Darri felt as if she had been punched. Since she had found out her sister was dead, she hadn’t thought about
her bargain with Kestin, except to wonder about the connection between Cal ie’s death and his. She hadn’t
thought much about anything except the horror her sister was trapped in, and how Darri could get her out of it.
But why should she feel guilty? Trading Kestin’s vengeance for Cal ie’s escape no longer made any sense;
there was no reason for her to think about Kestin. No reason for her to marry Cerix, or stay in Ghostland at al , now that Cal ie was . . .
She struck down the feeling that rose in her, but not fast enough; not before she recognized it for what it
was. She had felt it before, on the day her father formal y announced which of his daughters would be sent to
was. She had felt it before, on the day her father formal y announced which of his daughters would be sent to
the land of the dead.
It was relief.
It was a tiny, whimpering feeling; it was nearly swamped by her overwhelming grief and rage. But it was
there, and it made her face heat up with shame.
“So he has spoken to you,” Kestin said, misinterpreting her flush.
“No,” Darri said. “I can’t say I’m particularly looking forward to it.”
“And I can’t say I blame you.” Kestin’s arms tightened around his knees, and he looked down at the floor, his
dark eyes shadowed. “I need for you to talk to him; he had more to gain from my death than anyone. But don’t
underestimate him. He has a fol owing among those who hate and fear the ghosts. The harmony between the
living and the dead in this castle is not as stable as we thought, and he has taken advantage of that. My death,
and my father’s insistence that I inherit anyhow, were his opportunity.”
Darri nodded. Kestin hesitated, biting his lower lip, then looked up at her. The way his chin-length hair
swung over his cheekbones made a traitorous part of her flut er, fol owed by a surge of revulsion. “I’d guess
you can handle him.”
“I hope so,” Darri said cool y, “since the plan is for me to marry him.”
Kestin smiled rueful y. “I don’t much like that part of the plan.”
Darri shrugged.
He leaned back. “Who would you marry in your own lands? Is it up to you?”
“It’s up to my father,” Darri said. “He would probably pick the son of another powerful tribe, to bind them
to us more closely.”
“Weren’t you afraid he would choose someone you hated?”
Darri laughed. “He wouldn’t have risked it. It would be too likely that I’d insult the man badly enough to
cause a civil war.”
Kestin shook his head. “It stil seems odd to me. It’s one of the benefits of being what we are; in Ghostland,
even the nobility choose whom to love.”
And he had chosen Clarisse. Which just went to show, Darri supposed, that choosing on your own was no
less likely to end wel than having your marriage arranged by others.
Kestin took a deep breath. “When I said I didn’t like that part,” he said softly, “what I meant was that I have
a bet er idea.”
Darri said, as cool y as she could, “Which is?”
“Wel ,” Kestin began, then stopped. He swal owed, reached behind him, and held out a folded piece of
parchment.
Darri stared at the parchment as if it was a live snake. It flut ered jerkily with the movement of the lit er.
“What is it?”
“You can’t read?”
“Do I look like a scribe?” she snapped.
Kestin gave her a surprised, faintly horrified look; clearly, he had suddenly recal ed that she was a barbarian.
Darri suspected it was a pale imitation of the looks she gave him sometimes, but it made her bristle al the
same. She snatched the parchment out of his hand. “What does it say?”
“It’s an of er of betrothal.”
Darri froze. The paper felt thick and rough under her dry fingers. For several long moments the silence was
broken only by the muf led sound of hooves outside—and, for Darri, by the pounding of her heart. The lit er
felt suddenly very smal , without enough air for both of them to breathe. If he’d had to breathe.
Kestin looked at her careful y and, with an obvious ef ort, laughed. “Am I that monstrous to you?”
Darri tried to rearrange her expression. She wouldn’t have thought the prince of Ghostland would care about
a foreigner’s prejudices—but she’d heard a note of hurt only half-hidden behind the laugh. She couldn’t meet
his eyes, and she couldn’t manage a lie.
The lit er jerked to a stop, then started again; outside, one of the carriers cursed. Kestin leaned back and
passed a hand over his face. “It would be in name only. You wouldn’t ever have to touch me. I wil take
vengeance on my kil er, and then I wil disappear. If we were married first, that would leave you as queen of
Ghostland. You could take a consort and give birth to a new heir to the throne. Your son would come before
Cerix in the succession.”
Relief vanished as fast as it had come, and breathing was once again dif icult. “You would do that just so I
won’t have to marry Cerix?”
“And because I care about my country. I don’t particularly want to see my cousin rip it apart.” Kestin
shrugged, but his voice was strained; Darri wondered how it felt to be torn between a need for vengeance and a
sense of duty. Her own loyalty to her country had been left by the wayside long ago.
Then again, her country hadn’t ever needed her the way Kestin’s did. The Rael ians, after al , had Varis.
Kestin shifted and lifted his eyebrows at her. “Besides, I suspect it would foil your brother’s plans as wel .”
Indeed it would. As queen of Ghostland, she would outrank Varis. She grinned despite her near-panic and
dropped the parchment into her lap. The lit er tilted slightly to the side. “You could marry one of your own
people to get around Cerix,” she pointed out. “You don’t need me.”
people to get around Cerix,” she pointed out. “You don’t need me.”
“But I think you would be a good choice.” Kestin stretched his legs out; she shifted her own closer to the
wal . “I don’t know anyone else who could cut through al our courtly tangles. You would do whatever has to
be done, regardless of consequences or who tried to stop you.”
It had been so long since she had heard that particular intonation that it took her several seconds to realize
what it was: admiration. A blush worked its way up her cheeks. She tried to think of something to say, but
couldn’t get her throat to work. Ever since Cal ie had told her she was useless—the words You’re get ing in
over your head stil whispered constantly through her mind—some part of her had begun to fear it was true.
But Kestin was right. She would do whatever had to be done, except she would do it to save Cal ie. And she
would do it even if Cal ie was the one trying to stop her.
Kestin watched her closely. The lit er swayed around them, and every time it did, the cushion slid farther out
from under her. “In time,” he said, “you might even lose your fear of . . . of us.”
He made it sound like a question, and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse to answer. The blush felt
permanently at ached to her face now. She pushed the cushion away with one hand, set led herself on the
wooden bot om of the lit er, then turned back and looked at him. He wanted someone who would cut through
courtly tangles, did he?
“I thought you wanted to take vengeance and disappear,” she said flatly. “What does it mat er whether I lose
my fear of you or not?”
“The rest of the dead wil stil be here,” Kestin said. “Even if I disappear. And besides, what if I never find
who kil ed me? I’l have no choice but to continue . . . being this.”
“You could end your own existence,” Darri said. “With silver. Or sunlight.”
He looked up at her sharply, his eyes so black that she was suddenly afraid. She sat very stil .
“I would never do that.” He leaned forward, and she pressed her back hard against the wooden slats. “If I
find my kil er, nothing wil stop me from taking vengeance. But being kil ed by silver or sunlight is dif erent.
Those deaths don’t al ow us to move on; they merely end us.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t choose that. Even
if what I am now is something that was never supposed to be.”
“You stil wouldn’t be what you are now,” Darri whispered. “You wouldn’t be frustrated by the urge for
vengeance, and trapped among the living. You would be gone. Wouldn’t that be bet er?”
He smiled bit erly. “Are you happy, Princess Darriniaka? Or do you miss your sister and hate your brother
and feel alone among your kin? When you are unhappy, does your unhappiness make you want to end your
life?”
“Of course not. But I’m supposed to be alive. You’re not.”
“And yet I am.” He leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Saying I’m not supposed to be here doesn’t change
that, does it? It doesn’t make me want to . . .” The side of his mouth twisted upward, though he didn’t open his
eyes. “Die. For lack of a bet er word.”
Darri drew in a deep breath, trying not to make it too loud. His eyes snapped open, but whatever had been
in them that frightened her, it was gone. He looked tired and lonely. “Would you just end your existence, if you
were me?”
“I would,” Darri said fiercely. “When I die, I want to be free of this life. Not stuck in an endless imitation of it, without the ability to grow and change, to walk in daylight or bear children.”
“Wel .” He leaned forward suddenly, his hands sliding down over his knees, almost touching her. “You can
scorn me, if you want, for being wil ing to accept less. But you’re not me, and it’s not your decision to make. If it horrifies you so much, then help me avenge myself.”
“I intend to,” Darri said, a lit le stif ly.
“I’m glad.” Kestin took a deep breath. “If you accept my of er, you know, you could be with Cal ie as wel . I
don’t think she truly wants to leave.”
Not didn’t want to; couldn’t. It was a moment before Darri could breathe again, and she only managed it by
meeting Kestin’s eyes, let ing their intentness draw her mind from her sister. “Would such an arrangement
real y be recognized under your laws?”
“There is precedent. My father, at least, would be loath to contest it. Especial y since your position as queen
would ensure our safety from your father’s armies.”
Which was, of course, the real reason for this proposal: not her own strengths, but her father’s. It was the
only reason anyone had ever courted her, so Darri wasn’t of ended. If anything, she was flat ered that Kestin
had bothered to pretend otherwise.
The lit er turned sharply, and Darri slapped her hands down on the floor to keep her balance. “How,” she
asked, “would Clarisse react to this? I don’t think she’d like it.”
“Don’t you?” Kestin said. “I don’t think she’d care.”
His voice frayed on that last sentence, and the bewildered loss on his face made him look almost like a
child. Darri recognized his expression; it must have been how she looked, that first night at court, when Cal ie
looked away from her as if wishing she wasn’t there.
How could a ghost feel grief? But he did, he clearly did; it was right in front of her, in the blankness of his
stare and the tightness of his mouth, and the sympathetic tug she felt al through her body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, meaning it, not knowing whether she should mean it.
Kestin blinked once, twice, then drew himself up and composed his face. Darri knew what an ef ort of wil
Kestin blinked once, twice, then drew himself up and composed his face. Darri knew what an ef ort of wil
that must have cost him. She watched with admiration, something else she shouldn’t be feeling for a ghost, and
almost—almost—reached out to take his hand. Just a simple gesture of comfort, nothing more.
She couldn’t do it. But she wished she could.
“I’l think about it,” she said final y, placing her palm flat on the parchment.
They sat in silence as the lit er jolted along the path. Darri kept her hands tightly folded around the
parchment in her lap, wondering when the ride would end and she could step out into the sun; while beside
her, Kestin stared straight ahead into the darkness he could never escape.
Varis brooded as he rode, casting dark looks at the lit er his sister shared with Prince Kestin. He admired the
prince’s courage in riding out in sunlight; it was a bold move, a statement that he had not left the living behind and could stil serve as their leader. Varis wondered if the prince was going through the motions of courting his sister in order to make a similar statement, or if it was just Kestin’s method for keeping her away from Cerix’s
at entions.
The second-in-line to the throne rode directly in front of Varis, flanked by two lackeys, and al three were
also glowering at the swaying lit er. They probably didn’t have political considerations in mind, though; the
lit er, al the way in the front, was slowing everyone down.
Varis didn’t mind. Sunlight spil ed over the edges of the clouds, warming his skin and turning the foliage
into shimmering designs of interlocking green and silver. He hadn’t realized how much the lack of daylight had
been wearing on him. His shoulder throbbed dul y, but his heart was light. He had nothing to do until they
reached the lake, so he could af ord to simply enjoy the breeze and the sunshine and the smel of the earth.
Moments like these, even back on the plains, were becoming rarer and rarer for him.
“Your Highness?”
Not to mention shorter. Varis turned to the gangly, red-haired man who had dropped back to ride at his