She’d never imagined the first drop would be by her hand.
Tossing the weapon aside, Elodie attempted to heave the dead man off her friend. He was impossibly heavy. She tried again, fighting the bile rising in her throat, trying not to think about what she’d just done. . . .
I have killed a man!
Putting all her weight into the effort, she finally managed to roll the corpse off Palenie’s body. Now the dead man lay on his back, slack face staring sightless at the roof of the tent, framed with blond hair.
The man was Rotho.
Elodie couldn’t believe it. Rotho was courtly, charming, a warrior who’d said he’d been honored to fight alongside her. . . . Why would he hurt her friend?
Then she noticed Palenie’s long hair spread in a wide, red fan.
Red. She looked down at the cloak she was wearing.
Palenie’s.
Of course . . .
“He thought you were me!”
There was something around Palenie’s neck. Elodie tore it away—a metal coil as fine as a spider’s web, wrapped around the purple-bruised skin. Slipping one hand under Palenie’s head, she touched the other to her friend’s cheek. Her hands, slick with Rotho’s blood, left long red trails on Palenie’s skin.
“Palenie!” she cried. “Palenie—wake up!”
Elodie pressed her fingers against Palenie’s neck. There was no pulse. She turned her cheek to Palenie’s lips. There was no breath. She brushed Palenie’s hair back from where it had fallen over her face.
Palenie’s eyes stared past her, as lifeless as those of the man Elodie had just killed.
Her friend was dead.
Elodie stumbled backward out of the tent. Somewhere, someone was screaming. She held out her hands to the empty air. She tipped back her head and turned a slow, unsteady circle, all the while gazing up at the three prophecy stars. They glared down at her with their cold, uncaring light.
“Elodie!” The voice was Fessan’s. “Elodie! What’s wrong?”
She felt his hands catch her. She hadn’t even known she’d been falling. His face hovered over hers, pale and shocked. Other people crowded behind him, their expressions equally startled. How had they known to come?
Elodie realized it was she who’d been screaming.
“She’s dead!” she howled. “Palenie’s dead and it’s all my fault!”
“What? Tell me what happened!” As he spoke, Fessan snapped his fingers and pointed to the tent. Two men ran inside, leaving Fessan to lower Elodie gently to the ground.
“Rotho,” she sobbed. The ground was cold and hard. All her strength was pouring out of her, encased in her tears. “It was Rotho. He . . . he . . . he strangled her.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Fessan, touching his hand to her brow.
“Yes, it was. If I hadn’t come . . . if I wasn’t here . . . Palenie would still be alive.”
“It was Rotho who killed her.”
“But he thought Palenie was me! It’s all my fault! If it wasn’t for me . . . if I wasn’t here . . .”
Elodie curled up, her arms clutched around her knees. The sobbing racked her body from head to toe.
One of the men came out of the tent, his face ashen. He handed the metal coil to Fessan.
“A garotte,” spat Fessan in disgust. “I have heard these are used in other lands. This is no Toronian weapon.”
Stown had come hurrying over. He looked into the tent, then he marched toward Fessan, jabbing with a finger. “You did this,” he yelled. “You let an assassin among us!” He turned to the others. “For how long will we suffer this weakling as leader? Until we’re all murdered in our sleep? How—”
A blow from Fessan’s fist silenced him. Stown staggered back, clutching his jaw.
“Get him out of my sight,” said Fessan. “Now!”
Stown was dragged away, and all around, people began to make themselves busy—except Fessan, who stayed with Elodie, stroking her head.
“Leave me alone!” she said.
“Never, Princess,” he replied.
She tried to push him away, but he might as well have been made from rock. At last she gave up and simply leaned against him with her head thrown back, crying out her grief, her guilt, her pain, staring up at stars made blurs by her endlessly flowing tears.
And the stars stared back down.
• • •
Later that night—when Elodie’s tears had stopped and her body had stiffened—a woman came up to Fessan and knelt by his side. They started whispering.
“What are you talking about?” said Elodie. “Tell me.”
“A grave’s been dug,” said the woman. “We thought . . . we thought Fessan might want to say a few words.”
“Are you going to do it now?”
“It must be done,” Fessan replied. “We cannot stay here. And . . . she cannot come with us.”
Elodie wiped her face. “Wait for me.”
Rubbing the cold from her arms and legs, Elodie hurried back to the tent. Palenie’s body was gone; so was Rotho’s. Someone had covered the enormous bloodstain with a carpet of furs. But the tent still stank of death.
She picked up the garland of flowers she’d been given in the village, then accompanied Fessan to the hastily dug grave. She tried to listen as Fessan spoke to those watching about bravery and sacrifice, but none of the words seemed to mean very much.
All that mattered was the moment when she placed the flowers on Palenie’s breast, just before her body was covered with earth. In memory of what Palenie had told her of the tree in her village, she’d found some chestnut leaves and woven them among the flowers.
“Farewell, true friend,” Elodie said through her tears. “Be at peace.”
It should have been her whose body was vanishing into the ground. She clenched her fists. She couldn’t believe how easily Rotho had fooled her, with his bowing and compliments—she wished she could kill him all over again.
Afterward, Fessan took her back to his tent. He talked all the way there, and continued to talk once they were inside. All Elodie could do was stare at the flame flickering in the single oil lamp hanging from the tent’s supporting frame.
“Elodie? Princess? Are you listening to me?”
His voice pierced her thoughts. What had he been saying? Something about rounding up Stown and his followers and ejecting them from Trident.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, carry on.”
“I tolerated their presence for too long,” Fessan growled. “I was too distracted by Stown’s constant griping to notice the viper in our nest. To think I welcomed Rotho to our cause! I don’t know where he came from, but we must be vigilant against others that might follow. No, I must be vigilant. If this tragedy is anybody’s fault, Elodie, it is mine.”
Then, somehow, it was morning, and Elodie was sitting astride Discus near the head of the column. The camp had been struck and Trident was marching again. To the south, on the far side of a wide open meadow, a motley band of men trudged with their heads down back toward the river: Stown and his men, heading into exile.
“Are you all right?” said Fessan, riding up beside her.
Elodie had no idea how to reply, so she simply nodded.
“Would you prefer it if I left you alone?”
She nodded again, and Fessan rode forward, signaling to the other riders to pull back a little, and give her space.
As the day grew brighter, Elodie’s thoughts cleared, although her head throbbed with a deep, pulsating ache that started at the back of her neck and ran all the way around to her forehead. She massaged her temples, trying to banish the tiredness. And the grief.
The pain eased a little, but the throbbing continued. Soon she realized the throbbing wasn’t in her head after all, but in the air all around her. Gradually it condensed into a sound, quite close—a sound like . . .
Horses?
“Elodie?”
She turned—and flinched with such shock that her feet jer
ked from her stirrups and her hands let go of the reins. She teetered on her saddle, on the verge of falling.
Samial was beside her.
He was riding on a silver horse that matched Discus stride for stride. Under the bright sun’s glare, both the boy and his steed seemed to shimmer, as if she were seeing them underwater.
“Careful,” Samial said with a laugh as she recovered herself. Then his grimy face became taut with concern. “Are you angry with me?”
Elodie felt she ought to be. He’d let her believe he was real, let her think he was her friend. . . . Except, she realized now, it had all been true after all. He was as real to her as the Trident soldiers marching nearby. And he’d listened to her as carefully as any friend. For all the darkness of the previous night, her heart felt unexpectedly light.
“No, Samial,” she said. “I’ve never been more pleased to see anyone in my life!”
Samial beamed. “I have brought help,” he said.
He gestured across the field, and Elodie gasped.
Gliding through the grass alongside the Trident column was an army. Silver men rode on silver horses, their armor sheer like silk, their faces hard like steel. Glass spears stabbed the sky; banners of smoke flowed through the air. Their shields glowed with a dim and eerie phosphorescence that somehow outshone the sun, yet at the same time was as dark as shadow.
The throbbing that had filled Elodie’s head was the muffled thunder of their passage, the unreal sound of a thousand otherworldly hooves beating time against the skin of the living world.
“A ghost army,” she whispered.
“Your army,” said Samial, and a tingle shivered its way down Elodie’s spine.
“Where did they all come from?”
“You know where. The voices you heard among the trees—they were the voices of these men. These men who died. In the War of Blood, Brutan promised us a truce and freedom. But he had us surrounded in the woods and slaughtered.”
“Oh, Samial . . . My father was a monster.”
Samial nodded. “Our restless souls could not pass on without revenge. But nor could we leave the place where we died. We were trapped forever inside the Weeping Woods.”
“What set you all free?”
“You. Wherever you lead, we can follow.”
One ghostly horse peeled away and approached Elodie. On its back was an old man, very tall, with a straight back and a withered but kind face. He wore battered armor and a helmet split almost in two.
“I am Sir Jaken,” he said, bowing low in his saddle. “And I am honored to serve you, Princess.”
As Sir Jaken and Samial took up their places again, the other riders bowed too, one after the other. The motion began at the head of the army and flowed all the way down the line to the rear, an overwhelming wave of supplication.
Elodie thought her heart would burst with pride.
Fresh hoofbeats cut through the dull rumble of the ghost army, and suddenly Fessan was back. He rode his horse in a wide circle, finally ending up at Elodie’s side.
“Something strange is going on,” he said. He pointed across the field, to where Elodie could clearly see Sir Jaken and his fellow knights keeping pace with the Trident column. “See there, the way the grass is moving, yet there is no wind?”
“Is that all you see?” said Elodie.
Fessan looked deep into her eyes. “You were talking, just as if there was somebody there. But I saw nobody. What do you see, Princess?”
Elodie gestured at the riders of Trident. “The same as you, Fessan. An army prepared to bring down King Nynus and set me on the throne in his place.”
Fessan shook his head. He smiled at her. “As you wish, Princess. There is more to you than meets the eye, but I will not ask for more.”
His gaze lingered on the grass for a few moments longer before he rode forward, leaving Elodie alone once more.
A cloud passed over the sun, sending a ripple of shadow through the army of ghosts. Elodie shivered.
Are you there, Palenie? There among the dead?
If she was, she wasn’t showing herself.
Her friend had told her that her strange ability was a gift. People won’t think it’s terrible, she’d said. They’ll think it’s powerful and wonderful. I know I do. Perhaps Palenie was right, but for now Elodie would keep her secret—even from Fessan. Could Samial and the others fight alongside Trident? Could ghosts even fight the living? She had no idea, and if Fessan didn’t believe her, it would be terrible.
Nonetheless, with an army of the dead at her side, she couldn’t help feeling that she really did stand a chance of becoming queen of Toronia.
CHAPTER 22
More venison, Prince Tarlan?”
A servant hovered to the side of Tarlan’s chair. The silver platter he held was stacked high with bite-sized pieces of succulent meat. He wore white gloves and, when Tarlan glanced around at his face, he looked away as if afraid to make eye contact.
Tarlan snatched a handful of meat from the platter, savoring the feel of the juices on his fingers. Just as satisfying was the thinly disguised look of disgust on Lord Vicerin’s face as he dumped the food on his plate, pushed his cutlery aside, and started shoveling the tidbits one after the other into his mouth.
The conversation around the banqueting table died away as Tarlan continued to stuff himself. He thought their table manners ridiculous, with their dainty little mouthfuls and those foolish white napkins. As for having the food presented one morsel at a time by an army of servants—what was wrong with just sitting beside an open fire and helping yourself?
Most of the other diners—who consisted of Vicerin’s cousins and assorted courtiers—shared their lord’s look of disdain. The only one who seemed amused by Tarlan’s behavior was the young woman sitting opposite him. A little older than him, she watched Tarlan with a wry smile on her pink face. By listening to the conversation, he’d learned her name was Sylva, though he wasn’t yet sure where she fitted into the Vicerin court.
“Our princely guest is clearly hungry after his years in the wilderness,” said Lord Vicerin, dabbing his powdered face with his napkin. The other diners chuckled politely. “When we have made you king, you will be able to dine like this every day. What do you make of that?”
Tarlan stared at Vicerin and burped. Sylva stifled a giggle. Several of the courtiers seated nearby looked shocked. Lord Vicerin merely gave Tarlan an indulgent smile and returned his attention to his plate.
Like a snake, Tarlan thought, remembering the white asps that used to crawl into Mirith’s cave, seeking the warmth of the fire. He seems slow, but sooner or later—when you least expect it—he will strike!
Tarlan grabbed his goblet and emptied its contents into his mouth. The others were drinking wine, but he’d refused it and asked for fresh water. As he drank, his elbow nudged the arm of the man beside him. The man shrank away, brushing at the sleeve of his frilled coat and regarding Tarlan’s own garment with an expression of horror.
Looking down at his filthy Yalasti clothes, Tarlan was glad he hadn’t bothered with the finery they’d laid out for him. Partly, he found it entertaining to upset these so-called civilized folk. Mostly, he thought it important simply to be himself.
You want to turn me into something I’m not, he thought, regarding Lord Vicerin over the rim of his goblet. Well, I have a mind of my own.
However, something still troubled Tarlan—something that prevented him from feeling wholly himself.
“I want my jewel back,” he said abruptly, thumping his goblet down on the table.
“All in good time,” Vicerin replied. “I have simply put it in a safe place.”
“Like you did with those children?”
One of the other diners gasped. A flicker of fear crossed Sylva’s face. Vicerin’s expression, however, remained serene.
“The jewel is safe,” he repeated.
Sensing it would do no good to pursue the subject, Tarlan tried a different tack. “Tell me about my brothe
rs. Or is it sisters?”
Vicerin launched into a lengthy answer full of fancy words that told Tarlan precisely nothing. Again he caught Sylva’s eye; this time her smile was kind and a little sad.
“Once we have placed you on the throne,” Vicerin concluded, “we may be in a better position to determine where your siblings are. Alas, as things stand, we know nothing.” He spread his hands in mock sympathy.
“I don’t care about the throne!” said Tarlan, kicking his chair away from the table. “I just care about my pack. And that includes my siblings!”
Finally Vicerin’s calmness cracked. Scowling, he called over a quartet of castle guards.
“The young prince has eaten his fill and is tired,” he snapped. “Escort him back to his chambers.”
Tarlan allowed the men to take him out of the dining hall. He’d grown used to being escorted this way: two guards in front, two behind. The men stayed far enough away to present the illusion that he was free, but Tarlan knew that the minute he tried to run, they would be upon him.
Halfway up the stairs leading to his tower room, he heard a soft padding sound. It was Sylva, falling into step beside him, having just emerged from a side passage.
“Keep walking,” she whispered. “They won’t care I’m here.”
Tarlan gave her a curious glance and obeyed.
“My father lied to you,” Sylva went on in a hushed voice.
“Your father? You mean . . . Lord Vicerin is . . . ?” Tarlan stared at her, feeling stupid. Why hadn’t he seen it? “He doesn’t seem to like you very much. For a daughter, I mean.”
Sylva’s shock turned rapidly to laughter. “You’re very uncouth!” she whispered.
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind. The point is, your sister and I grew up together. I don’t know about your brother, but . . . oh, Tarlan, she looks so much like you.”
“My . . . my sister? You’ve seen her?”
“Of course! The room they keep you in—that was hers, until she was kidnapped by Trident.” Her face flushed and her expression became pinched. “That was the worst day of my life. I should have done more.”
Tarlan was struggling to keep up. “Kidnapped?” he said weakly. “Who’s Trident?”
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