Nightspell (14 page)

part of Darri’s body like a fetid chil . Darri shuddered but didn’t move, not even when Clarisse walked right

past her.

At the door, Clarisse turned; and Darri couldn’t help stepping back before she saw that the ghost’s face was

stil human in appearance. Clarisse slipped the dagger into her flowing sleeve, gave the room in general a

satisfied smile, then walked through the closed door.

satisfied smile, then walked through the closed door.

When they were final y alone, Varis let out a long breath. “Help me wrap this wound more tightly.”

Darri waited until she was sure she could move without trembling, then crossed the room to her brother.

Several strips of linen cloth and one hastily concocted poultice later, Varis said a curt thanks and got to his

feet. Darri dropped the remaining cloths when she realized that he was heading away from his bed. “You’re not

actual y going to see her, are you?”

“I am. She has information that I want. And she’s no longer trying to kil us.”

“You saw what she—what she can—what she is!”

“I’l handle it.”

Darri folded her arms across her chest, and her brother laughed. “Worried about my welfare?”

“At least take a silver dagger.”

He moved his hand as if to press it to his shoulder, then changed in mid-motion and dropped it to his side

instead. “And let you see where I keep them? Not likely.”

“Them? You have more than one?”

He looked annoyed and tried to step around her. Darri slid in front of him and looked up at his closed-of

face.

“Varis. I need a weapon that wil work against the dead. Please.”

The word scraped against the inside of her throat, and emerged harsh and angry; but Varis hesitated, his eyes

narrowed.

“It’s not that that I’m not wil ing to die,” Darri said fiercely. “But if I die here, I’l be worse than dead. Don’t let that happen. Don’t leave me helpless against them.”

Varis bit his lip, and Darri knew she had him. Just a moment ago, they had stood shoulder to shoulder

against a pair of ghosts. They had done it without thought, without any need for discussion; because they were

kin, and that would never change.

No mat er what Cal ie thought.

Darri stood her ground, knowing there would never be a bet er time, and final y Varis heaved a sigh. He

turned his back on her and spent a few moments unlocking one of the clothes chests. When he stood, he had a

steel dagger in his left hand, which he held out to her hilt first. “Try to wait as long as possible before you

make me regret this.”

Darri crossed her arms over her chest. “I have daggers, Varis. A number of them, in fact.”

“It’s silver,” Varis said.

She blinked. “It doesn’t look like silver.”

“That’s rather the point.”

She took the weapon and touched a finger to the blade. Flecks of dul metal came of on her skin. “It’s

coated?”

“Prescient of Father, wasn’t it?”

She turned it over in her hand. A few more flakes fel to the ground, but there was stil no silver that she

could see. “Is that the plan?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up at her brother. His eyes were cool and opaque again, on guard against her. That was almost a

relief. “Is this Father’s plan? Silver weapons disguised as steel?”

Varis adjusted his bandage. “Don’t think so much, Darri. Just take it.” He strode past her and out the door.

Darri scowled and slid the dagger into her boot sheath. When she straightened, she was smiling grimly.

She hadn’t lied to Varis; she did need a weapon to defend herself against the dead. She had merely neglected

to mention that she might also need it to at ack one of them.

I’l avenge you, Cal ie. Even if it’s too late to save you. I’l do the one thing I can.

She left Varis’s room without looking back, the cold metal in her boot growing gradual y warm against her

skin.

Chapter Ten

Varis did not, in fact, know the location of Clarisse’s rooms; but at the bot om of the spiral staircase, he

directed a crisp question to a cowed-looking servant, who told him which way to go. As Varis turned to start

back up the stairs, the servant added, “But her death was accidental, Your Highness. Her rooms are

unoccupied.”

So people stil did occasional y die by accident in this castle; Varis had been beginning to wonder. Although

Clarisse, obviously, was not one of them. He folded his arms across his chest. “Why haven’t they been cleared,

then?”

“Prince Kestin ordered them left alone, after her death. He hoped she would come back.” The servant bit his

lower lip nervously, but Varis kept his eyes trained on him, and the man kept talking. “When she didn’t, no

one had the heart to approach him about . . . changing the arrangements.”

He hoped she would come back. What a sick place this was. Varis turned his back on the servant and strode

on down the hal .

Clarisse’s bedroom was large and sparsely furnished: a bed, a single ornate table with three chairs, and a few

rather grimly colored tapestries. Clarisse wasn’t in sight—which did not, of course, mean that she wasn’t there.

Varis closed the door behind him and walked slowly around the room, taking it in. Looking for . . . he wasn’t

sure what. Something that would help him understand what Clarisse was plot ing and why.

Hanging on the wal beside the bed was a painting of a young family, dressed simply but—judging by the

material of their clothes—richly. The man had an angular face and a smal , peaceful smile playing at the

corners of his mouth. The woman was on the border between plain and pret y, with reddish-brown hair and

sharp, dark eyes. She looked as if she didn’t quite belong in her stif ly embroidered dress. A young girl sat on

the woman’s lap, looking bored.

The portrait was masterful, but marred by an uneven rip right down the middle, separating the man from

his wife and child. It had been ripped and then glued back together on a separate sheet of parchment, so that

the original pieces fit together jaggedly.

Behind him, someone drew in her breath. Varis turned to see Clarisse watching him from the doorway, her

arms wrapped around herself, tracing her bare shoulders with her fingernails. She was now wearing a dark

green gown with a daring neckline, her hair arranged in intricate loops and coils at the base of her neck. Even

with the memory of the snarling beast-woman fresh in his mind, Varis blinked in admiration.

How could she possibly be dead?

“I’m so glad you came,” Clarisse murmured, but the sultriness in her voice seemed rote. She was looking, not

at him, but at the painting.

Varis was trained to recognize weakness. He took a seat on one of the ornate chairs. “Who ripped the

portrait?”

Clarisse leaned back against the doorpost. “I did.”

“And who glued it back together?”

“I did that, too.” She let her arms drop to her sides, stil looking at the painting rather than at him.

“I see.” Varis leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, ignoring the burst of agony from his right

shoulder. “And why did you do that?”

Her lips twisted. She strode into the room and stood in front of the bed. “That’s not real y what you’re here

to ask me, is it?”

“I came because you invited me,” Varis pointed out.

“You would have refused the invitation if you thought you had nothing to gain from it.”

“Maybe,” he said, mimicking her earlier tone, “I couldn’t stay away.”

She laughed and smoothed her skirt down with her hands. The look she turned on him made it suddenly

dif icult to breathe. “You know, I’m rather glad I didn’t kil you.”

“As am I.” Varis got to his feet as wel ; not a planned move, but an instinct. His muscles were coiled tightly,

expecting an at ack. Clarisse leaned back with both hands on the bed, clearly waiting for him to walk over, but

he only stepped to the side. “Why did you try to kil me?”

She smiled at him and traced a finger along her col arbone. So obviously deliberate—yet somehow, that

didn’t stop it from working. “I was fol owing orders.”

“I’m aware of that. Why does the Defender want me dead?”

“It doesn’t mat er. He no longer wants you dead, and more importantly, I no longer want you dead. I have . .

. other uses for you.” She pushed herself away from the bed. “I just proved that, didn’t I? I saved your life.”

“Even if you hadn’t shown up, Jano couldn’t have kil ed me.”

“I would have kil ed you,” Clarisse said, as if explaining the obvious to a very simple child.

“Real y. And how would you have done that?”

She moved without warning, a flash of green silk and golden hair; but he had known how she would react,

and by the time she reached him he was already turning, moving out of the path of her lunge. She recovered in

an instant and turned, but by then he had his dagger out, its edge at her throat.

an instant and turned, but by then he had his dagger out, its edge at her throat.

Her green eyes went wide and startled. Then she laughed and moved forward. The dagger went right

through her slender throat; she went translucent as it passed through, then became suddenly solid with both

arms on his shoulders, pinning him up against the wal . She was surprisingly strong, but not half as strong as he was; he could have thrown her across the room without much ef ort. Instead he met her eyes, mere inches from

his, matched her quick-breathed smile, and slid his other dagger lightly across the back of her arm.

She screamed and flung herself away from him, clutching at her arm. A thin red line ran across it. She was

not breathing at al now, and her beautiful face was contorted with fury.

Varis held up his second dagger. “Looks like steel, doesn’t it?” he said. “I could have used it first, against

your throat. You would have been dead before you knew what was happening.”

For a moment he thought she was going to at ack him again, silver dagger or no. Then, with an evident

ef ort, she composed herself. “Ingenious,” she said.

“We use it to coat the hooves of mounts carrying suspected spies. Then when we catch the spies, we pour

the molten metal over them. Slowly.”

“I am suitably impressed by your barbarian ferocity.” Clarisse let go of her arm. The wound was gone, her

skin unblemished by blood. “What other tricks did you bring with you, Prince Varis, for fighting the dead?”

So that, Varis thought, was why he was here. “I brought weapons to defend myself only,” he said. “We did

not come here to fight the dead. We are here to seek an al iance.”

She laughed. “You Rael ians have no more interest in al iances than we do in sundials. Come, Prince. You

tel me your secrets, and I’l tel you mine. Doesn’t that sound like a fair trade?”

“It does if we reverse it. I want to hear your secrets first.” He gestured at her arm. “Let’s start with your last trick. Can al ghosts do that?”

“No.” She traced her finger along her arm, and al at once there was no arm, just two yel ow bones hinged

together. Then, almost before he could be sure he had seen them, they were once again covered with smooth

white skin. “Only the older ghosts can change their forms, and only the very oldest ones can do it with such

precision. It takes time, usual y, for the dead to free themselves of the memory of life.”

“But you haven’t been dead that long,” Varis said.

“I’ve wanted to be able to change my shape for quite a while. And what I want, I usual y get.” She glanced

swiftly at the portrait, then away. “Besides, I’ve always had a talent for accepting reality.”

Varis slid his dagger back into his boot. “And what,” he said quietly, “is the reality?”

“That this body doesn’t truly exist.” She ran her hand down her side. “Or rather, what does exist of it is

currently feeding worms.” For another of those split seconds, her arm was gone, and this time he couldn’t see

the bone for the plump white insects coiled around it. “Yet I can eat food I don’t need, I can cry tears I don’t

have, I can blush if I choose to. I feel that I have to breathe, except when I remind myself that I don’t. The

power of a mind, freed from its body, is rather incredible. The trouble is making it do what you want to do,

instead of spending al its time trying to pretend it stil is inside a living body.”

“I was under the impression,” Varis said, “that the pretense of life is exactly what most of the dead want.”

“Your impression is correct.” Clarisse walked toward him, her feet making no sound on the wooden floor.

“They do a good job of it, don’t they? Most of them even fool themselves. They think they’re happy because

they get to act alive. They shut out of their minds the fact that they’re dead and trapped and fading every

second of their existence.”

Varis clasped his hands behind his back. “And you don’t?”

“I don’t.” She rested both hands on the back of one ornate chair, leaning forward. “I don’t need to pretend. I

can embrace being dead because I chose it.”

He found that he was entirely unsurprised. “You died on purpose.”

“Of course. You honestly think any of these buf oons could have kil ed me?” Clarisse tossed her hair; it

floated about her shoulders in a cloud. “Once I realized what Ghostland was, everything I did was aimed at

giving them a reason and an opportunity.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the expression on her face. “It’s a very useful thing,

sometimes, to burn your bridges behind you. While they’re there, you know you can cross back over them.

After al , I could always sail back over a sea, ride back through the plains, climb back over the mountains.