Elodie took a deep breath. “Lord Vicerin was right about one thing: I will be queen. The prophecy says so.”
Murmuring broke out along the line of ghosts. As one, they knelt before Elodie.
“A triplet of the prophecy,” said Lady Darrand in wonder. “So, have you found your siblings yet, Elodie, one of three?”
“One of them. He was with me when Trident attacked Idilliam. Then, when Lord Vicerin captured Fessan—he was the leader of Trident—I came back here to try to save him. But . . .”
“But what, my dear?”
“Vicerin had Fessan executed. Then he forced me to marry him, so he could take my throne.” She waved a hand at the ridiculous gold wedding dress, with its trail of ribbons. “I’m his prisoner again. But now that you’re here, I will be free.”
Fire flashed outside the tower window. Orange flames flickered in the night sky.
Samial ran to the bars. “Fighting,” he reported. “The elk-men are attacking the Vicerins. Many Vicerin soldiers lie dead in the courtyard. There are flames in the West Tower.”
Elodie told Cedric and Sylva what he’d said.
“The elk-men?” said Cedric, joining Samial at the window. “Do you mean the Helkrags?”
“Those who murdered us?” put in the ghost in the gold tunic.
“Yes,” said Elodie. “But I don’t understand. I thought they’d joined forces with Vicerin.”
“I doubt it,” said Cedric. “From what I heard, the Helkrags are loyal to no man. The only thing they care about is getting paid.”
“Our father paid them to kill people?” Sylva sounded both faint and shocked.
“What did he pay?” Lady Darrand’s voice was cold and harsh. “What was the price of our lives?”
The rest of the ghosts had bunched around her. Several had drawn swords and daggers. All looked furious.
“Children,” put in Samial. “Vicerin keeps children prisoner. He was going to give them to the elk-men as slaves.”
“How do you know?” said Elodie.
“I overheard two of the castle guards talking. You overhear a lot when you are invisible.”
“Remember the children we freed?” asked Elodie. She, Cedric, and Sylva had led them from the cells and into the care of Captain Leom, a grizzled ranger who took them to safety—where, Elodie didn’t know. “The children were the price,” she said in disgust. “The Helkrags must have turned on him when Vicerin couldn’t make the payment.”
A rising ball of flame turned the night sky briefly yellow. Screams floated up, rapidly followed by the rumble of collapsing masonry. Everyone clustered at the window, human and ghost alike. All except Elodie. She knew what battles looked like; she had no need to see this one. But it did offer the perfect diversion for their escape.
She quickly gathered up the belongings she’d used to summon the ghosts. She stuffed them into the pocket of her mud-stained wedding dress where she kept the arrowhead that belonged to Samial, and kept him able to walk the world of the living. She hoped the other things would let the noble ghosts stay too.
“Listen to me!” All faces turned to hers. Elodie focused on Lady Darrand’s. “You asked for my command.”
“And you gave it,” Lady Darrand replied. “Freedom and victory, as I recall.”
“Yes. But not just for me.” Elodie took a step toward them. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to get out of this cell. Then we’re going to recover the jewels . . . .”
“Jewels?” said Cedric.
“Green jewels.” Elodie fought back impatience. The time for talk was over. The time for action had come. “One each for me and my brothers. They’re important—I don’t know why, they just are. Vicerin stole two of them.”
“Then they must be returned,” said Lady Darrand.
“Oh, they will be!”
“And when we’ve got the jewels?” said Sylva.
“We raise an army and march on Idilliam. We find my brothers. Together we take the crown. I will be queen! My brothers will be kings! The prophecy will be fulfilled! That’s what I mean by freedom and victory. Not just for me. Not just for you. For the whole of Toronia!”
Elodie stopped, breathless. To her amazement, most of the ghosts had dropped to one knee again and bowed their heads. As she watched, Lady Darrand and Samial followed suit.
Boots echoed on the stairs outside. A man coughed, and then Elodie heard the sound of a key in a lock. She whirled in time to see the door swing open. Four burly guards, dressed in scuffed armor and blue Vicerin sashes, marched in. One—a stocky man whose red face was beaded with sweat—held up a collection of jangling chains and spiked manacles.
“You’re to come with us,” he snapped. “Away from the fighting. Lord Vicerin says . . .”
His voice trailed away. His eyes, and those of his three companions, were staring not at Elodie but at what lay beyond her.
Elodie crossed her arms. “You were about to say something about Lord Vicerin?” She felt something soft brush her shoulders as the ghosts of the Ritherlee nobles strode past her and, with their phantom swords raised, bore down on the guards.
The red-faced guard squealed. Spinning on his heels, he dropped the chains and blundered past his comrades, who took one look at the roomful of ghosts and followed fast behind him.
“All of you, follow me!” Elodie called, running after them.
She descended the stairs in a breathless blur, holding up the hem of the wedding dress so as not to trip on the ribbons. Behind her came Sylva, Cedric, Samial, and the ghostly nobles. After three complete turns, the spiral staircase brought them to a narrow hall, beyond which a gaping doorway opened onto a scene of utter chaos.
On the far side of the open yard lay the remains of the White Tower’s smaller neighbor, the West Tower. The squat stone structure was now just a pile of rubble within which the smashed remains of wooden beams were blazing.
In and around the ruins, hundreds of soldiers were fighting hand-to-hand: the Vicerins with their shining breastplates and blue sashes, the barbarian Helkrags with their battered leather armor and tooth-covered furs. Everywhere, the air rang as Vicerin swords met Helkrag axes.
“The Northern Regiment!” Cedric cried over the noise of the battle. “Father’s called for reinforcements!”
Looking in the direction he was pointing, Elodie spied a squad of Vicerin horsemen plowing a steady course through the confusion. The horses were huge and shaggy; the men on their backs wore heavy armor and silver spiked helmets.
“I can see him,” said Sylva. “Look, in the middle of them.”
Elodie took in a sharp breath. There he was: Lord Vicerin, the man she’d once called father.
Except you’re not a man, she thought grimly. You’re a monster.
Vicerin’s horse was bigger even than those of the Northern Regiment—a massive white charger with a thick, plaited mane. His polished armor caught the light of the nearby flames, and the huge blue feathers rising from his helmet fluttered in the hot, gusting wind.
“Our lord looks quite the hero,” said Lady Darrand archly.
“If a hero stays safe behind five rows of mounted knights,” Cedric muttered.
Elodie watched as Vicerin waved his sword and shouted his orders—mostly threats, warning his soldiers what would happen to them if they failed to defeat the enemy.
“I’ve never seen the Northern Regiment called back to the castle before,” she said.
“They’re not the only ones,” Cedric replied. “There, beyond the flames—do you see the flags of the Expeditionary Force? It looks like he’s called back every regiment. The whole army is here in Castle Vicerin.”
“He is desperate,” said Lady Darrand.
“And weak,” said Elodie.
All eyes turned to her.
“Weak?” said Sylva. She tossed her head toward the battle. “I’ve never seen so many soldiers.”
“He’s weak,” Elodie repeated. “He’s brought all his soldiers to the same place
. That makes them vulnerable.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t he know anything about basic military tactics?”
“That man is a pampered, powdered fool,” said Lady Darrand. “Elodie—I see a gap, there. Run through it. I will keep the Vicerins at bay to your right.”
The old man in the gold tunic touched his sword to his forehead. “And I will deal with the Helkrags to your left,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Elodie. “I’m sorry—I don’t know your name.”
“Lord Winterborne. My estate lies in the western plains, close to the sea. And I am yours to command.”
“Do you think you can see us safely to the outer wall?”
Lord Winterborne bowed low. “It will be our pleasure, Your Highness.”
Sweeping their swords like scythes through grass, the small band of ghosts split in two, then proceeded to cut their way through the fighting. Elodie and the others hurried through the gap they opened up. With grim satisfaction Elodie observed the looks of surprise and horror on the faces of the Vicerin and Helkrag soldiers as phantom blades descended on them out of the firelit night.
As she ran, she heard voices. Very faint. Very old. Very weak. Voices that reached her despite the clash and roar of the battle.
The voices of the dead.
They were coming from the walls of the castle that loomed overhead, huge and ancient.
Can I summon them, too? she wondered.
Turning a corner, they found themselves in a small herb garden. High ivy-covered walls shielded them from the battle. The sweet aromas of sage and parsley were welcome after the stench of blood and smoke. Through a narrow door on the far side of the garden came a faint red glow that wasn’t fire, but the light of the coming dawn.
The long night was nearly over.
“Someone is here,” said Winterborne. He raised his voice. “Come out!”
Peering past the ghost’s shoulder, Elodie watched as two dim figures materialized out of the gloom.
More ghosts?
Then the figures became solid—not ghosts at all, but living people whom Elodie recognized.
“Frida!” she cried, darting forward to embrace the black-robed witch who had tried to cure Lady Vicerin of her husband’s poison. Frida had clearly been hiding here with her son. The little boy clung to his mother’s arm, his eyes wide.
Frida touched a hand to Elodie’s cheek. “You’re safe,” she said. “Thank the stars.”
“But what about you two?” said Elodie. “If Vicerin finds you . . .”
“I have ways of keeping us unseen.”
The wind gusted, bringing with it the smell of smoke—and the murmur of ghostly voices. The voices were stronger now, echoing all around the garden.
Frida peered closely at Elodie. “You hear them, don’t you?”
Elodie nodded.
“It is the song of the past. The song of the dead. It is rooted in this castle. Rooted in this land.”
Elodie seized Frida’s hands. “Help me, Frida. I know they can fight for me. But . . . I don’t know how to summon them.”
“If you call them, they will come.”
“But how? I know I can summon ghosts—a whole army, if I need to.” She released Frida and ran a hand through her short hair in frustration. “But I need something to hold. Possessions. Clothing. Anything. Unless I can touch something, I can’t . . .”
“Things are not important, my dear. Your power is within you.”
“But how do I . . . ?”
“Go to them. Be near to them. Find the place where they lie, and speak to them there. They will hear you. And they will rise.”
The witch led Elodie to the narrow door in the garden wall. She pointed past the knotted ivy at a distant hill topped with a thin straggle of trees.
“Beyond there is a place,” Frida said. “You will know it when you see it. They call it the Forgotten Graveyard.”
As Elodie looked toward it, the morning sun broke through, casting the hilltop with gold. For a moment the trees seemed alight with flame. The warmth bathed Elodie’s face and she narrowed her eyes against its fierce glare.
I’m coming, she told the dead who lay there. You will be forgotten no longer.
She turned back to the others.
“I will call the dead of Castle Vicerin,” she proclaimed. “Today they become my army. Today they rise!”
CHAPTER 3
Two days of steady flying brought Tarlan and Theeta to the foothills of a vast mountain range. Idilliam was far behind them, Isur even farther. In the distant south lay Ritherlee and beyond that the icy land of Yalasti, which Tarlan had once called home. Tarlan thought of Yalasti now, as Theeta’s broad wings lifted them higher into air that grew increasingly thin. The mountains ahead were gigantic, capped with snow. Their slopes were steep, their peaks jagged; they looked altogether more threatening than the mountains of his old home.
I can’t ever go back, he thought. Yalasti’s just a graveyard now.
Grief washed over him as he remembered Mirith’s dying face, the icy gaze in the frost witch’s eyes. And poor Seethan, the oldest thorrod in the flock, butchered by Helkrags before Tarlan’s outraged eyes. Death upon death.
Clenching his teeth against a sudden blast of cold air, Tarlan patted Theeta’s neck.
“What do you think, Theeta? No castles here. No sign of humans at all. Just you and me, and all the game we can hunt.”
“New home.”
“Exactly.”
The wind gusted again. Something gritty stung Tarlan’s face; he shook his head and blinked it away. He opened his mouth to speak, and another gust filled his mouth with more grit. He spat it away and wiped his lips. When he brought his hand down, he saw that it wasn’t grit at all.
It was sand.
“Air hot,” Theeta remarked. The wind tossed her this way and that, and she had to fight to keep flying level.
She was right. As the gusts continued to batter them, Tarlan realized he was sweating.
“What’s going on?” he shouted over the rising howl of the wind. “We didn’t cross any deserts.”
A column of sand reared up before them, spinning wildly. It looked like a gigantic yellow snake spiraling into the sky. Its tail was rooted in the ground, far below; its head was lost in the clouds.
“Storm sand!” cried Theeta, weaving instinctively around the whirlwind.
Two more snakes surged upward, blocking their path. Hot sand clogged Tarlan’s throat, making it hard to breathe. His eyes streamed.
“Go back!” Theeta cawed, her voice even more of a rasp than usual.
“No! I won’t turn back! Go on!”
Theeta’s wings faltered. For a moment Tarlan thought the storm had beaten her. Then he saw he was wrong.
Theeta was hesitating.
She’s never ignored my command. Not once. So why . . . ?
Before he could complete the thought, the giant thorrod surged forward with her wings pumping, veering first left, then right, powering her way between the snaking columns of sand. Whatever doubt she’d had seemed to have passed.
But why is there sand in the mountains? he thought, clinging on as Theeta swerved through it. Is this some kind of magic?
Could it be Melchior, come to stop him?
He peered through the stinging sand, trying to see down to the ground. But it was hopeless. Besides, this didn’t feel like the kind of spell Melchior would cast.
His magic is all about numbers.
Sweat was trickling into his eyes. He flicked it away. The air was warm.
Sand. Heat.
A thought came to him. Sometimes, when he was forging a bond with a new group of animals, the same sensation of sandy heat washed over him.
What did it mean? Was it something to do with the prophecy? Was there someone down there with the same powers as him? Magic that came from the desert?
But Tarlan was no wizard. And already he’d lost interest in where the sandstorm had come from. Whoever had conjured it, they came fro
m the world of people. The world he’d turned his back on.
“Keep going, Theeta,” he muttered, spitting out another mouthful of sand. “Don’t look back.”
Theeta flew on, her great black eyes pinched against the storm, her golden wings thumping through the treacherous updrafts. Tarlan buried his face in her feathers and clung on.
Eventually the sky began to clear. The wind subsided and the air grew colder. As they emerged out of the sandstorm’s veil, the mountains melted back into view.
“We made it!” Tarlan clapped the side of Theeta’s neck, then looked back over his shoulder. The sky was quite empty. When he looked down, he saw only a featureless plain of snow. No storm. No sand.
Did that really happen?
The closer they drew to the mountains, the more the land seemed to swell beneath them. As the sun fell toward the western horizon, Theeta began sinking toward the icy slopes that were rising to meet them.
“We can go a little farther,” said Tarlan, tugging at her neck ruff.
Theeta didn’t reply. Instead, she tilted her wings and flew in a wide, descending circle, bringing them in to land beneath the shelter of a rocky crag. The weatherworn knuckle of black stone loomed over them, like the finger of a giant who’d been frozen while trying to break free from the snow.
“What are you doing?” Tarlan tugged again. “We still have daylight. I want to go on.”
“No farther,” Theeta replied.
Tarlan was astonished. Theeta had never challenged him like this before. What was wrong with her?
“Are you tired, Theeta? Is that it?” He looked around uncertainly at the icy wasteland. “Well, I suppose that rock gives us a bit of shelter . . . .”
“Not tired.”
“Then why did you . . . ?”
“Wrong way.”
“This isn’t the wrong way. We’ve been flying north all the time, like we decided.”
“Tarlan decided.”
“All right, like I decided. But we’re still—”
“Tarlan wrong.”
That silenced him. Sliding from Theeta’s back, he crunched through the snow to stand before her. She glared down at him, her eyes as black as the rock that towered over them both.
A Kingdom Rises Page 3
