Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  Evader grips my shoulders like I’m scaring him. The realization makes anger flare in my chest, because without it, I’d be scared, too, and there’s no room for fear in Karthia. Not with the Dead among us, and with the possibility of a Shade being created at any moment.

  “I know what I want. To be with you—really be with you. Out in the open.” Evander’s voice deepens with longing. “That’s why we have to go.”

  I say the same thing I always do when he brings up leaving. “If it’s me you want, then tell Lyda we’re in love and demand her blessing. She’ll come around eventually. We don’t have to go anywhere to really be together.”

  “If she knew we were in love, she’d never let you stay here again. She’ll never let me marry a necromancer.”

  “She doesn’t want you to be a necromancer,” I correct, clenching my hands at my sides. “Or me. It scares her, because of your father. But we can go live at the palace whether we’re married or not. We have rooms there, thanks to His Majesty. It would mean no more sneaking, even if your mother never accepts what’s been in front of her for years.”

  “That’ll crush her, and you know it. She’ll have no one then, with Meredy studying so far away, and Elibeth working all the time.” He lowers his gaze. “We may not agree on, well, anything, but she’s the only parent I’ve got. I can’t hurt her like that.”

  “If you think moving to the palace would hurt her, how do you think it’ll be when you vanish completely?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “You want to leave Karthia. That’s what you really want. Stop pretending leaving is all about being with me!”

  Stung, Evander drops his hands from my shoulders. “You’re right. About everything.” He takes a deep breath. “Leaving will destroy her, but at least I won’t have to see her face.”

  “Coward.” I wince, partly at the hurt on his face, and partly because I’m ashamed to admit I’m glad I said it.

  “I could say the same of you.” Evander leans close, breathing fast. “Even if you won’t admit it, you’re just like everyone else. Scared of what’s out there.” He sweeps his arm toward the sea. “Scared of change.”

  “If that’s what you think, then you don’t know me at all.”

  I leap to my feet.

  “Odessa—”

  Dodging his outstretched hand, I slide down the roof, taking care to not make a sound in case Lyda or Elibeth are sleeping restlessly. The patter of Evander’s hurried steps pursues me as I dash toward the guest room where I stay—seven years, and I’ll always be a guest. I change course at the last minute, ducking into Meredy’s room two doors away instead.

  I sink onto the edge of her bed as I struggle to get control of my breathing, coming in ragged gasps. The faint scent of the clean, sparse room always calms my nerves, though I can’t explain why. It’s a mixture of cedar chips, vanilla, and something I can’t name. All I know is, it helps me clear my mind. I don’t want to think right now, about Evander, Nicanor, or sailing ships or anything else.

  I haven’t seen Evander’s younger sister Meredy since she was ten, starting her mage training a year after Evander and I began ours. She’d be sixteen now, training to be a beast master like her sister.

  Burying my damp face in Meredy’s quilt, I wonder if she’s freezing to death in one of the northernmost provinces, Lorness or Oslea, learning to understand and control the seals and winter-white foxes. Or maybe she’s down in Dargany Province, riding on a camel’s back. I’ve only ever seen camels in paintings, but I wouldn’t mind going somewhere like Dargany to experience new things. No matter what Evander thinks, I’m not scared of change—even if I don’t always like it. I’m scared of going someplace where I might not be the Sparrow, of not knowing who or what I’d be then.

  Yet I wonder if some small part of me is afraid, too, that Evander is right about leaving. We only get one chance at life—what if staying isn’t keeping us safe, but holding us back? I wonder if I’d ever be brave enough to admit that aloud, much less to him.

  After a while, I fall asleep and images blur together in my dreams: a bloodied Master Nicanor staggering through the icy tundra.

  V

  The last person I want to see this morning is Kasmira. But after waking with my face buried in Meredy’s quilt to find two of the Crowther maids gawking at me from the doorway, I remember I gave the last of my coffee beans to Princess Valoria yesterday. So I don’t have much of a choice.

  I throw on a clean shirt, breeze down the stairs without looking to see if Evander is watching me from the parlor, and manage to dash outside before Elibeth’s hounds cover me in drool.

  There’s not a cloud in the blazing blue sky this morning, yet there’s a bite to the wind that says it will soon be time for the Festival of the Face of Cloud, signaling the start of autumn.

  My stomach growls as I hurry through the wide, cobbled lanes of Noble Park. Servants airing out their masters’ linens on sun-drenched balconies wave, bow, or curtsy as I pass. I wave back halfheartedly, unable to fully appreciate their enthusiastic greetings with Evander’s heated words from last night still echoing in my mind. The stricken look on his face when I fled the rooftop makes me wonder if I should apologize. But an apology won’t change the fact that we’re at an impasse when it comes to our future.

  I pass a market on a lower hill where most of the royal family’s errand boys and girls do the shopping for the palace kitchens. The smells of saffron and sage make my stomach groan again, and I quicken my pace. Hopefully Kasmira has something edible on board the Paradise besides stale bread.

  The way to the harbor takes me past warm yellow and pink stone buildings, their fronts wrapped with flowering vines, where shopkeepers live and work. Farther on, I pass a boarded-up temple for the Face of Change, its once-proud columns cracked and sagging. Someone has drawn Change’s likeness in black ink on one of the building’s vine-choked sides. It must be freshly done, as vandalism of this sort is promptly painted over or scrubbed away at the king’s behest. The image reminds me of Valoria’s necklace, and I wonder how she’s holding up since her trip to the Deadlands.

  Next I pass the convent for the blue-eyed Face of Death, a cheerful white building with a sapphire-hued domed roof flanked on either side by an ancient, hunched cypress tree. Within its generous courtyard is a sprawling garden, larger than the convent itself, where a few of the sapphire-robed Sisters pick rosemary and prune their potted shrubs. It’s also where I grew up. If I wasn’t in a hurry to get my coffee before I have to meet Master Cymbre, I’d stop in for one of the Sisters’ famed fig-and-raspberry tarts.

  I pull up the hood of my cloak to take a shortcut through the Ashes. The cramped, tumbledown houses are where the city’s poor reside, those too sick or weak to go work on one of the farms outside Grenwyr City, and those too addicted to their favorite potions to do anything but sit on the filthy street and beg for coins.

  No matter how many charities King Wylding organizes for the poor, this place never seems to get any richer.

  “Blessed day to you!” a little girl’s voice says as I step into the shadows of the battered homes. I push back my hood enough to see her and try not to cringe as my lungs fill with air that reeks of spilled ale, sweat, and rotten meat.

  The raven-haired, copper-skinned girl can’t be more than six. She sucks her thumb as she watches me from her crumbling front step. There’s a doll tucked under her arm, an ugly thing as big as her head, made of cloth scraps and bits of colorful thread. Judging by the doll’s long curly hair and pink robes, it must be a woman.

  “How long has your mother or sister been gone, sweetheart?” I ask, nodding to the doll.

  She pulls her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say, “My mom. Last spring. She had the black fever.”

  The black fever. A sickness so foul, even the healers can’t cure it without killing themselves. It’s been ravaging the people of the Ashes for years.<
br />
  “And where’s your father?”

  “Scrubbing boats.” The girl pops her thumb back into her mouth and looks in the direction of the harbor, though tall, old houses block it from view. As she returns her gaze to me, her brown eyes widen as if seeing me for the first time. “Your clothes . . .” she says slowly. “You’re a mage, aren’t you? The kind that brings people back to life?” She grins.

  All this girl will ever have of her mother is that doll, sloppily made by some friend or relative to look like the loved one she’s lost. I’ll bet every child in these rickety houses has at least one doll like that, a poor substitute for what they dream about but will never be able to afford: a raising by a necromancer. My services.

  “Take care of yourself, all right?” I say, but the girl doesn’t seem to hear. She’s busy crooning a lullaby to her doll.

  “May he reign eternal,” she says moments later, a farewell so faint I almost miss it.

  The people of the Ashes adore King Wylding for never forgetting them, for not looking past them the way merchants and many nobles do. He comes down here sometimes, to serve them soup and bread, but I think they’d be a lot better off if he served them gold from his coffers or gave them jobs. Of course, that would be a change, so instead he’ll keep doing what he’s done decade after decade, wondering and worrying why his subjects are still suffering.

  “May he reign eternal,” I echo hollowly.

  Pulling up my hood, I practically fly to the harbor, where the sun in my hair, the stench of fresh-caught fish, and the green-and-yellow banners of the Paradise snapping in the breeze push the little girl from my thoughts. The worn dock creaks under my weight as I tread the familiar path to where the Paradise is anchored.

  There are crates stacked all over the ship’s main deck. Barrels of elderflower wine from Ethria Province. Tart green apples from Adia Province. Bananas from Idrany Province, the islands that make up Karthia’s southernmost point. But the good stuff is down below, behind a false wall in the back of the cargo hold. Coffee beans. A bitter thing called cacao. Spices with delicious names like cardamom and anise.

  I’m about to jump on board when a tangle of salt-crusted raven hair catches my eye, gleaming blue-black in the morning light as Kasmira bends to inspect a crate. Her cool brown skin is several shades darker than mine, and knowing she’s from Idrany’s largest island makes me think one of my parents must’ve been from Idrany, too.

  “Well, well,” she drawls, turning to face me with a gleam in her deep gray eyes, “someone must be needing another fix.” She grins, her teeth bright white against her skin, and beckons me closer. “You’re in luck. I haven’t eaten them all myself yet.”

  “Good. I’m desperate.” I hurry onto the ship and join her by a stack of crates. “After the night I had, I’d do anything to get my hands on some.”

  She arches one perfect brow. “Anything?” She draws the word out, giving me an appraising look that makes heat rush to my face.

  I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of kissing her, except that my heart chose Evander long before I even realized it.

  And since Kasmira is the only one who can take Evander out of Karthia, she’s partly to blame for last night’s stupid fight. Today, I just want to get my coffee beans and leave.

  I cross my arms and step back. “I’m in a hurry.”

  Kasmira frowns. “What’s wrong, Sparrow? You’re not your cheerful self today.” She studies the bandage on my arm, a scrap of one of Evander’s many black tunics. “Something happen I should know about?”

  The concern in her voice melts my anger faster than a flame on wax. I stretch out my injured arm, holding very still while she peeks under the bandage.

  “Doesn’t take a healer’s Sight to tell this isn’t infected.” She releases me, brushing away a strand of dark hair that’s fallen across her forehead. “What’s really hurting you?”

  I reach for Kasmira’s hand, telling her everything that happened last night, starting with Master Nicanor’s death.

  I’ve barely finished describing how I cut my arm too deep when Kasmira winces, pressing a hand to her forehead. She sways a little, so I steady her with an arm around her shoulders.

  “What is it?” I whisper. She wouldn’t want any of her crew overhearing that she’s not feeling well. They’d give her more lip than usual, and they’re hard enough to control as it is. “Do you need me to fetch a healer?”

  But as Kasmira rubs her temples, I realize what’s ailing her. “You’ve been changing the winds again.” I try to keep the worry from my voice, but I can’t help it.

  She nods, and the slight motion makes her grimace. “There was hardly a breeze to speak of on our latest run. I had to shift things in our favor to get home before His Majesty could miss us, if you get my drift.”

  “Kas, you should rest more often. Hire another weather mage to do half the work or something.”

  A shadow crosses her face at my suggestion. “Another weather mage? There are only three in Grenwyr, so far as I know. Besides me,” she adds, a hint of pride in her tone. “And they all have jobs that pay better than anything I could offer. Maybe I could train someone. But let’s be honest. How many blue-eyed people actually bother with all the training needed to become a necromancer, assuming they’re even chosen to try?”

  I sigh. She’s made her point. There’s me and Evander, and our teacher, Master Cymbre. Then there’s Jax and Simeon, who trained under Master Nicanor. As far as I know, we’re the only necromancers in Grenwyr City, perhaps in the whole province. Each of Karthia’s eleven provinces have a few blue-eyed mages, but that’s still not many. And from what I understand, weather mages are even rarer, and harder to train into masters.

  “Just take it easy for a while, all right?” I squeeze Kasmira’s hand before dropping it.

  She grins. “No promises.”

  I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “Can I ask you something strange, Kas?”

  “No question’s too strange for me. Go ahead.” She takes a seat on a low stack of crates. Her head must still be bothering her.

  “What’s out there?” I nod toward the harbor.

  Kasmira presses her lips together as her eyes crinkle at the corners, like she’s holding back a laugh. “Water. Lots and lots of water. No place for a Sparrow to land.”

  I frown at her dismissal. I’ve never wanted to know anything about her journeys before, but after last night, I can’t get Evander’s plan out of my head. “This is serious.” When Kasmira’s amusement fades, I ask, “What about the ports where you get the coffee and spices? What are the people like there?”

  “The people are just . . . people. Their skins are brown and black and white, like Karthians’. Some wear bright silks, and some wear rags. They like to eat and dance and gamble. And have a romp. It’s the same everywhere.” She tries to smile, but winces and rubs her temples again. “They talk in different tongues. It startled me at first, but we figured each other out pretty quick. Coins for goods.”

  “And the land? Are there shores full of coffee beans?”

  This time, Kasmira can’t contain her laughter. “Not exactly.” Her expression turns thoughtful. “But why the sudden need to know?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” I grumble, thinking of Evander’s raven, wondering if he sent it after all that was said—and unsaid—last night. A glance at the sun tells me it’s nearly time to meet Evander and Master Cymbre. I drop my voice to a whisper in case any of the dock workers have keen ears. “Can you get me the goods now? I have to be somewhere.”

  She nods and disappears into the hold, leaving me alone on deck.

  As I wait, I skim my gaze along the shoreline, where tangles of crimson seaweed from the ocean’s depths have snagged on rocks. The seaweed’s red hue makes my mind flash to Nicanor’s final moments. I lean against the ship’s rail and try to dredge up a happy memory
to push back the darkness, but my stubborn brain is stuck on the horror of last night.

  “What’s the matter?” Kasmira demands when she returns with the coffee beans. “You look like you’ve seen a Shade.”

  My face hot, I stammer, “No. Not today, anyway.” I force a grin, because Kasmira is giving me a deep, searching look, and she needs to be worrying about her health, not mine. “And neither will you, so long as you keep floating in this old bucket.”

  Kasmira clutches at her heart. “Old . . . bucket? Master Necromancer, you must be thinking of some other ship. Not the vessel that brings you your beloved coffee beans. Not the one that survived not two, not three, but—”

  “Six massive storms, with hardly a scratch,” I finish for her, grinning effortlessly now. Kasmira has that effect on people.

  Filled with the calm only friends and coffee can provide, I dash off the ship, bound for my meeting with Master Cymbre. It’s only when I’m well out of sight of the Paradise that unease steals over me again, and I jump at every shadowed alley and wind-tossed tree I pass.

  VI

  The graveyard behind Noble Park is the size of several manor homes put together, but I know exactly where to find Master Cymbre once I’ve leapt the wrought-iron fence and landed among the broad cypresses and oaks.

  The caretaker’s cottage.

  Like all retired necromancers, Cymbre took up residence at a graveyard when Evander and I completed our training. Now she tends the land inside the iron fence and polishes the marble monuments of dukes’ and counts’ and barons’ families. Those who, for whatever reason, weren’t raised from the dead. Those nobles whose spirits have left the Deadlands for whatever lies beyond.