Retreating into the shadows, Vivien silently thanked the crumpled corpse and the rest of his precious creatures. With far less self-control than even Laurent had wielded, they were sure to rip the princess limb from limb.
1
At the stroke of midnight, Lilac paced restlessly, puffing loose strands of hazelnut hair out of her eyes while knotting the last piece of torn bedsheet onto the end of a long rope of tied fabrics. It would have been an easier task, had she done so sitting upon her duvet, but her nerves simply wouldn’t allow it. She hadn’t left the palace grounds in nearly a decade. Tonight, that was about to change.
Keeping on her toes, she was careful to tread only on the animal pelts strewn across her bedroom floor. Vair, foynes, vulpes—all the decadent furs that one could acquire through the fur trade. A couple times of sneaking late night food and drink from the kitchen had taught her that keeping on the lavish rugs muffled any creak of the floorboards. The rugs had been a birthday gift from a once-visiting sultan in the East, which had seemed strange at first—until she found out the rugs had been sent as a token of affection for her mother, Marguerite. The queen had discreetly passed them on to her daughter so the king wouldn’t notice; Lilac would have informed her father had he not been dealing with his own mistress habit himself.
Fair’s fair, she supposed.
Finally finished with her escape line, she tucked the annoying wisps of hair into her bun and began tossing clothes into a burlap potato sack she'd found after supper. She was unsure what was travel-appropriate, as she’d been forbidden from nearing the Brocéliande tree line before she was old enough to walk. Sighing, she settled for the pieces that fit comfortably: plain undergarments, a pair of old brocades she prayed still fit, a half loaf of bread, and an armful of cold pastries and dumplings acquired from breakfast.
As an afterthought, she nestled in a box of matches also nicked from the kitchen; for the last hour, she had mulled over bringing a torch or lantern to light her way, but there was no need to turn herself into such an obvious beacon to hungry Darklings. The moonlight would have to suffice, but matches could still come in handy for warmth.
The princess glanced around her room, knowing she was forgetting something crucial.
Preventatives. Standing on the edge of her bed, she reached up to untie the twine holding the bundle that hung on the bedpost: a misshapen garland containing a tiny bottle of witch's salt and beads of iron and silver, and three bulbs of garlic. The bushels, netted in cordage crafted from blessed Hawthorne bark, were found in almost every room of the castle; surely, they wouldn’t miss hers. She dropped the bushel into her potato sack with a satisfying plop.
Last, she produced a sleek silver dagger from her bedside table drawer. It was an ornate weapon, but otherwise simple; the pommel end of its jeweled, crossguard hilt boasted an etching of the kingdom’s signature animal, a lone ermine.
The weapon had been passed down, an inherited gift from an ancestor somewhere down her father’s lineage. He never seemed sure of the blade’s actual origin, though he did enjoy telling her bits of what he believed he knew here and there, usually after supper as he slumped over a glass of mead. The story constantly changed. Some nights, it was a former monarch who had owned it, perhaps her fourth or fifth great-grandfather, the king would say. Other times, it was a vagabond who’d stolen it from a foreign ruler and traded it to her family for a substantial sum of money. The only thing her father had seemed sure of was that not one person alive actually knew where it came from, nor the identity of the original owner.
It was perfect for fending off monsters., crafted with an enchanted alloy containing a mixture of soft and hardy metals the creatures were horribly allergic to. Consequences of a Darkling’s contact with the weapon included anything ranging from an unpleasant cluster of boils, to sudden combustion—according to Henri.
Personally, Lilac didn’t care. Impaling anyone through the heart seemed like it would do the trick just fine.
Biting her lip—a nervous tic her mother always hated—she shook out her bun, tied her hair back into a low ponytail, and inhaled deeply as she raised the dagger. She reached back and, on the exhale, she chopped her hair a few centimeters past the knot. With a solid thud, her discarded hair hit the floor.
For the first time in her life, the ends of her tresses fell just past her shoulders, instantly bringing out her natural waves now that there was less weight to them. Feeling like a brand-new woman, she grinned nervously and slid the glinting dagger into the scabbard on the cowhide belt at her waist. The cut locks were promptly thrown into the fireplace crackling at the foot of her bed.
One last time, she tiptoed out to her marble balcony to glance down at the trees. The forest, Brocéliande, stretched on for miles, a juniper sea of shadow and lore. Frightening and full of tall, dark beings who would eagerly mangle and devour her. At least, that’s what she'd always been told.
Still, her stomach knotted in excitement. It would be a harrowing journey, but enticingly so. Especially for someone who hadn’t experienced a moment of adventure in her life for many years. She’d spent many an evening admiring the view. On clear nights, if she squinted hard enough, she’d spot the speck of vibrant color—
the kingdom’s charming market town nestled at the very center of the woods, in between the High Forest and Low Forest.
She'd only been there once with her mother, years ago. They’d stopped in the square on their way to a soirée at the duke’s sprawling estate, which sat on the far edge of town.
From what she could remember, Paimpont was not large at all. It was a cramped village, sandwiched between the local marsh to the north, moorlands to the south, the castle and High Forest to the west, and the forbidden Low Forest to the east. Lilac remembered the awe she’d felt as their carriage passed the ancient abbey and entered the heart of the town; a decent amount of pubs, shops, and framework homes lined cobblestone streets, each structure uneven and more dilapidated than the last.
They’d gone on a market day, when groups of villagers scattered the road; there were elderly women angrily chasing after giggling toddlers with their wooden walking sticks while the parents tended to the market.
To her pleasant surprise, the town had been run amuck with enormous, chestnut-coated horses that day.
With their aproned handlers, the magnificent brown beasts stomped through the market selling a wide variety of goods, while static carts lined the walkways with meats and cheeses from the fromagerie.
The short visit was more than enough time for her to realize that visiting the town wasn’t as bootless an errand as her parents had led on. Leading the kingdom one day sounded tedious, but if it meant interacting with the friendly townsfolk and spending time there occasionally, it didn’t seem so dreadful after all. Paimpont was not stifled with the same grandiose appurtenances of the castle, and the young princess admired everything about that.
Years later she felt the same way, even if the townsfolk had grown to fear her.
But a cure was out there. She'd always felt it, deep in her bones. A cure that would destroy the darkness inside her forever, making her the perfect heiress to the throne once again.
She’d quickly grown tired of the riots protesting her upcoming coronation; tired of her humiliating reputation of being wicked and wrong for the position, and the pressure it had put on her parents to surrender the throne to one of the other prominent families vying for power—waiting for the Trécessons to slip up just enough; some days, it felt like her parents were dangerously close to giving in.