Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  I’m not sure which of us howls loudest.

  Distantly, Evander yells my name, followed by something with a high, urgent ring to it. But the crackling fire, the Shade’s furious screeches as it burns, and my thudding heart make it impossible to guess the words.

  Hands grip my shoulders, tearing me away from the Shade and the flames. Evander’s hands. He’s going to get burned, probably already is, and I don’t want him to know this pain. I try to shove him back, but he hangs on, and together, we free ourselves of the fire. I lie on my back, gasping, letting the cool flagstones of the courtyard soothe my hot skin. My skirts are blazing, and the smell of singed hair fills my nose and throat, choking me. But Evander, despite the burns on his arms and hands, beats out the flames around me first.

  The Shade staggers out of the blaze a moment later on bony legs, its scrap of remaining flesh melting off like candle wax. It shrinks farther and farther into the stone floor as its legs burn to ashes on the wind. Soon it’s nothing but a puddle of blackened bone and rubble.

  For a moment, there’s silence apart from the hissing and popping of the fire. The crowd collectively holds its breath, not yet ready to believe the monster is really gone.

  “I did it,” I whisper to myself, stunned. I’ve killed my first Shade.

  When Evander pulls me against his chest and shouts for Danial, I realize I’m shaking.

  “You were lucky,” Danial says as he heals my singed face and arms, then turns to address Evander’s burns. “Your dress took the worst of the heat. But I’m afraid it’s ruined. There’s no magic anyone can work on that disaster.”

  I nod, but don’t have the energy to talk as I rest in Evander’s arms in the middle of the courtyard. Palace guards rush over with buckets, first to put out the bonfire, then to douse the spot several feet away where the Shade dissolved into a pool of ash.

  Gradually, once all the partygoers have been accounted for, my friends and Master Cymbre gather around me.

  “That was a completely idiotic thing to do!” Simeon tells me, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Idiotic. Seriously.” He gives me a shaky grin. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

  I grin back. “Just another day’s work, right?”

  “Another day’s work, indeed. You were amazing, Sparrow,” Master Cymbre says shakily.

  My friends echo her. And when Valoria kneels beside me and wordlessly throws her arms around me, I know for certain it was worth the risk.

  Moments later, a few of the Wyldings poke their heads out of doors and windows, then send their staff to begin clearing up the tremendous mess.

  “Look.” A fair-haired boy, one of the Wylding servants, sifts cautiously through the Shade’s ashes and holds up a gleaming chunk of gold. Even from several feet away, I can tell it’s a signet ring. “This belonged to Duke Bevan,” the boy says slowly, his brow furrowing. “But . . .”

  Simeon locks eyes with me, alarmed. “How did the duke become a Shade?”

  VIII

  The nobles in the courtyard stare at me and my friends with a mixture of fear and dislike. The same nobles who, an hour earlier, merrily greeted us like old friends. Only Lyda Crowther doesn’t shrink from us, waving to let us know she’s all right before turning to help a girl in a party dress who’s limping. With a last look at Evander, she guides the child indoors.

  One man whispers to a few of his companions, then steps forward. From where I sit, he looks like a giant bat, tall and gaunt in his black dress robes.

  “That’s Count Rykiel,” Valoria whispers to me.

  “Let me try to understand what’s happened here,” the count says, making each word loud and slow—no doubt for the benefit of those listening at the palace windows. “Duke Bevan went missing in Dyrn City. And we sent necromancers to find him. But they failed. Then the duke turns up here, many miles from home—”

  “As a Shade,” another man finishes from behind the count. “Almost like someone wanted him to become a monster.” He locks his evergreen eyes on Master Cymbre, who presses her lips together like she’s holding back a retort. “Like someone wanted to use him as a weapon, and planned to unleash him when the palace was busy and crowded.”

  Count Rykiel nods. “And let’s not forget, you were late to the party, Cymbre.”

  The words spread a chill across my skin. The lack of emotion in the count’s voice tells me he really believes the woman I’ve known for most of my life is capable of murder.

  “You’re supposed to keep control over the Dead. What happened?” A dark-haired young woman moves to the count’s side, turning Duke Bevan’s signet ring over in her shaking hands, making me wonder if she’s one of his descendants. “Let me guess. Are our newest master necromancers starved for business?” She glares at us through streaming eyes. “Did you set up this attack so we’d hire you to raise the victims, knowing we can afford to pay a pretty fortune to have our families together again? Perhaps I’m mistaken, but then, you’ll have to spell out your demands a bit more clearly.”

  “Here’s a demand,” Jax growls, sauntering toward the young woman until they’re practically nose-to-nose. “Shut your mouth.”

  Valoria sucks in a breath, and my pulse quickens as I follow her gaze to Count Rykiel.

  “Are you threatening us?” The count’s eyes flash as he beckons to a group of nearby palace guards.

  They march forward, shielding the count and other nobles from Jax.

  The few Wyldings standing apart from the wall of guards quickly scurry away from us, to the safety of bows and blades and strength in numbers. Valoria and Hadrien’s three younger siblings, two boys and a girl, are among them.

  But Valoria doesn’t follow. She loops her arm through mine, making it clear that she’s not about to leave the six of us—me, Evander, Cymbre, Danial, Jax, and Simeon—any more alone than we already are.

  “No one around here is thinking logically,” Valoria mutters. “Master Cymbre is the only necromancer who went to Dyrn City.” She raises her voice like she wants the rest of the palace to hear her. “Assuming the duke became a Shade, and she’s to blame, she doesn’t have the strength to drag him all the way here. And if she paid someone to help her—which sounds even more ridiculous—where would she have hidden the duke that no one would’ve heard him screeching before the party?”

  “Even if Cymbre were capable of something like that, which I highly doubt she is . . .”

  Prince Hadrien emerges from the palace and sweeps into the courtyard, turning to face us without a single glance at his relatives. “The other necromancers had nothing to do with it. They’ve been enjoying the party all night, just like the rest of you.”

  I never thought I’d be this glad to hear the prince’s voice.

  “I trust our mages. Every last one.” Hadrien puts one hand on Master Cymbre’s shoulder, the other on Evander’s. “And so should you.”

  But the prince’s relatives don’t seem willing to take his word on the matter.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?” the dark-haired young woman with Duke Bevan’s ring sneers. “Or will you just let the prince and princess speak for you?”

  “I have a few words,” Simeon shoots back. “You can all go straight—”

  “I can’t believe this,” Evander interrupts, glowering at the many accusing faces directed our way. “Sparrow just saved your lives, damn near getting herself killed in the process. How can you think we had anything to do with what happened here?”

  For a moment, silence hangs over us.

  “If the necromancers aren’t responsible,” a woman’s smooth voice calls, “who is?”

  I’d love to know the answer to that myself. It has to be someone outside the law. A criminal, paid to disrupt this party by someone who hates the king or even the duke, who certainly had his enemies. Or the guilty person could be above the law, like the nobles who stand here accusing u
s. Some look thoughtful. Others move about restlessly, like the tension in the air is too much for them, and a few continue to stare at us with open revulsion.

  Finally, as I watch Master Cymbre’s eyes shift from anger to hurt, I find my voice again. “You’ve always trusted us before.” That isn’t the half of it, as they well know. Until tonight, every one of these people has held us in the same high esteem as Karthia’s best bards. As the wealthiest silk traders from the southern provinces. As royalty. Now they’re treating us like a couple of pox-ridden beggars from the Ashes.

  I clench my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to shout. A glance at Evander helps me steady myself before I speak again. “You realize none of your beloved Dead would be here without us, don’t you? Not even—”

  “Me,” a scratchy voice finishes. “Yes. Thank you, Sparrow.” King Wylding glides into view, flanked by two other masked and shrouded figures. “I’ve heard enough nonsense for one evening.” He turns to face his subjects. His family. “These mages”—he spreads his arms, his long black sleeves hanging down like a crow’s wings—“remain our beloved guests, and a vital part of my reign. You will continue to treat them with respect, if you do not wish to spend the next ten years admiring my dungeon walls.”

  Valoria beams at the king. “He’s not so bad sometimes,” she whispers. “For a cranky great-great-great . . . well, Eldest Grandfather.”

  “What happened to Duke Bevan is a tragedy,” the king adds in a voice like dead leaves scraping across the courtyard. “And to the others who have died or been injured in this massacre,” he adds. “But I did not give in to fear and speculation in life, and I won’t in Death either. We will carry on as we always have,” the king continues, raising his raspy voice and reclaiming my attention. “And we will look to our necromancers, now more than ever, to find answers and keep us safe from Shades. For Karthia. For us all.”

  “For Karthia,” the young nobles echo, somewhat grudgingly in my opinion. “For us all.”

  The king claps his hands once. “Good. Now, everyone head to your rooms. I think we can all agree—the party is over.”

  As the royal procession disappears into the palace, Cymbre draws the four of us newest master necromancers close. Valoria and Danial hang back but stay near, no doubt listening, too.

  “We need to get to the bottom of this threat—whatever it may be—and contain it swiftly. Not only for the safety of Karthia, but to uphold the name of necromancer. First, though”—Cymbre smiles wanly—“we must get some rest before the hunt tomorrow.” She narrows her eyes. “Remember, if you try anything without me, I’ll wring your necks faster than you can say Deadlands.”

  The group disperses, only Evander and Valoria remaining by my side.

  “She’s wise. If I don’t head to bed now, I’ll fall asleep right here.” The princess smiles as she turns to leave. “Thanks again for what you did tonight. Maybe I’ll see you again soon? Hadrien will mope around the palace for months if you miss his birthday celebration.”

  I shake my head. Disappointing Hadrien is the last thing on my mind right now. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “And, Odessa?” the princess calls over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re planning with the others tomorrow—be careful, all right?”

  Touching two fingers to my brow in a salute, I call back, “Of course.”

  The moment Valoria disappears through the rose-embossed double doors, I grab Evander’s hands and pull him to the quietest spot in the courtyard, behind the empty tables that so recently held the feast. His eyes look more violet than blue by the flickering torchlight as they gaze into mine. I run my fingertips over his cheeks, letting the roughness of his jaw graze my skin, making my heart beat at double its usual pace. I want to kiss him—whether his mother might see us and ban me from her manor, I don’t care right now—but there’s so much to say first.

  “Something’s always in our way,” he says, sharing my thoughts. “Sparrow, when I saw you fall into that fire . . .” He pulls me closer, his hands steady despite everything the last few days have thrown at us. “I thought I’d lost you. Just for a moment, but that was enough for me to understand I never want to feel like that again.”

  Everything—the clatter of plates being stacked, the routine motions of the servants—fades away until there’s nothing but Evander and me, and I’m right where I belong. When I look into his eyes, I get the same feeling I have whenever I walk into Death’s convent after a long day. If a person can be a home, then he’s mine.

  “Tonight made me realize something,” he whispers against my ear, making me shiver.

  “Me too.” My throat tightens at what I’m about to say, but Evander beats me to it.

  “We’re stronger together. I could never walk away.” He strokes a hand through my hair, shaking loose bits of ash from the fire. “I’m not getting on a boat without you. Not tomorrow, not in a year. We don’t get forever.”

  “No room for mistakes,” I murmur. “All we have is now.”

  The necromancer’s ultimate sacrifice, always in the back of our minds.

  “Exactly. And it would be the worst mistake of my life not to spend every day I’m given with you and the Dead who need me.”

  He pulls me tightly against him, and for a moment we say nothing, united by our love of the job and so much more.

  “What are you getting at?” I say at last, drawing back to look into his eyes again.

  Evander smiles, grimly determined. “We’re going to move to our rooms at the palace, whether my mother likes it or not. We’ve put off starting our lives together long enough on her account.” He traces a thumb along the edge of my jaw, making me all the more impatient for his kiss.

  “But what about your dream of seeing other shores? What about the island?” There’s no way I could go with him now, not with everything that’s been going on.

  “Avenging Master Nicanor’s death and finding his killer before anyone else gets hurt is far more important.” He tilts his head. “You of all people should know—”

  “Of course I know.” For the first time tonight, my grin doesn’t feel forced or unnatural. “I just wanted to hear you say it. But, Van . . .” I put a finger to his lips to keep him from interrupting. “Something doesn’t feel right.” I glance to the spot where the Shade burned, a dark stain on the gray flagstones, then back to Evander. “What if we’re up against something we can’t handle?”

  “Odessa. Sparrow. I’ve met a few people who couldn’t handle you, but never the other way around.” Evander holds up his hands, and I link my fingers through his. “It’s the killer who should be worried. Not you.” He leans forward until our lips almost touch. “So after tomorrow evening’s trip to the Deadlands, we’ll head to the manor to pack our things, and then it’s off to the palace. What do you say? One last job before our life together really begins?”

  “One last job,” I echo.

  Evander smiles hungrily, and pulls me toward our palace rooms, the ones I’ve always wished we’d use. “Consider tonight a practice run.”

  * * *

  The next day, the five of us wait on a hill overlooking the sea, just out of sight of the palace, watching for the last smoldering ember of sun to dip beneath the horizon. For the gates to shine their seductive blue, calling us into the Deadlands.

  Jax paces restlessly over a bed of wildflowers—late-season marigolds. With no graves in sight, they aren’t a warning from the Deadlands of grief to come, but perhaps a sign that nature somehow understands our sorrow and wants to acknowledge it.

  Swinging his sword like he’s practicing for a sparring match, Jax grumbles, “It’s not fair.” He turns, slicing upward at an imaginary monster. “Evander’s got Sparrow, which means he’ll find the Shade first. And he actually saw the blasted thing, so he’ll recognize it when he sees it. The rest of us”—he pauses, gesturing to Simeon and Master Cymbre with his blade�
��“are about to have the most boring stroll of our lives. I don’t see why we have to split up.”

  “To cover more ground,” Master Cymbre answers, never taking her eyes from the sea. “You know how vast the Deadlands are. Now, does everyone have a whistle? And the liquid fire potions I bought us? And enough honey, in case you get hungry?”

  Simeon wiggles his eyebrows and winks at me, but I know he’s as grateful as I am that Master Cymbre’s thought of everything.

  As the sun disappears, Jax calls, “There’s our ride to the Deadlands!” He points his blade toward a glimmer of blue on the crest of the next hill.

  We begin to climb, a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach growing stronger with every step. Even once we kill the Shade, we won’t have all the answers. We won’t know what brought Master Nicanor into the Deadlands that night. Or whom.

  No one breathes a word until we’re near the gate.

  “Whistle if you even think you sense the Shade,” Master Cymbre commands, turning to Evander and me. She’ll be traveling with Jax and Simeon, acting as navigator. She’s not me, but she’s better than either of them at sensing the Deadlands’ subtle shifts. When we nod, she gives us a tense smile and murmurs, “Well, good luck.”

  She kisses my cheek, then Evander’s, and strides through the gate.

  “Just so you know, I’m going to find the monster and burn it before you’re two steps out of the gate.” Jax slaps Evander on the back, and Evander punches him in return.

  They can joke around all they like, but I can’t bring myself to join in. We’ve all watched the masters kill a Shade or two during training, and now I’ve fought one on my own. But the Shades that have lurked in the Deadlands longest are far stronger than newly made ones like Duke Bevan from last night. The oldest Shades are towering, terrible corpses rotted past recognition, things that stalk the deepest corners of a nightmare.

  Simeon rolls his eyes at Jax and Evader’s bizarre male punching ritual, then gives me a quick hug. “See you in a blink, sister.”