Reign of the Fallen

by Sarah Glenn Marsh

  As one of the guards snaps a pair of shackles around my wrists, I catch a glimpse of the crowd, and I’m relieved to see that at least some of them have fled. But not all. Not nearly enough. I hope Meredy didn’t come back for me after all, but that she found my friends and she’s taking them somewhere safe—if there is any such place anymore.

  “Now, I’m going to have the guard remove his hand so you can tell me where Vane is,” Hadrien says smoothly. “Nod if you understand.”

  I simply glare at him. It’s all I can do with my hands, and now my feet, bound in heavy iron cuffs.

  Still, the guard drops his hand. I utter every curse word I can think of, ones I picked up from the masters and a few that I’ve only heard in the Ashes. Words that feel gritty on my tongue and stick in my throat, though I choke them out anyway and hurl them at Hadrien.

  The prince’s face isn’t so handsome anymore. He’s frowning, his fists clenched at his sides like mine were when I had to listen to all the filth he spewed at the crowd.

  “I was wrong about you, Odessa,” he says at last, the words devoid of any emotion. “You aren’t my Serpent after all. And although you haven’t said so, I assume Vane is dead if you’re wearing his mask.” He looks me straight in the face and smiles. “Perhaps we’re even, as my men are putting your friends Jax and Simeon to death as we speak.”

  He turns, gesturing to a guard. The older man drops a familiar sword in the grass at our feet, followed by several small daggers perfect for tucking up a sleeve or in a boot. Jax’s blades. Jax, whose lips are dry and rough like his hands. Jax, who held me through the worst days of my new life without Evander.

  Hadrien might as well have thrust the daggers into me, because the sight of them alone sends a wave of pain through my chest. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts.

  The guard tosses something else. It’s tiny, difficult to see in the blurry world of light and shadow dancing before my eyes. “I might actually keep that. It looks expensive. Kingly, even,” Hadrien murmurs as the small shiny object lands near the daggers.

  I don’t need to blink away my tears to know he’s got Simeon’s ring. The one he still wears on a frayed cord around his neck, just like he did on the day the nuns found him, a frightened child wandering the Ashes. Simeon, the only person who can make me laugh on my worst days. Simeon, who’s been my brother since the moment we met.

  The noise of the crowd dies away. My knees buckle. If not for the guards, I’d fall to the ground. I want to sink through layers of earth to someplace where this pain can’t find me. Where I can pretend everyone I love is waiting for me in the next room.

  “Where’s Valoria?” I demand. Surely he wouldn’t kill his own sister?

  “She’s keeping the men of the dungeon company,” Hadrien drawls unconcernedly. “And she’ll stay there until she decides to support me, or she’ll swing from the noose. But since you’re here, you might as well witness the beginning of my reign.”

  He grabs my chin, forcing me to look toward the cage.

  I don’t fight him.

  Three of the six Dead in the cage are now Shades, thrusting their rotting arms through the iron bars in an attempt to grasp at the distant crowd. The rest must have been eaten by the monsters. Six black shrouds and two gleaming crowns lie on the cage floor, forgotten.

  Jax and Simeon are dead or dying.

  Valoria’s in a dungeon with thieves and murderers, if she’s even still alive.

  There’s no one left for me to save.

  Except—Meredy. If she can stay out of harm’s way long enough, maybe I can escape and find her. The thought is all that keeps me standing.

  “Now, let’s see what a fine group of Karthians like yourselves can do to the monsters that are threatening to overrun your homes!” Hadrien roars at the crowd. “Burn them. Burn all the Dead, and purge our beloved Karthia of the necromancers’ corruption!” He turns back to the cage. “I hope you’re watching, Sparrow,” he says softly, shifting his gaze from me to the nearby guards. “Release the Shades!”

  The cage springs open.

  I can’t tell the Shades’ shrill cries apart from the crowd’s shrieks.

  “Run!” I scream before a guard silences me again.

  People scatter in all directions. The few foolish enough to hold their ground are slain where they stand. Some throw torches at the three Shades, while others drop theirs, setting the palace hill ablaze.

  “Don’t worry,” Hadrien whispers in my ear, breath hot. “I have a weather mage ready to douse the fire. And I have archers standing by with flaming arrows, if the monsters prove to be too much for my people. But they’re stronger than they think.” He half smiles, a gesture that would be handsome if I didn’t know how black his spirit was. “I had to have a backup plan, you see, in case Vane didn’t come through.” Winking, he adds, “I didn’t completely underestimate you.”

  I have so much more I want to shout at him, but the hand over my mouth is pressed uncomfortably tight. Hoping to startle the guard into letting go, I push my tongue against the salty skin of his palm, but he doesn’t even flinch.

  As the people’s screams get louder and tiny fires erupt all over the sloping hills leading up to the palace, Lyda and a few other living nobles join Hadrien beside the empty cage. They coolly survey the panicked fighting and the trail of carnage left by the three gray shadows as they dart among the people.

  Lyda puts a hand on Hadrien’s arm, not quite looking at me as she asks, “What are you going to do with her, Majesty?”

  Her. She doesn’t even have the courage to use my name.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Hadrien says, holding my gaze but talking to Lyda. “I want you to kill her, Baroness Crowther. She may have the strength of Vaia, but with her hands and feet bound, she’s no more threat to anyone than a rabbit in a hunter’s snare. Even you can’t fail.” Frowning slightly, he adds, “Given your history with her, I trust you’ll see that it’s done swiftly. She deserves a warrior’s death, after all.”

  Lyda blanches, her blue eyes glistening, but she nods to one of the guards.

  The clamor of terrified people fades as I’m struck in the back of the head.

  XXIX

  Everything is pitch-dark. I can’t see. I try to reach up, to feel what’s wrong with my eyes, but my hands are still shackled. I open my mouth to call for help just as Lyda speaks softly from somewhere nearby.

  “I can’t do it.” She takes a deep breath. “I can’t kill you, Sparrow, any more than I could bring myself to kill Evander when Hadrien asked it of me to prove my loyalty.”

  It sounds like she’s crying.

  The noise should probably fill me with dread, but I don’t feel anything.

  Jax and Simeon are probably dead by now. Valoria’s trapped. Vaia only knows where Meredy is. And now the Dead I worked so hard to raise, to protect, are being made into monsters and hunted down by Hadrien and his followers just to terrify the people of Karthia into choosing him as their leader.

  If I let myself feel any of the pain, any of the losses, right now, I’m afraid it’ll break me open and what sanity I have left will slip away.

  And if the Dead don’t have me to fight for them, they’ll have no one.

  “What’s happening?” I cough, swallowing to wet my parched throat. Lyda’s finally stopped crying. “Why can’t I see? What have you done?”

  “I blinded you while you were unconscious. A few drops of potion in each eye. And now I’m taking you to the Deadlands.” I picture her frosty blue eyes narrowing as she adds in a crisp voice, “It’ll only be a matter of time before a Shade finds you and does what I can’t.”

  And now I understand. Without my sight, I can’t find my way out of the ever-shifting Deadlands. And with my hands bound, I can’t fight any monsters that come near.

  Lyda’s well-manicured fingernails dig into my arms as she starts to drag
me. I try to kick her, relieved to find my feet are no longer shackled like my hands, but I only lash at air. Whatever gate she’s pulling me toward, she’s doing it alone, or someone would no doubt be holding my legs.

  “Why, Lyda?” I ask as she sets me down a short while later. “I know you fear the Dead, but this . . .”

  There are cold cobblestones beneath my head, and the occasional scream echoes in the distance. We must be on the outskirts of Grenwyr City, barely removed from the crowd and the rampaging Shades.

  I’m amazed Hadrien hasn’t had his archers kill them by now. I thought he only wanted to scare people into following him, not murder them before they have a chance to make up their minds. But then, Hadrien wouldn’t be doing any of this if he truly cared about his people.

  “Sometimes,” Lyda says softly, drawing my attention back to her, “we have to sacrifice those we love for a greater good.”

  “You think Hadrien is even remotely good?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s time we had a living king. It can only lead to a better Karthia.” Lyda’s breathing hard from the effort of dragging me. “After what happened to my husband, I knew living among the Dead was impossible. Death is an ending, not a new beginning. That’s why I begged and pleaded with you and Evander for years to stop your foolish necromancer training—but you wouldn’t listen. You became part of the problem, and neither of you cared how much it hurt me. The necromancers had to be stopped. It doesn’t matter that one was my son. Or that one is you. It’s for the greater good of Karthia.”

  “And you think all this death is going to bring peace somehow?”

  “Yes.” She groans as she pulls me upward onto cool, damp earth, and I know we’re inside a tunnel to the Deadlands now. “With Hadrien on the throne and the Dead back in the Deadlands, my daughters can live in a world where they won’t have to fear monsters.”

  I laugh, though there’s no joy in the sound. “You realize you’re about to murder me, right? That makes you as wicked as a Shade, even if you’re not willing to get your hands dirty.” I wish I could see her face as I taunt her. It’s so much more satisfying that way. “If it’s a world without monsters you want, you should start by falling on your own sword.”

  Lyda’s breathing becomes more and more ragged as she pulls me by the back of my shirt down a long tunnel to the Deadlands. This is probably the hardest day’s work a delicate lady like her has ever had to do. Maybe she’s even breaking a sweat.

  She doesn’t say another word. My back aches, sore and scratched and probably bleeding from being pulled over sharp stones and twigs. Finally, she releases me, and my head falls on a soft bed of flowers.

  I must be in one of the Deadlands’ fields or gardens.

  Something sharp slices across my arm above the shackles. It’s a shallow cut, but it still hurts enough that I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out. I don’t need to ask why Lyda did that. I’ve done it enough times myself.

  She wants to be sure the Shades will find me.

  “Goodbye, Sparrow,” she murmurs, pressing a light kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I did care for you once, you know, back when I still hoped I could change your mind.”

  “So that’s it, then?” I shout after Lyda’s retreating footsteps. I can’t believe I ever looked to her as a mother of sorts, a silver-tongued snake in a fancy dress. Cymbre was my real mother. A sword-wielding, foul-mouthed, plain-trousers-wearing real mother. “You’re just going to leave me like this?”

  Of course she is. She’s no better than Hadrien, and just as much of a coward.

  The wind rustles through the Deadlands’ giant blossoms like a song, lulling me to sleep. This is when I’d reach for the honey on my necromancer’s belt, if I were wearing it.

  But my sword is gone. My friends are gone, or as good as gone. There’s nothing left to tie me to the land of the living.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing, the flowers sing.

  I might as well stay here and breathe in the chill, utterly scentless air until my own end. I’ve been fighting so much lately. All my cuts and bruises, the screams of the dying, the sights and smells of so much carnage. It’s a lot for anyone to bear. I deserve a good long rest in a place where everything is beautiful, a place where the cold dulls all other senses.

  I close my sightless eyes and curl up on my side.

  After a while, I can’t feel the warmth of fresh blood trickling down my arm anymore. I’m as light as a blade of grass, ready to float away.

  Evander drifts in and out of my thoughts. Sometimes he offers me his hand from the other side of a deep ravine, and at others, he turns his back on me. Almost like he’s two different people. I wonder which Evander is real, and which is the one I conjured during my potion-fueled hallucinations.

  A hand closes firmly over my shoulder. I guess this is the real Evander, come to take me to wherever he is now.

  He grips me by both shoulders, shaking me so hard my teeth bang together.

  Gasping, I sit up, inhaling the Deadlands’ crisp air.

  Another pair of cold but solid hands grabs hold of mine, pulling up to my feet.

  “What’s happening?” I rasp over the sound of my beating heart.

  No one answers. I can’t tell how many pairs of cold hands are on my back, are gripping my arms, are marching me through the field. They’re spirits, I’m sure of that much. But I can’t imagine where they’re taking me. Maybe they want to feed me to the Shades that have been terrifying them all into hiding at the farthest corners of the Deadlands.

  As I stumble down a hill, quickly steadied by their many hands, I say the first spirit’s name that comes to mind. “Firiel?”

  Long, icy fingers trail through my hair, then touch my cheek as if to say, Yes.

  “Meredy, she could be in danger. If—if you help me find my way out of here, I can try to save her from the terrible thing that’s happening in Karthia.”

  As I think of Meredy, a knot forms in my throat. I wish I could see her again. But even if I do make my way out of here, I don’t know how long I’ll last in the Shade-ravaged Grenwyr City when I can’t see a thing.

  The spirits steer me to the left, and my shoulders tense at the sound of running water.

  There’s a bridge here, I realize, as the wooden planks groan under my feet.

  A moment later, I feel a familiar tugging around my navel, drawing me toward a nearby gate. Lyda must have forgotten why they call me the Sparrow. And so, for a moment there, did I. I don’t need to rely completely on my sight when I’m in the Deadlands.

  The spirits support me as I stagger toward the gate, too dizzy to run, and the pull grows stronger until I know without needing to look that we’re standing in the gate’s glow.

  The spirits must be repaying me for all the times I’ve taken many of them home to their bodies. Protecting me, like I’ve always tried to protect them. Or else they know I don’t belong here. That I belong in Karthia, with the sun and the birds and the wide, sparkling sea. With the hopes and failures and laughter of the living.

  I want to cry and smile at the same time. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I had no idea you’d come to . . .”

  My voice trails off. The touch of the cold hands vanishes as suddenly as it arrived. The spirits must be gliding away. All but one, it seems, as someone gives me a firm push toward the gate and home beyond.

  In the distance, the flowers of the Deadlands rustle their soft petals and sing.

  Stay, stay, stay.

  I hesitate, one foot in the gate.

  If I go back to Karthia, everything around me will be out of my control. The killings. The monsters. The twisted dreams of a mad prince.

  Except there’s one thing I can control. What I do about it.

  I step my other foot in the gate, humming to drown out the Deadlands’ song, and begin the long walk through the tunnel.

&
nbsp; Things will never be perfect, as Master Cymbre tried to teach me. Life will be hard and painful as long as I cling to it, but there’s beauty in it, too. It used to be easy to find, whenever I looked in Evander’s eyes. And now I’ve seen it in Meredy’s. And it’s mine to fight for.

  I’ll think of every lost life with every breath I take, always.

  Yet as long as I’m alive, I have to keep going. One step after another through this tunnel until I’m back in Grenwyr City to rejoin the battle, a little more broken than before.

  For Evander. For my friends and the Dead and the helpless. For me.

  All I can do is keep fighting.

  * * *

  I fall out of the gate feet-first, toppling over onto cobblestones that are cold and slick with what I hope is rain.

  I push myself up using my elbows and stagger to my feet, all the while straining my ears for any sign of the crowd from the hill. Or any of Grenwyr City’s citizens, for that matter. The scents of death surround me, but I don’t hear anything, not a whisper or a scream. I hold my bound hands out, trying to feel the walls of any buildings before I hit them, my stomach churning over the stench I can’t seem to escape no matter which way I turn.

  I hurry down what must be an alleyway, a place where the air is cooler and, mercifully, cleaner. Maybe this is a safe spot to catch my breath. But the moment I forget to test the ground in front of me with my toes before taking a step, I trip over the still-warm body of someone large, likely a man, and crash down hard. He’s not breathing.

  Gasping for breath, I crawl away. There’s no way I’m going to find my friends, or the frantic people of Grenwyr, if I can’t even walk a few paces without falling.

  Still, I made a promise to myself in the Deadlands. I have to get up. I have to keep going.

  A gust of warm, fishy breath stops me as I retrace my steps through the alley. I raise my hands to shield my face as a beast growls, and something furry wallops me right in the middle. It knocks me backward, but mercifully, not off my feet again.