“And then I could look at my murderer and be unable to do anything about it?” Kestin whipped his head
around to face them and took two quick steps into the torchlight. Cal ie, stil in the shadows, made a smal
whimpering sound. Varis looked over at her sharply, but he stil couldn’t make out her expression. She was so
stil and silent he had almost forgot en her; but she had always been that way, soft and weak and forget able,
especial y in the face of Darri’s fierceness.
“Do you stil want to do something about it?” Clarisse pushed her hair back from her face with both hands;
in the torchlight, her features were unearthly. “I would have thought you might have started enjoying your
existence again, by now. Especial y since you know I’m here to share it with you.”
Kestin flinched as if she had hit him, and Darri’s breath hissed between her teeth. She started toward the
dead girl.Varis, recognizing her intent expression, grabbed her by the upper arm and pul ed her to a stop. She
shook him of , but didn’t continue her advance.
Kestin glanced swiftly at Darri, then glared at Clarisse. “You think that’s what would resign me to this half-
existence? The company of someone else who should be gone?”
“Then what would resign you to it?” Clarisse said softly.
“My duty,” Kestin said. “To Ghostland.”
Clarisse drew her hands down the back of her neck, let ing her hair fal around her face again. “If you were
interested in your duty, you wouldn’t be running away from it. That you even considered al owing Cerix to
take your place doesn’t speak very wel of your concern for your country, my dearest.”
He flinched again, but this time he lifted his chin. “A ghost’s first duty is to seek out his murderer.”
Clarisse’s eyes gleamed. “And now that you’ve found him?”
Kestin took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back. “Now I think it’s time,” he said, “that I accept my
position as heir.”
The air moved suddenly around them, lit le wisps and shimmers that made Varis’s skin creep. In the
shadows, the wal s looked like they were dancing. Of course . . . the dead had been waiting for this. For Kestin
to give up on vengeance, and become what they wanted him to be.
And now that he knew the Defender had kil ed him, he had no choice but to give up.
So much for marrying Darri to the king of Ghostland. Varis strove not to let his frustration show. There
would be no royal wedding now . . . unless he could manage to spur Cerix into trying a coup. He would have
to first figure out the chances for a coup’s success, then decide which of Cerix’s advisers would be amenable,
then suggest Darri and the Rael ian al iance as a goad. It was a stretch, even for him, but he might pul it of . . .
. Even if it meant placing both his sisters in the middle of a succession crisis. Chances were that at least one of them would be kil ed by the time the dust set led. That in itself wasn’t so bad—any Rael ian should be wil ing
to die for her people—but if Darri was kil ed here, she would come back as one of them.
“When wil you have the coronation?” Varis asked.
“I’l tel my father as soon as we get back,” Kestin said, stil watching Clarisse. “Knowing him, the coronation
wil be in just a few nights. He’s been waiting a long time for this.” He turned his head at last; it wasn’t clear if wil be in just a few nights. He’s been waiting a long time for this.” He turned his head at last; it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to Varis or Darri. “You wil at end, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Varis said. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving before then.”
Now both his sisters were watching him, their eyes wide. He smiled at Darri reassuringly. His father
wouldn’t like this; he would be disappointed, and make that crushingly clear, when he learned how lit le Varis
had managed to accomplish. But deep beneath the earth, in a place his father had never been, beset by
complications his father could never have imagined, it didn’t mat er. Or at least, didn’t mat er enough.
“After the coronation, though, there is no further reason for us to stay.” He met Prince Kestin’s shadowed
eyes. “We’l return to our own land the evening after. And we’l be taking Cal ie with us.”
Chapter Fourteen
Kestin’s coronation was a ful -night af air. The celebration would begin at dusk with a play, to be fol owed by
a banquet and dancing. Only at dawn, when al the celebrations were finished, would the coronation ceremony
itself take place. According to castle lore, that custom had been instituted so that most of the nobility would be too drunk or exhausted to try to kil their new king.
Cal ie was determined to enjoy it. If there was anything the Ghostlanders knew how to do, it was throw a
party; both the living and the dead waited months for celebrations like these. Two months ago, Cal ie would
have been prepared to spend the evening doing nothing but having fun. There was, she told herself, no reason
this evening should be dif erent. No purpose in set ing herself apart from the rest of the dead, who would be
every bit as lighthearted as the living.
She was going to have to spend centuries emulating those ghosts, learning how to live—to pretend to live—
with what she was. She might as wel start now.
She spent a ful hour on her appearance, donning a high-necked green gown and having a maid set her hair
in a concoction of braids and twirls so tightly elaborate it pul ed at her scalp. Feeling appropriate and
beautiful and alive, she opened the door to her room and found Darri waiting outside.
So much for a carefree evening. Cal ie said flatly, “You look nice.”
It was only half a lie. Darri’s gown was a marvelous display of yel ow silk and black lace. It just looked
ridiculous on her.
“I have a plan,” Darri said. “And I need your help.”
Cal ie twisted her fingers in the edges of her sleeves, wondering what the odds were that what Darri needed
help with was her hair. “Why?”
“I need you to tel me where to find the Guardian.”
So much for that. “Why?”
“Because,” Darri said, “he’s the only one who could possibly kil the Defender.”
Burial plots. Cal ie stepped out into the hal way and closed the door behind her. “No. He couldn’t. You
heard what the Defender said, what he is. He can’t be kil ed.”
“If there’s any chance—”
“Then I have to spend every moment of my existence chasing it down?” Cal ie found herself suddenly on the
verge of tears. Her hair pul ed painful y at her head. “And then face my death again, and again, every time it
doesn’t work? No.”
Darri was silent for a moment, her fingers working at the lace on her skirts. Then she said, “You’re giving
up.”“I have no choice.”
“You do.” Darri reached out for her, an almost beseeching motion. “Cal ie, I understand. I mean, I don’t—I
could never understand—but I know this is not your fault. I know you’re trapped. And if there’s anything that
can save you, anything at al —”
“But there isn’t!” Cal ie started to turn away, then whirled. “Spirits, Darri. Do you know why I brought you
to the caves?”
“To show me where you—” Her sister couldn’t get out the word. And al of a sudden she couldn’t meet
Cal ie’s eyes.
“Where I died,” Cal ie finished. “So we could talk about how you could help me take vengeance on my
kil er. Because I wanted your help, yes; but also because I knew that was the only thing you could talk to me
about, now that I’m this.”
“That’s not true,” Darri whispered, but she said it weakly. “Cal ie, I’m not . . . I don’t hate you. . . .”
“You just hate what I am.”
“But so do you.” Darri pushed her hair away from her face. “You begged the Defender to free you, back in
the caves.”
“I don’t want to be what I am. But I don’t hate it the way you do. I can bear it, if I must.”
“Can you?” Darri said harshly.
Cal ie looked away. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “They al bear it. Al the rest of the ghosts.
They’re as content as they can be. They laugh and dance and paint and . . . and sometimes, they’re happy.”
“They believe they’re happy,” Darri said grimly.
“What’s the dif erence between believing you’re happy and being happy?”
“The dif erence is that it’s not real.”
“Because you say it’s not. But it’s not for you to decide whether they’re happy, Darri. It’s not your choice.”
“It’s not a choice at al . It won’t last, Cal ie. They’l be like the ghosts in the caves, in the end. They won’t even remember they’re human anymore.”
“But that’s in the end,” Cal ie said. “In hundreds of years.”
“And in the meantime, you can pretend along with the rest of them. Is that what you want?”
“And in the meantime, you can pretend along with the rest of them. Is that what you want?”
“Enough!” Cal ie hissed, with such force that Darri actual y stepped back. “Of course I don’t want it. I don’t
want any of this. I never did. But I’m here, and I had to accept that, and now I’m dead, and I have to accept
that, because there is nothing else for me.” She pushed herself away from the door, stalking past her sister and
several steps down the hal . She had intended to keep going; instead she whirled in a swirl of green silk. “How
dare you lecture me on what I should do. It’s not you who’s trapped in death! You’re the one who stayed
behind.”
Darri went completely white. They stood there in the narrow hal , staring at each other, and Cal ie knew—
with sudden, helpless humiliation—that she was going to cry.
“What are you talking about?” Varis said.
Both sisters jumped, and Cal ie flickered translucent as she turned. Varis was standing several yards behind
her, dressed in black silk and purple velvet. How much had he heard? He was looking at them half-quizzical y,
half-suspiciously, but with no horror on his face. Perhaps he had thought her flicker was a trick of the light.
“Nothing,” Darri said. “I mean—um—at the banquet—we were thinking that—”
“I’m dead,” Cal ie said.
Darri choked. Varis kept looking at Cal ie, giving no indication that he had heard what she said.
“I’m a ghost,” Cal ie said savagely, wanting to wipe that blank expression of his face. Being angry at Varis
was so much easier than being angry at Darri; her rage was clean, uncomplicated. “I was kil ed a few weeks
before you arrived. Probably because you were about to arrive. I can’t leave with you. After tonight, I’l never
see you again.”
Darri drew in her breath, but Varis just stood there. Then he walked past them, turned into the stairwel ,
and disappeared.
He didn’t look at Cal ie as he passed them; didn’t even move slightly to the side to give her space. It was as
if she had ceased to exist.
No—not as if.
“Why did you do that?” Darri said angrily.
Cal ie shrugged, suddenly weary. “Why not? Al I’ve been thinking about, al I’ve been caring about since the
moment I died, is how you would react. You and Varis. Now you both know, so I don’t have to worry about it
anymore.” She lifted her chin. “I can spend my time with the people who don’t care.”
“You’l stil care,” Darri said, her eyes flinty. “No mat er how much they don’t.”
Cal ie tried to think of something cut ing to say, and couldn’t. She was relieved when Darri broke the gaze
and, without another word, turned on her heel and walked away in the opposite direction from Varis. Her
shoes hit the floor like hammer blows.
Cal ie felt a prickling behind her eyes, which she fiercely wil ed away. This was it, now; this was what she
was. Neither of her siblings would ever look at her without disgust again. Soon they would leave, and it
wouldn’t mat er. She would be surrounded by people who thought there was nothing wrong with what she
was.And she would let them convince her. It would be easy, once Darri was gone.
The Ghostlanders, Varis thought, had an odd idea of what constituted fun. Not that that should have come as
much of a surprise to anyone.
He sat in a room ful of crowded wooden benches, watching a play cal ed The Betrayer. King Ais had
decreed that the play, about a pre-Ghostdawn princess who kil ed al her siblings and then her father, would
be “instructive and entertaining” for their visitors. Not five minutes went by without someone being kil ed
onstage. The other spectators around Varis seemed to enjoy this immensely.
Varis could barely fol ow the intricate plot of treachery and betrayal. He kept seeing Cal ie in her elaborate
green dress, grown up and beautiful and gone. He didn’t imagine for a second that she had said it just to shock
him. She had told him the truth. She was dead. And the ease with which he accepted it told him that he had
suspected it for some time, without even knowing it.
That was a shock, almost worse than what his sister had become. Everything depended on his discernment
and judgment now, but his horror of the dead had caused him to stumble. Even the sharpest of minds couldn’t
pick up on a reality it was trying not to think about.
The reality was his dead sister, who stil walked and talked and looked at him with wide, angry eyes. He
should think about what it meant, how it af ected his plans. If he was truly his father’s son, that was what he
would be doing.
Varis watched the play without seeing it and thought about nothing at al .
When the play ended, the audience streamed out toward the banquet hal in a frantic rush, as if they had al
suddenly discovered that they were on the verge of starvation. Varis remained where he was for several
moments, watching the empty stage, until someone coughed softly at his shoulder.