Songreaver

by Andrew Hunter

  "You'll love it," she said, "I always enjoyed my time in the library here. It's so... quiet."

  A new chime rang out from the temple, and Serepheni sighed.

  "I have to go," she said, "I'll see you again tomorrow."

  Garrett nodded.

  "Oh," she said, pulling a rolled parchment from the pocket of her habit and handing it to Garrett, "This should take care of any problems you might have in retrieving your fairy."

  "Thanks!" Garrett said, taking it from her. A large smear of red wax, pressed with the writhing worm sigil of Mauravant sealed the scroll.

  "No," she said, "I owe you far more than that. Thank you, Garrett."

  Garrett nodded in response.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Garrett thought about going home to change before calling on Ambassador Chaille, but the Zhadeen Embassy was much closer to the temple than the Arcane Quarter. His purple necromancer's hood might clash with the green tunic of a Templar neophyte, but he wore his skull medallion proudly upon his chest to dispel any confusion as to his allegiance. The rest of his garb now bulged inside his satchel beside his essence flask, and he carried the rolled parchment that Serepheni had given him like a Templar's club in his gloved fist.

  The Zhadeen Embassy rose above the streets of the Foreign District like some exotic garden with long streamers of flowering vines trailing down over the creamy stone of it high walls. Palm trees, sagging despondently in the perpetual gloom of Wythr surrounded the embassy's perimeter. Four narrow towers rose at the compound's corners, manned by dark-skinned men in red turbans with immaculately trimmed beards and glimmering silver scale mail shirts. They looked down upon the street below with expressions of unceasing boredom.

  A long line of delivery folk waited patiently for entrance at a large side gate, and Garrett decided to join them. He took his place between a gardener's cart and a girl with a basket of sweet rolls. He did not have to wait long.

  "What is your business with the Ambassador?" asked the gatekeeper, a young, very pretty girl, dressed in a long, sleeveless dress of peacock-colored silk. Iridescent blue powder rimmed her large brown eyes, and her lips glistened, seeming almost wet with wine dark rouge.

  Garrett pulled his gaze from her diamond earrings and mutely handed her the scroll.

  The girl snapped the seal between her long, glossy fingernails and unfurled it. She pursed her lips. "Come inside," she said.

  Another servant, a boy dressed in a spotless white kurta, led Garrett through a number of long corridors, crowded with maids and butlers in similar garb. The few who were not too busy to take notice of him quickly averted their eyes, some of them making warding gestures with their hands across their faces. By the time they reached the interior gardens, Garrett's demeanor had degraded from hopeful to well and truly insulted.

  Two handsome young men stood talking together at the center of a jungle-like greenhouse. Their laughter carried above the chirping of birds on warm air, thick with humidity and the scent of flowers. One of the men bore the same tanned complexion and short beard as Jitlowe, the only other Zhadeen that Garrett knew. The man wore a saffron-colored shirt and loose-fitting silk trousers to match, both embroidered with an intricate pattern in brown thread. His short wavy hair matched the ebon darkness of his eyes, and his smile gleamed with perfect, pearl-white teeth.

  The man standing beside the ambassador wore his curling blonde hair long over the high collar of his burgundy overcoat. A pale lace frill spilled from the throat of his gold-threaded waistcoat, and he wore his sorrel trousers in a very modern cut, long and close-fitting. Garrett drew in a sharp breath when he noticed the golden pin on the man's lapel, a stylized horned skull.

  The men turned together at the sound, and the blonde necromancer's face registered surprise as well. The Zhadeen ambassador’s lips began to curl in an expression of distaste, but swiftly recovered into a pleasant smile.

  "An emissary from the temple, Your Grace," the boy in white said, stepping forward to offer Garrett's scroll to Ambassador Chaille.

  "Greetings," the ambassador said, bowing slightly, "and welcome to my menagerie."

  Garrett bowed awkwardly in return, suddenly becoming aware that the artificial jungle surrounding them rustled with the sounds of a great many animals that roamed and foraged among the leaves.

  Chaille unfurled the scroll and perused it. He shrugged. "It seems that I was sold an animal by mistake," he said, "and this young man is here to reclaim it as its rightful owner."

  "A mistake?" the blonde necromancer scoffed, "May I see that?"

  The ambassador passed the letter to the man in the burgundy coat and then dusted bits of red wax from his fingers.

  The blonde man scanned the parchment and then gave Garrett a crooked little smile. "I've heard about this," he said, "The necromancers of the city were all presumed dead and their assets sold by the church. Unfortunately for the church, a necromancer makes an art of cheating death."

  The ambassador laughed.

  A small, snuffling noise sounded from the bushes to Garrett's right, and he turned to see a dog-sized creature, covered in brown fur. It dragged its long proboscis through the grass, searching for food and made little grunting noises. Garrett recognized the silver collar around its neck.

  "My trilbette," Ambassador Chaille said, "Do not be afraid. It is quite harmless."

  "You got this from Mrs. Veranu's shop," Garrett said.

  "Yes!" Chaille said, "You know them?"

  "They're friends of mine," Garrett said, swallowing a little pang of regret, "I helped them put the collar on this one. I'm glad he's doing well."

  "Oh, quite well," Chaille said, his voice a bit friendlier than before, "I can always expect the highest quality from the Veranus."

  The blonde necromancer gave a tiny cough.

  "Oh, my manners," Chaille said, "I am, of course, Ambassador Chaille of the Zhadeen Empire, and this is my dear friend Grandmaster Marsten."

  The necromancer gave a florid bow. "A pleasure to meet you, young master..."

  "Garrett," he said, "... I think I've heard of you before."

  "Really?" Marsten said, standing straight again, "I am honored." The blonde man's eyes flickered warily.

  "I think my uncle knows you," Garrett said, suddenly afraid that he might have stumbled into some old rivalry, "His name is Tinjin."

  "Ah," Marsten said, trying to read Garrett's expression, "A great man, Tinjin, one of the few alive today to whom I would gladly bend my knee. His mastery of the art is legendary."

  "I did not know of this... confusion," Ambassador Chaille said, "Were you inconvenienced as well by this mistake Marsten?"

  "Oh, no," Marsten laughed, "I have only just arrived in the city and so avoided this recent... unpleasantness."

  Chaille gave him a relieved smile. "That is good to know... still, I feel terrible that I have taken advantage of this young man's misfortune." He clapped his hands together and looked at the servant boy. "Go at once and fetch the caged faefly from the south dining room!"

  The boy in white rushed to comply, disappearing into the greenhouse jungle.

  "All will soon be rectified," Chaille said, "I hope that you will accept my most sincere apology, Master Garrett."

  "Oh, yeah," Garrett said, "I just want to get Lampwicke back. I'm not mad or anything. It was just a mistake."

  Chaille smiled and nodded. "You are very understanding," he said.

  Marsten cleared his throat. "I do have a question, however," he said.

  Garrett looked at him.

  "Is that a Mauravantian tunic that you are wearing, Garrett?"

  Garrett looked down at his green tunic. "Uh, yeah," he said, "I'm studying to become a Templar."

  "A Templar?" Marsten said, "They would allow a necromancer to study at the temple?"

  Garrett nodded. "It's kind of a special case I think," he said, "One of the priestesses asked to let me do it. I guess she's trying to make some sort of bridge between the church and our order.
"

  Marsten's eyes brightened. "Is that so?" he said, "I'd never thought I would see the day when one of us was invited into the Temple of Mauravant."

  "I assume there is some animosity between your houses?" Ambassador Chaille asked.

  Marsten laughed. "Old prejudices," he said, "I'm happy to see them finally eroding."

  "I still don't think they like us very much," Garrett said, "but Miss Serepheni is trying really hard to smooth things over between us all."

  "Serepheni," Marsten said, "Is she your priestess? I'd love to meet with her."

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "I guess I could tell her that you want to talk to her."

  Marsten smiled. "I would be in your debt, Master Garrett," he said.

  The boy in white reappeared, running toward them with a small silver cage in his hands. Garrett's heart leapt, and he ran forward to meet him.

  "Lampwicke!" Garrett cried.

  The little fairy looked up from where she sat at the bottom of the cage, and her wings buzzed excitedly. "Garrett!" she cried, "Rhouaane te Na'alan! Te semerae!" Her body flared with a shimmering golden light, and her eyes shone, blue as a summer sky.

  Garrett clutched the cage tight against his breast and whispered, "I missed you too."

  Chapter Eighteen

  The spring rains drummed against the green glass of the high, narrow windows of the library, lulling Garrett into a sort of trance. The tip of his quill pen scratched across the surface of the yellowed scrap of parchment as he copied the passage from the old book laid open before him.

  "Reading fairy tales again, Garrett?" a voice whispered over his shoulder, making him jump.

  "Oh... did you need me to do something, Matron Beeks?" Garrett whispered back.

  The plump, gray-haired priestess smiled and shook her head. "No, Garrett," she said, "I just wanted to remind you of the time." The Matron's voice never really rose above a whisper. Garrett wondered if, after all her years in the library, she could even speak loud enough to be heard across the room.

  Garrett looked around to see a group of teenage girls in green robes filing in through the doors at the far end of the hall. "Oh, sorry," he said, "I must have missed the chimes."

  "Well, you know you're welcome to stay here as long as you need," Matron Beeks said.

  "Thank you," Garrett said, "I just wanted to finish this transcription, and then I'll be going."

  "You did excellent work today, rebinding that history," she said.

  "Oh, thanks, but it really only needed the stitching replaced," he said, "It didn't take long at all."

  Matron Beeks glanced down at the book on the table in front of him and frowned. "I wish you wouldn't waste your time on such nonsense," she said, "You're much too talented to bother with these... children's stories."

  Garrett smiled. "You can find some pretty interesting things hidden in these old stories," he said.

  Matron Beeks sighed. "True enough, I suppose, but tomorrow I'm going to have you start on the history of Wythr."

  "You want me to transcribe it?" he asked.

  "I want you to read it," she said, prodding him in the shoulder with her finger.

  Garrett grinned. "Yes, Matron," he said.

  A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see woman in a Matron's habit break away from the group of girls and walk toward them across the library floor. Her red lips curled in a sneer. She looked familiar, but he could not recall where he had seen her before.

  "What is he doing here?" the woman hissed, pointing at Garrett as she arrived at his table.

  Matron Beeks looked taken aback. "This is the novitiate assigned to the library, Matron Shelbie," she said.

  "The library?" Matron Shelbie's eyes bulged beneath her green-shadowed eyelids. "Who authorized this?"

  "Matron Brix assigned him to me," Beeks said, her voice losing a tiny bit of its softness, "Is there a problem?"

  Garrett suddenly realized who she was. Matron Shelbie, Assistant to the High Priestess, had been the one to order the necromancers' assets seized during the Northern Campaign. His eyes hardened, but he said nothing,

  Matron Shelbie scoffed. "This one is a... necromancer... Serepheni's little pet," she said, "He is not to be trusted."

  Matron Beeks pursed her lips before speaking again. "This boy is an excellent scribe, and has proven himself quite trustworthy in the past two months. I would vouch for him, even if Matron Serepheni did not."

  Matron Shelbie glared down at the shorter woman, but Beeks stood her ground. Shelbie cast a contemptuous glance at Garrett. "If you will not heed my warning, then keep him at your peril," she said, "but I don't want him in the library while my class is studying... they would find his freakish appearance distracting."

  The point of Garrett's quill snapped off against the parchment, and a black stain spread from the tip.

  Matron Beeks put her hand on Garrett's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Yes, Matron Shelbie," she said.

  Shelbie's eyes went toward a great column of shelves in the center of the library. "And see that he has no access to the restricted section," she said, "I will not have the secrets of our order stolen from beneath my nose by the enemies of the Church!"

  "Yes, Matron Shelbie," Beeks said.

  Matron Shelbie turned and swept away in a flutter of green silk.

  Matron Beeks sighed. "Pay her no mind," she whispered, "... just finish quickly, and I will see you again tomorrow."

  Garrett nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She patted him on the back and smiled at him before walking away.

  He wiped the broken quill clean with a rag and picked up the little knife that lay beside the inkwell on the desk. If anyone had been watching, they might have said that he sharpened the quill with a bit too much enthusiasm.

  ****

  Caleb stood motionless in the rainy street outside the temple walls. Little rivulets of water poured off of his black three-cornered hat and down his oilskin cloak. The heavy satchel slung over his shoulder gave him a slightly lopsided appearance.

  "Is that him?" Banden asked. His green, short-sleeved tunic, already soaked through, clung to the muscles of his shoulders and chest. A little trickle of blood ran from the cut on his elbow, all the way down to the wooden stave he held clutched in his right hand. He kept twirling the club as though ready to continue his sparring lessons at a moment's notice.

  "Caleb!" Garrett called out, waving at the zombie. His own purple, hooded cloak glistened darkly in the rain, covering the neophyte greens he wore beneath.

  Caleb lurched forward, slowly crossing the street to where Banden and Garrett stood at the temple gates. He groaned once in greeting and then stood still.

  "Banden, this is Caleb, my zombie," Garrett said.

  Banden wiped the rain from his eyes with the bruised knuckles of his left hand and grinned. "He's really dead, isn't he?"

  "Undead," Garrett said, reaching over to lift the flap of Caleb's satchel and peer inside, "Looks like Marla was able help us out." At least six full canisters of essence glowed inside the leather bag.

  "So he'll live like this forever?" Banden asked. He reached out and touched one of Caleb's cold, pale hands.

  Caleb turned his milky eyes toward the boy and moaned.

  "Sorry," Banden said, stepping back.

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "You want to come with us? We're going to Marrowvyn to work with the ghouls."

  "Nah," Banden said, "I've got class."

  "What now?" Garrett asked, securing the flap of Caleb's bag again.

  "Laws and Tariffs," Banden said, "Not my favorite."

  "They let you bring your stick to class?" Garrett asked, grinning.

  "No," Banden said, swiping at the rain with his club, "just trying to get in a little extra practice... I could teach you. I bet I could get Matron Brix to let you have another try at sparring."

  Garrett laughed and shook his head. "No, thanks!" he said, "You're the one who likes getting hit in the head."

  Banden frowned. "You don't
get hit in the head if you know what you're doing," he said.

  "I guess I'd better stay away from sparring class then," Garrett laughed.

  "How come you don't have to go to all the boring classes?" Banden asked.

  Garrett shrugged. "I don't think they want me learning anything," he said.

  "Huh?"

  Garrett looked back at the temple gates and lowered his voice. "A Matron by the name of Shelbie came by the library today and tried to convince them to get rid of me. She really hates necromancers for some reason and doesn't want me here at all."

  Banden shrugged. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

  Garrett chuckled. "I guess the worst thing she can do is get me thrown out," he said, "Then I wouldn't have to come here anymore."

  Banden looked troubled. "I thought you liked it here," he said.

  "It's all right, I guess," Garrett said, "I like the library well enough, but I'm mainly here because my friends asked me to do this for them."

  "Oh," Banden said.

  "You like it here though, don't you?" Garrett asked.

  "Yeah," Banden said, "I really do. It's way bigger than the monastery back in Astorra, but it's kinda the same. Mauravant likes worms a lot more than Masza does though."

  "Who's Masza?" Garrett asked.

  "The Old God," Banden said, "I thought everybody knew that."

  "I don't know," Garrett said, "My family was never that religious, and, since I came to Wythr, all I ever hear about god-wise is Malleatus and Mauravant."

  "My sister and the monks taught me some," Banden said, "but I wasn't supposed to start my real studies at the monastery until next year. I kinda had the feeling that she didn't want me to be a monk though." He fell silent and stared out into the rainy street.

  Garrett looked at his friend, knowing the hurt he was feeling but not the cure for it. "Hey," Garrett said, "I'll see you tomorrow."

  Banden sniffed. "Yeah," he said, "have fun with your magic practice."

  "Thanks," Garrett said.

  ****

  Warren and the other ghouls waited in the old grain mill that Garrett had chosen for their meeting place. Though partially collapsed, like many of the buildings in the subterranean city of Marrowvyn, most of the stone structure remained intact, and the old grindstone in the center of the building made for a resilient and non-flammable target. They greeted Garrett warmly upon his arrival, and Diggs and Scupp were the first to swarm poor Caleb, anxious to get their paws on the essence flasks that he carried.