Grave

by Michelle Sagara

  “What we need is a history of the Necromancers,” Allison said. To Margaret she added, “Was there some kind of official history or historian?”

  Margaret shook her head. “History often disagreed with the Queen’s personal memories, and she privileged her memories. She didn’t intend to die; she therefore assumed that the only historical records she required, she contained. It’s possible that other Necromancers left written accounts of their activities, but none would be official.

  “In the case of traitors, none of those records would survive. I didn’t keep records of anything but my lessons, personally. No opinion that was not the Queen’s was safe to have. Shall we investigate the contents of the library? I admit a fairly sharp curiosity.”

  • • •

  By the time they reached the library, they were talking in their normal tones. The tense, strained hush that had surrounded them all since their arrival in the city lifted, and with it, the harshest of their fear.

  The library was, as Chase had claimed, the largest room here; it wasn’t large, as far as libraries went. Emma’s school had a larger library. Emma’s elementary school had had a larger library.

  “The Queen learned to read very late in her tenure. She could write—in a fashion—but the type of writing she had been taught was not to be found in the pages of books. She is not a woman who likes to acknowledge her ignorance, and if she couldn’t acknowledge it, she had nothing to learn.”

  Emma nodded. “I can’t read most of these.”

  “No. I can read perhaps a quarter. English was my mother tongue, but it was not the only language I learned. One of the few useful things taught to novices was languages. Emma? Emma, dear, what is wrong?”

  THERE WAS A GHOST in the library.

  She had the same weathered look that Allison’s grandfather had had, when he’d been alive; the same leathery cast to wrinkled skin; the same slight stoop to shoulders that would otherwise never bow. Allison’s grandfather, however, had had a warmth to the many, many lines of his smile; if he had seen too much atrocity in his life, he had also seen joy, and he had chosen to believe in it. This woman had not.

  Her clothing was both simple and restrictive, but after the first glance, awareness of it faded. It was the harsh, lined planes of her face that caught—that demanded—attention. Emma’s attention.

  “Emma?” Margaret stepped toward her, her voice heavy with concern. She frowned. “What are you staring at, dear?”

  The old woman’s gaze didn’t falter—but it didn’t actually move. She stood, casting no shadow, in the center of a carpet that had seen better decades; it might once have been blue, and there was a faded pattern woven into it.

  “I’m looking at a woman—a dead woman. She’s old, and she’s standing in the center of that rug. You can see the rug?”

  Margaret’s frown intensified. She turned, not to Ernest but to Chase.

  “I can’t see her, either.”

  “Can you see the rug?” Margaret demanded.

  “I can. You can’t?”

  Margaret’s silence was answer enough. Emma wasn’t certain what her expression contained; she found it difficult to look away from the old woman.

  Ernest said, quietly, “Chase.”

  Chase swore. “Emma’s the Necromancer,” he snapped, resisting the unspoken command. “If she sees a dead person, who am I to argue?”

  Ally surprised no one who knew her; she stepped quietly between Chase and Ernest. It wasn’t a declaration of love or attachment but a sign of friendship; she would have done the same for Emma or Michael. She wouldn’t have done it for Amy—but Amy might find it offensive, and Ally always tried—hard—not to cause offense.

  “If Emma sees a dead woman,” she said, “There’s a dead woman here. There.” Emma finally turned away from the dead woman toward her friends.

  “Margaret can’t see her,” Ernest replied. Although he was clearly accustomed to command and authority, Amy had laid ground rules: His chain of command didn’t extend to the Emery mafia.

  “Neither can Chase.”

  “Chase is unusual. If he works at it, he can see the dead. It is not entirely comfortable, and he does not do it the same way the Necromancers do. But, when necessary, he can. It is no doubt a large part of why he’s survived as long as he has.”

  Chase snorted and stepped out from behind Allison. “The old man is too terrified of Amy to actually ask you any of the hard questions.”

  Allison turned, her hands falling to her hips. Chase grinned. But beneath that grin and the yellowing bruises, he’d lost a bit of color—and given his redhead’s skin, he didn’t have that much to lose.

  “She doesn’t seem to see me,” Emma said, stepping into the pause. “She’s standing still, looking almost directly ahead. Oh, no, wait.”

  “She sees you now?”

  “No, now she’s looking around a bit. She doesn’t seem to be seeing the same thing we see.”

  Margaret moved onto the carpet she didn’t appear to see. “It’s not uncommon for the newly dead not to see the dead,” she said, but in a tone that implied that she didn’t believe this was the case. She walked toward the center of the carpet and stopped a few inches in. Emma could no longer see Margaret’s frown, but she was certain she could feel it.

  “Margaret?” Ernest asked, using her name the way Margaret had used Emma’s.

  “I can’t move forward,” Margaret replied.

  “Is it like the walls?” Michael—of course it was Michael—asked. “Like the hall and the hidden door?”

  Margaret nodded slowly, turning back to offer him a rare smile of approval. “In fact, it is very like that.”

  Emma frowned. “Helmi said something earlier about circles.” No one spoke. “I think the pattern on the rug is circular. Concentric circles. She seems to be standing in the center of it.”

  “I believe Helmi said the Necromancer was to sit in the circle, not the dead.”

  Emma nodded. “But it was supposed to protect the Necromancer from—from getting lost, I think? It was supposed to be a way of reaching the dead without actually physically walking to where they died.” She exhaled. “I don’t think the woman can see us because she’s in the circle. I don’t think you can see her because she’s there.”

  “Be careful, Emma.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dead,” Emma replied. “It’s the living that scare me.”

  • • •

  The circles embroidered into a carpet that was so worn were surprisingly sharply detailed. Although the edges of the weave were frayed and faded, the thread out of which the circle itself had been woven almost shone. It seemed to form a wall for Margaret; she could move around the circumference, but she could not move into the circle it transcribed.

  Emma could and did.

  The woman’s eyes widened, changing the lines around the corners of her eyes; the way her mouth opened changed the rest. She could clearly see Emma, now.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her hands balling into fists. Emma had found Margaret prim and intimidating on first encounter. Intimidation was not fear; this woman reminded Emma of the magar, the start of this journey. She reminded Emma of death.

  Ingrained Hall manners saved her. She drew one even breath. “I’m Emma. Emma Hall.” Hall manners were clearly not reciprocated. The woman failed to introduce herself.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded, instead.

  Fair enough. Emma and her friends hadn’t exactly waited for an invitation. “We’re here to find our friend.”

  “Your friend?” The woman’s lips thinned. “You’ve lost friends here?” Her eyes narrowed as well. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  Since there was nothing remarkable about Emma’s clothing—nothing terribly revealing, it being winter—Emma was momentarily at a loss for words. “Clothing. I mean, clothing fr
om my country—and my time.”

  The woman was silent for one long, uncomfortable beat. “You’re not dead.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Are you the new Queen?”

  “God, no,” was Emma’s emphatic response.

  “You remind me of her.”

  “Because you’re dead.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes. Were you one of her supporters?”

  “No. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never even heard of her. What I have heard—” Emma shook her head. “No.”

  “And the friend you’re looking for?”

  Emma hesitated. “She has him.”

  “Girl, you look soft. Young. I don’t know how you came to be here, but this is not the place for you. Leave the way you came, and leave quickly.” She hesitated. “Did my son bring you here?”

  Emma shook her head.

  The woman closed her eyes. If she had looked old before—and she had—she hadn’t looked frail until this moment. “Then he is dead. He is lost.”

  “And you?”

  “I am, as you see, safe. I am one of the few who are.” She glanced at her hands and forced them to lose the shape of fists—fists that wouldn’t be useful in any way. In a more conversational tone, she said, “Tell me, do the walls still scream?”

  • • •

  Emma decided then and there that she didn’t like this woman. The question, casually asked, was barbed and pointed; it was meant to cut. And it did. She folded her arms tightly.

  “Em?” Ally asked, the single syllable expressing all of her worry.

  Emma focused on the dead woman. “Yes. And the floors. And probably the rest of the citadel too.”

  One gray brow rose, but so did the corners of her narrowed mouth. “You’ll pardon an old woman,” she told Emma. “I see there’s some strength in you.”

  “Strength,” Emma replied, “isn’t measured by cruelty or anger.”

  “Here, it is.”

  “Maybe when you were alive.”

  A harsh bark of laughter followed. “When I was alive, girl? No. Had I been stronger from the beginning, there would be no Queen of the Dead. But that girl? She was kin.”

  “Her family died.”

  “Distant kin. Are you afraid, girl?”

  Emma said nothing.

  “This citadel was built on love and fear. Don’t mix the two.” Emma thought she meant to continue, but she fell silent. It was a haughty, bitter silence, from which Emma understood one thing: ferocious pride. Whatever her crime, she didn’t want to expose it to a bunch of teenagers who were in no way kin.

  “I cannot leave this place. I cannot leave the circle.” The old woman closed her eyes. “I hear them, you know. I hear the dead. They shatter me with their accusations.”

  Emma shook her head. “They don’t accuse.”

  “They would if they understood what I was in life.”

  “They don’t accuse.”

  “Tell them what you know, and they will, girl. Death doesn’t change the living—not when they’re trapped here.”

  “It changes what they want.” Emma’s arms loosened; she dropped them to her sides. “You were taught what the Queen of the Dead was taught.”

  The woman inclined her chin stiffly. Everything about her was stiff. “Who was your teacher?”

  “I haven’t really had one. I haven’t had the time.”

  “And you’ve come here to save your friend?” The obvious outrage in the woman’s expression didn’t quite reach her tone.

  “Right now, there’s no one else.”

  “You’ll die.”

  “I’m going to do that anyway—hopefully much later. When I die, I’ll be trapped just as you are. Even if I weren’t, everyone I love, everyone I’ve ever loved or will love in the future, will be. I don’t draw circles. I don’t understand how they work. But honestly? You’re safe from the Queen—but you’re not any freer.”

  “In this city, safety is its own freedom.” She looked down toward her feet. “It was not meant to last forever.” Lifting her face, she said, “Is this now the eternity I face? It is the one I deserve.”

  “Maybe,” Emma replied. “But I’m not qualified to judge that. And even if you deserve it, the rest of the dead don’t. You said your son built these rooms?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Do you understand how? I mean—how he could make them impassible and invisible to the dead?”

  The woman nodded again. Some of the steel had left her face, to be replaced by the weight of age.

  “He didn’t trust the Queen.”

  “He loved her, as a child; we do not trust our children to see wisdom when they are young.”

  “She’s not young now.”

  “No? To me, she was only that, always that. But she had power beyond age and wisdom and nothing to prevent its use. I cannot teach you what you need to know; I am dead, and you will be dead soon.”

  “Then tell me about the circle,” Emma said. “Tell me what it does and how it works. I’ve seen—I’ve touched—the dead before, but I’ve never done it from a circle.”

  “Then how?”

  “I went to where they were.” She hesitated and then said, “And I called them to where I was.”

  “Impossible.”

  Emma didn’t argue. Helmi had mentioned circles, and there was clearly some safety in them. Unless the lesson took less than an hour, Emma wouldn’t have the time to learn. But something about this circle, this private space, tugged at her. “What are the circles meant to do?”

  “They are meant to protect us when we search for the lost dead. They bind us both to ourselves and to life. While within the confines of the circle, the living cannot be drained by the needs and the fury of the lost; they can approach the dead in safety.

  “If the circle is broken or frayed, that safety is not guaranteed.” The carpet on which the ghost stood had seen better days. “Yes,” the woman said quietly, seeing the direction of Emma’s gaze. “Nothing lasts forever except death.”

  “Is that why I could see you?”

  Silence.

  Emma reached out and offered her hand to the old woman. She couldn’t say why, then or later; this woman was not the type of woman to whom one offered comfort. The old woman stared at that hand. She didn’t take it.

  “If you’re here to bind me—”

  “I’m not. I want you to talk to Margaret, but she can’t enter the circle. And I don’t think you can leave it, either. Not without help.” When the woman failed to take Emma’s hand, she lowered it. “I won’t make you leave. I can’t. I don’t know how to bind you.”

  “Then you’ll get no power from the dead.”

  “I don’t want power—”

  “You don’t understand what you’ll be facing. If you have no dead of your own, you have no chance.”

  Emma folded her arms again, disliking this woman. The woman was trapped—they were all trapped—because of the power the Queen had taken.

  Emma believed she was a decent person on most days. Maybe she wasn’t the best daughter in the world. Maybe she wasn’t the best friend. She lost her temper sometimes. She said things she regretted later. But everyone did that.

  Before Mark, before Mark’s mother, she had been certain of herself. Mark’s mother—and the death of her son—had unsettled Emma. She was no longer completely certain that she would always do the right thing. She was only certain that she wanted to.

  But when you had the power of life and death—literally—a bad day could have consequences that lasted forever. One day. One slip. One terrible temptation.

  If Emma had had the power that the Queen of the Dead possessed, she wasn’t certain that she could have let Nathan die. The grief of his loss, his constant absence, had blighted every day that had followed it. Yes, there wer
e good days—but even those had thorns and barbs; there were always reminders of Nathan wherever she went. A stray song. A specific store. A restaurant dish. A piece of clothing.

  He had promised that she could die first.

  And some promises should never be made. Should never be asked of another person. She bowed her head. “Stay here, if here is where you prefer.” She turned to leave the circle and felt the ice of a dead woman’s hand touch the back of her own.

  “You are a foolish, foolish girl,” the woman said, tightening her grip.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “But warm,” the woman continued, as if Emma hadn’t spoken. “Warm. You reek of life, girl.”

  “So does the Queen of the Dead.” Emma reached out—slowly—and caught the old woman’s hand in her free hand, shifting her grip.

  “Yes. Yes, she does. She had so much power, so much promise; she could find the lost far more easily than anyone I have ever taught or encountered. She wasn’t—she wasn’t an evil child.”

  “No child is evil,” Emma replied. “I can understand what she did, if I try hard—but it doesn’t matter why she did it, because she never stopped. The dead want to leave. It’s the only thing they want. It doesn’t matter what kind of life they lived.” Emma’s hand hurt. It wouldn’t, in a half hour; it would be too numb. She turned to the woman and found herself being intently studied. “People who are hurt cause hurt.”

  The old woman nodded. Her eyes, the peculiar translucent color that Emma wanted to call gray, were shining as if with unshed tears. “Will you let go of me if I ask you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you leave me here if I ask it?”

  “Yes.” But Emma knew then that she would never ask.

  “What will you do if the Queen is dead?”