But why should she feel guilty? Trading Kestin’s vengeance for Cal ie’s escape no longer made any sense; there was no reason for her to think about Kestin. No reason for her to marry Cerix, or stay in Ghostland at al , now that Cal ie was . . .
She struck down the feeling that rose in her, but not fast enough; not before she recognized it for what it was. She had felt it before, on the day her father formal y announced which of his daughters would be sent to was. She had felt it before, on the day her father formal y announced which of his daughters would be sent to the land of the dead.
It was relief.
It was a tiny, whimpering feeling; it was nearly swamped by her overwhelming grief and rage. But it was there, and it made her face heat up with shame.
“So he has spoken to you,” Kestin said, misinterpreting her flush.
“No,” Darri said. “I can’t say I’m particularly looking forward to it.”
“And I can’t say I blame you.” Kestin’s arms tightened around his knees, and he looked down at the floor, his dark eyes shadowed. “I need for you to talk to him; he had more to gain from my death than anyone. But don’t underestimate him. He has a fol owing among those who hate and fear the ghosts. The harmony between the living and the dead in this castle is not as stable as we thought, and he has taken advantage of that. My death, and my father’s insistence that I inherit anyhow, were his opportunity.”
Darri nodded. Kestin hesitated, biting his lower lip, then looked up at her. The way his chin-length hair swung over his cheekbones made a traitorous part of her flut er, fol owed by a surge of revulsion. “I’d guess you can handle him.”
“I hope so,” Darri said cool y, “since the plan is for me to marry him.”
Kestin smiled rueful y. “I don’t much like that part of the plan.”
Darri shrugged.
He leaned back. “Who would you marry in your own lands? Is it up to you?”
“It’s up to my father,” Darri said. “He would probably pick the son of another powerful tribe, to bind them to us more closely.”
“Weren’t you afraid he would choose someone you hated?”
Darri laughed. “He wouldn’t have risked it. It would be too likely that I’d insult the man badly enough to cause a civil war.”
Kestin shook his head. “It stil seems odd to me. It’s one of the benefits of being what we are; in Ghostland, even the nobility choose whom to love.”
And he had chosen Clarisse. Which just went to show, Darri supposed, that choosing on your own was no less likely to end wel than having your marriage arranged by others.
Kestin took a deep breath. “When I said I didn’t like that part,” he said softly, “what I meant was that I have a bet er idea.”
Darri said, as cool y as she could, “Which is?”
“Wel ,” Kestin began, then stopped. He swal owed, reached behind him, and held out a folded piece of parchment.
Darri stared at the parchment as if it was a live snake. It flut ered jerkily with the movement of the lit er.
“What is it?”
“You can’t read?”
“Do I look like a scribe?” she snapped.
Kestin gave her a surprised, faintly horrified look; clearly, he had suddenly recal ed that she was a barbarian.
Darri suspected it was a pale imitation of the looks she gave him sometimes, but it made her bristle al the same. She snatched the parchment out of his hand. “What does it say?”
“It’s an of er of betrothal.”
Darri froze. The paper felt thick and rough under her dry fingers. For several long moments the silence was broken only by the muf led sound of hooves outside—and, for Darri, by the pounding of her heart. The lit er felt suddenly very smal , without enough air for both of them to breathe. If he’d had to breathe.
Kestin looked at her careful y and, with an obvious ef ort, laughed. “Am I that monstrous to you?”
Darri tried to rearrange her expression. She wouldn’t have thought the prince of Ghostland would care about a foreigner’s prejudices—but she’d heard a note of hurt only half-hidden behind the laugh. She couldn’t meet his eyes, and she couldn’t manage a lie.
The lit er jerked to a stop, then started again; outside, one of the carriers cursed. Kestin leaned back and passed a hand over his face. “It would be in name only. You wouldn’t ever have to touch me. I wil take vengeance on my kil er, and then I wil disappear. If we were married first, that would leave you as queen of Ghostland. You could take a consort and give birth to a new heir to the throne. Your son would come before Cerix in the succession.”
Relief vanished as fast as it had come, and breathing was once again dif icult. “You would do that just so I won’t have to marry Cerix?”
“And because I care about my country. I don’t particularly want to see my cousin rip it apart.” Kestin shrugged, but his voice was strained; Darri wondered how it felt to be torn between a need for vengeance and a sense of duty. Her own loyalty to her country had been left by the wayside long ago.
Then again, her country hadn’t ever needed her the way Kestin’s did. The Rael ians, after al , had Varis.
Kestin shifted and lifted his eyebrows at her. “Besides, I suspect it would foil your brother’s plans as wel .”
Indeed it would. As queen of Ghostland, she would outrank Varis. She grinned despite her near-panic and dropped the parchment into her lap. The lit er tilted slightly to the side. “You could marry one of your own people to get around Cerix,” she pointed out. “You don’t need me.”
people to get around Cerix,” she pointed out. “You don’t need me.”
“But I think you would be a good choice.” Kestin stretched his legs out; she shifted her own closer to the wal . “I don’t know anyone else who could cut through al our courtly tangles. You would do whatever has to be done, regardless of consequences or who tried to stop you.”
It had been so long since she had heard that particular intonation that it took her several seconds to realize what it was: admiration. A blush worked its way up her cheeks. She tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t get her throat to work. Ever since Cal ie had told her she was useless—the words You’re get ing in over your head stil whispered constantly through her mind—some part of her had begun to fear it was true.
But Kestin was right. She would do whatever had to be done, except she would do it to save Cal ie. And she would do it even if Cal ie was the one trying to stop her.
Kestin watched her closely. The lit er swayed around them, and every time it did, the cushion slid farther out from under her. “In time,” he said, “you might even lose your fear of . . . of us.”
He made it sound like a question, and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse to answer. The blush felt permanently at ached to her face now. She pushed the cushion away with one hand, set led herself on the wooden bot om of the lit er, then turned back and looked at him. He wanted someone who would cut through courtly tangles, did he?
“I thought you wanted to take vengeance and disappear,” she said flatly. “What does it mat er whether I lose my fear of you or not?”
“The rest of the dead wil stil be here,” Kestin said. “Even if I disappear. And besides, what if I never find who kil ed me? I’l have no choice but to continue . . . being this.”
“You could end your own existence,” Darri said. “With silver. Or sunlight.”
He looked up at her sharply, his eyes so black that she was suddenly afraid. She sat very stil .
“I would never do that.” He leaned forward, and she pressed her back hard against the wooden slats. “If I find my kil er, nothing wil stop me from taking vengeance. But being kil ed by silver or sunlight is dif erent.
Those deaths don’t al ow us to move on; they merely end us.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t choose that. Even if what I am now is something that was never supposed to be.”
“You stil wouldn’t be what you are now,” Darri whispered. “You wouldn’t be frustrated by the urge for vengeance, and trapped among the living. You would be gone. Wouldn’t that be bet er?”
He smiled bit erly. “Are you happy, Princess Darriniaka? Or do you miss your sister and hate your brother and feel alone among your kin? When you are unhappy, does your unhappiness make you want to end your life?”
“Of course not. But I’m supposed to be alive. You’re not.”
“And yet I am.” He leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Saying I’m not supposed to be here doesn’t change that, does it? It doesn’t make me want to . . .” The side of his mouth twisted upward, though he didn’t open his eyes. “Die. For lack of a bet er word.”
Darri drew in a deep breath, trying not to make it too loud. His eyes snapped open, but whatever had been in them that frightened her, it was gone. He looked tired and lonely. “Would you just end your existence, if you were me?”
“I would,” Darri said fiercely. “When I die, I want to be free of this life. Not stuck in an endless imitation of it, without the ability to grow and change, to walk in daylight or bear children.”
“Wel .” He leaned forward suddenly, his hands sliding down over his knees, almost touching her. “You can scorn me, if you want, for being wil ing to accept less. But you’re not me, and it’s not your decision to make. If it horrifies you so much, then help me avenge myself.”
“I intend to,” Darri said, a lit le stif ly.
“I’m glad.” Kestin took a deep breath. “If you accept my of er, you know, you could be with Cal ie as wel . I don’t think she truly wants to leave.”
Not didn’t want to; couldn’t. It was a moment before Darri could breathe again, and she only managed it by meeting Kestin’s eyes, let ing their intentness draw her mind from her sister. “Would such an arrangement real y be recognized under your laws?”
“There is precedent. My father, at least, would be loath to contest it. Especial y since your position as queen would ensure our safety from your father’s armies.”
Which was, of course, the real reason for this proposal: not her own strengths, but her father’s. It was the only reason anyone had ever courted her, so Darri wasn’t of ended. If anything, she was flat ered that Kestin had bothered to pretend otherwise.
The lit er turned sharply, and Darri slapped her hands down on the floor to keep her balance. “How,” she asked, “would Clarisse react to this? I don’t think she’d like it.”
“Don’t you?” Kestin said. “I don’t think she’d care.”
His voice frayed on that last sentence, and the bewildered loss on his face made him look almost like a child. Darri recognized his expression; it must have been how she looked, that first night at court, when Cal ie looked away from her as if wishing she wasn’t there.
How could a ghost feel grief? But he did, he clearly did; it was right in front of her, in the blankness of his stare and the tightness of his mouth, and the sympathetic tug she felt al through her body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, meaning it, not knowing whether she should mean it.
Kestin blinked once, twice, then drew himself up and composed his face. Darri knew what an ef ort of wil Kestin blinked once, twice, then drew himself up and composed his face. Darri knew what an ef ort of wil that must have cost him. She watched with admiration, something else she shouldn’t be feeling for a ghost, and almost—almost—reached out to take his hand. Just a simple gesture of comfort, nothing more.
She couldn’t do it. But she wished she could.
“I’l think about it,” she said final y, placing her palm flat on the parchment.