Part One
Conrad Costin Altenar, eight years old and the ascendant king of Renalt, was humming to himself in time to the creaks and jolts of his carriage. It was an old Renaltan folk song, meant to be sung in a melancholic minor key: Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde, / For there a witch resides . . . Everyone knew the first verse, but he much preferred the lesser-known second, which described a phantom horseman:
Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde,
For there a horseman rides.
His stallion’s mane is silver flame
With night-black coals for eyes.
Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde;
Please stay here warm in bed.
If you see him, child, in the Ebonwilde,
You just might lose your head.
As Conrad hummed, he fiddled with a new toy: a pointed puzzle box with nine sides and a series of intricate buttons and latches that had to be pressed and turned in just the right order to open a hidden compartment with a prize inside. It was from his sister, Aurelia, an early gift for his upcoming coronation, now only two days away. Convinced the box concealed candy, Conrad had been poring over it for the duration of his Renaltan tour. He wanted to have it figured out before the excursion reached its end, and though Greythorne—the final stop and chosen location to begin his coronation procession—was only a few miles away now, he was sure he could have the puzzle cracked and the candy consumed before they pulled onto the drive.
As he concentrated harder, his humming tapered off.
Push, turn, twist, twist, tap, and then . . .
Nothing.
“Bleeding stars,” he cursed before glancing around the empty carriage to reassure himself that no one had heard. But his only companion was his own reflection, which gazed back at him from the mirrored panel on the other side of the carriage.
Onal, the crotchety old woman who’d spent the last five decades serving as the royal family’s physician and most trusted adviser, always said foul language was a clear sign of a weak mind. It was something of a joke, however, as she possessed an impressive vocabulary of vulgarity of her own and made liberal use of it. But while she was above reproach—mostly because no one ever dared reproach her—his own behavior was being closely observed and chronicled. That’s what this tour had been all about: showing the people of Renalt that their young king was capable and ready to lead. They’re looking for reasons to remove you, Aurelia had warned at their parting. Don’t give them any.
He wished that she could have accompanied him on this venture, though he knew it was better that she was keeping her distance. If he wanted the people to accept his rulings, they first had to accept his rule. Best not to remind them of his ties to a blood witch suspected of bringing down Achleva’s capital.
Not that Aurelia was too frightened to face her detractors; she wasn’t afraid of anything. Not intolerant townsfolk or falling cities or blood spells or being alone. Not even the dark.
He gulped and found himself moving the carriage curtain aside to peer up at the black clouds gathering in the sky above. A storm was coming and, on its heels, nightfall. He sent a mildly remorseful prayer up to the heavens: Most Holy and Merciful Empyrea, I’m sorry for swearing again. Please let us arrive at Greythorne before it gets too dark.
He didn’t used to be afraid of the dark, but in the last months, it seemed like the blackest nights heralded the bleakest events. It was in the dark that Toris had tricked him into betraying Aurelia; it was in the dark that Lisette was torn from him, never to be seen again. And it was during the darkest night he ever knew—the night of the black moon—that his beloved mother took her last breath.
Nothing good ever happened in the dark.
A deep, rolling rumble of thunder rattled the floorboards, and the carriage suddenly slowed to a stop. There was a knock at the door. His appointed regent, Fredrick Greythorne, poked his head in and yelled over another slow groan from the sky, “A storm is coming, Majesty. This road has been known to flood in heavy rain.”
Fredrick’s brother and new captain of Conrad’s personal guard, Kellan Greythorne, was waiting behind him. He said, “We can push through or find higher ground off the path until it blows over.”
Conrad leaned out of the carriage. They’d come upon the hawthorn thickets that surrounded the Greythorne property. The journey was close to its end now, and how long could the storm last, anyway? Probably just a squall, summer’s last fit of anger before handing over its post to autumn. It would probably tire itself out within the hour. The obvious choice would be to just pull off the road until it did, but they were so close to the welcoming fires of Greythorne, and it was going to be night soon.
“We keep going,” Conrad stated. “We push through.”
“As you wish,” Fredrick said, exchanging glances with his brother, and Conrad could see that they’d both have preferred the other option. But their king had given an order.
The horses pounded the path at breakneck pace until the rain started falling, coming down in heavy sheets. The carriage squelched through mud that, in minutes, became a mire. Conrad, bracing himself in a corner, felt the whole contraption sinking lower and lower into the sludge as the noises outside grew louder, until the cries became shouts and the carriage stopped with a heaving lurch, sending him toppling.
Conrad scrambled back onto his seat, craning his neck to peek through the crack between the curtain and the window sash.
There was no one there.
The road was deserted, the horses and guards all gone. There was no rain, either; it was dry and quiet, with just the whisper of a slight wind across a hazy, red-tinged twilight.
“Hello?” Conrad called into the empty expanse, his voice trembling. “Anyone there? Fredrick?” He gulped. “Kellan?”
He wanted to retreat into the carriage, to huddle and hide until his men returned from . . . wherever they had gone. But what if something was wrong?
Aurelia would never cower in a carriage and wait to be rescued. She’d be the first one on the ground, heading boldly toward the danger, letting nothing stand in her way.
If Aurelia could be brave, so could he.
He put one gold-slippered foot to the dirt, then the other, pulling his butter-colored brocade coat after him before abandoning it, disgruntled, on the floor of the carriage. If he was going to play the role of the hero, he didn’t want to look like a foppish fool doing it. The pointed shoes and high silk stockings were embarrassing enough. He would have much preferred to save the day while wearing the sterling mail and cerulean cape of a Renaltan soldier, or the long, dark coat Zan used to wear that made him look baleful and brooding, but this would have to do.
Everything was unnervingly still, as if all the insects and animals were pausing to watch what he would do. He pulled the clear glass knife from its sheath—a luneocite blade that had also once belonged to Aurelia. He’d found it among her things and decided to make it his own; the knife was small and looked fragile, like Conrad himself, but it was actually sturdier than steel. Having it on his belt made him feel stronger, too.
Ahead on the road, he saw something move. A trick of the strange crimson light, he thought at first, but then it moved again.
He squinted. “Hello?” he asked the silence.
The figure seemed to form itself from silver smoke and murky shadow, beginning as a wispy outline but quickly coalescing into a substantial, looming shape that towered over him. Conrad’s eyes widened, fingers becoming slick on the handle of his small knife as the shadow further sharpened, becoming not one entity but two.