Tale of the Necromancer by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

8

Gideon stood slowlyfrom his chair, seething in rage. If he could ignite Leopold where he stood, he would have done so. Sadly, that was not his gift. Even if he did have plenty of other means of murdering the boy.

He was meant to be dead and gone. And now, on the eve of my wedding day? How dare he! Gideon’s fists clenched at his sides as he glowered at the other man, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

“Demon. Monster! Fiend.” Leopold stepped farther into the room and pulled his sword from his sheath.

“You accuse my advisor of a great many things,” Catherine interrupted the exchange harshly. “What proof have you, bastard son of the man who murdered my husband?”

“We were not two miles from the jousting grounds when my father turned on me with a knife, your majesty.” Leopold motioned to the bloody bandage wrapped around his side. “After I bested him, he called that bastard master and told me, as tears welled in his eyes, that he did not wish to do the deed but that he had no choice.”

“And what about that statement makes this man a necromancer, and not merely convincing?” Catherine arched an eyebrow.

“For no matter how many times I ran him through with my blade, he would not die. And…” He winced. “Because my father told me of these things after I had cut his head from his shoulders.” His gaze flicked to Marguerite, concern flashing over him instantly. “Marguerite—”

“Leo!” His future bride moved to join her friend.

He caught her wrist before she could escape and yanked her back to his side. “Lies,” Gideon huffed. “The fanciful tales of a jealous man who abandoned his fiancée and now finds himself sorely lacking. You seek to blacken my reputation merely to have her back.”

“I agree with Dr. Faust. Begone, Leopold. You are no longer welcome here.” Catherine gestured to dismiss him.

When one of the guards stepped forward, Leopold turned and growled at the man. “You know I could kill you where you stand, Bernard.”

The guard in question took a step back.

Marguerite tugged on her wrist in his grasp. “Let me go, Johann. Let me speak with him.”

“You will be silent,” he snapped at her without intending to. She jerked in shock at his harsh tone and looked up at him in fear and uncertainty. Checking his anger, he sighed. “He is delusional. He could be dangerous.”

“He’s my best friend…please, Johann.”

His jaw ticked. He wanted to give her whatever she wished for. If she begged for the moon, he would find a way to pluck it from the heavens. But this? This, he could not allow. “No. You are to be my wife. I will not risk him abducting you.”

“Let her go, you monster!” Leopold took another step forward, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. “Or I will kill you where you stand.”

“You would not escape this palace alive, boy.” Catherine chuckled. “What do you hope to prove?”

“I do not need to escape alive. I merely need to kill him.” Leopold squared his shoulders. “Face me, necromancer.”

“What?” He arched an eyebrow at the other man. “Are you jesting?”

“No. I challenge you to a duel to the death.”

“Leave here, boy.” Gideon sneered. “I will not waste my time with you. I have no desire to kill you this night.”

“You will not have to worry about that. I hereby challenge you, and your honor, to a fight to the death, necromancer.”

“No—” Marguerite tugged on her wrist again. “Do not do this. Please, both of you—do not do this!”

Gideon laughed, and with a small shove that was perhaps harder than he intended, he pushed Marguerite back into her chair and faced the brave fool who had signed his own death warrant. “Very well, boy. I accept your challenge.”

Catherine sighed and shook her head. “Do it outside. Do not ruin my floors.”

“No! You cannot do this. Leopold, leave—go—I am all right. Please, leave me here.”

“Never.” The younger man shook his head, turning his attention to Marguerite. His expression grew mournful and sad. “You are my best friend in this world, and without you, I fear I will not know what to do with myself. I will rescue you from this demon and send him back to the pits where he belongs.”

“Demon.” Gideon chuckled. “You know not of which you speak.”

“It does not matter. One of us dies here tonight.” Leopold smirked. “And I believe it will be you.”

He grinned viciously. I highly doubt that, boy. I very highly doubt that.

* * *

Marguerite hadto be restrained by a guard to keep from flying in between the two men. She did not know when she began to cry. It was so frequent these days that she barely noticed when it began and stopped.

For a moment, she had hoped it would be an easy match. Leopold had several inches and perhaps fifty stones of muscle on Dr. Faust. But as Johann had shed his cloak, she was reminded there was more to the doctor than met the eye at first glance. The man was slimmer built than Leopold, and he lacked the bulky muscle that defined her friend. But he moved with a smoothness and grace that worried her.

And when she saw how easily he handled the silver rapier he had fetched from his room, her worry turned to terror.

Each man fought with a sword and a dagger.

They ignored her pleas. If she raised her voice, the guard shook her roughly on the shoulder. She was forced to stay quiet. But it took all her strength to swallow her cries as the fight began.

Leopold was stronger. He hit harder.

But Johann had speed…and skill. The man fought as though he were merely in a dance. As though his life were not at stake. He dodged and parried Leopold’s strokes with practiced ease.

But that was not to say that Leopold was entirely outclassed. He was a soldier, and one of the best she had ever seen. Where Johann seemed to treat the duel with a casual air, Leopold fought with drive and passion, putting every ounce of strength he owned into each strike.

The moments dragged on, seemingly without end. Swords clashed, and the sound of steel ringing out mixed with her choked sobs as she watched in horror.

Her heart leapt into her throat as Leopold managed to get in close for a strike. He dug his dagger deep into Johann’s stomach. It was hard to tell from where she stood, but it seemed as though it had sunk in deep to the hilt.

Johann gagged in pain.

And then drove his own dagger into Leopold’s throat. He stuck the blade in from the side and yanked, slicing her friend’s throat open from side to side with one, vicious, tearing rip.

Blood gushed from the wound, instantly soaking him in shades of deep crimson.

His eyes went wide. And glassy.

Marguerite did not even scream before she fainted.

* * *

When she woke,she was in her bed. A damp cloth was being dabbed to her forehead. But it was the smell of something near her that jarred her out of her sleep. It was the smell of spices, of petrichor, and…of blood.

She jolted in shock, whirling and smacking the hand away from her face. She looked up at the tired and strained expression of Johann Faust. “I—”

“Shush, Marguerite…” He frowned as he placed the damp cloth to her head again. “You are safe.”

“L…Leo…?” Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was all an illusion. Perhaps—

Johann shook his head mournfully. His voice was deep, soft, and full of sadness. “Forgive me, my love…but I had no choice.”

“No. No. This cannot be real.” She sat up, plucking the cloth from her head. “He cannot be dead. You—you—”

“He would have taken my life in turn. He nearly did.” It was only then that she noticed the bandage he wore around his midsection. It was stained a shade of red that looked darker than perhaps it should. “He challenged me, Marguerite. I did not wish to fight him. I told him to begone. I am sorry for what I have done, but I am not to blame for his death.”

Tears poured down her cheeks. She knew he was right. She had heard the exchange—she had witnessed it all. Leopold had demanded Johann’s honor.

Arms circled around her as she wept into her palms, and she did not have the strength to push him away.

But her best friend in the world…was dead.

At the hand of the man she was to wed on the morrow.

* * *

Numb.

That was what she was. Devoid of all things. Of emotion, of reaction…of caring. Her father was dead. Her family had shunned her. Her best friend in the world had died at the hand of the man who was now her husband.

The same man who was now walking her into a castle he claimed he owned, far away on the northern coast of Germany. He was being so patient with her, so kind and gentle—soothing and caring. She could not have asked him for more than what he gave her.

But it did not penetrate the strange, empty nothingness that filled her mind. It was not even a coldness, for a cold would imply that there was something there at all. It was merely …nothing.

Johann had murmured to her of traumatic experiences, and how this would all pass. How she would mend in time, and a new setting and a view of the coast would rejuvenate her before she knew it.

She remembered the wedding as if it had been a dream. She had stifled her tears long enough to take part in the ceremony. Johann had looked overjoyed, as if he truly were the happiest man on Earth. It sat in stark contrast to her own mood.

Her family had not attended.

No one had attended.

It had just been her…the priest…and her husband.

And the carriage had waited for them outside the palace.

Leopold was dead, and she did not even have the chance to place flowers on his grave.

They had ridden through the night, and she had slept leaning against Johann, lulled to a strange restless peace by his warmth and his strength. His wound was healing quickly—she was impressed he had survived at all, as he had said. It should have been deep. It should have been a killing blow.

Luck, he said.

The first night they stayed in a tavern along the road, she expected him to make good on their marriage. She was his wife. She was his property. Her body was his to take. She lay on the bed in her shift, waiting for the inevitable to come.

She had expected to dread the moment. Or perhaps to be excited about it. Johann was beautiful, handsome, and passionate. She had no doubt that he would not hurt her, and that the night would be enjoyable.

Yet she did not care.

For she felt nothing at all.

But as he disrobed down to his breeches—which should have been a distracting sight, had her mind and soul not been stolen away by death itself—he made no advances upon her.

There was only grief and regret in his eyes as he lay on the bed beside her. He held her to him, kissed the back of her head, and murmured words of love to her.

Every night in roadside taverns went precisely the same way.

But now they were in his castle. His home. The servants who cared for it kept it in meticulous condition while he was away. It was enormous and lavish, and while it did not match the ostentatiousness of the palace, she knew he had not been bluffing in regard to his wealth and standing.

“Do you like it?”

“It is beautiful.” She found herself studying a large painting over the fireplace. It was a landscape scene of a city she did not recognize. It was surrounded on three sides by water, and along another, a large wall. The buildings were packed close together, and the architecture was foreign to her.

“Constantinople. Istanbul, now. But that is a depiction of the way it was before Mehmet the Conqueror and his siege.”

“Oh.” She had nothing else to say.

Hands rested on her shoulders, and he tenderly kissed the back of her head. “Do you know much of history?”

“No more than what stretches to the edges of France, and enough of English history to know why we are to dislike them. It is not a ladylike pursuit.” A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. It was the first emotion she had felt since Leopold died. Perhaps it was not the best place to start, but it was a start, nonetheless.

“Speak no more of what it means to be a lady in this household. My library is yours. My knowledge is yours. My wealth, my power, all that I am is yours.” His arms slid around her waist, and he held her against his chest in an embrace.

She could not help but let her eyes slip shut as she leaned against him. “And you have taken all I am in return.”

“No. I have taken your hand in marriage, that is all. I will steal nothing more of you—this, I swear.” He turned her to face him, and to her shock, he dropped to one knee before her, clutching her hands. “I will not ask of you to give me your heart or your body, Marguerite…I will not demand these things from you. If you wish to give them to me, I am a pauper begging upon your doorstep, and I will praise your name until the day I am dust.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “Have we found ourselves on stage without me noticing it? Or are you always this unduly theatrical?”

He laughed and bowed his head to her hands, kissing her fingers. “Perhaps a little.” He stood from the ground but did not release her hands. “You are home now, my princess. I hope this place becomes your salvation. I hope you come to love it here—and to love me. But I will not expect any of this from you.”

“And what if I do not come to love you at all? What then?”

His expression fell, and for a moment she regretted her words. She did not like to see him in pain. “I…if you truly could not…then…I would let you go. You are not my prisoner. This is no ivory tower in which I have locked you away. I would not have some fair-haired country boy coming to rescue—” He broke off, wincing as if she had slapped him, as he instantly realized his mistake.

Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. The first she had shed since the night Leopold had died.

My knight lies dead in his grave. There is no one to save me. All that I knew and loved is gone. And now I am here, and I am lost.

He gathered her up into his arms and led her to a nearby chaise lounge. He sat down, and for a moment she went stiff as he pulled her onto his lap, sitting sideways across his legs. He leaned back against the wall and held her to his chest.

They said nothing as she wept. He merely held her, humming some unknown tune, his voice deep and rumbling against her. The sound of it lulled her exhausted mind into silence.

Blessed sleep came for her, and it was a dreamless darkness.

I am lost. But I am not alone.

I must remember that.