by Beth Revis
“Reliquaries,” the Collector said. “Have you—?” He licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. “Have you made one? Can you tell me anything of it? In case the worst happens, it would help me identify it for my collection.”
“No, I’ve not,” I said. I frowned at the pile of rubbish.
“But you know of them?”
There was no point lying. I needed information more than I needed his approval. “No.”
The Collector made a noise deep in the back of his throat. For the first time, he seemed disappointed in me.
“Tell me,” I insisted. There was a limit to what I could do with a soul I didn’t take for my own. I knew I could control his body, but I didn’t think I could force him to reveal anything hidden in his mind. I could bend a living soul; I had not gone so far as to break one. I didn’t even know if I could. Although this slimy man surely tempted me to try.
“People think necromancers command death.” The Collector shook his head. “That is false. You command souls. And the greatest control you can have is over your own soul.” He reached over and plucked a gemstone from the shelf. It was a beautiful emerald green, the size of my thumb, cut to show sparkles, but an enormous crack through the center marred the gem.
“You must select something carefully. This necromancer—the third Duke of Armo—was vain. He chose an object that was too ostentatious, too desirable, an object meant to be looked upon by the eyes of others. Strong, maybe, but not strong enough.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said.
“You can take a piece of your soul and hide it away, protect it from the world. Just be sure to put it in something sturdy; as long as the object you hide your soul in doesn’t break, your soul will be safe. Your body can be killed, but you can be resurrected. It is eternal life, in the truest sense. Eternal power.” The Collector twisted the gem in his hand, letting the light glint off the enormous crack through it. “But once the object you chose is broken, you can be killed like any man. Or woman,” he added, nodding to me.
I took the emerald and examined it, considering. I didn’t care about having eternal life for myself. But if having it also meant Nessie could share immortality with me . . .
“So you must be careful,” the Collector said. “Choose an object that’s hard to destroy, yes.” His fingers danced along the shelf, touching stones and metal, bones and marble. “But more than that, hide it well. No one can destroy something they cannot find.”
“You have so many reliquaries,” I said, looking at the shelf. Dozens of broken objects. Some had dates scratched into them, showing they were centuries old. One was far newer, just a few decades. The reliquaries no longer looked like waste. They looked like defeat.
“Here,” the Collector said. “You need this.” He put a book into my hands. The runes on the cover had been embossed and gilded, but were so faded now that I could barely read them. I turned to the first few pages, reading painfully slowly through the archaic script.
Breaking my soul apart sounded excruciating. Worse than losing my arm. But not worse than losing my sister.
I quickly used a blood key to unlock my large copper crucible and tucked the book inside.
The Collector seemed happy at my selection. “If you use that,” he said, “you’ll need this.” He turned, taking a step deeper into the shadows, and bent over, lugging something big and heavy up.
“What is it?” I asked. The box was made of silver, embossed with skulls and bones, with a line of copper all around the edge. There was no visible hinge or way to open the box.
“It’s a rather recent addition to my collection,” he said. “But I’ve known of its legend for years.”
“The box?”
The Collector laughed mirthlessly. “What’s inside it.”
“So, what’s inside the box?” I could feel my impatience mounting.
“Taking apart your soul requires that you be replenished,” the Collector said. I felt my nostrils flare, but I didn’t think I did anything else to give away my spiked interest. Replenishing souls was exactly the sort of thing I was looking for. “You’re essentially immortal. Of course, not your body, but—”
“What does that mean?” I interrupted. “‘Essentially immortal’?”
“Your body will die, obviously.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Then how does that make me—”
“Your soul, girl!” The Collector sounded impatient now. “Of course, your soul will have to move to other bodies as yours ages or dies. But that’s of no matter. You will live on. But after centuries, your soul will grow weak.”
Bile rose in my throat. “Are you saying I can’t die?” I asked.
The Collector rolled his eyes. “Of course you can. Until you make a reliquary.”
I squinted at him in suspicion. “None of my books have even hinted at this,” I started. “There aren’t any legends or superstitions—”
“How many necromantic books have you read, girl?” The Collector sneered at me. “I know where every book on the fourth alchemy exists in the world, at least all the ones that aren’t ash or dust. Most of the world thinks necromancers themselves are just legends from the past. Arcane knowledge isn’t discussed over tea!”
Sufficiently cowed, I clamped my mouth closed.
“This box contains a replenisher of sorts,” the Collector continued. “When a soul fades and grows weak after passing from body to body, this restores it.”
“But what is it?” I asked, unable to quell my curiosity, even if he would admonish me for my ignorance. I tried again to find a way to open the box.
The Collector laughed bitterly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t open the box.” He looked up at me, his eyes glittering with anticipation. “Only a necromancer can.”
I sat down, my back to the scratched iron door, and pulled the silver box onto my lap. The Collector perched on the edge of the shelf, watching me. He knew better than to speak as I inspected the metal.
I could see runes etched all over the surface. Largest, in the center, was infansik, the rune to show the cycle of good and evil. But overlaid and repeating around the edge was a pattern of estro and errot. One meant simply “restore,” but the other didn’t have a true translation in Allyrian—it meant something similar to being made new over and over again, and it shared a glyph with the rune for “chrysalis.”
“Finally the necromancer shows real interest,” the Collector said, an eager note in his voice. I ignored him. He had guessed the truth, though he probably thought I wanted it for myself.
My heart hammered in my ears as I turned the box over, looking for a way to open it. The band of copper that encircled the center seemed to be the key. On closer examination, I saw more runes etched into the copper itself—the rune for life, the rune for death, and infansik in the middle. A cycle between life and death.
If only a necromancer could open the copper lock, perhaps it was because our blood was the tie between life and death, completing the cycle. I pricked my finger on my brooch and smeared my blood against the band of copper.
“Yes!” the Collector gasped as the copper faded.
“No,” I said. Only half the band melted away. After a minute, the other part of the copper returned. I had failed to open the box.
“My blood got me nowhere,” the Collector said. “And whatever alchemy made this box is strong—I’ve not been able to break it open by any means. But you have death and power in your blood. Perhaps you have to form a rune with it?”
I frowned. The fact that I was able to open half the lock meant that I probably had the means to open the rest, and anything this well protected would likely be worth my time. “I’m taking this,” I said, putting the box into my copper crucible. I met his eye, expecting a fight. There was lust in his gaze, and sorrow as he looked at the box. “I can pay,” I added.
He spar
ed a disdainful glance at me. “You cannot afford it,” he said. “It’s priceless.”
I flexed my shadow hand and considered what lengths I would go to for the box. I didn’t think I would feel particularly bad stealing from a man with such selfishly macabre fascinations.
“But . . .” the Collector said wistfully. “It seems I have no choice.”
No choice?
“These will likely be of interest to you as well,” he continued, handing me three more books, “One’s an original.” His voice sounded bitter as he handed them over.
I weighed the books in my hand.
“How much?” I asked. “For all of it.”
The Collector shut the iron shed, the door closing with a definitive thud, then he locked it again. “Nothing,” he told me, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Nothing?”
He shook his head as he led me back to the stairs. “You have a friend,” he said finally. He cast a look behind me, but I couldn’t read his expression. “A friend who hopes for your help, and will give you anything you need in order to secure it.”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Another necromancer.”
My heart thudded. “Where can I find this necromancer?”
“It is not my place to say—” he started.
“I don’t have time for riddles!” I snarled. Whoever this necromancer was, they’d gone to great lengths to ensure that I would find the information in Bunchen’s copper crucible and then this box, halfway across the world.
“I have no answers for you,” the Collector said. When I took a threatening step closer, he threw up his hands. “I mean that literally.” There was a hint of panic in his voice now, and I was glad my expression conveyed to him just how much he should fear me. “I have gotten only instructions and deliveries. But given the items”—the Collector paused to look at my copper crucible—“I can only assume you are not alone in practicing the fourth alchemy.”
I scowled, but there seemed little else I could do. Adjusting the copper crucible on my shoulder, I turned to leave, rushing down the steps.
“What you really should be worrying about,” the Collector called behind me, “is whether this other necromancer wants to help you, or use you.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Grey
THE SUN WAS setting by the time the trolley deposited me near the city gates. I made my way back through the old district, heading for the Emperor’s cruiser, wondering if Nedra would be waiting for me.
If she ran, disappearing into the busy streets of Miraband, she would be safe.
The Emperor would know I’d aided her, though. The captain would surely tell him of my bribe. And then what? I wondered what kind of punishment the captain would face for helping me. I paused, blanching, realizing that surely I would be punished even more than he would. Enabling a necromancer’s escape from judgment was surely greater treason than any my father had committed. Would I hang? Then what would happen to the trade commission I’d just earned? Would the entire north suffer because one woman had run for her life?
“Hello.” Nedra emerged from an alley near the edge of the dock.
Here she was before me, ready to go home, and even if it cost me my own life, a part of me wished she’d chosen to save herself instead.
“It’s almost dark,” Nedra added when I didn’t speak. The captain had told me the ship would leave as soon as it was able, even if we departed in the night. The docks were flooded with lamplight, and navigating by the stars made it easier to set the course for home.
Nedra touched my elbow, pulling me back to the present. “I still have some of your money, if I need another bribe to board the ship.”
Before I could answer, a deep voice spoke from the shadows. “No need.” The captain stepped out onto the dock.
Nedra spun around to face him. “Were you following me?”
“Nedra, don’t assume—”
“Yes,” the captain said. He nodded toward the boat. “The Emperor would not approve of me having taken you here,” he said, “but no harm done, as long as I ensure you come back.”
Nedra scowled, but, surprisingly, she didn’t protest. As the captain led the way back to the ship, she had an inscrutable, contemplative look on her face, as if she were only now seeing the captain for the first time.
The captain didn’t speak again until we were in our cabin on the ship. “The same deal still stands,” he told me. “My men won’t like seeing her aboard, and it’s best if as few people as possible know about our transaction.”
As soon as he’d shut the door behind him, Nedra dropped the crucible on the bed, pacing the wooden floor much like I had done before we left Lunar Island. “There’s something I’m missing,” she said. “I feel like I’m always being watched now, like someone already knows what I’m going to do next before I’ve even decided to do it.”
“I . . . take it that you didn’t find what you were looking for?”
“Not exactly,” she said shortly.
I could tell there was something else wrong, something she was holding back.
“On the bright side,” I said, “my mission was a success. I got the trade commission!”
Nedra paused. It seemed to take several moments for my words to sink in, but then she lit up. “Really?” she said. “I know I had my doubts, but—”
“I’m returning home with a production order. And a promise of more orders to come if our exports take off.”
Nedra’s brow furrowed. “A new export means a new factory,” she said.
“One built in the north, with workers treated ethically.” If the council were solely in charge, I’d worry that the southern politicians would keep the profits in Northface Harbor. But the Emperor’s plans mandated the factories be developed in the north, and that the profits be used for public services in Hart and the villages.
“More jobs, greater income . . .” Nedra continued.
“And more taxes on sales,” I added, “which can be used for more schools or structural improvements to villages.”
“Grey,” Nedra said, her voice ringing with pride. “This really might change everything.”
A whistle blared and the ship lurched into motion—the captain was making good on his promise of a fast journey.
“My trip was successful as well,” Nedra said. She knelt in front of the large copper crucible, using her blood key to open it. I noticed more books, but also a silver box, about the length of my forearm and banded with copper.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting down opposite Nedra as she withdrew the silver box.
“Locked. But look at the runes.”
I peered at the box. I’d been so distracted by the embossed skulls at the corners that I hadn’t noticed the intricate, stylized runes that littered the surface. Life and death and the eternal cycle.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” There was an odd tone to Nedra’s voice, one that sounded reverent to my ear. I sat back on my heels. When I didn’t say anything else, Nedra met my eyes. “I’ve got some new books, too. I’m hoping—” She glanced away, a coquettish look on her face that young ingénues usually reserved for their paramours. “Maybe there really is a way to replenish a soul. There’s so much still to learn,” she added, touching her iron crucible. Her smile held close-hearted secrets.
“There’s a reason for that,” I said, my voice flat. “It’s because you’re not supposed to know everything about necromancy. Let alone practice it.”
Nedra rolled her eyes.
I heaved out a breath. All the week previous, we’d been able to pretend that Nedra wasn’t a necromancer. She hadn’t found anything in the books Bunchen had given her, and we’d found other ways to occupy ourselves.
The boat lurched, and I had to put out an arm to brace myself. Nedra carefully picked up the silver
box and put it back in the copper crucible. Her fingers lingered over the new books inside, and I could tell she wanted to read them now. But she withdrew her hand and turned to me.
“Tell me more about the trade commission,” she said.
I recognized that this was Nedra making an effort to hold on to the way we had been last week, and I couldn’t hide my smile. “It went really well,” I said. “Or, at least, it did after they almost dismissed me. They didn’t like anything I brought from the market.” I laughed, but Nedra frowned.
“What did they want then?”
“The ring!” I said, still laughing.
“What ring?”
“The iron ring Bunchen gave me.”
Her eyes shot to my bare hand.
“I know, I know, it’s a symbol of the rebellion,” I said dismissively. “But they don’t know that. They liked it because it’s iron and links back to—”
“Wellebourne,” Nedra finished for me in a quiet voice.
“Yes, exactly. He’s just as legendary in Miraband as he is on Lunar Island. They know the rings aren’t actually necromantic, but the fact that the iron comes from Wellebourne’s homeland makes them seem more authentic. I gathered that it would be considered fashionable.”
“Fashionable.”
“Someone has to keep that collector of yours in business, I suppose,” I said. “Probably a reason he operates in Miraband. How did Lord Tess put it? A ‘dark and morbid fascination.’” I laughed. “But he thinks the rings will sell really well.”
“But, Grey,” Nedra started.
I cut her off. “And it’s partly thanks to you.”
Whatever she was going to say fled her mind. “Me?”
“News hasn’t fully spread throughout Miraband,” I said. “But people have heard of the necromancer of the island. It’s sparked all this renewed interest in Wellebourne and the rebellion that formed when the colony was new. People want to be a part of it, and they’re willing to pay to do so.”
Nedra’s brows furrowed.
“I know it’s a bit odd and not what we were expecting,” I started.