Idris slept through the afternoon, so that he could do everything he had planned overnight. In the small hours of the morning, he heard Layton descend the stairs from his room and head further into the tower. Idris waited an hour. He spent the time building his leg out of the wheeled stool that he had destroyed. He used the seat as a platform to rest his stump on and threaded strips of his ripped-up shirt underneath. These, he tucked into the belt he had shortened with his dagger and tightened the belt around his thigh, like his old garter. The legs of his desk chair were about the right length, so he took one of those, dug a hollow into the centre of the seat with his stiletto and attached the leg with wads of parchment that he had chewed into a paste. It was wobbly and uncomfortable, but it would do for climbing stairs.

The second thing he did was write a letter.

Cress,

Outer Arbedes. Layton Vonner, necromancer – The Remaker. Gave SD to DO. Cannot write. L has the bones and water. I am safe.

IYE

Carefully, he left his room, crutch in hand, and began his arduous walk to the top floor. As he passed the library, he peered inside. A thrall was sloppily pushing a broom across the floor, his steps hard and lumbering. Idris frowned and kept on. He did not know if the thralls would alert Layton to his whereabouts; there were likely necromantic mechanisms in place that he knew nothing about.

At Layton’s bedroom door, Idris pressed his hand to the surface and listened hard. He felt no particular death arias, only the background noise he was becoming accustomed to.

The ravens on the roof shuffled suspiciously when Idris approached. He tended not to use live birds for messengers, so it took him a few minutes to find one which might be amenable to him tying the letter to its leg and he found none; they cawed angrily at his disturbance, flew away when they heard his stamp on the tile. Eventually, he found a small, sleepy bird which did not struggle and, with a weary sigh, he grabbed it, apologised and broke its tiny neck.

The other ravens rustled and croaked while he raised their brother back to a more obedient creature, placed the image of the palace and Cressida’s window in its now-wonky head, and he tied the note to its leg and ordered it to go. The bird flapped its wings, its beady eyes filled with grey fire, and it became a speck of midnight against the black sky.

The rest of the tasks were investigatory. Idris stopped by the library once he was certain the thrall was gone and pulled the cover off the curtain crystal. Curious, he pressed his hand against it and was stunned to feel how cold it was. Necromantic energy was hot, smoky. Something in the crystal managed to contain the heat. It probably meant that the crystal would not be easy to break. In fact, it was fused with the structure it was housed in so tightly that he could not move it at all. If he wanted to destroy it, he would have to drop it off the roof.

The further down the tower he went, the more thralls he saw. It was unnerving, watching thralls that did not belong to him. Usually, he could feel the presence of one of his raised helpers before he saw them; here, he kept turning corners on the stairs, only to be startled by a grey-tinged, lolloping figure, dusting sconces or polishing tables. Idris wondered how easy it would be to claim one for himself, to manufacture a few thralls that Layton might be comfortable with. It would make traipsing around the tower a little easier and it might fool Layton for long enough to make him believe that Idris was staying, to relax some of his restrictions.

Idris stopped by the kitchens to say hello to the cats, then he went to the bottom basement floor, where he and Layton had not been. Disappointingly, the wide opening to the vault’s entrance way was covered by an iron bar wall. Beyond the bars was the vault door, a stone creation which, even from behind the gate, Idris felt hum with magic.

The scar on his shoulder, like the pain in his phantom foot, began to ache.

The breastplate.

He stood, silent, hands gripping the bars, letting the pain settle in his scar. Everything in him that had been half-persuaded by Layton’s shy smiles and excited air recoiled. This man, The Remaker, had a piece of Dead Walker armour, and had allowed someone who intended harm to the kingdom to wield a second piece. Whether or not that man was his father meant nothing. At some point, Idris knew he had to get into that vault and take the armour.

His tasks complete, Idris returned to his bedroom. He dismantled the leg and stashed it under his bed and, as the sun began to rise, he took himself off to the library to start perusing the shelves.

The books that Layton owned were volumes that Idris had only ever seen referenced in the palace texts. Every turn surprised him with a two-hundred-year-old original copy of The Economics of Necromancy, or a many-times-read tome of Cataloguing Necrotic Arias. Dazed, he collected as many as he could carry and placed them by the armchair he had chosen, and he had just opened one when he heard a voice.

“It is early for heavy reading like that.”

Idris looked up. Layton was at the door, the hems of his trousers still mud-coated and sap-stains tinging the buttonholes of his shirt.

“I have never seen a copy of Trials of the Dead before,” said Idris. “Forgive me, I could not sleep.”

Layton waved a hand. “If you want it, it is yours.” He tilted his head at the rest of the stack. “A good selection. I would pair Economics with Practical Arias, though. Let me see if I can find it.”

“How was your journey?” said Idris, as Layton began wandering the shelves.

“Fruitful. You should have medicine for a week, at minimum – as long as I picked the correct herbs.” Layton finally slid a book out, checked the cover. “Here. Practical Arias and Stance Correction.”

“I have some questions about the tower,” said Idris.

“Certainly.”

“First, the death aria, here. It is constant, but not overwhelming.”

“A by-product of the surroundings and the curtain,” said Layton, sitting on a chair opposite. “Oh, and the construction of the tower. It acts as a chimney. The aria comes through here, through the pentagon, and funnels upwards, dispersing itself around the area. Otherwise, I fear I would never sleep.”

“Is that what heats the place?”

“Oh yes. It is toasty in the winter months.”

“Secondly, besides the curtain, how do you protect this place from intruders?”

Layton smiled. It was the first smile since he had entered and it was sharply edged. “A variety of methods. None of which need concern you at this present time. The death curtain is enough.” He handed the book over. “I have questions for you, also.”

“Go ahead.”

“You said you do not live at Temple Hill…” Layton paused. “Where do you live?”

“That need not concern you at this present time,” said Idris delicately. Layton’s smile did not waver.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“I did not see your camp, in Outer Arbedes.”

Idris said nothing. Lila moved the camp. It was the only explanation. But if that was true, where had they gone?

Layton sat back, crossed his legs.

“I did not see any camp,” he said. “How did you get here?”

“I walked, I told you.”

“From where?” When Idris still did not answer, the coldness crept into The Remaker’s eyes, like fingers of frost covering a windowpane. “There are parts of your arrival here which concern me greatly, Idris. You are not being truthful with me. Have I not been kind? Accommodating?”

“You have provided the bare minimum which a father should provide,” said Idris.

This observation, it seemed, riled his father.

“It is not difficult to adequately detain a man with a single foot,” said Layton, his voice sharp. “A man who nobody knows is here. A man nobody would miss. What is your purpose for staying here? Speak plainly.”

Idris put down his book, settled himself in the chair and took the stiletto dagger from the chest sheath, again.

“You know the purpose,” he said. “I came to kill you. Why should I trust you? I do not know you. I do not love you.” He pushed the dagger home again. “Men are allowed to change their minds. Perhaps I am on the way to changing it. I will tell you this: I do not have children, Layton. I assume I am your only heir. If you are intent on continuing the bloodline, it would be rather foolish to kill me.”

Layton was silent, this time. His jaw worked for a moment.

“My home is in Gleesdale,” said Idris, returning to his book.

“Your camp?”

“Does it matter? I am here, now. I intend to stay awhile.”

“And then kill me?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then perhaps I will make you leave,” said Layton.

“Do it,” said Idris, looking right into his eyes.

Neither man said anything, did anything. They stared at each other, trying to determine the best course of action, to find common ground.

“Layton,” said Idris eventually, “you are the only family I have left. My mother disowned me. My… Obrin, he has not spoken to me for years. My uncle is dead. Nobody waits for me at a window. You are quite correct – if you killed me, or detained me, nobody would know, or care, or mourn that much. You likely have regrets. Maybe you think that your kindness to me, now, might sway me. Maybe it will. I have no reason to be here other than to exact a sort of… long-brewed revenge over something I only learned two days ago. Do you truly think if I was going to kill you, I would have waited this long?”

Layton did not reply at first.

“I would like transparency,” he said.

“Why would I be transparent with you?” Idris said. “You are a perfect stranger to me.”

“And yet you accept my hospitality –“

“Like I said before, it is the very least you can do for me.” Idris pursed his lips, then sighed irritably. “We can have this conversation every day if you would like, father. We can dance around all of the bitterness and rancour. I have a right to be disappointed in you, to be guarded. You have a right to be suspicious. I wandered in here after twenty-three years without a warning, a full-grown man. You should be grateful there is not a dagger in your neck right now.”

“You would never do it,” said Layton.

“You are certain of that?” said Idris. “You know nothing of what I have done. What I could do. It could be that I have killed thousands, had them march as thralls at my back. How would you know?”

Layton was quiet. He frowned at the shelves, his cheeks pink.

“I have nothing to prove to you,” Idris said. “You, on the other hand, have much to prove. All I want to do right now is read. If I can find you in a more agreeable mood this afternoon, I would be happy to do some casting with you. Otherwise, I would rather you left me alone.”

The talk of magic perked Layton up, only a little – Idris suspected, though, that it would be enough.

“It was a long ride and I am quite tired, now you mention it,” The Remaker said. He stood, picked at brambles stuck in his sleeve. “I will retire. Once I am rested, I am certain I will be… calmer. Your herbs are in your quarters.”

“Thank you, Layton.”

The man paused, and he left quietly. Idris sat with his heart hammering, his eyes not taking in a thing on the page in front of him.

The camp was gone. It was not the only thing that might make Layton’s paranoia worse, but it was a glaring hole in Idris’s story. He hoped beyond hope that Cressida would get his letter and understand its meaning, and send aid, if possible.

Eventually, his brain simmered to background noise as he devoured the contents of Layton’s library. The knowledge imparted in the few books he had piled up was worth years of teaching that he had likely missed; most methods he came across were methods he had never seen or heard of before, even in other disciplines. Idris wished he had years to work on the books, but he had a matter of days if all went well. Perversely, he was quite excited to try the commands and have Layton at his side to do it.

The casting room was purpose built for practice. Boxes of different-coloured chalk sat in the corners – some shapes and lines were painted into the floor for ease of use, but others had to be created to check angles and placements. Before he even began, Idris hopped around the room, looking at the apparatus. There was wine, and a fresh spout for water, clean towels and lecterns for placing texts upon. Idris cleared a space in the centre of the room, drew the required lines around his knees and started working on simple stances. It had, after all, been a long time since he had worked uninterrupted like this on his basics, in a quiet room; since his illness, necromancy of any kind had been discouraged.

It was not long before he heard, “I have never seen a man cast from a kneel before.”

Idris scowled and did not turn.

“I need two points of contact with the ground. I thought a man as accomplished as yourself would know that,” he said.

“It is still rather marvellous. How do you compensate for the dispensation of your weight?”

“I…” He did not have the need to explain his casting methods to anyone in the palace – they either never saw him work or were laymen. “Come and see.” Layton appeared beside him; Idris waved him forwards. “See? My weight rests largely on my knees. It is difficult without my fake foot, but it is how I learned.”

“That must burn.”

“I get large bruises.”

“Your shoulders are so…” Layton frowned, waved a hand. “Tight.”

“For the weight. Balance.”

“I see.”

“I have to make myself…” Idris shifted into his preferred, prosthetic-less stance. “Tall. Allow the air to have free access.”

“Of course, yes.” Layton tilted his head. “Fascinating. How do you accomplish a stance such as Half-Moon from there?”

“Uh… with difficulty, actually.”

“May I?”

Idris nodded. Layton moved to his left, helped to twist Idris’s waist for a Half-Moon, and grabbed him under the arms when he started to fall.

“I normally strap my leg down if I have to do anything requiring off-balance stances,” said Idris. “Or, I find another spell.”

“I wonder if…” Layton sighed, seemed anxious. “I think I may have a solution, if… if I am permitted to touch your…”

“My necrotised stump?” finished Idris, raising an eyebrow.

“If it is uncomfortable –“

He waved his hand, shook his head. “Just… move it wherever it needs to go.”

Layton took two hands and turned Idris’s shin inwards, so that his right knee pointed outwards and his base was more central.

“This should give you a little more control over your balance,” said Layton, striding all around Idris to check the angles. “Looser shoulders for a Half-Moon. Raise your chin.”

Idris slowly twisted, and found that the correction was better than he had hoped. The aria flowed centrally, still, when he breathed it in, and he was not focused on keeping upright like he normally was. Layton smiled slightly, moved a clay vase into view.

“Push,” he said.

Idris took the aria in his head and said, with a hard palm-strike forwards, “Push.”

The spell charred. The vase shattered.

Then he blinked, because he had never managed a necrotic strike from a Half-Moon before. Layton beamed.

“A worthy strike,” he said, collecting up the shards. “Accurate.”

Idris moved back to his haunches, feeling strangely excited. Layton watched him for a while.

“Do you feel well?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” said Idris quietly. “I… that was better. Thank you.”

“I have more clays, if you wish to practice with them.”

“I would.”

He did not have much need to work with offensive spells, but he also knew that pacifism was a luxury he may not have for much longer.

“Layton,” he said, watching as his father gathered more plain clay objects from the shelves. “I… you do not have to help me. I have been rather proud these last two days, and with it I have been unkind.”

But Layton shook his head. “As have I.” He placed a few more vases across the room at varying distances. “I am rather accustomed to my own company. I can be quite abrasive. Your arrival was a shock but I should have been more grateful for the opportunity I am presented with.”

“I am taking advantage of your hospitality,” Idris began.

“All things that a father should provide,” Layton echoed mildly. “Come now, show me a… a Half-Moon Sinister, with a drain.”

“A drain?”

“You have never performed a drain?” said Layton, turning. Idris shook his head. “Ah. Then… watch me.”

He placed a fig in front of one of the vases, shifted into a stance. The way Layton stood when he conducted arias was powerful, for a wiry man. He seemed three feet taller, two feet wider, his arms and feet precise, his grey-green eyes narrowed and fiery. Idris heard the aria gather towards him, as if a flock of gulls surrounded Layton, and then Layton opened his mouth and, for the first time, Idris heard another necromancer’s spell fizzle through the music.

“Give,” Layton said, his voice a jumble of notes and ash.

The sound was electrifying. The aria shifted. Layton gripped the air in his right fist and pulled towards his chest.

The fig, plump and bright, shrivelled to a grey husk.

“Black bells,” Idris whispered.

“Gentlemen should not curse,” said Layton, returning to his usual self.

“I… you necrotised it?”

“Yes. Theoretically, I increased its own death aria. Sped it up.”

“You said ‘give’.”

In response, Layton smiled and opened his clenched fist.

A fig-sized ball of necrotic fire sat in his palm.