“What is it?” I gingerly check my face for crusted bits of vomit and dirt from the garden, then touch my tender right knee where the dagger kissed it. Valoria’s bandaged the wound, but even the light pressure of my fingers makes it ache.
The princess scoots to the edge of her seat, frowning. She cleans her glasses on her mint-green gown and still says nothing.
“Come on.” I manage to prop myself up on my elbows. The room spins like a pinwheel, complete with mesmerizing colors. “Out with it.”
“Fine.” Valoria sighs, meeting my eyes. “Evander Crowther is dead and gone, and no amount of drinking anything—say, too much wine, or certain potions meant to dull the senses—can bring him back.” She bends down to toy with loose threads on the rug beneath her chair. “But there are others here who need you. Two necromancers have been killed in the Deadlands. That never happens. And Duke Bevan went missing from his own province and reappeared here as a Shade.” She raises her glistening eyes to mine. “And now my mother and several other Dead, the nobility that you and Evander and your friends raised, have vanished. Something in Karthia reeks, but I can’t figure it out on my own. I need your help.”
I shake my head. “Look, Valoria. I don’t have the answers either. All I have is a score to settle and one nasty Shade waiting for me in the Deadlands.”
“Then you’re not who I thought you were.”
“Seems that way.”
Valoria rises to her feet, turning her back on me, and for the first time I notice the many curved shelves lining her tower room. She fusses with something I can’t see from here, but around her, I take note of coils of copper wire, ropes, odd silver bits, and what look like wood-and-metal arms and legs, complete with moveable joints.
I climb off the bed and approach a shelf that holds several strange glass balls with tiny wires inside. I bump one with my hand, and it fills with an orange glow that steals my breath and freezes me on the spot.
“It’s just a light,” Valoria calls from across the room. “I made them for my little sister. Ever since she saw the Shade at the Festival of Cloud, she’s been scared of the dark.”
I nod, backing away from the glowing ball, and something brushes the top of my head. I glance up to find a long and heavy-looking sack of fabric dangling from the vaulted ceiling.
“That’s my air balloon.” There’s a hint of amusement in Valoria’s voice. “Rather, it will be. It’s not finished, for obvious reasons. It’s not like I can take it into the gardens and tinker with it where any of the Dead might see.”
“Air balloon,” I repeat.
A chill spreads up my arms the longer I gaze around the cluttered room. My feet suddenly seem to have a mind of their own, carrying me to the princess’s side.
She stands by a table pushed up against the wall, gazing down at a tiny, perfect model of Grenwyr City.
“There’s Noble Park!” I point to houses that are hardly bigger than my thumbnail. “And the apothecary. And the Ashes. And here’s where we are now!” I tap a tower on one corner of the little palace, realizing when it wobbles that I could’ve knocked it over. I tuck my hands in the folds of my dress. “Valoria, this is amazing!” Unlike the metal arms or lengths of wire on the other shelves, the model city doesn’t frighten me—it inspires me. “Did you make all this yourself?”
Valoria shakes her head. Without meeting my eyes, she says, “Hadrien carved some of the buildings for me. He doesn’t know half of what I do up here.” Her lips curve into a slight smile. “He probably thinks they’re for a dollhouse or something.”
“Well, whatever this is, it’s perfect. Except—you made the roads too wide.” For some reason, my comment makes Valoria’s smile widen. Carefully, I point to some twisty painted blue lines that definitely aren’t part of Grenwyr City. “And we don’t have all these rivers.” I motion to a large building near the palace. “Our horse stables aren’t that big, either.”
“That’s right. I call this my Dream City. It’s what I’ve been working on all year.” She meets my gaze. “The bigger stables are so our animals can be more comfortable. They deserve more space.” A hint of pink appears in her cheeks, and I nod to encourage her to go on. “The wide roads are because the ones we have now are too narrow. And the canals are to help carry sewage and muck out of the city. With the city so cramped, it’s no wonder the black fever rips through Grenwyr like wildfire each year. I think . . .” She pauses for a deep breath. “I think my designs would make the city cleaner and help stop the spread of sickness, putting less strain on our healers so they can focus on other things—say, learning how to restore the mind.”
“This is incredible.” I stare at her, amazed King Wylding discourages her inventions when she’s finding ways to combat the black fever and perhaps give people from the Ashes a chance for some paid work. “With ideas like this, you could be a real leader in Grenwyr City, or even Karthia. Have you asked about being on the king’s council?”
Valoria arches her brows. “I couldn’t possibly. Having someone new on the council would upset the Dead.”
“But you’re brilliant! You deserve to be there.”
“Really? Well, if you say so . . .” Valoria presses a hand to her forehead, but I can tell by the glint in her eyes that she’s secretly more pleased than bothered by the thought. “Think how shocked the Dead would be if they saw the Dream City!”
“But even the Dead want their loved ones to live, and your city would help keep away the black fever. It could save people. The things you’ve thought of!”
“I haven’t added half of the finer details yet . . .” She shakes her head, wringing her hands in an obvious case of nerves. “But I’m glad you like it. I’ve barely shown it to anyone. Only . . . my mother.”
Before I know what’s come over me, I grab Valoria’s callused hands. “I’m going to help you find her. I promise.”
“I’m so scared she’ll end up like Duke Bevan. I couldn’t bear it if that happened.” Valoria squeezes my hands. “But I knew I could count on you.”
The way she says those words with such confidence makes my face burn. I wish she’d put her trust in someone else, even if I do want to help her. “We’ll search the palace tomorrow, once we’ve gotten enough sleep to keep our wits about us.”
Valoria bites her lip. “Odessa. About what happened back in the garden . . .”
I hold her gaze. “I’m seeing imaginary monsters.” I don’t mention Evander. For some reason, I want to keep his silent apparition a secret for me alone. “It’s a side effect of the potion. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“But there is. You could stop taking the potion.” Valoria’s eyes glisten, making me wonder if she’s had a similar talk with someone else before. “Whatever feelings you’re avoiding can’t be as bad as what that potion’s doing to you.”
I want to reassure her, but the truth is, I’m dying for another dose at the mere mention of the potion.
Muttering an excuse about needing sleep, I leave Valoria’s tower for my cold, empty room and the bitter blue vials waiting beneath the bed.
* * *
I push open the door to my room, anticipating the potion’s bitter-apple taste, to find a girl with waves of dark red hair sitting on my bed. Her shirt and cloak are fur-trimmed, and the fang of some unfortunate creature hangs from her neck. I know even before glancing at the double-emerald pin gleaming on her collar that she’s a beast master.
Pausing just inside the door, I blink hard in case this is another hallucination, a trick of the flickering torchlight.
She turns toward me, and I remember Hadrien’s words about the red-haired girl who was asking after me.
“You were looking for me,” I say slowly, edging toward the sword waiting for me on my table, “at the party tonight. Why?”
The girl tilts her head slightly to one side, her face cast in shadow, though I can tell
by her stillness that she’s studying me. She doesn’t utter a word or even bat an eye as I grab my sword. I’m grateful for its comforting weight in my hand, and while I keep it pointed at the ground, I know it’ll be ready at my slightest command.
“You don’t remember me.” She finally speaks in a silvery voice, though the words seem calculated, like she’s practiced at staying in control of every sound she makes, every gesture. She raises her head and locks her intense green eyes on mine.
A shiver of surprise runs through me.
The sound of my sword hitting the floor is only a distant thud.
She has Elibeth’s eyes. Lyda’s swanlike neck and ivory skin, though hers is dusted with light brown freckles, and a white scar—four jagged lines like claw marks—covers much of her left cheek. And—though it’s tight and wary and only lasts a second, I’d recognize it anywhere—she has Evander’s smile.
Meredy.
“Your hair was brown the last time we saw each other,” I murmur.
Meredy nods solemnly. “I was ten years old and had a terrible gap in my teeth the last time we saw each other, too. A lot’s changed in six years.”
I lick my dry lips, wanting to gaze past her in hope of glimpsing Shadow Evander, but something about this girl demands my entire focus. “Where have you been all this time?”
“The northernmost wilderness of Lorness.” Meredy tips her chin up as she adds, “Learning from one of the greatest beast masters of the century. But that’s finished now, and I’m a master. Like you.”
My heart’s hammering so hard I’m dizzy. “You finished training a year early?”
She arches a brow. “Is that so hard to believe? I’ve only been back in Grenwyr City for a day, and I’ve already heard they call you Sparrow because you seem to effortlessly fly between this world and the other. Yet you don’t think I could be a great beast master?”
I don’t mean to offend her, but I’ve never met anyone who finished training early. The apology that’s on the tip of my tongue dies as she gazes coolly up at me.
“You’ve got a scar that says otherwise . . .” I touch the spot on my cheek where hers is scarred. “What happened there?”
“It was a training accident,” she mutters. “What happened to your knee?”
“My own stupidity.” The moment I say the words, I regret them. I’ve made her give that tiny almost-smile again, the one that’s too sharp but still somehow an echo of Evander’s. I can’t do this. I can’t have these vivid reminders of him in my room, on my bed, reminders that can walk and talk and hurt me.
Meredy hooks her hair behind her ear. When it catches the light, it reminds me of the elderflower wine I drank at the party. “I’ll confess, I saw some of your trouble in the garden earlier. But I felt it best to give you time to collect yourself before I came around.”
“That was generous of you,” I say dryly, hoping I sound half as casual as she does. Leaning against the wall for support, I rub my temples. Surely she didn’t mean to, but she’s dredging up thoughts and memories I’ve been trying so hard to bury.
Meredy leaps to her feet, fastening her fur-trimmed burgundy cloak like she’s about to leave. But she holds my gaze and squares her shoulders. “It seems we’re starting off on the wrong note. I apologize for the lateness of my visit, but this can’t wait. I’ve come to secure your services.” She draws a lumpy bag from her cloak pocket, and the clinking sound it makes leaves no question as to what’s inside.
“I can’t raise Evander from the dead.” Each word opens a new wound as it leaves my lips. Curse Meredy Crowther for making me speak them. She looks as poised as her mother while I take a step back and accidently kick my sword across the floor.
Meredy moves forward, stepping lightly over the blade. Her voice remains low and clear. “I wasn’t asking you to.” She tosses the bag of coins onto my bed. “I’m no fool. I know necromancers can’t be raised, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.”
Do I wish I could raise Evander? To never see him, to never really touch him, to constantly fear that he could become a monster—we could never be like we used to. Not even magic can bring back what we had. Days ago, I’d have wanted to pull Evander from the Deadlands in a heartbeat, but now the idea feels somehow selfish.
“Odessa?” Meredy waves a hand in front of my face, snapping me from my daze.
“Sorry. What is it, then?” My hands are shaking from the lack of potion. It’s all I can do to keep from sliding under the bed and downing every last vial in front of this girl who’s practically a stranger.
“My girlfriend.” Meredy’s face is expressionless, as still as though carved from marble. “She died in a hunting accident. I want to bring her back from the Deadlands, and I’ll pay you whatever King Wylding would.” She points to the coins on the bed. “Name your price, and consider that the first installment. The rest will be delivered when I have Firiel back.”
Unable to fight the urge, I laugh. The kind of laughter that bubbles up from deep in the pit of my stomach and squeezes my ribs. Maybe it’s the absence of the potion messing with my head, but her request seems like a clever trick someone’s playing on me.
“I don’t see anything funny here.” Meredy crosses her arms. “I lost my brother and my love in a matter of days, and I’ll do anything to steal back even a little of what death has taken from me. Even if it means giving you my family’s fortune. In the few letters Evander sent me, he said you’re the best at what you do. And if he says so, I trust him.”
I swallow a delirious giggle. “First of all, I can’t go into the Deadlands without a partner. It’s forbidden, and I probably wouldn’t make it out, besides.” Rubbing some of the grit from my eyes, I blink at her. “Second, do I look like I’m in any shape to raise the dead just now?”
Meredy gives the slightest headshake. “For all I know, this is how you always look.”
“Does Firiel want to be raised?” I usually only ask a client that after I’ve accepted a job, but since Meredy showed up uninvited, I don’t see the harm in prying.
Frowning, Meredy says quietly, “We never discussed it. But I know her. I know she wants to be with me no matter the cost.”
It’s a familiar answer, one I’ve heard often. Sometimes, a spirit wants to come back, but not always. I want her to consider what she’s asking of the dead girl. “Would you want to be raised?”
It’s my job to protect the Dead, Evander would say, in our world and in theirs. And that means honoring their choice to be raised or not, regardless of their families’ wishes.
“Would you?” Meredy’s gaze never falters.
As I search for words, I think of thick layers of cloth having to be adjusted constantly. Of wearing sachets of herbs against my dead flesh to keep it from stinking at parties. Of the worst hunger I’ve ever experienced, of feeling that way constantly. Of craving food, touch, warmth. Of never sleeping, never dreaming. Of possibly becoming a Shade and losing the very essence of who I am.
I think of all the suffering before I think of the things I’d miss about this world: Fig jam. Sunshine. The sea. Kissing. Especially kissing.
“I doubt,” I say slowly, “it would be a life worth living. At least for me. But plenty of Dead are glad to make sacrifices to come back.” I shrug. “Not that I’ll ever have to decide.”
Meredy nods, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts. “So, will you help me?”
“No. Even if I could, I’m not interested. Sorry.” I pick up my sword, wincing at the stars that appear at the corners of my eyes when I straighten. “The next time I go to the Deadlands, it’ll be my last.” I swipe the coin purse off the bed and toss it at her. I can’t bear the thought of accidentally brushing her skin.
Meredy’s mouth falls open. “You were more than just his partner. Evander’s.” There’s no question at the end of her words. Without another glance at me, she bends to retri
eve the bag of coins.
I gesture at the door with my sword. “There’s the exit, whenever you’re ready.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, the first real emotion I think I’ve seen from her. If I had half her self-control, maybe I could ditch my potion habit.
“Fine.” She starts toward the door but pauses to glance over her shoulder. “There are other necromancers who will take my money. I intended to honor Evander’s memory by coming to you first, but I see now that was a mistake.”
“A huge one,” I agree, jabbing my sword at the door again. “And stay out of the Deadlands!” I call after her. “Evander wouldn’t want you going there, especially not now. It’s more dangerous than ever.”
Meredy carries herself with a dancer’s grace, gliding through the door into the dim hallway. If she heard me, she shows no sign of it. “Come, Lysander,” she calls to someone out of sight. As Meredy strides briskly away, a massive brown bear lumbers in her wake. I must be really out of it to have missed the beast when I came down the hall. It pauses in my open doorway, and I freeze as it sniffs the room. My knees turn to water despite the sword in my hand.
“Lysander!”
With a deep grumble, the grizzly heeds Meredy’s call and vanishes.
I can’t slam my door fast enough. It’s rare that a beast master can keep control over such a powerful animal. And rarer still for any mage to finish training a year ahead of schedule. Meredy must be an extremely competent beast master. A mage with that much fang and muscle behind them could work security anywhere, from the gates of Noble Park to the king’s personal guard.
Grabbing a vial of potion from under the bed, I raise it to the still and silent room. “Here’s to your health, Meredy Crowther.”
Reign of the Fallen Page 13
