The way to the fishing tarn was mostly deserted when Scorch and Stain took to the lofties. Stain had unrolled and tied her bandages into one long, sturdy strip. After wetting it for fireproofing, she’d wrapped the length around Scorch’s back and belly to bind his limp wing in place along his rib cage. When she finished, it folded against his side like the healthy wing did naturally for easier maneuvering through trees and thickets. Stain also insisted on using the ointment, although Scorch deemed it a waste, as it wouldn’t help him fly.
It was hard watching him stay grounded; he almost always flew in this tallest part of the forest. And if it was hard for her to watch him, she could only imagine how difficult it was being him. She would’ve chosen another route, but they needed to avoid her home.
Stain wasn’t ready to encounter her guardians yet. She had plans to storm the threshold later and drop the shroud’s riddles at their feet. By having bits of truth to reason with, by demonstrating her need to know herself—a desperation so profound she had faced the collective alone—she hoped to shock and shame Crony and Luce into confessing the rest.
This had to wait, though, as she had a service to fulfill. A service that made her stomach wobbly. She watched her boots trudge through the ash. Just a few hours earlier, she was contemplating recompense for Scorch’s wounds. But now, after having faced her own near death, she reconsidered.
Distracted, Stain barely looked up in time to see Toothless Edith and Dregs leaving the Wayward Tavern a short distance ahead. Scorch’s every muscle tensed beside her.
Hide behind the brambles there, she insisted, giving his chest a nudge. He grunted, but obliged.
Her acquaintances were in rare form. Dregs walked tall as any man with the pedestal shoes that matched his hat, escorting Edith, who was dressed as fine as any lady in a velvety gown Stain had never seen. She’d pulled her hair into a bun and even had lipstick in place. She spoke loudly to Dregs, no longer seeming to care about her lisp.
“Thain!” Edith hollered. The old woman waved a lace hanky Stain’s direction. “Beth trade I ever did make!” She had the mirror in her other hand, keeping it turned on herself as she spoke. Tilting her head, she admired her face, her features blissful if not beauteous.
Dregs spun in his high heels. “I second that, and tip my hat.” He tapped the felt brim that shaded his bulbous eyes. “My booth is at your disposal, should you ever have another proposal.”
Stain nodded a thank-you and hoped they’d be on their way.
“Wait. Did ya fall inthide a fire hole, boy?” Edith dragged her gaze away from the mirror long enough to look Stain over from head to toe. “Ya be a bit more torn than usual, and thkorched to boot.”
“Scorched indeed, and his clothes are but weeds.” Dregs flicked the icicle-shaped growth at the end of his long nose, as if in thought. “Earlier, there were night soldiers and a dog nearby . . . five we saw, with intent in their eye. Walking the wood and headed that way,” he pointed the direction Stain and Scorch had avoided. “Be a dangerous lot to engage in horseplay.”
She forced a shocked expression to assure them she’d be cautious. An out-and-out lie. The fact that there were five of the soldiers walking about on foot with the dog meant Scorch’s plan had just been simplified by half. That would leave only five at the Nerezethite camp with their mounts. And since neither Dregs nor Edith had mentioned ravagers among the wanderers, the assassin must be one who stayed behind.
Both the goblin and the old woman suddenly shifted their gazes across her shoulder, wearing horrified expressions as Scorch lumbered out from behind the brush—his mane and tail glowing hot, embers alight in eyes wild with rage and resolve. Against Stain’s bared nape, warm gusts stirred from his healthy, flapping wing. Even with the other wing pinned back, he posed a formidable threat.
They’re harmless. Leave them be. Stain placed a hand upon his velvety muzzle as he towered beside her.
They dared speak my name.
They didn’t. They were referring to my scorched clothes, and you know that. They’re guilty of nothing but enjoying life for the first time in some while.
He snorted. They’re in our way. Send them off, or their last taste of life will be the lick of my flame upon their charred tongues.
Wearing an apologetic frown, Stain waved good-bye to her friends—insistently. As if waking from a trance, the two stumbled toward a thicket that opened in the direction of Crony’s, their retreat not nearly as refined as their entrance.
Scorch trudged onward and Stain followed, prisoner to a promise she wished she’d never made. The cessation course would soon be underway. It made her stomach lurch to think of attacking the ravager and other four soldiers in their sleep.
The trees drooped lower once they abandoned the lofties. A rainstorm brewed outside, and the fresh scent of moisture mingled with a tapping across the leafy canopy offered an oddly tranquil backdrop to their murderous venture.
Scorch avoided a patchy opening where the rain rolled from one leaf to another. Normally, Stain would have to duck around such a space herself, as sunlight filtered in. But with it cloudy, she was able to walk under the miniature waterfall. She lifted her face, washing off the blood caked on her lips, cheeks, and forehead. Water beaded along her lashes, coating them like dew gathered upon spindly webs. She followed next with her arms, rinsing her wounds as well as possible with the sparse supply.
How she wished to be outside in truth. To actually stand in the storm. To feel the rhythm of the drops race along her skin, to see them fall from an open sky in sheets—a glimmering dance of crystal in the sunlight.
Sighing, she sipped some droplets to appease a niggle of hunger. Then she dragged the ravager’s knife from the bag and caught up to Scorch. She wished the assassin’s blade could be used to catch a fish dinner rather than to take a man’s life.
I’ve never killed anyone, Scorch. She sent her companion the thought, so hesitant it would’ve been a whisper had it been spoken aloud.
He didn’t slow his pace. His only acknowledgment was the swish of his tail. Not that you can remember, you mean.
Stain poked the knife’s point into her thumb’s tip, indenting the pale flesh. Her sunlit magic pooled beneath her skin and warmed the silver blade to a reddish heat. The resulting burst of agony caused her to tuck the knife away in the bag. She shuddered. I give life to the flowers smothering in the soot. Surely, I can’t take a life. I was just a child when I came here.
A baby serpent’s venom is deadlier than that of his parentage. We are all born with a will to survive. In some of us, you and I for example, that will is greater than most. A grave injustice was done to you . . . someone abused you. You are made of life and death, according to the mother shroud. 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. And now I should like your help to get the same satisfaction.
Stain grimaced. He cut you only once.
It’s more than that. I smelled my death in him. Then he attacked me, proving me right.
Stain clamped her teeth. You speak of the instinct to live. Yet you won’t acknowledge that the ravager cut you for that very reason . . . to protect himself. To protect his companions. You were the one who instigated the attack.
Upon this, Scorch paused, his left wing tugging awkwardly in its binds. His ears lay flat against his head. The danger called to me from within the thorny maze. His blood asked to be spilled before I even encountered him. I had no choice but to act.
Stain moved around his powerful flanks and twitching muscles, getting ahead. She walked backward to watch him, knowing every root and gurgling pit by memory. And he reacted. There are consequences to everything we do. Will you ever step outside of your beastly brawny stubbornness and learn to stop and reason for that?
Scorch’s eyes lit to orange. There is no place for reason within a beast’s heart. Instinct is my master. You would do well to remember that, and squash these tender emotions that weaken and blind you. Had you acted on instinct earlier, you would’ve stepped aside while I trampled him, and we wouldn’t be having this argument now.
He started forward again, his silver hooves plodding through the powdery groundcover. She spun to follow at his right, reaching up to grasp his dark mane when the ground grew uneven and sent shooting pains through her toes and ankles.
He moved closer and curled his healthy wing around her. She leaned her temple against his shoulder, feeling tendons grip and slide beneath his satiny coat. The scent of horse musk intertwined with smoke to fill her nostrils.
Am I not your friend, tiny trifling thing? he asked as they loped in synch with one another.
Thunder rolled in the sky, shaking the leafy roof above her wet head and the ground beneath her weary feet. Yes. The dearest one I’ve known.
Because I’ve never lied to you.
She captured a black curl draping his neck and twisted it around her fingertip, stirring sparks to scald her skin. Other than withholding your absent past.
Scorch released a sooty puff from his nostrils. I told you I didn’t wish to speak of it. That was no lie.
Stain clucked her tongue, the only sound of derision she could make.
And I’m not lying now. Scorch flicked an ear, ignoring her. There is danger in this man.
Well, he is an assassin.
No. He’s something more. A personal threat to me. I tasted it. I scented it. Something in his blood wants to bind and suppress my flame. If it’s too much for you to stab him in his heart, then lure him out of camp—away from his companions. I’ll see to the rest.
Their mental conversation ended as the aroma of roasted fish marked their arrival to a grove of trees around the campsite. Stain’s mouth watered and her stomach grumbled.
Hush. Scorch sent the silent demand while leading them to a spot behind a scattering of thick, wide trunks that enabled a view of the camp-front without being seen.
Stain was about to argue that she had no control over her stomach’s protests when he interrupted again: Wait here. I’ll scout a plan of attack.
Stealthily, he slipped from tree to tree until he reached the labyrinth, where the thorny walls—tightly bound and towering all the way up to the canopy—offered camouflage with tiny openings for peepholes.
To free her hands, Stain looped her arms through her bag’s straps, hanging it secure at her back. She then peeked from behind the tree. There were three enclosures set up in the distance: two, set apart beside the horses that had been relieved of their armor and fixed with feedbags upon their muzzles—more serendipity, as they wouldn’t smell Scorch and panic. Since there were six mounts, it reasoned that the scouting party Dregs had mentioned had returned for their horses, but only four left again. The caged birds she’d heard screaming during the chaos in the labyrinth must have also gone with the scouts. Stain hoped they had the dog with them, too.
In the two farthest tents, the flaps were shut, and snoring sounds drifted out.
The third enclosure, straight ahead, was propped next to the fishing tarn: a tall embankment of rocks tapering to a wide circle of stone beneath an opening in the canopy. The basin captured rain and dew, never drying up. Water trickled into it now with a soft, rhythmic patter. Sporadically, fish leapt out and plopped back in with a splash.
This tent’s flap remained open, and Stain saw her leather pouch from earlier, which meant they had found her jars of night creatures. Her mind scrambled for some way to get them back. Moving carefully from one tree to another revealed more of the scene. The silhouette of a man in a white shirt and black leathery breeches—tight enough to conform to his sinewy, masculine lines—sat within the opening on a blanket. Beside him crouched a moonlit girl dressed in a soldier’s uniform. A long, silvery-purple braid curled from her nape to rest in her lap like a pet snake. She had bandages, reminding Stain of those holding Scorch’s wounded wing in place . . . her hands grew clammy at the reminder of how wrong this day had gone.
In the distance, the girl held a dagger over a campfire where the remains of their savory meal burned in the flames—fish scales and bones turning to ash. The girl’s silver blade burnished red, and the man mumbled something under his breath. He rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a metallic golden sheen along his forearm—either a vambrace or some similar piece of armor.
Everywhere else, his skin was the deep red gold of burnished copper, beautiful, but bearing no resemblance to a moonlit-kissed Nerezethite. He appeared instead to be of Eldoria, bronzed by the sun. So why was he riding with soldiers of the night realm?
Soundless, Stain eased from behind one tree to another and another, utilizing the dense growth until she was a few feet from the edge of the tarn. She stopped when she could feel the water droplets as they splattered and hear the man and woman as they spoke.
“I’m ready, Selena,” he said, gesturing to the dagger. Stain recognized the ravager’s voice at once. Although young, like she assumed, in other ways he looked very different than she’d expected.
His hood had been removed, and thick hair—as purply dark as the winter plums Dregs offered for purchase on special occasions—hung to his shoulders in messy waves. The skull-face paint was gone as well, revealing high, angular cheekbones with a long, aquiline nose that suggested regality. A straight, pale scar, raised and thin, started beneath his left cheek and ran to his strong jawline, disrupting his smooth complexion.
“Would you rather I do it this time?” the girl named Selena asked.
“No, dear sister . . . I still have use of my hands. It’s enough you have to watch.” His forehead was wide and expressive under tendrils of disheveled hair, and thick, black eyebrows punctuated his words, furrowing or rising in cadence with his deep, soothing voice.
He cringed, sliding the red-hot blade along the golden vambrace on his arm. Only it wasn’t armor; for where the dagger’s sharp edge skated along the surface, fine hairs raised in its wake as if magnetized. That metallic shell was his skin . . . a part of him, like a crab’s carapace.
This man was under some sort of bewitchment.
Stain covered her mouth as the knife stopped where the shell surrendered to natural, soft flesh on the back of his wrist. There the blade sank in, cutting a long slit. She expected beads of bright red to swell at the site, but instead, a stream of gold drizzled free—as radiant as the liquid light that clung to the trees at the ravine’s entrance.
A man who bleeds sunshine.
“Do you wish to use it for ink?” Selena wiped the golden blood from the dagger, then drew a small vial from one of the three saddlebags beside her. “I brought a quill and parchment.” She placed a stack of black paper next to him.
“No need to write anymore,” the man answered. “By tomorrow, I’ll speak to her in person. At last I’ll know her.”
His sister positioned the vial to capture the glittering stream at his wrist. “You know her already. You’ve been exchanging notes for years.”
“Yet she feels like a stranger. Doesn’t feel right, for a marriage. Do you remember Lord Father’s pet name for our lady mother?”
Selena beamed—a smile that transformed her delicate features from pretty to stunning. “His Northern Star.” Using a bandage, she blotted away some lustrous blood that had overrun the vial’s mouth. Her silvery eyebrows arched. “Perhaps their great love gave us unrealistic notions of romance?”
“Perhaps. But you will have what they did. Cyp confessed his affections today, when he thought you were both to die in the fire. And you didn’t for a moment question if it was sincere, nor did you hesitate to return the sentiment.”
“He told you?” Selena’s face flushed, making the bluish veins behind her thin skin more prominent. “He should’ve waited. We’ve more important things to think about on this journey.”
The ravager grinned gently. “Cyp told me because he knew I’d be happy for the both of you. There’s no shame in celebrating the discovery of love, especially between friends. You’ve walked alongside one another for years on the same terrain—carried one another through the loss of your fathers. You’ve shared goals and secrets. You always find middle ground, ways to compromise, even when you disagree. Friendship is a measuring stick for love. Would that my intended and I had such a tool to gauge our relationship. It would ease the responsibility of consolidating two such different kingdoms.”
Stain’s ears perked at the words intended and consolidating kingdoms. This was the night prince, come for his princess in Eldoria’s castle—wearing a disguise. How careless of her not to suspect . . . not to question . . . having played at masquerades for so long herself.
The prince’s sister drew back and corked the small vial now filled with effulgent liquid. “I think, because our people no longer practice arranged marriages, it’s harder for you. But even if a betrothal is nontraditional, the love that grows from it can still be real and true.”
He chuckled—a cynical gesture—and pressed a piece of gauze against his incision to slow the seeping driblets. “Ah, good to know. For there’s nothing traditional about my love story, to be sure.” His full lips pressed tight. “A flawless, fragile lady is supposed to be my missing half—to complete me—scarred and hardened as I am. Yet I know nothing of her. So often her letters feel rehearsed. As if she’s writing what she believes one of her station should say, or what she thinks I wish to hear. Yes, I want the romance . . . the poetry. But those are ideals a king can set aside, if only his queen will speak from the heart—as one confidante to another—responsibilities and status notwithstanding. I want my partner’s thoughts and feelings, in earnest.”
“That’s reasonable. Be patient. You’ve never even seen her face. I predict, the moment you meet and spend time together, all pretentions and doubts will fade. As Madame Dyadia said, you will know her by her voice.”
He sighed. “Once I hear her song, from her lips instead of a seashell, only then will I know that my people and I can be cured.” There was a ragged edge to his voice—as if he’d been holding out for such a moment for an eternity. “The truth of it? Only then will I know the foretelling was worth believing.”
The man turned his face to the fire, hiding doubts within the long shadows cast by his cheekbones and dark eyelashes. Stain ducked behind her tree, peering through a juncture of branches that brought her to his level. How profound, to see that dark gaze up close—as inscrutable as a blackbird’s. How had she overlooked that detail earlier? She’d been too busy comparing it to night shadows and crickets.
His lustrous blood attested he was truly forged of sunlight. All this time she and Scorch had made a mockery of the fairy tale. She’d never dreamed the descriptions could be taken literally: a prince with the eyes of a raven, to marry a princess who spoke like a songbird.
Stain cupped her barren throat. Ever since the day she’d awoken in Crony’s home, she’d accepted the inability to make sounds or speak. Yet the fairy tale had always left her covetous for a voice. Now, seeing those details coming to life, the envy heightened, coating her tongue with a briny-bitter taste.
It was just another reminder of how different she was from others in the world. Everyone other than Scorch . . .
She glanced at the thorny maze in the distance where a glowing spark glimmered behind some tangled vines.
“At least there’s one small triumph today,” the prince said, recouping Stain’s attention. “No more hiding behind ink and parchment.” He pushed aside the stack. The movement loosened the gauze on his arm and spurred a few remaining droplets to smear upon the paper’s black surface, a bright and glittering counterbalance to the darkness.
Stain slammed her eyelids shut, her mind flashing to that odd dream of golden words upon black pages from years earlier. Opening her eyes, she studied her fingers, thinking upon their scalding, bright magic. Somewhere inside her was the missing detail . . . the explanation for why she had sunlight beneath her skin like this man. She cursed Crony and Luce for stealing those answers, for leaving nothing but a residue to cling to.
Shaking off her anger, she looked up once more. Princess Selena stitched her brother’s incision. It oozed red now, as if his blood had been cleansed by the draining. She tied off some black thread and cut it. Before Stain could blink, his skin had healed to another scar—absorbing the stitches in the process. More magic.
“I wonder how many that is now?” The prince patted the raised white welt. “Perhaps enough I can double as a patchwork quilt.” The edges of his mouth twitched. “Let’s play a trick on the castle’s seamstresses . . . hang me on the wall naked beside their finest creations. See how long it takes them to notice.”
Stain stifled a surprised laugh at his wit. Her own scars stared back at her, providing an intimate awareness of how desecrated he must truly feel. Though some of her wounds had been made through experiences and adventures she chose, there were others inflicted upon her, robbing her of any choice.
Princess Selena laughed, as if buoyed by her brother’s momentary lapse into humor. “You might’ve got by with it in your youth—bedeviled, rebel prince that you were. I can think of several maids who would swoon at the prospect of such a sight even now.” Clucking her tongue, she tucked all the articles away in the bag, including the papers. “However, I hold you to a better standard. That behavior would be entirely unbecoming of the king.”
The king. One half of the couple who would return unity to the heavens. Stain’s heart sped, keeping rhythm with the rain drizzling into the fishing tarn. It hit her suddenly: she’d attacked royalty, offset an honorable quest to mend their realms. And now, aware of the prince’s condition, seeing his humanness, she felt even sorrier for her preconceptions—for judging the Nerezethites without knowing intimate details of the realm’s traditions.
Cloth rustled as the prince opened another saddlebag and a cylinder of unusual silken fabric unrolled, revealing feathers, fur, and lace that swirled like rippling water in a cave. Within the pleats rested a handful of treasures: an ornate hairbrush of pearlescent opal with steel bristles, an amethyst-jeweled hairpin, and a ring whose setting consisted of a miniature lavender rose. This too was magical, as the blossom somehow thrived without soil, water, or roots. Its perfume—so potent it reached Stain even without a breeze to carry it—reminded her of the blackened bouquet from earlier . . . those withered roses the shrouds hoarded as a macabre keepsake from her entry into the ravine. Another similarity between her and the prince. They shared sunlight somehow . . . scars . . . and a history with these strange flowers.
Confusion surged—a woozy sensation. Her knees weakened. She gripped the rough tree bark to keep from reeling.
Compose yourself. Scorch’s voice ignited in her mind. She sensed his return, behind her where the trees thickened. You need your wits about you so we can execute my plan.
No, Stain answered as the prince leaned closer to the fire, his complexion waxen and drawn, as if siphoning the golden solvent from his body had weakened him.
Yes. Scorch grunted low in his throat. He’s unsteady now. It’s the perfect opportunity.
We can’t kill him. Her heart pounded in her chest as the thought flickered between her and her winged companion, hot and bright as the blaze reflected in the prince’s deep, haunted eyes. He’s royalty.
Could that be why Luce had been so upset with her earlier? Had he known the ravager’s true identity all along?
What have I told you about royalty? Scorch’s response was gruff. They are the vilest of all humankind. Selfish, power hungry. Cruel. They’ll kill anyone who threatens their status, even their own subjects.
Stain tightened her stance. This prince didn’t seem selfish. And cruel? Earlier, when she first met him, his words were kind and noble—offering her help. Now they centered around concern for his people and the broken skies, inasmuch as himself.
We must act now.
Stain ignored Scorch’s snarling command and the faint smell of smoke curling around her—focused instead on the quiet conversation still taking place between the prince and his sister.
“I just don’t understand how it’s all to be.” He held the ring up to the campfire, pinching the rusty-brown band that matched the color of his forefinger and thumb. Firelight and shade alternated along the whorl of lavender petals, brightening some to a satin sheen while darkening others to velvet depths. The jewelry was tiny in his large, slender hand. “How my marriage to Lady Lyra will align the moon and sun so both kingdoms can benefit. How it can cure my poisoned blood and save our people. Can magic be so strong?”
“It was strong enough to separate the heavens, to keep you alive in spite of the sun’s taint.” Selena traced the intricate lines of the hairpin. “Strong enough to capture a princess’s teardrops in this pin and harden her hair to bristles of steel for this brush. We must have faith it can ameliorate all the wrongs. Put things back to right.”
Stain touched the corners of her eyes . . . as dry as they’d been since she could remember. Then her hand slipped over her forehead and caressed the downy fuzz from her crown to her nape, once silvery-white, now a shade of blackberry not unlike the prince’s own. Something inside her woke—a stir of jealousy, knowing that she would never have use for such beautiful items since her own hair didn’t grow? Or something more?
“Faith,” the prince’s growl stole her breath. “Faith in a prophecy—nothing but an amalgamation of words arranged prettily upon an ice cavern’s wall. Belief that every event is a stepping-stone. That everyone we meet serves a purpose.” He rewrapped the gifts in that dark, swirling fabric and placed them inside the saddlebag. “The prophecy has colored every decision we make . . . every challenge we stumble upon. At each crossroad, we stop and wonder. How do our wounded stags figure into this? Our dying people? How does that boy we seek—bleeding, scarred . . . so poverty-stricken he has no shoes—fit in? What of the ancient mystic that Leo’s team is taking to Eldoria’s castle as we speak, or our reserve of midnight shadows and spiders they took to break through the enchanted honeysuckle walls?” He clasped his sister’s hand. “Selena, by hanging our confidence upon magic, we’re shirking our own accountability, our capacity to reason and surmise. You met the prisoner yourself. You heard me interrogate her. She’s nothing like Dyadia said. We all saw her humility, her gratitude when we shared our food with her, the gentleness in contrast to her ugliness.”
Selena pursed her lips in thought. “She was very respectful to you. To all of us, in spite of her captivity.”
The prince closed the flap on his saddlebag, his expressive eyebrows pinched tight. “I made a mistake, sending her to be punished on mere faith. We haven’t any proof of wrongdoing . . . not even the box marked ‘princess - revolution.’ Nothing other than an albino crow’s word and Regent Griselda’s suspicions. Enough of faith. It’s time we take control of fate and make things right on our own. Whether or not Luna and Nysa can track the orphan boy, we leave for Eldoria when the cessation course begins. I wish to consult with the princess as soon as possible. Even a horned harrower witch merits a trial—a chance to defend herself.”
Albino crow . . . harrower witch . . . punishment and trials. Stain’s fingers dug deeper into the bark’s crevices as the words spun in her brain.
Scorch huffed. As I said. Royalty is not to be trusted. You’ve heard what happens to those who end up in Eldoria’s dungeons. Your toothless friend from market is a prime example. I assure you, the punishment is far worse for those who practice magic outside of the Regent’s requests. Had the prince already been dead, your precious Crony wouldn’t be in danger now.
Stain squeezed her eyes shut as Scorch’s truths sliced her to the core.
Everything that had transpired between her and her guardians earlier—their betrayal of her memories, their lies—fell away in light of Crony’s predicament. Dregs had mentioned seeing the soldiers. Stain hadn’t given it a second thought . . . but it was she who led the troop there. An albino crow had crossed their threshold, magical enough to bypass the nightmare wards. And Stain heard the dog barking when she left. She led them straight to her family, then abandoned them. And unless Luce had escaped, he was captured, too. Or worse. She gasped at the thought, a burst of air that proved too loud.
The prince and his sister scrambled to standing, their tense bodies turned her direction.
“Who goes there?” the prince called out. He wavered on his feet, still unsteady.
His sister coaxed him to sit beside the fire. Drawing out her dagger, she shouted toward the other two tents, her gaze never leaving the surrounding trees.
A loud rumble of thunder broke overhead—an ominous portending. Pulse skittering through her wrists, Stain crouched low and dragged the bag around to her chest. Her spine ate into the bark. Her hands clamped like iron bars across her lips. Every nerve prickled beneath her skin, every bone stiffened to near breaking. She was voiceless, incapable of pleading Crony’s case; and she, too, would be captured and placed in chains.
Fabric rustled as the other tents opened and their occupants leapt out. Rushing footsteps, crackling leaves, shuffling ash—growing ever closer.
Witless mite, Scorch snapped. Once again, I must save you. Glowing, orange sparks drifted in the greenish haze around her. I’ll catch fire to their tents and set loose their horses to draw the others away. When he’s alone, you slash his throat. No hesitation. You owe me that.
Yes. Stain agreed, dragging out the knife. But she had her own plan. The prince mentioned searching for the boy . . . for her. She would lure him to the moon-bog where she first met Scorch. It was close—and the perfect place wherein to trap someone unfamiliar with the terrain.
The prince must live to be Stain’s bargaining chip. For surely the prophesied king’s life was valuable enough to trade for a lowly witch’s safe return.