I crane my neck sharply at Basten, eyebrows knit together. “The Blades? What’s he talking about?”
Basten pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “We were following the Blades earlier…it doesn’t matter now. Rian, you should get back to Hekkelveld Castle and lock yourself in.”
Rian stands taller, instantly intrigued. “Why? What are those fae bastards up to?” He reconsiders and gives me a sheepish grin. “Present company excluded, songbird.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you know, Rian?”
“Only that rumors are spilling out of the Silent Ward that Artain restarted his twisted puppet show again.”
I step back, closing my eyes as my fey pushes hard beneath my skin. “We need to get to the belltower, now.”
We charge ahead, sprinting as best we can through the crowd that’s clogging the streets. I don’t have the will to tell Rian to leave us to it—and to be honest, I’m not sure I want to.
He’s proven himself helpful.
More than helpful.
Gods help me, he’s almosttrustworthythese days.
Finally, we break free of the throngs as we enter the circular road around the Valor Bell tower. It’s an orderly section of the city, bordering the Silent Ward to the southeast. Nearby are churches to the ten gods, a few monasteries and convents, and parks with walking paths for contemplation.
Immediately, I skid to a halt.
At the base of the belltower, a blindingly bright portal cuts a hole through the fabric of space. My heart tightens, the memory still too fresh of Iyre pulling me through a portal just like this, tearing me away from Basten.
This time, however, no one is trying to steal me away.
Instead, bodies flowfromthe Volkish side into ours. They stagger. Their broken and bloody limbs hang limp. Their eyes are glazed over.
I press my palm to my mouth to catch my gasp. “Their chins, Basten. They all bear the spiral tattoo. It’s…it’s the river folk. The dead from the Lunden Valley. The ones who weren’t as fortunate as the refugees.”
The three of us stare in horror as wave after wave of resurrected bodies stagger through the portal, dragging behind them fishing nets and tattered burlap sacks.
I whirl on Rian, smashing my fist against his chest, and then blast a spark of fey, threatening. “This isyourdoing! I knew it was too good to be true—your newfound loyalty.”
He holds out his hands. “Me?What are you on about? What do I have to do with the risen dead?”
“Youkilled them when you poisoned their river valley!” I cry.
His head cocks oddly, true bafflement on his face. “What…?” His eyebrows then rise faintly. “Oh, the northwestern coastlands, by the border wall? I remember hearing a report about poisoned fields. What doIhave to do with that?”
To my horror, a reanimated corpse—once a fisherman, by the look of his salt-stiffened rags—sets its jerking, unholy focus on a couple passionately kissing in front of a brothel. Its slack jaw snaps beneath the remains of a weather-worn cloak, teeth clicking with hunger. The lovers are too lost in each other to notice it drawing near.
“We’ll finish this later, Rian,” I growl.
A drunk suddenly stumbles into the corpse’s path, laughing, and gives its shoulder a hearty shove. “Easy on the ale, friend!”
The corpse turns, teeth bared.
The drunk’s companion stumbles to a halt, sober enough to yank his friend backward. “Trint—look! It’s one of those puppet things that Immortal Artain dragged back from the grave!”
Trint recoils with a sound of disgust. “The fae are nothing if not dramatic, am I right?”
They laugh as if it’s all a joke and wander off toward the nearest tavern.
Behind them, the corpse lunges.
Its teeth sink into the back of Trint’s neck. He cries out, voice pitched somewhere between agony and horror.
