Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

10

Gideon heldher hand as he led her down into the lower levels of his castle. He carried a lit lantern as he descended the stairs, holding it aloft to light their way. She stayed close to him, her hand tightly clutching his. She was afraid.

She should be.

She very much should be.

He should be overjoyed. She accepted his darker nature without barely missing a beat. She was already calling him Gideon and seemed to empathize with why he had lied about his past to the court. She had kissed him for the very first time.

But it was not happiness that burned in him. It was a strange kind of anger. Everything was going so well. And now…now it will all be ruined.

Perhaps it could be salvaged. Leopold knew nothing of consequence to jeopardize the house of cards that he had built. Summoning his soul from the beyond would be a painful reminder of his loss that would hurt Marguerite’s progress of dealing with her grief. Or, perhaps, it might aid it. There was something to be said of saying goodbye.

No, it was not over his endangered plans that he was angry. Because that was not the only emotion that twisted in his stomach.

It was shame.

He had lied to her.

After promising that he would not, after giving her his vow, he had lied.

Yes, Marguerite. I commanded Leopold’s father to kill him. And I am furious that he failed. For if he had succeeded, you would have gone through the rest of our eternity together believing your friend had merely abandoned you.

And if you knew that I commanded the man who sired your friend…then it is an easy leap to deduce that I am responsible for the death of your father.

He had to lie. There was no other option. To tell her the truth would be to end all his careful work in bringing her here. He would tell her someday, long in the future when she was immortal, her love was his, and they were bound together as one. When he was certain she could forgive him.

But it hurt him to speak false when she had looked at him with such vulnerable hope and trust. It had hurt him deeply. Killing her father, and killing her friend, were means to an end. He did not wish them ill for personal reasons. But he had spoken true to her in every other regard. Most importantly, when he told her that he had to have her. She had to be his. He could not continue through the world without her at his side.

And so…they had to die.

And he had to keep his influence in it a secret.

When they reached his basement laboratory, he passed her the lantern, fished the iron key from his pocket, and undid the heavy lock that held the wooden door shut. Swinging it open, he retrieved the lantern from her and stepped inside. Taking the lit candle, he began to illuminate the stone chamber.

She stepped inside after him, clearly eager not to be lost in the all-encompassing darkness of the windowless stone hallways. As his far more secret and private place of study came into focus as he lit the candles, he heard her gasp.

Yes, he supposed it would be something to see. He was simply used to it. The center of the room was dominated by a large white circle painted permanently on the surface. It allowed him to change the shapes within and alter the magic as he saw fit, but the circle was constant, so he opted to paint it.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked several high, stretching up to the stone ceiling overhead. They were not only lined with books…but with the tools of his trade.

Skulls. Bones. Knives. Needles and thread. Jars of dark liquid that he could identify as blood, but she would likely only be able to guess at.

And a large birdcage sat in the corner—an aviary of sorts. When the creature within shifted, ruffling her feathers, Marguerite let out another loud gasp.

“Oh—Oh, God.”

Shrugging his robes from his shoulders, he placed it on the back of his chair. It was too warm in the room with no ventilation. Picking up a scrap of dried meat from his main desk, he walked to the aviary and reached a hand through the bars. “Hello, Eurydice,” he murmured to the undead vulture. “Forgive me for leaving you here alone for so long.”

His familiar ripped the dried meat from his hand and swallowed it down. It was clear the undead, rotted bird was irritated. He did not blame her.

When he heard footsteps, he turned to his bride. He had expected her to flee from the room—racing into the pitch-black darkness of the basement and screaming until unconsciousness took her. But instead, she was creeping toward the aviary. Her eyes were wide as disks, and she was clearly terrified.

Yet slowly, step by step, she approached the cage.

And with each cautious movement closer, his hope for her swelled.

Eurydice turned her head to peer at the young woman, the empty socket holding no eye with which to see. But it did not stop her from seeing all the same. Marguerite jolted in shock as the creature moved, and she hesitated, but then took another step closer.

“She is my familiar.”

Marguerite did not take her eyes from the vulture. And once more, Gideon learned not to underestimate her. “You keep her locked away down here, in the darkness, all alone in silence? How utterly cruel.” She furrowed her brow. “Will you treat me the same way in time?”

“I—” He stammered. He felt his neck go warm. He was being scolded like a child, and he did not know what to do with that. “I—well—” When Eurydice turned her attention back to him, seconding the young girl’s opinion of his negligence, the heat that rushed over him in a fresh wave of shame was nearly overwhelming. “I—I could not very well let her loose about the castle, terrorizing you, and—”

“Just me?” Marguerite glanced to him but could not take her eyes off the bird. “Not your servants?”

“They are—ah—well—” Damn, damn, damn, damn!

“They are all dead, too.”

Silence. When she fixed him with a glare, he muttered a sheepish “yes” and found he had to look away.

She sighed drearily. “I am in a castle of the dead. Fantastic.” She stepped up to the bars. “Will she hurt me?”

“No.”

In another action that shocked him, and one he likely should have stopped but found himself unable to do so, she yanked the iron bar from the door to the aviary, pulled the door open, and stood aside. “Go on.”

Eurydice hopped from her perch and half-flew, half-jumped to the ground at Marguerite’s feet. The bird ruffled her feathers, peered up at her, and let out a strange cooing noise. Marguerite smiled. “You’re rather hideous, but I suppose you cannot help it. Regardless, you seem to be sentient. You are a bird. You are meant to fly. You do not belong in this basement.”

Gideon could sense his familiar’s amusement with the young girl. Amusement and instantly earned friendship. While his familiar was a curt, cold, and unaffectionate creature, Marguerite had just earned her respect. The bird hopped from the room, unable to spread her large wings in such an enclosed space.

“Never, ever, keep her locked away again. Or any of your sentient creations.” She tossed aside the metal rod that kept the aviary door closed, the sound of the metal clattering on stone nearly deafening in the enclosed space. “Do you hear me?”

“Y—yes—I—” Shame welled in him once more. “I had no choice. I do not enjoy keeping her hidden, but—”

“Never again. And I do not know how one properly apologizes to a dead vulture, but you will do it.”

He swallowed and bowed his head. “Yes, my princess.”

It was only when he looked back up that he realized she was shaking. Positively trembling. For all the strength in her voice, it seemed she was not immune to the shock and horror of what she had just witnessed.

“Gideon? I—I think I believe you now, about the magic…” Her world had been upended once more. When her knees buckled, he rushed to her side to catch her. Her eyes were glassy and dim, and she blinked them rapidly as she struggled to come back to the waking world.

“It’s all right, Marguerite. I have you. You are safe.” He lifted her into his arms at the same moment her head rolled back.

You command me like you are my queen, and then promptly faint from terror.

What an odd creature you are.

And I did not think I could possibly love you more, yet here I am, proven wrong once again.

* * *

Marguerite came backto the world and found herself sitting in the chair at Johann’s—Gideon’s—desk. His dark robes were gathered around her, dwarfing her and swallowing her in their warmth. They smelled like him—like spices and petrichor. Despite all that had just happened, she found it comforting. He was kneeling at her feet, looking up at her in concern.

“I did not think myself one for fainting until you entered my life.” She groaned and rubbed her face. “It is becoming embarrassing.”

“I believe each time you have been justified in the act.” He chuckled and stroked her cheek. “Think nothing of it. Come, let us go back upstairs. You can drink a bottle of wine if you wish, and we will discuss what you have seen in front of a warm fire.”

It was tempting. It was very tempting. But she braced herself, swallowed through the thickness in her throat, and shook her head. “No. I can do this. But I will take you up on your offer once this is through.”

He smiled. “You may need something stronger than wine at that point, I fear.” He stood and crossed to a bookshelf at the other end of the room. Retrieving a bowl filled with white bits of chalk and a long wooden stick that seemed hollow in the middle—she could not identify from what plant or tree it had grown. It looked like a reed, but not like any she had ever seen. “What is that?”

“Bamboo. It grows in the east. And it is perfect for this.” Placing the bowl of chalk on a small table beside the painted circle, he plucked a piece of the white substance from it and tucked it into the end of the reed. It fit snugly and did not fall out when he turned it over.

“Huh. Clever.”

“I tire of crouching to do my work.” And to work, he went. She watched in eager fascination as he used the bamboo to draw on the floor.

“Do you not need a book?”

“I have memorized this particular spell.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled at her response. “I did not lie about my skill, my love. I am practiced in the magical arts—and I suppose, most substantially, the dark ones.”

“I am married to a master necromancer.” She said it to herself aloud in hopes it might help to sink in. “I am married to a master necromancer.”

Turning to her, he paused in his work, a sympathetic smile etched on his face, though there was only sorrow in his eyes. “Does this trouble you, my princess?”

“I do not honestly know. I believe I have not yet determined how I feel on the subject. It certainly is a bit…theatrical.”

Laughing quietly, he turned back to his work. “I had hoped to introduce you to this part of me more gently. But it seems you are wont to turn over rocks to see what you might find beneath.”

“It seems so. I did not know this about myself.”

“It is astonishing what you learn about yourself when you are tested. I hope this is the end of what you will have to endure from me.”

“Somehow I doubt that. But I appreciate the sentiment.” She smirked and leaned her elbow on his desk and propped her chin on her hand. A human skull sat on the wood surface not far from her, its jaw removed. She hoped it was not sentient. She wanted to explore his collection, morbid and frightening as it was, but she could not tear her eyes away from the symbol he was drawing on the floor. She worked hard to commit it to her memory.

When he was finished, he stood back and placed the reed of bamboo against the wall. He gestured to the symbol. “Now, it is up to you.”

“What?” She blinked.

“We shall see if you have the talent for magic or not. Come, stand within the circle. You are the one with the connection to Leopold, not I. Summoning the dead against their will is painful for both parties—and I suspect he does not wish to speak to me.” He frowned.

“No, I would guess not.” Standing from the chair, she crept toward the circle, staring down at the symbol. “What else is needed? Incantations? A bowl of blood?”

“Nothing but the will required. In time, you may learn to do this without even the symbol. Magic is merely the strength of your soul working within the universe around you. All the rest are tools, meant to assist. You can kill a man with your bare hands, or you may use poison, a knife, or a bludgeon. The act is the same.”

“You have the tone of a tutor. Have you taught many magicians in your day?”

“Never once.” He smiled. “You are my first, princess.”

“You have a talent for it.”

Still smiling gently, he bowed at the waist. “Now…step within the circle and focus. Find him where he sleeps and knock upon the door. Call him to you.”

Cautiously, wondering if it might turn into some endless pit beneath her, she took a step into the circle. Nothing happened. She glanced to Gideon nervously. “I do not know what to do.”

“Shut your eyes. Think of him. Reach out through the veil…and knock. He will answer. He will come to you.”

Taking in a deep breath, she slowly let it out in a long rush. “I do not think it will work.”

“You have not tried, silly thing.”

Shutting her eyes, she squared her shoulders and tried to do as he said. She focused on the world outside of her. The stone floor beneath her feet, the walls, the air that was cool and thick and musty in that way that all basements were. She took another deep breath and slowly let it out.

And then she felt it at her feet. A strange…sensation was the only word for it that she could summon. There was no other way to describe it. It was not heat. It was not cold. It was not like the presence of a storm before the rain. It simply was.

She felt as though she were standing upon a raft at sea. No, even that was not quite right. It was as though around her was the ocean, raging and swirling, but she herself stood on solid ground. She was immovable, in the torrenting rage of power around her. “The symbol. It is a shelter, not a door…”

“Yes. Yes, princess. That is precisely right.” He sounded so very proud. Overjoyed, even. “Soon will come the time you can weather the storm without its aid.”

She was not so certain of that, but it was a nice thought. The power around her was overwhelming. Like the raging winds of a hurricane, yet silent and still all at once. It made her skin crawl.

It did not matter. She had a mission. She reached out her hand in front of her. But in truth, she tried to reach it out into that strangeness around her. She tried to reach out…and find her friend. “Leopold.”

She whispered his name. But she summoned to her mind every memory of him she could. Lying in a field, watching the clouds, laughing and holding hands. All the years of training her uselessly with a sword for naught but bruises and skinned knees.

All the laughter. All the tears. All the times they had merely just been. Her friend. Her companion. The man she would have married to save him from the shame he would have endured.

The one she did not know how she could live without. “Leopold.”

It was not that something took her hand. It was not a physical touch. But she felt something reach back to her. Something brushed against her very soul and stepped forward from the veil.

“Marguerite?”