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  When the winding staircase appeared below, she didn’t hesitate. Together, Lyra and her new friends braved the cool descent into the yawning depths of the dungeon.

  None of the torches were lit, but Lyra’s eyes penetrated the darkness, and she easily found her way down without tripping or falling.

  There were no prisoners, which meant no guards. She had all forty cells to herself. The closest was left ajar due to a busted lock. Unsure where they kept the keys, Lyra settled for the broken room. She pushed the door and the rusted hinges wailed and leaked a red, powdery dust, welcoming her like an old acquaintance weeping blissful tears.

  Following her tiny escort of wings and furry antennas, Lyra stepped in.

  The stench of stale urine and old sweat fell away to the memory of the fresh breeze once shared with her beloved father while standing by a window and speaking of sylph elms. She had cried for him all through her sleep. Now she wanted to remember their happier times.

  Lyra set aside her mother’s rose, confident that Mia could help find a sunny spot for it somewhere. The dusty grit on the floor slickened the bottom of her feet, and she skated from one wall to another, the same way the children crossed the ice in the stories Father used to read. The shadows joined in and formed a trail at her toes; Lyra chased them, as if following the silhouettes of shimmery goldfish beneath a frozen pond—something she’d seen in a painting upon the library wall.

  She pretended the gray moths swirling about her head were jeweled butterflies, like the ones Sir Nicolet used to collect for her in shadow boxes—sapphire, topaz, and emerald—their colors so vivid they tickled her eyes and made her laugh, jubilant and breathless. But these weren’t pinned to a backing, or muted by a nightsky hood. These were flying free in the open air, as was she . . .

  While dancing, her heel kicked a tin cup. A spider scurried from beneath. A wave of babies followed. Their legs would soon be spindly and lengthy like their mother’s . . . like Lyra’s lashes. Their graceful surge filled the wall—like raindrops drizzling a windowpane in reverse.

  Lifting the tin cup, Lyra gathered her rose and carried them both to where an empty wooden crate sat beside a cot. She flipped the box over to serve as a table, not even pausing when a vicious splinter tore into her thumb and made her bleed. She willed the pain away, determined to have a tea party like the ones she used to have with Mia, Matilde, and Brindle.

  Her cousins thought themselves too old for games of pretend. Yet her father had encouraged her imagination. He believed, without the blank slate of a night sky to open up their minds to the possibilities of other realms and cultures, Eldorians could no longer imagine anywhere or anyone other than their simplest selves in their own set places. Stardust lit the footsteps of the heroes and heroines of old: those who conquered dragons and basilisks; those who befriended immortals, sorcerers and mages; those who built the two magical kingdoms with a balance of both logic and vision. In comparison, the sun’s harsh yellow beams inspired the sensible side of a mind.

  Aunt Griselda blamed Lyra’s inability to face the sun for leaving her sensible side malnourished. Lyra lifted her chin, taking pride in it. This was a part of herself her father loved.

  Surrounded by gray walls and grime, she spun her games within the splendor of solitude. Her new friends didn’t mind when her lacy hem and feet became tinged with grime, or when the blood from her thumb smeared across the bodice of her dress. In darkness, she forgot the troubles of the world outside, until she heard a clamor coming down the stairway that chased the shadows, spiders, and moths to their hiding places.

  Lyra’s chest tightened. She didn’t recognize the men’s voices, but Griselda’s burned her ears and melted the icy tendrils she’d wound around her heart, leaving her exposed.

  Huddled atop the cot with her mother’s rose and the tin cup, Lyra strained to listen.

  “So, we brought the prisoner here. As we knew you’d wish to question her.”

  “And you’ve told no one else of her capture or your findings?” Griselda’s inquiry echoed down the corridor alongside swishes of light.

  “As you instructed, Your Grace. You made it very clear any news on Sir Nicolet should come straight to you.”

  Lyra swallowed a delighted gasp. Sir Nicolet was on his way back! She would go to him about her mother’s things. He would help her rescue all that was left.

  Lyra scooted to the cot’s edge. Since her cell’s lock was broken, she assumed the soldiers would choose one of the other rooms for the prisoner. When the footsteps scuffled closer, she shoved the potted rose beneath the cot and sought a better hiding place for herself. She’d just managed to fold her body under the box when they entered with lanterns. There was a knothole in the slats wide enough for her to spy through. The soldiers lit the torches on each wall, chasing the shadows even farther into the corners.

  Lyra muffled a gasp as the men peeled a bag away from the prisoner’s head. A set of black horns jutted from a grimy, reptilian face, followed by sharp teeth and eyes devoid of any white—their color murky like dirty dishwater. The prisoner hissed at the guards as they wrestled it into wrist and ankle manacles secured to the wall.

  Griselda paced the dirty stone floor, out of reach of the chains. “You saw her do it?” Her voice cracked slightly upon the last word of the question.

  “Well,” the taller soldier answered. “Truthfully, Sir Nicolet was dead before we got there. His heart was ripped clean away.”

  Lyra gnawed on her cheek to stifle a sob. The tears she had earlier kept at bay rushed down her cheeks, joining the blood that already stained her dress.

  “The witch must’ve ate it or some such.” The stumpy soldier standing by the door added.

  “I hear they’re the most powerful organs for rituals.” The first soldier chimed in again.

  Griselda held up a hand for silence, then looked directly at the prisoner. “Did you talk to the knight before you stole his heart, witch?”

  “Aye, I be a grand listener.” The prisoner’s answer rattled like sand scattered across a windowpane, sending a chill through Lyra’s spine.

  “Are you, now?” Griselda’s profile offered a glimpse of her scowl, although her usual arrogance held a tremulous air. “And what did he say?”

  “Me ears be attuned to a dyin’ soul’s breath, not their words.” The witch scowled in return, her fanged teeth biting into her lip and drawing blood. Her forked tongue sloughed away the black, oozing liquid, leaving her lips slimy like earthworms.

  Lyra barely managed to look at Sir Nicolet’s murderer. With her scales and split tongue, the prisoner was a horrifying sight. Her snaky features and skin brought to mind drawings of legendary drasilisks in the kingdom’s history scrolls—hybrid gargantuan creatures that had the head, wings, and front legs of a dragon and the long, coiling serpentine body and venomous fangs of a basilisk.

  “Filth and foul.” Griselda glared at the soldiers. “Do you not know anything? This harrower witch is an immortal . . . descended from gargoyles. She has an impervious hide and is immune to poison. She doesn’t age and she can’t be killed. How are we to force her to admit to anything?”

  “We could try torture, Your Grace. Her tongue is vulnerable enough. The choke pear might prove helpful.” Lyra watched the soldier take down a silver tool hung upon the wall. Four metal blades, curved inward to meet at the center, separated like razor-sharp petals as he turned a screw at the top. “Not exactly sure how to use it. We could send for the dungeon master and have him bring new torches, too. The broom sedge in these is stale and damp. The light won’t last much longer.”

  “Bah. We’ve time aplenty.” The other soldier plucked the torture tool from his companion’s hand. “Any simpleton can use it. We shove this end down her throat, turn the screw, and gore the truth out.”

  Lyra shuddered at the gruesome thought, tightening her arms around her cramped legs to silence the rustles of her dress.

  “No!” Griselda’s dark eyes reflected the torches’ flames. She
grabbed the choke pear. “One twist too far, and you could cripple her tongue and render her speechless. Don’t I already have enough of such nonsense in my life? Go fetch fresh torches and the royal mages. It takes magic to break magic.”

  “May-let it’s ye at risk of breaking, yer grace.” The witch’s threat caused the soldiers to halt at the door. “May-let ye should strike a bargain to save yer perfect self.”

  Griselda barked a throaty laugh—a sound that raised the hairs on Lyra’s neck. “You have no authority to demand bargains. You are not under the employ of this kingdom, so your magic is unsanctioned, and you’re accused of murdering King Kiran’s First Knight!”

  “I follow death, but ne’er bring it. If ye wish for witness to me character, ye can question the fox who ate yer good Sir Nicolet’s heart.”

  Passing a smug smile over her shoulder to the soldiers, Griselda rotated the screw on the choke pear, forcing the silver petals apart. “How inconvenient for you. Your pet is your only witness? Some simple beast of the field can’t articulate his thoughts any better than my niece.”

  Lyra’s eyes stung hotter at her words.

  The witch blinked her own cloudy brown eyes—a filmy flash of skin both unsettling and mesmerizing. “Ah, but this fox be no one’s pet. And I be given to understand ye’ve already spake with him at length, many a time, afore yer elm’s leaves turned red in the garden. May-let he ne’er showed you his four-legged side. He didn’t have much use for it—what when he could fly. But now it serves ’im well enough.”

  Griselda paled and she cast another glance over her shoulder at the soldiers. “Didn’t I command the mages be brought? Why are you both still here?”

  “Are you sure you should be alone with her, Your Grace?” the tallest one asked. “She’s speaking in riddles. And we don’t know what spells she’s capable of.”

  Griselda turned back to face the prisoner. “Her magic is limited to those already dying. More a parlor trick than anything. She obviously can’t use her words to vanish into thin air or break her chains. Otherwise you’d never have managed to drag her here.”

  The two men exchanged glances then bowed to Griselda. “At your command.” They left the cell, pulling the door half-closed.

  “And bring the dungeon master, too!” Griselda shouted after them.

  “Ye won’t be needing any mages or masters.” The witch’s husky voice scraped along the stone walls as the men’s footsteps faded up the stairs. “I be glad to tell ye what I know.”

  Griselda tapped her palm with the choke pear, simpering. “Of course. The promise of torture can bend any creature’s will. But, just so you understand, once you confess, you’ll still be our guest. The dungeon master needs a new plaything. And I want to hear more about this . . . fox.”

  The witch huffed. “Nay. I won’t be stayin’ on for yer hospitality. Ye’ll set me free afore yer soldiers return.”

  “And why would I do that? I’ve no fear of the nightmares you wield.”

  “Me weapon be reality. Yer dyin’ knight was alive enough to share his final moments with yer kingly brother. I heared the details of the treaty—afore the two be attacked. Should ye want to hear who killed ’em, or better yet, keep what we both be knowin’ between me and ye, I bid we bargain now.”

  Lyra crinkled her nose at the witch’s cryptic taunts. It hurt to hear the mention of her father, but it felt important she listen.

  Griselda stiffened, her hand fisted so tight around the choke pear her knuckles bulged. “I think instead I’ll gouge out your tongue so you will never speak again.”

  “I needn’t have a tongue to imprint a memory. And this memory will win accolades to them who holds it, be sure. The king’s final words to his knight will salvage yer kingdom from another war neither ye nor the night realm can e’er win.”

  A tense pause stretched between Griselda and the prisoner. Lyra’s arms and legs twitched from their awkward positions beneath the box and the dust threatened her nostrils with a sneeze, but she forced herself to stay rigid.

  “All right, give over the memory to me, and I will free you. With the understanding that should I ever need your services, you’ll return and pay your debt.” Though Griselda’s words were a command, Lyra had never heard her voice so unsure.

  “Nay, the debt I owe not be yers. It belong to King Kiran’s royal seed. And I don’t be seein’ his child here. Unlessen . . .” The witch tilted her head in Lyra’s direction. “Unlessen that’s her breaths be mufflin’ beneath the box.”

  Lyra slapped her palm across her lips. The moths darted from their hiding places and fluttered around Griselda as she stormed toward Lyra’s corner. She scattered them with the choke pear, then tossed it down with a clank. Lyra didn’t have a chance to protest before her hiding place was lifted off.

  “You wretched little ferret! Always the perfect princess. Tender-skinned and docile. Never heard, only seen—” Griselda stopped short at the sight of Lyra’s dirty hands, grungy bare feet, and ruined clothes. “Why, just look at you!” She caught Lyra’s hair and tugged it hard enough she had to stand on tiptoes. Lyra yelped at the throbbing in her scalp, but the beautiful sound only fed Griselda’s rage. “Playing in the dungeon like the filth you are. You’re no proper princess at all. You’re a stain on our kingdom’s name! I’ll put you on display for all to see . . . strap you up like a dirty sheet and let everyone beat you clean.”

  Lyra covered her face. There was no escape without ripping out her hair by the roots. The prisoner’s chains jangled and caught both their attention.

  “Best ye let her go.” The witch’s mud-filled eyes appeared to swirl in the dimming torchlight—hypnotic. Her slimy lips opened on a sharp-toothed grin so terrifying to gaze upon, Lyra felt her knees weaken. Griselda’s legs actually buckled, yet she managed to maintain balance by using Lyra for a prop. “Without that child, yer kingdom be doomed.” Contrary to her grisly smile, the witch’s voice was solemn and low, like a warning. “King Kiran made a blood pact with Queen Nova . . . that be the peace treaty: his daughter to marry her son when the princess be of age. There be a prophecy, revealed by the dark world’s grand sorceress.” The witch winced at this, then continued on. “Balance, held within the joined hands of a prince and princess who ne’er belonged to their own, but equal to one another in every way. Alone, they’re to conquer one another’s worlds. Once united, each will be complete and embrace their oddities to bring the sun and moon together again. A raven-eyed star-boy forged of sunlight, and a silver-haired songbird girl who commands the shadows. No question who that last one be.” She gestured with her manacled hands, the chains rattling in midair. “The night creatures already deem yer niece worth their fealty.”

  Lyra had no time to process the witch’s proclamation of a prophecy or an arranged betrothal, for her mind was on the shadows peeling free from the walls.

  Griselda whimpered, dropping Lyra’s hair as the shapeless silhouettes hovered in place, awaiting instruction. Lyra hesitated only long enough to rub her tender scalp, then she nodded. The shadows curled around the dying torches and snuffed out each quivering flame one by one until they all stood in pitch blackness.

  The prisoner’s chains jingled and clanged to the floor. Lyra’s eyes lit up, casting amber glares along the walls—tiny searchlights passing over the now-empty manacles and the shadows siphoning out of the keyholes like black smoke. Her gaze stopped at the open door where the prisoner stood free. The witch tipped her head, her obsidian horns reflecting Lyra’s glowing eyes as she pulled her hood into place.

  “Thank ye, wee princess.” Her jagged grin stretched to appalling lengths, teeth shimmering yellow. She redirected her attention to Griselda, who’d fallen to her knees upon seeing her smile. “As this child be yer only light in this very dark place, I’d stay on her good side, were I ye.”

  With that, the witch leapt from the cell and Lyra closed her eyes, welcoming the darkness once more.

  4

  To Dine upon Flowers and Flame
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  While in Eldoria a king’s death was being mourned, in the land of ice, star-filled skies, and midnight, another king struggled to pass from this life and his young son struggled not to hate. Prince Vesper, son of Orion Astraeus and heir to the throne, leaned forward in his saddle. The scent of musk radiated off Lanthe’s purplish-tinged mane. Vesper held the reins loose, guiding his mount with his knees on their climb up a hill. He’d been the one to break the colt, a gift from his kingly father on Vesper’s thirteenth name day, using gentle measures to gain the animal’s trust from the moment it was foaled. Now, two years later, Lanthe responded to Vesper with even the slightest nudge. As they reached the top, Vesper coaxed the reins around and spun them, taking a moment to admire the view below.

  “The perfect venue for blood sport, wouldn’t you say, Lanthe?” he asked, and the stallion whickered in answer.

  Neverdark—Nerezeth’s arboretum—had always been a beacon in their world of midnight. Other than the lead-glass window in the top that allowed a view of the outer night sky and the blink of dawn occurring once each day, the domed enclosure was forged of solid iron and filled with daylight. Or at least a reasonable facsimile. Thousands upon thousands of fireflies—fed with a special mix of pollen and liquid sunshine smuggled in from the day realm—drifted like infinitesimal stars along the shrine’s curved roof and everywhere the gardens and meadows flourished. Their glimmering strands were comparable to the real sun, though weaker, much like rays peering out from heavy clouds. The homogenized violet-gold light lacked the brilliance to blind tender eyes or irritate moonlit complexions—frailties only Vesper was exempt from—but offered enough fluorescence to nurture herbs and other plants.

  These grounds spanned hundreds of acres and, in spite of the emotional weight bearing down on Vesper’s shoulders and chest, he still warmed at the sight of the rolling hills lit up like an overcast spring day. Fragrant meadows with fruit-bearing trees and shrubs stood out in lush shades of lilac and lavender. On the east end, alongside horse pastures and stables, ran gardens of fruits, vegetables, and edible flowers that bloomed all year round, irrigated by melted snow. From where Vesper sat, the saltwater lakes—channeled in from far below where the oceans surrounded the underside of the world—shimmered turquoise and thrived with aquatic creatures that skimmed the surface like luminescent wraiths. When captured and roasted, the glowing fish offered another level of nutrients to the Nerezethite diet. Since there was endless snow to heat for drinking water and bathing, the lakes were never drawn from, and never ran dry.