Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  “You saved my life,” I blurt. “That’s twice now, if you count keeping me prisoner.”

  “Just doing my job.” Meredy rubs the scar on her cheek, like she does when she’s nervous or lost in thought.

  Suppressing a grin, I mutter, “Thanks, my humble savior.”

  I start down the stairs toward the noise of what I hope is a dining room, pausing for Meredy to follow.

  “It’s not your fault you couldn’t stop the Shade, you know.” She reaches my side and keeps pace with me, stealing a sideways glance when she thinks I’m not looking. “It kept going after you,” she adds. “You had no hope of killing it. It was like you were its only target, and—”

  I stop cold in the middle of a glittering tiled hallway. “The key to killing them is taking them by surprise.” I finish the thought for her.

  Meredy nods, then waves at someone over my shoulder.

  “Good morning!” a handsome woman in a fine gown calls, sweeping toward us. The baroness. “And thank you again, on behalf of all of Elsinor, for slaying our monster.” Her weary gray eyes meet mine. “I’ve had the cooks pack you plenty of breakfast, so I hope you’re hungry.” She tosses her long, dark braid over her shoulder and checks the fastenings of her cloak. “Everything’s waiting in the carriage. This way, please!”

  Meredy takes a step forward, but I hold her back with a hand on her arm.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, careful to keep my voice pleasant.

  Baroness Abethell flashes a dazzling smile. “On a tour of our valley, my dear Master Odessa.” Her smile dims slightly as she adds, “Master Cymbre declined to join us. She may need a second visit from the healer, but for now, she’s enjoying breakfast in her chamber.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time for a tour,” I say slowly, forcing myself to smile back. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. You’ve been more than generous. But we’re here to find the Shade that’s been attacking Elsinor, as you know.”

  And after that, we’re needed back in Grenwyr City, where Jax and Simeon are probably overwhelmed with restless Dead in the wake of news about the king’s disappearance spreading. At least it doesn’t seem like anyone here has heard what befell our leader, and if they haven’t, I don’t want to be the one to share it.

  “I insist,” the baroness says a moment later, her voice still cheerful. “You deserve to see what your brave actions have protected, master necromancer.”

  I glance down at the pin on my tunic. “Killing that Shade had nothing to do with bravery, and everything to do with survival, Lady Abethell.” With a glance at Meredy, I add, “It was my guard who killed the monster, not me, so you should be thanking her.”

  “And a tour sounds like a lovely way to do that,” Meredy says, covering the awkward moment.

  The worried look she gives me as we follow the baroness to the carriage house is the only way I know she doesn’t like this waste of time any more than I do.

  Two hours and four sticky buns later, though, I have to admit, the tour around the valley isn’t so bad. There are pastures where sheep wander aimlessly like little white clouds, a small lake, and a wide green field where four weather mages stand side by side, dressed in slick, shimmering robes that remind me of fish scales as they cast a rainbow of light on their surroundings. Moving as one, the mages draw water from a passing cloud and shower the leafy green crops around them. It’s an incredible sight.

  Meredy points out a baby calf, a tangle of ripe blackberry bushes, and a distant figure taking a naked dip in a pond, no doubt thinking himself unnoticed. We laugh as we spot a miniature horse chasing a donkey around a paddock, and it’s clear the tension has eased between us.

  It feels strange to be laughing at all with King Wylding presumably still missing, but it’s not like we can leave the castle until Master Cymbre sees the healer again. Still, I fidget on the hard carriage seat as I think of how quickly a Shade could devastate this sleepy valley.

  As quickly as the raven flies, as Her Majesty would say.

  “We’ve been busy preparing for the big harvest,” the baroness says pleasantly from the opposite seat. “With our high number of gray-eyed citizens, Elsinor trains more weather mages than any other province.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmur. Louder, I ask, “Do you know who the Shade used to be? The one we killed last night?” The baroness frowns, but I press, “Were any of your Dead reported missing recently?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Her smile is back in place, though her tone is cooler. “I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had so much death recently. So much destruction. I’d prefer to focus on happier things.”

  “But where are the frightened villagers, the mourners?” Meredy asks quietly. “Where are the people mending fences?”

  The baroness locks eyes with Meredy, evidently thinking how to respond. I don’t know why it should take so long unless she’s not telling us the truth, and I’m about to politely point that out when the carriage driver calls, “Lady Abethell! The signal fire!”

  I lean out the window and follow the baroness’s gaze to a flickering flame at the top of the next mountain.

  “What—?” I start to ask.

  “A Shade attack in the next valley,” the baroness answers tensely, all her pleasant mannerisms gone. “We’ll head there right away. My guard will have seen the flare and know to meet us.”

  The carriage veers wildly onto a new path, making Meredy slide into me. I steady her with an arm around her waist, but quickly pull away when a sudden heat pulses through me.

  “Are you sure the Shade is in the next valley?” Meredy asks a moment later, sounding out of breath. When the baroness asks what she means, Meredy points out the window to another mountain.

  Another signal fire glares from an outpost on high.

  And on the mountain beyond that, so faint it could be a trick of the noon sun, another fire shines a plea for aid.

  As the carriage rushes down the wide dirt path, I look out the windows on either side, and a heavy weight settles in my stomach.

  There’s a signal fire lit on every mountain around us.

  I wrap my fingers around the comforting hilt of my blade and whisper a prayer to Vaia as Meredy mutters something under her breath, perhaps summoning Lysander. But nothing prepares either of us for the grisly sight in the next valley.

  For carnage and chaos unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

  This isn’t a village in need of an army. This is a massacre in need of a cleanup crew.

  The second the carriage halts, I throw open the door and scramble out. My boots slide in someone’s blood, and I lean against the carriage to steady myself as I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  Hollowed-out buildings still burning. A smashed signpost. A stray horse shaking under the eaves of an empty blacksmith’s forge. And the corpses. All the corpses. Men, women, and children strewn across each other, like they were cut down as they tried to flee. The Shade didn’t even bother feasting on most of them. I think I see a few stray limbs, but I can’t bring myself to look close enough to know for sure.

  The smell hits me in a rush, threatening to bring me to my knees.

  And I let it. I kneel in the putrid mix of blood and mud.

  We’re too late. Too late to help any of these people, and if the eerie wail rising into the clear sky is any indication, we’re too late to help those in the other valleys as well. Vane has to have been here, forcing the monster’s—or monsters’—every move with whatever power his unique Sight gives him. This feels calculated. Organized. No Shade would leave the Deadlands voluntarily, let alone wreak this much havoc without even eating its prey. And no Shade knows how to coordinate attacks on this scale.

  Forcing another look at the wreckage, I promise myself I won’t stop chasing the rogue necromancer’s trail of victims until my hands are around his neck.

&nbs
p; Meredy appears at my side and offers me a handkerchief. I dab my soaking face while she lets her own tears fall freely. It’s only when she takes my hands that I feel I can properly breathe again. She guides me back into the carriage, where the smell is slightly more bearable, though my head spins.

  Her touch is all that keeps me from losing my balance until I slide onto the empty seat.

  The baroness remains outside, talking in low voices with what must be her entire guard of fifty armed men.

  “Hadrien would have sent us with more help if he knew it was this bad,” I manage to say at last. “Why didn’t the baroness or someone else say how many Shades had been spotted?” Before Meredy can respond, I answer my own question. “They must not have known. This must be the first attack of this scale.” As Meredy wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, I add softly, “I wonder who the Shades were. Who they used to be.”

  “At this point, I think the more important question is where they are now,” she whispers. “It doesn’t seem like anyone killed them.”

  Last night, after the surprise Shade attack, Meredy asked me if I ever considered whether raising the dead was worth the risk, and finally, I have my answer.

  None of the Dead want to become Shades and hurt the loved ones who sacrifice so much to bring them back, but as Evander’s parents proved, accidents happen. Accidents that could be prevented if the Dead stayed where they belong. If I quit doing the one thing I’ve trained most of my life to do.

  The thought catches me by surprise. It’s something Lyda might say. I shake my head to clear it.

  Gradually, villagers emerge from behind the shells of homes and shops, wide-eyed and deathly pale. Some are spattered with blood, and all look lost. Even the few Dead in their long shrouds are clearly shaken, leaning against their living relatives for support.

  “We’ll make room in the castle for them all,” the baroness declares to her guards. Even from a distance, there’s no mistaking the shock in her voice. She clearly had no idea how much destruction Shades could cause, or she’d have spent her time arming her soldiers with liquid fire instead of taking us on a valley tour. The earlier attacks reported to the king must have been like the Shade attacks of years past, monsters picking off livestock and the occasional late-night tavern-goer from the shadows.

  We emerge from the carriage to join the survivors, the sounds of someone weeping filling the air. It’s one of the Dead, I realize, as a living man pushes away someone beneath a shroud, then points down the road.

  “I’m sorry,” the man says, shaking his head as the shrouded figure clings to his arm. “Don’t you understand?” His voice breaks, and something inside me cracks at the overwhelming sadness of the sound. “You could be the next to turn. One slip of your mask, and . . .”

  “You’d become a monster,” someone else calls.

  “I never knew the Dead were capable of this,” a dark-haired woman stammers.

  “They’re not!” I shout. Almost every head turns my way. Even the man arguing with his shrouded relative falls silent. “The Dead can become Shades, but most never do. We’re careful, and so are they. They wear layers to hide their skin. We’re following the same rules we always have. This was no mere accident on the part of the Dead or their kin, mind. Some madman decided to break our rules, and this”—I make a sweeping gesture—“is the result. It doesn’t mean the Dead should be feared or blamed.”

  I say it as much to defend the shrouded figures around me as to prove to the voice in my head that we are better off with the Dead here.

  “But this is our fault, in a way,” a woman murmurs, one of the Dead. “Maybe it’s best we leave. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “All the Dead should get out of Elsinor!” someone yells.

  I search for the speaker so I can glare at him, but I can’t tell who said it. Not with several echoes of the sentiment passing among the survivors, and even among the baroness’s guards. The farmers and tradesman who make up the heart of Karthia have always looked upon the Dead with respect bordering on awe. They’ve dreamed of saving up enough to have their own loved ones raised. But then, most of them have never seen a Shade before today.

  “And what about the king?” another voice demands.

  “Maybe,” a young blue-eyed girl says as she hugs her mother’s knee, “the Dead king will turn bad, too.”

  “Maybe,” Baroness Abethell agrees softly, her face suddenly looking ten years older, lined with guilt and worry and the same uncertainty that’s plaguing me.

  “May he reign eternal!” someone cries, sounding defiant. But no one takes up the familiar refrain.

  I hang my head. Partly because I can’t see a point in arguing with people who have just lost everything. Partly because I can’t stand the sight of the Dead trudging away from their ruined village with nowhere to go, not one of them uttering a protest for fear that they might hurt their families if they stay. And partly because a little voice in the back of my mind shares the blue-eyed girl’s worry, and I can’t seem to silence it.

  After a while, the weather mages from the next valley arrive, their gray eyes misting over as they draw more rain from the blue sky’s passing clouds. Their movements are like a dancer’s, practiced and elegant, each gesture of their hands wringing a little more water from the wisps of clouds above.

  Watching them work reminds me of Kasmira, and I hope she’s somewhere safe. Out at sea, perhaps.

  A few of the more isolated buildings have already stopped burning, but others hiss as rainwater splashes their fiery insides.

  The guards comb through the cooling rubble, rounding up more survivors.

  Even Meredy finds a purpose, calming the frightened horse from the forge and climbing on its back, riding past the border of the village to search for others in need of help.

  I join the baroness at the top of a raised platform that looks like a poorly constructed stage, and together we watch a flock of dark figures ascend the nearest mountain.

  The Dead are gliding away toward the horizon, and I’m powerless to stop them.

  * * *

  “Evander,” I murmur to my quiet room near the top of Abethell Castle, “I can’t sleep.” There’s no hallucination sitting beside me on the bed, not since I’ve given up the potion. But I can’t seem to shake these conversations. I know he’s gone, yet here I am.

  “Do you remember the time we snuck into the Deadlands together without Master Cymbre? Chasing after that young Dead baron who’d just become a Shade, because we thought we could change him back with a vial of honey?” I shake my head at the memory. “We were lucky that rock you threw distracted him. Lucky to get out of there with our lives.”

  I gaze out the room’s arched windows at a dark valley that should be flickering with light. With life. Where are Elsinor’s exiled Dead now?

  “Here’s what I’ve been wondering since the massacre, Van. What if the Dead turn into Shades when we look at them, or when they’ve been in our world too long, because they were never meant to leave the Deadlands at all?” The words make me a traitor to the sapphire pins on my chest, Evander’s and mine both. But now that I’ve said it aloud, I can’t stop myself. “What if I can’t find Vane? What if he loses control of his Shades?”

  Or worse. “What if our magic is the weapon that brings Karthia to its knees?”

  I can practically hear Evander saying it now, carefully weighing each word. “What I do—what we do—brings hope.”

  Nodding along with his voice in my head, I say, “Our magic is love triumphing over death.”

  But there’s no denying our magic can be deadly.

  All around me, the sobs of several villages’ worth of survivors seep through the floors and echo in the hallways. The survivors are restless in rooms beneath me and around me, and perhaps some of the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach belongs to them, is for them, because I know the ac
he of loss thanks to Evander.

  I hug my knees to my chest and wish all my imagining could conjure the weight of Evander’s arms around me one last time. “I forgive you for being gone,” I whisper. “I just wish I could forgive myself.”

  For not saving him. For not saving the people of Elsinor. For allowing Meredy to come here and risk her life, too.

  I wipe my soaking face on my sleeve. “She reminds me of you,” I whisper into the dark. “That used to make me miserable. But lately, it’s made me happy. I promise I’ll keep her safe, Van—not that she needs protecting. Honestly, she’s saved me a time or two. I just think you’d like to know someone has her back, since . . . you’re not here anymore.”

  I sit straight up on the bed, kicking one of the pillows across the room. Why did it have to be Evander?

  It should’ve been me who was decimated by that Shade.

  XXIV

  I pull on my boots and slink through the castle, headed for a stretch of bare earth washed in moonlight: the guards’ training grounds.

  I may not be able to save anyone, living or Dead. But beating stuffed dummies with a wooden practice sword? No man or beast in Karthia can stop me from making the straw fly. Except maybe the one sitting on a hay bale beneath the archery target, her chin in her hands and her bow in her lap, watching me approach.

  “Let me guess,” Meredy says mildly as I cross the flat ground cleared for sparring. “You couldn’t sleep either.”

  “Thinking about all the spirits the Deadlands gained today?” I drop down beside her.

  “Among other things.” She looks so composed, even after the day’s tragedies: her eyes bright and dry, her long hair brushed and shining, her clothes clean and unwrinkled. It makes me completely envy her composure.

  I narrow my eyes at her, searching for some sign that she’s troubled by what we saw. “Do you ever get mad? Really mad, like you need to hit something or you might explode?” Meredy frowns slightly as I add, “Or what about sad? Has anything ever hurt you so much, you couldn’t hold it all in?”