Nightspell (24 page)

time Varis put the goblet back down, his hand perfectly steady, the wine had set led into a gentle swirl.

“I didn’t pour that for you,” he said.

She tilted her head up, and their eyes met. He was angry, and irritated, and a lit le bit afraid. But behind al

that, too implicit to even be noticeable—except that she would have noticed its absence—was a sense of

kinship.

She was stil his sister. And he knew it.

Varis wrenched his eyes away, and Cal ie was glad for that. She didn’t even want to guess what might be in

her own.

“How ungracious,” she said. “Don’t worry, I was just leaving. I wouldn’t want to miss the coronation.”

She got to her feet, thinking about Clarisse; about her first miserable year here, when she had sought so

desperately for Clarisse’s at ention and been so scornful y ignored. Not a crime punishable by death . . . and she knew, as Varis did not, how alive the dead could feel.

So she thought instead about the fact that Clarisse owed her loyalty to Cal ie’s kil er. And that this was as

close as Cal ie would ever get to taking vengeance for her murder. Her Ghostland and Rael ian instincts merged

for one savage moment that was blissful y free of doubt.

“Enjoy your company,” she said as she turned to the door. “I’m happy to leave you to it.”

Clarisse entered Varis’s room by walking through the closed door rather than by opening it. That was Varis’s

first clue that this meeting was not going to go exactly as he had planned. The second was when Clarisse

looked at the two goblets on the table and laughed.

The third, and worst, was when Jano stepped through the door beside her.

Varis was sit ing on a wooden chair, a book open in his hands. He turned a page, set his thumb on the text,

and looked up, making no ef ort to hide his annoyance. “I don’t recal inviting anyone but you.”

“And quite flat ering that was,” Clarisse murmured, stil visibly amused. “Nevertheless, Jano has something

to add to this discussion. And he does have a taste for good wine.”

Varis’s brow creased. While he was staring at Clarisse hard, trying to figure out how much she knew, Jano

walked past both of them and plopped inelegantly on one of the chairs.

“Your sisters,” he announced, “are both crazy.”

“Astonishing insight,” Varis said. He looked back at Clarisse. “Is this another ambush?”

“No.” Clarisse sighed. “You need to stop harping on that. Tonight we want to help you.”

Varis closed the book with a thud. “Help me with what?”

“With conquering Ghostland, of course.”

Varis put the book down on the table, al owing no expression at al to cross his face, mental y checking his

weapons. He had a coated dagger in his boot and several silver ones hidden within easy reach.

Clarisse walked across the room toward him. Her eyes measured the space between them, as if he was prey.

“That is your plan, isn’t it?”

“Right now,” Varis said, “I’m more interested in what your plan is.”

“My plan,” Clarisse said, “is to do something about being only the second most powerful creature in this

castle.” She stopped several yards from him and brushed a stray curl away from her forehead. “I’ve had just

about enough of that position to last me for eternity.”

Varis slid his hands onto his knees. “How can you do anything to the Defender? He’s immune to silver and

sunlight.”

“That was a lie.” Clarisse held out her arm. “Stab me.”

“What—”

“Just do it.”

He hesitated for only a second. Then he said, “With pleasure,” and lunged forward.

The silver knife sliced through Clarisse’s skin. Clarisse smiled and jerked her arm upward. The blade went

through her forearm and out the other side; Varis staggered slightly before he straightened, the ridges of the

dagger hilt pressing into his palm. Clarisse’s arm remained upraised, whole and uncut. Her smile was a bit

strained, but triumphant.

“We can become so insubstantial that even silver won’t touch us,” she said, running a finger proudly over the

unblemished white skin of her arm. “We can do it to only part of our body at a time. Some of us, that is.”

Jano brought his chair back down with a thud, then leaned forward and stared at Clarisse with his mouth

hanging open. “I don’t know anyone who can do that.”

“I know,” Clarisse said, a bit smugly.

Jano looked at Varis, and Varis met his gaze. It was oddly dif icult to do; there was something about the boy

that sent chil s up and down his arms.

that sent chil s up and down his arms.

After a moment, Jano transferred his at ention back to Clarisse. “How long have you been able to?”

“This was my first time.” She laughed, her teeth flashing white. “I’m glad it worked.”

Jano slapped his hands down on his knees. “How did you know it was even possible?”

“I’ve seen the Defender do it. Many times. He does it with sunlight, too.” She laughed again, in sheer delight.

Now, unlike in the banquet hal , she looked truly alive. “That reminds me. I’l have to try sunlight next.”

“But I cut you,” Varis said. “In your room. And it hurt you.”

Clarisse’s fingers froze on her arm. She looked at him through narrowed eyes; he was prey now, no question

about it. “Because I wasn’t ready for it. I can’t defend against silver if I don’t know it’s there. . . .” She stopped, lips parted, and looked at him.

“What?” Jano demanded, sit ing up straight.

“So,” Varis said, watching Clarisse. “The Defender, too, could be kil ed by silver. If he didn’t see it coming,

and didn’t know to defend himself against it.”

“My prince.” She let her arm drop, and he found himself returning her smile. “I am so very, very glad you

came to this country.”

“What are you two going on about?” Jano demanded, his eyes narrowed. He folded his arms against his

chest and gave Varis a sulky, unfriendly look. “This is nothing new. We know about your coated silver daggers.

Give one to us, and we’l use it against the Defender. You won’t have to worry about his opposition, and we

won’t have to obey him anymore. Everybody gains something.”

Clarisse tilted her head back. “Let’s seal it with a drink,” she said. “There are only two goblets, which does

present a problem, but I’m sure we can—”

Jano reacted, predictably, like a child. He snatched up one of the goblets and lifted it to his mouth.

He was stil smirking when he vanished.

It was that quick: one second he was there, the next he wasn’t. The goblet fel to the floor, but Clarisse’s

slender hand snatched it up a second before it would have hit. She must have started moving even before she

had finished talking.

“Now you know it works,” she said, quite calmly. “What was in it, by the way?”

Varis looked from the empty space where Jano had been to her face. “Silver powder,” he said.

“A poison that would kil only the dead. Ingenious.” Clarisse straightened the goblet—some of the dark red

liquid had already splashed onto the wooden floor—and placed it on the table, exactly where it had been.

“Were you planning to use it at your sister’s wedding feast? For the toast, I’d imagine, so that we would al

drink it at once.”

That had been the plan, treacherous and base and dishonorable; but there was nothing in Clarisse’s voice

except admiration. He stepped back and leaned against the wal . “Possibly. It would have to be al of you, or at

least most of you, at the same time. I can’t think of anything but a wedding toast that would work that way.”

“And in the meantime you were going to test it on me?”

He started to flush, remembered who he was talking to, and said calmly, “You practical y invited me to.”

Her admiration didn’t dim in the slightest. “I wanted to know what other weapons you had brought with

you. I was a lit le concerned that you were too taken with my beauty to seize the opportunity, but I gambled

on that barbarian ruthlessness I keep hearing about.”

“And you brought Jano along as a substitute?”

“It was bet er this way.” Clarisse stretched her arms over her head. “I did Jano a favor, real y. He was

terribly tired of existence.” She touched the rim of the goblet with her finger and sighed. “Is this real y a Green Islands vintage? What a waste.”

“I have more,” Varis said.

“Wel .” She swiveled slowly and looked at him. “I don’t think I should be accepting wine from you, under

the circumstances. But I do have another idea.”

Chapter Seventeen

Darri had no idea where the Guardian was leading her, but she didn’t care. She probably had just started a

war, but she didn’t care about that either. She didn’t even care—much—about the horrified looks that fol owed

her as she walked out of the hal behind the Guardian, blood sticking her gown to her calves. It was clear that

if not for the Guardian, they would be dragging her across the marble floor in the direction of the dungeons.

The only one who didn’t seem upset was the man whose existence she had just threatened. Kestin’s face was

cool and relaxed as he fol owed the Guardian out of the hal . Like her, he had seen Clarisse in the back of the

hal , staring at Cerix’s dead body. The gamble had paid of , as far as he was concerned; Cerix was dead, and

Clarisse had not vanished. So despite her holding a knife to his throat, Kestin had no reason to hate Darri.

Darri did care whether he hated her—there was no point, anymore, in pretending she didn’t. She had proven

that she would do what she had to anyhow. But it had been harder than she had thought it would be, holding

the dagger and watching Kestin’s face go slack with shock. Even though she wouldn’t real y have kil ed him.

Even though he was already dead.

The Guardian led them around the base of the spiral stairs, which gave Darri a chance—when the others

were hidden from sight by the stairs—to stoop and dig out the coin hidden in the side of her shoe. She kept it

pressed against her side as they walked through the hal s into a large, gold-paneled room with a few wooden

chairs and tables set out on the marble floor. Dozens of chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but only half of

them were lit, giving the room a gloomy glow.

Halfway into the vast golden room, the Guardian turned around to face them. Darri braced herself, but he

said nothing. His iron mask, she noticed, was crisscrossed with a thousand tiny scratches.

Somehow, that made him seem less omnipotent. She clenched her fists, curling the tiny silver coin into the

curve of her fingers. It was slick with sweat. “I did what you wanted,” she said. “I kil ed Cerix. Now I want you to fight the Defender.”

“I cannot.”

Darri stepped toward him, her hand swinging by her side. He watched her without moving. “Then tel me

another way to set my sister free,” she said. “You owe that to me. It’s your fault she’s dead.”

And she threw the coin right into his eye.

Her aim was good; she had been practicing since the night before, when she had thought of this plan. The

coin flashed sideways, right into one of the dark rectangular holes in the iron mask.

The Guardian cried out and stepped back. Inside his mask, the coin rat led – an incongruous sound, except

that it was fol owed by silence. The Guardian lifted one iron-gloved hand to cover the eyehole, but made no

sound. Even though the coin must stil be in there, nestled against his skin.

Darri fel back, her arm swinging hard against her side. “You’re not a ghost,” she whispered.

The Guardian dropped his hand. “No.”

“Then what are you?”

The spaces behind the eyehole were as black and expressionless as before. “I am the Guardian.”

Kestin stepped up next to Darri, so close his sleeve brushed hers. “The Guardian is an iron uniform,” he said.

“How many men have worn that costume over the centuries? You’re just a living person, it seems, behind that

mask. And I want to know who that person is. Take it of .”

The silence stretched for what felt like a very long time. Slowly, the Guardian lifted his iron-gloved hands to

his face. “You are wrong, Prince Kestin. There are those of us who don’t fit your perception of what the living

and the dead are. Who came before the dead and the living could coexist. You are bet er of not knowing about

us.”“Stop stal ing,” Kestin said. “And who’s us?”

But Darri already knew the answer.

“You and the Defender,” she whispered, and the Guardian turned toward her as his hands came away from

his face, holding the scratched-up mask.

“The spel required two,” he said. Released from the iron mask, his voice stil sounded exactly the same:

hol ow and metal ic. “One to live. One to die.”

A moment passed before Darri realized that what she was looking at was a face. The flesh seemed to have

poured itself into the neck, the cheeks and nose eaten away, the rest of it horribly soft. It was like a wax model of a face that had partial y melted.

The eyes, nearly hidden by the pasty white flesh, made her try to control her expression; but despite herself,

she made a strangled sound as she swal owed her bile. The gloved hands went back up to the ruin of a face,

and no one said a word as the mask went back on. It looked at Darri, shiny and black and blank.

“You can see,” the Guardian said, “why my brother preferred to be the one to die.”

“Your brother?” Kestin repeated, after a long moment. The triumph and certainty had been wiped from his

face, replaced by pure horror.

“There were six of us, original y,” the Guardian said. He turned and strode partly across the room, stopping

next to a delicate wooden chair. For a moment, Darri thought he was going to sit. Instead, he placed one iron-