Idris’s body had not complained this much since he had started training as a child with Magus Arundale. His abdominals flushed with agony every time he lifted himself onto his crutch and his knees were purple and scabbing. Still, he made it to the dining room for breakfast, where Layton was already sitting, reading a scroll and chewing on pear preserves.

“Good morning, Idris.”

“Good morning.” Idris winced as he lowered himself into a chair, but Layton seemed not to notice. “What is the plan, today?”

“Oh, the same as usual,” said Layton, still not looking up. “Yourself?”

“Layton,” said Idris, with confidence he did not really have, “what is a lich?”

This finally prompted Layton to look at him. The Remaker’s gaze was much like a bird’s on sensing a predator.

“Let me explain,” said Idris, taking a slice of bread. “I was reading, last night, and… I keep coming across the idea of a lich. I think I might know what it is, but I have not received tutelage from a real necromancer before and I have never had the opportunity to ask. In your books, the idea keeps surfacing as some perfect end for a necromancer, and…” He did not have to feign the worry in his voice for the next part. “The necrosis in my leg is not dormant, not really. It grows and diminishes, and I think eventually, it will eat me. And I do not want that, Layton. If there is a way to preserve my body, I will explore that road.”

Layton’s stance did not truly relax, but he seemed less suspicious.

“You were reading Medical Applications,” he guessed, and Idris nodded. “I see. Well… well, a lich is…” He frowned, sat straighter, and his tone became more comfortable. “A lich is a necromancer who has achieved true mastery over the death aria by separating his soul and consciousness from death. Ascending, as it were.”

“The body?”

“Is maintained through careful meditation and application of certain spells.”

“How is that possible?” said Idris. “Surely the body is going to… corrode? Natural tissue cannot be maintained forever, not even through magic.”

Layton shrugged. “It is rather a mystery. Lichdom is frowned upon and those who claim to have achieved it are careful with their writings for fear of giving away enough to kill them. But, the body is essentially just a vessel. The true immortality that lichdom provides is in the storing of the soul.”

The concept of a soul was not foreign to Idris. It was theorised in early aria texts that the ability to hear arias was bound to some unknowable internal force that left the body when it died; later, aria magicians discussed an essence in the blood as the means to perform spells, further cemented by the existence of blood magic, and the idea of a soul passed into the realm of being rather gauche. Idris, though, often wondered if the men he raised as thralls were truly empty vessels or if the remains of a soul were indeed what made it possible for him to reanimate the dead. Layton spoke of souls as if they had been bottled and could be sold in any common apothecary.

“I would… caution you against lichdom, Idris,” said Layton.

“Oh?”

“It makes the lich quite mad, eventually. Paranoia and such.”

“In some of the texts, though,” said Idris, “there was a… a set of some kind of armour mentioned. If lichdom was linked to a magical artefact, I am certain it would be more manageable, aren’t you?”

Layton pursed his lips. “Which texts?”

“I think it was Histories. Again, in Artefacts of the Borrian Isles.”

“You do read voraciously,” said Layton, a hint of a shadow in his eyes.

“Bad habit.”

“There was… talk, of a set of armour,” he said at last. “Rumours and superstition, I believe. They called it the Dead Walker armour.”

“That was it,” said Idris. “With the man on the horse, wielding a staff. The text said that armour could prolong life to the wearer.”

Layton’s smile was thin and cold, like the skin of ice on a deep lake.

“Prolong life, perhaps. But it also strips the user of their very essence. All that remains is an animated skeleton, walking around in a glass suit.”

A glass suit. Idris had not mentioned the material. He knows exactly what it is.

“You do not believe it exists, though,” he said. Layton gave a short laugh.

“Goodness, no. What a preposterous item.”

“Pity. I was quite excited by the prospect of having a new body, especially after yesterday’s exertions.”

“I did warn you. How are the abdominals?”

“Hateful.”

“Perhaps fewer Half-Moons, today?”

“Perhaps.”

“The tower is all yours,” said Layton, standing. “I have maintenance to do on the thralls.”

“I can assist,” said Idris, but Layton shook his head.

“They respond only to me, I am afraid.”

“Then I will be in the library or the practice room.”

“Be kinder to yourself today, Idris.”

“I will try.”

Idris settled himself quietly for his breakfast. When he was sure Layton was indisposed, he crept to the room they had first met in. The chairs were empty and the fire was out in the grate, but most items that had been there three nights ago were still there, save the empty wine bottle and the cups.

Idris went straight to the space where Layton had indicated that he had been watching the curtain. Sitting on the table was a wooden bowl, carved with runes.

More runes. Idris knew little about the old languages. Runic magic was considered rustic and rudimentary, and Magus Arundale had always said it was a crude imitation of true aria magic. Aside from the Spirit Dagger, though, this was now the third place Idris had seen runes – the grave site, the death curtain stand and the bowl. Was runic magic fae? Or… a fallout from the fae wars? The tower and the artefacts within it had been there at least that long.

Unsure, he pressed a forefinger to the bowl’s edge. Death arias surged in his ears.

Reeling, he let go. The bowl was practically sobbing. It was linked directly with the curtain.

True to his word, he returned to the library and, quiet, he removed the cover from the death curtain crystal. The runes on the wooden structure did indeed look similar to the ones on the bowl.

The bowl, the base, the dagger. Then…

Then the Dead Walker armour… it was Vonner.

Idris frowned, turned to the shelves. That would make some sense. One prominent necromantic family, out in distinctly fae territory. Where else would the fae go to create such items?

Stolen story; please report.

He wished, suddenly, that he could somehow contact Willard, ask him to reach out to Joa and ask the right questions. Perhaps it would have been beneficial to have one of his friends here.

Without them, his plan was simpler.

He returned to the practice room, recalled the spells he had read in the morning and started to work through them. He thought of Dravid Orrost, of the screaming in the sewers when the Spirit Dagger started to splinter, of the hot yet icy torment it drove into his shoulder. Focusing on those memories, he felt for the necrosis that sat at the base of his stump.

It was always there, a low drone behind Idris’s eyes. Most days, he could ignore it, and on some occasions it was actually useful to have unlimited access to the sound of a death aria. Since the Spirit Dagger’s intrusion, it sounded… darker. He wondered what it was about the necromantic spells in the dagger that haunted him. Perhaps it was the age of them. Regardless, its teasing, beckoning song made him question what he was about to do.

I have to make Layton believe I am dying, he thought, steeling himself. It is the only way.

Idris had no delusions about Layton’s interest in him. For Layton, Idris was a guarantee, not a son. Everything he had seen and spoken about in the last few days was to do with the sanctity of the Vonner line and the protection of Raven’s Roost – not of him. The bloodline ran through him and would run further still, as long as Idris remained healthy and upright. So, if Layton believed honestly that Idris’s life was at risk, then he would have to resort to extreme measures to save his son.

Open the vault? Perhaps.

The best way to deliberately hurt Idris was through the necrosis in his stump. Thankfully, being the only necromancer in the kingdom had meant that nobody could take advantage of it – and, being the only necromancer in the kingdom, Idris paid attention to the deformity more than was healthy. The cracks of grey in his leg grew, when untended to, at a rate of an inch a year. The first year, it had been so gradual that even Uncle Haylan had assumed he was imagining it, until the healers came and tested Idris’s blood. After that, the morning and evening rituals that stopped the necrosis rising had been mandatory.

Idris crossed his legs beneath him, took a deep breath and placed his hand on his stump. He remembered the hunting trap, the fierce bite above his ankle, the blood.

Accidents happened. Twice, apparently. He knew the theory and he heard the music. He had never attempted to cause necrosis on purpose.

The grey skin, while he could not see it, seemed to radiate through the bandage and trouser fabric.

Idris breathed the aria, let out a tear and said, “Come.”

He dragged his fingertips up his leg.

There was a creeping sensation, like ants crawling on his flesh, but that was all. It did not hurt. He did not even feel worried. Idris removed his hand, let out the breath. Hopefully, that would be enough.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working through simpler exercises than the Half-Moons – Patterns of Weight and Motions of Command – and as he worked, his stump throbbed uncomfortably. He did not check it. Instead, he relished the feverish sweat on his brow, how it dripped down his nose, how his body shook.

By the time Layton came to check on him, Idris was sure he looked deathly.

“Idris…” Layton placed down a plate, came over and knelt before Idris. “My word, are you quite all right?”

“I…” Idris wiped his face, saw how his fingers were shaking. “Fine.”

“How long have you been working? What have you been practicing?”

“Oh, just… Command. Simple…” Idris was surprised how sore his throat felt, how woozy he was. “Maybe I am hungry.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Breakfast.”

“Goodness, child, it is evening, now.” Layton uncertainly placed a hand on Idris’s brow and hardly touched his skin when he pulled away. “You have a fierce fever.”

“Aria warmth,” said Idris dismissively, forcing himself back into a stance.

“No. No more of this.” Layton got up, picked up Idris’s crutch. “I must insist. Come.”

Come.

Layton helped Idris up, and almost immediately the room spun, and Idris’s head lolled; he did feel awful. Did he do too much? As Layton dragged him out, orders were given to thralls for towels and wine, and before Idris knew it, they were in his room and he was laid gently on the bed.

Layton dithered above the pastes and herbs that Idris had prepared. Idris blinked hard to keep everything in focus, to remember his purpose. While it would be nice to get real relief, he could not waste the opportunity.

“The… red ones,” he managed to say. “And the white… milk substance. Those first.”

Layton provided. Idris looked down at the herbs, mentally scolded himself in Uncle Haylan’s voice and drank the sleeping nettle. In this quantity, it would make him not only drowsy but likely delirious, too. That was what he was hoping for. It tasted sharp; he remembered its unpleasant texture from the days after Haylan’s death. After, he chewed the fire-ivy viciously. If he had not had a fever before, he would have one soon.

He gestured limply to the wine. Layton poured a glass and Idris gulped it down, feeling the aria subside in his ears and bones, and then he lay, panting, uncomfortable in every joint and muscle.

“Are you sick?” said Layton. His uncertainty boosted Idris’s confidence.

“I…” Idris started to untie the knot in the trouser leg. “Help me?”

Layton tugged at the knot, rolled the fabric up above Idris’s knee and began unravelling the bandage.

“Oh,” he said at last, faintly. Idris shuffled up so he could see, and even he was stunned.

The grey skin had risen a good two inches. The combination of the spell and the constant work he had done had driven the necrosis to pull up, through his veins, just as it had in the sewers, like lines of grey ink spidering beneath his skin.

“Oh,” Idris agreed.

“Tell me how –“

He instructed Layton in how to care for the skin, how to wrap the medicinal bandage, and then, exhausted, he slumped back in the bed. The sleeping nettle made his cheeks and gums feel numb. The fire-ivy burrowed under his skin, hotter than he had wanted when he planned his fake illness.

“Rest,” said Layton, more tenderly than Idris expected. “What do you need?”

“I overdid it today,” said Idris, his voice heavily slurred.

“That is all right, Idris. Just tell me how to care for you.”

“I… sleep. Sleep now.” He shuffled, pained, on the bedsheets. “I’m hot. Fever… wrap me up.”

“Won’t that make you hotter?”

Sweating out a fever was a myth that Idris hoped Layton had heard. In truth, it was going to make everything worse.

“No. Sheets,” he said, and Layton obeyed, tucking him in tight. “Thank you.”

“I will…” Layton fidgeted again, looking around the room, as if a nurse might appear from nowhere and save him from this nightmare. “I will post a thrall outside the door and check on you hourly. How else can I assist?”

“Leave.”

“I can hardly leave you here, Idris.”

“Go.”

Layton hesitated, but at last he stood and walked to the door. “I will return soon.”

Idris nodded and shut his eyes.

The sleeping nettle helped him to ride out the worst part, the shaking and jaw-clenching, but the heat was cruel. He tried not to thrash the covers off. Sweat soaked everything. His stump itched. Not long after Layton fed him cold water from a spoon on his first visit, Idris vomited violently over the side of the bed. A few rogue black splatters mingled with the bile and remains of the sleeping nettle mixture. Suddenly, he was concerned.

I poisoned myself like a damned idiot, he thought, unable to catch the breath he thought he needed. This is not worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked as Layton lay him back in the bed.

“No. You are sick. Idris… Idris, I do not have the skills to tend to you. I can ride up to Temple Hill and get a healer –“

“No.” That would ruin the plan. “No. The tower…”

“The secrecy of the tower is not above your health.”

“I can… I can manage. Just a fever. Sweat it out. Purge.”

“The fever is not what concerns me,” said Layton, his eyes flicking to Idris’s stump leg. “The necrosis is… if it rises too much, I cannot help you.”

“Layton,” Idris whispered, smiling slightly, “who is the Eremont, here?”

At this, Layton cracked a small smile of his own. “I shall defer. Apologies.”

“If I… direct you… can you let the blood?”

This time, Layton blanched. “From…”

“Yes. A small incision. Quite easy.”

“I…” He sighed, pained. “What kind of blade do we require?”

Idris sleepily instructed Layton in the construction of a tourniquet and examined the kitchen knives he brought up.

“No. Too… too big.” He stretched out his neck, shivered, then patted the chest sheathe with his grandfather’s stiletto in it. “This.”

Layton pulled the dagger, the morning thistle on its pommel dull in the lamplight.

“The point,” said Idris, gripping the sheets. “Tourniquet first.”

The pressure from the tourniquet was terrible. Idris retched again, groaned and cursed in the back of his throat. Layton held the stiletto, pursed his lips.

“The artery. Big one,” Idris said through clenched teeth.

In one shaking hand, Layton held a bowl. With a deep breath, he sliced the artery.

Grey, foul-smelling liquid spurted out. It smelled like stagnant pond water, if the pond had been tainted with human blood first – like offal and rot. Idris vomited again into the sleeve of his shirt; Layton wrinkled his nose and turned away.

“Black bells,” he whispered.

“When it runs red,” Idris managed to say, “suture the wound.”

Once the letting was done and the tourniquet was off, Idris felt weak and stupid.

Please let this be enough, he thought.

“You’re a good surgeon,” he whispered.

“You are too sick to lie to me,” said Layton, wrapping the leg in bandages again.

“For a seven-year-old apprentice,” Idris said. Layton laughed, and for the first time it sounded honest.

“There we are.”

“I made a mess.”

“It is of little consequence.” He straightened up, patted Idris’s knee. “How do you feel, now?”

“Spent.” Idris wiped his brow. “Wet.”

“I will take this shirt, hmm?”

“Please.”

Layton stripped the shirt off Idris and then, frowning, he ran a cool finger over the scar on Idris’s shoulder. It took everything Idris had not to hiss at the uncomfortable tingle that his father’s touch created on that one wound. It was like, at Layton’s touch, everything stopped and was thrown wide open, a window into the truth that Idris could not close. He was scared that Layton felt the tingle, scared that if he did, he would know it all.

“What is this?” Layton said.

Idris put a hand on it. “Battle scar,” he said.

“From the Queen’s war?”

Idris shook his head. He did not know how Layton knew about the war, but he assumed it must have been visible from Raven’s Roost. At least he had not mentioned Dravid.

“People do not like necromancers,” he said.

Layton understood. He backed away, shirt in hand, and left the room.

Alone, Idris flung the covers off, letting the cool air settle on his sweat.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” he whispered.