by S D Simper
Flowridia spared a look for Casvir, enormous and imposing on his own skeletal beast, one much larger than her own. “I wish you luck, my dearest Demitri.”
The streets of Nox’Kartha held some semblance of remembrance, and though Flowridia knew she couldn’t navigate them on her own yet, she wondered if she would ever be able to travel the clean roads alone. She longed to explore, to understand this city of the dead, to report to Staelash that it truly was wondrous and grand.
Those they passed stopped and fell to one knee, not daring to stand again until they were well out of eyesight. Flowridia watched their eyes, how they shied away from Casvir. Yet some dared to follow her, staring with wonder and fear at the small girl who rode behind their king.
Upon reaching the outer gates of the city, the paths they took not unfamiliar, the iron bars lifted at Casvir’s presence. The guards bowed, and the only sound aside from the muted, bustling city was the clopping of hooves upon the stone ground. Flowridia followed, but once they were beyond the great walls, she rode to his side, the sprawling fields opening to embrace them.
The sun touched her skin, and Flowridia smiled, basking in the warm air and gentle breeze. Elation filled her at her return to the outdoors, and she hummed a folk tune of youth, one she annoyed the orphanage matron with a lifetime ago.
She was surprised to hear the words recited back, though two octaves lower.
Bless the harvest, Goddess of Light
Protect my family through the night
And lead my legacy to be
One to bring me close to thee—
Casvir’s voice stopped at Flowridia’s laughter. “I didn’t realize,” she teased, “that a necromancer might sing a prayer to Sol Kareena.”
“I can sing to whomever I wish.”
And so passed their day. Within hours, they crossed a massive bridge expanding over an enormous river—the very same that would lead her to Staelash. By nightfall, they found themselves at the edge of a mountainous terrain, just as Casvir had said. Grass tickled her feet as she stepped off her horse. Lights in the far distance drew their attention; the glow of the city they left behind illuminated the horizon.
Flowridia lifted Ana out of her travel bag while Casvir silently went to work setting up their camp. First the warming crystal, which he centered in the clearing, and then their bedrolls. He spoke suddenly, startling Flowridia. “How have you been sleeping?”
Before he could set it out, Flowridia took the plush roll from his hands. “Well enough,” she said, letting it billow out before setting it down. The lie danced gracefully off her tongue, and she wondered what had provoked him to ask.
Demitri curled beside the bed, but Ana stole Flowridia’s attention as she hopped through the grassy terrain, happy to be free at last.
Laughing, Flowridia chased after the frolicking creature. She dove to catch her, pulling the small fox into her chest and squeezing the bony form. The grass cushioned them as they fell, and when Flowridia rolled onto her back, Ana simply wagged her tail. Flowridia kissed her forehead.
But as soon as her grip loosened, Ana darted off again, brimming with pent-up energy. Flowridia rose to her feet and ran after her, chasing the lively fox but stopping just before scooping her up. Ana skipped left and right to avoid capture, and Flowridia indulged the sweet creature as they ran through the meadow.
The intricacies of her undead biology remained a mystery, but Flowridia set that aside for the chance to clear her head.
Night blanketed the sky when they finally returned to camp, and Ana was no less bouncy than when they’d started. Flowridia, winded from darting about the grassy terrain, settled against Demitri.
Ana continued hopping around camp, prancing in circles around the warming crystal. With light, tapping feet, she leapt onto Flowridia’s lap, Demitri’s tail, rolled in the dirt, and even dared to dart into Casvir’s lap—who barely shot her a glance, and only lifted up his book to let her pass—before repeating her circuit. It wasn’t until, as she stepped on his foot, Demitri released a vicious snarl that she finally froze.
Flowridia took the trembling creature into her arms and frowned at Demitri. “That was uncalled for.”
She knows what she did. Now she’ll stop.
Flowridia’s fingers stroked Ana’s bony form. She noticed the flicker of amusement on Casvir’s face. “Impressive, how much personality your fox has retained,” he said. “Skeletons are mindless and docile, more often than not.”
Flowridia placed a kiss on Ana’s skull. “Thank you. I don’t know if I’d call it talent. Maybe just love.”
“Love has no place in necromancy. She merely retains her soul.”
Content to ignore Casvir’s brutish sentiment, Flowridia coaxed the little fox to face her. “Is that true, Ana?” she cooed, childish in her tonality. “Is your soul stuffed into your skeleton?”
Ana’s enormous eye sockets simply stared.
“She still holds use. She is perfectly compliant to your will, when you care to enact it.”
Flowridia shook her head as she released Ana. The small creature curled up beside her, opposite Demitri. “I don’t know if I have the heart for it,” she admitted, and she thought of her mother and of Ayla, of Murishani and all the rest who had sought to manipulate her will. “I don’t think I could control anyone; instead, I’m more often tricked into being controlled.”
“You are gentle, but that is not a weakness in and of itself. Inspiring fear and respect in those you command, living or dead, does not mean to purge this trait. You will learn in time.” He stood, suddenly. “Come,” he said, and he offered a hand.
Flowridia accepted, though confused at the gesture. Once standing, Casvir took his hand back and led her away from the crystal, away from her sleeping familiar and into the dark meadow.
High above, millions of glittering stars swirled around her vision, their ancient light splattered like a dropped artist’s palette.
“Life is fleeting, but death is permanent,” Casvir said. “Controlling life means to wrestle consciousnesses until you pass or relinquish control, but you need only succeed once to conquer the dead, save only the most intelligent and willful. Perhaps the living have sought to destroy your will.” Casvir stopped when the light was only a spark in the distance. “But your core is stronger than you know. We have discussed that life and death are mere opposites of the same coin of magic, correct?”
Flowridia nodded.
“Your garden was your greatest joy at home.”
Again, she nodded. “I poured my heart and soul into caring for my plants.”
“Sit down,” Casvir said, and Flowridia obeyed, gracefully seating herself in the cold grass. It tickled her legs and feet. “Shut your eyes and meditate. Let your senses expand and touch upon all the life in this field.”
Flowridia obeyed, finding this a trivial task. The grass sang the loudest, especially the strands she touched, but their roots expanded and led to more. She touched upon wildflowers, muted under the stars, and even felt the radiating life of insects and burrowing creatures. She felt their energy, the racing hearts of gophers causing her own to match tempo.
Casvir’s voice wove into her ears. “Now, twist it. Look not for life, but for death.”
Flowridia let her mind draw away from the frantic rodents and instead turn inward, letting that hollow feeling expand in her core. Emptiness seemed to seep from her fingers, yet rejuvenation came with it, an influx of life. She breathed deep, letting energy fill her body, pleasure flowing with it. A high she had craved, one she had not felt in weeks.
But Casvir’s words reminded her to focus, to stay on task. Eyes still shut, Flowridia’s senses expanded, touching not upon life, but on death.
She gasped, bombarded by stimulation. Beneath the earth were bones of every age, half-rotted corpses, the potential for great power in each dead thing. Even the wilted flowers radiated, the dried grass. All of it sang to her searching senses.
“Do you feel it?” she barely hea
rd him say. Casvir himself radiated under this new search.
Flowridia offered a tenuous nod, clinging to this new sensation. Compliant, radiating with potential, and Flowridia dared to call them forth. Weakness seeped into her bones, her energy turned outward, but all around she felt the earth shake, the ground rustle. Each dead thing quivered and shook at her call, compelled to come forward, granted new life at her beckoning.
Flowridia opened her eyes and yelped. Where she sat, the grass had blackened and charred, the life utterly decimated at her touch. Before her, surrounding her, and still approaching, countless creatures, most only half formed. The severed halves of rotted field mice, insect carapaces, rabbits, and more clawed their way towards her. Even predatory creatures, foxes and owls, shambled their rotting bodies closer.
Flowridia dared to glance at Casvir, surprised to see him looking pleased. “What do I do with them?”
“Anything you want,” he replied. “They are yours.”
Useless, was what they were, most of them only pieces of creatures. Rabbit feet and fox tails rolled toward her. “And if I don’t want them?”
“Release them. Withdraw your influence.”
Flowridia shut her eyes, skin crawling as undead things brushed against her skin and clothing. She felt a piece of herself within each. With force, she took it back.
When she opened her eyes, a small sea of carnage surrounded her, the fallen corpses now returned to static dead. But the earth as well—surrounding her was blight.
“Impressive,” Casvir said, “though I would recommend avoiding drawing from life to grant death. Magical addiction is a real danger, and necromancers are especially susceptible.”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Flowridia said softly, her hand brushing against the blackened, dead grass.
“All the more reason to be careful.”
When Casvir offered a hand to help her stand, she accepted, letting her touch linger a moment as she contemplated his cool skin, the lifelessness that sang when she’d let her senses caress it. Yet, her will had not touched his, not by miles, and though it confirmed her suspicions, it brought more questions with it. “Casvir,” she asked as they walked back, “how can the dead be necromancers?”
“Accomplished necromancers often are undead, seeing their own self-mastery as the path to eternal life.”
“So you did this to yourself?”
A pointed question, yes, but Flowridia was slowly accepting that Casvir was difficult to offend. “I did,” he replied, “and it is something you, too, can learn. But you are not ready yet.”
As they neared the campsite, Ana dashed toward them, perhaps bored of Demitri’s silent company. Flowridia lifted the small skeleton into her arms and carried her. “If I may ask, why is Ana different than the creatures in the field?”
“You devoted your singular attention to raising Ana,” he replied. “Those, you simply summoned as is. As we discussed, Ana had her soul returned to her, and her body morphed to match your intentions.”
“I didn’t tell her skin to desiccate.”
“No, but was that your image of undeath? A skeleton?”
Truthfully, yes, or at least the most endearing image of it. A fox with rotting flesh was hardly an attractive option, though she would have loved it the same. Flowridia nodded.
“It morphed to match your intention, and thus your will.”
The core of necromancy was utter domination of your spawn. It chilled her, to consider it, and realized why those who understood its nuances would choose their own path to undeath, rather than risk rebirth as someone’s slave.
Casvir continued. “Khastra is an unprecedented experiment. Did she explain?”
“Enough of it, I think.”
“Her grasp on undeath is tenuous, and in a very real way, she is half alive. Necromancy forced her soul back into her body and prevents rot, but she breathes and feels the effects of hunger, though she need not eat. Her will is mine, but like Ayla, to force it might break her mind.”
Flowridia’s heart sank at the mention of Ayla’s name. She nodded, but realize she had stopped consciously listening, staring instead at the flickering crystal and the shadows it cast.
“Flowridia, are you well?”
Her gaze shot up. “I’m fine. She’s a difficult topic.”
No need to clarify which ‘her’ she referred to. Casvir seemed to understand. “You left her ear behind.”
Flowridia nodded, the reminder enough to evoke a rise of emotion. “You can’t feel her, can you,” she whispered.
“No, I cannot.”
The silence stretched long. Flowridia realized Casvir had done far more talking than she this evening. “You seem happier out of the castle,” she dared to say.
“The challenges of ruling an empire are ones I revel in,” he replied, withdrawing a book from his travel chest. “But I find my time on the road refreshing. It is a rare treat.”
“Is it far, where we’re going?”
“I do not quite know,” Casvir said. “I feel the pull quite strongly, much more so than when I used you to navigate, but that may be because of my connection to the orb.”
Flowridia, not quite ready to face her nightmares, gave a permissive glance to Casvir as she reached over to steal a book from his chest. He didn’t stop her, and so she settled down with The Bare Bones of Justice: The Morality of Necromancy, until she felt her eyelids droop.
* * *
Sunrise broke along the horizon, but Flowridia had awoken long before. Tossing, turning, she eventually had to roll off Demitri for fear of disturbing him. She pulled Ana close to her chest and curled onto the bedroll, determined to feign sleep for a few more hours.
But when morning light met her eyes, she finally allowed the stubborn sting of failure drag her into wakefulness. Slowly sitting, still hugging Ana, Flowridia heard Casvir speak as she roused herself. “Did you sleep?”
“Not much,” she admitted. Silence lapsed between them. The faint singing of birds combined with the insects of night made for an interesting ballad, and Flowridia found herself distracted by the chill breeze.
“You will need your strength today,” Casvir finally said, setting his book aside. “There is much to teach you.”
After last night, Flowridia expected as much. Still, he stood and stepped over the crystal with his clawed feet and offered a hand. She accepted, and Casvir’s words surprised her. “Grab your spear.”
She turned to Ana. “Wait here,” she said firmly, and the little fox watched with an eerie tilt to her head. But her haunches stayed put, and Flowridia retrieved the crafted boar spear from the saddle of her horse.
Casvir had already gone, waiting perhaps a hundred feet away. Flowridia ran to meet him.
Swirling purple filled Casvir’s hand. A spear, identical in size to Flowridia’s, appeared in his hand. “Sometimes magic cannot protect you,” he said, his voice stern, “and you have been gifted with a beautiful weapon.” He matched her eyes, amusement in the curve of his lip. “Breathtaking.”
Flowridia couldn’t help but smile.
Casvir set his feet apart, one before the other, and held the spear forward. “Stand as I do,” he said, smile fading. “Feet apart; equal balance. Bend your knees—you must be light on your feet.”
Apprehension filled Flowridia as she attempted to mimic his stance. Feet apart, left foot forward, she held the spear out, keeping eye contact with Casvir as he stepped closer.
His claw whipped forward. Flowridia was pushed to the ground.
“You have no balance,” he said, expression blank. But he offered a hand to help her stand. “Try again.”
Wary, Flowridia adjusted her stance, feet closer to her shoulders as she bounced lightly on her knees and toes. This time, when Casvir pushed her, she swayed, but she did not fall.
He nodded, approval in the gesture. “If you cannot keep a strong base, your opponents will dominate you at every turn. All your actions start at your feet.” He pushed her again; Flowridia
managed to keep her stance. “Better. You have the proper spirit.”
Flowridia thrust her spear forward. “Spear-it?”
Casvir jabbed her stomach with the blunt base of his spear, but not hard enough to cause any harm. His amused quirk of a grin loomed above her. “Watch carefully.” He held his summoned spear forward, a faint black and purple mist emanating. “Follow my stances.”
She did. And she learned.
* * *
Within the hour, Flowridia’s muscles ached and her breathing grew short. Sweat drenched her hair and clothing, but she kept pressing forward, repeating each move at Casvir’s command, as unrefined as her motions were.
Hold stance, thrust, swing, and with that final step, Flowridia lost her footing. Casvir caught her arm, gently steadying her shaking form before speaking up. “I think you have learned all you can for today. Your stamina will increase with time.” He released her, keeping watch over her labored breathing.
Across the field, Flowridia felt Demitri’s hard gaze. She nodded to Casvir, using the spear to support her legs. “Will we do this again?”
“Every morning,” Casvir said. His own weapon had faded from his hand. “And at night, I will guide your magic. Do you agree to this?”
Again, Flowridia nodded. “Thank you,” she managed to say, though her words remained as shaky as her form.
“I have great faith in you, but also high expectations.”
She managed a smile, exhausted as it was.
“Do you know any spells for cleanliness?”
Flowridia shook her head.
“You have an image to maintain,” he replied, making great strides toward the saddlebags. He withdrew what appeared to be a small bean. “There is a saying, that those granted power have the obligation and responsibility to wield it. Your power dictates your status, and you must live up to that.”
“So I’m not allowed to look like the dirty orphan I am?”
She teased, but he looked almost annoyed. “You are an adult woman and ought to appear more as one,” he replied and he offered her the strange, greenish bean. “Attach this to your clothing. It will not clean you, but your garments will be maintained.”