Stain Read online

  “Aren’t you to sit and take refreshment with us, Mother?” Wrathalyne’s chin quivered as she blotted her face with a napkin.

  “No, my darling.” Griselda traced the carvings of Eldoria’s sun on the trunk’s lid. “That place setting does not belong to me. It is for your sister.”

  Lyra’s pulse scrambled. She wriggled in her chair, holding her shadows at bay though they pressed to come forward. Surely her aunt had lost her mind to grief, and all of this pomp and pageantry would disintegrate in a fit of weeping and wailing.

  “Y-you mean . . . we’re saving a place for Lustacia’s ghost?” Avaricette questioned, grasping Wrathalyne’s hand atop the table. The girls’ knuckles whitened as they watched the birds preen their feathers and coo quietly.

  “Do not look so anxious, my darlings. I had to keep it secret from you. You’re both too excitable.” She waggled her forefinger. “Couldn’t risk your tongues running ahead of your rationale. And your grief had to be genuine. But rest assured, your sister is no more a ghost than I am defeated.” Fisting her hand, Griselda knocked on the trunk’s lid three times. Three knocks answered back from within.

  Lyra and her cousins gasped simultaneously.

  Griselda laughed upon opening the lid. The hinges creaked at their stopping point. Something wormed from beneath the folded bed linens, seeking a way out. The sheets avalanched from the trunk and slid to the floor. Lyra almost lurched up her milk as a headful of long silvery hair—identical to her own—emerged from the trunk’s depths. The face, wearing a rueful frown, belonged to the very alive Lustacia. Though holding a wilted bouquet of panacea roses, she hadn’t a scratch upon her.

  Griselda helped her daughter climb out—a feat made easier due to her ensemble: the torn page boy’s trousers and tunic that they’d been unable to find at the bloody scene of her vanishing.

  Lyra’s mind spun. Why would Griselda put everyone through Lustacia’s death, why fake being heartbroken to the point of soul-sickness herself? And why was Lustacia’s hair so like Lyra’s own?

  Upon the final question, a dark perception prickled inside Lyra’s chest, as if she’d inhaled shards of glass. The answer took shape—an explanation so vile and cunning her lungs withered on an unsung cry.

  Wrathalyne and Avaricette leapt from their seats and ran to hug their younger sister, unconcerned for the logic of it, merely ecstatic to have her back again.

  Trembling, Lyra stood from her chair. You . . . are me. She mimed the accusation to Lustacia, underscoring it through their joined gazes. If only her moths weren’t hidden away, they could help her relay the words aloud. But Lustacia’s attention dropped to the roses in her hand, proving she needn’t hear Lyra to feel remorse for all the lies she’d told.

  Griselda stepped into Lyra’s line of sight, blocking her view of her daughters. “A shame you couldn’t accompany us on all those sunny walks throughout the kingdom. Constitutionals have such an invigorating effect on one’s thought process. Why, just weeks ago I stumbled upon a group of common urchins playing at the Crystal Lake, imitating their princess’s ghoulish coloring, her metallic hair. And I had a glorious epiphany. I said to myself, ‘Why Griselda, just think. Given time enough, any one of these street urchins could look the part of the princess in the prophecy. She’d simply need to share her slender bone structure.’”

  Lyra looked down at the flocked navy-and-mulberry gown fitted so nicely to her shape. She backed toward the table again, numb. They had been planning this for weeks, perhaps months. Griselda, she expected . . . but Lustacia? She thought they were becoming friends. Family.

  Agony gored her heart and singed her eyes.

  She’d been a fool. She had no family. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  Wrathalyne and Avaricette scooted atop the smaller bed. Their faces brightened in malevolent delight, mesmerized by their mother’s confession.

  “This was a simple dusting of silver sand.” Griselda continued. Lustacia drooped as her mother stroked her lustrous pale hair, the misery in her downturned features deepening. “Imagine what I can do with a bit of alchemist trickery. And a person’s features often change as they mature. Especially if they’re out of sight for some years, never seen except for walks in the garden, hidden beneath a suit of nightsky. It wouldn’t be so difficult, to manage a replacement. Other than some moonlit alterations to her coloring, all a girl would need to win Eldoria’s and the prince’s hearts is a songbird’s voice.” Griselda reached into the trunk, pulling out a seashell secured upon a silver stand. “Look at that. It would seem the midnight shadows and stardust weren’t the only articles to go missing from the mages’ keep yesterday.”

  Lyra dropped into her chair, taken back to one of the last moments she had with her father before he left for Nerezeth. They spent a day in the library together. For the hundredth time he had shared the silly story of how he met her mother, and the instant Lyra released a musical strain of laughter, he trapped the sound in an enchanted seashell.

  “It’s just a bit of magic,” he explained when she held out her hand, asking to hold the pearly treasure. “Our mages take seashells and lure out the ocean’s song with incantations, leaving them longing to be filled again. Today, you’ve given this one a treasure more rare and invaluable than the sea’s very breath. I will share it with Queen Nova. She’ll fall in love with you upon hearing it, and refuse us nothing.”

  Griselda clucked her tongue, recouping Lyra’s attention. “When your father took an echo of your laugh, did he tell you that if a shell is filled to the brim and sealed with a cork of bespelled willow wood coated in sea salt, one can either listen to the trapped sound by loosening the stopper in increments until it’s all used up . . . or one can grind the shell, cork, and salt to powder, combine it with a simple transference potion, and swallow the sound whole, making it their own?”

  Lyra’s chin sagged. From within this insulated dungeon, no one would ever hear her musical wails. She sent a desperate glance to the royal family paintings no longer decking the castle walls, fixating on those of her father and herself. Griselda couldn’t make everyone forget their true princess existed, but she could make them forget Lyra’s face.

  A chilling shiver started inside her head and traversed to her feet, leaving her drained and weak. She swayed in her chair.

  Griselda unlocked the pine box at the end of the smaller bed and laid the shell within. “Are you feeling out of sorts, dear? A bit drowsy? I’ve the perfect place for you to sleep.”

  Only then did Lyra notice how much the box looked like a coffin.

  “I must admit, you impressed me for a moment.” Griselda tapped the open edge with her ring finger, whereupon sat Queen Arael’s ruby band. She must have pilfered it from Lyra’s room as they were packing. “However, your mind is no match for mine. Age does have its boons. A lifetime of hard-won wisdom is worth more than all the gloom-dwelling magic in your frail body.”

  The room swam and Lyra caught the table’s edge for balance, causing the teacups to rattle. Something was wrong inside her head. Everything felt . . . blurry. Out of sorts and out of reach.

  She called upon her bugs, unable to remember any reason not to. As the birds swooped down upon the intrusion of moths and spiders, the crunch of exoskeletons and snapping wings brought tragic clarity to Lyra’s thoughts. She called upon her shadows, feeding them with the rage of betrayal.

  Dazed, she watched the slow and cautious eclipse—melding together from every corner and furniture edge like storm clouds gathering capacity. Rising from underneath the beds, their gusts whipped tangles through Lustacia’s dusty hair and ripped at Wrathalyne and Avaricette’s clothes. The three girls dove under the quilts, screaming. Unfazed, Griselda rushed to the middle of the room and tugged on the golden cord that joined the tapestries. Simultaneously, they peeled from the walls to reveal copper panels, stretched ceiling to floor. The light in the room reflected from them—onto the mirror and back again, magnified tenfold, and rent Lyra’s shadows to pieces.

>   She fell to her knees, unable to open her eyes for the sizzling pain. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she sensed Griselda bending to whisper in her ear.

  “That trick you pulled last time won’t work here. Those torches were dying already. These lanterns are fueled by a blend of paraffin and liquid sunshine. Their brilliance will burn for months. The prophecy is flawed, you see. For a princess whose most devoted subjects are the shifting shadows that can’t reach beyond deep corners and dark stairways, has no hope of building an army in a world of eternal light.”

  The door opened and closed, the knights’ heavy footsteps tromped closer . . .

  Warding off the room’s brightness behind sealed lashes, Lyra was lifted, carried somewhere by strong arms wrapped in metal. Wrathalyne’s and Avaricette’s footsteps shuffled alongside and the girls scolded her for tearing their clothes with her shadows. As for Lustacia, only her sniffles indicated her presence.

  The scent of pine surrounded Lyra upon being laid inside the hard and splintery box.

  “Drop them in with her, along with the roses,” came Griselda’s command at a distance. Her voice shook with revulsion.

  The potent rose scent tickled Lyra’s nose, then something writhing and bristly fell atop her chest, stinging as it curled around her wrists, arms, ankles and legs—like ropes made of thorns. Then another sensation—thumping across her body and spreading out while releasing a wave of flaming pinpricks that pierced through her clothes.

  Unable to open her eyes and face her attackers, Lyra screamed—her anguish reduced to lovely melodies. In response, Wrathalyne and Avaricette burst into a rash of nervous giggles.

  “Mother!” Lustacia’s outburst broke through. “Your plan was to send her away . . . using the secret tunnel beneath the dungeon—”

  “And I will.”

  “But you weren’t to harm her!”

  “What did you think was to happen? The only chance you have to become Lyra is for Lyra to stop existing. Our knights will use the tunnel to take her body to the mouth of the Ashen Ravine. It will be a gift to the Shroud Collective for letting me live all those years ago. Thus, should anyone ever breech the ravine in search of your remains, they’ll find nothing but a pile of bones.”

  “I’ve changed my mind!” Lustacia’s cries clawed at Lyra’s hot, stinging ears.

  “Then I will be Lyra,” Avaricette said.

  “No, me!” Wrathalyne intoned.

  “Hush now. All three of you have a queen’s beauty, but your sister was born with the delicate skin of a princess, and the acumen of a diplomat. The shrouds once predicted my part in reuniting the heavens. I came to realize that role was to train Lustacia. She’s already adept at forging Lyra’s handwriting, and is learning the hand signals our prime minister has taught her.” Behind Lyra’s eyelids, Griselda’s voice drifted near and far—in and out of focus. “Your sister’s destiny is inevitable and set in motion by Lyra’s death. One can’t un-poison someone, after all.”

  Lyra’s throat clenched.

  “You didn’t tell me you were to poison her!” Lustacia’s cry sounded hoarse. “You didn’t say you’d expose her to those . . . those horrible things—” Her statement ended in a sob.

  “Those horrible things are cadaver brambles and rime scorpions, indigenous to the realm of your betrothed. My knights paid a hefty price to have them smuggled in. How else am I to secure the princess’s song for you, unless she screams herself dry?”

  “It’s too much, Mother.”

  “Oh, please. Lyra’s most at home with night creatures. She delights in threatening me with them. I would think having them surrounding her as life slips away would be a comfort. Do you need to see the note again? The prince’s words to his future bride? You read it one time and lost your heart. You were willing to go along with any plan, if the result was his hand. Will you give him up to her now? Do you love her more than yourself?”

  The absence of Lustacia’s answer stretched out interminably as Lyra struggled against the fog in her brain, the fever beneath her skin, and the fissures spreading through her chest.

  “Lustacia,” Griselda’s tone softened. “Think of it. One queen ruling both kingdoms. I gave away the best years of my life to win my blood right to this throne. And now, I will get twofold for you. Herein, everything is put to rights, for I am the firstborn. I have suffered and sacrificed in ways my spoiled brother never did. I gave away my very conscience, and power has been easier gained without it. I would suggest you do the same, but since you wish to love and be loved, you must have it intact. So, give me the dirty labors, and I will see that your heart is granted its greatest desire as mine never was.”

  Lustacia’s sobs escalated to wails.

  Griselda sighed. “Sir Erwan, guard the staircase to the dungeon. Sir Bartley, take Lustacia and her sisters to another cell until it is finished.”

  “But we wish to watch, Mother,” Avaricette whined.

  “Do it now.”

  An assemblage of footsteps stirred all around, then grew distant. The door slammed and locks clacked into place.

  The piercing light dimmed as the box’s lid closed, sealing Lyra in. She opened her eyes to the darkness—always her friend and comfort—and watched the glowing scorpion and bramble attackers with horrified fascination. Despite the pain of jutting blue stingers and white thorny binds, they belonged to the night, like her.

  Through her tears, she saw her fingers illuminate for an instant, casting a golden glow. It taunted her, triggering the memory of magical ink staining her fingertips and the kind words written at the hand of a prince: I will keep you safe.

  She would never know him, and he would never know he was being fooled.

  Lyra suppressed an outraged cry, her attention turned to the seashell nestled beside her head.

  “Surrender to the pain. You’ll feel better if you scream.” Griselda taunted from the other side of the lid. “How about I get you started, with a song of my own?” She cleared her throat. “See the shell beside your head . . . fill it up until you’re dead. Your father took but one musical cry, but I won’t stop until you’re bled dry.”

  Struggling to breathe, Lyra ground her teeth and refused to open her lips.

  “Just do it!” Griselda attacked the lid with her fists. The pounding echoed through Lyra’s bones, rattling them. “Ghastly, ghost-faced girl.” Her aunt paused, regaining her calm. “I always knew you were but a smudge staining the walls of this castle. And that one day, I would scrub you out, and you would haunt us no more. I suppose I should thank you. By freeing the witch while we still had her staff, you made this entire setup possible. So I’ll return the favor and tell you how it all ends, since you won’t be here to see for yourself. After you give up your voice, you’ll become drowsy and your breath will slow. You won’t be able to stay awake. And once asleep, you will slip away. Give no thought to your faithful subjects. Any who become too curious or concerned will be cut down one by one. Mia will be first. Someone will attempt to poison our fare and she’ll die a hero, proving her loyalty to Eldoria once and for all. As for the kingdom, Lustacia and I have it well in hand. You can slumber in eternal peace knowing this, little perfect princess. That is my gift to you.”

  Hot tears raced down Lyra’s cheeks. She writhed beneath the fire lancing her skin, tormented by dear Mia’s fate. She had to save her. She had to be here for her kingdom, to be the queen her father always hoped for her to be. Emotional turmoil boiled over to feed the flames already searing her veins. A thousand puncture wounds filled with blazing venom bled into her mind and melted her thoughts into a red slag. The harder she tried to hold her pain in, the hotter her fever grew. Screams built behind her chest and throat until eruption became her last hope for relief.

  Stretching her jaw wide, she turned her head and retched up bile, venom, and tainted milk. Then came the deeper purge . . . the musical screaming and screaming and screaming that scraped her hollow until no more sound would come.

  The empty
ache in her throat and the stench of sickness grew distant as her shadows returned to her in the darkness. They broke her binds, tamed the scorpions, and numbed her wounded skin with airy caresses. Her eyes grew heavy as her shadows carried her to a place of rest—with no interruption of nightmares, with no fear as to what fresh horrors tomorrow might bring. She took the hand Death offered, and fell asleep.

  8

  Pearls in the Ash

  In the selfsame hour Griselda sent away her niece’s dying body and reveled in her most cruel and profound triumph, Crony and her sylphin companion wandered the Ashen Ravine in search of fresh stock. The witch’s supplies of herbs and memories were dwindling as she hadn’t set foot outside the ravine in months for fear she’d be captured by Eldoria’s royal regent again.

  “Ye be sure these rumors are true?” Crony laid it out as more of a threat than a question. If Luce was leading her through these cursed terrains on a wild corpse-chase when she should be peddling her wares in her shop, she would have his pelt.

  The fox slipped in and out of the creeping ash ahead of her, stirring up gray clouds. “I coaxed out the details myself.” His power of persuasion was most effective when he preyed upon a desire held secret within the victim. Which meant the informant must be someone who liked to gossip.

  Crony frowned. “Yer source not be Dregs, do it? That dullard goblin always be tellin’ tall tales to compensate for his teensy stature. He sweared he saw a fire-breathin’ horse with wings burn two o’ his goblin acquaintances to ash. As if all the Pegasus didn’t be eaten up centuries ago by the drasilisks.”

  “We’ve both seen hoofprints of late.”

  Crony snorted, wrestling her cloak’s hem from a tangle of irascible vines. The bag of glass at her waist clinked with the effort. “The Nerezethites trek this forest. We always be seeing their mounts’ hoofprints.”

  Luce flattened his body to squeeze through a tunnel of dead roots. When he popped up at the other end, the red of his belly and muzzle were coated in ash, taking on a dusty white. “But there’s the peace treaty. They no longer smuggle sunlight. So they’ve not been coming around.”