Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(20)
She points to a distant domed spire, and I narrow my eyes to see it clearly. Though the Dead can’t reproduce, the palace gets bigger every year, with more wings added constantly to house all the Wylding relatives and their children, and their children’s children. When they aren’t planning parties or painting scenery to keep busy, the living Wyldings are quite fond of making babies. There’s a picture of the original palace hanging in the grand entryway, and it’s definitely swelled with time and demand for more space.
“You have your own tower.” I grin at the princess. “Not bad. How’d you get so much space to yourself? Did you have to fight a hundred of your cousins for it?”
“Being the second living heir in line to the throne helps,” Valoria murmurs, her face burning. “Not that it matters, but my parents both died in the yearly black fever outbreak when I was young. My mother was raised. My father chose not to be.” She shrugs, but her eyes glisten. “Anyway, Eldest Grandfather will rule as long as I’m alive. So I don’t have to worry about what a headache I’d have from wearing a heavy crown all the time. Besides, Hadrien would inherit before I did, as he’s the oldest of the five living heirs.”
“Oldest and best looking,” a smooth male voice says from behind me.
Dislike flashes in Evander’s eyes, and his lip curls, leaving no doubt as to who’s just put a hand on my waist.
“Prince Hadrien,” I say in the warmest voice I can muster when someone’s touching me without my permission and I have no authority to snap their fingers like kindling. “Happy festival day to you.”
“If you really want to make it a happy one,” Hadrien says, smiling in a way that shows off all his perfect teeth and makes his dark brown eyes shine brighter than the opals in his silver crown, “you’ll come dance with me, Sparrow.”
“She’s fine right here,” Evander growls, then quickly shoots me an apologetic look. He knows I can speak for myself, but he can never stay quiet when Hadrien is around. I’d thought that after three years of the prince’s shameless flirting, Evander would learn to ignore it, but Hadrien has a way of getting under people’s skin.
I sidestep Hadrien’s touch, positioning myself beside Valoria. “If I try to bend and twist in this dress, it’ll rip. And that would give King Wylding quite a shock.” My gaze darts between the golden-haired prince and Evander, who’s gripping his sword hilt. I’m glad at least one of us came to this party armed. “Maybe some other time, Highness.”
“One must always hold on to hope,” Hadrien says good-naturedly. He gives me a sweeping bow, the kind people usually reserve for King Wylding. The mischievous gleam in his eyes softens as he straightens. “My condolences to you both”—he pauses to glance at Evander—“for Master Nicanor. Such a terrible loss. Though I suppose that’s the risk of walking where only the dead should dwell.”
“That’s why we normally travel there in pairs,” Evander murmurs darkly. “But there are some suspicious circumstances around Master Nicanor’s death, which we intend to investigate. I’m sure you’ll help with that.”
“I had no idea . . . I was told it was an accident!” Hadrien’s dark eyes are round with sincerity. “Of course I’ll help. Anything and anyone within these walls”—he gestures to the palace around us, suddenly more somber than I’ve ever seen him—“is at your disposal, day or night. Simply say the word.”
Evander looks at Hadrien a long moment, then grits out, “Thank you.”
“We appreciate it, Highness,” I add, giving Hadrien a gracious smile I hope will take his mind off Evander’s surliness.
In the distance, someone calls Hadrien’s name, and he turns toward the sound. “Ah, I’ve just spotted a lovely lady in dire need of a glass of wine. Can’t leave anyone empty-handed on festival night, or I’m a rotten host. See you around, Sparrow.” With a wink, he disappears into a sea of black-shrouded figures and ladies in flowing silks of every autumn hue.
“I think he actually likes you.” Valoria gives me a bewildered glance, seeming torn between amusement and revulsion at her brother’s behavior. “And—Evander, isn’t that your mother he’s talking to now?”
Hadrien reappears near the bonfire, where he’s already managed to find a glass of wine. He presses it into Lyda Crowther’s delicate hand, drawing her away from the group of Dead nobles with whom she was chatting. Even from a distance, her smile is unmistakable. I’m sure she has the good sense not to utter any of what she told us over our midnight supper.
Evander says nothing, but kicks a chipped piece of cobblestone toward the fire.
“Careful with that!” a gruff voice says. “You trying to blind me, Crowther?” Jax pushes through the crowd, the jagged rock Evander kicked grasped in his large fist. He’s wearing his customary black, though he’s swapped his necromancer’s uniform for a set of silk robes that make him look so uncomfortable, he’d probably rather be naked. He glances from Evander to Prince Hadrien and Lyda. “Or are your knickers in a bunch because the prince is moving in on your mother?”
“Guilty.” Evander holds up his hands, his anger fading at the sight of our friend. “Just trying to thin out the competition. Like there aren’t enough dead people to raise in Grenwyr.”