Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  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 changed since 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 said inside once, 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 I should call 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. “Father wanted to be raised. He was there to see me grow up thanks to necromancers! I doubt I’d remember him otherwise.”

  Lyda opens her mouth, but Evander keeps talking, building steam. “If there were no necromancers, what would become of the Dead already here? Would you have them all slain just to return them to the Deadlands? Would anyone ever deserve that?”

  Wincing, Lyda covers her face with her hands. A moment later, a whisper of her usual voice issues from between her fingers. “Of course not. What a horrible thing to say.”

  “If we love the Dead, we should honor their wishes and protect them, same as the living. And that’s the last I’ll hear of it.” Evander leans back in his seat, breathing hard.


  When they both glance in my direction, I spot a crumb of bread on the table and pop it in my mouth to avoid speaking my mind, because I actually think they both have a point. The Dead do pose a threat. I’ve seen the danger, just today, in the Shade that tore Master Nicanor to pieces. But the Dead need me far more than the living, and I, them. Without Dead to raise, I’d be nothing but an orphan. As long as the Dead are around, I’m their Sparrow, and I won’t give that up for anything—not even for Lyda’s blessing to marry Evander.

  “We should pay for Master Nicanor’s funeral,” Lyda says timidly a moment later, her cheeks still ruddy with color. “He was a dear family friend, after all.”

  It’s a peace offering, and Evander, seeming too tired to argue anymore, seizes it. He nods, and they start discussing plans. I try to listen, but my attention keeps wandering to Baron Crowther’s empty chair at the far end of the table. No one’s ever told me the whole story, not even Evander. But from what I’ve gathered, the baron died of a plague when Evander was small, and a necromancer brought him back. Then Lyda got a glimpse of him beneath his shroud, a terrible accident, and he became a Shade. He tried to kill Evander’s little sister and broke Evander’s arm when he stepped in to save her. Lyda killed the monster she’d once loved so dearly, setting it ablaze just before Master Nicanor and his apprentice arrived at the manor.

  There’s still a scorch mark in the smaller dining room. No one goes in there, but I peeked once. The story’s true.

  “Odessa?” Evander frowns like he knows I wasn’t listening.

  I fake a yawn, stalling for time as I try to figure out a vague answer to whatever question I missed. But I’m saved from answering at all by a rustling of skirts coming down the hallway, followed by the clicking of claws on the wooden floor.

  The eldest of Evander’s two siblings, Elibeth, appears in the doorway. Three of her greyhounds, blinking their liquid amber eyes, poke their heads into the room by pushing past their owner’s billowing skirts.

  “We’ve been sent a raven,” Elibeth announces, casting a quick smile my way. I like everything about the future baroness, who as eldest will inherit the manor, from her sparkling green eyes, to the claw scars all over her hands and arms, to her bobbed, feathery brown hair. And I absolutely adore the pack of long-legged, skinny hounds that follow her everywhere. Like a matched set, all have white fur with large blue patches, but I know she has several other dogs here in the manor. I’d expect no less from a beast mage who maintains the royal family’s fox-hunting kennels for a living.

  Elibeth unfurls a piece of parchment, clears her throat, and reads, “Evander. And Odessa, if you’re there: We must discuss what happened tonight. Get some rest, and meet me at the graveyard behind Noble Park tomorrow before noon.” She sets the parchment on the dining table and adds, though we already know who it’s from, “Signed, Master Cymbre.”

  Cymbre and Nicanor retired as of last week, having seen our training through to the end. But Cymbre seems to want to keep guiding us even now that we’ve come of age.

  “She probably wants us to help her hunt down the Shade that did this,” Evander mutters, picking up the parchment and crumpling it in his fist.

  Elibeth’s delicate brows shoot upward, and she grips the back of her mother’s chair. “The Shade that did what?”

  One of her greyhounds whines softly, as sensitive to her mistress’s every shift in mood as Elibeth is to theirs. Another curls up on my feet under the table. I take comfort in the rhythm of its beating heart and the warmth of its fur as Evander sighs and repeats the night’s events for his elder sister.

  * * *

  Once Lyda and Elibeth and her many hounds are fast asleep, I join Evander on the back end of the manor’s roof. It’s a quick climb from the balcony off Evander’s bedroom to the rooftop, and the chairs he keeps out there are the perfect boost for getting onto the shingles. We can make it to the top in near silence thanks to years of practice.

  I don’t even flinch when the bandage on my aching arm snags on a patch of roof. Evander quickly helps me free it with a gentleness that’s surprising from such strong, rough hands. I can always count on him to untangle me.

  Once we’re seated, we dangle our legs and kick at the brisk night air, thick with the familiar, comforting scents of bergamot and lemons, the restless sea at our backs. Around us, the stately homes of Noble Park are bathed in moonlight, all trying to outshine one another with the grandest balconies and the prettiest rose gardens. I never tire of the splendid houses, at least not at night, when their occupants are how I like them best: asleep.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to get any rest at all tonight.” Evander takes my hand in his, rubbing his thumb over my palm. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Sparrow. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. What was left of him.”

  I hate the roughness in his voice, those tiny cracks of fear and hurt. I hate the monster that took Master Nicanor and burned the horrible image of his final moments into both our minds. “We’ll fix this, Van. We’ll get revenge when we kill the Shade.”

  I’m reminded of the flash of the bony, rotting figure I saw in the Deadlands grove. Of how fast it moved. Faster than the other Shades we’ve glimpsed in the past. Of how hard we’ll have to train if we want to fight it. But Evander doesn’t need anything else troubling his thoughts tonight.

  I wrap my arms around him, and for a long time, we just breathe.

  It isn’t until the sky lightens to a pearly gray that Evander lays a hand on my back and clears his throat. “I’m sending a raven to Kasmira after breakfast. As soon as we find and kill this Shade, we’re booking passage out of here on the Paradise.”

  I draw back to give him a sharp look, suddenly alert despite my lack of sleep. He knows as well as I do that it’s illegal for any Karthian to sail away from our rocky shores. Of course, that doesn’t stop people like Kasmira and her smugglers from exploring under cover of darkness when they should be running routine supply ships up and down the coast. But if the king somehow got wind of our escape attempt before we set sail, he wouldn’t hesitate to bind me in chains for the rest of my life. Just to keep me, his most prized necromancer, at his side. And when I think of it that way, leaving never seems worth the risk, even though staying means having to sneak around Evander’s overbearing mother.

  “We’ve talked about this before, Van,” I say at last. “First of all, we have a home here, and now a job that brings the kind of riches most people only dream about.”

  Evander grins, undaunted. “So we’ll build a new house and raise the dead somewhere different. People are always dying, and the gates into the Deadlands are always moving. Mages with our talent must be needed elsewhere, too.” He lowers his gaze to my now-empty right pocket, where my coffee beans are usually hidden. “Kasmira and her crew get your treats from someplace outside Karthia. Another island.”

  “That’s what she says.” I shake my head, unable to hold back a slight smile as I think of her. “But people who trust Kasmira’s word tend to wind up broke, lost, or dead.”

  “My point is, if she’s telling the truth, we already know of one island where we could settle after exploring,” Evander presses, his eyes gleaming as he pictures it. “Imagine—a shore full of coffee beans! And best of all . . . a place where we can marry.”

  I start to say something, but Evander beats me to it, taking both my hands in his. “Just think about it. There’s nothing for us here. We can’t get married without my mother’s blessing, and Elibeth will inherit the manor and title besides. All I’ll inherit—all I’ve ever been given—are my father’s dreams.”

  I never met Baron Crowther, but he lives on through Evander’s stories. He used to captain his brother’s trading ship after his brother was crippled in an accident. And once, when he got knocked off course during a storm, he swore he saw a strange island. He became a Shade before he ever got a chance to retrace his path, to learn wha
t was out there.

  “The island, you mean?” I tentatively ask.

  “Exactly. We can find it for him, together.” Evander presses a kiss to my cheek. “That is, if you’ll still come with me.”

  I shake my head to clear the cobwebs of exhaustion. “You’d go without me?”

  Evander loosens his grip, drawing back to look at me with shining eyes. “I—I didn’t mean I’d just take off—”

  “Save it, Van,” I snap, trying to cover my hurt with anger. “You meant what you said.”

  He tries to grab my hand, but I pull away too quickly. “Don’t you want to see what’s beyond our walls and our harbors without being afraid of losing our jobs? Or swinging from the hangman’s noose?” His voice strains with the effort of keeping it steady. “Don’t you want to get married?”

  “I do.” The words stick in my throat along with the tears I’m holding back. Even if our leaving went unnoticed until we were far from shore, I wouldn’t know who I am if I’m not the Sparrow. I’m afraid I’d just be some girl on a boat. But keeping Evander in Karthia when he’s dreamed forever of mapping out rivers and lakes and sleeping under new skies seems almost cruel. Even if I need him here. Even if the one dream I’ve never told anyone—of finally having a family of my own—would die the moment he left.

  After a while, Evander says softly, “Tell me what you want most.”

  What I want is an end to these arguments. They only wind up hurting us both, never solving anything, because I never meant to fall for someone so in love with the unknown that it would threaten to take me away from the things that make me the Sparrow and the job it took seven years to learn. I doubt he meant to fall for me either, but now I’m caught up in his dreams of maps and distant shores, complicating everything.

  “Maybe I don’t know what I want anymore.” I push a lock of hair out of my face with a shaking hand. With Nicanor’s death fresh in my mind, a vivid reminder that we necromancers only get one chance at life, every little decision feels like an anchor holding me underwater. “This life is all we get, Van. There’s no room for mistakes. No second chances, no do-overs. I just want to make sure we consider all the consequences before rushing off.”