Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(7)
“I’m sorry to say this,” I say in a steady voice, squashing down my own pain for the sake of the younger girl’s shimmering eyes, “but we still have to find King Wylding. I hate to think of how far his spirit’s traveled while we’ve been delayed.”
Valoria takes a deep breath, then pulls back her hair, seemingly trying to steel herself for what’s to come.
“And I hate to think what would happen if the giant Shade in there catches a whiff of us. I don’t feel good about going in there tonight, even with this . . .” Evander murmurs, touching a hand to his sword hilt. “Fire is the only thing that destroys a Shade, but blades can slow them down,” he adds at the princess’s curious look. “I’m no Nicanor, and if even he couldn’t . . .” He lowers his gaze to the ground, blinking hard.
“You’re right,” I say briskly, hoping to cover the cracks in my voice. “There’s a chance we may never return.” I inhale deeply. There’s always that chance, even without a giant Shade skulking around. “Still, it’s our duty to raise the king, and if we die trying to finish what we started . . .” Shrugging helplessly, I add, “But we can’t ask you to risk your life, Valoria. If you’d like to trade places with a relative, if someone’s willing—”
“No. I knew the risks when I signed up for this.” The princess reaches for my hand and pulls herself to her feet with my help. Keeping hold of me, she looks toward the cliff’s edge. “Let’s go,” she says, standing taller, her brown eyes hard as stone. Most of the royals would be a blubbering mess by now, but not this one. “We have a job to finish.”
After a final word to the guards, Evander takes my free hand.
It’s just a dead body, I tell myself as I force my legs to move. I’m around them all the time. Why should this one be any different? An image of Nicanor’s smiling eyes flashes to mind, giving me the answer: because they aren’t usually necromancers.
The king’s routine slayings are usually peaceful. We swiftly kill him when he’s showing signs of becoming a Shade, having been in our world too long. Then we fetch his spirit, and soon, he’s able to walk and talk and think as he did in life.
But Nicanor’s one chance at life is over. It makes my chest ache as I think of the breaths he should be drawing at this very moment. Yet, as Valoria said, we have a job to finish. And right now, doing our job seems a lot easier than trying to understand that the man I sat with on the beach last week is in pieces on the ground.
Hand in hand, the three of us stride into the glowing blue light, no one looking back at the body. As we near the edge of the cliff, Valoria closes her eyes and sucks in a breath.
The gate’s chill washes over us, something even the princess can feel. She seems to faint right after making the leap with us, her hand turning limp in mine. Our toes skim the air above the ocean for the briefest moment before we fall onto the hard dirt floor of the tunnel concealed behind the gate.
“I’ll check her pulse,” I whisper as Evander climbs to his feet and draws his sword.
As I press my fingers to the princess’s wrist, feeling for a heartbeat, she shudders and pulls back. “I’m all right. That awful potion’s made my head all fuzzy, though.” She absently rubs her nose, perhaps trying to push up the glasses that normally rest there. “Let’s finish this. I have so much work waiting for me back in my chambers, I’ll be up past sunrise at this rate. Lead the way.”
III
We march toward the tunnel’s end, wrapped in the kind of silence that takes hold deep in my bones and makes me want to jump at the slightest noise. Shades crave the permanent twilight and shadows of this place, which means Master Nicanor’s killer is surely prowling nearby.
The tunnel spits us out in a Deadlands forest, its trees tall and ancient, more like the pines in northerly Lorness than the oaks and cypresses found throughout Grenwyr. But when I breathe deeply, there’s none of the clean, crisp scent the trees in our world give off. Walking through the Deadlands is an eerie experience, like I’ve lost half my senses. Between the pale trunks, there are glimpses of distant mountaintops where no sun ever shines. No sun, no wind, no rain. No scents of anything growing here.
As we crest a rise in the land, I spin around, leading Valoria with me. Turning slowly, I point out the endless confusion of meadows, rivers, and lakes spread out below us that make up this strange landscape.
“There are no homes,” Valoria murmurs curiously.
“The spirits don’t need them.”
“And the air—it’s chilly here.”
Evander nods patiently. “It’s always like that. Spirits don’t feel cold like we do.” He whips off his cloak and offers it to her. “Take this.”
Our walk through the forest is just as quiet as the tunnel, and so is the meadow that welcomes us where the trees end. Our footsteps make lonely echoes down the narrow dirt paths that cut through a misty field of marigolds and moonflowers, a field that’s usually teeming with filmy figures. After all, this is where every spirit in the world comes when they leave their bodies. Eventually, after they’ve been here long enough, the spirits move on—to what, not even the oldest and wisest necromancer can say.
“This way,” I whisper. My voice slithers through the silver leaves of the gnarled old trees that form a canopy over us at the edge of the marigold field. On the other side of this grove, there’s usually a sprawling garden with overgrown trees, glossy plum-colored flowers, and lilies as big as my head. It’s a place King Wylding’s spirit frequents, along with many others, a place where elderflower wine bubbles from marble fountains and no one ever weeps.