Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(19)
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!”
We turn toward the voice, which seems to be coming from somewhere near the banquet tables. That’s where most of the Dead gather, piling their plates high with roasted fish and cold cuts of spiced wild boar imported all the way from Lorness, steaming mounds of whipped potatoes, and blackened mushrooms.
In their shrouds, it would be nearly impossible to tell the Dead man cracking jokes beside the punch bowl from the one taking almost half the potatoes, if not for the ornate pins of copper or silver that denote their titles and often even show their family crests. The Dead women sometimes wear pins, too, though many prefer to paint their masks and don the most exquisite baubles they wore in life. There’s a duchess I call Lady Emerald because she adorns her shroud with nothing but the biggest, shiniest emerald choker necklace I’ve ever seen—I still haven’t learned her real name.
As two ancient Dead marchionesses glide away with their plates, no doubt to eat in seclusion where they can lift their masks, Princess Valoria appears and waves us over. She must have been the one calling our names.
The crowd parts to let us pass, some offering greetings, others bowing or waving.
“I see you’ve found your glasses,” Evander says when we reach the princess, making her grin. “They look nice on you, Highness.”
The delicate gold spectacles reflect the light of the bonfires as Valoria adjusts them behind her ears. They look even more polished than the opal-and-silver circlet in her hair. “I was hoping you’d be here.” She meets my eyes for a brief moment before dropping her gaze, then tucks a few wisps of her blond hair back into her braided crown. “I mean, and I didn’t have anything better to do.”
I stare at her, more uncomfortable now than I was when I first squeezed myself into my party dress. Everyone in Grenwyr knows me, or knows of me, but I don’t have many friends outside our circle of necromancers. Aside from Kasmira, of course.
“I finished it!” the princess adds in a whisper. “My latest you-know-what!” That explains the smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the black stain on the sleeve of her stunning red-and-gold beaded gown.
“Maybe you can show us the you-know-what later, when there aren’t any Dead around,” I venture cautiously, earning a smile from her. “How have you been holding up since we saw you last?”
“The grape vines outside my room wilted the night we got back from the Deadlands. When I saw it the next morning, I knew it had to be death’s blight.” Valoria frowns. “My mother planted those vines. She’s so disappointed. See? That’s my room, just there.”