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.
Those finished with life crave it less over time. And the spirits who linger here longest, the ones whose memories have faded to a single point of laughter, or a pretty face whose name they can’t remember, hardly ever come to the gardens like King Wylding does. Instead, they wade in the rivers or bathe in the lakes, letting the flowing water strip them of every last bit of themselves as they wait for whatever’s next to claim them.
“Fascinating,” Valoria breathes as we pass a statue of a man holding a bar of gold. Her earlier tears of shock have dried, leaving faint trails down her cheeks. “How do you suppose the spirits build things? Can they touch?”
Turning my head slightly, I roll my eyes at the question. Only Evander notices.
“Of course, Highness,” he says, lifting a branch so we can walk beneath it. “This is their realm, not ours. They have power here, like we do in the living world.”
As I walk past Evander into a swirl of mist as thick as cream, I brush my fingertips over his and mouth a silent thank you. The princess hasn’t stopped talking since we got here, and my patience for questions evaporated right around the time Master Nicanor died at our feet.
No matter how many times I repeat it over in my mind, I can’t seem to grasp its completeness. Master Nicanor is dead. I press a hand to my writhing stomach, still sickened by the memory of the corpse.
The princess clears her throat. “Speaking of powerful things . . . what are the chances we’ll run into that Shade?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to cut off its ugly head.” Evander’s voice is jagged, like he’s swallowed too much grief. He pauses with his back against an enormous tree, one hand on his sword, the other clutching the vial of human blood he sprinkles along our path to try to draw the king’s spirit near.
“Lucky for us, the Deadlands are vast. We probably won’t see a thing,” I grit out in a tone that doesn’t invite more questions. I hate how each word is magnified in the immense emptiness of the grove. The Shade that killed Master Nicanor must have scared any nearby spirits into some deeper part of the Deadlands where we don’t often travel. I’ve never walked this long down here without seeing a soul, and I don’t like it one bit.
As if sensing my thoughts, Valoria shivers against me.
“It has to be a really nasty Shade to have gotten the better of Nicanor,” Evander says after a while, putting away his vial of blood to scrub a hand over his shadowed jaw.
I wonder if he’s also thinking of what happened to his father, Baron Crowther, and wish I could wrap him in my arms.
“What gives Shades their strength?” the princess whispers as we push through the deepest shadows of the grove.
I rub my aching temples. I wish there was some way of telling time here, but the permanently twilit sky gives away nothing, so I can’t say whether the soothing potion Valoria drank is starting to wear off.