Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(72)

Her touch is all that keeps me from losing my balance until I slide onto the empty seat.

The baroness remains outside, talking in low voices with what must be her entire guard of fifty armed men.

“Hadrien would have sent us with more help if he knew it was this bad,” I manage to say at last. “Why didn’t the baroness or someone else say how many Shades had been spotted?” Before Meredy can respond, I answer my own question. “They must not have known. This must be the first attack of this scale.” As Meredy wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, I add softly, “I wonder who the Shades were. Who they used to be.”

“At this point, I think the more important question is where they are now,” she whispers. “It doesn’t seem like anyone killed them.”

Last night, after the surprise Shade attack, Meredy asked me if I ever considered whether raising the dead was worth the risk, and finally, I have my answer.

None of the Dead want to become Shades and hurt the loved ones who sacrifice so much to bring them back, but as Evander’s parents proved, accidents happen. Accidents that could be prevented if the Dead stayed where they belong. If I quit doing the one thing I’ve trained most of my life to do.

The thought catches me by surprise. It’s something Lyda might say. I shake my head to clear it.

Gradually, villagers emerge from behind the shells of homes and shops, wide-eyed and deathly pale. Some are spattered with blood, and all look lost. Even the few Dead in their long shrouds are clearly shaken, leaning against their living relatives for support.

“We’ll make room in the castle for them all,” the baroness declares to her guards. Even from a distance, there’s no mistaking the shock in her voice. She clearly had no idea how much destruction Shades could cause, or she’d have spent her time arming her soldiers with liquid fire instead of taking us on a valley tour. The earlier attacks reported to the king must have been like the Shade attacks of years past, monsters picking off livestock and the occasional late-night tavern-goer from the shadows.

We emerge from the carriage to join the survivors, the sounds of someone weeping filling the air. It’s one of the Dead, I realize, as a living man pushes away someone beneath a shroud, then points down the road.

“I’m sorry,” the man says, shaking his head as the shrouded figure clings to his arm. “Don’t you understand?” His voice breaks, and something inside me cracks at the overwhelming sadness of the sound. “You could be the next to turn. One slip of your mask, and . . .”

“You’d become a monster,” someone else calls.

“I never knew the Dead were capable of this,” a dark-haired woman stammers.

“They’re not!” I shout. Almost every head turns my way. Even the man arguing with his shrouded relative falls silent. “The Dead can become Shades, but most never do. We’re careful, and so are they. They wear layers to hide their skin. We’re following the same rules we always have. This was no mere accident on the part of the Dead or their kin, mind. Some madman decided to break our rules, and this”—I make a sweeping gesture—“is the result. It doesn’t mean the Dead should be feared or blamed.”

I say it as much to defend the shrouded figures around me as to prove to the voice in my head that we are better off with the Dead here.

“But this is our fault, in a way,” a woman murmurs, one of the Dead. “Maybe it’s best we leave. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“All the Dead should get out of Elsinor!” someone yells.

I search for the speaker so I can glare at him, but I can’t tell who said it. Not with several echoes of the sentiment passing among the survivors, and even among the baroness’s guards. The farmers and tradesman who make up the heart of Karthia have always looked upon the Dead with respect bordering on awe. They’ve dreamed of saving up enough to have their own loved ones raised. But then, most of them have never seen a Shade before today.

“And what about the king?” another voice demands.

“Maybe,” a young blue-eyed girl says as she hugs her mother’s knee, “the Dead king will turn bad, too.”

“Maybe,” Baroness Abethell agrees softly, her face suddenly looking ten years older, lined with guilt and worry and the same uncertainty that’s plaguing me.

“May he reign eternal!” someone cries, sounding defiant. But no one takes up the familiar refrain.

I hang my head. Partly because I can’t see a point in arguing with people who have just lost everything. Partly because I can’t stand the sight of the Dead trudging away from their ruined village with nowhere to go, not one of them uttering a protest for fear that they might hurt their families if they stay. And partly because a little voice in the back of my mind shares the blue-eyed girl’s worry, and I can’t seem to silence it.

After a while, the weather mages from the next valley arrive, their gray eyes misting over as they draw more rain from the blue sky’s passing clouds. Their movements are like a dancer’s, practiced and elegant, each gesture of their hands wringing a little more water from the wisps of clouds above.

Watching them work reminds me of Kasmira, and I hope she’s somewhere safe. Out at sea, perhaps.

A few of the more isolated buildings have already stopped burning, but others hiss as rainwater splashes their fiery insides.