On the dark horizon is the reassuring blue glow of a gate. The way home. But Evander points down, just on the other side of the hedge.
Following his gaze, I lean over the prickly bushes. The sight that greets me makes me feel sick all over again, remembering the fear in Master Nicanor’s remaining eye. And not just because it’s surely an old pool of Nicanor’s blood staining the ground beyond the hedge.
What chills me to the core is the way King Wylding’s filmy spirit kneels beside the pool, scooping up tacky blood and smearing gobs of it into and around his mouth.
“Keep holding my hand, and grab on to His Majesty with your other one,” I tell Valoria in what I hope is a soothing voice. When she blanches and shakes her head, I give her a nudge with my shoulder. “You’re his connection to the world. No one else can do it. That’s why you’re here.” But she remains frozen in fear. “You only have to hold him until we’re through the gate. Then he’ll wake up where we left him, safe in his shroud.”
“Odessa’s right.” Evander frowns at the bloody grass. “Unless, Highness, you’d rather stay down here with whatever did that...”
Valoria groans and shakily climbs over the hedge, holding tight to my hand. The king looks up, unable to utter a sound in his spirit form. Free of his shroud in this world, he’s a translucent version of himself in life, still a great bear of a man with arms built for chopping trees, but no longer darkly tanned and raven-haired like he is in many of the portraits decorating the palace walls. Now his skin and shoulder-length hair are as pale and fine as gossamer. Perhaps some would find him handsome, if he weren’t lapping up blood and sporting the sword wound in his chest from when I killed him earlier.
Disgusting a sight as he is, I’m struck by a sudden rush of appreciation for King Wylding. He may be terrifying sometimes, and hand out threats freely, but most days I’m proud to be his necromancer. He can be as kind as he is harsh. He tries his hardest to prevent things from changing. And he loves Karthia enough to endure so many slayings and raisings, always returning ready to be our guardian. No one knows the hearts and minds of Karthians better than him after all these years, and I doubt anyone loves us as fiercely. Master Nicanor’s death will hit him hard when he learns of it.
Summoning her strength, Valoria finally reaches out a hand.
The king’s red lips form a gentle smile as the princess grabs hold of his wispy arm and pulls him toward the gate.
IV
Midnight has come and gone by the time we sit down for supper at Evander’s house. The leftover rooster pie is mercifully warm, thanks to Baroness Crowther’s servants keeping it on the stove. Someone’s opened most of the downstairs windows, and a cool sea breeze tickles our ankles as we take our seats in the larger of the two dining rooms.
The baroness herself joins us, sliding into her customary spot at one end of the long table. As usual, she avoids looking too long at Baron Crowther’s seat that will be forever empty.
I lift my fork, waiting to see if the baroness will say a prayer, but there’s not much point since Evander’s already tucking in noisily beside me.
“Eat,” the baroness encourages, smiling softly in a way that makes her pale blue eyes crinkle at the corners. She pushes a basket of sliced fig-and-ginger bread toward me like nothing’s changedsince I saw her last, like it’s no big deal that she failed to turn up for our title ceremony last week. “You look exhausted, Sparrow.”
When I was younger, I used to think Lyda Crowther should have been born a duke’s daughter, not a lowly miller’s—especially on nights like tonight, when the gems she’s pinned in her light brown hair sparkle like they’re trying to outshine her. But of course, they can’t. She’s that beautiful, at least on the outside. I would’ve saidinsideonce, back when I first became Evander’s partner and she invited me here for every meal, offered me a bed, and fussed over me like a mother. Back when I didn’t understand that she only kept me close because she hoped she could mold me into someone other than the necromancer I was born to be. And perhaps, because she saw how Evander and I shared every confidence, she hoped she could change his mind through changing me.
But last week’s ceremony marked the day she finally gave up.
Lyda’s voice, thick with concern, cuts into my thoughts once again. “Whatever’s upset you and Evander this evening, I can’t help but feel it’s at least partly my fault...”
I’ve never really felt at home here, in the stiff, high-backed chairs that decorate the Crowthers’ imposing manor, but Lyda has always encouraged me to call it home. And I guess Ishouldcall it that, since it’s where I sleep most nights after fooling around with Evander, in a spare room where all my belongings fit in one dresser drawer.
“If I’d just done a better job at talking you two out of studying Death’s magic! I haven’t slept all week, I’ve been so worried...” Lyda wrings her hands in her lap, faint lines creasing her forehead as we all continue to eat our fill of a meal I can barely taste.
After several long moments, a pretty serving girl arrives to collect our plates. I wink at her as she takes up mine, then shift my attention to Evander.
“Speaking of death,” he says hesitantly, as if he can’t bear to relive the night’s events, “I’m glad you’re sitting down for this, Mother.” He takes my hand under the table, after a practiced hasty glance over his shoulder to make sure no servants are watching from the shadowed halls. He sounds older than his nineteen years as he declares, “We were delayed tonight because Master Nicanor was murdered. It looked like he was torn apart by some wild animal. But it was a Shade. I saw it, just for a moment.”
Lyda’s hand flutters at her throat. All the nobles and necromancers know each other at least in passing, and Lyda knew Master Nicanor better than most. He’s the one who stepped in to help when Baron Crowther himself became a Shade many years ago.
He’s also the one who offered to train Lyda as a necromancer when she was a girl, according to Evander. But Lyda was never interested.
“Yana!” The baroness rises, crossing the room to ring a silver bell as she calls for one of her maids. “Bring some cold water, please. And hurry! I’m so distressed.” She sets the bell down and turns back to us. Our gazes lock for the briefest moment.
Her eyes are perfectly dry, and her smooth face is expressionless. Whatever grief she’s feeling, she buried it in a hurry. Maybe she’s always blamed Nicanor for not reaching her manor in time to spare her from what she had to do to her husband, but it’s hard to feel too sorry for her just now.
“This is yet another example of what I’ve been trying to tell you both all these years,” she says slowly, in her soft, disarming way. “Without anyone to raise the dead, there would be no Shades.” Her face is sorrowful again as she focuses on her son. “No Shades, and far fewer senseless tragedies.”
I’m suddenly reminded of the time I overheard her telling Evander that if she could, she’d pay someone to change her eye color from blue to anything else. A dangerous thing to discuss—change—even if it’s in whispers in one’s own home.
“If there’s one thing I wish you’d learned from your father’s death,” Lyda continues, blossoms of color appearing on her cheeks, “it’s that if we love the Dead, we should leave them in their own world, where they belong.”
The summoned maid, Yana, arrives with a pitcher of cold water and has to stifle a gasp at her mistress’s words.
Evander clenches his jaw. “All I learned from Father’s death is that the Dead need gifted necromancers to keep them and everyone else safe.” His voice rises, and the maid scurries from the room. “Fatherwantedto be raised. He was there to see me grow up thanks tonecromancers! I doubt I’d remember him otherwise.”
