by Beth Revis
“North? Why?” Grey asked.
“The orcines,” I said. “They like the cold, but they sun themselves on the rocks in the winter. And their pelts . . .”
Grey nodded. Orcine pelts made the best coats; their fur was sleek and black, waterproof and warm. For a while, half a century ago, orcine pelts made the north rich again. Then the orcine grew harder and harder to hunt, and the icy north too dangerous to risk trying.
“Papa told me about a group of fishermen who sailed out there. The sea was rough, but they needed to eat. They had to hunt.”
Grey was quiet. I imagined my father’s warm voice telling the story I’d heard countless times as I recalled it to Grey. “They made it to one of the larger islands. Large enough to risk lashing the ship to the rocks and disembarking. But then a storm came, the waves so high that the ship smashed to bits against the sharp stones.”
Most of Papa’s stories were happy tales, funny bits he picked up on his travels. But lately I seemed to only remember the sad ones.
“There was no way to get home, and winter was falling. No new ships would save them, not in the storm. Not before they froze or starved.”
“How did they survive?” Grey asked.
I finally met his eyes. “They didn’t.”
“But—”
“One of the men was able to grab a bit of the boat, a plank that hadn’t drifted away yet. It was about as long as his forearm. He took his knife, and he carved his name, and the name of the others, and then he gouged out a sentence in the wood: We lay down to perish now.”
Grey’s mouth silently repeated the words.
“He threw the board into the sea, never knowing if it would be found. And for a long time it wasn’t. The widows and the children walked the shore with candles every night, looking for a trace of their loved ones. A few months later, someone in a nearby village found the board, and it made its way back to the man’s widow. She nailed it over the door of their house and read the words every day. And they brought her comfort.”
“Comfort?”
“Grey, don’t you see?” I shook my head and laughed bitterly. “Mama said that the man hadn’t carved the words at all. Someone who loved the widow and couldn’t bear to see her walking the shore all winter long, looking for her lost lover, had written the passage for her to find. Because the man—all of the men in the crew—they had died. Of course they had. But it’s the not knowing that kills those who are still alive.”
I used to think about this story a lot, when I was a girl and enraptured with the romantic ideal of the widow walking by candlelight on the shore. I had believed Papa’s version then, that fate had brought the board and the message to the widow, like the last kiss of a ghost.
But I think Mama was right. Some kind person had seen that the widow had no closure, no peace, without knowing her husband was gone. So someone else had carved the message, thrown it into the sea, and made sure it was found.
There is peace in knowing.
“But, Nedra,” Grey said, still confused. “What does that have to do with—?”
“Why can’t you understand?” I interrupted. I grabbed Grey and pulled him over to the railing, ignoring the way he tried to resist. I pointed down. On the steps below, Ronan sat, watching the bay. His father, Dannix, leaned his head against his son’s shoulder.
“He knows his son is dead,” I said in a low voice. “Of course he does. But if he lets go . . . what will happen to him? Where will Ronan’s soul go? That’s what he is unsure of. It’s the not knowing that kills the heart. That’s what I give these people, Grey. I give them certainty.”
Grey pulled back, away from the edge, pressing his body against the milky-white face of the clock. “Certainty of what?”
I reached for his hand, gently leading him back inside. “As long as their dead are in front of them, they know where they are,” I said. “And that’s enough.”
Nessie stood where I had left her. My revenants, even now, were fading into hollow shells like my twin. But as long as I had their bodies—as long as I had her body, there was still hope for her soul.
EIGHTEEN
Nedra
ONCE WE GOT back inside the clock tower, Grey turned to me, his shoulders slouched in defeat, his eyes downcast. “I’ll never be able to convince you to send your revenants back to the grave, will I?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll never be able to convince you to run away with me either?” There was still a little hope in his voice.
“Where would I go?” I said. “Anywhere I flee to, it won’t matter. I’ll still be me. I’ll still be a necromancer. And I’ll still have my revenants.”
He winced.
“Grey.” I sighed heavily, all the weariness of the day settling on my shoulders.
Sympathy flooded his gaze. “Sorry. I just—I want to help you.” His voice dropped. “I want to be with you.”
“Why?” I asked.
He was silent for several long moments.
“Why?” I pressed. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t approve of necromancy, and I’ve been equally clear that I won’t stop, and nothing you can say or do will change that. So why are you trying to help me? Why are you even here?”
That last question—I had not meant to say it aloud. But I had. And I could not snatch the words back.
I had thought my words would push Grey away, but instead, he took a step closer to me. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the cinnamon warmth of his breath. He reached up, touching my paper-white hair, and tucked a strand behind my ear. Without speaking, without warning, his head dropped, his forehead touching mine.
His eyes were closed when he said, “I don’t know.”
I let that be enough. I let us be enough.
“I don’t understand what this is between us,” Grey said at last, his voice a whisper. “I call it love, but you’re right—I don’t like necromancy.”
I snorted, and Grey laughed.
“Okay, I hate it,” he conceded. “But . . .”
His voice trailed off as mine caught in my throat.
“I can’t stop thinking about that night.”
“Which one?” I asked, pulling away from him and searching his eyes. “There have been many nights.”
“The last night, before you changed.”
I smiled sadly. I knew he meant the night we ran into each other in Master Ostrum’s shattered office, hours before I crossed the threshold and became a necromancer. “But that wasn’t the night I changed,” I said, shaking my head. It had happened before, when I watched my parents die. When I sawed my sister’s hand off. When I burned my home to the ground. My choice was not what had changed me.
“Maybe not,” Grey allowed. “I just meant, that night, before . . . after . . . That was my chance, wasn’t it? And I ruined it.”
I couldn’t look into his eyes.
In that moment, if Grey had stopped and listened and tried to help, if he had tried to understand, could he have stopped me from becoming what I became?
But then, if he had, I wouldn’t have Nessie.
I took another step back from him. If Grey only wanted atonement, I couldn’t help him.
He was still too late.
I closed my eyes, letting myself linger on the darkness behind my eyelids, nothing at all like the craving dark power swirling in the base of my crucible.
My hand dropped blindly to the table, and rather than rough-hewn wood, my fingers brushed soft, embossed leather. I picked up my great-grandmother’s journal, the little book that had first set me on the path that led, somehow, to this moment. I traced the outline of the emblem stamped on the back, the rising sun with six rays, the symbol of the Allyrian Empire. But this Empire was vast, and surely there were other books to find, other experts beyond Master Ostrum.
Where did
Papa get his book on necromancy? I wondered. He traded in books, but it seemed impossible that something like that could’ve come from some remote village. More likely it came from Hart, maybe from one of the antiques dealers who lived there, like Papa’s friend Bunchen, who he traded with often for rare books. And if it hadn’t come from Bunchen directly, she would know where it had come from. And if she didn’t, I could sail across the sea, to Miraband. Surely the largest city in the world would have some sort of information I could use.
I looked up at Grey. “I’ll go with you,” I said.
Relief and surprise flashed across his face. “Really?”
“Not to run away,” I said impatiently. “To learn.”
“Who is going to teach you?”
“Books,” I said. “As usual.”
“Nedra, I won’t let—” He stopped short at the look I gave him.
“You didn’t help me before,” I said. “So help me now.”
Grey sucked in a breath as if I’d punched him. It was low, twisting his guilt to suit my needs, but I was thinking only of Nessie.
Grey followed my gaze. “We can’t take her,” he said. “We can’t take any of them.”
“Nessie would protect me.”
“Nedra . . .”
I scowled. The ships that had come to threaten me had been enough to prove that I was not loved by the citizens of Lunar Island. If I went alone, I could cover my hair, disguise myself so that none would recognize me. But I couldn’t hide Nessie. One look, and anyone would recognize her for what she was.
And what would happen then? I let my mind play through the possibilities. If someone tried to harm me, Nessie would attack. I knew she could fight, and fight well. But in the middle of Hart or Miraband, with thousands of people to overtake us . . .
We would lose. And I would hang. And once I died, so, too, would Nessie and every single revenant I had raised.
Besides, it wasn’t as if I had no power without my revenants. My fingers clenched involuntarily as I remembered the way I had held Governor Adelaide’s soul still. I could protect myself.
And my revenants could protect our home. That was one of the few things in which I had faith.
I shut my eyes, sifting through my connections with my revenants to find the strongest—not in body, but in mind. They were all slowly fading, losing their free will and past memories, but the clearest mind belonged to Ollah, a middle-aged woman who’d been left at the hospital by her husband when the inky black stain of the plague appeared over her heart.
Ollah, I said. I’m going away. I did not need to explain further; she was tapped into my mind and understood what wasn’t said. Lead the others; protect the hospital.
I felt her acceptance of this role. Almost simultaneously, I felt all my revenants start to position themselves at the windows and doors of the hospital, attentive and standing guard. Nessie stepped forward. Stay in the tower until I return, I ordered her directly.
“Let me pack a few things,” I told Grey. I scooped up my great-grandmother’s journal and Master Ostrum’s book into my bag, followed by a few articles of clothing and necessities. In moments, I was ready to go, sweeping my cloak over my shoulders.
“Do you need to tell anyone?” Grey asked as I hefted my bag onto my shoulder. He didn’t understand my connection to my dead.
“There’s no one to tell,” I said.
NINETEEN
Nedra
THE CAPTAIN OF Grey’s ship was not at all happy when I boarded.
“She’s a criminal,” he growled at my back as I ignored him, crossing the deck and standing next to the black lacquered railing.
“I’m the representative of the Emperor on this mission,” Grey stated.
“Don’t care,” the captain snapped back. He tugged at his beard. “She should be hanging from a noose, not standing on my ship.”
I swallowed.
Grey said something else, something I couldn’t hear. I could feel the tension building behind me, but I ignored it all, staring up at the quarantine hospital. Doubt twisted my stomach. Would my revenants be able to protect themselves if more intruders came? I scanned the hospital’s brick facade, my eyes tracing over the shadowy outlines of my revenants in the windows.
It’s not too late for them, I told myself. This was the best possible time for me to go, before they met the same fate as Ernesta. They might be losing some of their memories now, but they could still fight to protect their home. If I waited much longer, it would never be safe for me to leave.
Soon, the ship pushed off from the dock and we were making the short journey north, to the city of Hart. I counted the seconds, measuring the exact moment when I knew my revenants would no longer be able to swim to the ship to protect me. “What did you do to convince him to let me come aboard?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Grey said.
I reached out and grabbed his wrist. “I am worried,” I said. “What’s to stop him from dumping me in the bay?”
“A hundred allyras,” Grey said, flushing. He hated talking about money.
I released his arm. Of course. Why did I always forget how easily things could be fixed with money?
While the captain and crew ignored us, I turned my eyes to the north. I hadn’t been to Hart since I rode the ferry with my sister to the hospital, the day they left her locked inside and dragged me, shouting, away from her. The last moment I saw her alive.
“So, do you have any advice for me?” Grey asked.
“Advice?” I could still hear the screams—my screams—as I tried to fight my way back to Nessie.
“The north needs to improve its economic standing,” Grey said. “If the north could export a product to the mainland, then it might offer more financial security. Right now, the primary source of income is fishing and farms, but all the goods the north produces are sent to Northface Harbor.”
“There’s no reason to export turnips to the mainland,” I pointed out. The mainland was rich in its own right, and besides, any produce sent from our villages across the sea would be bruised and aged by the time it reached Miraband’s shores.
“So, any ideas on what else we could send to the mainland to generate income for the north?”
“No,” I said simply. Didn’t he think that the north would have saved itself already if the answer were that easy? Most people in the north only had the means to labor at their farms. There was no time nor spare money to create art or invent something new or develop unique merchandise. The north was too busy surviving, and barely at that.
Despite the warmth of the day, I adjusted the cloak on my shoulders. The long hood in the back would serve to hide my white hair. My amputated arm wouldn’t stand out as unusual in the north, but my hair would.
“Worried you’ll be recognized?” Grey asked, concern in his voice.
“Should I be?” I hadn’t been north since leaving my parents’ burned home. While my army of the undead had marched through the streets of Northface Harbor, did the people of Hart know what had transpired? Did they care? “They don’t deliver news sheets to my island,” I reminded Grey.
“The official story is that Governor Adelaide was a traitor who’d locked up the Emperor—all true—but I’ve not actually read anything about you,” Grey told me. He looked out over the water as we drew closer to Hart. “The news sheets are pretty vague about how the Emperor escaped, mostly just saying ‘loyalists’ aided him. But everyone knows. Not your face, I don’t think. Your name is whispered, and they know you’re at the quarantine hospital.”
That made sense. People were coming to my little island before I attacked the castle; word spread quickly when it came to necromancy.
“At least, that’s how it is in Northface Harbor. If your story has crossed the bay . . .” He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he wasn’t sure.
He opened his mouth to sp
eak, and I knew him well enough to know that he was going to tell me that this was why I needed to go into hiding now, before the truth of my necromancy spread. Fortunately, Grey knew me well enough not to bother saying it again.
Instead, Grey gave my arm a comforting squeeze—or he tried to, anyway. He’d forgotten that my left arm was missing, and his fingers grazed the wool of my cloak. He stuttered an apology, flustered, but I ignored him. He would have to get used to the ways I had changed since we first met.
The wind whipped around us as the boat picked up speed over the bay. He looked out over the water, and I wanted to ask him what he thought of it all. Did he remember those first days we went to the quarantine hospital with Master Ostrum and our fellow students? Did he think of some other time, sailing with his parents, perhaps, or with friends like Tomus?
Did he wish he was with them instead of me?
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I’d never come to Yūgen?” I asked, my words almost lost in the wind.
Grey’s face was somber. For a long time, he didn’t answer. He just stared at me.
I wondered what he saw.
“I cannot imagine a life without you,” he said finally. “I know I had one, before we met, but it feels . . . like a memory my brain tries to suppress. These past few days . . . I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Because you didn’t want me,” I said quickly.
“I don’t want your revenants,” Grey said, emphatic. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
I turned my head away, signaling the end of the conversation, but Grey didn’t relent.
“This isn’t sustainable,” he said. He was so close now that his words melted directly into my ear. “You cannot live forever in a clock tower surrounded by corpses.”
The wind bit at my eyes, making them water. I touched my crucible, sensing both the power inside it and the souls it linked me to.