There’s no way back from death. And once something is impossible, you don’t have to think about it anymore.”
“Did you know you would no longer be a sorceress?” Varis asked.
She blinked in surprise, which made him feel disproportionately pleased with himself. “How did you—”
“When Darri at acked you,” Varis said, “you wiggled your fingers.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Wiggled my fingers?”
“Very elegantly,” he assured her.
“Thank you.” She was silent for a moment, watching him. Then she let go of the chair and straightened. “I
didn’t know. Sorcery has never been commonly practiced in this kingdom, so there was no precedent. But it
turns out that spel s designed for living minds don’t work very wel with dead ones.” She made a face. “It did
give me a head start, however. I already understood how powerful my mind was.”
Varis stepped back and leaned against the wal . “You know about magic, then.” He slid both his hands
behind him, against the smooth wood. “Do you know what kind of magic was required to make the dead begin
behind him, against the smooth wood. “Do you know what kind of magic was required to make the dead begin
coming back to life?”
“Not entirely.” She pul ed out the chair and sat on it. “It would have required more than one sorcerer to add
his power to it, that’s for certain. And spel s so powerful need sacrifices. Wil ing sacrifices, usual y. With
unpleasant consequences for those sacrifices.”
Varis nodded. Clarisse leaned back, propping her elbows on the back of the chair. “But spel s must be
channeled through human minds. There is someone in this castle whose existence fuels the spel and gives it
power.”
Varis strove not to change expression, and knew he wasn’t succeeding. Clarisse tilted her head to the side
and brushed a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know who?”
“I would,” Varis said. “But I have a feeling you’re not going to tel me.”
Her smile widened. “I might have, if you’d asked politely. But now I think it’s your turn to tel your secrets.”
“Not quite yet,” Varis said softly.
He expected anger, but instead she gave him a bril iant smile. “I understand. Why don’t you let me know
when you’re ready?”
It was a clear dismissal. Varis hesitated, then pushed himself of the wal , careful to use only his left arm.
Her smile widened—then widened a bit too much, her gums and her flesh fading away from her teeth, leaving
the clear impression of a skul beneath her smooth skin.
Varis turned his back on her and walked out of the room, muscles so tense that his injured shoulder burned
with pain. Behind him, the chair scraped against the floor, and she laughed low and mockingly. He could feel
her eyes on his back, and stil smel the faint spicy scent of her perfume; but mixed with it, definite as a
warning, was the stomach-turning odor of rot ing flesh.
Chapter Eleven
Cal ie planted the idea careful y, so no one would know it came from her. She pretended to get drunk at a
party and flirted outrageously with Lord Cerix, who was usual y wil ing to flirt with any woman in his general
vicinity. Cerix was truly drunk, enough so that he began one of his typical rambling monologues about the
dead. Those had been amusing to the dead, once, before it became clear that some of the living were listening
and not laughing at al .
Cal ie had never found them amusing, and her tolerance hadn’t increased now that she was one of the dead.
But she forced herself to remain stil , even to giggle occasional y, for an interminable half hour before she got a chance to make her point.
“They drag us down with them,” Cerix announced, snapping his fingers impatiently for a servant to bring
him another goblet. “They have no right to live alongside us, to benefit from our labor, when they contribute
nothing. When they’re a pack of cowards who shouldn’t even be here, who cling to their existence at the cost of
justice. We wil never stand for a dead king. Not even if we have to break the ban on silver and fight for the
way things should always have been.”
Cal ie spared a moment to wish someone would murder Cerix before he had time to die of natural causes. It
would be amusing to watch how he would deal with becoming one of the people he despised.
But Cerix had stopped talking, for what was probably supposed to be a dramatic pause, and she seized her
opportunity. “Have you shared your views with my sister?”
Cerix lowered his goblet, and blinked at her. “Er . . . no. I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“You should arrange for the opportunity, then,” Cal ie said sweetly. “You’re a fine hunter”—a statement only
Cerix could believe—“and so is she. I think she would be quite impressed by the quality of your falcons.” She
waited a moment, to make sure Cerix was fol owing, then added, “I think the gloom is get ing to her, and to
my brother as wel . It’s dif icult to grow accustomed to the lack of sunshine.”
“A lack we owe to the presence of the accursed dead,” Cerix growled, and was of again. Cal ie waited until
a few other people had stopped to listen, then slipped away and left Cerix to his audience.
Just a few days ago she would have stayed at the party a while longer, laughing and observing and enjoying
herself, pretending she wasn’t dead. It was so easy, sometimes, to feel alive, as if being dead was nothing more
than a word. She was fourteen years old. She should be al owed to feel alive for as long as she could manage it.
But the memory of Darri’s wide, stricken eyes was stil more potent than the carefree ease of the other
ghosts. It made it impossible to forget what she was. There was a part of her, now, that cared nothing for peace
and joy, that wanted only vengeance; and it was get ing harder and harder to ignore that part. Thinking of
Darri made her feel guilty for wanting to ignore it. So she left the party and made her way to the banquet hal .
She scat ered the rest of her remarks casual y around court, comments about how much she had missed
sunshine when she first came here, how much longer this fine weather could last, how beautiful the lake was
during the day. After only one night, Lord Riald—the smartest of Cerix’s supporters—sidled over to Cal ie and
asked if she thought her siblings would like to go falconing.
“They would love it,” Cal ie said, then pretended to think twice. “But wouldn’t that be an insult to Prince
Kestin? He wouldn’t be able to come along.”
The hunt was set for the next day, which didn’t give her as much preparation time as she would have liked;
on the other hand, it gave Darri less time to do something drastic. Cal ie borrowed a lure from the master
falconer, one of the few people in the castle who genuinely liked her—his entire existence was his birds, and
Cal ie had taught him some new training tricks—then stole a horse while the stable master, who had not
appreciated her advice on technique, wasn’t looking. She set of immediately after sunset.
“You don’t seem at al excited,” said a voice behind Darri. “I thought you plainspeople loved to kil things.”
Darri whirled, making the falcon on her gloved wrist spread its wings for balance. Swearing inwardly, she
waited for it to set le and fold its wings back in, then glared at Clarisse. “I suppose the last hunt made me a bit nervous.”
Clarisse flicked a blond curl out of her eyes. “Wel , that’s just sil y. It wil be bright daylight soon.”
Darri looked at the sky, which was light gray bruised with pink. “I’m under no il usion that it’s only the
dead in Ghostland I should be nervous about.”
Clarisse laughed. She wore a deep blue riding gown that made Darri wonder if she had planned some way
to be able to accompany them. Darri fervently hoped not. “Very good. Although the dead are more likely to be
a murderous lot. We think of it as doing the living a favor.”
“Thank you for sharing that.” Darri turned her back on Clarisse, and was just in time to see two men trot ing
out of the mews carrying a closed lit er between them.
She blinked. The lit er was lit le more than a box suspended between two poles, but it had been decorated
in obvious haste with purple and gold ribbons and an ornate gold chain. The windows were completely
blocked of with heavy black curtains.
While Darri gaped, the lit er drew up next to her, and the men knelt so that it hovered just over the
cobblestones. The door swung smoothly open to reveal Kestin sit ing cross-legged inside. He was wearing what
cobblestones. The door swung smoothly open to reveal Kestin sit ing cross-legged inside. He was wearing what
passed for a simple riding habit in Ghostland, complete with ruf led sleeves and an embroidered over-tunic
tied at the waist with a yel ow sash.
“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. “Would you care to join me?”
Darri couldn’t tel which of them he was speaking to. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Whether she
answered him or not, there was a good chance she would end up looking stupid.
“No thank you, Your Highness,” Clarisse said. “The prospect of being stuck in a dark box al day is rather
unappealing”—her dimples flashed as Kestin’s face grew taut—“no mat er how welcome the company.”
He regarded her for a moment before replying. “I am pleased to hear it, as I was actual y speaking to
Princess Darriniaka.”
Clarisse stepped closer to the lit er. “Kestin—” she said, and the familiarity in the word jolted Darri. She
blinked, and suddenly the grimness of Kestin’s face wasn’t anger at al , but something far deeper.
“Enough,” Kestin said, his voice soft but final. “You’ve waited years to speak to me. You can wait another
few hours. You know where to find me, if you decide to bother.”
Clarisse’s lips parted; but just as she was about to respond, a group of horses clat ered into the courtyard.
Clarisse whirled, and for a moment, the blank intentness of her stare matched that of the falcon on Darri’s
wrist. Then she turned, a bit too hastily for grace, and sauntered away.
Darri blinked after her, then looked at the first of the riders, who she guessed must be Cerix. It was the first
time she had seen her substitute husband-to-be, but she couldn’t make out his face beneath the wide-brimmed,
lace-trimmed hat he was wearing. He was talking loudly and dramatical y to his retainers . . . she made out a
line about “the beauty of sunlight, which the dead have stolen from our lives” . . . al of whom had expressions
of studied politeness on their faces. Darri couldn’t imagine why Clarisse seemed wary of him, unless . . .
Kestin made a smal sound, and Darri turned her at ention back to him. He was watching Clarisse go, his
fingers curled tightly over his knees. Then he inclined his head to Darri. He looked tired. “My lady?”
Darri, who shared Clarisse’s opinion, said hastily, “My bird—”
Kestin waved a hand. A servant wearing a leather glove appeared at Darri’s side, and she reluctantly al owed
him to take her falcon. The bird shuf led, feathers rustling, then set led back into its unmoving stance.
Darri spent a second trying to think of another reason to refuse, but couldn’t come up with anything. Kestin
waited, his face resigned and patient. The carriers of the lit er looked resigned but not at al patient, and
final y, taking pity on their knees, Darri climbed into the lit er. She set led on the cushions next to Kestin,
bending her legs awkwardly to make sure her knee didn’t touch his. The servant swung the door shut,
enveloping them in darkness, and the lit er lurched upward.
Darri thought, too late, of another excuse. “Won’t two people make the lit er too heavy for them?”
A lantern flickered on in Kestin’s hand, and he set it careful y back in a holder on the wal before looking at
her. The light played along the long planes of his face as the lit er swayed forward. “I don’t have to weigh
anything if I don’t want to.”
“Oh.”
The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Don’t worry, you’l get out before the hunt starts in earnest. But I
appear a lit le less pathetic if I’m not in the lit er alone.”
His whole face came alight with that half-smile; it lit up his eyes and sharpened the soft angles of his face,
making him look intensely vital and alive. Somehow, that made it worse.
She thought of Cal ie, then banished the thought: this was no time to break down. She set led herself more
firmly on the cushions. “I can’t say I expected you to be here at al , Your Highness.”
“No one did.” Kestin folded his hands in his lap. “Cerix arranged this expedition as an insult to me. I’m sure
he’s stewing over how I’ve turned it on his head.”
By staying cooped up in a lit er hidden from the sunshine? Darri had her doubts, but she nodded. “Why am I
here, Your Highness?”
“To annoy people,” Kestin said. He gave her a sly, conspiratorial wink.
“Which people?” she said cool y. “Your father, Cerix, or Clarisse?”
His expression soured at the last name, and Darri almost wished she hadn’t said it. But the look of wary
respect that fol owed was worth it. “Al three, actual y.”
“Ef icient,” Darri noted approvingly.
That brought back the smile. He drew his legs up, looping his hands around his knees. The lit er tilted from
side to side as the carriers began walking, and Darri dug her fingers into the cushions. “Mainly Cerix, though.
Which brings me to the other reason you’re here: so we can talk about how to find out if he kil ed me. Has he
favored you with his at entions yet?”