Lila and Riette went to Gleesdale to collect the goods that Layton had written on his list the next morning, leaving Idris to impart Joa’s plan to Willard. Willard dug his tongue into his cheek and nodded, frowning, as Idris drew maps in the dirt and listed the steps.

“You’ll be safe though, aye?” said Willard at last.

“I think so.”

Willard sighed heavily. “How d’you want me to stop Her Majesty?”

“Don’t,” said Idris simply. “Tell her the plan. Tell her the truth. It is about time she knew it. Let her know her role in this and direct her accordingly.”

“Not certain I should be directing queens, Idris,” said Willard, pulling a face, but Idris put a hand on his student’s shoulder and smiled.

“You are the perfect man for directing queens. I would trust nobody else with this.”

“I hope you don’t have to harm your pa.”

Idris’s smile faded. He nodded. “Me too.”

“I truly hope he can come with us, after,” said Willard. “It’d be exciting, to have two necromancers around.”

“I would not use the word ‘exciting’ to describe it, Willard.”

Idris gathered some belongings – a second prosthetic and a pair of boots, a few books – and Willard helped him to pile them onto Layton’s horse.

“Idris,” Willard said at last, “how d’you kill a necromancer?”

“The same way you kill everything else,” said Idris.

“I mean… ain’t your blood filled with death arias? Is that enough to… keep you alive?”

“No.” Idris frowned. “At least, I do not think so.” He turned to Willard, smiled playfully. “Want to test it?”

“King and Circle, Idris, no,” said Willard, wide-eyed. “You stupid sod. Ain’t nothing to play with.”

“I tease.”

“Don’t.”

“Although, this old thing?” said Idris, stamping his false foot. “My uncle used to say he was sure that the necrosis did just enough to preserve itself.”

“Huh?”

“Even when the healers cut off the foot, the necrosis remained. Uncle Haylan theorised that perhaps, the necrosis wanted to keep itself alive, so it did not eat me up, instead preferring a live host.”

“That’s right knotty.”

“It is.”

Once the women returned and night began to fall, they shared one final meal together. They agreed to meet at Gleesdale once everything was over; they would wait for Idris for three weeks, in case something went wrong.

“And if something does go wrong, and I do not return,” said Idris at last, “then I have requests. I wrote my will.” He held out a scroll, freshly sealed. “There are letters, too. Some will need sending. Others, you can put in the recipient’s hands. Lila, will you take care of these?”

She nodded.

“Willard has the plan,” said Idris. “Deviate at your discretion, as situations arise. Hopefully, Joa will stay true to his word.”

“What do we do if we find a dead necromancer?” said Riette, frowning.

“Burn him,” said Idris immediately. “Whether it is me or The Remaker. We do not want to leave a useful corpse for the victor.”

*

Raven’s Roost would have made a glorious shadow against the dawn light, if it were visible to the naked eye. Idris wondered how tall it was as he approached the courtyard; he tried to measure it in his mind’s eye, and eventually trained his sights on a few spotty ravens, circling nearby. He clenched his hands tight around the horse’s reins and looked at the ring, and hoped it would do enough to dispel the death curtain on his return.

The horse plodded onwards, until Idris heard the notes, felt the hot weight on his shoulders, smelled the strange lightning-strike scent of the magic, and eventually saw the stables, quiet in the dawn. He was halfway off the horse when the door opened and Layton emerged, his smile bright and his eyes kind.

“Master Vonner,” he said, coming to hold the halter as Idris jumped down.

“Father.” It still made Idris’s stomach clench to say it. “I have multitudes of good news.”

“Oh, your foot,” said Layton, seeing the relatively normal boot on the end of Idris’s right leg.

“I collected my prosthetics. No more crutches.”

“Excellent. Come, come, let me make some breakfast. Leave the luggage for the thralls. You must have ridden hard.”

Layton served breakfast in the comfortable parlour where they first met, with hot tea and freshly baked butter-cakes, and he waited until Idris had filled his plate before he inquired about the outcome of the trip, but Idris could tell it was a strain to wait. Layton sat like an eager student, hungry for information.

“I spoke with a fae prince,” said Idris. “He said his name was Joy-of-Autumn. He was pleased for the black gem and he knew of the armour. He wishes to meet with you.”

“With me?” Layton said, his eyebrows raised.

“As the owner of the armour, he thinks it right to ask your permission. He would like to take it with him to reshape to our specifications.”

Layton nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “I will… I will collect the chest from the vault. I am not sure the tower will allow for fae visitors, though. We may have to reconfigure the curtain. I will do some research.”

Thistle darted out from under the armchair, mewling gleefully at Idris; Idris smiled and scratched the kitten’s tiny head as Thistle rubbed his cheek against the prosthetic.

“How was my son?” said Idris.

“Darling. He loves riding on my shoulder. I am sure he will allow you to carry him, too.” Layton sipped his tea. “Your home?”

“As I left it.”

“Then all is well?” said Layton. Idris nodded.

“All is well.” He scooped up Thistle, placed the kitten on his shoulder. “I am ready to assist you, Father. Whatever you need.”

Layton smiled. Idris’s spine itched. He did not know why.

“We will get to work,” The Remaker said.

The first thing Layton wanted to do was correct the death curtain. They retreated to the library; Layton wheeled the crystal into a clearer section of the room and drew a variety of chalk lines on the tile floor, instructing Idris where to kneel and which stances to use, but a lot of the technicality sped over Idris’s head in a confusing blur. At the palace, he was the resident expert in necromancy. In Raven’s Roost, he understood that he was a novice. Thistle, confused by the continuous motion and noise, took to climbing bookshelves instead.

“Slowly,” Idris said eventually. Layton, cheeks flushed with excitement, paused breathlessly.

“Place your hands on the crystal,” Layton said. “We are weaving.”

“Weaving?”

“You… oh my, you have never conducted a duet,” he realised all at once, and stood deflated.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Slowly,” Idris said again, settling into a comfortable kneel. “I will follow if you lead.” Layton quietly knelt beside Idris, sucking his top lip in. “How did your father show you? Show me the same way.”

In response, Layton held out his hand. Unsure, Idris gripped it. Layton’s hand was cool and still.

“Do you know how to communicate through the aria?” said Layton.

“Theoretically.”

“We will start there. Breathe with me.”

Idris watched the rise and fall of Layton’s chest, and timed his breaths of the aria with his father’s. The aria he heard was comforting, steady. He spent so much time outside manipulating the notes that he hardly ever got to simply listen to the way the music crested and dipped, its sustain and its vibrato. It was easy to get lost in the mournful sound, the quiet pleading of it. It was his. Sharing it was novel. Giddily, Idris realised that the same notes he heard were exactly what Layton heard, too. Is this what it felt like for Cressida, when she learned with her father?

“Do you hear my voice?” said Layton, through the music. Not through – it was as if Layton was another instrument in the orchestra, being given a solo to perform.

Idris took a new, deep breath and thought of the sounds of his own voice, how they melded with the notes he heard.

“Yes,” he thought.

“Tell me a story.”

Idris felt Layton’s hand leave his. He felt the sweat and the heat that he usually felt when he practised.

“When I was seven,” he thought, “before I lost my foot, I found a dead doe in the woods.”

He does not know why this particular image came to mind, but he feels suddenly as if it is the only story he could tell his father.

“I was collecting moss, for a sedative. The doe was in a hunter’s trap. I must have followed the aria there, somehow, thinking it was the healer aria and that it would lead me to better moss. Instead, there she was, her eyes lifeless and faraway. When animals are dead, they do have a strange quality to them. The stillness seemed feigned. Forced. The fur seemed like it would spear your hand if you touched it.

“She had struggled and there was blood all over the leaves. I was only frightened for an instant. Then, I found her quite beautiful and sad.”

Somewhere, he heard the aria shift in tone and quality. It was strong and controlled.

“Keep going,” said Layton.

Idris refocused his mind on the timbre of his own voice – his own song.

“I remember placing my hand on her throat,” he thought. “I remember thinking that I should try to close her wounds, that it was the least I could do. But when I put my hand on her, I felt the aria surge in her and through me, as if I was connected to her. I saw her cut arteries and broken ankles as if I were somehow inside her body, miniscule and infinite. I felt her little heart, still and empty. I think that was the first time I truly conducted necromancy – not what I did to my own foot. The connection I had with that poor animal, the way I saw her death as a failing of parts, visualised the tendons and bones… I was a necromancer then. I know that now.

“I kept it to myself,” he thought. But as he thought it, he was certain he heard a second voice, alongside his own, saying the same thing. “I did not know if it was normal. I collected my moss and I returned to my mother, telling her only –“

“- that I had found a dead deer,” said the two voices, together. “And we should take up the corpse before wolves came.”

“Bells,” Idris gasped out loud, releasing himself from the aria’s clutches and feeling it shove through him.

Layton tutted. “Already?”

“That was you,” said Idris, staring at Layton.

“Of course it was.”

“How did you -?”

“Voices – thoughts, pushed through the aria – they are the aria,” said Layton, one hand on the wooden stand of the crystal. “I did what I always do and I took control of the notes. That is how you conduct a duet.”

“How did you know what I was going to think?”

“I used the pattern that you left. It is rather simple once you do it for yourself.” Layton tapped his foot. “Think of it as the same way you would grasp a melody being played by an orchestra at a fine banquet. Even if you had never before heard the song, you could eventually follow the tune all by yourself, if you had a good grasp of musical theory.”

“Predicting… patterns,” said Idris.

“Quite.”

“I understand.”

“I need you to put your hands on the crystal, if you can reach from your kneel.”

“I can.” Idris pushed himself to his kneeling height and put his hands on the cool case. “Here?”

Layton moved Idris’s fingers, pushed his legs apart.

“Nexus of Belonging,” he said. Idris frowned.

“Is that… wise?”

The Nexus of Belonging was a channel. Essentially, it allowed the death aria to use the casting necromancer’s body as a funnel, as if the magician was a part of the aria himself. Similar to the Nexus of Control, it stripped the necromancer of most of his autonomy in the name of increasing the power of his spell.

“Wise or not,” said Layton, “it is necessary.”

Idris did as he was told and dropped his head so it was loose, dropped his shoulders too.

“Jaw,” said Layton, and Idris rolled his eyes.

“Father,” he muttered, and relaxed his jaw.

“Better. This will feel chaotic for a few seconds. Do not forget to follow the patterns so you can weave with me. Tell me a new story to anchor yourself once we are in it. Then, we will begin.”

The crystal, even within its casing, sang a peculiar song. Idris focused on it, took his deep breath and, with a fair amount of trepidation, said, “Enter.”

His throat burned; his body felt swept through, like a huge wave had decimated a village, and he was disorientated in the undertow.

“Be still,” said Layton’s voice behind the roar. “Be loose. Let it flow. Tell me a story.”

Idris flailed for a memory like he was groping for driftwood as the aria tried to drown him. Ideas came and crashed past, snatched from his grasping hands. All there was were the death aria’s notes.

“The rain was hard,” he thought, without wanting to, dreading the outcome. “The mud was thick. Thick with blood and churned by horses’ hooves and marching feet.”

Always Braemar. Always there.

“The night was black. But fires burned.”

Anything but Braemar. If Layton understood – if he knew anything about the war – then he would know it all as soon as the story was done, but in the tumult of the Nexus, there was nothing else to occupy Idris’s brain. The panic of the memory knew the panic of the Nexus.

“The walls were crumbling like wet sand,” said the two necromancers, together. “There was nothing at my back but darkness. And I placed my knees in the dirt and the rain ran down my neck –“

And Idris heard the pattern Layton was making.

He clutched at the new sound, abandoning his memories of Braemar, focusing on weaving the curtain. The new melodies were all-consuming, complex and multi-faceted; Idris wove them like he knew nothing else. He followed the repetitive strains of the crafting, holding on to the crescendos like he had grip of a giant ribbon and he was running with it, through and between and around, with Layton organising the dance. When it shifted, he darted back, and Idris followed.

When all was done, Layton told Idris to let the aria go slowly, to wrestle control of his body back from the aria with small steps. Clawing back through the waves, Idris felt his shoulders again, drenched with sweat, and his knees, shaking on the hard ground, and his brow, sticky and hot. At last, he opened his eyes, and saw his two hands, still pressed to the swirling crystal, surrounded by gathered perspiration that rolled in drops down the casing.

He dropped to his haunches, breathless and dizzy. Layton came to his side, squeezed his shoulder.

“Take your time getting up,” he said.

He did not mention the story. Idris wondered if he had forgotten it.

“Your melody,” said Layton quietly. “It is... turbulent. Filled with heaviness. An orchestra made entirely of drums.”

Idris focused on controlling his breathing, stilling himself.

“Are you always scared when you cast?” said Layton.

It was a question that Idris had never been asked.

“I think so,” he said. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Hmm.” Layton passed behind Idris, put a hand to the crystal. “It will hold firm. I will finish the work later.”

Thistle mewed, pushed against Idris’s knee. Idris stroked his nose with one, trembling finger.

“I did not realise I had my own melody,” he said. Layton smiled faintly.

“Everyone does. Everyone’s death aria sounds different.”

The idea was disturbing. Idris steadied himself, picked up Thistle and got to his feet. He thought, if he could just get to his rooms and clear his head, he could push Braemar from his mind, but when he reached the door, Layton spoke.

“The second story,” he said. “It was true.”

“The first story was true,” said Idris, turning to see if Layton was angry or curious. But The Remaker stood still and quiet, his hand still on the crystal, his face blank like uncut marble.

“I did not take you for a soldier,” said Layton.

Idris’s chest hurt. He did not know how to spin this.

“I... I am no soldier. But I can be a useful asset. My skills were requested and I adhered to the request.”

“Queen Naga asked for your help? How did she know of you?”

“Rumours get around,” said Idris. “I expect any monarch in a desperate position will listen to rumour.”

Layton said nothing, but he nodded.

“I must rest,” said Idris, his heart fast and painful. “Are you not tired?”

“No,” said Layton. “But you rest, if you must.”

There was a lot that Idris did not like about himself. He hated that he cried all the time, whether he was angry or overwhelmed or upset. He hated that he was not assertive or brave. What he hated most was that he could not control his thoughts. When he panicked, he always thought of Braemar, of the bone-cold, of the rain. He had never considered that someone else may one day be able to see those thoughts.

What was he supposed to do, if Layton asked?

Tell the truth, he knew. Layton already knew it was a real memory. There was no sense lying about it.

But if he told the truth, what gaps would that open in his armour? There could be no mistakes, anymore. For Joa’s plan to work, he had to have Layton’s full trust or none at all. In some ways, none at all would be easier.

Idris retreated to his room and sat, quiet, with Thistle exploring the desk and chair. By the time he was hungry, he had made up his mind to explain as simply as possible to Layton about his role in the war, but when he got to the dining room, he was struck silent, as if he had left his decision behind.

Layton mentioned it first, into the strained silence.

“You fought in the Queen’s war, and you told me you had not.”

Idris swallowed the suddenly solid mouthful of soup, and then cleared his throat.

“I told you I did not receive the scar on my shoulder from the Queen’s war,” he said. “That is different.”

“I see.” Layton stirred the last half of his meal. “You raised for her?”

“I did.”

“How were you compensated?”

“She promised to keep my home and my identity protected.”

“A good deal.”

“It was.”

Layton sat back, seemed troubled by something. Quietly, he said, “The Puppeteer.”

Idris felt ice cold, all at once.

Dravid Orrost had spoken with Layton. He had told the necromancer about The Puppeteer. What else had Orrost said?

“That is...” Idris cleared his throat, sniffed, tried to sound casual. “That is what the people call me. The Puppeteer. The soldiers...”

Layton smiled softly.

“They call me The Remaker,” he said. “Or, they used to. It is funny, what names the common folk give to things they do not understand.”

Idris nodded, but he did not find it funny.