Idris woke in a comfortable room, adorned with tasteful tapestries of The Underwood and Outer Arbedes in bright shades of green, gold and navy. He lay for a while, gazing at them, noticing the sunlight. The only window in the room was above the bed, letting the summer sun slant through in a thin rectangle. A door at the far end of the room led to the stairs he had climbed to get there the night before. The furniture was scattered haphazardly around the floor, as if the person who had bought it had not expected the room to be so large – the desk, chair, wardrobe and washbowl seemed miles from one another, separated by a sea of raven-patterned rugs.

There was, however, beside the bed, a neatly organised pile of items with a large, perfectly tied bow on top, and a letter.

Idris,

It will not do for my murderer to be dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Please accept this outfit as a gift. I think we are of a similar build. I do not know how you transport yourself but I assume the crutch is a temporary measure. This wheeled stool might aid you. Breakfast will be served in the dining room on the first floor. Pull the cord for water for your bath.

Layton

Layton’s eagerness was oddly touching, in an unnerving way. Idris assumed he was more joyful at meeting his son than his son was, or than he dared to betray over the wine the night before. It was frustrating, too. Idris was not sure who he was supposed to be angry at – Layton for his deception, his mother for the lie, or his uncle for keeping the secret even after their arrival at the palace.

Idris placed his right knee on the stool and used his left leg to propel himself. It worked remarkably well. He made it across the room to the dressing screen, behind which was the bath and the aforementioned cord. When he pulled it, a spout in the wall opened, and hot water tumbled out and into the tub.

As he bathed, he felt the aria for his connection to the knuckle bones, and he flicked his fingers at it. He hoped the bag rattled.

There were no fresh bandages for his stump, or his usual medicines. Idris tied the end of his new trousers into a knot and hoped for the best, and eventually made his way, stool, crutch and all, back down the tower to the dining room.

The place looked absurd, with Layton lit by torchlight sitting alone at the head of the table, his little plate of forest fruits before him. When Idris entered, Layton started and stood, and waited until Idris took his place at the table until he sank back down again. Idris placed the dagger down on the table and slid into his seat.

“Do you need to carry that around?” said Layton.

“I might need it,” said Idris flatly, selecting a slice of bread. “I do not know you.”

“That is true enough.” Layton settled, touched the side of the teapot. “It is still warm. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you. The wine helped. The meal, too.”

“I apologise for the sheer number of stairs in this place,” said Layton, somewhat shyly.

“Stairs have not stopped me yet,” said Idris, casting him a reprimanding glance.

“Of course not.”

“It is… quite a place, this tower,” he said.

“This is our ancestral home,” said Layton, smiling. “It has been here for eight centuries. We call it Raven’s Roost. I will give you the tour, after breakfast, if you wish.”

“I would like that.”

“My, it is nice to have someone for breakfast,” said Layton, pouring the tea. “It has been… some time.”

“How long?”

“I think the last person I dined with was… your grandfather. On the Vonner side, I mean.”

“Vonner?” said Idris.

“That is our family name. Vonner. With the crest of twin ravens,” said Layton, tapping the table runner. “But goodness, that was many years ago, now. He did so dearly wish to meet you, but he departed this world when you must have been… five, perhaps.”

Seventeen years, this man had been alone. No wonder he was so amenable to a perfect stranger, sleeping and eating in his home.

“It must be strange, living in this large tower on your own,” said Idris. “Do you have serving maids?”

“No. It is just me. Me and my thralls,” Layton corrected. “They are wonderful but I do not trust them with food preparation. I make all the meals; they do the rest.”

“I saw none on my ascent last night.”

“I sent them away when I felt the curtain tearing. I did not want to startle you. You may see some, walking around today, making beds and cleaning windows.”

The very fact that Idris was sitting with another person, discussing thralls and family, was exhilarating. He had never had anyone to talk to about his necromancy who truly understood it, who saw it as a beneficial tool rather than a disgusting abhorrence. There was so much he could learn, so many questions he could have answered. The crippling feeling of displacement that had haunted him since the age of eleven was, miraculously, gone, all at once.

It was not that he had forgiven Layton. He was still angry and upset and unsure. But this was an opportunity he could not waste.

“I will… put off the murder until after the tour, I think,” said Idris, placing a fig in his mouth. Layton smiled.

“Good. I am rather looking forward to the tour. I never have guests.”

While they ate, Layton pointed out items in the room. The teapot had once belonged to an Imperial Kingdom host, who gifted it to the tower after the residing necromancer had assisted with crossing Outer Arbedes. The rug had been woven by a several-times-great-grandmother, some three-hundred years ago. The raven crest on the wall had been forged by royal weavers when the tower was being built. Every item was somehow part of a grander family than Idris had expected.

“What happened, then?” he said, when Layton had finished explaining how the silver service was a gift from a prominent family in the Salt Lands.

“Pardon?”

“Why did you have to cloak this place, if the Vonner were so respected?” said Idris.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Layton fiddled with his spoon, tapped his foot on the floor.

“Necromancy… fell into disrepute,” he said delicately. “After the war with the fae. People still sought out necromancers, of course, for various deeds and problems, but… but promoting ourselves or serving in noble families became distasteful. That, and some of our aria-kin got rather ahead of themselves when trying to make people take notice of us. It only takes a little bad blood for the limb to rot,” he said, then cleared his throat and said, “metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Raven’s Roost has been protected for two-hundred and fifty years.”

“That is not long.”

“People’s memories of what is out here on the kingdom’s edge are mercifully short.” Layton stood. “Come. Let me show you what you will inherit, once my murder has been achieved.”

“Certainly.”

Raven’s Roost was more extensive than Idris had imagined. As well as the public rooms, there were three bedrooms above the one he had slept in, and a private study-cum-library, filled to the brim with books that Idris presumed he had never had access to in the palace. Layton claimed he slept in the room above the library, which Idris was not permitted to enter, but they made their way to the very top floor, and Layton smiled and opened the door and said, “Here is where the ravens sleep. Watch your step, it is windy.”

Idris had left the stool at the foot of the stairs, so he used his single crutch to propel himself out onto the roof. The wind slammed into him; he raised an arm to shield his eyes and Layton laughed.

“I warned you,” he said, his tone good-natured. “The death curtain does not prevent the air from entering, but it makes the tower unassailable. See the roosts, let me introduce you to our feathered family.”

Idris blinked the dust away and finally saw what Layton was talking about. Between each of the tall, pentagonal spires which made up the top of Raven’s Roost were the ravens themselves. Handsomely built wooden aviaries held space for hundreds of ravens, preening themselves and splashing in the birdbath. The prevailing sound was not of the wind, but of thousands of feathers rustling.

“Black bells,” Idris whispered.

“They are drawn to necromantic energy, you know,” said Layton. “As are cats. You will see many cats in the basement.”

“There is a basement?” said Idris, stunned.

“Five floors,” said Layton, looking happier than he had since Idris had met him.

“For what?”

“Thrall housing. The kitchens, too, some storage and piping. And… the vault.” Layton shrugged. “The vault is actually rather empty. I keep it because I do not know what else to do with it. The coffers do run thin. Luckily, I live cheaply.”

“I would like to see the cats,” said Idris. Layton smiled.

“Of course. They are quite darling. I have never seen a rat or mouse in this tower.”

The cats were friendly, plump creatures, clearly well-fed. At least ten of them made themselves known in the kitchens, and Layton assured Idris that there were kittens, somewhere, but he knew not where. The floor below, Layton paused before he opened the door.

“You have made thralls before, correct?” he said.

“Many.”

“Good. I do not want to startle you.”

Layton opened the door.

The room was colder than the rest of the tower and had no furniture, no seats, nothing. Thralls stood in orderly lines, their skin grey and putrefying, their heads down. The smell was abominable. Idris put his sleeve over his nose. Layton coughed slightly.

“There are fifty, here,” he said. “More working upstairs, actually.”

“Where did you get them from?” said Idris.

“Corpses… appear,” said Layton vaguely.

It was then that Idris felt what his uncle had described in his letter. There was something intangibly unnerving about Layton. It made Idris’s skin itch.

“There are corpses everywhere, when you learn to find them,” Layton said, his voice coldly casual.

“You can control these fifty, and the death curtain? All at once?”

Layton’s smile was soft and baffling. “They are filled with my will. My will does not break. I do not have to concentrate on them for them to fulfil their role.”

Idris thought of the farm thralls he raised last spring, and he nodded. The farm thralls did not need his continuous presence. The order that he had given the aria was enough – work, fulfil tasks, and lie down to die when holding themselves together was too much.

“Ah, but the death curtain,” said Layton, animated again. “That is itself a marvel of engineering. Join me upstairs, in the study, won’t you?”

Between the study’s many shelves and worktables, there was a covered object that at first, Idris thought was a globe. Layton removed the cover and revealed the dodecahedron crystal beneath. It swirled with grey smoke. The structure that held it in place was written with a variety of ancient runes that Idris had never seen before. The same, repetitive melody in the death aria that he had heard outside mumbled out of it.

“This powers the curtain,” said Layton. “I could do it myself, but it is tiresome. Instead, I funnel my will into this crystal when it is necessary to repair or bolster the curtain. Eventually, I will show you how to do this.”

Idris nodded. Traipsing up and down the tower had worn him out, again. Layton’s self-satisfied air deflated.

“I am sorry,” said Idris. “I… I am not myself, still.”

“I thought, perhaps…” Layton covered the crystal again. “I thought I might watch you cast, a little. See what you have learned. But… but you do look tired. How, might I ask, do you usually…?”

“Walk?” finished Idris, with a raised eyebrow. Layton nodded sheepishly. “I have a false foot.”

“How did you make it here, through Outer Arbedes, with only one foot?” said Layton.

Idris swallowed, pursed his lips. That was a good question. Perhaps Layton had seen Lila when he was watching the curtain’s entrance – maybe he knew about Willard and Riette, too.

“I took it off to sleep last night,” he said. “My camp is not far, but… I grew restless, and I simply did not put it back on. I often wander on crutches. I must have dropped the other one somewhere.”

None of that was a lie. Layton frowned. “You were not sleeping at Temple Hill?”

“I no longer live at Temple Hill.”

“And why is that?”

“I am a necromancer,” said Idris. “Necromancers do not live at Temple Hill.”

A strange look crossed Layton’s face. “Your uncle. Did he drive you out?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Idris.

“I knew it,” Layton said, his voice cold. “No matter. He is dead. He cannot harm you or me anymore.” Then, in a brighter tone, “Let me escort you back to your rooms. How do you like them?”

“They are most comfortable.”

“Excellent.”

Layton returned Idris to the bedroom, talking about lunch and tasks around the tower. Eventually, he said, “Rest as much as you need.”

Idris nodded, thinking. It sounded like Layton assumed he was staying indefinitely.

“I do have a request,” said Idris. “If… if I am going to be here a while.”

The acknowledgement brightened Layton’s smile. “Of course.”

“My…” Idris gestured to his leg. “I require medicines, daily, actually. There is necrosis left and it must be tended to. I did not bring anything with me, not bandages or salves, and it will begin to smell and itch and other unpleasant things. Do you… leave the tower, ever?”

“Occasionally,” said Layton, “when meat needs to be hunted or travellers need to be… redirected. What do you need?”

“I can make a list.”

“With drawings, please. I can make a trip to Temple Hill and take whatever I need or send thralls to collect herbs.”

“You will have it by tonight.”

Layton nodded. He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else or move further into the room. Idris wondered if he wanted a hug. It passed, and Layton collected himself.

“You have free rein of the tower,” he said. “Except my personal quarters and the vault. If you wish to read, you can select any book you desire. The kitchens are always open, too. But I must ask that you do not needlessly leave the curtain. Every time it is disturbed, it has to be repaired. There is nothing worth exploring out in the ruins, anyway. Everything you need is right here.”

Idris smiled, but did not nod. Layton turned to leave.

“It will be easier to take what you need at dawn,” said Idris. Layton turned, interested. “Nobody at Temple Hill expects visitors before dawn. If you start in the eastern fields, you will beat the rotation.”

“I understand. Thank you. Do not forget the list.”

“I will not.” Then, he said, “Thank you, Lord Vonner,” to see what the reaction was.

Layton laughed, blushed. “Please, it is not necessary. Layton is… fine.” He dipped his head. “Master Vonner,” he said quietly, and he left.

Master Idris Vonner. It sounded like a different person.

Idris sat on the bed, in clothes borrowed from his father, looking at the tapestries, again. This tower, the resources… he would have killed for them as a child, trying fruitlessly to revitalise dead flowers without any indication of what to do or why. Training here would have been a revelation. If Uncle Haylan had –

No. Uncle Haylan did the right thing. He had tried to prepare everything Idris needed to know but in the midst of tragedy, he had left it behind and never returned to Temple Hill.

Why did he not say something?

Idris thought, again, of the only letter his mother sent, Uncle Haylan’s slack demeanour after. He knew. He knew that Layton had been to Temple Hill to collect his son. Maybe he regretted not telling Idris. Maybe he thought that it was not worth the trouble, once Layton had given up and gone home.

What did Haylan’s silence cost me?

He felt for the knuckle bones, flicked his fingers, and sighed.

“Focus, Idris,” he whispered. “Focus.”

He knew the layout of the tower, now. He had information and options. What he needed to do was get down to the vault, or into Layton’s room – or, tinker with the curtain. As he wrote the list of medicines and drew the shapes of the leaves, he formulated his plan for the morning.