Gerain dismissed the map from view, satisfied he was safe. The Alliance of the Seven Suns wouldn’t reach him, no matter how large their armies grew.

He wondered if any of them knew why they fought, or the origin of their name. It was doubtful that many of them were true descendants of the seven sons of Shin-To, if any were at all. And Gerain was sure that none of them even knew the truth of the seven sons.

And this he did recall, without needing to scroll back through his endless history.

The origin of the dispute that had led him here.

*

A thousand years ago (more or less)

“Ho, Gerain, and where do you intend to travel, dressed in your finest robe as you are?”

The village blacksmith addressed the level 3 necromancer in friendly tones. Even if Gerain was considered an oddity in the fishing village, a practitioner of arts that were best left alone, he brought coin to it. Adventurers sought the mild-mannered necromancer and artificer for magical trinkets and warding spells. Gerain, though humble, was highly spoken of in this corner of his world. He had gained his two levels not through fighting and death but through long, hard study of his arts.

Gerain knew there was a limit to how far he could progress without engaging in quests or combat, but he refused to adopt the adventurer’s lifestyle. This was not from any moral issue with the slaughter and bloodshed which led to increased levels. It was more to do with the fact that his dread of death wouldn’t allow him to consider it. He had seen many adventurers pass through his fishing village, leaving as a fresh faced party of seven and returning as a scarred, grim faced party of three. Or not returning at all.

“I have a summons,” Gerain nodded, “King Shin-To himself has requested that I attend his court on a matter most urgent.”

“The king has summoned you?” The blacksmith’s bushy eyebrows raised in surprise. “On what business?”

“Of this they have not informed me,” Gerain replied. “Although I would suspect that it has something to do with my magics.”

“This sounds most probable. And yet what could you offer that Shin-To’s more powerful magicians and sorcerers are not capable of?”

This was indeed a puzzle, but Gerain suspected that he knew the answer. Even though there were far more powerful magicians in the capital city of the kingdom of Tallis, there were few that practised the necromantic arts.

It wasn’t that speaking with the dead or even reanimating them was illegal, but it was frowned upon. Those who dabbled in the area were rarely viewed in a kindly manner, and indeed were often social outcasts. It was far more desirable to explore branches such as illusionism, sorcery, elementalism and so forth, than necromancy. Indeed, some religious orders insisted that raising the dead in any form was a blasphemous activity. In the outer lands they persecuted necromancers, although doing so in the kingdom of Tallis itself was forbidden, no matter how devout the reasoning.

Thus, the arts of necromancy were rarely studied, the tomes that contained knowledge of them locked away to gather dust.

Gerain understood none of this. Whilst there was much emphasis and value placed on discovering the elixir of life, and many rewards offered for its creation, there were few willing to study necromancy as a route to get there.

Gerain supposed that, at its core, this was a religious conflict. Since he had never been raised in a religious household - or if he had, he’d never paid much attention - these social mores held little sway over him. If anyone were to unlock the secret of immortality, Gerain was sure it would be done through the study of death and necromancy.

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Arriving in the capital city Alkabar had been a rude awakening for Gerain. This much, he recalled, as he gazed toward where Alkabar stood on the necropolis of his world.

Once it had been filled with noise, merchants, soldiers, the cries of the devout, races of all shapes and sizes running hither and thither. Gerain had gasped in astonishment as he had seen orcs carrying sacks of vegetables, goblins and dwarves hawking wares in the market place, elves with their fine clothes shops. He had clutched the letter he’d received, terrified that a skilled pickpocket would relieve him of it. To be summoned by the king was no minor matter. Yet for the hundredth time, as he clumsily navigated the bustling streets in search of reputable looking and yet inexpensive accommodation, he’d asked himself why he had accepted the summons.

On the one hand, it was from the king, and it had stated in no uncertain terms that there would be a punishment for refusing to obey the summons. But there was more to it than that. Gerain knew that if he could serve the king in whatever manner was required, there would be a reward. And Gerain knew what he wanted. Access to the tomes that were locked away and gathering dust in the magical library. Even a day spent with these would fill his mind with new ideas and possibilities.

A pail of dirty water was thrown from high above, drenching Gerain in filth. Gerain spluttered, furious that his finest robe had been soiled. He stared upwards at the offending window but saw no-one to whom he could direct a curse, of either the magical or mundane variety.

Wasting no further time, Gerain opted for as expensive accommodation as his meagre finances would allow. In his own village, Gerain was relatively wealthy, although he kept this hidden from all. Here in Alkabar, his coins seemed to be of negligible value.

Having secured a room in a flea-ridden tavern, he turned his attention to the next problem. His robe was now filthy and Gerain was forced to step into one of the elven clothes shops to buy another. The elf sniffed with disdain as Gerain entered. Whether it was from the comparative shoddiness of his garb or that Gerain had not been able to wash out the newly acquired smell wasn’t clear. Nevertheless, the elf fitted Gerain with a new robe, at an eye-watering price, and the young necromancer made his way to the palace of Shin-To, as instructed by his summons.

Gerain’s arrival at the palace was greeted with a flurry of activity. The guards escorted him from one room to the next, as Gerain gazed in bewildered awe at the wealth on display. Shin-To’s palace was a wonder to behold, containing riches beyond the young man’s dreams. At every corner it seemed there was a golden statue of the king, engaged in heroic defence of the kingdom of Tallis. He was guided through rooms which seemed to Gerain’s eyes to be the size of his own village. Most were filled with paintings of the King and monuments to his accomplishments.

And there, beside King Shin-To in many of the portraits, was his beloved wife, Queen Marissa of Thaven. Their marriage had united the two formerly warring kingdoms, bringing a lasting peace between them, and was famed for its longevity.

As the guards whisked Gerain through the corridors of the palace he saw further pictures, glimpsed as his escort pressed him forward. There was the first of Shin-To’s sons, then the second and the third, standing beside portraits of their father and mother.

It was these glimpses of the seven sons that should have informed Gerain that something was amiss. But he had little time to register that the seven sons seemed to be of diverse heritage. Here was one with darker skin than the others, and here was one with paler skin. Another had golden locks of hair, whilst this one had jet black curls. At least three of them appeared to be women rather than men, and Gerain could have sworn that one of Shin-To’s sons bore the unmistakable pointed ears of a half-elf.

Yet he was too overwhelmed by the wealth of the palace and the excitement of the summoning to take in the details of what he glimpsed, and thus dismissed these vague observations.

Had Gerain spent more time with the living than investigating the mysteries of the dead, he would doubtless have been more aware of the endless rumours about Queen Marissa and the seven sons that she had borne the senile King Shin-To.

But Gerain had never had any use for gossip, considering it a waste of his time.

The guards ushered him into a chamber twice the size of his modest dwelling in the fishing village and stood before the arch-chancellor, a man in his fifties with crafty eyes. The arch-chancellor went by the name of Kendar. He was a famed figure throughout the kingdom of Tallis, as it was he who had brokered the marriage between their kingdom and that of Thaven.

“You are the necromancer,” the arch-chancellor stated. He sized up the young man and appeared to find him lacking.

“I am, sir, and it is an honour to...”

The arch-chancellor waved an impatient hand at Gerain’s formality. He had no time for Gerain’s clumsy attempts at courtly speak.

“I have only one question for you, and I would advise you to answer with great care. Is it true what they say? Is it true that you can compel the dead to speak the truth?”