Song of the Dead

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  “Something is off balance here?” I jump in, warming to the idea. It makes sense. Nothing has felt right here since I came with Karston, searching for Jax. And Master Cymbre was always talking about balance between the living world and the spirit one. “I think you’re right. Maybe this could’ve been avoided if there were still necromancers coming to the Deadlands regularly.”

  “We should be doing that anyway,” Jax cuts in. “The spirits here may not be welcome in our world anymore, but we owe it to our loved ones to keep them safe in their own world by coming down here sometimes, making sure all is well in their new lives.”

  Simeon and I nod our agreement, and after a moment I ask, “But how do we fix this now, short of performing a bunch of raisings to see if anything changes?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” Simeon says after studying the frozen spirits for a while.

  Nipper rubs her head against my legs and coos as if agreeing with him.

  “Agreed. Unless . . .” Jax stands taller, gripping his blade with more confidence. “I think we should talk to Valoria, whenever she has time. Tell her what’s going on down here and see if she and her council will give permission for necromancers to at least start patrolling the Deadlands more often.”

  I don’t know how Valoria’s council will react when presented with our disturbing findings, but there’s one thing I’m sure of as we pick our way deeper into the dark heart of the forest: Necromancers are still needed, even if we’re not raising the dead. I’m still needed. Me, the Sparrow. Valoria will understand. She’ll help us make this right.

  We can’t turn our backs on the spirit world any longer.

  “What was that?” Simeon yelps, interrupting my thoughts. I see him pointing to his left, but this forest is the kind of dark that makes a torch just give up.

  It’s only when we emerge from the trees altogether, into a small valley split by a fast-moving river, that I see her: Firiel, dipping her toes into the rapid, icy current.

  Her death wound, the arrow that used to pierce her middle, has vanished. She looks much as she must have in life, only paler, but a hint of her brown hair can be seen when the clouds overhead roll back to reveal the moon. There’s a certain peace in her eyes, too, as she watches us approach, without a hint of surprise or any other emotion.

  She bears all the signs of a spirit ready to move on to whatever mysterious place awaits them after the Deadlands. The place where, if it really does exist, Evander might be. I still don’t understand how Master Cymbre, when she was alive, was always so sure of what comes after we’re gone.

  “Firiel,” I say quickly, reaching out a hand. My fingers close over the icy coldness of her forearm. “Stay with us a moment. We won’t keep you long, I promise.”

  Jax holds out his vial of blood, fresh as mine, in offering.

  Firiel shakes her head but takes a step back from the stream bank and faces us to show she’s listening.

  “I’m a friend of Meredy’s,” I say by way of introduction, hoping to stir up a memory. I study Firiel’s face for signs of recognition, but it’s clear she doesn’t know who I am, or even who Meredy is anymore. The absence of connection to everything she was, everything she loved, chills me worse than thoughts of anything Valoria’s worst enemies might be planning next.

  She clearly hasn’t been talking to Meredy through a crystal, or in any other way. I hope that crystal is at the bottom of the ocean right now, where it can’t trouble anyone’s mind ever again.

  “We came to ask you something strange,” Jax prompts, reminding me of our purpose. “But we hope you’ll hear us out.”

  “Most of the spirits here are avoiding us—are they angry?” I jump in, watching her hopefully for signs that she understands.

  Her face remains blank, but finally, she reaches for the vial of blood Jax offered earlier. He hands it over, and she drinks every drop, licking the glass clean. Simeon offers up his vial, too, and she drains that one as well while we repeat our question a few times.

  Slowly, her brows knit together and a gleam of understanding enters her soft eyes. She nods, seemingly in answer to our question, then lowers the second vial and points to something at our backs.

  I whirl around, half expecting to see a Shade looming behind me, but we’re alone on this mountain except for the trees and the moon.

  Turning back to Firiel, taking a deep breath to keep my patience, I press on with my questions. “Have any spirits left the Deadlands recently? Is that even possible?”

  Again, she points toward something behind us. As I exchange a glance with Jax and Simeon, who seem as lost as I am, Firiel strides forward, beckoning for us to follow. We only have to walk a little ways along the border of the dark forest, making our way up a tree-covered hill with Nipper following at Firiel’s heels, before we see what she wanted to show us: a gate at the bottom of the hill, opposite the side that we climbed.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” Jax grumbles. “She doesn’t understand anything.”

  But Firiel, crossing her arms and bristling at his words, points again toward the gate.

  A trickle of cold slides down my spine. “So there is a spirit in our world—in Karthia?” When Firiel nods, I demand, “Who is it?”

  Firiel shrugs, looking apologetic.

  “How is that even possible—a spirit in our world without a body?” Jax cuts in. “Do you know if they want to hurt Valoria?”

  Poor Firiel shakes her head, unable to answer him.

  “You were right, sister,” Simeon says softly to me. He’s still processing things, and I understand—it’s a lot to take in. “Got any other incredible theories you want to run past us?”

  As I shake my head, Jax mutters, “At least part of this makes sense. I can see how a spirit newer than Firiel would still be drawn to our world. Bet a lot of them are wondering what’s been happening without King Wylding around.”

  “But how are we going to find this wandering spirit?” Simeon asks worriedly. “Or send them back here without running a sword through some decaying body?”

  Jax and I exchange a glance. Neither of us has an answer, so I refocus my attention on Firiel. I have one last question for her.

  “Do you know why some of the spirits here can’t move?” I stand still as a statue for a moment myself, but that only causes Firiel to blink politely.

  She’s told us all she knows. I start to thank her for the help she was able to give us, but she’s already slipping away, back toward the river. There seems to be no resisting the pull of the world after the Deadlands, not once someone has lingered here long enough. Even the blood wasn’t enough to tempt her back to life, toward warmth and light and laughter. “Tell Evander I say hello, if you find him,” I call after Firiel, a familiar lump forming in my throat despite all the thoughts racing through my mind. Then I start down the hillside toward the gate with Simeon and Nipper beside me, and Jax slightly ahead.

  With my wild suspicion confirmed, it’s time to head home. Time to remind the dead and the living where each belongs.

  We barely get in a few steps, picking our way carefully through the trees, before a shrill cry splits the Deadlands’ still air. I know that sound. “Shade,” I mouth to Simeon. One so close that its hunting call reverberates painfully in my ears and makes my shoulders tense in anticipation of a fight.

  The three of us draw our swords.

  I scan the dark border of the forest to our right, ready to give Nipper the command to use her fire breath the moment the monster bursts from between the trees.

  Something silver bounds through the shadows alongside us, making my every muscle tense, but it looks more like a spirit than a Shade.

  The Shade howls again.

  Nipper growls and tenses, flicking her tail.

  The silvery creature darts past us toward the forest’s edge, and I get a close enough look to see
that it’s Firiel.

  As she crashes into the forest, her movements becoming harder to track with each passing moment, the Shade’s cries diminish. She’s drawing the monster away from us, giving us time to get safely into the tunnel that will take us home.

  We were chosen for this job because we had no loved ones in the Deadlands. We were taught that it was dangerous to feel something, anything for a spirit here, because our hearts could trap us here forever. But after what we just witnessed, I think somehow, a long time ago, some other necromancer got things wrong. I’m grateful for my friends here, but not even Firiel’s selflessness is enough to make me want to stay a moment longer than necessary. Not when there are people who need me back in our world.

  Not when a spirit with a score to settle might be lurking unseen within the palace.

  XXIV

  We emerge in our world not by the cliffs near the palace gardens where we started, but in the sunlit graveyard behind Noble Park, maybe two miles away. Time can move inexplicably in the Deadlands, and though we left at sunset and were gone for what felt like only a few hours, it appears to be bright and early the next morning.

  Wrapping my arms around myself to stave off a chill, I take in the sights. This is the best graveyard in the city, the only one with a sea view. It’s also the graveyard full of headstones that now bear many familiar names: Cymbre. Evander. Even Hadrien. In some cases, we had no body, so all we buried were memories.

  The last time I came here, patrolling for Shade-baiters, the grass grew thickly, as if the headstones and the memories they hold rarely had visitors. Which is probably true. The grass still looks healthy, growing unchecked, only now flowers decorate the green everywhere we step.

  Simeon plucks one from beside a white marble headstone and cradles it in his palm. The yellow pheasant’s eye in his hand, a type of buttercup, is a symbol of bitterness.

  I spot a few more just like it, scattered throughout the headstones, but they’re far outnumbered by the tiny bright pink blossoms dotting almost every grave. “Oleanders,” I announce when the others struggle to come up with the name. These flowers aren’t in season right now, yet they look as fresh as if they’d opened their petals yesterday. There’s no reason the colorful blossoms would be growing here unless they came from the spirits of those buried beneath them, now residing in the Deadlands.

  Meredy would know what the oleanders stood for right away—she’s got a good memory for flowers, as Lyda always liked them. But since Meredy isn’t here, I search my mind until I find the oleanders’ meaning. And when I do, I’m more uneasy than I was in the Deadlands, being stalked by a Shade.

  I draw Nipper closer to me, unable to stop her from nibbling on the blossoms.

  Beware, the oleanders warn as I look around.

  With so many of them surrounding us, they seem to shout it.

  But what good is their warning when they don’t tell us how to fight an enemy we can’t name or see?

  * * *

  * * *

  As we stride down a sunny but deserted street on our way back to the palace, we argue over what to tell Valoria, if anything.

  “Why add to her troubles until we see this spirit ourselves and have proof there’s something to this?” Jax asks, the words muffled slightly by the cloth he’s wrapped over his mouth to protect against the fever. “Firiel could still have been mistaken, and even if she wasn’t, the soldiers are locked up and about to be melted down for scraps. The spirit can’t use them to hurt her again.”

  “I’m worried about other ways they might try,” I insist. “And the flowers were proof enough to me that something’s up.”

  “I don’t know . . . I’m with Jax on this one, Sparrow.” Simeon shakes his head. “Once Valoria makes peace with her people, then we can tell her what we saw today and ask her permission to start visiting the Deadlands regularly again. But she’s got enough to handle at the moment as is, and she’s already constantly under guard.”

  I can’t argue with that. As we come within sight of the palace, we go our separate ways—Jax and Simeon to the temple, and Nipper and me to the palace to find Meredy. She’ll definitely appreciate hearing what we learned in the Deadlands.

  Approaching the door to our room, I hear voices issuing from the gap beneath it. No—make that just one voice, though it changes its tone every time it speaks. Sometimes, it sounds like Meredy, and sometimes, it sounds higher than her usual voice.

  Quieting my breath, I put my ear to the door and listen until the words become clear.

  “Firi, why can’t you just tell me where you are? I could come to you. Wouldn’t you rather talk face-to-face?” Meredy pleads. “No one has to know. Odessa doesn’t even realize we’re still talking—that orange salve she gave me works wonders. My burns are completely healed, see?”

  Reeling, I lean against the wall beside the door, feeling like I’ve just been punched. Meredy hasn’t stopped using the crystal after all. Just when I thought she was doing better, when things were finally normal between us again, whatever normal means—it turns out she was lying to me this whole time. My stomach twists as I force myself to keep breathing, to keep listening.

  “We’ve been over this,” Meredy sighs in a high voice so unlike her own.

  I shudder as a mix of revulsion and shame course through me. Apparently the crystal relies on the user’s own voice and tricks the mind into thinking that someone else is speaking by drawing from memories. That explains why neither of us realized how it worked before—we were using it at the same time, both being fooled by its illusion.

  “I can’t tell you,” Meredy continues in an imitation of Firiel’s voice, drawing my attention once more. “I’m sorry. Isn’t talking like this enough? Aren’t I enough?”

  “No,” she answers as herself. “Firi, you know how I feel about Odessa, but I still love you, too. Come back to me. Please!”

  How she feels about me? My heartbeat quickens for the briefest moment before the longing in her voice, longing for someone else, brings tears to my eyes. I’m scared for her. Scared of what will happen if I don’t help her break the crystal’s sway—and soon.

  There’s no denying that she betrayed me and lied to me repeatedly, but I’d still do anything to help Meredy. I’ll pull her back from the brink of this madness even if she’s unwilling, even if our relationship doesn’t survive it. Just like she would—like she already has done—for me.

  Her safety comes first.

  Turning away from the door, unable to listen any longer, I rub my temples and try to think. How can I prove to Meredy that it isn’t really connecting her to anyone? She certainly won’t take my word for it, or it would be long gone by now. What I really need is some way to capture voices and then hear them aloud. If she could listen to herself imitating Firiel, she would surely come back to her senses.

  But where would I find such a strange thing? Something that doesn’t yet exist?

  Keep talking, I silently plead to Meredy as I run half the length of the palace to Valoria’s room, stopping only to get permission to sprint past the blockade of guards set up around the base of the tower stairs.

  By the time I reach her, my breathing is ragged, and I drip sweat on her clean-swept floor. She doesn’t seem to care, though.

  Taking one look at my stricken face, Valoria drops the tangle of wires in her hands and demands, “What’s wrong? Is it—Meredy? The crystal?”

  I nod. I don’t want to waste time explaining how the magic in the crystal works, so instead I blurt, “I need something that captures voices. Something that lets you hear words after they’ve been said. Do you . . . ?”

  I let my voice trail away as Valoria’s eyes light up with the fierce pride of an inventor.

  “You need my recorder. One moment.” She grabs a stool and moves toward a high shelf piled with junk. I recognize some of the objects as former mechanical bird designs as I hover
beside Valoria, ready to catch her if she falls.

  At last, she hops down from the stool with a clunky black box about the size of my head tucked under her arm. She points to a few buttons, explaining how to use them to capture voices and then replay them.

  “I’ve only tested it with my sisters once or twice, and it’s been a while, but it should work.” She frowns as I take the recorder from her. “Odessa, I know you’re in a hurry, but can you just tell me if she’s in any immediate danger?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But she’s not all right?” Valoria twists her clasped hands, smearing grease across the skirt of her gown.

  “She will be,” I say firmly, a promise to Meredy and Valoria both. I give the buttons on the recorder another glance. “This is just what I needed. Thank you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time I return to our room, recorder still in hand, there’s no way to disguise the fact that I’m panting from all the running. I just have to hope Meredy is still too involved in her conversation with “Firiel” to notice.

  I push the biggest black button on the side of the box like Valoria showed me, and quietly as I can manage, I shove it against the bottom of the door and put my fingers in my ears. I can’t stand the thought of hearing her tell someone else—the idea of someone else—that she loves them again. Especially not when I was about to speak those same words to her at the aviary.

  Precious time slips away as the babble of voices from Meredy’s room continues. My leg cramps up, forcing me to stand and stretch instead of kneeling beside the box. A guard passes by on some urgent errand, boots tapping against the floor.

  At last, the voices stop. I pound on the door, and at first, no one answers.

  Then Meredy clears her throat and says brightly, “Come in, Odessa!”

  As I open the door and step inside, followed by Nipper, I ask, “How’d you know—?”