The Morality of A Necromancer

by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  Alana smiled. “I’m sure Corwin said more than that.”

  Scarlet raced across the perfect cheeks. “Corwin still mourns over your shared loss bitterly. My uncle doesn’t wish to know Ylynn keeps the flowers fresh and presents holy ash upon the crypt so her sacrifice isn’t forgotten.”

  “That you were once my daughter’s friend and speak of her is a kindness to my heart. And that you still visit House Eyreid to see Ylynn also brings me happiness.” Alana studied the young woman who still made no move of aggression. “And I’m sorry for the death of your mother. Doyenne Esara was a great leader; may Doyenne Orla live long and bring your House to prosperity.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ve grown up since last I saw you. How long have you wandered?”

  Bryonia crossed her arms. “I only just started. I studied under Corwin on and off since I was thirteen, but we rarely left the Guild House. Now Orla’s insisting I fulfill a Martlet’s duty; I’m lost. Corwin gave me leave to use Guild Resources.”

  Alana pressed her lips together at the fib. Byronia had always been one of Corwin’s favorites, but he would not squander Guild resources if he didn’t think the Guild would get something out of it. But what would the Guild want? Is he testing Byronia or me … or Roark and Eohan? Damn his machinations.

  She sank into one of the benches and set her journal on the built-in table.

  Byronia sat across from her. “Corwin said you traveled across the Realms to find one lost boy. That Roark and your common apprentice are nursing him back to health. Why?”

  Alana ignored the fact that Byronia hadn’t bothered to learn Eohan’s name. Or perhaps that she put out a trap. “I saw our people on the slave ship. I rescued them. Children had been sold. Kian is my apprentice, Eohan’s, younger brother. He is a citizen of your principality. And he is a Fairsinge. Our people deserve better than to be ripped away from our shores and sold to the highest bidder.”

  “My sister agrees,” the younger woman said in a monotone. “As do your sister and Ylynn.”

  “Do you?”

  “Until now, I haven’t thought about it. Orla told me, Corwin might be too old to wander, but I couldn’t hide in the Guild, especially when Sildeir’s villages are being attacked by InterRealm slavers.” Byronia slipped her hands in her tunic pockets, removed them, crossed her arms, uncrossed them, then put her hands back into her pockets. Her deep blue eyes held fear and sadness. She was either an expert actor or telling the truth about her inexperience.

  “Why are you here? The truth now—and don’t bother to hide lies with truth to a mind reader. You waste time.” Alana grabbed Byronia by the shoulders. Her blue eyes opened wide and her white throat fluttered as she gasped.

  “Corwin said you unlocked Roark’s mind, and you could train me too.”

  “And, why in the lowest Realm, would you desire foresight?”

  “A time is coming when the gift will be needed again, even though such gifts can cause bearer pain.”

  “Corwin foresaw this?”

  “I don’t know if it was foresight or Guild information came his way. He just said ‘If I journey with you, you’d teach me to use the...”

  “Curse. It’s a curse and don’t let Corwin tell you otherwise.”

  “Then why teach Roark?”

  “I foresaw he’d need it.” Alana released her. “I don’t know if you have latent mental abilities, but I suppose we could try.”

  Three sharp whistles pierced the air as the ship slipped away from the dock and out to the sea.

  Outside, the darkness grew into the deepest black. Alana asked, “Tell me, what does your heart call you to do?”

  The darkness dissipated as The Muirchlaimhte dove through a blinding white halo of the veil between the Realms. Frothy clouds of every color slipped across the portholes; the Expanse sparkled. Far in the distance, the soft outline of the Realm of Dynion shined into the mist.

  “I enjoyed diplomatic missions best, but, as my Lord Uncle bade me, I originally trained to be a War Ender as he once was. Unfortunately, I was a great disappointment. As he warned, diplomatic gifts are not enough to keep the peace between Realms or even provinces. I wish they were.”

  If her words were true, Alana felt for the young woman.

  “As would I, but I have traveled too long. The Realms are filled many peoples and cultures, all with the belief that they know best. Most have at least a few repulsive laws we’re forced to respect. Even our own people have edicts unworthy of our great culture. Have you seen battle?”

  Byronia shook her head and wiped her hands on her tunic.

  A rap at the door interrupted their conversation. Lillia entered, carrying a tub; behind her, three young sailors hauled buckets of steaming water. A fourth entered carrying a Guild crow.

  Good. It would do to have time to think.

  *

  Chapter 3

  A cottage in a wood, somewhere in the Realm of Daouail

  Roark moved about the stables doing his routine morning care for the horses. Jaci and Cloudy were both in good health and used to his and Eohan’s daily handling. They acted as predictable as any horse might be under the circumstances, seemingly unconcerned in the safehouse’s stable, happy for affection and food.

  As Alana instructed, he kept his accursed mind on Kian’s innermost thoughts and desires. Outwardly, like any other eleven-year-old boy would, Kian had climbed to the highest branches of the tree in front of the cottage to get the choicest apples. Inwardly, he lusted for the taste of wine and blood.

  Roark wished he did not have to listen to the younger boy’s thoughts. Kian also feared Eohan and Roark. He expected they might turn violent towards him. He suspected it was the Wounded’s Melancholy. Roark had seen the disorder in the Guild Infirmary from time to time. Kian had been sold three times and had seen his fair share of villainy. His back would always bear the scars. He might be unable to become the beloved —though at times annoying little brother—Eohan once knew and expected to know again.

  If Kian lost control and attacked him, Eohan or the horses, Roark would have to deal with him in a non-lethal and least damaging way possible. Roark wished he knew exactly how he would do that. He needed a plan.

  Roark yearned to return to Port Dentwort to interrogate Edar Candlewick, who crafted Alana’s bloodpotion, but he couldn’t go back to the lich with Kian in tow. If I left them for a week, I could easily make it. But he knew he would not leave them behind. It was time to prove to Alana he was ready to progress and to start his own journey. He needed to prove it to himself too. His apprenticeship was coming to an end, but at this moment, with a boy lusting after blood, Roark was lost without his mentor.

  A Guild crow landed on the stable gate and cawed. Roark gave it a bit of the apple. Alana scrawled on a Bounty notice:

  Get out of Daouail as soon as you can. I saw this in Gornisce; I leave their safety in your capable hands. The good news is they overestimated Eohan’s age. Perhaps you could use that to your advantage.

  --Love Auntie

  PS Tell Eohan: Nalla asked after him and sends prayers for Kian’s recovery.

  Roark reread the letter twice. He wished he had her confidence in his skills. He needed to come up with a plan.

  *

  Kian climbed down from the tree. His feet squished through the uneven, mossy ground. Sunbeams filtered through the thick canopy and fell in brilliant rays down to the ground turning it into an impossibly bright shade of green. Trees pressed in on him. Birds sang in the morning sun, but every chirp and tweet brought Kian’s terror higher into his chest until he thought he might scream. He didn’t know who he was. A kitchen slave? A necromancer’s toy? A butcher and baker’s son?

  As terrifying as the forest, being inside the cottage seemed worse.

  “Kian,” a voice called from behind him.

  He spun around.

  Eohan stood there, wiping his massive hands on a linen towel. “I said breakfast is ready. And thank you for getting the ap
ples.”

  Eohan took the fruit from him and brought it inside. Moments later, Kian could hear a knife slicing through the fruit and hitting the block. Maybe he’s not Han. If he ’s not, what’s wrong with enjoying his blood?

  Kian pushed the thought away. The smith who fathered Eohan was a larger, more muscular man than the lanky baker who fathered Kian. The smith’s complexion had been darker, and his hair was black and glossy like the Eohan who stood before him. Kian’s own hair was not quite red, not quite blond just like Pa’s.

  Afraid to go inside and discover if Eohan’s eyes were still hazel, Kian watched the horses trot out of the stable to graze in the distance. One of them might carry him away. Or maybe their flesh would be sweet.

  Kian jerked away as Roark set a hand on his shoulder. He fell to his knees and covered his head.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Kian peeked up through his fingers. The nobleborn did not strike or kick him. The dirty linen tunic raised as Roark sighed, but he held out his hand and helped Kian to his feet. The boy felt bewitched by the impeccable ivory contours of the young nobleman’s face. Roark appeared to be everything a nobleborn should be. His auburn hair curled at the base of his smooth neck, even in a state of half-dress, he appeared put together, but Kian didn’t trust the beautiful exterior.

  “Please, don’t keep your brother waiting. Lady Alana won’t like being ignored when she returns. Tell Eohan I’ll be in as soon as I clean up.”

  Looking up into the handsome clear blue eyes, Roark’s delicate but unwavering features etched an image in Kian’s mind. He remembered one of the silk tapestries woven by the gentlest of his former masters: a seraph guarding the Waters of Resurrection.

  “I didn’t hear. Sorry,” he lied and went inside.

  *

  You need to eat something,” Eohan said. He speared his fork into another bite of meat, wishing his brother would take his example of proper behavior without urging. If they were to leave the station of their birth, they needed the nobleborn’s mannerisms.

  Kian stared at the large rabbit haunch in front of him. His crumpled posture leaned over his plate. His right hand holding the empty fork, his left rubbed his right wrist repeatedly.

  “Han, what are we doing?” Kian asked instead of eating.

  “Eating breakfast.” Eohan speared another piece of rabbit with his fork. He’s still ill, Eohan reminded himself. Do not lose your temper no matter what. A War Ender would never lose his temper -- especially at his sick brother. To calm himself, he thought of Nalla. Even though they only had a few hours with each other when fate brought them together, he had never felt such a connection. He cherished the memory of their first kisses and walk along the beach. If Nalla had asked Alana about him, she must feel the same way about him as he felt about her.

  “No, what are we doing here? With Roark?”

  “I’m training to be a Guild War Ender. Roark’s Alana’s nephew and other apprentice. Did you forget in your sickness?” Feigning concern, he pressed a hand to Kian’s forehead. It was hot and clammy to touch. Feigned concern became true alarm. “Maybe you should return to bed if you’re too sick to eat.”

  Kian dropped his fork onto the crock which splattered sauce on the table. “I need some air.” He stepped to the window and pushed it open wide. The younger boy started to gasp and wheeze. He held his stomach and sank to the floor.

  Ignoring the spilled sauce, Eohan rose and scratched the stubble on his chin. “Does your stomach hurt?”

  “I remember some things, but I still feel … confused. Where’s Ma?”

  “Ma died on the slave ship. Her body was lost at sea.”

  “And Pa?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him on the ship … or Smith. Only a few other men from our village were in my cell; mostly I saw dwarves. I never saw the lower decks until Lady Alana freed everyone. I only saw the people in my lifeboat. I was so lost, everything that night is a blur.”

  “Pa might still be home,” Kian said.

  “He might, or he might’ve escaped to another village. We don’t know,” Eohan said.

  “Maybe, we could find him.”

  “You don’t want to be in the Guild? Because you must be sure. It’s dangerous work ...”

  “You’re not listening!” Kian punched the stone wall leaving no mark on the stone but bloodying his knuckles. He drew his knees to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut and started rocking back and forth.

  Immediately, Roark rushed towards them with a length of coarse rope in his hand. Eohan put his arm out to stop him from touching Kian.

  Though Eohan was two years older, Roark was the more senior apprentice and a nobleborn. He treated Eohan as his equal and friend, but, in that moment, Roark’s expression changed to the future striking visage of Lord Roark, the future Martlet of House Erydeir, as he countered the reach. “Don’t.”

  Though it pained him to do so, Eohan dropped his arm to his side.

  Roark knelt beside Kian.

  “If you think you’re strong enough to travel, perhaps, we could go to your village and meet Alana in Eyrdeir after.”

  Tears of relief flooded Kian’s eyes as he looked up at them. “In truth?”

  “If we go, we need to be careful. We don’t know who might be looking for the Empress’s killer,” Roark said, relaxing his grip on the rope. “We know they’re looking for a man and a boy. I’ll need to think on our traveling gear.”

  Still scratching the stubble on his chin, Eohan said, “What would Lady Alana say … ?”

  Rising to his feet, Roark’s voice rose to a falsetto. “I teach you only what is important; the rest you must learn for yourself.” In his own voice, he said, “She told us to take care of Kian. If we don’t go to your father, he can’t make an informed decision about his future. If the ship docks in Olentir, it’s a short detour.”

  Roark returned to the table and set the rope behind him. Picking up his blade and fork, he cut a piece of rabbit and swirled the meat through the broth before taking another bite.

  Kian wiped the tears away and took another shaky breath. “Is it true, the nobleborn read minds?”

  “Not all, but these two can. Our lady is particularly adept. She sees the future, too. She saw us in Roark’s future. That’s why she saved us.”

  Roark took another bite of rabbit before he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Maybe we could wear the priest’s veil. The novice is covered from head to toe. Or perhaps in Guild tunics is best, but we need clothing for Kian that actually fits if we are to pull off. Maybe it’d be best to blacken Kian’s hair … Why are you two still standing there?”

  Kian whispered, “Wait. Is it true Martlets make you dance on coals if you betray them?”

  Eohan rested his hand on Kian’s shoulder. “Don’t know, I never thought to betray them. Eat a little. You need strength.”

  Sniffing, Kian joined Roark at the table and took a bite of the rabbit.

  *

  Chapter 4

  Port Dentwort in the Realm of Dynion

  Corwin,

  Why must we play these games?

  Just tell me what you actually want. You

  must want more than the training of Byronia.

  I’d have done that if you’d have only asked.

  -Alana

  Alana’s crow flew with the missive to the Guild House as she and Byronia disembarked the Muirchlamhte and walked up the long docks to town. The sea wind could not remove the stench of an InterRealm slave ship moored there. Rain fell in heavy drops on the wooden decking, washing the stains of blood and filth into the water. By its marking, the ship was of dwarven make. The crew seemed mostly to be dwarves and humans. Each small group of doomed souls looked to be primarily dwarves. Though it pained her, Alana turned toward the square where bodies of all intelligent species crammed between market day caravan and tents for all kinds of buying and selling.

  She and Byronia were jostled as they moved through the thick crowd. Some traded; more w
atched the spectacle, hooting at the biggest men or prettiest women. Near the holding pen, a group of boys took turns prodding the dwarves who had the misfortune to be closest to the fence. They hit one man in the rump; his chains did not allow him to push them away.

  The slave block was full this time. Still, no elfkin were on the block. Only humans and dwarves. The well-dressed auctioneer flung his filthy trade onto the crowd. Though his business was dirty, the auctioneer’s silver tongue matched the silver medallion around his neck. His deep green linen breeches and coat and fine white underlinens were unblemished by the grime around him. Even his shoes shined. She might be able to tempt him with greed.

  Exhausted by the injustices in the Realms, Alana’s temples throbbed. “If I could trade my soul to see this atrocity wiped from the Realms, I would,” she said softly.

  Byronia did not answer, but she squeezed her hand.

  Alana studied the other auction workers. A less distinguishably dressed man acted as recordkeeper by logging sales and handling the coin passed to him. His narrow, well-practiced fingers counted quickly, and he bowed toward each of the buyers as he made their change, took their addresses, and handed off each slave. Surrounding them, several large, gruff-looking human men held willow canes, ready to strike if a slave didn’t do as he, she, or sie were told.

  Alana’s despair intensified. So many slaves went through the market, there was no way the auctioneer could remember a day nearly ten months ago.

  Someone knocked into her back. She staggered forward and bumped into someone else who turned around with a harsh, “Watch it.” However, the human man saw her face and said, in a much kinder tone, “Keep your footing there, Mother. Wild crowd today. Wild crowd. Your mother needs help, girl.”

  Byronia thanked him for his concern and apologized for any inconvenience.

  The human was correct. The crowd had a life of its own. The chatter between friends. Merchants, some respectable, some not, selling their wares. Individuals struggling to hear the auctioneer, who shouted descriptions so fast Alana could hardly understand his words.