Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(25)
For a moment, silence hangs over us.
“If the necromancers aren’t responsible,” a woman’s smooth voice calls, “who is?”
I’d love to know the answer to that myself. It has to be someone outside the law. A criminal, paid to disrupt this party by someone who hates the king or even the duke, who certainly had his enemies. Or the guilty person could be above the law, like the nobles who stand here accusing us. Some look thoughtful. Others move about restlessly, like the tension in the air is too much for them, and a few continue to stare at us with open revulsion.
Finally, as I watch Master Cymbre’s eyes shift from anger to hurt, I find my voice again. “You’ve always trusted us before.” That isn’t the half of it, as they well know. Until tonight, every one of these people has held us in the same high esteem as Karthia’s best bards. As the wealthiest silk traders from the southern provinces. As royalty. Now they’re treating us like a couple of pox-ridden beggars from the Ashes.
I clench my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to shout. A glance at Evander helps me steady myself before I speak again. “You realize none of your beloved Dead would be here without us, don’t you? Not even—”
“Me,” a scratchy voice finishes. “Yes. Thank you, Sparrow.” King Wylding glides into view, flanked by two other masked and shrouded figures. “I’ve heard enough nonsense for one evening.” He turns to face his subjects. His family. “These mages”—he spreads his arms, his long black sleeves hanging down like a crow’s wings—“remain our beloved guests, and a vital part of my reign. You will continue to treat them with respect, if you do not wish to spend the next ten years admiring my dungeon walls.”
Valoria beams at the king. “He’s not so bad sometimes,” she whispers. “For a cranky great-great-great . . . well, Eldest Grandfather.”
“What happened to Duke Bevan is a tragedy,” the king adds in a voice like dead leaves scraping across the courtyard. “And to the others who have died or been injured in this massacre,” he adds. “But I did not give in to fear and speculation in life, and I won’t in Death either. We will carry on as we always have,” the king continues, raising his raspy voice and reclaiming my attention. “And we will look to our necromancers, now more than ever, to find answers and keep us safe from Shades. For Karthia. For us all.”
“For Karthia,” the young nobles echo, somewhat grudgingly in my opinion. “For us all.”
The king claps his hands once. “Good. Now, everyone head to your rooms. I think we can all agree—the party is over.”
As the royal procession disappears into the palace, Cymbre draws the four of us newest master necromancers close. Valoria and Danial hang back but stay near, no doubt listening, too.
“We need to get to the bottom of this threat—whatever it may be—and contain it swiftly. Not only for the safety of Karthia, but to uphold the name of necromancer. First, though”—Cymbre smiles wanly—“we must get some rest before the hunt tomorrow.” She narrows her eyes. “Remember, if you try anything without me, I’ll wring your necks faster than you can say Deadlands.”
The group disperses, only Evander and Valoria remaining by my side.
“She’s wise. If I don’t head to bed now, I’ll fall asleep right here.” The princess smiles as she turns to leave. “Thanks again for what you did tonight. Maybe I’ll see you again soon? Hadrien will mope around the palace for months if you miss his birthday celebration.”
I shake my head. Disappointing Hadrien is the last thing on my mind right now. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
“And, Odessa?” the princess calls over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re planning with the others tomorrow—be careful, all right?”
Touching two fingers to my brow in a salute, I call back, “Of course.”
The moment Valoria disappears through the rose-embossed double doors, I grab Evander’s hands and pull him to the quietest spot in the courtyard, behind the empty tables that so recently held the feast. His eyes look more violet than blue by the flickering torchlight as they gaze into mine. I run my fingertips over his cheeks, letting the roughness of his jaw graze my skin, making my heart beat at double its usual pace. I want to kiss him—whether his mother might see us and ban me from her manor, I don’t care right now—but there’s so much to say first.
“Something’s always in our way,” he says, sharing my thoughts. “Sparrow, when I saw you fall into that fire . . .” He pulls me closer, his hands steady despite everything the last few days have thrown at us. “I thought I’d lost you. Just for a moment, but that was enough for me to understand I never want to feel like that again.”
Everything—the clatter of plates being stacked, the routine motions of the servants—fades away until there’s nothing but Evander and me, and I’m right where I belong. When I look into his eyes, I get the same feeling I have whenever I walk into Death’s convent after a long day. If a person can be a home, then he’s mine.
“Tonight made me realize something,” he whispers against my ear, making me shiver.
“Me too.” My throat tightens at what I’m about to say, but Evander beats me to it.
“We’re stronger together. I could never walk away.” He strokes a hand through my hair, shaking loose bits of ash from the fire. “I’m not getting on a boat without you. Not tomorrow, not in a year. We don’t get forever.”