“She knows all she need be knowin’.” Crony felt a tug of nostalgia for past days. She missed using her magic for the royal family, using it for good. Had she her druthers, she would’ve been the one to take Lyra to win her throne. She would’ve seen King Kiran’s daughter victorious. It wasn’t to be, but she still had her part. And Thana would help her accomplish it.
Luce’s red eyebrows furrowed. “Are you convinced of Edith’s ability with spells and elixirs? What if she accidentally turns us into toads?” He brushed his forehead with a thumb. “I doubt even I could make warts attractive.”
Crony rolled her eyes. “She be a cook—adept at readin’ recipes, at mixin’ and stirrin’. And she have a respect for nature and givin’ back what’s taken. That’s all she be requirin’. In fact, when this be done and behind ye, see that she receives me grimoire. It be hers now.”
“Wait . . .” Her companion’s features took on that canine quality—a feral mix of wariness and suspicion. “Are you saying Edith’s to be your successor?”
“Aye, she be inheritin’ me harrowing skills very soon.”
“You really are leaving then, like you said in the note? Why? And where? It’s too late for you to join the other immortals in the heavens. You made that choice long ago.”
“There may be a way for me to reach the heavens yet,” Crony answered cryptically.
Luce’s expression looked like an open wound. “Were you even planning to say good-bye? A proper one, I mean. A messy half-hearted letter doesn’t measure up when we’ve had each other’s backs for so many years.”
“Enough talk. Let’s be hurryin’ this plan along.” Crony had chosen not to tell Lyra that Prince Vesper was at death’s door. The child had enough to process as it was, and enough pressure upon those wee shoulders to prove heself. If only Crony could do more; if only she could intervene . . . tell Luce all she knew of Griselda’s crimes, tell him of the proof growing from the wretch’s very head, the brumal blood staining her hands. That accursed vow of noninterference had become the bane of Crony’s existence.
“I want to know.” Luce held his voice to a strained whisper, bringing the witch’s mind back to the here and now. “Will Stain . . . Lyra . . . and I see you again when we return?” He gripped her wrist gently.
Crony gasped as he touched the raw places made by the shackles.
Scowling, Luce pushed up her sleeve and rubbed a finger across the lacerations. “What is this?” he murmured. “You’re bleeding?”
“Did you hear that?” one of the guards down the corridor said. “Around the corner back there, coming from the east hallway . . .”
Several pairs of boots clomped their direction. Luce nudged Winkle, and the dwarf tipped over his box.
Ten rats scurried out, their claws clicking on the white marble. Winkle shooed them the right direction with his bunny paws, his long ears wriggling with the effort. Shrill squeaks and wiry tails led the way as the rats shot around the corner toward the guards.
“Two things left undone,” Erwan murmured out of the blue, slowly waking from his trance. “Prove I’m a man.”
Crony cupped a hand across the knight’s mouth. Luce gestured with his chin for Winkle to head back the way they came, toward the dungeon and the hidden tunnel—his part done.
Winkle wished the rest of them luck, then bounded off, his hopping feet indiscernible over the melee of stampeding rats, clanging swords, and shouting guards still out of sight in the adjacent hall.
“Grab the rodents! The regent’ll have our heads if those things stay loose!”
“Get it . . . that one, there!”
“Those three are going for the upper level. If they make it to the regent’s chambers, she’ll grind us up for meat pie!”
“I’ve got one! Ouch . . . ah, drat! He bit me. No, he’s off to the kitchen!”
“Split up!”
Five sets of boots clomped away from the intersecting corridor, taking the stairs—both up and down. Empty echoes rang in their wake.
Luce turned again to Crony, wearing a troubled frown.
“The prince be dyin’, Luce. He be under a sleeping death to hold off the curse till he can be cured. And as his soul’s other half be our girl’s beloved Scorch, she’ll ne’er forgive us if we cost her the chance to save ’im.”
Luce’s jaw sagged open. “The flying donkey . . . is a prince?”
“The prince,” Crony corrected.
Looking more frazzled than she’d ever seen him, Luce glared at Erwan, who was still mumbling about being a man. Crony nodded, unspoken confirmation that she had the knight in hand.
Luce shifted to fox form. He shook off the cloud of sparkles clinging to his whiskers and muzzle as he trotted behind Dregs, tail dragging on the floor. The goblin stopped at the door, grunted as he hefted Luce’s furry form into his arms, then stomped the soles of his pedestal shoes seven times.
Higher and higher they lifted, until the goblin stood face-to-face with the window. Balancing Luce upon one shoulder like an infant, Dregs swung the beveled glass on its hinges, inviting the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle in. Luce twisted around and hooked his front paws over the opening then dragged himself through, his tail’s tip the last thing to be seen as he fell inside.
Crony winced upon hearing the resulting yelps, sure he’d landed on a thistle or twenty. She kept her gaze on the window. Seeing red glitter and smoke, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Dregs shrank back down and headed for the stairs to seek his cousin Slush. As he passed Crony, he tilted his chin her direction. She nodded her gratitude and he slipped out of sight.
The garden door flung open, revealing sunlight filtering through a tunnel of thick, bristly vines along with the chronic hum of bees. Luce, picking off several burrs embedded in his sleeves and pant legs, motioned Crony in. Bracing Erwan’s shoulder blades, Crony pushed him across the threshold then followed, Lyra’s crickets in tow. Luce shut the door and bound the latch with several vines to keep the guards at bay should they return. He then took up the end of their trio, careful not to step on the bugs.
On all sides and overhead, vines, thistles, and cabbage-sized pink blooms smothered wrought-iron benches, dried-up water fountains, and a variety of flowers. The sad, scant heads of marigolds, heliotropes, and gardenias twisted in odd directions, subsisting off what little sunlight they could find. Bees, too busy to care about the intruders, buzzed to-and-fro gathering nectar. It was a struggle to breathe in the thickly sweet air as Crony pushed Erwan forward where the vines opened to a curving path. The trail led directly to the sylph elm rising high and proud.
“It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” Luce said behind her, referring to the bright yellow canopy just a few feet away. Upon the lowest branches on the right side, two vivid crimson leaves stood out, easily within reach to anyone standing beside the trunk. They swayed as if on a breeze, though no wind could breach the vines surrounding them. Luce squeezed Crony’s shoulder. “They’re calling to me. I’ve waited so long,” he whispered.
“Aye, ye have.” Releasing her hold on Erwan, Crony patted Luce’s hand.
As if the knight had been waiting, he leapt forward, digging into a pouch beneath his surcoat. “Two things left undone,” he said, coherent now. “Burn the tree.” He withdrew an orb, the size of a marble and alive with pulsing turquoise light. Before Crony could reach out to stop him, he tossed it toward the sylph elm.
The ball hit the trunk, burst, and erupted into flame. Instantaneously, the blaze rose high—bright turquoise, pink, and white hot—spreading from leaf to leaf, making its way up the canopy far too fast for any earthly fire. Luce’s wings flapped, trying to get free from their branches.
“No!” Luce nudged Crony aside and stumbled toward the elm.
“Kill the witch,” Erwan said beneath his breath. He withdrew a dagger from his boot and lunged for Crony. Luce tore his gaze from the burning tree. Snarling, he leapt between Crony and the knight. The two fell to the ground and rolled: a blur of red hair, a torn white surcoat, and a shiny silver blade.
Grunting, Luce got the upper hand and snatched at a nettled vine, wrapping it around the knight’s neck. He tightened the noose while Erwan struggled, his angular eyes bulging.
Crony turned to the tree. Embers gathered at the edge of the wings. Her companion yelled for her to stop as she hobbled straight up to the trunk—now nothing but kindling. The flames lapped at her once impervious hide, peeling it away in foul-scented blisters. The heat singed her hair, charred her horns, and caught fire to her cloak. Her transparent eyelids offered no reprieve from the brilliance. Unable to see, she reached up and swatted at all the leaves within reach, hoping to free the wings.
A gust fluttered by her head as she collapsed, blind and in agony. The sound of flapping gave way to the bone-snapping crack of the knight’s neck, then Luce’s exultant shout. Even without sight, Crony knew the wings had found their home. The crackling flames silenced, the fire burning itself out. Smoking wood and soot intertwined with the honeysuckle perfume.