Gerain was astonished by the arch-chancellor’s question. That news of his unique ability had travelled to the palace was startling to him.

“It is true,” Gerain nodded, “I have indeed mastered the ability of compelling the dead to speak the truth. As I’m sure your excellency is aware, the art of allowing the dead to speak is a simple matter. However, I discovered that the dead, much like the living, are prone to lie when contacted. It is an interesting fact of whatever afterlife there may be that the dead seem as concerned with maintaining appearances from beyond as they do in life. Or perhaps, as some theorise, when we speak to the dead we are not speaking to them but to a shadow of a memory of their former living selves. For whatever reason, however, the dead are inclined to maintain the lies they established when they were alive.”

The arch-chancellor nodded. “And this became an issue when? Surely the dead should be left in peace and whatever lies they told best taken to their graves.”

“I do not disagree in principle, your excellency,” Gerain nodded, “But in my village I was tasked a year ago with uncovering the truth from a miserly man about where he had buried his fortune. This was so that his offspring, of which there were three, might better themselves. Even in death, however, this miser refused to give up the location of the wealth he had stored.”

“I see. Continue.”

“This was a most vexing situation for his offspring, who had come to me begging for my help. For three days I spoke with the father using a simple Speak with the Dead spell, and yet he would not yield. So I returned to my scrolls and manuscripts to see if there was any way to force him to tell the truth. You are aware of the cantrip Compel Truth?”

“A child’s spell,” the arch-chancellor replied.

This wasn’t true, although it was one of the lower level magician’s spells.

“Indeed, and one that only works on the living. However, I was able, through intense work, to integrate this spell with Speak with the Dead. It was no small feat, let me assure you...”

The arch-chancellor waved his hand, lacking the patience or interest to listen to a treatise on the intricacies of combining different magical disciplines into one.

“In summary, you were able to twist the Compel Truth and Speak with the Dead spell into one?”

“Indeed.”

Gerain puffed up his chest.

“I believe it is the first time this has been achieved.”

The arch-chancellor nodded. “I have had various magicians investigate this matter, and they assure me it is so. There are those who describe you as a prodigy, and those who claim you must be a fraud, that combining the two spells into one is impossible. So which is it? Prodigy or fraud? I would advise you that for your own sake, it would be better if you are the latter.”

Gerain was a young man, and proud of his achievements.

In retrospect, it was this pride that had caused much that followed. That and his relative naivety in terms of the way city folk spoke less plainly than, in his opinion, they should. He bristled at the suggestion that he was a fraud.

“I am no fraud, your excellency, of this I can assure you. More so, I can prove it, and will do so.”

Kendar attempted another approach.

“It seems unlikely that you, a simple youth from a fishing village, have been able to combine two separate magical disciplines into one. Wouldn’t you say?”

Gerain frowned.

Here again was another example of the city-folk’s way with words. Never quite stating outright what they meant to say. It was, to his ears, frustrating and obtuse. The villagers he had grown up with spoke plainly, with no room for ambiguity.

“That may be so, but I have achieved such,” he retorted.

“And yet,” the arch-chancellor continued, “There is an argument to be made that you have not. And that, in fact, this whole idea that you can compel the dead to speak the truth is a miscommunication. Something overheard, misheard, repeated and embellished until the truth of the matter, that you cannot do so, has been distorted to the opposite.”

Gerain frowned again.

It was almost painful to listen to the older man’s verbal contortions.

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Why would he not speak his mind?

To Gerain’s uncouth ears, the arch-chancellor was casting doubt on his abilities. The nuances were lost to him. That the arch-chancellor might, in fact, be attempting to hint to Gerain that it would be to his benefit not to reveal his hard-won magical skill escaped him. So rather than falsely admitting that there was no such spell that could compel the dead to speak the truth, Gerain reiterated his position.

“Your excellency, whilst I do not which to insult you, I must insist that I can, in fact, compel the dead to speak the truth. Moreover I am prepared to prove it.”

The arch-chancellor stared at the younger man in astonishment. Or at least, his left eyebrow twitched. To any that knew him, this subtle sign was a mark of astonishment.

Was the young man so dense that he could not pick up on what the arch-chancellor was telling him? Could Gerain not see that he was intimating that it would be healthier for himself, and indeed all concerned, if Gerain pretended he could not cast the spell?

He tried one last time.

“Young man, what I am trying to say to you is… there would be no shame if you failed to perform this feat. None at all. In fact, to fail would entail the same reward of your choice as it would to succeed. Arguably a failure would be met with higher regard.”

Gerain pondered this, but the arch-chancellor’s words made little sense to him. Why must the man speak in riddles? How could failure be rewarded more than success?

“Your excellency, I insist I am allowed the opportunity to prove the truth of my words.”

Kendar let out a heavy sigh. He had done the best that he could. There was nothing more he could do now than follow his king’s orders. He briefly toyed with the idea of simply killing Gerain, but too many people had seen the necromancer’s arrival. And, for all his wiles, the arch-chancellor was loyal to his king’s instructions and wishes.

“Very well,” he said, “You are to accompany me.”

Gerain was ushered through several more rooms and corridors in the palace. The arch-chancellor led, whilst two guards flanked the young necromancer.

Gerain was brought to a bed chamber draped in black, lit by a hundred golden candles. In the centre of the chamber lay a body on a bed of roses. Kneeling beside her was King Shin-To himself.

Gerain gasped.

The woman lying on the bed of roses was none other than Queen Marissa.

The arch chancellor cleared his throat, “Your majesty. May I present to you Gerain, the necromancer you requested.”

King Shin-To looked up from where he kneeled. It shocked Gerain to discover that the king was at least fifty years older than any of the portraits he had seen. His hair was not the lustrous mane of yellow that all images of him displayed, but white and thinning. Gerain estimated there were fewer actual hairs on the king’s head than there were on Gerain’s own forearms.

“Eh? What’s that?” King Shin-To called, “Who?”

“The necromancer, sire. The one you requested.”

Shin-To struggled to his feet with the help of a manservant.

“Ah, excellent. Come here, boy, that I may see you more clearly.”

At the arch-chancellor’s prompting, Gerain stepped forward to face the king. Shin-To poked Gerain’s ribs and pulled on his cheek.

“Doesn’t look like much. Is this the one that can compel the truth from the dead?”

“Indeed, sire, he...”

“He can speak for himself,” the old king interjected. “Well, boy, are you the one that can allow my beloved queen to confess the true depth of her love for me?”

Gerain’s mind was reeling from two revelations. The first that the queen was dead. This was not something that had been announced or even rumoured off. The second was that the king, far from being handsome and powerful, was in fact senile, deaf and doddering.

“I, ah, I can compel the dead to speak the truth,” Gerain stated.

“Ah, yes, yes, the truth. This is what I require. She died too soon. Too soon to tell me the true depth of her feelings for me. And now I wish to hear her voice one last time, and to hear how deeply she loved me. For this, I will bestow upon you any reward you wish.”

The old man’s eyes were moist. His manservant dabbed at the edges of his eyes with a cloth.

Gerain glanced down at the raven-haired beauty that had been Queen Marissa. She had been, in Gerain’s estimation, a good three or four decades younger than King Shin-To, and vastly fairer.

The oddness of the king’s request and the shock at learning of the queen’s death were, however, not enough to dissuade Gerain from the course of action he had chosen.

He would prove himself to the king and to the snide arch-chancellor.

He would not have his hard-won abilities put in doubt by anyone.

“Yes, your excellency, I can indeed compel the dead to speak the truth.”

*

Gerain had much time to ponder, as he languished in a cell during the week before his planned execution, where exactly he had made a mistake.

In his estimation, he had done what was expected of him, despite the repeated attempts to dissuade him or cast slurs on his reputation.

It was hardly his fault if the late queen had objected so forcefully to the marriage that she had paid a crone to curse her, making sure she would never bear the children of her betrothed. Nor was it Gerain’s fault that king had been so blinded by his own self-belief that he had refused to see the obvious fact that the queen’s children were clearly not his own.

The king, upon hearing Queen Marissa’s truths, fell into an apoplectic rage. Gerain was accused of forcing terrible lies from the deceased woman’s mouth, and locked away with an execution date set for seven days time, one day for each of the ‘true sons of Shin-To’.

And it was there, at that moment, that the core dispute had begun. One which would ultimately burn hundreds of worlds.

A dispute that came down to a simple issue:

People kept trying to kill Gerain, and Gerain didn’t want to die.

*

Necropolis World, now.

Gerain looked at the ghostly image of Brother Caldwell and considered the other man’s information, that there was a glitch on the newly initiated reality. It might be something, it might be nothing. It might, conceivably, be a resource for Gerain himself.

Either way, it merited investigation.

“Very well. Is the Inquisitor currently deployed?

“He rests.”

“Send him to investigate.”

“We serve our lord in life and death."

Brother Caldwell bowed his head and faded from sight.