Selena led the entourage across a winding path and the footbridge, unaware that it wasn’t the true princess’s footsteps crossing over enchanted rocks and steaming water beside her . . . unaware that the glowing moonlit complexion, silver hair, and songbird voice belonged to another, who was in fact only moments away from arriving.
Back in Eldoria, within a humble dirt room belonging to an equally humble witch, Luce had returned, this time in his ethereal form—translucent and untouchable. While Edith completed the elixir, he swooshed about the walls, refusing to allow Lyra to corner him. Each time she asked of Crony’s whereabouts, the higher in the room he spun. Only when Edith finished her task did he materialize, with his red, feathery wings swooping high behind him. Lyra touched the feathery appendages and her fingers skimmed through, appearing on the other side as if the wings were a mirage. They were beautiful, but instead of being elated to have them again, her guardian was stoic—tragedy written in his eyes and carved into every ageless feature.
Lyra signed: You are a creature of flight and capriciousness again. This should be the happiest moment of your life.
He ground his teeth, holding his emotions at bay as he always did. “Crony gave up something precious for these wings.”
What did she give up? Lyra asked, but again received no answer. Luce’s silence pained her enough she hugged him until his muscles relaxed . . . until Edith brought over two vials of smoking, amber liquid that smelled as pungent as rust and as salty as the ocean.
Before taking her vial, Lyra made a promise: As queen of Eldoria, I will use all my resources to win back whatever Crony lost. She saved me, and mothered me. You and I will have ample time to show her our gratitude. She’ll outlive us all. Take heart in that.
Luce only clinked their vials together and told Lyra to drink to their success.
She downed the magical elixir in the same instant as her sylph guardian—each holding the other’s free hand. Before she could blink, she dissipated to a thousand particles, as if she were made of butterflies, leaves, dandelion fluff—all things that careened and floated on the wind, lightweight and carefree. There was a rush of warmth, and then a slash of cold. When she came together once more, she and Luce stood toe to toe in a latticework dome with glowing white spiders scrambling along the floor or hanging from the ceiling on tendrils of web. Even though Luce still had his pack with the mysterious boxes on his shoulder, Lyra searched for the saddlebag’s straps atop her own, and was relieved to find her treasures had made it as well.
The two had materialized behind a Nerezethite banner; an emblem’s silver seams showed through on the back of the shimmery black fabric: a large star along with a crescent moon and three smaller stars. Overhead, crisscrossed slats formed a roof. Light from outside painted Lyra and Luce in blocks of violet gold. She threw a grateful glance to Luce who still winced from the bitter, metallic flavor that coated their tongues and made their throats itchy. He had insisted she wear her lacewing cloak for protection, in case they ended up in the midst of a thorn thicket. Considering the soft glow that warmed her face through the nightsky mask—much like the sun at the Crystal Lake—he’d been wise to do so.
Glimpses of meadows and gardens showed through the trellis at their backs. A floral-scented breeze wafted in and tugged the hem of her cape, carrying the sounds of birds, horses and cattle, waterfalls and gurgling brooks. Her senses . . . her heart, they brimmed full, savoring this flavor of life—everywhere. It was beautiful. Thousands of fireflies drifted like glimmering dust motes along the roof and outside, reminding Lyra of the dance she and Scorch had shared so long ago beneath a rainfall of cinders. Though in truth, she’d been dancing with a prince . . . her betrothed, and neither had known it. She hoped they’d get the chance to relive that moment. A pang of worry echoed within her like the gong of a warning bell.
She oriented herself; the fireflies were insects, not sparks of flame shaken from a Pegasus’s mane. She’d read about the arboretum in one of the prince’s notes earlier while waiting for Luce to return. Vesper had explained how the manufactured daylight nourished spring flowers and fall harvests, yet also rationed out sickness to certain members of Nerezeth’s populace. She hadn’t expected to land in that very place, inside a latticed bower.
So, where is he? She turned to Luce with the question. Her hands froze in midair as the breeze caught a corner of the banner and revealed the dais in the center of the enclosure. She pushed Luce aside for a better view.
No. Her breath caught.
The prince was all but a statue now, laying upon a bed of twigs and petals. But that wasn’t him, not truly. As both the man and the Pegasus, he was stalwart, alert, wise, and witty. To see him so silent . . . so immobile . . . provoked a tearing sensation behind Lyra’s sternum. A large luminary reflected a celestial pattern along his golden face—high cheekbones, full lips, and strong chin. The bright stars dimmed as they crossed the only flesh that remained dark, soft, and flexible upon his forehead and nose. Guilt pricked anew when she realized what she had seen in the moon-bog: the glittering flash beneath the shreds of his shirt had been his chest surrendering to his infected blood. His heart and lungs couldn’t be far behind. If she’d only stayed, he would never have come to this state.
Eyes hot and stinging, she started forward, swiping the flag aside so she might reach him—to touch his nose, to search for the warm rush of breath.
A snap of wind shoved her back and flung the flap into place in front of her.
“Stay hidden.” Luce’s whisper tickled her ear.
We don’t have time! Lyra shouted with her hands. But Luce had already abandoned his bag on the floor next to her feet and shifted from corporeal to ethereal. He may be two breaths from death and you’re flying about like a summer breeze.
“He’s not. He’s under a spell of preservation.”
Though the explanation gave her hope, she had to force herself to wait, to allow him to think strategically for her, since in this moment her emotions ruled.
She squinted, trying to keep track of her sylphin accomplice’s movements. It was like watching the atmosphere itself—that combination of sunlight and water when the beams splintered apart to craft the sheerest rainbow, except this rainbow was shaped like a man—barely discernible except to those who knew how to seek life in hidden places.
“Don’t make a sound.” Luce’s coaxing voice trailed upward, indicating his rise to the domed roof. The fireflies parted for him. “You’re about to have company.”
Through the slats, Lyra caught sight of two women being escorted by guards and attendants a few steps from the entrance. One she recognized as Vesper’s sister, and the other Lyra’s false counterpart, judging by the nightsky draped over her lacy orchid gown. A long, flowing train encrusted with pearls and gems showed beneath the cape’s hem. Only a princess bride would wear something so glittery, so splendorous.
Lyra thought upon the regal rags beneath her own cape.
This was the cousin who’d so callously taken part in a scheme to murder her and steal her throne—endangering both her kingdom and Vesper’s, not to mention Vesper himself. Lustacia. The name tasted pungent on Lyra’s silent tongue. Her entire body twitched, impatient to confront her. Yet how does one face a past without any prior memory to stand upon?
Lyra couldn’t even picture her rival’s face. It was impossible to see clearly through the nightsky, which formed a mask. Lustacia and Selena spoke as if they were old friends. Lyra wondered if Vesper had shared portions of the letters her cousin had written in her name. Lyra itched to expose every lie. She owed her cousin all that she’d given Erwan earlier—and more.
An angry heat climbed her cheeks and a new batch of shadows she’d never met—those that darkened the outline beneath the prince’s dais—hedged closer while staying outside the patchwork of light.
“Not yet,” Luce murmured from above. His airy presence stirred some anchor webs and their spiders. “We don’t want to draw attention until you’ve healed your donkey . . . prince.” He amended the latter to appease Lyra’s scowl. “Defeat his curse, and no one can deny you’re his destiny and Eldoria’s true heir. We must have irrefutable proof to countervail your cousin’s prophetic characteristics—the ones you’re missing. The ones they’ve already seen and heard in her.”