Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  Eddereon followed soon after. He was laughing. “Now—what is this all about?”

  Tyvian’s smile faded. “Come on. We’re going to talk about committing suicide.”

  Chapter 31

  Dark Thoughts

  Myreon’s knowledge of necromancy was limited to the theoretical. She recalled an old Master of the Lumen explaining that the reasons for its ban were not so much practical as ethical. “If we are to be stewards of reason,” he had explained through his bushy white moustache, “we cannot go about animating the corpses of the people’s relations and binding them to servitude.”

  There were, of course, the practical concerns as well. The undead were mindless, and so needed constant attention. They were energy intensive—a great deal of Lumenal energy was needed to keep them active. As servants they were merely adequate—djinns were vastly superior. As soldiers, they were hopelessly inept, winning battles more through dull-witted perseverance and the psychological advantage they had over living soldiers—any disciplined force would easily cut them apart.

  That, at any rate, had been the state of the research when necromancy was banned as a practice, some thousand years ago. Myreon’s new ally, however, had made significant progress, it seemed.

  Myreon looked over a crudely drawn schematic of various Lumenal rituals, each etched into a parchment of human flesh by an undead hand—the blind necromancer could scarcely write for himself. She had managed to control her revulsion for the time being, out of pure curiosity if nothing else. “If I’m understanding this correctly, you are utilizing the same ritual that creates life wards, except applying it to an enchantment rather than a person.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “With the Keeper of the Balance holding your chains, there is much that is never attempted.” The necromancer showed his ruined teeth. They were standing over the necromancer’s workbench in the ritual space, lit by the spear of sunlight coming from the crack in the ceiling and by a few dozen candles flickering about in nooks in the cavern wall.

  “How many . . . things could you raise like this?” Myreon looked over the schematics, trying to see any flaws. The work was simply brilliant—and brilliantly simple, she had to admit. The necromancer had a formal style, despite the disgusting materials he used. She wondered if he had been Arcanostrum trained at some point. Many were the apprentices that failed to earn their staff but who left to pursue careers in the High Arts anyway.

  The necromancer closed his milky eyes and did some mental calculations. “I, myself, might raise and maintain a hundred, a hundred and fifty such servants this way. With your help . . . with your vitality . . . we might raise even more than that. Perhaps four hundred, maybe five hundred.”

  Myreon frowned—that would take a lot of Lumenal energy. “And how would we command such a legion?”

  The necromancer motioned toward his work. “Therein lies a schematic for serving specters enslaved to the lattice of the enchantment.”

  Myreon nodded, flipping through the parchment scrolls and finding the relevant one. “The specters can delegate your authority. Set them with simple commands and they can relay them constantly to the ‘troops,’ as it were.” She felt her mouth hanging open. “This is incredible work.”

  The necromancer raised up his hands, as though in worship. “Not my work! This one stands upon the shoulders of the Great Masters—King Spidrahk, King Varthold, and Rahdnost the Undying himself.”

  The names sent a chill down Myreon’s spine. “You think this is how the Warlock Kings managed their undead armies?”

  The necromancer merely nodded.

  She stepped away from the table, trying to get the goose bumps to fade from her arms and back. “I have no intention of conquering the world, you know. I don’t want to be queen or empress or anything. I just want justice for the peasants of Eretheria.”

  “What kind of justice is it you seek, Magus?” The necromancer stared off into nowhere. “There are many kinds, of this you must be aware. Some my work can see achieved, others still lie beyond all my power.”

  Myreon took a deep breath, remembering Bree. “The peerage must be punished. All of them. We need to establish a new balance of power. They need to know that what they have done will not be tolerated any longer.”

  “Vengeance, then.” The necromancer turned toward her. “A goodly type of justice, and easily won.”

  Myreon rubbed her arms. Vengeance sounded wrong to her, but was it? What else could she achieve? How else could she protect the vulnerable? How much of her opinions on vengeance were shaped by her training—her training in the maintenance of this oppression. “You will help me do this? The League has no interests other than my . . . my membership?” She looked down at the contract, laid out on the table, as yet unsigned.

  The necromancer gave her a shallow bow. “We in the League are scholars. Knowledge is what we seek. Sahand’s membership was an exception and a dark mistake. I have consulted with my esteemed colleagues, and they accept my proposal. I shall assist you in your quest, and in exchange you shall share knowledge with us.”

  “And become a member of the League?”

  “Yes.”

  Myreon hung her head. Joining the League? It would mean betraying everyone she had ever worked with. It would mean walking away from the Arcanostrum forever, from Saldor forever.

  But didn’t they betray you first? The voice was Tyvian’s, summoned up from the depths of her memory. The demon on her shoulder, as always.

  She thought of Lyrelle, too—that great woman, her face sad, telling her how justice was a fiction; how the Balance was nothing more than a means of control.

  Myreon took a deep breath. Yes, she thought, yes, I can walk away from that. She took up a quill and signed the contract. “It is done.”

  The necromancer felt around on the table until he found the contract. “Excellent.” He furled it and put it away. “We must discuss tactics, then, and quickly. The peerage shall depart for the countryside soon, and they are scattered all over the city.”

  Myreon nodded. “They will stay for a few days more. Tyvian is probably trying to wrangle the sympathy of the houses. I expect the Congress of Peers will be a busy place—lots of nobles, all struggling for position.”

  “A target ripe for our endeavors, then.”

  Myreon looked over the sorcerous schematics. “Can the risen dead penetrate the palace wards?”

  The necromancer let out a hollow, rasping laugh. “The wards protect against unwanted intrusion by all persons. But these . . .” He motioned to a few corpses, laid out for use. “. . . long ago ceased to be people. When our ritual is complete, the peerage of Eretheria will know terror unlike any they have known before. Come, esteemed colleague—let us begin. The bodies of a half a thousand men do not raise themselves.”

  The city seethed with anger—Tyvian could hear it in the timbre of the voices around him, he could see it in the set of the people’s shoulders. Not just the peasantry either. Columns of foreign mercenaries had their eyes narrowed, their weapons held tight. No men-at-arms were on the street, but rather standing guard at the doors and gates of wealthy mansions and estates. Peasant children moved in sullen little packs, throwing rocks at men in livery when they weren’t looking and then scattering like mice. Everywhere Tyvian looked, there were heads on pikes. The little placards read Treason and Killer and Witch.

  Tyvian scowled at it all. “Myreon did this. Kroth take her.”

  Eddereon considered this for a moment. “She did what she felt was right.”

  Tyvian nodded. “That is exactly the problem.”

  The tavern they picked had no clear name—just a clay jug with a lot of Xs on it hung from a signpost. It was early, so the place was empty—just a girl behind the bar. Tyvian slapped a gold mark down. “Oggra. A whole bottle.”

  The gold mark evaporated beneath her wide, white hands. The bottle and two tumblers followed a moment after. Tyvian poured and held his tumbler up in salute. “T
o good intentions, may they burn in hell.”

  Eddereon met the toast. They drank. The liquor burned going down. Tyvian coughed. Eddereon drank it smoothly. “Wouldn’t have picked you as an oggra man.”

  “I’m not. I’m getting drunk fast, is all. This way, it will be difficult for me to decide where we are going next.”

  Eddereon scratched his beard. “And this is important because . . .”

  “Because the Defenders will have a harder time scrying where we are going to be if both of us are too drunk to know ourselves.”

  “You don’t need to do this,” Eddereon said. “It may be that you could escape this trap before it is sprung. You need not sacrifice yourself.”

  Tyvian grunted. “And then thousands of poor souls will die in a war that, in the end, will merely sustain the rotten circumstances that got them into this mess. The country will suffer, I will be lucky to survive, and Artus . . .” Tyvian shook his head, looking into his empty glass, “the boy becomes—is—a target for my enemies just as much as I am now. I hadn’t thought about it clearly before.”

  “What other options do you have?” Eddereon poured Tyvian another glass full.

  Tyvian drank it. The world tilted a little. Good. “The other option is to do what Myreon wants. Reform. Overthrow the established order. Become a champion of the people.”

  “Except then the nobility will fight you.” Eddereon poured himself a glass. “Their peasant armies will be in disarray. And Sahand wins against a divided Eretheria.”

  Tyvian grimaced. “Scarcely better, is it?”

  Eddereon frowned, fiddling with his tumbler. “You should do the right thing.”

  “What?” Tyvian blinked.

  Eddereon held the bottle of oggra out to him. “Do you want to know why I chose you for the ring?”

  “My mother chose me for the ring,” Tyvian said, taking the liquor.

  “No, your mother brought you to my attention. I could have refused.”

  “But she knew you wouldn’t, which is the same thing as your not being able to.” Tyvian looked at the bottle. He shrugged—what the hell. Going blind couldn’t make his life any worse.

  Eddereon shook his head. “You, Tyvian Reldamar, are a good person. You always have been. You spent your childhood defending the weak and when you saw that the suffering of the world did not decrease for your efforts, you grew bitter and jaded. You felt that heroism was a lie—that no one could make a difference—and so you built walls between yourself and the world. You chose apathy over pain, cynicism over misery.”

  Tyvian took a long drag off the bottle. He felt as though he’d swallowed a campfire. “A . . .” cough “. . . a sensible choice, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “No.” Eddereon’s dark eyes glittered in the pale light from the windows. “No it is not. Pain should not be avoided. No one ever grew who was comfortable.”

  “Growth? Who needs it?”

  Eddereon took the bottle from him and took a drink himself. “You do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you saved Myreon from petrification. That’s why you stuck with your old partner, Hendrieux, all those years, and why you rescued Artus from the streets, and why you helped Hool and Brana find one another again. You believe in becoming a better self, no matter the struggles you face.”

  “You aren’t listening to me. Nothing I do here makes anything better, least of all for me and Artus.”

  Eddereon nodded. “If nothing you do matters, then you should do the right thing anyway, as the right thing is inherently better than the alternatives. If you fail, then you at least failed for the right reasons.”

  Tyvian scowled. Why did he bother talking to this man? This stooge of his mother’s, who probably was only saying what he was told to say. He took the bottle and knocked back another shot of oggra. The world spun a little more. He steadied himself on the bar. “That is . . .” cough “. . . overly simplistic. That’s why . . .” cough cough “. . . you wound up a gardener for my mother.”

  “If you didn’t want my advice, why are we here?”

  “Because you and I are going to talk about a third option.”

  “Besides controlling the nobles or supporting the peasantry?” Eddereon frowned beneath his beard. “Are you . . . talking about the church or something?”

  Tyvian laughed—too loudly. The oggra was working. “Hang the bloody church—useless old men. No. I’m . . . I’m talking ’bout controlling the nobles and supporting the peasantry and getting Artus away from all of this, all at the once.”

  Eddereon took a pensive sip of the oggra. “Is . . . is this where the suicide comes in?”

  Tyvian yanked the bottle back and pushed it away from Eddereon. He struggled to keep his speech from slurring. “Listen, listen. Listen . . . listen—it’s all a setup, right? All a setup. They think I’m a horse in traces.”

  “Who?”

  Tyvian shook his head. “Not important. What is important to you, my hairy friend, is how you’re going to help me become a martyr.”

  Eddereon’s eyes bugged out. Tyvian laughed.

  “First though,” Tyvian said, heaving a purse fat with gold on the bar. “You and I are going to be very popular in as many bars as possible.”

  Chapter 32

  Dueling Day

  Artus woke up with the sun pouring in the towering windows of his bedroom. He rolled over, expecting to roll out of bed, but found only more bed beneath him. He opened one eye—the vast mattress stretched out before him like a featureless linen plain. It took him four more rolls to reach the edge.

  In the corner of the room, the spirit clock chimed the hour—it was ten. “Master Artus.” The Guardian was standing just inside his door, dressed as ever in his full regalia, staff and all.

  Artus jumped at the sight of the old man. “What? I ain’t even dressed!”

  “The coach is waiting to take you to your duels, sir.”

  Artus froze. “Oh Kroth! That’s today?”

  The Guardian’s face remained neutral. “It is in one hour, sir.”

  “Kroth’s teeth!” Artus threw open the doors to his armoire. “I need to get dressed!”

  “Shall I have breakfast ready, sir?”

  Artus threw off his soiled shirt and began to rifle through a drawer. “I dunno—is Tyvian back yet?”

  “The heir is currently not in the palace.”

  Artus poked his head through the neckline of a shirt. “What? He’s not here?”

  “No, sir.”

  Artus stuffed his arms through the shirt. “Are you sure?”

  “I have not seen the heir since breakfast yesterday morning.”

  Artus stood there, a quarter dressed, and stared at the Guardian. “Like . . . at all?”

  The Guardian was like a statue. “If I follow your meaning, sir, that is correct.”

  “I’m on my . . . own?” Artus suddenly felt lighter, as though he were falling through the floor. He grabbed the door of the armoire to steady himself.

  The Guardian left without saying anything further. If he had any concerns or reservations about Artus or Tyvian’s behaviors, he didn’t show it.

  On my own. Artus took a deep breath, trying to steady the flutter that was building in his stomach. I’m going to fight two duels today and Tyvian isn’t going to be there.

  Part of him couldn’t believe it—for the past few years Tyvian had been the most . . . well . . . most consistent part of his life. Even when he’d been separated from him, even when he’d left, Artus always had the sense he was being watched, being guided. He had always been an integral cog in Tyvian’s elaborate plans. It had been . . . comforting to know that, even if it had pissed him off.

  This felt different. This time, he really did feel alone. Was it something I said to him yesterday? It couldn’t have been, could it?

  As much as he wanted to, there just wasn’t enough time to mope about it. Artus pulled on some functional clothing in a Saldorian style—breeches, jacket, shirt, cravat, short wig—emphasizing roy
al blue and white. He belted on the rapier Tyvian had given him and hastened down to breakfast.

  The vast table was laid out with silver trays of bacon, hard-boiled eggs, various rolls and croissants, and an array of jams and steaming pots of karfan and tea. But no Tyvian. No Hool. No Myreon. No Brana. There was only a single place setting—his own. Artus felt that half-dizzy feeling again. He wanted to crawl back under the quilts in his room.

  “Good morning, Artus.”

  Lyrelle Reldamar entered from a different doorway, wearing a striking gown of maroon with thread-of-gold embroidery, the dimensions of which tripled the surface area she occupied. “Well, hurry up and eat something—can’t have you dueling on an empty stomach, can we?” She smiled and gestured to his chair. It slid out silently.

  Artus sat down, and Lyrelle sat across from him. “You know about my duels?”

  Lyrelle smiled. “I’m sorry there is nobody here for you, Artus. This past week has been trying on everyone.”

  Artus grabbed a hard-boiled egg. He had it halfway to his mouth when he realized he ought to have used the serving spoon to retrieve it. He found himself blushing in front of Tyvian’s mother. “Oh . . . uhhh . . . sorry.”

  “No, no—eat. I remember when Tyvian was your age, he would eat five eggs at a sitting.” She made a sharp inhaling noise. “Just suck them right down.”

  Artus frowned at her as he took a bite from his egg. He didn’t feel like eating five of anything just then—he felt almost ill. He didn’t want to be alone, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk with Tyvian’s mother either. “Is there something you wanted?”

  Lyrelle smiled. “Of course there is. But eat first. You need your energy.”

  All of Tyvian’s warnings about his mother started creeping into the back of Artus’s mind as he sat there, eating his egg and then a second egg (he really was hungry, it turned out, or maybe it was nerves). She was up to something, sure. But her warm smile and her, well, her motherly way about her was nice. He hadn’t known her for too long, but she seemed to like him. To be honest, he kinda liked her, too. “Are you . . . are you gonna come to see me duel?”