Eat him alive.
Upon her charge, the shadows pounded him with isolated bursts of wind, shredding his uniform, ripping at his hair, tearing the loosened bloody tufts from his scalp. He struggled against the shackles at his ankles.
Stain ground her teeth and stepped closer as the crickets slipped off her head. Hopping along the ground, they migrated with the moths to find safety under the discarded gowns.
He wants to stand . . . help him. Stain waved an arm and lifted it high.
Her shadows jerked the knight up so he hovered on bleak gusts of air, nailed in place by the chains at his feet. He begged for mercy again as the shreds of his surcoat twisted around him. His arms flailed, his head bobbed front to back. Spotlighted in the dim glow of her eyes, he looked like a wooden puppet frayed by too much play . . . loved to the point of rot and ruin. She wondered how much real damage her shadows could wreak, if they had the power to tear him apart at the seams.
The violent thought both frightened and tantalized her.
Scorch’s harsh wisdom returned, having burned its brand upon her heart: “I would like to think you had a taste of vengeance before being cast aside. And if you didn’t, I’ll see that you have revenge one day. Whoever hurt you will answer to both of us.”
How she wanted him here now, to show her the way to brutality. Her mouth stretched on a soundless, frustrated wail and the shadows reacted, tugging the knight’s upper torso back and forth in midair like an inverted pendulum. If she allowed them to drop him, his skull would hit the ground with a cracking thud.
“Ye need him alive.” Crony’s voice broke through, a bright beam piercing the savage murkiness of Stain’s thoughts. Her guardians had been whispering in their dark corner throughout her rampage, but so intent on revenge, she pushed them out of her mind. As if to bring clarity full circle, the torch relit, revealing Luce and Crony standing beside it—sympathy shifting over their features with each flicker of firelight.
“Let the man speak, wee one.”
Stain commanded the shadows to unlock his shackles. Luce stepped through the receding gusts of wind to lift the knight by his torn surcoat. He held him pressed to the wall—the torch inches from his head—hot and imposing.
Sobbing, Erwan covered his muddy, bloodstained face with his fingers.
Luce exchanged glances with Stain, his eyes as bright with bloodlust as hers had been moments before in the mirror. “She has every right to vanquish him.” He directed the statement to Crony. “If she needs to keep her hands clean, let me be the executioner.” Gripping Erwan’s hair, Luce jerked his head to one side to expose his jugular. “You can get her answers from his final memories as he dies.”
Crony placed a hand on his tense shoulder. “Nay. He must be the one to give them willingly without me usin’ me memory magic. It be the only way.”
The knight stopped sobbing then, at last realizing he might yet live. He collapsed in Luce’s hold, limbs limp and forehead resting on the slyph’s shoulder. His fight with the shadows had cost him his bodily functions, and the urine dampening his pant legs commingled with dirt and rose petals to form a moldering malodor.
Luce crinkled his nose. “You disgust me, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’ve the standards of a flea-bitten dog.” His jaw twitched and he met Stain’s glare. “What say you, Majesty? Do I release this maggot, or hold him for you as you enact your fury? I will do as you bid.”
Lyra took a breath. Majesty. Luce said it differently than the knight. Not with fear, but with veneration. It calmed her, renewed that part of herself that had always hated violence, despite that she’d been abused and lost her memories.
Her attention returned to the royal portrait. This father was kind. She could see it in his gentle mien. His coloring reminded her of Vesper: russet complexion and dark gaze. The princess who barely came to his waist was vastly different—a colorless face and winter-shade eyes, her gauzy gown pale against the vivid depth of his velvet surcoat, gold belt, and crimson stockings. Yet the child was smiling. She knew she was accepted and loved, and there was no mistaking by whom. Paternal ownership warmed the king’s own smile as he looked down on her—a genuine pride obvious even in the torchlight.
That king wanted his princess to have a wondrous future . . . to be revered for her heart, for her soul. To earn her subjects’ devotion. Even without remembering him, the image said this much to Stain. This king wouldn’t have given in to brutal passions.
But who was this king? If Stain was a princess . . . which princess might she be? Sir Erwan said she didn’t have a voice when he’d cast her out, and since a songbird princess lived within these ivory walls already, who did that leave? Was Stain a cousin, a sister?
She knew nothing about the royal family’s history.
Crony was right. She needed answers . . .
Who am I? Stain signed the question to the knight, her fingers wobbly.
“Tell her,” Luce interpreted the hand signals, “her given name.”
Erwan’s head lolled off Luce’s shoulder. The man let it hang there until Luce shook him. “Answer, swine, and answer truthfully. Elsewise, I’ll turn you back over to the shadows and feast upon what’s left of your carcass after they’re done skinning you alive.”
Erwan answered hoarsely. “You are . . . Lyra of the House of Eyvindur. The one true daughter of King Kiran and Queen Arael. The princess of the prophecy.”
Stain clamped a hand across her lips. Eldoria’s king and queen, rumored to be kind and noble rulers, had died years ago. To know she was theirs cut deep—severed the threads that had held together any hope to find her parents one day, any chance to feel what is was like to be in their arms.
Her throat swelled with suppressed sobs, yet even in grief, she grasped the full scope of the knight’s confession. She was the true princess of Eldoria.
Not Stain. Lyra. She wrapped herself within the name, wearing it like armor, drawing strength from the power behind it; strength enough to face all of the truth.
Where? She pointed to her throat, fury and agony simmering just below the surface. Her shadows drifted closer, held at bay but ready to act.
Luce shoved the knight’s body higher against the wall. “Lady Lyra wants to know what became of her birdsong voice. I’m rather interested in that detail myself.”
The knight covered his neck and stared at Luce’s snarling teeth, obviously fearing his own throat’s fate should he answer.
Lyra bid Luce to release the knight and step back. Cursing, Luce conceded.
Erwan slid to the floor and cringed at the imposing shadows. “It was stolen from you with an enchanted device . . . and given to another.” He braved a glance at the gowns draped around the room. “These dresses hide your keepsakes. The lots of your life from the time before you left. They were stashed here because she couldn’t bear to look upon them, to face what she’d taken from you.”
She? Lyra mimed the word between gritted teeth, moving into the light so the knight could see her lips.
“The other princess, Lustacia . . . your cousin who took your place. She went along with it, but only for love of the prince. She has regrets, unlike . . .” The knight slumped, the emotional and physical stress taking a toll.
Luce growled. “Spill the names of any accomplices, and we’ll let you rest.”
“Sir Bartley, the Regent Griselda, and her three daughters—your aunt and cousins.” Erwan murmured the last part in Lyra’s direction, his head dropping into his hands. “But everything was done at the regent’s command.”
A growl curdled low in Luce’s throat. “Ah, there’s more than one singing bird in this castle. Though the regent will be none too happy when she hears how prettily you crooned today. And I get to be the one to tell her.”
“She’s not here to tell!” Erwan shouted, flinging his hands from his face. “They’ve already left for Nerezeth; the wedding is to take place upon their arrival. Only a handful of Eldorian guards stayed behind to watch the castle . . . none of whom know anything about this. Should you tell them—they won’t believe you. They’ve already seen and heard the princess of the prophecy; she has all the traits. Looks enough like the child in the portraits to convince anyone. She even has shadow guards. And they’re too far ahead. You’ll never catch up . . . never make it to Nerezeth in time to plead your case before the wedding.”
Luce forced him up again so they were nose to nose. He sneered, sharp white points pressing into his lower lip. “I will if I fly.”
Lyra took a broken breath, wondering what she could possibly have done as a child to warrant such treatment from her own family. She sought Crony’s tender muddy gaze, her roughened arms, her scent of myrrh and decaying flowers.
Crony stepped forward and cradled Lyra’s chin in her withered hands, waiting.