Acclaimed author Lynn Flewelling brings her beloved Nightrunners series to a close--at least for now--with a thrilling novel of murder, mystery, and magic. The governor of the sacred island of Korous and his mistress have been killed inside a locked and guarded room. The sole witnesses to the crime--guards who broke down the doors, hearing the screams from within--have gone mad with terror, babbling about ghosts . . . and things worse than ghosts. Dispatched to Korous by the queen, master spies Alec and Seregil find all the excitement and danger they could want--and more. For an ancient evil has been awakened there, a great power that will not rest until it has escaped its otherworldly prison and taken revenge on all that lives. And only those like Alec--who have died and returned to life--can step between the worlds and confront the killer . . . even if it means a second and all too permanent death. Praise for Lynn Flewelling’s Casket of Souls “Full of intrigue and plots upon plots.” -- RT Book Reviews

Praise for Lynn Flewelling’s Casket of Souls
 
“Full of intrigue and plots upon plots.”—RT Book Reviews

Autorentext

Lynn Flewelling is best known for her Nightrunner series, as well as The Tamír Triad, and her work appears in a dozen languages. She also maintains a lively online presence with her website and her LiveJournal, Talk in the Shadows, and her Facebook page. Born in northern Maine, Flewelling is happily transplanted in Redlands, California, with her husband and some very spoiled dogs.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Rain on the Roof

Early-spring rain lashed against the windowpanes next to Alec's chair and drummed on the inn's roof slates overhead. With a fire crackling on the hearth, a good supper just dispatched, and an interesting tome borrowed from the Oreska House library open on his lap, Alec was looking forward to a peaceful evening. His companion, however, had other ideas.

Sprawled in a pile of cushions in front of the fire, Seregil had thumbed through a succession of apparently uninteresting letters, discarded several books, and now lay staring up at the ceiling and whistling a sad tune softly--and rather annoyingly--through his teeth. Alec guessed he was composing some new song, as he maddeningly kept repeating phrases and tapping time against the ash shovel with one bare foot. Even Ruetha and her kittens had lost patience with him and had retreated to their basket in the corner.

But as distracting as it was, and as melancholy as the tune sounded, Alec felt a certain amount of relief, too. It had been difficult for both of them, losing more people they cared about--Myrhichia, Lady Kylith, Duke Malthus--the previous year. They'd nearly lost Micum Cavish's daughter Illia, as well. Alec had felt the losses deeply, but Seregil was always one to hang on to pain, tinged as it was with guilt.

This was the first time Seregil had shown any interest in composing in months, so the interruption was almost welcome, even if it did mean Alec wasn't going to get any reading done.

He closed his book. "That's a pretty tune you're working on. Play it for me?"

Seregil glanced up at the Aurenfaie harp hanging on the wall. "It's not done yet."

"So play me what you have."

Seregil cast him a sidelong glance. "I'm annoying you."

"Just a little."

With an apologetic half smile, Seregil marshaled his long limbs and resurrected himself from his nest. Taking the harp down, he plucked at the strings, tuned them a little, then played a few bars of what sounded like a lament.

The melancholy tune together with Seregil's overall restlessness were familiar weather signs. Hoping to lighten his lover's mood, Alec said, "You know, you once promised me you'd never say it again."

"I haven't said a thing in the past hour," Seregil said, brows arching over sea-grey eyes.

Alec snorted softly. "And we haven't accepted a nightrunner job in nearly a month."

"There haven't been any worth our time. They're all so--" Seregil threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Go on, then. Just say it."

"Boring!" Seregil hung the harp back on its hook and faced Alec with his hands on his hips. "If I have to deliver one more love token or look for any more compromising letters, I'm going to hang myself!"

"We spend time at court."

"Yes, we do--and as much as I care for our young queen, I've made about as much polite chitchat as I'm capable of."

Alec couldn't argue that point. It had been a long, hard winter, burying Rhiminee in treacherous slush and ice that had curtailed riding and outdoor shooting; the last hunt had been just after Mourning Night.

They were relative newcomers in the royal inner circle, and favorites of Queen Elani despite their lowly rank, so naturally they were despised by a good many of the more established members of the entourage. Seregil won so consistently at the bakshi table, and Alec so consistently defeated other would-be archers--soft-handed nobles who'd never had to shoot true or else starve--that few would take them on anymore. Some had taken to calling them the queen's lapdogs behind their backs.

Their detractors might have had a great deal more to say if they could see them now, lounging in their hidden rooms at the Stag and Otter in decidedly unfashionable Blue Fish Street behind the Harvest Market. Seregil secretly owned the place, and it was their true home and refuge from the endless round of social obligations their public reputations demanded: entertaining at the Wheel Street villa, attending salons of their remaining friends, evenings at the Oreska House with Thero and Magyana, the requisite keeping up with the latest fashions via their tailors and jewelers. With the end of the war a year and a half earlier, luxuries were once more abundant and the black-market dealers were going hungry. Many people still decried the state of theater, since Master Atre and his marvelous company had abruptly disappeared near the war's end. The Golden Crane stood empty, but the other companies around the city were still suffering by comparison.

"Well, what do you want to do?" asked Alec.

"Get out of the damn city!"

"Then let's go out to Watermead. We haven't seen Micum and the family in ages."

Seregil looked out at the rain, and his thin lips tilted into a doubtful line. It would be a wet, cold ride, and he avoided being wet and cold as much as possible. "Maybe in a few days, if the weather breaks. Anyway, we're due back at Wheel Street in time to appear for Korathan's birthday."

He threw a few logs onto the fire and subsided back among the cushions with one of his scattered books.

Peace at last, thought Alec, returning to his own book--until Seregil started whistling again.

Chapter 2

A Timely Offer

They returned to Wheel Street and public life a few days later, attending the prince's birthday gala, and the social whirl began again. The foul weather continued--with sullen rain giving way to dank fog. They went to the theater, to gambling houses, and to a few salons, including that of Marquise Alania, a fashionable dowager who'd taken quite an interest in them since Seregil's risque display at the Three Dragons nearly a year ago. To her credit, her circle was an interesting collection of well-educated nobles, philosophers, artists, and amusing ne'er-do-wells like Seregil. The food and wine were always exquisite. Even Seregil had to grudgingly admit that life was a bit less tedious than it had been.

The weather improved at last, rain giving way to bright sunshine and brisk winds. They were at Alania's house one night during the Festival of Flowers when Alec noticed Seregil blinking and rubbing absently at his left temple as he lost a bakshi game to the court painter, Vireus. Finishing his game of Blue Goose with Alan…