Author: Leah Cypess

“Be careful, though,” he said. “You’re not . . . there are members of the court, living and dead, who are not happy about the Rael ian presence here. Be wary when you talk to people. And try to avoid the Guardian.”

His face looked alive again; his skin was bone white, his eyes deep-set and black, that was al . She was amazed when her voice emerged steady. “Who is the Guardian?”

“The Guardian of the Living is his ful title.” Kestin stepped back and leaned against the wal again. “He tends to make an impression. He kil ed the man you were talking to the night you arrived.”

“I remember,” Darri said shortly. “Guardian of the Living? Guarding them from what?”

He laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“From the . . . dead?”

Kestin shrugged. “Like I said: the dead are dangerous. Once it became clear that not al of us were going to take vengeance and move on, it was necessary for someone to protect the living. The Guardian took up that role.”

“Is he dead too?”

“He’s been around for hundreds of years. I would assume so.”

“Why the armor?”

“No one knows. So he can carry a silver sword, maybe.” Kestin shook his head. “He has absolute power to punish the dead, and nobody would argue with him if he went after one of the living. I don’t know how he feels about the presence of foreigners in our kingdom, so it’s probably best if you stay out of his way.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Darri said. “And I wil do my best. But right now, I would like to talk to my sister.”

“Of course,” Kestin said. He turned and gestured down the passageway. “Her room is right down this hal and up the stairs at the end, the first door on your left. I can walk you there, if you like.”

She almost said yes. But then he dropped his hand to his side, and she saw the dark red of the tapestry right through it.

“No,” she said. “Thank you, but—I think it would be bet er if I spoke to her alone.”

Kestin nodded, expressionless.

Darri turned her back on the prince and made her way through the long, dark passageway and up the narrow, dusty stairway at the end. The hal way here was darker than the one downstairs, with fewer lamps and almost no tapestries to cover the bare stone wal s. Whatever Cal ie’s status in this castle was, it clearly wasn’t honored guest.

Darri’s breath burned in her chest. She walked to the first door on the left, lifted her hand to rap on the dark Darri’s breath burned in her chest. She walked to the first door on the left, lifted her hand to rap on the dark wood, and couldn’t complete the motion. She kept thinking of the stif ness of Cal ie’s face, half-hidden in the tangled trees. You could have of ered to go yourself.

It would have made no dif erence. Cal ie was the daughter her father had chosen; she was pret ier, more adaptable, more docile than Darri. Besides, as the elder daughter, Darri was more valuable as a marriage partner to the other tribal leaders.

Al true. Her father would never have sent her instead.

But she hadn’t of ered.

Darri dropped her hand to her side, fighting a sick feeling in her chest. For so long Cal ie had been the only person in her life she didn’t hate. She didn’t know how she would bear it if it turned out Cal ie hated her.

If Cal ie refused to open the door.

She turned and walked back to the end of the hal way. A large windowsil was set into the stone wal , the window itself covered with uneven bricks. Darri pul ed herself onto the stone ledge and leaned against the wal , heedless of the rough-edged stones that scraped against her back. The shadows pul ed themselves in around her as she set led back to wait.

Chapter Six

There was no way to stop Darri from doing whatever she intended to do; there rarely was. Varis, when he final y left the banquet hal at King Ais’s side, did his best not to think about what that might be. Ever since Cal ie had been sent away, Darri had been a thorn in his side, and absolutely impossible to control. Twice she had even tried to ride to Ghostland herself, though each time she had been caught before half a day had passed.

It was only sheer luck that she had been stopped by horsemen who had sworn loyalty to their father, and not by rival tribes who would have raped and kil ed her on the spot. The danger hadn’t stopped her from trying, any more than the beatings she had received when she was returned.

Varis wasn’t even going to try to stop her. He would untangle whatever trouble she caused later. With any luck, he could manage that before she caused any serious damage.

Outside the banquet hal , King Ais and his at endants went one way, and Varis went the other. His conversation with the king had been interminable, but he had gleaned one very useful piece of information from it: the name of the man who might be the new linchpin of his plan.

Groups of men and women lounged in the wide hal , leaning against the lush tapestries and steel mirrors or gliding over the white marble floor. Varis approached one woman who seemed, somehow, the most alive. He turned his smile on her.

“I’m looking for Lord Cerix’s suite,” he said. “Would you mind directing me toward it?” She turned to him with an upward sweep of darkened lashes, and he lifted his eyebrows just far enough to be noticeable. “Or, if you think the way might be confusing, you could escort me.”

The woman looked him up and down, and Varis waited, aware of how his simple clothes and wind- roughened skin contrasted with the finery al around him. That was al right. It made him look like a warrior, which was what he was.

“After you go up the stairs, turn left into the hal way with the blue tapestries. It’s the last door on the left, al the way at the end of the hal .” The woman tilted her head to the side. “I hear that Lord Cerix is interested in speaking to you.”

The look she gave him was a clear invitation, and that “I hear” meant she might know something useful.

Varis stepped closer to her, al owing his glance to turn admiring; but just then another woman stepped right through the wal , dangling a string of necklaces from her hand. When she turned solid, the necklaces did too, and tinkled loudly as they swung against the wal . She looped her arm around the first woman’s shoulders and smiled at Varis.

Varis barely managed a thank you before backing away and heading down the hal . He could feel both women’s smirks boring into his back, even as he reached the spiral stairway at the end of the hal and started up it.

But the last door on the left was opened by a servant, who informed him that Lord Cerix was in the castle courtyard watching a dogfight. When Varis scowled, the man laughed and took a swig from his clay jug.

“Dogfighting is a popular sport here,” he said. “It’s because of the dead. They get bored, and develop obsessions to keep themselves busy. The haughty and pretentious ones become artists; the rest bet on blood sports. Long as it’s not people they’re sporting with, we let them be.”

“And how do you make sure they don’t start sporting with people instead?” Varis asked.

The man snorted knowingly. “You’l want to talk to Lord Cerix about that,” he said. “He’l be a good distance from the castle, so you don’t have to worry about deadheads—they don’t like being far from shelter, even this early in the evening. Sunrise isn’t pret y for them.” He laughed and drank again. “One of the stableboys can tel you which way to go, if you’re that intent on speaking to Lord Cerix. Go down these stairs right here, and then through the kitchens to the courtyard.”

The stairway the servant directed him to was far less grand than the one he had come up on: a deserted, somewhat dusty set of stone stairs, with bricked-up windows and sparsely spaced torches. Varis thought about returning to the spiral staircase instead, then shrugged and started down.

He had just reached the first landing when a ghost erupted from the stone wal of the stairway and shoved him.

The blow should have sent him tumbling; but even when his mind was wandering, Varis was always prepared to be at acked. He twisted and rol ed as he fel , landing on his feet on one of the steps, grabbing the banister and swinging himself around, one foot already lashing out— At no one. The thing that had at acked him was not a man. It was a black cloud, a thick smoke, and the stench of death around him was so strong he could barely breathe.

When his foot hit nothing, it threw him of -balance, and he wasn’t ready for the next blow. He tumbled down the steps, stone edges hit ing his head and back and arms; by the time he reached the next landing, he had recovered enough to leap to his feet, but he was in no shape to fight. He blinked hard before he could see, and then what he saw was a black cloud oozing down the stairs toward him.

Varis drew a silver knife and threw it. It passed right through the blackness and hit the stairs behind it, and the fog kept coming. Varis whirled toward the lower stairway, but he was too late; the thing was upon him, cold and dank and stinking of the grave. He backed up until he hit the stone wal , and the smoke surrounded him, pressing on him.

him, pressing on him.

Al at once the stairwel was pitch-black, as if light had ceased to exist. The darkness wrapped around his face, creeping into his mouth, absorbing his terror. This was death itself, coiling around him: the death that crept al through this castle, a faint and rot ing miasma.

Now it was upon him, and there was no escape. He was going to be kil ed by this horror; he would become a horror himself, once the pain and darkness were done. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

And al at once he wasn’t afraid.

He had always been prepared to die, for the cause that was his life. There was nothing shameful in it, no mat er what kil ed him, no mat er what he became afterward.

It didn’t mat er if he had no chance. He was a Rael ian. He would fight.

He drew a second silver knife, the ridges of the hilt pressing against his palm, and thrust it into the heart of the seething darkness. The motion was as useless as he had expected, but he used the momentum to rol himself forward and sideways, through the dark smoke and into the empty air above the staircase. He landed precisely on one of the stairs, which was sheer luck, and tot ered for a moment before grabbing the railing and spinning himself around.

The dark cloud reared above him. Varis struck into it with al his might, ignoring the way the skin of his arm shrank back from the writhing cloud. He pushed himself away from the railing and plunged the knife farther into the darkness, seeking its heart, closing his eyes as the slick cold pressed against his face.

Something inside the cloud pul ed back, and the knife was wrenched out of his hand. Varis’s fingers clenched together on the roiling darkness; a dozen clammy tendrils moved against his palm. He jerked his hand back to his side and threw himself backward, half-fal ing down the top few steps, catching himself on the railing and yanking himself to his feet. Shivers ran up and down his body, under his skin. He drew his last silver knife, the one sheathed at his back, and held it close to his side. The black fog rose over him, and he knew, without the faintest doubt, that he was about to die.

“Stop!”

For a moment Varis was too frozen to react; then his mind grasped that he wasn’t dead, and he whirled. The creature cal ed the Guardian stood below him at the foot of the stairs, as stil as a black iron statue.

“Stop this,” the Guardian said again, his voice a hol ow echo.

The black cloud roiled, but Varis stil wasn’t dead. So the Guardian had some sort of power over it.

The sudden, unexpected appearance of hope sharpened Varis’s fear; but this time the fear didn’t paralyze him. He swung himself onto the banister and slid down without taking his eyes of the black-armored man or losing hold of his dagger. When he landed next to the Guardian, he turned to face his at acker again.

The darkness spoke. It sounded like a dark wind moaning words; Varis could almost feel the voice rumbling past him. “You should never have brought them here.”