any physical discomfort the world could dish out, but the pain of heartache made her shrink away like water droplets sprinkled along the edge of a raging fire.
Luce took the final step onto the dirt floor that opened into the tunnel. He drew Stain to him and shushed the chatty shopkeepers by waving his torch in their faces. Edith’s sunken lips pinched to a small knot, Winkle snuggled deeper beneath his rabbit-ear hood, and Dregs slapped a hand across his mouth, causing the icicle growth at the tip of his nose to quiver like a violin string.
“Do you hear that?” Luce directed the question to Stain.
She strained her ears. Though she didn’t share his keen canine senses, the muffled moans were unmistakable. She answered: It sounds like someone crying in the distance. Crony?
“I hope not, for that soul is in grave despair.” He looked Stain over. “Take off the cape and tuck it in your bag. Your legs need to be free, to run or fight.”
She nodded. The cape sloughed off reluctantly. She rolled it up with reverence, hesitant to part with it as well; she’d forever remember the gift it had given her today—a sunlit stroll across a meadow that filled the hollow places in her heart, if only for a while. After tucking it gently into the bag, she glanced up at Luce.
Pressing a finger to his mouth, he jerked his chin, indicating they follow. Together, they crept toward the weeping wails.
It took five turns to find the source, a jaunt that seemed forever as with each step the sound grew louder. At last, they arrived at a door set into the dirt wall. Luce deposited his torch inside a hole level with his eyes. He tried the latch quietly, and leaned an ear against the wood. His nostrils flared once, then he stepped back and dragged Stain with him, out of earshot.
“Crony is within,” he whispered, barely discernable over the occupant’s weeping. “Her scent is strong, but there’s another I don’t recognize. And I hear chains.”
Can you pick the lock? Stain gesticulated. When Luce’s only answer came as a frustrated hand raking through his hair, she looked over her shoulder for Winkle—their famed thief. The trio of shopkeepers peered around the bend from some distance behind. Stain scowled at Luce. Some brave army you recruited.
He cocked his head upon reading her words. “I never listed bravery as a requirement. They each have their own agendas that will motivate them when the time’s right. But this isn’t that moment. We have to make our move quietly. Breaking or picking the lock would alert the guard. We must find another way to open the door, from the inside. Any ideas?”
The guttural sobs grew louder behind the barricade. Stain’s shoulders sunk. She signed: Do you have a pebble I can eat to turn me into steam? She was being facetious, though a part of her hoped he did.
“That’s what we need . . . something that can siphon under the door’s seam into the room and let us in. I’m fresh out of magic. What about you?” One of his red eyebrows quirked. The torch flickered across his face and stirred shadows in her peripheral along the threshold.
Shadows. Stain remembered the moon-bog, her shadows from market trying to protect her . . . how they bowed around Vesper, obeisant to him. The mother shroud’s curious musings, wondering why a child such as herself had merited the fealty of Nerezeth’s night creatures.
Fealty meant devotion.
Maybe they were devoted to anyone from the night realm. If so, wouldn’t they obey a command from her, if she was truly from Nerezeth?
She lifted a finger, stirring the darkness in the crevices and corners of the door, teasing it. Will you help us get inside? She held the question in her mind, for surely creatures of transcendence and obscurity could hear unspoken words.
The shadows elongated, wrapping around each of her fingers. She pulled them out, coaxing them like she’d seen the candy maker stretch taffy at Blood and Crème Confections. Soon she’d managed to amass a swarm that oozed from her hands all the way to the floor like fingernails made of tar. She moved her arms, and they moved with her, stirring the dirt at her feet into dusty clouds.
Edith gasped from around the corner, and both Dregs and Winkle mumbled in awe.
As for Stain, she gawked, astonished. The prince’s saddlebag shook at her shoulder. Responding to the movement, Luce opened the flap. The midnight shadows filtered out and joined the others now swirling away from Stain’s fingertips to fill the tight passage and play games with the firelight.
“Masterful,” Luce whispered as shadows whirled around him and gusted through his clothes. Sharp white points appeared at the edges of his smile, glistening in the reflection of the torch.
Before Stain could respond, the shadows seeped through the keyhole like black smoke; with neither a click or a clack, the door swung open. The unmistakable scent of panacea roses leaked out. Stain shrank back, reminded of the death bouquet that once shared her coffin. If the shrouds were honest about her Eldorian page boy clothes, her sojourn to death had originated here, and her enemy could be anywhere in this castle, waiting to finish what they started.
She gripped Luce’s elbow at the horrific thought.
He stretched out his arm to insist he go in first.
The bag hanging from his shoulders blocked her view until he stepped in far enough to open a line of sight.
A torch on the room’s wall illuminated the scene: A knight convulsed on the ground in full sprawl, a sword gripped in his hand. Crony, seated beside him with white lightning sizzling between her horn tips, held him within a nightmare thrall.
Stain almost clapped in relief.
“Took ye long enough,” Crony spat, her swampy gaze shifting to Luce.
“I had to find this one.” Luce gestured to Stain with his chin, revealing his profile. “And to gather up your boxes from the chest. As to that, the note you left was no easy read. Chicken scrawlings would’ve been more legible.”
“Aye, ye would know, bein’ an expert on poultry. Foxes spend as much time in henhouses as soldiers do brothels, from what I hear.”
Luce barked a laugh, and Crony grinned, but something deeper passed between them . . . an unspoken exchange, somber and meaningful. It was the same look Stain had watched cross Luce’s face as he’d read Crony’s note back home before shoving two small boxes and an assortment of weaponry within his bag. Stain had been curious about what the note and boxes contained, but Luce refused to tell her.
“Is this one of them?” Luce broke the tension, pointing to the wailing man whose eyes rolled back and forth beneath closed lids.
Crony scoffed. “Aye. This be Sir Erwan. One of the regent’s most trusted knights.”
Luce snarled. He appeared ready to rip the man apart. He’d obviously been about to take a sword to Crony. But why? She was immortal. What good would it have done? It would’ve made more sense had Crony been in magical bonds, set by the mages.
“You couldn’t have planned this better yourself,” Luce spoke again.