Tales of Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Jyuth on Magic - Necromancy

  I am by no means an expert in the matters of the walking dead but from what I've discovered, necromancy has more than a passing resemblance to the magic I practice. Now, zombies, wights, specters, all manner of undead, can sometimes occur naturally. That is, without the assistance of a necromancer. Usually, as a result of the dead body being in close proximity to a strong source of magic for an extended period of time. For example, an artifact or locus point.

  But necromancy, in my mind, is the practice of magic focused on the creation and control of the undead. It is fairly apparent that the necromancer imbues the corpse with energy to make it a mockery of its former life— and that the level of power provided has some influence on the strength of the undead creature. But where this energy comes from I do not know.

  It is inconceivable that the necromancer’s energy comes from living things. In fact, I recall I have read that the necromancer feels the well of power inside them. Who knows if we all have this dark energy within us, just waiting to be called? Are necromancers chosen by plan or chance?

  I have looked inside me and found no dark pit. I will admit I've tried to raise the dead. All in the name of research of course. And I do not have any proclivity to necromancy. Which is a relief, as I find the undead to be quite tiresome.

  Just because you are dead, does not make you wise! Far from it. If you were wise then you’d realize that eternal slumber sounds like the lie-in that most of us dream of.

  Hollow Inside

  “Hey, Fin,” called the red-headed girl across the long oak table from where she was going to sit. “Did you hear about Devereaux?”

  That was Jilesa. One of Finabria’s ‘friends’. And the most potent nexus of gossip and information that Fin had ever come across. Jilesa seemed to know everything that was going on at the school, most of the jobs that were underway in the Syndicate, and even had a pretty good feel for what was going on outside the walls of the Hollow House in Kingshold.

  Jilesa was completely neutral in her information sharing; everything she heard, she told, without discrimination. Some other students didn’t like that about her. Fin had heard the mean-spirited rumors about how Jilesa came by her information—how she used her looks, and her skills from love-craft classes— but Fin knew that wasn’t the case. Fin watched people carefully. She could tell what their strengths and weaknesses were. And with Jilesa, it was her smile. A smile of apparent simple joy, that made you happy when it was aimed in your direction; a smile that made the sun shine and daffodils bloom. That was all it took for Jilesa to get most people to blather all of their secrets; they just kept talking to keep the smile aimed in their direction.

  And now the smile was aimed at Finabria, who hooked a leg over the bench and sat at the long communal table across from Jilesa. Where Jilesa had long, curly red hair; Finabria’s was brown, straight and always tied away at her neck. Where Jilesa had grown into a shapely body with curves in the right places; Finabria was all sharp angles, muscle and sinew giving her an athlete’s physique from years of extra training. And where Jilesa was known for her smile, Fin was known for her intensity.

  “No, I haven’t heard anything about Mr. Moran,” said Finabria, referring to Devereaux by his last name, as they were supposed to for all full members of the Hollow Syndicate. Devereaux was young, and though they had known him before he had won the trial, she thought there was no excuse for not paying him the proper respect. But Fin had lost that argument with Jilesa before. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s dead!” said Jilesa, her eyes sweeping from side to side conspiratorially, as if she hadn’t already told everyone around her (which of course she had). “He was brought back to the House in a wheelbarrow this morning. Or what was left of him anyway.”

  “Wow,” said Fin, her brain beginning to kick into gear from the combination of the coffee and the news. “What happened?”

  “Well, he was assigned to Lord Bollingsmead,” said Jilesa. “But Bollingsmead’s guards killed him when he was trying to execute the job.”

  “Why did Lady Chalice send Moran for such a high-profile target?” asked Fin, thinking out loud. Lady Chalice led the Hollow Syndicate and she fascinated Fin.

  “I heard he’d been under Bollingsmead’s nose for a week or more before someone paid the contract price. I don’t think anyone was paying attention to Bollingsmead as a serious candidate but Chalice must have chanced her arm. Got him into position just in case.”

  “What are you talking about” said a short, skinny boy, whose cheeks were covered with red pimples, as he swung his leg over the bench and took a seat next to Jilesa. That was Tom. Her other ‘friend’. Fin zoned out momentarily as Jilesa repeated herself for him.

  “Wow,” said Tom too. “So, with a spot opening up, there's going to be a trial. Can't wait.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with undisguised glee at the show that was soon to come.

  The trial. Or for that matter, the very nature of schooling within the Hollow Syndicate, was why she thought of as Jilesa and Tom as ‘friends’ only; not real friends. After all, only one in twenty children who started at the most famous school for assassins in the Jeweled Continent would become a member of a Hollow Syndicate, and fewer still would be admitted to the home of the Syndicate in Kingshold. This was known as the winnowing; occasions when students would be set challenges that risked life and limb, or when they would duel each other for the privilege of continuing their schooling, all the way until they graduated. At that point they would be ABT—All But Trial— and it would be the trial that would determine who would gain admittance to the Hollow Syndicate.

  And so why get attached to people when you're only going to have kill or at least maim them later? It would be a waste of all of the favors that her father had to cash in to gain her admittance. It was not often that a pupil was admitted from Ioth, typically it was the reserve of Edlanders only.

  But it was important to maintain the facade of being friendly. Of not standing out as a loner, and she had to admit that Jilesa was the best source of information she could hope for outside of a peephole into Lady Chalice’s office. So Finabria ate her three meals a day with Jilesa and Tom. She helped them with their studies occasionally. And she listened very carefully.

  “It's been nearly two years since a trial here in Kin—” began Jilesa

  “One year and two months,” corrected Fin.

  “Oh, someone is keeping track,” said Tom, laughing. He was right. She was keeping track. These opportunities didn't come up very often, and it weighed on her that she could go through the years of schooling and be sent to a Syndicate House away from Kingshold. Like Redpool or, Arloth forbid, back to Ioth.

  “About a year then,” said Jilesa. “And we've got three ABTs. Qeturah, Dorien, and of course Argo.” Jilesa smiled as she mentioned Argo’s name. He was the object of affection for many of the students; he was tall, muscular, and had the looks of a marble statue from the palace grounds. Fin thought he tried too hard. “I’m sure Argo will win,” concluded Jilesa.

  “It all depends,” said Tom. “Argo is a great fighter, but it depends on the trial. Qeturah is really impressive, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone faster. She can pick a lock quicker than I can knock on the door. And who knows about Dorien.” Tom’s eyes flicked from side to side as he finished that sentence, checking to see if Dorien was in the long, wood paneled dining room with them. “He creeps me out; I’d be scared competing against him just because I’d have to see his face.” Dorien did not appreciate people making jokes about his scars. Luckily for Tom there were only a handful of other students eating breakfast, and Dorien was not one of them.

  “So, Fin, who do you think will win?” asked Jilesa.

  “I don’t know… I’m going to have to give that some thought,” said Fin.

  “What I can’t wait to find out is what trial is it going to be?” said Tom, ignoring Fin’s reluctance to answer. “Chest, needle, vine, pit or dart? I hope its
needle. I love it when they poison themselves.”

  The trial could be one of five different challenges and each was designed to test multiple skills of the potential Syndicate member. Needle was a test of poison making and detection. Contestants would brew poisons that were as close to undetectable as possible, coating a needle for each competitor with their concoction. And then each trialist would have to select a needle from the choices presented to jab into their skin, with only one being safe. Needle was not particularly brutal, but it could be quite deadly. It wasn’t surprising that was what Tom was excited about, he loved the potions and poisons class. Fin would begrudgingly admit that he was a better natural brewer than her, too.

  “I want vine,” said Jilesa. Tom shook his head, about to speak. “I know what you’re going to say, ‘that it’s difficult to watch when they’re away from the House’, but there have been some exciting finishes.”

  Vine was a race; and the rooftops of Kingshold was the course. The only rule was that the contestants could not touch the ground. From Finabria’s prior research, and seeing two vine races herself, she knew it was not uncommon for the race to turn into a fight high above the streets with only one trialist reaching the finishing point back at the Hollow House.

  Fin thought about what her preferred challenge would be. Pit was a race of sorts too. Most of Kingshold was not aware that the Hollow House went underground too. That was where the Pit resided—a labyrinth of tunnels, filled with traps to be avoided and places to host an ambush.

  For dart the school itself was the arena, including all of the non-contestants. Each trialist received a set number of darts tipped with a paralysis poison and then had to hunt the others. Last one literally standing was the winner.

  Meanwhile, chest was supposed to be a test of intelligence and weapon skill. Open the locks on a chest of your choosing to get a weapon. And then fight it out.

  “So? Which one, Fin?” asked Tom, waving a hand in front of her face and dragging her away from her thoughts.

  “I could do any of them,” she mumbled before realizing what she said and quickly backtracking. “I mean, dart. I like dart. I have to go…” She stood up from the table—her wooden tray of bread and eggs largely untouched—and walked from the room, her mind racing.

  She did not see Jilesa and Tom exchange a look of unsurprised resignation—this was not the first time they had seen Fin walk out leaving her meal untouched. Tom reached over, slid Fin’s tray in front of him and tucked in.

  Finabria walked.

  She liked to move when she needed to think.

  Walking. Running. Fighting. Any of these activities got the blood moving to her brain. Walking was good because she could roam the halls and the gardens of the Hollow House without having to pay attention to her surroundings, and more importantly, any of the other students, allowing her mind to also roam freely. She had perfected the facial expression of a person who is occupied elsewhere, and you’d best move unless you wanted to collide. It had given her a certain reputation for ‘not being all there’ with some of the other pupils, but she didn’t care.

  She didn’t care what others thought of her. And if they underestimated her then that was only for her own good. In her estimation she was of a fairly typical height for a girl, pretty with the potential for beauty though she didn’t have any inclination to paint her face as others did, and she was not loud and outspoken, nor quiet and shy.

  She was normal. Unexceptional.

  Just as she intended. Hiding in plain sight.

  For she was also top of all of her classes; fencing, acrobatics, heraldry and history, potions and poisons (though Tom had more natural talent, Fin worked much harder), locks, love-craft, stealth, infiltration and espionage. She had read a third of the books of the library (though she took that as a personal failure—she had hoped to be halfway through by now). And Finabria had studied her fellow students. Her competition.

  She had been playing the long game. There was still another year of classes and tests before she would be ABT. Being an assassin for the Hollow Syndicate was not without its dangers and she had discovered, that on average, a new place opened up every two years. There had been two trials in the year before Devereaux had won his trial. And now that there would be another opportunity for admittance to the Kingshold Syndicate it could be a long wait until the next opportunity arose.

  “Fool,” she exclaimed out loud.

  A passing couple of third-years turned to look at the crazy older student talking to herself. Why couldn’t Devereaux wait to get himself killed until next year?

  She considered the ABTs who would be competing in the trial.

  First there was Qeturah. Tom had been correct when he said she was quick. Fin was the fastest in her year but Qeturah was faster. Qeturah didn’t have the strength of any of the other ABTs, or even Fin, but she could avoid the blades of all but the most experienced Syndicate blade masters.

  Then there was Argo, the crush of half the school. Fin thought he was in the wrong place. He should have been down the road in the Royal Infantry Academy, using his minor title to jump the ranks and see where his pretty face might lead him. It’s not that he wasn’t a good trainee assassin—he was. Argo was strong, probably the best all round fighter in the school, and he seemed to possess the necessary amount of ruthlessness. But he loved the light of attention, when they must embrace the shadows.

  And that took her to Dorien, someone who definitely favored the shadows. When she had arrived in Kingshold from Ioth, he had been a popular child in the year ahead of her. But then in her second year at the school, a batch of acid he had been brewing had exploded in his face. It left his appearance looking decidedly… melted. Like a candle left to burn all night. Most of the school had expected him to leave and go back to his family, but he had remained. His friends deserted him and it was obvious to Finabria that Dorien bore more than a modicum of resentment. She saw him some nights in the library, hunched over his books, stealing glances at her, but they didn’t talk. She said hello, his appearance not really concerning her, but never received much more than a nod.

  It was Dorien that would be the one to watch. He was a thinker. And Finabria knew there was no deadlier a weapon than the brain.

  She wished again that Devereaux could have avoided getting himself killed for just another year. This could have been her chance. These three were formidable, sure. But she felt on a par with them now; she would be guaranteed of winning in a year.

  “Are you waiting for something, Miss Bracaccia?” asked a voice which snapped her out of her introspection. Without thinking, she had wandered to the heraldry and history classroom, the location of her first class. “Are you going to keep waiting?” asked Mr. Chapman, the teacher holding open the door for her.

  His voice echoed in her mind.

  “No, sir. I'm not going to wait any longer.”

  Heraldry and history passed in a blur. Largely because Finabria didn’t pay it much attention.

  She was considering her options.

  She was considering whether her options were really options at all.

  And so by the time that class ended and she, along with her classmates, were told to congregate in the courtyard, she was feeling a little dislocated.

  The courtyard of the Hollow House was a square, surrounded on three sides by wings of the school and on the fourth by the House proper—the home of the full members. The buildings were constructed of smooth stone blocks, thin lines of mortar almost imperceptible. There was no ornamentation, carving or filigree or otherwise—after all there was no need to encourage students, thieves or other assassins to be climbing their walls. Finabria looked up to the blue sky of a late spring morning and waited for what she knew would happen next.

  A door opened on the second-floor balcony of the House and out stepped two figures. Their appearances contrasted so sharply that it brought to mind a red flamed candle and the ever-present darkness; each dangerous, though in different ways. Lady Chalice, leader of
the Hollow House, and Steppen, the man with the second most coveted role in the Syndicate, that of treasurer.

  “Good morning to you all,” projected Lady Chalice, her voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. “Opportunity awaits. The Syndicate has need of a member, and in accordance with the articles, I announce a trial. The winner shall be admitted with full Syndicate privileges. Who here submits themselves to enter?”

  As expected, Finabria saw Argo, Qeturah and Dorien raise their hands.

  “Four hands!” boomed Steppen. “Step forward trialists.”

  Four hands? There were three ABTs…

  Finabria saw Jilesa looking at her from a few rows in front of her. She had a scowl on her face and was mouthing silently. “What are you doing?”

  And that’s when Finabria realized she had her own hand in the air.

  She moved through the crowd and stood with the other three volunteers for the trial, under the gaze of the two syndicate leaders.

  “Ms. Bracaccia,” said Steppen, “you are not yet finished with your studies. You do realize the trial could be fatal for one without the knowledge required.”

  She nodded, but didn’t move. Lady Chalice regarded her without comment.

  “Last chance, Ms. Bracaccia. No one will think any less of you if you step out now,” said Steppen.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Fin, finding her voice. “I intend to compete.”

  “Very good,” said Lady Chalice. “Steppen, shall we get on with it?”

  “Yes, I think we should.” Steppen turned back to look out across the courtyard and showed a small velvet bag to the crowd. “In this bag are five balls, each with a different symbol.” He pulled five balls in succession from the bag and held it for all to see. “Chest. Needle. Vine. Pit. Dart. One of these will be the challenge that these four will face in the trial.”