Bid My Soul Farewell

by Beth Revis

  “I appreciate the Emperor’s . . . benevolence in arranging this meeting,” the man said in a pompous tone clearly meant to mock me. The other two sniggered.

  “And your name is?” I asked, hoping I sounded more dignified than I felt.

  “Veri Tess.”

  “Mr. Tess,” I started.

  “Lord Tess.”

  “Lord Tess,” I corrected immediately, inclining my head to him. “The Emperor is indeed generous, and I am grateful for the opportunity he has given me to show you wares from my homeland. As you likely know, our nation has experienced much distress over the past year.”

  “An earthquake?” one of the other men guessed.

  “No, that was Siber,” said his friend.

  “A plague, good sirs,” I supplied.

  Their expressions didn’t change; if anything, their eyes reflected even more disinterest than before.

  “You must understand, Mr. Astra, that all these little colonies—there’s always something. A devastating storm, a sickness, crushed insurrections. And yes, we agree with His Imperial Majesty that the best recourse is to have the people help themselves through labor and trade. Trade is what makes the Empire as strong as it is!”

  “Hear, hear,” one of the men said in a bored voice.

  “But,” Lord Tess continued, “we cannot give charity. And trying to promote trade with—this.” He tossed the hat to the ground, where a small cloud of dust billowed up, marring the shiny surface of the orcine hat. “This would be charity.”

  “You have not seen the best of what Lunar Island has to offer,” I said, unable to hide the desperation rising in my voice. “Our local wares are made by good, honest people—”

  “We’ve heard that before.” Lord Tess shrugged. “Every colony in the Empire has good, honest people.”

  “At least he didn’t bring an old woman in one of the crates to show how she tats lace by hand, something every generation has done since Oryous became a god,” one of the men said.

  “The point is,” Lord Tess said, “if you want something to sell, you need to do better than this.” He shrugged. “You could set up a market stall outside the wall—see if you can drum up customers with local wares that way. Start a fashion. It’s happened before.”

  I thought of the little buildings and stalls we’d seen outside the docks. I had thought them charming, but there was no way I’d be able to sell goods on my own there, not enough to reshape the economy of my entire colony. And certainly not within enough time to make it to Emperor Auguste’s rally.

  I changed tactics. “The Emperor himself sent me here—”

  “And the Emperor himself appointed us to ensure that the Empire’s trade system remains the strongest in the world,” Lord Tess snapped back. “He gave you a chance, boy, not a promise.”

  “There has to be something,” I said, turning back to the crates, embarrassed by the way desperation made my voice crack.

  “Look, boy,” Lord Tess said. My back stiffened. I might be young, but by all the gods, I knew I’d seen more of life and death than he had.

  Whatever dismissive words he’d been intending to speak faded to silence as his eyes dropped to my hand. I’d curled it into a fist, but I forced my fingers to relax. His eyes didn’t leave my hand, though.

  “Lunar Island, you say?” he asked.

  I nodded tightly.

  The other men were looking at my hand now, too. I held it up, realizing that it was the iron ring on my knuckle that had grabbed their attention.

  My mind flew to Bunchen and my father. Are these men rebels? I wondered. My heart rate ratcheted up. I was too afraid to be the first to broach the subject, but if they confirmed my suspicion, I had no reluctance in exploiting the connection to help the poor of the north.

  Lord Tess held out his hand, palm up. “May I?” he asked.

  I slipped the ring from my finger and dropped it into his waiting hand. He inspected it. “An unusual design,” he said finally.

  “Not on Lunar Island,” I said, still hesitant to claim the rebellion.

  “No, I imagine not.”

  One of the other men, the shorter of the two, looked up at me. “Is this traditionally made by your good and honest craftsmen?” he said, and although he had sneered at the term before, he seemed genuinely curious now.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “It’s part of our local legends. There was a necromancer on Lunar Island about two hundred years ago—” I started, but Lord Tess cut me off.

  “Wellebourne, we know,” he said, nodding. His eyes glittered excitedly. “And rumor has it there’s another necromancer on your island now.”

  She’s not on the island, I thought. She’s in this very city. Cold fear washed over me. But all I gave was a curt “Yes.”

  “A real necromancer?” the short man asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lord Tess grinned warmly at me. “This,” he said, a slow, hungry smile spreading over his face. “This we could sell.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Nedra

  “YOU’VE BEEN EXPECTING me?” I said, taking one hesitant step closer to him. For the first time since I left the ship, the copper crucible felt painfully heavy. I hitched it higher up onto my shoulder. There was something predatory about the collector that I didn’t like.

  “We have mutual friends who let me know of your impending arrival,” he said, “Nedra.”

  How did he know my name? Even if Bunchen had been able to get word out, the rebel network couldn’t have been faster than the Emperor’s cruiser. Thinking of the ship reminded me that I’d seen the captain earlier. Could he have been the messenger? I wondered. Perhaps that was why he’d allowed himself to be so easily bribed into taking me here.

  “What do you know about me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Rumors have spread. Those of us who care about the fourth alchemy keep our eyes on Lunar Island. Your colony has a . . . legacy.”

  “Are there other necromancers that you know of? People in your circle?” I asked.

  “Just because we watch doesn’t mean we practice,” the collector said, drawing closer.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Just because you asked doesn’t mean I have to answer,” he countered.

  I couldn’t shake the immediate and overwhelming distaste I had for the man. He reminded me of an unchecked and older Tomus Abertallin. Not in looks—Tomus was tall and young, handsome to many, while the collector was short and stocky, with grimy hair that stuck out, and patches of stubble on his chin.

  But the way they both looked at people—the way they looked at me—was the same. As if I were a thing, my value determined not by my humanity, but by my ability to aid them.

  The only difference was, Tomus had never wanted me.

  And it was clear the collector did.

  For the first time since I left my quarantine hospital, I found myself wishing that I had my revenants with me not for their protection, but mine.

  “You know my name,” I said warily. “But what’s yours?”

  “I prefer to operate without a name. Collector is fine.”

  “And you collect things of interest to me?”

  His grin broadened to an almost maniacal level. “Indeed.” Then, in an instant, his expression sobered, his mouth downturned into a grim line. “But perhaps proof?”

  “Proof?”

  “Of your . . .” His eyes raked over me again. “Skills.”

  My right hand was slack, but my shadow hand clenched into a fist. I had no need to prove anything to this man.

  But then I thought of Nessie, and how he might have the knowledge I needed to save her. Still, there was something about this strange person in this dirty building on the edge of this vast city that made my toes curl.

  “You want proof of my power?” I sa
id, striding forward. For the past week, I had been aboard a ship, severed from my connection to the undead. I still didn’t hear them, but I had never once not felt my power. It was mine alone. I threw back my shoulders, raising my shadow arm, clutching my iron crucible at the base. Everything I did—whether I raised the dead or pulled the souls of the living—was done through the cold metal.

  I had only rarely used my power against the living. Once to hold Governor Adelaide still while I drove a blade through her heart. Then again, as an experiment with Grey, and later, with the homeless man. It had frightened me each time how easy it had been to do.

  This power was far too useful to be frightening now.

  Electricity crackled through my paper-white hair, and I felt my vision blur—I saw the Collector as a golden outline of his soul far more than the shape of his flesh. I strode forward, my footsteps echoing off the dusty, wooden floor.

  “Yes,” the Collector hissed, his voice eager.

  If for nothing more than to shut him up, I reached my shadow hand forward, wrapping his soul around my fingers. I pulled, and a little breathless “Oh!” escaped his lips.

  Golden light dripped from my shadow hand. His soul.

  I looked into his eyes, as dead and empty as Ernesta’s. Thinking of her renewed the rage within me. All of this—all of this—was for her. And I wasn’t going to let some little man toy with me while I had business to do.

  My shadow fingers clenched, squeezing his soul tighter.

  His body didn’t flinch, but his soul screamed.

  “Satisfied?” I growled. I shoved my hand into his body and let his soul go, seeping life back into him.

  A few moments later, he staggered back, blinking. “Oh, yes,” he said, and he actually smiled. Next time, perhaps, I would keep his ragged soul. It would be worth far more to me than whatever purpose he was using it for, surely.

  “If we’re quite done,” I said, not reining in my voice.

  “You want to see my collection.”

  “Yes.” I bit off the word. “And . . .” I took a deep breath. “I need information.”

  “About what?

  “Books, perhaps. Or if you know how I can find other necromancers . . . I know there are more.”

  “But on what subject?”

  “Necromancy,” I said.

  “Obviously,” the Collector said, for the first time displaying impatience. “But what specific subject?”

  I hesitated. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  He looked me up and down, a smirk twisting his lips. “A difficult client,” he said, as if the prospect pleased him. “Come with me.” The Collector turned to the staircase. The steps were uneven, with some missing entirely, and I had a hard time keeping up with the Collector, who knew exactly when to hop over trick steps or broken boards. We went straight past the second floor, open to the elements, past the third and fourth floors, with windows boarded up and furniture covered with sheets of white cloth like ghosts, and to the roof of the triangular building.

  I blinked in the sunlight. “Here?” I asked.

  “Here.” The Collector led me across the roof to a small rectangular shed. “Looks like a cote for messenger pigeons, doesn’t it?” he asked. I pitied whatever animals had been kept inside such a hovel. The Collector shifted aside a cover to reveal a lock.

  The padlock was made of copper. Rather than reach for a key, though, the Collector pulled a needle from his collar. He pricked his finger until a bubble of blood burst out, bright and red. He turned the lock around—there was no keyhole, just a silver indentation. The Collector pressed his bloody fingertip into the silver, and the copper lock clicked open.

  I filed the information away—a lock like this might be useful one day. It wasn’t that different from the blood key I’d had to make to access the copper crucible slung over my arm. The Collector noticed the way I shifted it on my shoulder.

  “Yes, that’s one of mine,” he confirmed, smiling. “Sold it to an interested party years ago. How did it wind up in your hands?”

  “An interested party?” I said, unable to keep from mocking his voice. “You mean another necromancer.”

  He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

  The door to the shed creaked open. While the outside had looked like little more than broken planks held together with a few nails and a bit of luck, the inside of the shed was larger than it had appeared. And entirely encased with iron.

  Using the same necromantic powers that enabled me to see souls, I could make out the runes etched into the metal. This was not just iron, but iron imbued with alchemy, iron as strong as the cage that had trapped the Emperor in the castle for half a year.

  “Who made this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” There was a bitter tone to the Collector’s voice. “I acquired it not from the source.”

  I touched the inside of the door. Because the Collector was not himself a necromancer, he couldn’t seal it the way Governor Adelaide had sealed in the Emperor, hence the use of the padlock. Grooves scarred the dark metal, at about the same height as my torso. I fit my right hand over a particularly deep set of grooves—my fingers fit into the lines precisely.

  “Where did you say it came from?” I asked quietly.

  “A seller dug it up from a grave near Siber,” the Collector said. He noticed what I was looking at. “I have the skeleton it came with, as well as some of the grave dirt, if you’d like it.”

  “No, thank you,” I said without inflection.

  The Collector moved deeper into the shed. There wasn’t room for me to follow inside, so I stood in the doorway, careful to not entirely block the sunlight. “Ignore that,” the Collector said, sweeping his hand toward one shelf. “Only the best for you.” He cast a beaming look back at me, as if he wanted to adorn me with his relics only so that he could keep me in this iron box. My fingers curled around the door, ensuring I was on the safe side.

  “Can we narrow down your desire?” the Collector asked. “A weapon? A book?”

  “Anything, really,” I said slowly, second-guessing how much I should tell him. My ignorance rankled me.

  The Collector mused for a moment, then withdrew a single feather from a cup, presenting it to me as if it were a crown.

  The shaft of the feather was solid black, but the vanes were white and striped with jade green. The quill had been sharpened to a fine point.

  “Any contract signed with blood from this quill must be upheld, even if all the participants die,” the Collector said. I made a point to turn the tip away from my skin.

  The Collector turned back to the shelf, and I set the feather down. He eagerly shoved a mirror into my hands. There was no glass, but the silver face had been shined as well as any other mirror I’d seen. I looked at him curiously.

  “I’m not sure what it does,” the Collector said. His lips quirked. “Many of these objects work only for your kind. But legend says that it will show souls rather than flesh in the reflection, to those who see.”

  “That’s rather pointless,” I said. I could see souls without the mirror. Idly, I raised the mirror, my wrist straining under the weight of it. Sure enough, I could easily see the golden aura of my own soul. Behind me, I caught a glimpse of the bone mosaic that made up the front of the municipal building. From this high up, it was easier to see the full design and make out the shape of Emperor Aurellious in the bone shards.

  But the mirror glowed. While the souls of the victims were long gone, the mirror showed echoes of who had been there. Hundreds of wisping, golden ghosts. They didn’t scream or haunt the place, but their presence lingered, a promise that they once had lived, that, even if they had been forgotten, they had been real people with real lives who deserved an honored death.

  I turned slowly, looking for more echoes of the past. That was the real value of the mirror—not seei
ng the living souls, but the ones that were gone. There were traces of death in the square, along the main wall, in the windows of buildings around us. The city was old; more people had died here over the centuries than lived here currently.

  The mirror flashed on the iron shed, and I gasped. The ghost that clawed at the door of the iron shed was, like all the others, frozen, merely an echo of the soul that was gone. But this one was vivid, with a grotesque, screaming face, fingers stretched out like claws, body twisted in rage.

  “What do you see?” the Collector asked eagerly.

  I tried explaining, but words were not adequate to describe the horror. I felt sure that the Collector knew the definition of the word ghost, but he probably did not at all grasp how terrible one was.

  “Mm, yes.” He nodded as if he understood, but of course, he didn’t, he couldn’t, who could have understood such horrors without seeing them first? “It’s an echo of energy,” he added at my doubtful expression. “Energy is not like matter. It cannot be destroyed. Even when the matter is gone—the body is gone, so to say, even the soul—energy lingers.”

  I moved to hand the mirror back to the Collector, his eyes bright and eager. The reflective surface tipped to me, and I saw not my own face, but my iron crucible. I grabbed the mirror back, staring into the silvery depths.

  I had thought to see my family there—my parents’ ashes were used to forge the iron, and my sister’s soul bound them together. And perhaps, somewhere, their ghosts were imprinted in the crucible.

  But all I saw when I looked in the mirror was a gaping maw of utter black. It seemed to form a hole that bored inside me, right where my heart should be.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nedra

  SHAKING, I HANDED the mirror back to the Collector. I did not need to see the darkness inside my crucible to know it was there.

  “What are these?” I asked, pointing to a shelf that held a collection of cracked bones, splintered blades, shards of metal, and an assortment of other items that looked as if they belonged in the waste bin. Every single thing was broken in varying degrees.