Vane’s breathing is ragged as he chokes out, “If you’re so clever, girl, you tell me.”
I remember the horrified faces of the villagers who survived the massacre in Elsinor. I remember their Dead, marching away to an uncertain future, and it dawns on me. “You were trying to make people fear the Dead. By turning them into Shades, you reminded the living of the danger that surrounds them at all times. But there has to be more to it than that.”
Vane goes suddenly still beneath me, and my heart stops for a moment. I slap his cold face so hard that the sound ripples across the lake.
He’s lost to a fit of bloody coughing. At last, he says, “There’s nothing you can do that’ll make me talk.”
It takes a moment to find my voice again, I’m shaking so hard all over. “Who is he? The man who hired you? A duke—one from the southern provinces?” After all, there have been some with their eyes on King Wylding’s throne for decades.
Vane says nothing, but offers me a strained smirk.
I grab the hilt of the dagger and drive it in deeper, eliciting more screams. Every Karthian’s life depends on knowing who’s really behind these attacks. “Tell me his name, and I’ll make the pain stop!”
Still Vane doesn’t answer, due to agony or his twisted code of morals, I can’t tell. “I’ll find your family, or whoever or whatever it is you love. I’ll kill them, every last one, if you don’t give me the name of the man who hired you right now.”
It’s an empty threat, but he doesn’t need to know that. I must sound wild in my desperation, as he cowers slightly in the wake of my words.
“I do care about the living people of Karthia. Same with my partners.” Vane makes a wheezing sound, struggling for breath, but continues, “And I was promised a seat on his court when he takes the throne. When the living rule and decide the future.”
The living people of Karthia. The words remind me of something Hadrien said once, as he held me close to the beat of a drum. Hadrien, who has enough money to hire a host of men like Vane. Hadrien, who was the last person seen with King Wylding according to Meredy. Hadrien, who Simeon said no one had seen for hours at the time he’d penned his letter to me. Hadrien, who I left with Her Majesty and my friends, thinking they would watch over each other. Hadrien, who is next in line for the throne.
Suddenly, I see what I couldn’t before.
Head spinning, I drop my gaze to the sand. Vane’s blood-spattered hand twitches, and beneath the grime I notice a smattering of bruises, dark against his white knuckles.
“How did you get those marks on your hands?” I demand, but as I expected, Vane can’t or won’t answer. “You punched Prince Hadrien, didn’t you? To demand more rewards when you finished his—his murder crusade. Is that right?”
The last time I saw him, mere days ago in the throne room, Hadrien’s face was bruised just beneath his eye. Still, I want to hear Vane say it aloud. To hear Hadrien’s name spoken by someone who, in his final moments, has no reason to lie.
“Death be damned—say his name!”
But Vane is still and silent again. I shake his shoulders. He doesn’t move, his body limp beneath my hands.
He’s gone; his spirit has vanished, leaving behind the shell of a mage who could have done some good with his unusual power—protecting necromancers during their travels to the Deadlands, for one. But instead, he was loyal to Hadrien to the end.
And now, no longer under their master’s control, his Shades are free to hunt.
I hurriedly grab Vane’s silver mask and cloak, careful to avoid touching the part that’s wet with blood. They’re a reminder that Karthia’s enemies can be slain. That I can slay them, even the traitorous prince who was once, perhaps, my friend.
The lake becomes a blur as I sink forward in the sand beside the Shade-baiter’s body. I thought Hadrien loved me. I swear I heard caring in his voice that day in the throne room, but he sent me here to have me killed, away from my friends, from help.
I stagger to my feet. The world, my world, is falling apart, and I’m probably much too late to stop it—but I have to try. Even if I don’t know who or what to trust anymore.
A Shade howls in the distance, fighting with its companions as they feast on the body of the rogue necromancer who managed to flee farthest.
Gazing up the beach, I realize all the other Shade-baiters are either dead or gone. I don’t see Meredy, but Lysander’s chomping on one of the mangled corpses without a care, meaning she must be alive and unharmed nearby.
The spirits of the Deadlands haven’t yet lured her to taste their fruit or wade in their lakes, though they might, and I have no honey. We need to get out of here before the Shades run out of other bones to crunch.
I hurry to where Master Cymbre’s book is half-buried in the sand. My heart soars pitifully as I tuck the leather-bound poems into my front pocket for safekeeping, as though touching the battered pages will bring me closer to Cymbre. I pat the book, trying to tell my foolish heart it’s of no use.
A Shade howls again, and another one answers with a gleeful, lilting noise.
Shaking my head to clear it, I pick up my sword and call to Meredy, “We need to go!”
There’s a gate on the lake’s western shore. It won’t take long to reach, just a sprint down the beach, following the curve of the narrow stretch of sand.
“Oh good. There you are,” I say shakily as Meredy reappears beside me. I need her steady presence to help me focus as I lead us out of here. “Get Lysander. Hurry.”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me or even the Shades’ hunting cries as they start to close in, bounding on all fours like hounds instead of the humans they once were. With a vacant expression, she kneels by Vane and pulls the dagger from his flesh. She brings it to her lips and licks the gooey crimson mess from the flat of the blade.
“What are you doing?” I try to suppress a shudder.
She glances up, her eyes still blank, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood all over her face.
I reach for the dagger. She holds it out of reach, snarling like a feral dog. Then I remember: the effects of her magic. She was using Lysander like a puppet to hunt the other Shade-baiters, and now she’s become like a beast herself.
Vaia only knows for how long.
Lysander bounds toward me, whining softly and looking from me to the Shades. They’re coming toward us, swift gray shadows we can’t outrun.
But perhaps Lysander can.
Waiting until Meredy is distracted by her dagger again, I bash her on the temple. “I’m doing this for her own good,” I mutter to a growling Lysander. Then I throw Meredy’s limp form over the bear’s back. This time, it’s not Meredy commanding him to give me a ride, I realize as he lowers himself so I can climb on behind her. He’s trying to help me escape along with his master. That, or he knows he needs me to find the gate out of here.
The Shades spray sand everywhere as their skeletal feet hit the shore.
Lysander takes off in the direction I point. “Stay out of the water!” I yell as I hang on to his back with one hand and steady Meredy with the other, keeping Vane’s cloak and mask tucked securely under one arm.
The spirits in the lake are so far gone, they don’t even notice our passing as we race along the shore, steps ahead of our pursuers.
The water becomes a blur as Lysander pushes himself to run harder.
The Shades’ rattling breaths ring in my ears.
Without Vane’s power compelling them, the monsters won’t leave the Deadlands. If we can just get to the gate, we’ll be safe. They might try to go after the spirits in the lake instead, but there’s no time to worry or feel guilty about that now.
The blue glow washes over Lysander’s fur, over Meredy’s pale face. Her eyes flutter open, widening with horror at the sight of whatever’s right behind me, whatever’s breathing frost down
my neck.
Lysander jumps into the gate. Our hushed breaths fill the dark tunnel.
XXVII
By the time we’re through the gate, our feet steady on the cold, firm ground of our own world, Meredy is herself again—groggy and paler than usual, but not about to chase down any of the nearby squirrels or rabbits for an early meal.
Swathed in gray predawn light, we make our way straight to Abethell Castle’s stables, not bothering to stop back in our rooms, leaving Lysander waiting at the entrance. His hired thugs all dead or wounded, we might’ve ruined Hadrien’s plans for now, but we need to return to Grenwyr at once to learn what he’s planning next and where he’s hidden the king.
If we still have a king, and he isn’t already a monster.
Taking a deep breath, I shove the thought to the back of my mind, where it’ll have to stay for now. Buried, along with my grief for Master Cymbre. The one person I need most right now, who can never again tell me what to do or rush to my aid.
I’m on my own. I have to figure out a way to stop these attacks myself. And if I mess up, no one will swoop in to save me this time.
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” Meredy murmurs as she chooses a chestnut horse and slips into its stall. She spits. “I can still taste his blood.”
I’m halfway through saddling a white horse when a shadow blocks the torchlight, forcing me to pause and turn. Baroness Abethell, in a long robe and slippers, stands at the stall door, watching me with a frown. She must have entered the row of stalls from the far side, as there’s no way she could have marched past Lysander.
“There’s no time to explain,” I mutter as I tighten the horse’s girth and adjust the stirrups. “We’ll pay you back for the horses when we’re able.”
“Consider the horses another gift from the people of Elsinor,” the baroness says. “You killed a Shade for us, after all. No one in the castle will forget that anytime soon. But are you sure you have to leave like this?”
I blink at her.
“Why not stay for a nice breakfast before you go on your way? The cooks will have it ready in just a few hours.”
The baroness’s forced pleasantness reminds me of the day she took us on a tour of the surrounding valleys. Yesterday, I realize. Everything’s a blur without sleep. Still, there’s something off about the overly hospitable baroness, and I doubt my feelings would change even after a long nap.
“Why don’t you want us to leave?” I demand as I ready my horse.
But the baroness is staring at Meredy, and when she finally shifts her gaze to me, she looks just as stunned. “Is that blood on your faces, dears?” she stammers. “I can call a healer . . .”
“We’re leaving. Now,” I grit out, touching the hilt of my sword. I’m willing to bet I look as feral as Meredy did, with my bloodshot eyes and tangled hair. “There aren’t any more Shades coming for your people right now, if that’s what you’re worried about. But there will be if you don’t let us get back to Grenwyr to find and stop a madman.”
“A madman? What—?”
“Tell me why you don’t want us to leave!” I snap, cutting her off.
The baroness sucks in a breath and pales.
“You’d better answer her,” Meredy snarls, and Lysander echoes her with a distant growl. “If you’re interested in getting out of here in one piece. The bear is hungry.”
The baroness braces herself against the stall door, and the horse I’m saddling whinnies happily. Baroness Abethell strokes the horse’s soft nose with a trembling hand as she says quietly, “I was just following Prince Hadrien’s orders. I can show you his letter. He asked me to keep you delayed and entertained in Abethell until he sent for you. And not to breathe a word about it to anyone. Not even my guards.” She frowns as she gazes from me to Meredy and back. “Has something happened? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“You have no idea,” Meredy murmurs.
“Am I in trouble, too?” The baroness glances between us, still pale. “Is this about the Shade attacks . . . ?”
“Kind of.” I push open the stall door, leading my horse into the wide aisle with Meredy’s. The baroness makes no move to stop me. “There’s no time to explain now, but you’re not in any immediate danger. We just need to hurry. Prince Hadrien . . .” I swallow hard, the name sticking in my throat. “The prince urgently needs us back in Grenwyr. We received a raven in the dead of night ordering our return.”
“Safe journey, then,” Baroness Abethell says softly, looking uncertain but like she’ll be glad to see the back of Lysander.
As Meredy and I ride out of Elsinor, back up the mountain path where charred remnants of our wagon still litter the ground, my eyes are on the grizzly scouting the road ahead. But my thoughts are with Hadrien.
I picture the bruise on his face where Vane punched him and wish I could give him a few more bruises. Scenes of the Shade attacks in Elsinor—attacks that Hadrien ordered—flash mercilessly through my mind, death and misery on the grandest scale I’ve ever seen.
Then I remember the way his eyes lit up whenever he spotted me at the palace. The way he seemed so protective of Valoria and his younger siblings. The way he looked up to King Wylding as though he were Vaia the Five-Faced God himself. Was it all an act?
“I’ve been so stupid,” I mutter, mostly to myself, though Meredy turns in her saddle to glance at me. “I should’ve taken you at your word when you told me your suspicions in the wagon instead of trying to pick a fight with you.”
Meredy narrows her eyes and says nothing, evidently lost in thought.
“But why all this murder? Why destroy his family? Why hurt the people of Karthia if he wants to rule them? And why hurt—?” I stop myself before I can add me. Whatever I thought he felt for me, it must have been part of his grand illusion.
“I wonder if anyone can ever truly know another person,” Meredy says softly, her eyes lingering on me as she trusts her horse to stick to the path. “Or if we all keep a few rooms’ worth of secrets locked away in our minds.”
I’m tempted to ask what secrets Meredy keeps, but I’m too exhausted to hear them. I wonder if I’m keeping any of my own. Yet all thoughts seem to lead back to Hadrien, making me too sick to eat despite my stomach growling.
We ride in silence for hours.
“You were right about something else,” I say a while later, as we descend the mountain. The late afternoon light makes our shadows leap and dance along the path ahead of us, like phantoms leading a parade of the living. “I am selfish.”
Meredy halts her horse until mine catches up, frowning as she watches me.
“I took Master Cymbre for granted. I thought she’d always be there to clean up my messes, like that was her job or something. Like she was untouchable.” I take a breath. Just saying her name makes my whole body ache with the loss. “I didn’t even pay enough attention to you when you came to me for help with Firiel. I should’ve taken time to warn you about what was happening in the Deadlands, and because I didn’t, you nearly died.”
I drop my gaze. “I was hurt, and I forgot about everyone else who was hurting, too. Cymbre, and you, and Lyda—”
“Shut up.” Meredy leans toward me in the saddle, tucking back a loose strand of my hair. “You can’t take on the blame for any deaths Hadrien caused. This was out of your control, like you’d have me believe Firiel’s death was out of mine.”
I nod, choked by a sudden rush of tears. I flick the horse’s reins and urge her to resume the steep downward walk, Meredy’s fingers grazing my cheek as I drift away. My hands shake, reminding me of my potion withdrawal. But I don’t want potions anymore. I don’t want to be numb. I want to feel angry, want my blood to run so hot that when I find Hadrien, I can kill him without mourning yet another lost life.
I want to grieve for my friends, so that their deaths will have meant something.
Tears slide down my cheeks as I hold their faces in my mind. Evander. Nicanor. Cymbre. The people of Elsinor. And perhaps even King Wylding, if we’re too late.
Please, by Vaia’s grace, don’t let us be too late.
One day blurs into the next as we cross Grenwyr’s lush farmland on our way back to Grenwyr City. Meredy forces us to stop for a few hours’ rest, which I agree to only because I can’t tell which end of my horse is the head. I wake up curled against Meredy’s back, and we push our still-exhausted horses to gallop the rest of the way to the city.
Early morning sunlight warms Meredy’s hair, turning it from its usual deep purple-red to a fiery shade. From behind, I could almost mistake her for Master Cymbre, but when my horse draws level with hers, the scar on her cheek and the determined look in her eyes—even her smile—are all Meredy. Not Cymbre, not Evander. Just Meredy.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I murmur as we cross into the oddly quiet heart of Grenwyr City at last. “This isn’t your fight.”
Meredy smiles, a warrior’s sharp smile, and I’m flooded with gratitude that I’ve got such a brave girl beside me. “But it is. I’m helping you get justice for Evander. Besides, this is every Karthian’s fight now. I know I wasn’t myself in the Deadlands after working my magic with Lysander, but I still heard most of what the masked necromancer said before he died. Hadrien has a lot to answer for.”
“Thank you.” I clutch the horse’s reins harder, resisting a sudden urge to reach for her, to steal a moment with her calming touch. I wonder if she knows how important she is to me. I want to tell her, but instead what leaves my mouth as we crest another hill is, “It feels like we’ve come a long way in just a few days.”
Meredy opens her mouth, but as the palace comes into view, the determination in her eyes is swiftly replaced with fear.
I follow her gaze, struggling to make sense of the scene unfolding on the grassy slope below the palace. It looks as though all of Grenwyr City has gathered there, a sea of dark and light hair, scarves and dresses and fishermen’s caps all blurring together.
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