by Zac Gorman
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author and Illustrator
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Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
It was raining, because of course it was. Never before in the history of rain had a downpour been colder, grayer, or drearier than it was that night, and honestly, it was all getting to be a bit much. Even the ravens, who were normally game for the whole “dark and stormy” bit, felt uneasy with the excessive use of clichés, so as the hearse-black carriage rumbled past, they decided to flap from their regular perch atop a gnarled yew tree to what they considered to be a far less derivative spot on the roof of a nearby cobbler’s shop.
The coachman blinked his hooded lantern several times at the gatekeepers in a series of dots and dashes, which in turn caused the large, wrought-iron gates to yawn open with the loud squeal of metal rubbing metal. Beyond the gates was a sparkling white castle, or at least what should have been a sparkling white castle had it not been for the gloomy, overcast sky of that particular night, which instead shrouded the building in a sort of bilious green pall. Even the lights that flickered from inside the castle windows—normally so happy and inviting—looked downright macabre, like two candles placed inside the vacant eye sockets of a giant’s skull. Nearby, two ravens cawed derisively.
The gates slammed shut behind the carriage as it rattled onward toward the castle, slick cobblestones shining like black marble in the advancing torchlight. It trundled along, until it came to rest in front of the towering drawbridge of Lyra Castelis. The attendants who’d been traveling alongside the carriage climbed down off their horses and opened the carriage door, allowing a very tall, elegant shadow to exit the vehicle.
Even the lights that flickered from inside the castle windows looked downright macabre.
The shadow’s face was indiscernible beneath the upturned collar of a dark, fur-lined cloak and wide-brimmed hat, but whoever it was moved like a ballet dancer. At first glance, it seemed as if the figure was untouched by the rain, simply stepping in between the drops with such ease that it seemed curious as to why everyone else didn’t just do the same. Upon closer inspection, however, raindrops could definitely be seen pattering gently on the shadow’s wide hat, collecting in small pools before choosing an edge from which to run off in a thin trickle. It was something of a relief to see the figure touched by rain, proof that it was at least real.
Shaking themselves awake from the spell caused by watching the figure, the carriage attendants remembered their mission and ran after the shadow, their mostly decorative swords rattling in their scabbards. The castle guards, looking much more professional than those two struggling to keep up, swung open a set of small wooden guest doors nested within the gargantuan drawbridge and bowed ever so slightly as the shadow whooshed by them without so much as acknowledging their presence.
Inside the castle the world was transformed. The earthy smell of rain was instantly replaced by the scent of warm baked bread and stale floral arrangements, the light transitioned from its uneasy, rainstorm green to the pleasant orange glow of a crackling hearth on the first cold night of autumn, and the rush of rain became a gentle pitter-patter accompanied by the distant twinkling of harp strings. In other words, it was nice. What wasn’t nice, however, was the shadowy figure, who suddenly looked extraordinarily out of place where only moments ago it’d looked perfectly at home.
The shadow strode down the hall on long, bowed legs, the dark cloak trailing behind, flapping like an angry bird. Castle guards stared but did not make any motion to interfere as the figure walked right down the vaulted hallway, past the marble statues, the priceless paintings, and the brightly polished suits of armor, through the large oak double doors inlaid with jewels and twirling, decorative golden bands, and right up the dark red carpet to where Parlo Larkspur, the King of Nth, sat upon his throne. Beside the King was a young girl, seated in her own—albeit significantly smaller—throne. They both watched the shadow approaching with rigidly fixed smiles that barely concealed their displeasure at its arrival.
“Welcome to Lyra Castelis, my dear Marl,” said the King, beaming. “I trust that your journey here to Oryzia was as comfortable as could be expected, given the weather?”
Marl removed her hat and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The shadow was suddenly no longer a shadow but a regular human woman; tall and thin and fairly androgynous. If she’d been a man, you would’ve called her pretty; as a woman you might call her handsome. Either way, it was fair to say that she was striking. Much more than what would’ve been expected from her entrance. Her green hair cascaded down past her shoulders, her nose was long but pleasantly sloped, and her eyes tilted down gently at the outer corners a bit, creating a sort of charming, sleepy countenance. All these factors combined to create a face that was not so much traditionally beautiful as it was a challenge to ignore. The only thing off-putting about the stranger were the dark purple circles under her eyes, which made them look deeply bruised and tired. They were the eyes of someone who read far more often than they slept.
Marl smiled gently. One of the guards came up to take her cloak.
“Please,” boomed King Parlo, who boomed more often than not even when he didn’t intend to, “allow me to introduce . . .”
“Your daughter,” said Marl with a soft lilt.
With a flick of her wrist, Marl politely waved away the guard, who carried off her sopping-wet cloak and hat.
The King did not look perturbed by the interruption, as perhaps he should have. Rather, he simply beamed proudly at his daughter and then back toward his rather unusual guest.
Beneath her cloak, Marl was wearing expensive robes as black as the night sky; the cloth was black, the trim was black, even the stitching was black. In fact, the only thing that Marl wore that was not black was a golden bracelet that dangled off her right wrist. It was in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail.
Marl smiled again, this time a bit apologetically.
“Forgive my interruption, I only mean that of course I’m familiar with the lovely, brave, and famous Iphigenia Larkspur, Crown Princess of Nth, Chosen Heir to the Throne.”
Iphigenia sat absolutely still as she studied the stranger. At last, with great effort spent to show no emotion whatsoever, she nodded curtly at Marl, who returned the nod graciously before continuing.
“I suppose you would like the news, Your Majesty.”
King Larkspur nodded. There was an awful lot of nodding going on. With a wave of his royal hand, several guards, including those who had arrived with Marl, excused themselves from the chamber and closed the door behind them with an ominous ka-chunk! that resonated throughout the throne room. When at last they were down to the minimum number of necessary and trusted guards—which, it turned out, was exactly four, for some reason—Marl proceeded.
“In Umberfall, they’re plotting against you and your kingdom every day, Your Majesty. I hear the whispers in the capital, both in the streets and inside the palace walls. But what they have in ambition, they lack in numbers. Their army is sturdy enough to defend a fortified positio
n but far too small to make the journey south through the mountains. They’d lose too many soldiers in the process, exhaust their resources, and by the time they were on the doorstep of your kingdom, they’d be as good as dead. As long as the Umberfallians are trapped north of the mountains, we can rest easy.”
Iphigenia looked over to her father, who seemed pensive as he stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, which, as of late, had become more salt than pepper. Her father was a robust man, but Iphigenia had seen him begin to wear around the edges since last year. Since Ingo’s death.
The death of her brother had sent shock waves through the kingdom, but nowhere had it been worse than inside Lyra Castelis itself. Not only her father but everyone who lived within the castle had loved Ingo—wonderful, brave, charming Ingo!—and the fact that he’d died a traitor was more than the royal family could bear. For months, her father had lived in outright denial, refusing to admit what Ingo had done, but over time, in the face of no other options, he came to accept the truth. At least, that was what he said publicly, officially denouncing his son and having his name stricken from the Larkspur family history—a punishment reserved exclusively for traitors.
Between Iphigenia and her father, however, things had yet to return to normal. It was likely that they never would. Although it was awful to admit, Iphigenia couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere deep down inside, there was some small part of her father that blamed her for what happened in the Black Mountain. After all, if she’d never been born, things would’ve worked out just fine. Ingo would’ve been King and everybody would have lived happily ever after. But she had been born. Much to the displeasure of seemingly everybody.
“Of course, we must consider all possibilities . . . ,” Marl said, letting her words hang ominously in the air. The chamber felt oddly colder.
The King leaned forward in his great throne so that it creaked beneath his not insubstantial weight. Along with showing his age, his diet had begun to catch up with him as well. The King’s brow furrowed and his eyes widened in a pantomime of worried confusion. Iphigenia was embarrassed for him, that he was playing so easily into Marl’s game, letting himself show his emotions like a child. Marl seemed to be reveling in it.
“What do you mean?” asked the King.
Iphigenia rolled her eyes.
Since being back in the castle—and having everyone treat her as if she was somehow responsible for her brother’s death—Iphigenia had felt a bit more like her old self again, whatever that meant. All that she knew was that she’d been growing more impatient with people in the castle and their absurd political games lately, particularly since Thisby’s visit.
The visit a few months ago had been wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that the residual happiness had lasted for weeks, even after Thisby’s carriage pulled away from the gates of the castle. It was like eating slices of leftover birthday cake: the memories of her visit had sustained Iphigenia for some time, but by now whatever scraps remained had long since gone stale. She’d even gotten to the point where it made her feel slightly sick to her stomach to even think about their time together, not knowing how long it would be until she could see her friend again. Her only friend. Iphigenia chased the thought from her mind.
“There is a chance, however slim, that the Umberfallians could make it through the mountains and into Nth.”
The King was eating out of Marl’s hands now. His brow was fully knitted, and he tugged at his beard as if in deep contemplation.
“But how?” he asked.
“There is one path in that we haven’t considered. One shortcut into Nth. Through the Black Mountain.”
The emphasis Marl placed on the words Black Mountain made it seem as if she’d expected the King to gasp, but he didn’t. Instead his face just sank, and Iphigenia saw the same defeat in his eyes that she’d seen over and over again since she’d returned home from the dungeon. When her father learned about Ingo’s death, she’d seen that look on his face for the first time. Now, it happened too often to count. Something about it made her sick. She wanted to feel empathy for her father’s suffering, but she had no pity for Ingo, and to see that pity in another, especially her father . . . it was unbearable. A king was meant to be strong, to punish the wicked. And here was her own brother, his own son, more wicked than any, and yet Parlo pitied Ingo. Worse, he pitied himself.
Iphigenia couldn’t stand to look at him, so she turned to Marl. She’d had enough of sitting quietly now.
“The Black Mountain wouldn’t sit idly by and allow an army to pass through. Especially not an Umberfallian army,” she said with what might’ve passed for a sneer. “Anyone stupid enough to try to pass through the dungeon would be dead before they reached the halfway point . . .”
Iphigenia hesitated.
“I should know,” she finished.
It came off as a bit of a boast, and Iphigenia would be lying to say it wasn’t intentional. She’d survived the dungeon. She’d seen the absolute worst that it had to offer and had come out with barely a scratch on her—the scar from where her brother had plunged his knife into her stomach had faded completely over the last few months, thanks to the magic that had saved her. She’d been to the Deep Down, to the place where even the monsters feared to go, and she’d come back to tell the story. No one else in this room could say the same. Probably no one else in the entire kingdom, save Thisby.
Iphigenia could feel her father’s eyes burning into her. He hated when she brought up the events in the Black Mountain. He hated it even more when she was proud of what she’d accomplished.
“And what if the dungeon were to let them through?” asked Marl.
“They would never do that!” shouted Iphigenia. “There’s no way! I know them! I know—” She stopped.
Marl bowed low, green hair closing like drapes over her long face.
“Forgive me, milady. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, it’s only . . . I have reason to suspect we might not be so secure in that belief.”
The King woke from his helpless, angry silence and decided it was time to take control of the situation. He righted himself in his chair and glowered in Marl’s direction.
“What information do you have? Be quick about it! I respect the necessity for riddles and games in your line of work, spy, but I won’t have any more hints and coyness! Come out with it straight!” he bellowed now—his world seemed to make more sense when he was bellowing.
“Your Majesty,” Marl said, turning all her attention back to the King, “I have heard a rumor that Umberfallian agents have been in contact with the dungeon, even as high as Castle Grimstone itself. It is possible that the Master of the Black Mountain and Umberfall are conspiring to work together. To turn against the Kingdom of Nth. The Umberfallians may be making promises to the Black Mountain that we cannot make.”
With each utterance of “Black Mountain,” the King cringed slightly.
“If we don’t act now, I’m afraid we might be too late.”
The King sat back heavily in his throne. It groaned under his bulk. He looked exasperated. Iphigenia watched him and saw the anger draining from his face, replaced by exhaustion, surrender.
“What would you have me do?” he asked at last.
It was the last question that a good king ever asks of his subjects, let alone a spy like Marl. It was also, quite obviously, the one question that Marl had been waiting for, the one she’d been trying to coax out of the King’s mouth for their entire conversation.
Iphigenia looked to her father, who appeared lost behind his own eyes, and then back to the gangly stranger in black who tucked her moss-colored hair behind her ears. She knew exactly what was coming next. As did Iphigenia. It bothered her that her father didn’t. He’d spent his entire life in the castle and yet he couldn’t see even the simplest patterns of human behavior. Iphigenia was only a quarter of her father’s age, but she knew as well as anybody that when you’re in a position of power and you ask somebody what they think you should do, they only ev
er have one suggestion . . .
“Put me in charge of the Black Mountain,” said Marl.
There was a well-timed, low rumble of thunder from outside the castle, followed by the cawing laughter of two ravens.
In the courtyard, the rain continued to fall. Beyond the shelter of the veranda, thin rivulets streamed through the gaps between the cobblestones, winding their way through the castle gardens as its well-manicured plants danced in the rain. Where the cobblestone path stopped and the streams pooled was a white marble fountain, flooded to the point where the basin had begun to spill out into the courtyard itself, making it difficult to tell where the fountain stopped and the courtyard began. In the center of the fountain rose a tall pedestal upon which sat a life-size stone lion. Hidden behind its right forepaw was an inscription, crudely carved with a penknife, that read:
THISBY + IPHI = BEST FRIENDS FOREVER
Hundreds of miles away, the girl who’d carved it was already awake, hours before the sun, wriggling her toes in her boots in her particular way so that her pinky toe curled over the toe-which-comes-next-to-the-pinky-toe, shouldering her massive backpack, and getting ready for another day of work down in the dungeon.
Chapter 2
Thisby ducked beneath a low-hanging stalactite and felt the rowboat sway. Across from her, Mingus’s jar rocked side to side. It was hung from its usual hook on her backpack, a weathered monstrosity of pockets and stains that looked rather dejected as it sat upright, like another passenger, across from her toward the bow of the boat. It was easy to imagine it as some sort of bloated canvas slug, cast in Mingus’s wobbly light, which alternated between mustard yellow and soft blue-green.
“Ugh, can’t you keep it steady? You’re making me sick!” chided the slime.
Mingus sloshed around, barely able to hold his shape. Thisby watched as his button eyes drooped lazily down before he was able to pull himself back to his usual shape and viscosity, which was something like a large, wet gumdrop. He produced a brow ridge for the sole purpose of furrowing it at her.
