The dead prince opened his eyes.
Asher Vale dropped the knife.
It struck the stone floor with a sound far too loud for a room full of corpses.
He stumbled backward and hit the table behind him.
For several heartbeats he could hear nothing except his own breathing.
The prince remained motionless.
His eyes were closed.
Asher stared.
"No," he whispered.
He had seen them open.
He was certain of it.
Prince Thomas Grey lay naked from the waist up upon the black preparation table. Someone had washed the blood from his face, but they had not been able to hide what had killed him.
A narrow wound passed between his ribs.
Clean.
Precise.
Straight into the heart.
Not the sort of wound received in battle.
The sort given by someone standing close enough to embrace you.
Asher swallowed.
Rain struck the high windows of the royal mortuary.
Beyond the glass, thunder rolled across Greyhaven.
Three other bodies rested beneath white sheets along the southern wall. Two soldiers and an elderly lord who had died peacefully during dinner.
None concerned Asher.
It was the man lying before him who could get him killed.
Twenty-three years old.
Heir to the throne of Alderwyn.
And dead before midnight.
Asher looked toward the iron door.
Master Benson should have returned by now.
He hadn't.
That worried Asher almost as much as the prince.
Royal bodies were never left with apprentices.
Especially apprentices whose names appeared nowhere in the official register.
Asher retrieved his knife.
"You're dead," he told the prince.
Prince Thomas offered no disagreement.
"Good."
Asher leaned closer.
The prince's skin had already begun to lose its warmth.
Black hair clung wetly to his forehead. There were bruises around his left wrist. Another near his collarbone.
Signs of a struggle.
That was strange.
The guards who delivered the body had said the prince had been murdered by an assassin near the eastern gardens.
Asher had prepared enough dead men to know when stories didn't match bodies.
There should have been mud.
Scratches.
Grass.
Something.
Instead, the prince's boots had been clean.
His fingernails immaculate.
And beneath the smell of the oils used to wash him, Asher had detected incense.
Royal incense.
The kind burned inside the palace.
Someone had killed Prince Thomas indoors.
Then moved him.
Asher's stomach tightened.
Knowing that was dangerous.
Knowing anything inside the palace was dangerous.
He returned to his work.
Royal tradition required the dead to be prepared before sunrise. The prince's chest would be washed in rosewater, his wound sealed with silver thread, and a starshard placed beneath his tongue.
Then the priests would come.
They would pray.
The bells would ring.
And Greyhaven would wake to learn that its future king was dead.
Asher dipped the cloth into the basin.
He touched it to the prince's chest.
Nothing happened.
He exhaled.
Good.
He moved toward the wound.
The cloth passed over pale skin.
Closer.
Closer.
His fingers brushed the prince's ribs.
Cold exploded through Asher's arm.
He froze.
Not again.
A whisper moved through the room.
"Asher."
He dropped the cloth.
The lamps flickered.
"No."
He stepped away from the table.
The whisper came again.
"Asher."
His name.
The dead prince knew his name.
That was impossible.
Asher pressed his hand against his chest.
Beneath his shirt, something had begun to burn.
The mark.
He closed his eyes.
For nineteen years he had hidden it.
A black shape beneath his left collarbone, thin as veins and shaped almost like a broken circle.
His mother had called it a birthmark.
That had been before soldiers came for her.
Before he learned what the mark truly meant.
Grave.
The forbidden fifth Sigil.
People bearing it were supposed to have vanished from Alderwyn generations ago.
Apparently no one had told Asher's bones.
He backed toward the door.
He should leave.
Find Master Benson.
Tell him the preparation could not be completed.
Invent an illness.
Invent anything.
But then the prince spoke again.
Not aloud.
Inside Asher's skull.
"Please."
Asher stopped.
The voice sounded terrified.
Dead men were not supposed to be afraid.
He looked at Thomas.
"What do you want?"
Silence.
Asher almost laughed at himself.
Then the prince's right hand moved.
One finger scraped across the stone.
Asher's blood turned cold.
The finger moved again.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Pointing toward Asher.
No.
Not toward him.
Toward the knife in his hand.
Asher stared at it.
Silver.
Polished.
Reflective.
He raised it.
The prince's face appeared in the blade.
Except his eyes were open.
Asher nearly threw the knife.
In the reflection, Thomas Grey stared directly at him.
His lips moved.
"Listen."
The lamps went out.
Darkness swallowed the mortuary.
And suddenly Asher was somewhere else.
Music.
Hundreds of candles.
Golden walls.
A glass of wine in his hand.
No.
Not his hand.
Thomas's.
Asher could feel the prince's heartbeat.
Could hear his breathing.
A memory.
He was inside the prince's memory.
Someone stood beside Thomas.
A man wearing a black coat embroidered with the royal silver stag.
King Edward.
Thomas's father.
"Asking questions has always been your weakness," the king said.
Thomas stepped backward.
"You aren't him."
King Edward smiled.
It contained no warmth.
"I have been many men."
Thomas reached for his sword.
The king was faster.
Pain struck his chest.
Thomas gasped.
King Edward caught him as he fell.
Almost tenderly.
Thomas's blood spread across the king's hand.
"Father..."
"Your father died three years ago."
Thomas stared upward.
King Edward leaned close to his ear.
"And before him, I was his father."
The memory trembled.
"As I was his."
Thomas tried to breathe.
The king continued.
"For seven hundred years, boy, your family has given me bodies."
His face blurred.
The chamber disappeared.
Thomas was dying.
His final thought was not fear.
It was a desperate attempt to remember something.
A symbol.
Seven circles around a black star.
A door beneath a throne.
And words.
Words he needed someone to hear.
"Asher Vale."
The memory looked directly at him.
Asher's heart stopped.
Thomas shouldn't have been able to see him.
Memories didn't see.
"Asher Vale," the dying prince said again. "Find my sister."
Then came the final words.
"The king died three years ago."
The prince grabbed Asher's wrist.
"Whatever sits on the throne now is not my father."
The memory shattered.
Asher crashed against the mortuary floor.
Light returned.
He lay gasping beside the preparation table.
His hand burned.
Five black lines had appeared across his palm.
Asher stared at them.
He had never seen them before.
Footsteps sounded outside.
Many footsteps.
Armored.
Approaching quickly.
Asher looked toward the door.
"Master Benson?"
No answer.
The footsteps stopped.
Someone inserted a key into the lock.
Asher rose.
The prince lay exactly as before.
Dead.
Silent.
Except something was different.
His left hand was closed.
Asher stepped closer.
There was something inside it.
He forced the dead fingers apart.
A small object fell into his palm.
Black glass.
Round.
Marked with seven tiny circles surrounding a star.
The symbol from the memory.
Asher's mouth went dry.
The door opened.
Six men entered.
White cloaks.
Silver armor.
Royal executioners.
Their commander looked at the dead prince.
Then at Asher.
Then at the black object in Asher's hand.
His expression changed.
Behind them, a seventh figure entered the room.
King Edward Grey.
Asher had seen the king only twice before.
He looked older than he had in Thomas's memory.
Silver touched his beard. Deep lines surrounded his eyes.
But the smile was the same.
Cold.
Patient.
Ancient.
The king looked at his dead son.
Then at Asher.
For one terrible moment, neither spoke.
Finally, King Edward smiled.
"Master Vale."
Asher's blood froze.
He had never told the king his name.
Edward's gaze dropped to Asher's marked palm.
His smile disappeared.
"There you are," the king whispered.
The soldiers drew their swords.
And Asher finally understood.
They had not come for the prince.
They had come for him.