Her hands flew up to stifle the scream. Her fingers opened and flung the garrote away. Instantly the ghostly figure vanished. A cold gust drove away the warmth she’d felt, and Elodie was once more alone.
She rubbed her eyes. They were clear.
With shaking fingers, she reached for where the garrote had landed on the bed.
If I touch it, will he appear again?
She drew back her hand.
What had just happened? Could she do more than just see ghosts? Could she make them appear before her? She felt as if her whole body was fizzing, her head throbbing as she tried to make sense of it all.
Frida knows magic, she thought. Maybe she can help.
Elodie wrapped her hand in a handkerchief and gingerly picked up the garrote. To her relief, touching it through the silk didn’t summon the assassin’s ghost again. She folded the handkerchief around the horrible thing and hid it in the pocket of her dress.
She went to the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened to the murmured conversation of the two guards outside. The door itself was locked—she knew that without trying the handle.
“For your protection, my dear,” Lord Vicerin had explained.
To keep me prisoner, you mean, was the thought she’d hidden behind her grateful smile.
She dropped to her knees and peeped through the keyhole. As she’d suspected, Samial was right there, perched at the top of the stairs. The guards, of course, had no idea they were in the company of a ghost.
Still thinking about Frida, Elodie rummaged in a drawer until she found the bottle of potion the witch had given her.
This came too late to help Lady Vicerin. Perhaps it can help me instead.
On a nearby table was a tray of small cakes that had been sent up to her after breakfast. Their gaudy colors looked ridiculous to her, so it was with satisfaction that she unstoppered Frida’s potion bottle. She sniffed its contents: no smell. That was good.
She sprinkled a few drops of the potion over the cakes, hid the bottle once more, picked up the tray, and rapped her knuckles on the door. A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.
“I have no appetite today,” Elodie said, adopting the familiar role of the spoiled princess. “Send these back, or eat them yourselves—I don’t care.”
She was pleased to see the guard’s eyes light up as he took the tray. The door closed, the key turned, and Elodie waited.
A few moments passed, then the door opened once more, this time revealing Samial’s smiling face. He brandished the key triumphantly. Behind him the two guards lay snoring on the floor, surrounded by cake crumbs.
“Where’s Frida?” said Elodie.
Samial led her through the castle’s least-used corridors to Sylva’s private chambers. There they found Frida holding Sylva’s hand and talking quietly to her, while the witch’s young son played with a set of wooden bricks in a corner of the room.
As soon as she saw Sylva’s tearstained face, Elodie went to hug her.
“I keep telling myself it’s a bad dream,” Sylva sobbed. “But it isn’t, is it?”
“Oh, Sylva.”
“I hate my father for what he’s done. And I hate hating him!”
“It’s all right,” Elodie soothed her. “You don’t have to hate anyone.” But the truth was that she couldn’t imagine not hating Lord Vicerin.
“But how could he do it? She’s dead, Elodie! My mother is dead—and he killed her!”
“We’ll avenge her,” Elodie said fiercely. “I promise.”
Sniffling, Sylva pulled away and took Elodie’s hands. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s too dangerous now.”
“We were careful not to be seen.”
“ ‘We’?” Sylva’s red-rimmed eyes flicked around the room. “He’s here, your . . . friend?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here—sort of. There’s something . . . Sylva, I have to talk about . . . Oh, I don’t know where to start.”
Frida stepped forward.
“The beginning will do well, my child,” said the witch.
They sat at the table in the corner of the room and Elodie related her strange experience with the garrote, which she placed on the table as grisly evidence.
Her words came out falteringly at first, but the more she spoke the easier it became. Soon everything was pouring out. Putting Samial’s arrowhead beside the garrote, she told Sylva and Frida about how she’d met Samial in the Weeping Woods, on the fateful day when she’d first learned that she could see and hear ghosts. She talked about the ghost army: how they’d fought and how, after the Battle of the Bridge, she’d finally laid their spirits to rest.
“Keeping the arrowhead let me keep Samial,” she explained, touching her fingers to the little metal triangle. Then she nudged the handkerchief in which she’d wrapped the garrote. “If I keep this, will the ghost of that awful assassin start following me around? If that’s true, I want to be rid of it right now! There’s . . . oh, there’s just so much I don’t understand.”
“You have more choice than you realize,” said Frida. “The ghosts do not command you, Elodie. You command the ghosts.”
The witch’s words sent a thrill down Elodie’s spine. Yet still she felt daunted by everything that lay before her. “I just wish I knew which way to turn.”
“You are one of three,” said Frida, as if that explained everything. “There are no maps for your journey.”
Elodie sighed. “That’s the trouble. I feel as if . . . I know where I have to go, but I can’t see how to get there. Too many obstacles are standing in my way.”
“Then you have to go around them,” said Sylva.
“Or knock them aside,” added Samial.
“Knock them aside,” Elodie echoed, for the benefit of the others in the room. She glanced at Sylva. “Lord Vicerin is one of those obstacles.”
Sylva said nothing.
“It would take an army to knock him aside,” Elodie mused.
She crossed to the window. Until now, her thoughts had been as foggy as the weather outside. But now something cut through them like a beam of light to reveal something solid: a plan. At last she knew what she must do.
“I need an army,” she said, “so I’ll raise one of my own. An army of ghosts.”
Sylva stared at her. “Of ghosts?”
“Why not? I’ve commanded such an army before. This castle is built on the remains of a hundred fallen soldiers,” she said, remembering the painting of the old Vicerin fort. “I can order them into battle again.”
Sylva’s eyes were wide. Beside her, Frida’s face had creased into something resembling a smile.
“I believe you could,” said Sylva slowly. “But how will you do it?”
Elodie’s thoughts had already darted ahead to this. Her excitement was mounting. Now that she had a plan, everything seemed to be sliding into place, as if it was meant to be.
Maybe it is.
“That assassin’s ghost didn’t just appear,” she said. “It came when I touched the garrote. If I can just gather the possessions of the dead, then . . . Frida, do you think it’s possible? Will they come to me if I call? And if they come, will they fight?”
“You are one of three,” Frida repeated. “You can touch the magic of the world.”
Another shiver tingled down Elodie’s spine.
“I think—” she began.
The door burst open and Cedric rushed in. Frida immediately left the table and gathered up her son, her face a mask of fear.
“Don’t worry, you haven’t been discovered,” Cedric said to the witch. Then he turned to Elodie and Sylva. His face was red with exertion. “You have to come and see. They’re in the courtyard garden, all of them!”
Elodie felt her stomach turning over. “Who’s there?”
“Come and see!”
“I will stay here,” the witch said, holding her son to her chest. “I would not be seen.”
“You’re safer with us,” said Sylva. “We can pro
tect you.”
“I can protect myself.”
Frida pulled open a deep pocket in her apron, revealing a collection of tiny bottles and what looked like twisted leaves.
Potions and powders, Elodie thought in wonder. Enough to put a hundred guards to sleep. Or worse!
“Hurry,” said Cedric. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it!”
He led Elodie and Sylva from the chambers to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Crouching behind the parapet, they peered out through the low stone pillars.
A dismal scene lay below them. The once-beautiful gardens that dominated the courtyard resembled a wasteland. The flowers in the beds were as black as the soil that held them; the arches that had once bloomed with roses were just charred stumps. The damp gray fog merely added to the sense of gloom, and once more Elodie had the unnerving sensation that the castle was drowning.
And we are drowning with it.
A wooden platform had been erected at one end of the courtyard. On it stood Lord Vicerin, resplendent in his ceremonial armor. Soldiers stood to attention on either side of him, their blue sashes brilliant despite the murky air.
A crowd of people were gathered in front of him. Most wore either military uniforms or elaborate costumes. Dozens of horses were lined up outside the stables, and as Elodie watched, more horses rode in through the gate carrying yet more visitors.
“The nobles of Ritherlee,” Cedric whispered. “See—there’s Lord Farrier. And the May-Henrys.”
Scanning the crowd of lords and ladies, barons and dukes, Elodie spotted a face she recognized.
“There’s Lady Darrand!”
The woman she’d met outside the council chamber stood tall and proud in her yellow robes. All around her, the visiting rulers of Ritherlee were deep in conversation. The murmur of their voices merged into a low rumble that filled the air as completely as the fog. Yet Lady Darrand was silent and wary. From the expression on her face, Elodie knew exactly what she was feeling.
You’re afraid. And so am I.
“What are they all doing here?” said Sylva. “Why has Father summoned them?”
Lord Vicerin raised his arms. Gradually the hubbub subsided. One by one the nobles turned their heads toward their host. Vicerin swiveled his head, waiting for silence, then spoke.
“I am so glad you were all able to be here, and I welcome you with open arms, as friends. The differences that have grown up between us have damaged both this land and our relationships to the point of peril. Now it is time to set those differences aside and come together as one. Let us end this dreadful game we have all been guilty of playing, and build for ourselves a better world.”
“Do not pretend we are your guests,” cried a voice. Elodie wasn’t surprised to see it belonged to Lady Darrand. “We come to Castle Vicerin because there is no other stronghold in Ritherlee that still stands. Your army has seen to that.”
“And you are most welcome here.” Lord Vicerin dipped his head and adopted a syrupy smile. “My castle—my home—will be your protection against the barbarian raiders who ravage our land.”
“And I say thank you for it!” shouted a tall man in fine silk robes. “At least the Vicerin lands are still intact. Those Yalasti monsters have destroyed half my estate.”
“And wasn’t it Vicerin who destroyed the other half?” Lady Darrand snapped back.
Lord Vicerin stood patiently while the two nobles traded verbal blows. Elodie watched uncertainly, a knot of fear tightening in her stomach. She turned to Sylva and Cedric and hissed, “I don’t understand. It was Vicerin who brought the Helkrags here in the first place.”
“Father talks about games,” Cedric replied, his hands gripping the balcony so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. “I fear he is playing one of his own.”
“I don’t like this,” whispered Sylva. Her face was deathly pale. “I don’t like this at all.”
The argument spread through the courtyard, becoming a blur of voices from which Elodie could pick out only random phrases:
“. . . pillaged our lands . . .”
“. . . vicious brutes . . .”
“. . . entire village slaughtered . . .”
And then, cutting through the tumult, Lady Darrand cried:
“Why do you keep us standing out here in the cold? We want to work, to plan the defense of Ritherlee against these Helkrags. I say, let the work begin!”
All eyes—including Elodie’s—turned to the platform where Lord Vicerin was standing.
But the platform was empty. Lord Vicerin, along with his band of soldiers, was gone.
“Oh no,” said Elodie.
There was sudden movement on the battlements overlooking the courtyard. Figures rose up from the shadows where they’d been crouching: hulking, fur-clad monsters wielding enormous bows primed with equally large arrows.
“Helkrags!” breathed Cedric.
More figures appeared on top of the adjacent wall, on the tops of the towers. Down in the courtyard, the nobles of Ritherlee looked silently upward, their heads turning in slow horror as they realized they were entirely surrounded.
On the battlements, several Helkrags broke free and began running along the lines of archers. They carried blazing torches, which they touched to each arrow they passed, igniting the fuel-soaked wads wrapped around the lethal tips. Some of the nobles started pushing through the crowd, seeking an exit.
Elodie saw with horror that every exit from the courtyard was blocked by armed Vicerin guards.
The light from the burning arrows lit up the fog, casting a baleful glow across the entire courtyard.
On a high balcony on a far tower, Lord Vicerin stepped back into the light. He looked first down at the crowd, then up at the Helkrags.
“Do not do this, Lord Vicerin!” cried Lady Darrand. She stood firm in a widening space left as the people around her tried in vain to flee. To Elodie’s eyes, looking down on her, this warrior lady looked both small and invincible.
Vicerin regarded Lady Darrand with cold eyes.
“Kill them all,” he said.
The first volley killed half the people standing in the courtyard. The huge arrows impaled their bodies like spears; some arrows even passed all the way through and hit whoever was standing nearby. Even before the bodies hit the ground, they were starting to burn.
Elodie clamped her hand to her mouth. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Beside her Sylva was screaming.
Some of those who’d survived the first attack were screaming too, running blindly in the hope of finding an exit from the courtyard, which was burning all over again. Others stood dumbstruck, frozen to the spot, their firelit faces blank with shock. Elodie looked helplessly up at the battlements, waiting for the second volley of arrows.
It didn’t come. Instead a fresh wave of Helkrags erupted from inside the stables and proceeded to cut down the survivors. Their bone spears were merciless; their howls were like those of wolves. They worked steadily from one side of the courtyard to the other, a murderous wave that left nobody alive in its wake.
A few of the nobles had the presence of mind to draw their own weapons, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Ritherlee screams merged with Yalasti howls. All too soon the screaming stopped. The howling continued for what seemed like an age; eventually it too died away.
“By the stars!” said Sylva hoarsely. “Oh, this is terrible. Elodie, what has he done?”
Cedric wrapped his arm around his sister and tried to comfort her. Elodie would have done the same had she not spotted a single person still standing in the middle of the courtyard.
Lady Darrand!
She walked with eerie calm across the courtyard.
It isn’t a courtyard, thought Elodie wildly. It’s a killing field.
Flames licked from the bottom of Lady Darrand’s robes, once yellow, now charring rapidly black. They flew upward like flaming wings as smoke boiled around her. In her hand she held her sword.
“You w
ill pay for this, Vicerin!” Lady Darrand shouted as she trod through the smoldering corpses of the fallen. She shrugged off her burning robes, revealing soot-stained armor. Her voice rang out, clear and strong. Across the courtyard, all else was silent.
Elodie rose to her feet, then realized that in doing so she was exposing herself.
Too late now, she thought bitterly. It’s too late for everything.
As Lady Darrand continued her slow march toward the tower at the end of the courtyard, another sound pierced the fog: the unmistakable creak of a bow being drawn. In the corner of her eye, Elodie saw a single Helkrag perched on the edge of the battlements.
“Look out!” she shouted.
Lady Darrand’s head whipped around.
The Helkrag loosed his arrow. It struck Lady Darrand in the vulnerable place where the plates of armor curved down around her neck. Her body folded and collapsed.
“No!” Elodie screamed.
She dragged her gaze up to the balcony where Lord Vicerin stood—and found him staring right back at her. Some instinct told her that it hadn’t made any difference that she’d shouted out.
He knew we were here all along!
As their gazes locked, Vicerin puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “The noble houses are no more! Ritherlee now has a king.” He summoned a pair of soldiers with a flick of his wrist, his eyes never leaving Elodie’s. “Now—bring me my queen!”
CHAPTER 23
You killed me!” growled Brutan.
He circled Gulph, moving with uncanny speed. Terrified, Gulph turned around and around, tracking his undead father’s stumbling progress.
The Tangletree Players had retreated to huddle by the wall of the throne room, their faces pale and shocked. Pip was half-crouched and trembling, as if she wanted to act but didn’t know what to do. She looked stricken.
It’s all right, Gulph thought. I know why you did it. You had no choice.
“What will I do with you?” Brutan’s voice was like churning gravel. A firestorm raged in the empty sockets of his eyes.
Don’t take your eyes off him, thought Gulph, revulsion prickling his back. Do that, Gulph, and you’re lost. Oh, but he’s so fast!
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