Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(11)
But last week’s ceremony marked the day she finally gave up.
Lyda’s voice, thick with concern, cuts into my thoughts once again. “Whatever’s upset you and Evander this evening, I can’t help but feel it’s at least partly my fault . . .”
I’ve never really felt at home here, in the stiff, high-backed chairs that decorate the Crowthers’ imposing manor, but Lyda has always encouraged me to call it home. And I guess I should call it that, since it’s where I sleep most nights after fooling around with Evander, in a spare room where all my belongings fit in one dresser drawer.
“If I’d just done a better job at talking you two out of studying Death’s magic! I haven’t slept all week, I’ve been so worried . . .” Lyda wrings her hands in her lap, faint lines creasing her forehead as we all continue to eat our fill of a meal I can barely taste.
After several long moments, a pretty serving girl arrives to collect our plates. I wink at her as she takes up mine, then shift my attention to Evander.
“Speaking of death,” he says hesitantly, as if he can’t bear to relive the night’s events, “I’m glad you’re sitting down for this, Mother.” He takes my hand under the table, after a practiced hasty glance over his shoulder to make sure no servants are watching from the shadowed halls. He sounds older than his nineteen years as he declares, “We were delayed tonight because Master Nicanor was murdered. It looked like he was torn apart by some wild animal. But it was a Shade. I saw it, just for a moment.”
Lyda’s hand flutters at her throat. All the nobles and necromancers know each other at least in passing, and Lyda knew Master Nicanor better than most. He’s the one who stepped in to help when Baron Crowther himself became a Shade many years ago.
He’s also the one who offered to train Lyda as a necromancer when she was a girl, according to Evander. But Lyda was never interested.
“Yana!” The baroness rises, crossing the room to ring a silver bell as she calls for one of her maids. “Bring some cold water, please. And hurry! I’m so distressed.” She sets the bell down and turns back to us. Our gazes lock for the briefest moment.
Her eyes are perfectly dry, and her smooth face is expressionless. Whatever grief she’s feeling, she buried it in a hurry. Maybe she’s always blamed Nicanor for not reaching her manor in time to spare her from what she had to do to her husband, but it’s hard to feel too sorry for her just now.
“This is yet another example of what I’ve been trying to tell you both all these years,” she says slowly, in her soft, disarming way. “Without anyone to raise the dead, there would be no Shades.” Her face is sorrowful again as she focuses on her son. “No Shades, and far fewer senseless tragedies.”
I’m suddenly reminded of the time I overheard her telling Evander that if she could, she’d pay someone to change her eye color from blue to anything else. A dangerous thing to discuss—change—even if it’s in whispers in one’s own home.
“If there’s one thing I wish you’d learned from your father’s death,” Lyda continues, blossoms of color appearing on her cheeks, “it’s that if we love the Dead, we should leave them in their own world, where they belong.”
The summoned maid, Yana, arrives with a pitcher of cold water and has to stifle a gasp at her mistress’s words.
Evander clenches his jaw. “All I learned from Father’s death is that the Dead need gifted necromancers to keep them and everyone else safe.” His voice rises, and the maid scurries from the room. “Father wanted to be raised. He was there to see me grow up thanks to necromancers! I doubt I’d remember him otherwise.”
Lyda opens her mouth, but Evander keeps talking, building steam. “If there were no necromancers, what would become of the Dead already here? Would you have them all slain just to return them to the Deadlands? Would anyone ever deserve that?”
Wincing, Lyda covers her face with her hands. A moment later, a whisper of her usual voice issues from between her fingers. “Of course not. What a horrible thing to say.”
“If we love the Dead, we should honor their wishes and protect them, same as the living. And that’s the last I’ll hear of it.” Evander leans back in his seat, breathing hard.
When they both glance in my direction, I spot a crumb of bread on the table and pop it in my mouth to avoid speaking my mind, because I actually think they both have a point. The Dead do pose a threat. I’ve seen the danger, just today, in the Shade that tore Master Nicanor to pieces. But the Dead need me far more than the living, and I, them. Without Dead to raise, I’d be nothing but an orphan. As long as the Dead are around, I’m their Sparrow, and I won’t give that up for anything—not even for Lyda’s blessing to marry Evander.
“We should pay for Master Nicanor’s funeral,” Lyda says timidly a moment later, her cheeks still ruddy with color. “He was a dear family friend, after all.”
It’s a peace offering, and Evander, seeming too tired to argue anymore, seizes it. He nods, and they start discussing plans. I try to listen, but my attention keeps wandering to Baron Crowther’s empty chair at the far end of the table. No one’s ever told me the whole story, not even Evander. But from what I’ve gathered, the baron died of a plague when Evander was small, and a necromancer brought him back. Then Lyda got a glimpse of him beneath his shroud, a terrible accident, and he became a Shade. He tried to kill Evander’s little sister and broke Evander’s arm when he stepped in to save her. Lyda killed the monster she’d once loved so dearly, setting it ablaze just before Master Nicanor and his apprentice arrived at the manor.