Song of the Dead

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  I throw back my blankets and jump out of bed. I have to find Kasmira.

  My head spins, and for a moment blackness creeps into the corners of my eyes, forcing me to grip the side of the bed and take a deep breath. It turns out leaping to my feet wasn’t the best plan. Slowly, the darkness retreats, but it’s replaced by something just as unpleasant: nausea. Swallowing hard, I grab my clothes. Someone’s draped them over the back of a chair beside my bed, perhaps the same person who left a familiar book on the seat cushion. Not even The Baroness’s Secret Heartache can make me smile right now, but it’s good to know Meredy is somewhere nearby. Hopefully with Kasmira.

  Just as I’m about to pull off the thin blue nightdress I don’t remember putting on, a high, cheerful voice calls from out of sight, “Oh, good! I’m glad you’re awake. Be right with you.”

  “Where’s Kasmira?” I demand, not in the mood to wait.

  “She’s in the closed ward downstairs, where we keep the more serious cases,” the voice chirps in answer. “The rest of your ship’s crew are all there with her, even the bear. There’s absolutely no need, as she’s in excellent hands, but they’re keeping vigil.”

  My shoulders slump with relief. I could hug that voice.

  “How long was I out?” I add.

  “A day and a half. You probably don’t remember much since the accident, thanks to the tonics we gave you—just to keep you comfortable and still while the healers worked.”

  Bustling out of the shadows of a corridor leading off this large room is a girl in crisp white healer’s robes that look to be two sizes too big. She carefully clutches several full potion glasses in each of her small hands.

  “How’s your head feeling, Master Odessa?” She pushes the silk screen aside, then perches herself on the chair holding my clothes and book without spilling any potion. Now that she’s sitting, I notice the roots of her shoulder-length pale blond hair are as dark a brown as her skin and eyes.

  “I’m Healer’s Assistant Azelie,” she adds. “Welcome to Glia Raal, the easternmost city in the great kingdom of Sarral.” Her tone is brisk, almost businesslike, but a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

  Anger crackles across my skin. This wasn’t how I imagined arriving at our destination. The weather workers on the beach conjuring storm clouds is one of my last memories from before the world dissolved into blackness. “Tell me, Azelie, are you smiling because my friends and I were almost murdered by your friends? Or is there something else that’s funny? If so, I could really use a laugh right now.”

  That wipes all traces of cheer from her face. “We all deeply regret our weather workers’ mistake. Your crew will be given free room and board while our carpenters work to repair your ship. It’s the least we can do.”

  “You’re sorry? Then why attack us in the first place?”

  “Your ship didn’t have a yellow flag,” Azelie explains quickly. “Everyone who wishes to anchor in Sarral has to fly one, to show they mean us no harm. Of course, we haven’t had visitors from Karthia in over two hundred years, so how were you to know?” She laughs softly. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d meet a Karthian, yet here you are!”

  I slowly shake my head, breathing hard. “We were almost killed for not flying a flag?”

  “That’s right.” Balancing some of the potion bottles in her lap momentarily, Azelie dips her index finger into a magenta potion and licks it clean, making a face. “We assume any unfamiliar ship without the flag belongs to the Ezorans, and defend our shore accordingly.”

  “Who are they?” The name stirs something buried in my memory, but I can’t seem to make it surface.

  Azelie’s gaze darkens. “They’re a kingdom of the worst sort, hardened warriors who glory in death and destruction, taking whatever they please and leaving blood in their wake. Lately, we fear every strange ship could be from Ezora. They always arrive by sea, sometimes in ordinary vessels, and sometimes in ships decorated with the heads of their enemies.”

  “That’s pleasant,” I mutter, inwardly cringing.

  Not bothering to hide a shudder of her own, Azelie continues, “They’ve been raiding, murdering, and generally terrorizing the borders of Sarral and many neighboring kingdoms for the past several months, trying to gain entry. So perhaps you see now why our mages tried to drown your ship before it reached us . . .” Her words trail away, heavy with regret, before she smiles again. “Queen Jasira takes every precaution—as would your king, if Karthia still welcomed visitors.”

  “Great for Queen Jasira,” I murmur, feeling a little calmer as I realize my shipmates seem to be keeping to the story we agreed upon. But something is still bothering me. “You called me ‘Master Odessa’ when you came in. What makes you so sure I’m a mage?” Leaning against the bed for support, I prop my hands on my hips, trying to look intimidating despite the dainty nightdress. “And how do you know my name?”

  Azelie tilts her head, still smiling. I decide she must be a few years younger than me to be able to smile so freely. That, or she hides her darkness well. “Your friend told us.”

  “Which friend?” If it sounds like a test to her, that’s because it is. After Hadrien turned out to be a power-hungry killer, it’s hard to trust anyone with a pleasant face.

  “Meredy—the one you kept asking for in your sleep.” Azelie glances down at one of her potions, missing the horror and embarrassment mingling on my face.

  “Speaking of Meredy,” she adds, meeting my eyes again—does this girl ever stop talking? “She said you’d want to know right away that necromancers are welcome in Sarral. Admired, even.” There’s a soft current of longing in her voice. It can’t be easy, working in a healing house without possessing hazel Sight, not being able to do more than mix potions. She must not get a lot of admiration for her work. “It’s also the law here that all necromancers, even visitors, register their names with Queen Jasira. Just so we’re aware of who could be raising the dead within our borders.”

  Remembering the eerie absence of the Dead in Lyris, I ask, “So there are Dead in Sarral?” I don’t feel the pull of any gates nearby, though maybe that’s thanks to my headache.

  “Of course.” Finally tiring of holding so many potions, it seems, she rises to put the glasses on a table nearby. Some of the tonics give off faintly floral scents, unlike the fruit-scented ones the apothecaries make in Karthia. “But you shouldn’t expect to meet them. You see, in Sarral, the day belongs to the living, and the night to the Dead.”

  That broken ship’s mast must’ve split my skull open and knocked me into another world entirely, because that’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. I open my mouth to say so, but then I picture Meredy looking daggers at me, warning me to be polite.

  Trying to channel some of her calm, I manage, “How does that work, exactly?”

  “Well, the living conduct their businesses and hold their festivals during daylight. We don’t leave our homes after sundown.” Glasses clink together merrily as Azelie stirs something on the table, her back to me. I wish I could read her expression, to see if she’s joking. Maybe this is how Sarralans welcome their visitors, with extravagant jokes. “The Dead do all their living—for lack of a better word—by night, and return home at dawn.”

  My stomach twists. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. All my life, I’ve been surrounded by death, taught to respect those souls who returned by magic to occupy their former bodies for a second or third time. From the convent where I was raised by the Sisters of Death, those who keep up the temples to our god’s blue-eyed face, to my necromancer’s training with Master Cymbre, the Dead have always given me purpose. Some of them even saved me. If Jax and Simeon were here, I know my fellow necromancers would be sickened, too.

  “And you’re . . . all right with that?” I finally grit out. Even if this girl is telling me the truth about necromancers being welcome here, I don’t want to st
ay a moment longer.

  Azelie’s tone is still sunny as she turns to face me again. “I don’t think about it much. It’s been that way since before I was born. Our leaders thought it best, after hearing whispers of how the rule of the Dead changed Karthia.” Eyes widening, she asks, “Is it true your king burned whole libraries and destroyed centuries of knowledge and progress?” When I frown instead of answering, she hurries to add, “It’s just—Queen Jasira believes Karthia’s people suffer under King Wylding’s guidance, mixing so freely with the Dead. She worries for them.”

  Well, no one has to worry about Karthia’s ancient ruler anymore. I bite my tongue again, wondering what Valoria would think of this Queen Jasira and her opinions.

  “I suppose . . . I don’t really agree with it. The Dead and the living being so separate,” Azelie adds, moments later, in a whisper. “But we had a war with the Dead once, centuries ago, and it produced a great many Witherlings. People haven’t forgotten.”

  The way her eyes widen with fear makes it easy to guess the meaning of the word Witherling. “Big bony things that eat corpses?” I ask. “We call them Shades. You know you can kill them with fire, right?”

  She nods. “One of the many uses of dragon’s breath.”

  “Dra-gon?” The unfamiliar word isn’t helping my headache. There’s so much to take in.

  “I’ll show you later, once you’re fully healed.” She studies me closely as I blink away more blackness from the fringes of my vision. “Also, as your assistant healer, I must advise you that you really ought to sit down.”

  Frowning—more at the pain of taking orders from someone younger than me than the ache in my head—I sink onto the bed, rubbing my temples.

  Azelie offers me a glass of magenta potion, holding it under my nose. Its aroma is sweet and a little spicy, like a flower I can’t name. “This is for the pain,” she murmurs. “Just until the healer on duty can fix what’s left of the damage to your head.”

  Remembering what the blue, bitter-apple-tasting liquid that filled my days not too long ago had almost cost me, I gently push the glass away. Potion dribbles onto the bed. I’m never going back to that miserable existence, and even though this tonic looks and smells completely different, I won’t risk it. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Azelie arches both brows as she dabs up the potion spill. “But your headache . . .”

  “I’ve lived through worse, so unless I’m in danger of dying, I’ll pass.” But eyeing the many potions on the nearby table makes me wonder something. “You must have cures for lots of ailments, right?”

  “For everything from coughs to helping wounds clot,” Azelie confirms cheerfully.

  “What about a cure for the black fever?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the hope in my voice as I think of the lethal sickness that sweeps through Grenwyr City each year. After all, the Sarralans have had so much more time to research it than Karthian healers.

  “Afraid not. It’s one of a handful of diseases we haven’t yet solved, although luckily, cases of it here are quite rare,” she answers. “We have more problems with the—”

  “My ship!” The words rise through the floor, echoing around the room. “What the blazes happened to my ship? Someone’s going to pay for this in blood!”

  Recognizing Kasmira’s voice, I can’t help but smile. If she’s feeling well enough to shout and threaten bloodshed, she’s already on the mend.

  Azelie snickers, setting down the potion glass. “Sounds like your friend is back on her feet. Which means she should be back with you in a moment.” She flops down on the end of my bed, her grin turning conspiratorial, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. “In the meantime, tell me about Karthia. I want to know everything.”

  I open my mouth, but Azelie keeps going. “No. Wait. Tell me about Meredy. She was really worried about you. I had to practically shove her out of that chair by your bed to make her get some rest.” Taking a breath, she grins. “And put a couple drops of sleeping potion in her drinking water.”

  “Where is she? Downstairs with the others?” I ask, trying to keep my expression neutral.

  “She fell asleep on one of the cushions in the room where the healers usually rest.” Azelie props her chin on her closed fist, smiling up at me. “So, come on. We’ve got time. Spill. Is there something between you two?”

  I should be annoyed. I should tell this girl to quit prying and leave. I try to summon a glare, but instead, I find myself smiling back. Her cheerfulness must be contagious, because it’s making me like her against my better judgment. Besides, it’s kind of nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know I’m a king-slayer, a former potion addict, a girl who saw her first love die in the clutches of a Witherling.

  “All right, we’ll talk until the healer comes,” I agree. “But why don’t you tell me about you instead?”

  For the first time, Azelie’s sunny demeanor fades. “Oh, no.” Her smile is back in place faster than Meredy’s when she’s hiding something. “Not when there’s over two hundred years of gossip to catch up on.”

  I steer the conversation toward festivals, food, and what the weather’s like in Karthia, keeping firmly away from any mention of the recent battle, the man I loved and lost, and this dangerous attraction I feel for his sister. Azelie has so many questions about growing up among the Dead in Grenwyr City, and in return, I ask her what it was like growing up in Sarral, where brown-eyed mages have always been able to invent things freely, unlike in Karthia. From the sound of it, they have so many recipes and hairstyles that I’d need to live here a year or more to try them all.

  Just as I’m about to ask her what a dragon is, and whether most people in Sarral have a lizard to pull their carts, the healer on duty arrives and chases Azelie away.

  “Tomorrow, we tour the city,” Azelie whispers on her way out, hooking strands of her blond hair behind her ears. “You and me. And your friends, if they want to come. It’s my day off, so I’ll fetch you bright and—”

  “Azelie!” The healer, a stern-faced older woman, groans. “It’s nearly sundown, and you’re not on overnight duty. Shoo!”

  “Already gone!” Azelie flashes me a grin, then vanishes.

  The healer lays her soft, cool hands on either side of my head, and as the pain dissolves, so does the room. Even my thoughts and worries drift away.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I wake drenched in sweat, the nearly full moon is high in the sky, a cold and distant bystander. I must have had a nightmare, but the details are fading faster than water slipping through my fingers. Right away, I sense something wrong in the waking world, too. My head doesn’t hurt anymore, so there’s no question the healing worked. Still, unease clings to me, making my breath quicken.

  Leaning against the window, I gaze out at the street below, where the Dead move quickly and quietly about on errands. The deep shadows of night mute the flash of their jewelry and masks and the sparkle of their eye-catching shrouds. Unlike the street during the day, there are no children giggling, no work-lizards, and no people stopping to chat. I don’t like it, this separation of living and Dead, but that’s not the only thing bothering me. There’s something more.

  As I turn away from the window to peer around the room, the moon’s waxy glow reveals that only a few beds are still empty. Most are now occupied by members of the Paradise’s crew. Dvora tosses restlessly, while the boatswain and quartermaster compete to see who can snore the loudest. Close to Meredy’s empty bed, Lysander sprawls on the floor, his bulk rising above the low bedframe. His huge claws click against the tile floor as he swipes at some invisible opponent, untroubled by his master’s whereabouts.

  As I take in the sight of the neatly made bed where Meredy clearly hasn’t slept at all, I finally realize what feels wrong: I’ve gotten used to her waking me from my worst dreams.

  Now wide awake and restless, I slip out of the be
d and grab my sword, careful not to make a sound. I’ve only missed a few days’ worth of practice with my blade, but even that small gap makes me feel sluggish and slow, so I might as well get a session in now. It’s probably pointless—there don’t seem to be any Shades around here for me to fight, and I don’t need to be in shape to stay alive in the Deadlands anymore—but some stubborn part of me refuses to give up on my daily necromancer’s training.

  As I stride down a hallway I saw Azelie use earlier, searching for a private place to practice, I’m grateful for the dark that hides the pathetic sight of a mage working to stay fit for a fight that’s never coming. For a job she no longer has.

  The hallway leads me into a large sitting room. I suppose if I moved a few chairs, I could practice here, but to my left is a set of glass doors leading onto an empty balcony. Slipping outside, I listen to the hush of the Dead going about their business on the street below as I stretch to warm up my stiff muscles.

  Aside from the occasional cry of a gull to remind me that we’re still near the ocean, all is quiet. Too quiet. I hum a song Evander and I used to dance to as I start practicing my lunges.

  “I’d hate to be on the wrong end of that blade,” a voice says from the shadows.

  Whirling around, my back to the railing, I find myself facing Meredy as she emerges from the spot where she was apparently leaning against the side of the building. “I was just, uh . . .” I hastily point my sword toward the ground, fumbling for an explanation.

  “You’re dedicated to your training, like I am to mine,” Meredy says, stepping closer. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you practice, remember? Nor the first time neither of us can sleep.”

  My shoulders relax with her understanding.