princess from somewhere to the west of the Kierran Mountains; no one believed her, but it didn’t much mat er.
When Cal ie had arrived at Ghostland, Clarisse had been there for less than a year, and had already been
working her way methodical y through the hearts of high-ranking noblemen.
working her way methodical y through the hearts of high-ranking noblemen.
“As kin go, yours are not bad,” Clarisse said, swishing the wine in a slow circle. “Your brother, in particular.
He interests me.”
“Why?” Cal ie said bluntly.
The dead girl tilted her head to the side. “Indeed. A good question.”
She said it with complete seriousness, and Cal ie wasn’t sure what that meant. What she did know was that
if Clarisse thought it would annoy enough people, she real y would go after Varis. Her apparent goal ever since
Cal ie had known her had been to make as many enemies as possible, usual y by entangling herself in dozens
of conspiracies at once, supporting opposite factions simultaneously, helping people one minute then turning
and destroying them the next. Her dal iances with increasingly powerful men, culminating with Prince Kestin
himself, had only given her the power to destroy more plans and facilitated her ability to make herself hated.
Cal ie had not been very surprised when she died. The fal from her horse could easily have been engineered
by one of the many people she had angered. But when Clarisse’s ghost hadn’t made an appearance for two
years after her death, everyone had assumed the fal was an accident after al . Most of the ghosts returned only
a few nights after their murders; the longest she had ever heard of was a week. Obviously, Clarisse had been
somewhere else al this time.
“I doubt you interest him,” Cal ie said final y. “There is that whole you-tried-to-kil -him problem.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I’l see if I can make him forget that.”
“We’re Rael ians,” Cal ie snapped, then wished—too late—that she hadn’t said we. She flicked her skirt
away from her legs; it was stil uncomfortably sticky from the wine that had spil ed on it earlier. “Rael ian
bedtime stories are about blood feuds. They don’t forget when people try to kil them.”
Clarisse sighed. “Then I suppose I’l have to find a way to make it up to him.”
And that, Cal ie decided, was just about enough of that subject. She sat on the other end of the couch, as far
from Clarisse as she could get. “Tel me about the Defender.”
Clarisse took a sip. “You know what’s odd? I can’t think of a single reason why I should.”
“If you don’t,” Cal ie said, “I’l tel the Guardian—”
“—that I tried to kil you?” Clarisse stretched her arms over her head. “There are other things you should
talk to the Guardian about first. He hasn’t told you anything at al , has he?”
“Why should he tel me anything?”
“He’s the reason you’re here.” Clarisse sat up, curling her legs under her, and smiled at Cal ie. “He advised
King Ais to accept your father’s of er to send you.”
“Why?” Cal ie demanded.
“You should ask him.”
Cal ie put one hand down on the couch cushion; the embroidered velvet felt cool and smooth beneath her
palm. “I’m asking you.”
“And maybe I’l answer you. Some other time.” Clarisse took another sip and made a face. “I miss good
wine.”
She lifted one hand to cover a yawn and vanished. The goblet landed on the couch, spil ing red wine al
over the light blue cushions.
Cal ie remained where she was, aware of the dead watching her. The wine stain spread jaggedly over the
cushion, seeping in, a dark purple patch that no one would ever get out. She touched it with her finger, which
came away wet; she lifted that finger to her tongue, and tasted delicate acridness.
She remembered the first time a ghost had vanished from right beside her; remembered her instinctive
shudder, the horror that had whipped through her. She had just seen that horror reflected in her sister’s eyes,
and she understood it completely. Once, a long time ago, she would have found herself repulsive too.
Cal ie was no longer that girl—that Rael ian girl. She didn’t have to think of herself the way a Rael ian did.
She didn’t have to be ashamed that Darri knew. It didn’t mat er what Darri thought of her.
And her thoughts stopped there, as if they had crashed painful y against a rock barrier. Because it did mat er.
It mat ered so much, and yet there was nothing she could do to change it.
If not for Darri, she thought bit erly, she could have been whol y a Ghostlander. She had no clues to her
murder, no idea how to seek out her kil er; and she hadn’t, in truth, been trying al that hard. In time the part of her that thirsted for vengeance would have withered, become something she could ignore, just as al the
ghosts did. Nobody in Ghostland would think any less of her. Jano would think more of her. She could have
fol owed her strongest instinct and done exactly what the rest of the court was doing: pretend she was alive,
pretend so hard that she would come to believe it. Most of the time.
Most of the time would have been enough. Even the living weren’t happy al of the time.
But she couldn’t forget, and she couldn’t pretend, now that Darri knew.
You’re the entire reason I’m here.
Guilt writhed through her. After al those years and al her sacrifices, Darri had come to Ghostland and
discovered what Ghostland had made of her sister. Now that she knew, she would never look at Cal ie without
reservation again.
Cal ie picked up the goblet, drained the few dregs stil sloshing at its bot om, then held it up and waited for
a servant to come by. She could do a lit le pretending, at least, while Darri wasn’t there to stop her.
Chapter Nine
His sister wouldn’t come to her door; not an unexpected outcome, but an annoying one al the same. Varis
lifted his fist to pound on the dark wood again, then thought bet er of it. He lowered his hand and glanced
down the long, dimly lit hal .
It had been a night and a day since Darri had walked out of the banquet hal with Prince Kestin. Varis hadn’t
seen her since then, but had been told by a servant that she was holed up in her room, refusing even the food
that was left outside her door. Apparently she was refusing his visit as wel , even though he had been knocking
and cal ing her name for several minutes.
Varis sighed and stepped back. No doubt it had final y dawned on his impetuous sister that he had no real
intention of leaving Ghostland anytime soon; that despite Kestin’s death, their father’s plans stil required her to spend her life in this castle.
She had a right to her grief, and there was nothing he could say to make it bet er. If she would listen to
anything he had to say, which she wouldn’t. She had made it quite clear that she hated him.
It had been a long time since he had cared. He spent most of his time now riding out to bat le, and when he
returned there was admiration in the eyes of the other warriors and adoration on the faces of the women and
children. He had seen no reason to visit the tent of the one person in his father’s camp who would greet him
with irrational hostility.
He felt a pang of sympathy now, but that was only because the two of them were so isolated here, and
because soon she would be gone forever. Far too soon to patch up everything that had gone wrong between
them, even if he’d had the time or inclination to try.
So he turned to go, and found himself staring at the dead prince of Ghostland.
Prince Kestin inclined his head. He was wearing a ridiculously elaborate outfit, purple and gold with an
excessive amount of ruf les. “Your Highness,” he said, with a polite half-bow. “I was wondering if your sister
was available for a walk.”
“She isn’t here,” Varis said. He had promised Darri that he would put a stop to this macabre pretense of a
courtship; he could, at least, do that much for her. “In any case, I wished to speak to you about her.”
“To make sure I didn’t think I could stil marry her? She made that clear to me on her own.”
Varis flushed. “I apologize for any rudeness—”
Kestin smiled, with a bit of an edge. “What makes you think she was rude about it?”
Varis did not enjoy being toyed with. On the other hand, he had no interest in quarreling with the dead
prince. Yet. So he merely smiled politely and fel into step beside Kestin as they started down the hal toward
the central staircase.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Prince Kestin said, glancing at him sideways, “how the two of you ended up
on the ghost hunt.”
Varis shrugged; now that the Guardian knew about them, there was probably no point in keeping the
at acks secret anymore. “I was invited by a dead woman named Clarisse.”
The prince’s reaction caught him by surprise. Kestin stopped short, his face stark white. For a moment he
stared at Varis, his eyes dark holes in his face; then he turned away, his shoulders knot ed.
“Your Highness?” Varis said cautiously.
“You’re sure it was her?” Kestin’s voice was clear and steady, though he wouldn’t turn to show Varis his face.
“No, never mind—don’t bother to answer that.”
Varis stood, not sure what to do, until Kestin swung back to him. The dead prince’s face was perfectly
composed, no trace of redness or wetness around his eyes . . . could ghosts make those signs vanish?
“Forgive me, Prince Varis,” Kestin said. “Before she died, Clarisse and I were . . . very close.”
Varis had fal en in love only once—a long time ago, and with a girl so obviously inappropriate it made him
blush to remember it. The girl had al owed him to court her, and had made the correct responses, but had
never loved him back. He stil remembered the moment he had final y realized that, the abrupt transformation
of fond memories into humiliating ones. He looked at the stricken expression on Kestin’s face and said nothing.
The dead prince turned away. “There are things I must at end to. We can finish this later.”
Varis watched him go, then turned and continued down the hal . Spirits, but things were tangled in this
castle. He wanted the space and quiet of his room so he could work it al out. It was time for him to make his
next move, and that would have to be careful y planned.
But when he final y opened his door, wanting nothing more than to drop onto the bed and let the world go
away for a while, he found Darri waiting for him.
She was sit ing cross-legged on his bed, wearing a dark green dress and an expression that suggested she was
no happier to be in his room than he was to find her there. Varis considered ordering her to leave and
imagined her reaction. He sighed heavily and closed the door behind him.
“I need your help,” Darri said.
It had taken every ounce of wil power Darri possessed to walk into Varis’s room; when he wasn’t there, she
It had taken every ounce of wil power Darri possessed to walk into Varis’s room; when he wasn’t there, she
took a breath of relief and turned back toward the hal way. Then she stopped, one hand on the door, staring
out at the long, dim hal .
It felt so familiar, as if she was looking at a cloudy night sky instead of dusty tapestries, as if she was thirteen years old and her sister ten. The only real dif erence was the empty ache inside her. She’d had hope, the night
before Cal ie was taken away from the plains; even after al her plots and histrionics had failed, she had
believed her sister could be saved. If only Varis would help.
And she had truly thought he would.
So she had gone to him and she had begged. It had taken half the night for her to realize that he wasn’t even
considering helping her. He was humoring her request while he tried to talk her into accepting what had to be
done.
She had sworn then that she would die before she ever asked her brother for help again. But then again, it
wasn’t her that had died.
Her heart felt frozen solid, while her mind was a whirlwind: it kept returning to Cal ie, to what Cal ie was,
to the translucent figure that had fled from her down the long dark hal . She had barely been able to take a
complete breath since that terrible moment when she had thrown those coins at her sister. Al those years of
planning and hoping and longing . . . and after al that, she had arrived too late. Her sister was dead.
Her sister was worse than dead.
They would never be together again, never ride across the plains; never laugh together infectiously, or lie
together under the stars and trade whispers until sleep overcame them. Even her memories of her sister would
be tainted now, forever overlain by the translucent horror in that stone hal . And it was her fault. She should
have fought harder, bet er, to keep Cal ie at her side. She should have found a way to come here sooner, before
. . .She bit the inside of her mouth, hard, until she was no longer in danger of crying.
It made her hate Varis even more, for his part in al owing this to happen to their sister. It was that hatred
that made her shut the door and go sit on his bed. She knew that if she left, she could never force herself to
come back.
Her plans were shat ered; there was no escape for Cal ie. But at the very least, Darri could save Cal ie from
what she was now. If I avenge myself, Kestin had said, I wil cease to be. She would help Cal ie gain her
vengeance, help her spirit tear free of its unnatural chains and become one with the wind.
The door swung open, and Darri straightened, the breath freezing in her throat. Varis stopped in the