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Authors: Leah Cypess

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her, the space where Cal ie should have been.

She swal owed the lump in her throat, got to her feet, and slipped the parchment into her saddlebag. Then

she turned. Kestin was stil watching her.

“I won’t ever come back here,” she said. “I won’t spend my life among the dead.”

He smiled very faintly. “I know.”

She turned away so he couldn’t see her face. As if from a distance, she heard herself say, “Thank you.”

Some seconds later, she heard the door open and shut. She stood staring at the saddlebag in her hands. Then

the door opened again and Varis said, “We’re ready.”

She slung the bag over her shoulder before walking with him to the courtyard near the stables. She walked

warily, and so did he, keeping their steps in sync even as they descended the stairs.

But no shadows reared at them from the corners, no iron mask appeared to watch them accusingly. The

Guardian would not be coming back as a ghost; nor would anyone else, now that new magic could no longer

flow through his mind to fuel the spel .

It should have made Darri feel bet er, to know that she had at least accomplished that. That she had saved

people she didn’t know, or care about, and would never see again.

The horses were already saddled in the dark courtyard. Darri slung the saddlebags into place and mounted.

She felt numb. Vague images of stalagmites flit ed through her mind, and her head stil hurt from the day’s

sobbing, an ache that started in the back of her eyes and wrapped around her head, twisting and coiling like . .

. She swore, shaking her head, just as Varis said, “You know, there’s a bright side. Father wil be very

unhappy with me.”

Darri turned and stared at him, startlement forcing the images of the spel ed stones from her mind. Varis

smiled at her crookedly. “Once everyone realizes how badly I’ve failed, my position back home won’t exactly

be secure. I’m sure that wil make you happy.”

Would it? Darri considered for a moment, not just what Varis had said, but the prospect of being happy; of

let ing herself be happy. She said, slowly, “Not real y. It’s not as if Father wil ever understand why you failed.”

Their eyes met. Darri saw on her brother’s face a weary acknowledgment: that back on the plains, among

their people, only the two of them would ever understand.

The castle loomed behind them, the yel ow light from its windows giving more il umination than the moon.

Darri wondered if Cal ie was watching them go, if the dead were ranged translucent against the torch-lit

windows. She imagined their skul -like eyes, trapped and accusing, but she didn’t look back. To Cal ie, this

castle was home; and to Darri, it was a place of grief and sacrifice.

She was not done with grief; she probably never would be, not truly. But she rather thought she was done

with sacrifice.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice rough, and loosened her reins. She wasn’t going to look back. She was going to

ride away, and maybe she couldn’t keep herself from feeling guilty, but she was not going to let her guilt trap

her. And she was not going to look back.

Hoofbeats clat ered on the cobblestone behind her, and she whirled.

Cal ie walked across the courtyard, leading a horse. Her hair was aloft in an elaborate Ghostland style, but

she wore practical Rael ian riding breeches. When she got to the spot where they were mounted, she swung

herself easily onto the horse’s back.

“Cal ie,” Darri whispered, and then didn’t know what else to say.

Cal ie took a long time gathering the reins. When she looked up, her face was serene and frightened at once.

“I’m coming with you.”

“But—” Darri stopped, swal owed. “But you can’t—”

Cal ie gave her a tiny smile. It was not the unrestrained, exuberant smile of the girl Darri had come looking

for, but it was brave, and unfaltering, and real. “You should welcome this.”

She should. But it was suddenly completely obvious to Darri that she didn’t. That the important thing about

Cal ie was not what she had become, but what she had always been. Darri’s sister.

“You could stay here,” she said. “You told me you could. That you could be the same as . . . as the others.”

Cal ie laughed, and it sounded almost like her old laugh, free and joyous. Almost. “Is that what you want me

to do?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Darri said. “It’s your choice, Cal ie. Your . . .” She stopped. She couldn’t say

“life.”

Cal ie’s laugh faded, and she stroked her horse’s neck. “I’m not sure I ever could be like them. And besides, I

was trying so hard to be the same as them, I failed to notice that I have something none of the rest of them

have. I can ride away, far enough that the spel won’t touch me anymore.”

“And they can’t?” Varis snapped.

“They can,” Cal ie said. “There’s nothing stopping them.” She looked over her shoulder at the brightly lit

windows. “They might realize that, now.”

Darri swal owed hard. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

“But what wil happen to you when we ride over the border?” said Varis, who apparently had no such

problem.

Some of the laughter faded from Cal ie’s face. “I guess we’l find out, won’t we?”

“Actual y,” Varis said, “you’l find out.”

Darri’s hand curled into a fist. But Cal ie just smirked.

“I’l find out in a few nights,” she said. “You’l find out . . . eventual y.”

Varis mut ered something under his breath and kicked his horse into a trot. Darri and Cal ie exchanged a

wordless glance. Darri grinned; Cal ie nodded.

Varis yelped as they raced past him, but his words were lost in the pounding of hooves and the whistling

wind. Neck to neck, streaming black hair beside bound-up gold, the sisters rode like the wind across the

courtyard of the castle and into the dark forest beyond.

Acknowledgments

To everyone I thanked in the first book. (Um, yes I can. It’s my acknowledgments page.)

And specifical y:

To my editor, Martha Mihalick, for her dedication, thoroughness, and insight, for put ing up with “the Dark

Whatever” for so long, and for taking it in stride when I said after three rounds of revisions, “Hey, guess what I just figured out about my main character?”

To everyone at Greenwil ow and HarperCol ins, especial y Virginia Duncan, Lois Adams, Michel e Corpora,

Robin Tordini, Pat y Rosati, Emilie Ziemer, and Laura Lutz.

To Paul Zakris, because I was worried the second cover couldn’t possibly be as good as the first, and instead it

topped it.

To my family, for their continual excitement, support, and Internet obsessing so I don’t have to (not that it

stops me); and especial y to Aaron, for put ing a brake on the obsessing . . . or trying to.

To my agent, Bil Contardi.

To Cindy Pon and Caragh O’Brien, for lengthy e-mail exchanges.

To the Tenners, the Class of 2K10, and the Inkies.

And final y: one of my regrets with Mistwood was that because it was writ en over the course of eight years

(and three e-mail programs), I wasn’t able to thank al the people who read and critiqued it for me. With

Nightspel , I’m thril ed that I can. Thank you: Tova Suslovich, Leah Clif ord, Kay Cassidy, Pat ie Lawler, Sara

Fishman, Melissa Hol ingsworth, Kel y Cruz, Tarah Nyberg, David Siska, Kat Otis, Laurel Amberdine, Christine

Amsden, Alena McNamara, andKim Zimring.

About the Author

LEAH CYPESS is the author of Mistwood. Though she began writing in grade school, she took a detour to earn

her law degree and work for two years at a large New York City law firm before becoming a ful -time writer.

She now lives in Boston, Massachuset s, with her husband and two young children.

www.leahcypess.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCol ins authors.

Credits

Jacket design by Paul Zakris

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Nightspell

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cypess, Leah.

Nightspell / by Leah Cypess.

p. cm.

“Greenwillow Books.”

Summary: Sent by her father, the king of Raellia, who is trying to forge an empire out of warring tribes, Darri arrives in Ghostland and discovers that her sister, whom she planned to rescue, may not want to leave this land where the dead mingle freely with the living.

ISBN 978-0-06-195702-4 (trade bdg.)

[1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. Dead—Fiction.4. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.]

I. Title.

PZ7.C9972Gh 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010012637

11 12 13 14 15 LP/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

About the Publisher

Australia

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Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

www.harpercol ins.com.au/ebooks