Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

15

Marguerite yanked pointlesslyon the doorknob. It would not turn. With both hands, she grasped it and rattled the wood slab against its hinges. Letting out a whine of frustration, she finally gave up and kicked it with her bare foot.

Which was a mistake. She hopped, hissing and swearing under her breath in pain. She was still covered in cuts and bruises from her attempted escape. Limping back to the bed, she sat on the edge of it.

Their bed.

At some point while she had been unconscious—again—he had bathed and bandaged her. She would feel indignant about it, if she had not known the other option was that he leave her naked and coated in the dried blood of the mercenaries. She honestly preferred it this way.

When she woke up, he had been gone. His side of the bed was still made, the lines of the linen crisp and showing that he had not slept there that night.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she bit back a fresh flood of tears. He had locked her inside their bedroom. She supposed that was not a surprise. Better here, where there were windows—also locked—than some dank, dark hole in the castle basement.

“What am I to do?”

She said it aloud, knowing no one was there to answer her. Or perhaps there is. Perhaps this place is filled with spirits that do his bidding. She shivered at the thought and decided to keep her thoughts internal from that point on.

Unless the dead could read minds.

She did not think they could. But then again, she was not certain they could not. Placing her head in her hands, she ran through the options before her. But found she quite literally had none. Well, that was not entirely true. She had two.

Endure whatever torture Gideon would levy against her for her transgressions…

Or shatter the window with the end table and jump to her death.

Neither seemed pleasant. But the latter seemed far more so than the former. And so, she lay back on the bed, stretched her arms wide, and waited for Gideon to return.

She did not have to wait for long.

When the door clicked open, she leapt from the bed to put as much distance between her and the man who walked inside. But he was not a man, was he? No. He was a wraith. A demon of the shadows. She shuddered at the memory of seeing his true self, and quickly found herself with her back pressed to the far wall.

Gideon shut the door behind him, his expression unreadable. He carried a tray of food—bread and butter, and a small jug of water. Without speaking, he placed it on a table by the opposite wall.

They watched each other for a long moment, neither moving, neither speaking. With a long sigh, he finally shook his head, walked to the edge of the bed—their bed—and sat down. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“You are a wraith.”

“Lich.” He smirked, but the expression did not reach the hardness in his eyes. “There is a difference. I had hoped to teach those designations to you. I hope I still can.”

Trying not to panic, she took in a slow breath and let it out. She believed him that he did not wish to hurt her. If he wanted her dead or maimed, he would have likely done it already. But he was a monster. And there was one burning question in her mind that would quickly settle whether or not he was her enemy. “Am I now your prisoner?”

Silence.

He nodded once.

At least he was honest with her. At least he did not try to claim this was anything else. She respected him for that. He was still a murderous, evil, inhuman “lich,” but she could respect his honesty.

Those silver eyes of his slid shut. “You were going to let those men have you.” There was such defeat in his voice, such sadness, that she could not help but suddenly feel…guilty for what she had nearly done. Not just that, but shame.

Clenching her fists, she tried to hold on to her dignity. “I had no choice. Nothing else with which to barter.”

“So you said.” He opened his eyes again and shifted his attention down to his lap. He turned his palms up, as if pondering his own existence. “As a man, I am jealous. As your husband, I am furious. But in all other ways, I cannot fault you. In your position, with your gender, I do not think I would have acted differently.”

That was a vision I never needed.Any other day, perhaps she would have laughed. Instead, she forced the tension out of her limbs as best she could. “You murdered everyone.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Simply to block off my path to escape.”

“Yes.”

“How many lay dead? How many souls are gone now, in the hopes of keeping me here?”

Gideon paused for a long moment before he answered slowly. “I fear…I did not keep count. Twenty or more. Perhaps forty.”

With a cringe, she felt the tears rise up in her again as she grappled with those numbers. They did not seem real. Dozens of poor, innocent lives were ended because of her. If she had only stayed here…if she had sacrificed herself to the monster, they would still be alive. Guilt and shame wracked her worse than it had before, easily eclipsing her act of infidelity. When she spoke, her voice was caught in a whisper. “It cannot be that I am so important to you as to take the lives of an entire village. I cannot be worth all those lives.”

“To me…you are. Without a shadow of a doubt.” He let out a long, heavy sigh and pushed up to his feet with the weariness of a man far older than he appeared. “There are no other towns that you can reach. The horses are all my creations, and they answer only to me. They shall not give you passage. My servants shall not aid you. All doors leading from the castle shall remained locked at all times. All windows shall be kept closed. I shall not confine you to this room, Marguerite, but you shall not leave these walls without me at your side.”

The reading of her rights as a prisoner. “Let me go, Gideon.”

“Never.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Sliding down the surface of the wall to the floor, she sat there and did the only thing she could think of to do.

She wept.

* * *

It wasas the sun was setting that starvation sent her from her position on the floor in search of food. She had not eaten a proper meal in two days, and the bread Gideon had brought her had only done so much to settle the growling in her stomach.

I would make a terrible peasant.

As she walked along the hallways and corridors that she had slowly become familiar with, she found their nature entirely soured in her mind. She jumped at every shadow and recoiled from every servant who passed her. They looked at her in sadness, as if they were well aware of the reason for her newfound avoidance of them.

They are all dead.

They are all his creations.

She truly was such a naïve thing, wasn’t she? To have dabbled so readily in dark magic, not understanding the reality of it? The true darkness that beat at its core? It was one thing to be tempted with the promise of the power to speak to her beloved dead.

But to command the flesh of corpses? To make them stand, and walk, and feign life?

It raised the bile in her stomach.

I am a child. He is right in that. I know nothing of the world around me. Least of all…him. What was I thinking?But for the moment, her self-loathing would have to take a step back. Her stomach was attempting to devour itself in desperation, and she could smell food coming from the dining room.

As she passed the door, she saw Gideon sitting at the table by himself, a plate in front of him, the silver cloche still covering his plate. Another one sat at his righthand side. His elbow was propped on the arm, his temple resting on his closed fist.

He looked…

Miserable.

Utterly miserable.

And if she were not mistaken, his eyes were tinged red as if he, too, had been crying. Certainly not. A wraith—lich—certainly did not weep. Yet had she not just been ruminating on her ignorance of the world? What did she know of such things?

What am I to do?

Her stomach growled, answering the question for her. And it did so audibly enough that Gideon’s attention lifted from the covered plate in front of him. He glanced to her briefly before returning. “You may take your plate and go, if you wish.”

Did she wish to dine with him? No.

Was she starving? Yes.

Did some strange, pathetic part of her feel guilty for causing him pain? Yes.

That last piece was an emotion she sought to quickly ignore. But something else nagged at her—the sad reality of her situation. She was married to a monster, and now had been imprisoned in his castle. She was living the worst manner of fairytale, save that there was no shining prince coming to rescue her.

My hero is already dead, murdered at the monster’s hand. Therefore, she had only herself to rely upon for her escape. And she could not do so with the doors and windows locked and barred. If I am to find a way to escape…I need to regain his trust.

It meant swallowing her fear and her pride. It meant allowing herself to edge dangerously close to the monster but keeping herself away from the snap of its teeth. While it was not her flesh that was in danger—he had proven that he had no intention of harming her—she feared for something greater now.

Her soul.

With a long exhale, she headed into the dining room and cautiously sat at the setting that had been put out for her. “I cannot hide from you in this place. There is no point in pretending that I can.”

Lifting the cloche from the plate, she set it aside. There were no servants in the room to do it for her, and she was honestly glad for the privacy. Judging by the temperature of the food before her—steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes—dinner had been here some time, and they had likely all been sent away.

Picking up her knife, she hesitated. “Is this meat from a cow?”

He huffed something that could have been a laugh in a former life. “Yes.”

“Good. At least you are not serving me the villagers you roasted. I will at least thank you for that.” She began to eat, trying to pace herself, lest she get sick. Or look like a barbarian.

“The thought had not even crossed my mind.”

“Small favors.” She gestured at his own covered plate with her knife, prompting him to eat. He arched an eyebrow at the gesture but sat forward nonetheless and did as he was instructed. They ate in silence for a time before she felt she could dare to take a sip of the red wine sitting in a goblet in front of her. Alcohol had always affected her strongly, and especially so if she had nothing but a quarter of a baguette in her stomach over two days’ time.

Finally, she felt as though she could work up the courage to do what needed to be done. Sitting back in her chair, she took her wine goblet with her so that she had something to sip and fiddle with. “I am…I am sorry, Gideon.”

“Do not pay me the insult of lying to me.”

“No. I do not regret running away. I would do it again, if I had the opportunity and thought I stood a chance of survival.” This game must be played slowly. He will not believe a sudden change of heart. “But for the men I sought to—to employ—for that, I am sorry. I was terrified, desperate, and I reacted poorly to the truth of your nature. I know what you said to me last night is true. I could not trust them, and I was a child to think that I could. I was helpless and without a shred of defense against them.”

And to an extent, the words were true. She saw the reason and logic in his words, and knew he was right. But she also knew that had not mattered. She had one coin with which to pay for her escape. Given the chance to do so again, she would likely make the same choice.

He studied her, searching for the lie, and seemed to find none. “You are…forgiven, Marguerite.” His voice softened. “And I, for my part, also reacted poorly.”

My poor choices would have only potentially ended with my throat slit after they finished using my body. Your poor choice ended in the brutal murder of nearly forty people.

He continued, oblivious to her thoughts. “Take pity on a man who found his wife in such a state.”

“I do.” She shook her head. “I believe there are many men who would have committed murder in such a moment. Your methods were…more spectacular, perhaps, than most. But I will not pretend a mortal human could not do the same.” She paused. “Now you have referenced yourself twice as a man. Are you able to lay claim to such a thing, given you are a wraith—”

“Lich.”

She rolled her eyes. “—as you are?”

“I do not know by what means I am meant to measure. In my humors, I am male. I have the urges of a man. I have the mindset of a man. Despite the fact that my human cage may come and go as I wish it, I would call that enough.” His mood improved at the chance to discuss something that did not revolve around their current predicament.

She pondered his words for a moment then nodded. “But what precisely are you? What is a lich?”

“The rules of my existence are not well defined, even to me. I am still discovering it to this day. But the heart of your question, I believe, comes at the nature of my physical state. This thing that you see before you is no more representative of my true self than your body is to your own immortal soul.”

She supposed that made some manner of sense. “You can control your shape at will?”

“Yes.”

“This…thing I see before me, then, what sculpts it?”

“My own mind. I can change it if I wish. It is just more difficult to maintain a form that is not natural to my own identity. Think of Leopold, as he appeared to you as a spirit. What gave him that resemblance? Whatever it was that makes his soul his, I presume.” He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Do these topics interest you, my love?”

Nodding, she found it was not a lie. Her curiosity over the soul—over magic—was real. Even if she found her tutor was one she did not wish to keep.

A faint smile, one that dripped of hope, crossed his features. Dinner finished, they pondered each other over their respective glasses of wine. His silver eyes seemed to constantly be searching hers for something. What it was, she did not know.

Finally, he spoke. “Give me a chance to win you, Marguerite…to show you that I am not some terrible, cruel monster.”

“The village—”

“Was a rash act.” He shook his head. “One I regret. We have both done deeds we would rather move past, have we not?”

I am still not certain the deeds equate in any way, shape, or form. “Yes, I suppose we have.”

He leaned forward and reached out to place his hand atop hers. It took every ounce of strength she had not to jerk away from his touch. “Give me a chance to win your love.”

“And if you cannot…?”

He smiled sadly. “Then you will be free.”

It was then that she came to the horrifying realization that he was lying to her. No creature destroyed an entire village to keep something he would be willing to release.

The only way she was going to escape this place was by her own hands.

I need a plan. Simply earning his trust is not enough. But she was a child playing at escape against something she still could not truly comprehend. What chance did she stand against Gideon? None. She needed help. But what help was there to be found around her? Every servant within the walls was his undead creation. She was alone.

Or am I?

Chewing her lip, she fidgeted with her goblet.

“What is it, princess?” He squeezed her hand gently.

“If I—” She hesitated, struggling to find her words. She was grasping at the edge of a cliff over which she dangled, and she quickly needed to learn how to climb. Deceit and manipulation were not skills she possessed. Yet she had to try, all the same. “If I am to give you this chance to win me, as you request, I need to come to terms with what you are. To find myself not so horrified at what manner of monster I now sleep beside.”

His expression fell, but he did not seem offended. Merely wounded.

She continued. “I must be at peace with the monster before I might learn to love him.” She could not look at him while she talked any longer, turning her attention back to the wine in her goblet. “Let me be there with you while you work. I wish to watch you perform your magic and your research.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers gently. “Nothing in this world would make me happier. Of course. And…thank you. I know times have not been kind to you of late. But let this be the valley and let us climb from it together. Agreed?”

I need help. And I know precisely how to get it.

Summoning the strength from somewhere she did not know, she smiled faintly at him. She did not try to hide her nervousness or her fear of him. There would be no point in making the attempt. “Yes, agreed.”

God help me.