Dark Heir

Book 2: Dark Rise

by C.S. Pacat

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy; YA Historical Fiction

Synopsis

In this riveting sequel to the New York Times bestselling novel Dark Rise, Will and his allies have survived the Dark’s first assault, but at a terrible cost.

A new threat from the past is rising, and only a handful of heroes remain to fight. Pursued by dark forces, Will and his allies must leave the safety of the Hall and travel to the heart of the ancient world, making new and dangerous alliances, and revealing the shocking secrets of the past.

But Will is carrying a dark secret of his own—his true identity. Drawn to the beautiful and deadly James St. Clair, Will is pulled ever deeper into the web of the past, and finds himself tempted by the darkness within. As the ancient world threatens to return, can Will and his friends fight their fate? Or will the truths they learn tear their world apart?

Dark Heir is the explosive and highly anticipated sequel to the New York Times bestselling Dark Rise, from global phenomenon C. S. Pacat.

“I simply couldn’t put it down.” —V. E. Schwab, New York Times bestselling author of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, on Dark Rise

“Beautiful, classical, and deliciously dark.” —Jay Kristoff, New York Times bestselling author of Empire of the Vampire, on Dark Rise

“A story rendered with devastatingly brilliant detail. You won’t be able to look away.” —Chloe Gong, New York Times bestselling author of These Violent Delights, on Dark Rise

 

Release date: November 14, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 464

Sample

Dramatis Personae

—In London—

THE REBORN

WILL KEMPEN: The Dark King reborn.

JAMES ST. CLAIR: Raised believing he was a Steward, James’s true identity was discovered at age eleven: he was the Dark King’s deadliest general, Anharion, reborn. James escaped the Hall of the Stewards to serve Sinclair in his quest to return the Dark King to life. There James learned Anharion had been a warrior of the Light, enslaved to the Dark King by a magical collar. After Will killed Simon and returned the Collar to James, James swore to follow Will.

DESCENDANTS

The Blood of Lions

VIOLET BALLARD: The daughter of John Ballard and his Indian mistress, Violet was brought to London by her father. Escaping Sinclair with Will, Violet learned that she possessed the Blood of Lions, and that her father had raised her so her half brother, Tom, could ritually kill her to gain his “true power” by killing another Lion. Violet has sworn she will not serve the Dark King like her Lion ancestors.

TOM BALLARD: Violet’s older half brother, and a mentor and protector to Violet during her childhood. Tom serves Sinclair and took the S brand to prove his loyalty. He has a close relationship with another of Sinclair’s pseudo-court, Devon, the last unicorn.

JOHN BALLARD: Violet and Tom’s father, John Ballard works for Sinclair.

The Blood of Stewards

CYPRIAN: Cyprian was a sheltered novitiate weeks from taking his test to become a Steward when his brother Marcus, in shadow form, attacked the Hall, massacring its inhabitants. Cyprian is now the last of the Stewards, but has never drunk from the Cup.

MARCUS: Cyprian’s brother, Marcus was on a mission with his shieldmate, Justice, when he was captured by Sinclair. Kept alive in a cage until his shadow overwhelmed him, Marcus was unleashed by Sinclair on the Hall of the Stewards.

JUSTICE: The Stewards’ greatest fighter and champion, Justice rescued Violet and Will from Simon’s ship the Sealgair and brought them both to the Hall. When Justice’s shieldmate, Marcus, became a shadow and attacked the Hall, Justice died fighting him.

EUPHEMIA, THE ELDER STEWARD: The Elder Steward tried to train Will to follow the Light, but died before the training was complete. She defeated Marcus during his attack on the Hall, then asked Cyprian to kill her before her shadow could take over.

JANNICK, THE HIGH JANISSARY: James’s father and adoptive father of Cyprian and Marcus. As the head of the jannisaries—the non-military side of the Stewards—Jannick was a man of great knowledge but also exacting standards. Jannick was killed by Marcus in the massacre at the Hall.

GRACE: Grace was one of only two survivors of Marcus’s attack. Grace’s role as janissary to the Elder Steward gives her unique knowledge and insight into the secrets of the Hall.

SARAH: Sarah was the second survivor of Marcus’s attack. A janissary whose role was to tend the plants in the Hall.

The Blood of the Lady

KATHERINE KENT: Pressured by her family to make an advantageous marriage, Katherine was engaged to Simon Creen, son of the Earl of Sinclair. Discovering Simon was killing women, Katherine fled to the Hall of the Stewards with her sister, Elizabeth. Katherine died at Bowhill after learning Will was the Dark King and drawing Ekthalion to challenge him.

ELIZABETH KENT: Brought by her sister, Katherine, to the Hall of the Stewards, ten-year-old Elizabeth learned that she possessed the Blood of the Lady when she touched the Tree Stone during the attack on the Hall by the Shadow King.

ELEANOR KEMPEN: The mother of Katherine and Elizabeth, who gave them up to hide them from Sinclair. She raised Will as her son knowing he was the Dark King, but tried to kill him before her death.

The Blood of the Dark King

EDMUND CREEN, THE EARL OF SINCLAIR: One of the richest men in England with a trading empire that spans the globe. Sinclair is the head of a pseudo-court of descendants with powers from the old world.

SIMON CREEN, LORD CRENSHAW: The son and heir of the Earl of Sinclair, Simon planned to raise the Dark King from the dead by killing all the descendants of the Lady, including Will’s mother. Simon was killed by Will at Bowhill.

PHILLIP CREEN, LORD CRENSHAW: The second son of the Earl of Sinclair, Phillip inherited the title of Lord Crenshaw after his brother Simon’s death.

—In the old world—

SARCEAN, THE DARK KING: The Dark King and leader of the shadow armies, Sarcean swore to return to the world after his death and ordered his followers killed in order to be reborn with him.

ANHARION, THE BETRAYER: Light’s greatest fighter, Anharion swung the course of the war when he changed sides to fight for the Dark King. He was known as the Betrayer, but had been ensorcelled by a magic collar.

THE LADY: Legends say she loved the Dark King and then killed him. When the Dark King died and swore to return, she had a child so that her line would survive to fight him on his rebirth.

DEVON: The last unicorn. When humans hunted unicorns almost to extinction, Devon was captured and his tail and horn cut off. In order to survive, Devon transformed into a boy. Thousands of years later, he is a member of Sinclair’s pseudo-court.

VISANDER: A champion of the old world.

 

Prologue

VISANDER WOKE CHOKING. His chest was constricted. There was no air. He coughed and tried to heave in breath. Where was he?

His eyes opened. Blind, he saw nothing. There was no difference between his eyes being open or closed. Panic lifted his arms and he tried to push up, only to hit wood a handspan above his face. He couldn’t sit up. He couldn’t breathe, his nose clogged with the cold, heavy smell of earth.

Instinctively he groped for his sword, Ekthalion, but he couldn’t find it. Ekthalion. Where is Ekthalion? His numb, cramping fingers found wood on all four sides. His shallow breathing shallowed further. He was lying trapped in a small wooden box. A casket.

A coffin.

Cold fear at that idea. “Release me!” The words were absorbed by the box as if swallowed. The sick, terrible thought came: This was not just a coffin. It was a grave. He was buried, his sounds smothered by earth above and around him.

“Release me!”

Panic crested. Was this it? His awakening? In a sightless, soundless cavity, while no one above knew he lived? He tried to remember the moments before this, disjointed fragments: riding his bonded steed Indeviel; the Queen’s cool blue eyes on him as he spoke his vow; the sharp pain as she ran the sword through his chest. You will return, Visander.

Had she done this to him? It couldn’t be, could it? He couldn’t have returned into a grave, awakening buried deep beneath the earth?

Think. If he was buried, there would be wood above him, and then earth. He had to break the wood, and then dig. And he had to do it now, while he still had air and strength. He didn’t know how much air he had left.

He kicked at the roof of his prison, a jarring pain in his foot. The second kick was part panic. A sharp cracking sound meant he had splintered the wood. He could hear his own gasps of breath, dragging in what was left of the thin air.

Crack! Again. Crack! Earth spilled in like water breaking through a leak. For a moment he felt a burst of success. Then the leak became a collapse, a cave-in, cold earth rushing in to fill up the coffin. A desperate panic exploded in him, his hands flying up to cover his head at the thought he would be smothered. He coughed, the dust particles so thick that they choked him. When the dust settled, the cave-in had reduced his space in the coffin by half.

He lay in the small, lightless pocket that was left to him. His heart was pounding painfully. He remembered the moment when he had gone to his knees and sworn. I will be your Returner. The Queen had touched his head as he knelt. You will Return, Visander. But first you must die. Had it gone wrong? Had he been buried by mistake, those around him believing him truly dead? Or had he been discovered by the Dark King? Buried as punishment, knowing he would return, only to awaken trapped?

He imagined the Dark King’s pleasure at his suffocating panic. It would delight that twisted mind to think of Visander buried alive, his terror unseen, his shouts unheard. The spark of hatred in Visander ignited, the burn bright in the dark. It drove him, stronger than the need to live, his need to kill the Dark King. He had to get out.

He reached down to the front of his garments and tore at what felt like silk. He tied the silk around his face, to protect his mouth and nostrils from the earth that would rush in to cover him. Then he drew in a breath, all the air he could gather, and this time punched with every bit of his remaining strength at the splintered wood above him.

Earth collapsed down onto him, filling the last of the space. He forced himself to push upward into it, trying to claw up through the dirt. It didn't

work. He didn’t break the surface, and now there was earth all around him, and no air, just the stifling press of the soil, a putrid petrichor that threatened to force its way down his throat.

Up. He had to go up, but felt total disorientation: surrounded by pitch-black earth, he lost all sense of down or up, digging, but in which direction? Horror overwhelmed him. Would he die, a blind worm traveling the wrong way in the dark? Pain stabbed his lungs, his head dizzy, as though he’d inhaled fumes.

Dig. Dig or die, think of his purpose, the only thing that drove him, past the panic, past the dimming of his thoughts like the closing of a tunnel—

And then his grasping, reaching hand broke out into space. His lungs screamed as he pushed desperately toward it, breaching the muddy ground in a grotesque rebirth, pushing out his face, his torso, dragging himself from the earth.

He heaved in air—air!—great, gasping heaves that coughed and retched out a black substance, the dirt that had found its way into his mouth and down his throat. It took a long time for the retching to stop, convulsing tremors in his body. Vaguely, he was aware that it was night, that there was turf under his fingers, the empty branches of trees over his head. He lay sprawled on the ground that had just entrapped him, reassured that it was beneath him, a joy he had never appreciated before. He lifted his forearm to wipe at his mouth, saw the tattered silks that clothed him, and felt a strange wave of wrongness.

When he looked down at his hands, they were not only torn and bloodied but—they were not—his hands—

Everything spun around him dizzily. He was dressed in strange garments, thick skirts that dragged down from his body heavily. He could see himself in the moonlight—these torn, muddy hands were not his own, these breasts, these tendrils of long blond hair. This was not his body; this was a young woman whose limbs he could not easily control, an attempt to stand sending him stumbling to the ground.

Light flared, and at first he flung his arm up to shield himself from it, his eyes unused to anything brighter than the dim moonlight.

Then he looked up into the light.

There was a gray-haired older man standing in front of him holding a lamp aloft. He was staring as though he had seen a phantom. As though he had seen someone die and then met them again after they had clawed their way back up from out of the earth.

“Katherine?” said the man.

 

Chapter One

WILL CRESTED THE bank of the River Lea and felt his stomach drop with dread.

All he could see on the marsh was desolation. The scented wet green of the moss, the undulating grasses were gone, replaced by a crater of ruined earth with the broken arch at its center, like a gateway to the dead.

Was he too late? Were his friends all dead?

James reined in beside him on the snowy-white Steward horse Katherine had abandoned. Will couldn’t help glancing sideways to see James’s reaction. With his blond head hidden by the hood of a white cloak, James might have looked like a Steward of old, riding through ancient lands. Except that he was young, and dressed in the height of London fashion under the cloak. His face gave nothing away, even as his eyes fixed on the destruction that had been the Hall.

Will couldn’t let himself think about what he was doing here with James beside him. He shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t have brought James with him. He knew that. He had done it anyway. The wrongness of that decision rose with every step. He forced his eyes forward, and kept his mind on his friends.

At the edge of the ruined earth, the horses balked, Will’s black gelding Valdithar jerking his head up and down, nostrils flared wide, sensing twisted magic. Beside him James was trying to force his white Steward mount onward, while his London horse reared and plunged on its lead behind him, trying to break. The spooked, resisting horses were the only living things to walk the charred ground lit by sullen embers, a deep silence enshrouding them because there were no birds or insects alive.

But the worst sight of all was the gate.

The Hall of the Stewards was meant to be hidden by magic from the world. A passerby would see only a lonely old stone arch crumbling on the wet earth. They could walk past it, even walk through it, and never leave the marsh. Only those of Steward blood would pass through the arch and find themselves in the ancient lofty corridors of the Hall.

But now the stone arch was a gash in the world. On either side of it was the empty marsh, but through it . . . Through it, Will could see the Hall, plain as daylight.

It looked wrong; a laceration; a rent.

Like sticking fingers thoughtlessly into a wound: he imagined a wanderer on the marsh sticking his head in, bringing men from London to poke around inside.

“The wards are down,” James said.

Under the hood of his white cloak, James’s face still showed nothing, but the tension in his body was transmitting itself to his horse.

Will tightened his hands on the reins. The wards weren’t just down; they had been ripped apart by the same pulverizing force that had torn open the marsh.

There was only one thing that could have done this.

Had the Shadow King released at Bowhill torn down the wards? Had it taken the Hall? Had it killed everyone he knew?

The darker thought, the deeper fear worming and twisting:

Was it sitting now in dark malevolence on its throne, waiting to welcome him?

“Shall we?” said James.

It was skin-crawlingly wrong to be able to just ride inside. The Hall should not be so open, exposed to the outside world. Will wanted a Steward to come striding out of the gloom, saying, “Stop! Back!”

But none came.

“The only place the

 Dark King couldn’t conquer,” said James, “and now he could walk right in.”

Will was unable to stop another sideways look at James. But James had his blue eyes on the courtyard, utterly unknowing. Will’s own thoughts, a tangle of fears and suspicions that he kept hidden, were more aware. Riding in without resistance, was he fulfilling his own dream? His dark desire to take the Light’s last refuge?

It was an eerie form of conquest—not with the armies of the Dark at his back, the citadel smoking rubble, its citizens ground into submission. Instead he and James rode in alone through open gates, the battles of the past empty silence as their horses’ hooves rang jarringly loud.

He saw the remains of the vast, abandoned courtyard, the immense walled citadel the Stewards had called their Hall no longer patrolled by guards in shining white on the ramparts, or softly sounding with sweet chants and bells, but hollowed out, dark and empty.

The Hall is yours now—ruined and destroyed. He flung the thought almost angrily at the Dark King—his past self. Is that what you wanted?

Beside him, James’s face was expressionless. James had grown up here, then spent years trying to tear its ramparts down. Was he moved? Indifferent? Pleased? Afraid?

You can’t really mean to take me back there. James had said it while sprawled on the inn’s narrow bed. He looked like an expensive possession, and he talked like one too. But he’d played at being a possession for Simon, while working against him the whole time. And for all the insouciant lounging, the invitation only extended so far: look but don’t touch. When Will had said, You said you’d follow me, didn’t you? James had smiled with invidious amusement. Your little friends aren’t going to like it.

His friends might all be dead. He and James might be the only ones left, and that was the darkest thought of all. His friends who knew him as Will, who kept him as Will, because they didn’t know what he had learned at Bowhill as the ground rotted around him: that he was the Dark King.

A sudden bell clanging, shattering the silence. James jerked toward the wall.

“Someone’s still here,” said Will, swinging off his horse as the sound of the bell faded. But it felt like a ghost warning to a dead city, so silent and unlived-in was the Hall. Silence sank into his bones, a cold, skeletal dread.

“Will!” He turned as the huge double doors split open, and saw her running down the stairs.

Relief. She looked just as he remembered, with her short curling hair and her scattering of freckles, dressed in her London boy’s clothes.

“Violet!” he said as she cleared the last of the main steps, taking them two at a time.

They embraced, his grip on her hard. Alive, you’re alive. It was not like Bowhill; his failure on the Dark Peak hadn’t killed her as it had killed Katherine.

It was more than that. In her warm arms he felt tethered to this world, to Will, after days riding through the ghosts of the past with James. It was an illusion that he wanted so badly to believe that he held on longer than he should.

He made himself let go, because she wouldn’t be hugging him if she knew who he was. Behind her, he saw Cyprian looking relieved and pleased as he came down the steps. Dressed in

his novitiate’s tunic, Cyprian was an exemplar of his Order, his long brown hair loose down his back in the traditional Steward style, his face handsome in the untouchable manner of a statue.

He looked so much like a warrior of the Light that for a moment Will thought—surely Cyprian would see through him, would just look at him and know, declare to the others, Will is the Dark King. But Cyprian’s green eyes were warm.

“Will!” Violet punched his shoulder in her characteristic way, snapping Will to attention. She was strong enough that it hurt a great deal, and his gladness of it felt like a painful homesickness. “Why did you run off? Idiot.”

“I’ll explain everything—” Will began.

“And you,” said Violet to James, with friendly, exasperated familiarity. “Your sister’s been so worried, she’ll be so glad to have you back, we all are—”

“I think,” said James, pushing back the hood of his cloak, “you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

And the white horse, and graceful body, and blond hair resolved into the deadly, exquisite boy they had last fought to a standstill, his lip slightly curling in a patrician face as he swung down from the saddle to confront them.

Cyprian’s sword came singing from its sheath. His eyes were deadly.

“You.”

Will had been prepared for James to face a hostile reception. Of course, he had known the others wouldn’t like it. James had caused the death of every Steward in the Hall. Will had planned for resistance, prepared to tell half-truths about himself, and speak calmly for James, who was here to help them stop Sinclair.

But in the hectic muddle of the last few days, Will hadn’t thought about what seeing James would do to Cyprian.

Now Cyprian faced his brother’s killer, his features bloodless, his hands steady only because Stewards trained for hours every day not to ever let their sword hand tremble.

“Cyprian—” Will said.

Cyprian’s eyes stayed flat on James. “How dare you come back here.”

“No warm welcome?” said James.

“You want a welcome?”

Cyprian’s sword was already moving, a killing arc meant to slice James in half. “No,” said Will as James’s power flared, slamming Cyprian backward.

Cyprian hit the wall, his face contorted, his sword clattering to the ground. The air was sharp with static, Cyprian struggling hard against the invisible force of James’s power, holding him in place.

“Now, now,” said James, his eyes glittering, “That’s hardly hospitable, little brother.”

“Take your filthy magic off me, freak,” said Cyprian.

“Stop it.” Stepping between them was like stepping into a whirlwind, power lashing in the air around him. “I said stop.” Will forced himself forward, getting one hand on James’s chest, the other clasping

 the back of James’s neck. He was taller than James; barely, perhaps an inch. Just enough to make James look up at him.

“Stop your magic,” said Will.

“Call off your pet Steward,” said James, keeping his eyes fixed on Will’s.

He didn’t hesitate, his grip hard on James, his gaze locked on James’s magic-blown pupils. “Violet, keep him back.”

Behind him, Will heard Cyprian swear, and knew Violet was doing just that. A second later, the static in the air vanished. Will didn’t let go of his hold on James, even as he heard Violet’s voice behind him.

She sounded grim. “Will, what is he doing here?”

He forced back his memory of James at the inn, swearing to follow him. “He’s here to help us.”

“That thing is not going to help us,” said Cyprian.

“Help us do what?” said Violet.

Will finally loosed his hold of James, and turned to see that Violet was still holding Cyprian against the stone wall by the base of the steps.

“Stay alive,” said James. “When Sinclair gets here.”

“Sinclair?” Violet’s words were suspicious, confused. “Not Simon?”

There was so much he needed to tell her. He could still smell the acrid burned stench of the earth, could see the black blade sliding from its sheath any time he closed his eyes.

“Simon’s dead.” Will didn’t say more than that. “His father is the one we’re fighting.” Sinclair, who had planned it all. Sinclair, who had taken James in as a boy and raised him to kill Stewards. Sinclair, who had given the order to kill Will’s mother.

“Dead?” Violet said. As if the Stewards hadn’t trained Will to do just that. As if his meeting with Simon could have ended any other way. As if he’d be here alive if it had. “Then—”

“I killed him.”

The words were flat. They didn’t describe what had happened on that mountainside. The birds falling out of the sky, the blood bubbling up from Simon’s chest. The moment when Will had looked up and met Simon’s eyes and known—

“I killed the three Remnants, then I killed him.”

He knew he sounded different. He couldn’t be the same—not after driving the sword through Simon’s chest, on the blasted earth where his mother had bled out years earlier. The Shadow Kings had hung in the sky like witnesses.

“But . . . how?” said Violet.

What could he tell her? That Simon had drawn Ekthalion, and Will had survived the blast because he was its master?

Or that Simon had looked surprised at the end, his eyes wide as he died, not understanding even as his life bled out who it was that had killed him?

You’re him. Katherine’s last words. You’re the Dark King.

“He’s Blood of the Lady.” James’s drawl cut through the silence. “That’s what you’ve trained him to do, isn’t it? Kill people.” 

James didn’t know either. James believed he was a hero, when the real Blood of the Lady was Katherine, lying dead with her face marbled like white stone.

“I’ll tell you everything,” said Will. “Once we’re inside.”

Except that he wouldn’t. He had learned from Katherine that he couldn’t. She had died at Bowhill because she had found out what he was, and drawn a sword to kill him.

Beneath that, a more primal memory: his mother’s hands around his throat; his scrabbling need for air; his vision dimming.

Mother, it’s me! Mother, please! Mother—

“He’s not stepping foot into the Hall.” Cyprian’s eyes were on James.

“We need him.” Will kept his voice steady.

“He killed us.” Cyprian’s eyes were on James. “He killed all of us, he’s the reason that the Hall is wide open—”

“We need him to stop Sinclair.”

It was what he’d always planned to say. Because he knew it would work on Cyprian, who always did his duty.

But it was different with Cyprian’s eyes in a tumult and Violet staring at him, trying to understand.

“He’s Sinclair’s assassin,” said Cyprian. “A traitor, without emotions or remorse, he killed my father, his own father, ripped him to shreds and used my brother to do it—”

“Look around you,” said Will. “You think Sinclair isn’t coming for the Hall now that it’s wide open? The Final Flame? The Undying Star? Anyone can walk in here.” He was hurting them by bringing James here. He knew that. His own presence was worse. It spat in the face of the Hall. “You want to stop Sinclair? James is how you can.”

Cyprian’s green eyes flashed with furious impotence. Faultless in novitiate silver, he looked like the embodiment of a Steward.

But the time of the Stewards was done. Without James, they could not stand against Sinclair. That was what Will had to keep in the forefront of his mind.

“You really believe in him?” Violet said to him.

“I do.”

After a long moment, Violet drew a breath and turned to Cyprian. “James was Sinclair’s closest ally. If he’s turned on his master, we should use him. Will’s right. Sinclair’s coming for the Hall; it’s just a matter of time before he gets here. We need every advantage we can get.”

“So that’s it?” said Cyprian. “You just trust him?”

“No,” said Violet. “I don’t trust him at all. And if he tries to hurt any of us, I’ll kill him.”

“Lovely,” said James.

“She is just giving you fair warning,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. “Which is more than you ever gave to us.”

Grace stood in the doorway in her blue janissary robes. She was one of two janissaries who had survived the first attack on the Hall. The other janissary, Sarah, must have been the one who had rung the bell, thought Will. Unlike the others, Grace didn’t welcome Will

back, or even greet him by name.

“If you’re finished squabbling,” Grace said, “there’s something you need to see.”

“Scared to face what you’ve done?” said Cyprian.

They stood at the gaping mouth of the main entry, where the first of the crumbling high towers beetled. Once an endless warren of giant arches, vaulted chambers, and edifices of stone, the citadel was now a dark, macabre maze. Will and the others had avoided going into any of its buildings since the massacre, staying in the gatekeep by the outer wall to avoid the gut-churning interior passageways. Having seen it after the slaughter, no one wanted to re-walk those paths.

James’s gaze surveyed the entrance. He looked more like part of this ancient place than anyone, his beauty like one of its lost wonders. But his lips curled unpleasantly.

“I told them when they ran me out of the Hall that I’d come back to walk on their graves.”

“Then you will get your wish,” said Grace, and disappeared into the gloom beyond the doors.

No more than a step inside and Will gagged, raising his arm to cover his mouth and nose. They had cleared the bodies, but it still smelled of decaying blood and rot; the gore that they hadn’t had the time or stomach to remove.

Grace waited for him, a grim pragmatism in her eyes. It was worse for her, he thought. This had been her home; her whole life. All it had been to him was—

A person he could never be; a home he could never have.

Even James stopped when they reached the great hall. The bodies were gone, but the devastation remained: the torn banners, the shattered furniture, the hastily assembled barricade that had not protected the Stewards. Cyprian’s expression twisted, looking at him.

“Admiring your handiwork?” Cyprian said.

“You mean Marcus’s handiwork.”

James lifted his eyes to Cyprian calmly, and Will had to step between them again, feeling as he held them apart that he was shielding James, even as James was a kind of shield to him. As the Dark King’s lieutenant, James was the one bearing their hatred of the Dark King.

“This way.” Grace had taken a torch from one of the wall sconces. She held it aloft as she spoke, making her way deeper through the forest of white pillars into the great hall.

At the far end the thrones of the four kings loomed. Each carved with the symbol of its kingdom, the empty thrones stared down in lost majesty, made for figures greater than any human king or queen. The sun, the rose, the serpent, and the tower.

They walked toward them, an uneasy procession.

“The Dark King wanted those four thrones more than anything,” said James.

“No,” said Will, and when the others turned to him in surprise, he heard himself

say, “In his world there wouldn’t be four thrones. There would only be one.”

A pale throne that rose to blot out the world. He saw it in his mind’s eye, part of the vision the Shadow Kings had shown him, and the swirling of his own half-remembered dreams.

They stopped at the edge of a great chasm, a depthless hole in the floor. Only when Grace held the torch over it did Will see that it was not an abyss; it was the remnant of a Shadow King, its horrifying form burned into the marble, like a pit into which they might all fall. The Shadow King’s hand stretched out as if it was reaching for its throne.

Will looked at Violet. She had a grip on the shield in her hand so tight her knuckles were white. Then she looked up at him, her eyes full of shadows.

For a moment they shared a wordless understanding. As he had fought the Shadow Kings on the Peak, she had fought a Shadow King in the heart of the Hall. He felt the same connection to her he’d felt when she saved his life, dragging him from a drowning ship.

He wanted to tell her again how glad he was to see her, that she was his star in the night.

That he’d never really had friends growing up, and he was so glad she was his first. That he hadn’t meant to turn that friendship into a betrayal. That he was sorry the boy she’d been friends with wasn’t real.

“When it came, the sky turned black,” said Grace. “It was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. We lit lamps so we could saddle the horses, but even the lamps could barely pierce the dark. We could hear it, shrieks and cries, coming from the great hall. Violet came here to fight it and buy us time.”

Of course Violet had done that. Violet would have fought, even knowing the fight was hopeless. Will remembered the terrifying power of the Shadow Kings, and tried to imagine facing one with only a sword.

“We were mounting when a scream came so loud it shattered all the Hall’s windows. The dark was dispelled, like a sudden dawn. We stopped our flight and came here, to the great hall. We saw what you see, the Shadow King fallen, his body burned into the floor.”

“You stopped a Shadow King?” For all his power, this had truly shocked James. “How?”

“The same way I’ll stop you if you step out of line.”

Violet stared back at him, unblinking. James opened his mouth, but Grace spoke first.

“This is not our destination, only a waypoint,” said Grace. “Come.” 

Will quickly realized where Grace was taking them.

It felt like a sick parody of his first morning here, when Grace had brought him along these very paths to see the Elder Steward. The architecture in the Hall got older, the stone thicker. He didn’t want to return there now, to the dead heart of a dead hall. The black, dead branches of the Tree Stone had always disturbed him, a reminder of his failure, spreading out like—

—like the black veins spreading across Katherine’s body, her chalk-white face, the staring stone-black of her eyes—

And then they turned the corner, and he saw the Tree of Light.

Rebirthed, remade; as if the air itself glowed with life. Branches bright, with drifting filaments like starlight, and a wondrous profusion of light.

The Tree was the Lady’s symbol; life in the dark; a declaration of her power.

He couldn’t help it; he was drawn forward. It was like seeing the first green shoots in a desolate wasteland, and more than that, a promise of hope and renewal.

“You lit the Tree,” said James in an awed voice.

“No,” said Will. “It wasn’t me.”

He thought of all the times he’d tried to light it. The light wasn’t in the stone, it was in her, the Elder Steward had said.

It had never been in him.

It was so beautiful. He reached out, unable to stop himself, and put his hand on the trunk. As darkness blots out the sun, he half expected it to dim—or to hurt him, to burn his flesh from his bones. Instead he felt its warmth pulse through him. It felt like a dream, like some long-forgotten comfort. He closed his eyes as he let it flow into him. The soft joy of peace, affection, and acceptance, and he yearned for it, as a lost boy yearns for home.

A girl’s voice said, “What did you do to my sister?” ...