“Okay. Let’s assume someone forced him to go to the Deadlands against his will.” Evander’s eyes are narrowed in thought. “Why did he come out alone, then? What happened to the person who took him there? Everyone knows Shades will devour anything in sight, so . . .” At the look on Simeon’s face, he loses the thread of his words.
“You don’t have to watch what you say around us. We know what the Shade did to Master Nicanor.” Simeon grimaces, and I reach behind Jax to pat his shoulder. “We were in our rooms at the palace when they brought him up. We saw the—ah—”
“Mangled body,” Jax finishes for him, unflinching. An outsider probably wouldn’t guess he’s in pain, but the way he’s quietly grinding his teeth tells me he’s just managed to channel it into quiet fury. “So I say we hunt this damned Shade. Today.”
Between the flowers on Cymbre’s table and the glimpse I had of a giant Shade in the Deadlands grove, I’m not sure we should go anywhere right now. “Does anyone have a plan, then? One that doesn’t involve us all dying?”
Evander looks up, his gaze unreadable. “Me,” he says simply. “I’ll cut it to pieces, and then you all will burn it.”
No one’s better with a sword than Evander. There’s no denying it.
“We both saw it. The monster that killed Nicanor.” I describe what I saw in the shadows, how quickly it moved. “It won’t stand a chance against four of us, though.”
I hope I sound more confident than I feel.
“If we can catch it, that is,” Evander whispers.
Simeon leaps to his feet and starts pacing. “I don’t think any of us should go into the Deadlands until Master Cymbre’s back. Killing the Shade won’t explain why Master Nicanor’s cottage was torn up. Maybe Cymbre can help us get answers.”
“There’s so much about this I don’t like,” Evander agrees. “And Cymbre said to wait in her note. She’ll be back tomorrow, in time for the Festival of the Face of Cloud.”
Jax catches my eye and shrugs, his powerful shoulders bunching. “I still say we kill it now. If we wait for the Festival of Cloud, what’s to keep us from waiting for the Festival of Moon three days later?”
I almost grin. He’s right, there’s a festival in Karthia at least once a week, and not just for Vaia’s five faces. The king observes all the festivals started before his reign, celebrations honoring everything from the sea to marriages to red fruits. With the Dead walking among us, reminding us of our mortality—and their very presence meaning a Shade could attack at any time—it’s no wonder we need an excuse to throw a raucous party every few days. The Festival of Olive and Tomato is actually my favorite, but Vaia’s festivals are always grandest.
“Cymbre might be mad for a bit, but she’ll thank us when she calms down,” Jax insists, drawing me back to the present. “This monster murdered her partner, my mentor, damn it!” After a moment of quiet, he asks more calmly, “What do you think, Sparrow?”
“I . . .” Three pairs of blue eyes watch me as I stall, thinking furiously. Like Jax, I think slaying and burning the monster will ease a little of everyone’s pain—that is, if it doesn’t kill us first. But Evander and Simeon have a point: There’s more to what’s happening than just a Shade, and Cymbre will help us figure it out. “I say we wait for Cymbre. That way we can attend the festival.” I force a grin. “One last chance to eat, drink, and generally make fools of ourselves, just in case we don’t all make it back from Shade-hunting alive.”
As the others talk among themselves, my gaze returns again to the flowers. The Dead don’t often send warnings from their world, which means something is seriously wrong. Danger, I understand: The Deadlands aren’t exactly safe at the moment. The message of death, of course, is obvious. But deception? That worries me most of all.
VII
The palace courtyards swarm with bodies tonight, both living and Dead. King Wylding’s most beloved citizens are all here for the Festival of Cloud—painters and sculptors, poets and musicians—competing for attention as they show off their autumn-themed creations in the center courtyard where I stand with Evander. My heart changes rhythm to match the drums, harps, and tambourines that sound from all directions as I loop my arm through Evander’s.
“Help me look for Master Cymbre!” I shout over the music and chatter. All of Noble Park seems to be here, along with the ever-growing Wylding family, the city’s wealthiest merchants, and almost every mage from Grenwyr Province.
Evander puts his lips to my ear. “I would, if I could keep my eyes off you.”
We’re supposed to dress in our finest for festival days, which means no comfortable black uniforms. And for me, that means letting Lyda’s maids pin up my wavy hair into the most popular style of the past two hundred years, and stuff me into a pretty crimson dress with flowing skirts that make it impossible to wear my sword and belt. My lips are dabbed with rouge, which I always like, though I refused the crumbly brown powder they wanted to pat on my nose and cheeks.
Evander’s words should make me feel better, but they don’t. Nothing has been able to ease the constant feeling of dread that’s hounded me ever since I saw Master Nicanor die. Since the flowers from the graveyard spelled out a warning.
Just a few feet in front of us, two obviously drunk Wylding nobles, Valoria’s cousins, throw fistfuls of cake at each other’s faces. Noble girls gathered around them giggle shrilly, seeming desperate to laugh off their nerves in the wake of Master Nicanor’s death. And it’s not just them. Everyone seems determined to get as drunk and happy as possible until they forget their sorrow over the necromancer forever ripped from their midst.
A roaring sound and a burst of light to my left draw my gaze. The Sisters of Cloud have started the first of many bonfires, and children gather round with fistfuls of color-changing powder, all waiting their turn to make a little magic for the Face of Cloud.
With a flash, the column of flames stretching toward the sky turns blue. Another child steps forward. Another flash. The fire changes to a brilliant poppy red. Flash. Plum-colored fire pops and sizzles as onlookers cheer.
Kasmira would love this. She’s likely dancing around a bonfire at one of the parties in the city below with her crew and the rest of Grenwyr’s citizens, toasting the king’s eternal reign, but it seems a shame that Karthia’s best weather mage wasn’t invited to the grandest celebration.
“Odessa! Evander!”