The parlour was not how Idris remembered it.

The rugs and furniture had been pushed aside. The chest which everyone thought the breastplate had been inside still sat hungrily in front of the hearth. On the bare tile, there was a gigantic pentagon drawn in red chalk on the ground. At each corner, Layton had placed an object of power. The huge vertebrae that Idris had seen in the bedroom sat on one point, the seeing bowl on another. At the pinnacle was the death curtain’s crystal and its stand. A selection of crystals, arranged in another pentagon, clustered on the fourth point. On the fifth was a shallow bowl which contained a murky, grey-red substance.

The necrotic skull sat in the very centre of the pentagon, staring out at Idris.

Idris was, effectively, immobilised. Layton had not gagged him or found another sapping crystal, but if Idris so much as scratched his arm, Layton simply gripped the staff and burned pain all through Idris’s body. Without a prosthetic or a crutch, he could not go anywhere alone.

It hardly mattered. Idris felt too useless and he hurt too much. He did not know what necromantic theory Layton was following. Fighting against The Remaker was like spitting at the sea.

The pentagon was the vessel for a huge mirror portal that was feeding Layton information about everything happening outside. The portal was roughly ten feet wide and ten feet tall, and it had fuzzy grey edges that made Idris’s head ache and made an obscure, spine-chilling sucking noise, like reality was being drawn into it. The bangs that Idris kept hearing were the pounding of giants’ fists on the invisible barrier to the tower, and their subsequent ejection from the tower’s circumference by the blasts of necrotic energy Layton was surging through the aria. Idris was allowed to watch the continuing futility of the fae army because, as Layton put it, it was character building.

Idris only kept watching because he had not seen any of his friends, yet. There were giants and pixies and centaurs, hurling everything they could at the walls of Raven’s Roost, but no Riette, no Lila, no Willard.

Layton eventually sighed, turned and smiled at Idris.

“There. Is it not a marvel, watching everything work as intended?”

Idris said nothing. Layton examined him, his smile turning piteous.

“Oh, Idris,” he said softly. “It did not have to be this way. You keep fighting against the natural order of things. I do not know why you are so surprised. People hate necromancers, you know this. If we do not stick together, this happens.”

He gestured to the assembled fae, throwing lightning bolts and boulders larger than houses towards the tower walls. When Idris still did not speak, Layton twirled the Spirit Staff and frowned.

“You are giving up, then,” he said.

“I want to leave,” said Idris.

“That cannot happen.”

“Fine. Then kill me.”

Layton’s mouth twitched. Idris did not know if the idea was distasteful or if it was that Layton found it amusing, but it was the only wish he had expressed in hours.

“And then what?” said Layton.

“Who cares? I will be dead. The Vonner line will cease. No more necromancers, no more problems.”

“That is not the way things should be -”

“You keep harping on about ‘the natural order,’” said Idris, tasting bile. “But necromancy is not natural, Layton. Things die. They should be left dead.”

“Why would the arias give us necromancy if it were not natural?” said Layton, curious about the idea.

“Why should I know? It is clear that I know nothing. I am tired and I wish to die.”

“Why?”

“Because death is preferable to being forced to live a life I do not want,” said Idris simply. “Raven’s Roost is a place I do not want to live in, with a man I hate, who wants me to be part of something I despise. It is an easy choice.”

Every time Idris said something that renounced his blood-line, Layton’s face shifted. His eyes crinkled in a sort of aghast embarrassment, as if he could hardly believe anyone would think the things Idris thought. Idris loathed that look on his face.

“You will stay here,” Layton said, returning to his work.

“I do not need you to do the deed for me. I can do it myself,” said Idris casually. “I know all the best ways. The benefits of having a healer’s education mean that I know human anatomy rather intricately. I hardly even need an implement.”

Now it was Layton’s turn to be silent. Idris observed the tension in his jaw.

“How do you kill a necromancer, Layton?” he said.

When Willard had asked, Idris had responded, ‘The same way you kill everything else.’ He was not sure about that now.

“I assume they grow old like everyone else,” said Idris. “And die that way. But to kill a necromancer? That must be difficult. You cannot guarantee it will take, what with all of the necrotic energy inherent in their bodies.”

It was not enough bait. He tried a different approach.

“What happens to necromancers’ bones?”

“You should stop asking questions you already know the answers to,” said Layton, his voice terse.

“I know what happened to one necromancer’s bones,” said Idris, staring at the skull. “I assume that is what is left of Johannes Vonner.”

“Very astute.”

“Necromancers’ bones retain some of their death aria,” Idris guessed.

“Correct again.”

“But... but this is not like the bones of the necromancer left in Outer Arbedes. The bones where the dagger lay. They had power, but they did not... look like that, feel like that.” Idris frowned. “This is what the Dead Walker armour did to Johannes.”

Layton gave a thin-lipped smile. “Correct.”

“And you wear it knowing this?”

“I wear it to protect it,” said Layton. “To protect myself. To protect the tower and our family’s name.”

“And the power that comes from Johannes’s skull...” Idris came to the logical conclusion like ice had been slowly melting from his brain. “That is why you are never tired. You feed off the skull’s energy. The skull gives you everything you need to control fifty thralls, and the tower, and the armour. You use the run-off.”

“It is all I have left,” said Layton suddenly. Idris stared. Something had burst in him, something manic; Idris wondered if it was the madness of loneliness or if it was simply frustration. The last few days, everything had unravelled. The life Layton thought he was going to have was gone. “The fae? That kingdom out there?” Layton gestured wildly to the window. “They took everything from us, Idris. Not just physical objects, not just theft. They took our family’s honour. They took our pride. They stripped us of the means to live normal, meaningful lives because they think us immoral and degenerate, incapable of good intent. Your uncle -”

“All of this... is about my uncle?” said Idris, terrified of the implications.

“People like your uncle,” Layton said firmly. “All those good, honest men who want to show how good and honest they are by degrading men like us. Men who cannot choose what we are or what we can do.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Uncle Haylan always told me I had a choice -”

“Your uncle,” said Layton, cheeks red, tears in his eyes, “told me in no uncertain terms that we would never meet if it was within his power. Me. Your father. He said he had to protect you from me -”

“He was right,” said Idris, without any bitterness.

“He was a fool,” Layton hissed.

The tower shook. Idris blinked, gazed at the portal. Outside, the giants, glorious in their height and seeming indestructibility, were taking run-ups. He thought of his gentle, smart uncle, who always loved him, who saved his life knowing that it was not going to be easy to explain away what had happened. Uncle Haylan was forgiving. What had happened between him and Layton?

“You and I could have done miracles together,” said Layton, his eyes still fixed on Idris in righteous fury. “We could have restored the family name. We could be kings out there, do you understand me? Instead, I had to ‘know my place’ and you grew up without a single soul out there who understood you -”

“Oh, I have plenty of people out there that understand me,” said Idris. “And they know who I am and what I can do. I do not need your pity.”

“You think me weak, that I would not harm you,” Layton sneered, and Idris laughed.

“I know you would. You have already done it. I merely think you lack the fortitude to do what you really want to and kill me.”

The tower shook once more. Layton tutted, turned.

“This is futile,” he said.

He returned to the centre of the pentagon, knelt, put a hand on the skull and bowed his head.

The skull seemed to burn with grey fire, tinging the air with heatwaves. Idris heard the aria rush out of it in a thousand jumbled melodies, zinging with the terrible high-pitched twinkling of the fae. As if time flashed across Layton’s face, he seemed simultaneously young and terribly old. When he opened his eyes, they burned. The Spirit Staff, in his right hand, flared with grey smoke; the breastplate’s ribcage looked as if it curled protectively inwards.

“Interesting,” said Layton, his eyes dimming, his voice hinted with melody. “Idris, tell me. The soldier, Kurellan, does he hear the arias?”

“He does not.”

“There is someone out there...” Layton frowned, stood from his crouch and went to the portal. “The princeling?”

“Willard?” said Idris. “He can do plenty of fae magic.”

“It is not fae. It is something... else.”

Idris’s stomach lurched.

Cressida came.

“Whatever it is, it is nothing,” said Layton, crossing the pentagon to the shallow bowl. He examined the contents, smiled at Idris. “I do have to thank you for your help in this endeavour. You are not the only person who can use blood magic.”

Idris stared at the bowl of red-grey, and he touched his stump protectively. Of course. The necrotic energy in his amputated leg would make excellent fuel for everything Layton was powering in the parlour.

“No sense throwing away good blood,” said Layton.

“This is the grand plan, then,” said Idris, feeling small. “You keep me here forever. You attack any and all who oppose you. All because you are lonely and you feel left out? Because of slights against your honour?”

Layton sighed, turned.

“Your assessment of what happened with the Orrost bastard was surprisingly accurate,” he said. “That was the first plan, yes. He was to storm Veridia and I was to come in and offer my services. Dravid did not know this, of course. He thought I was a benevolent benefactor who simply wanted to watch the continent unravel. With the kingdom saved, I was hoping to reveal myself as a prominent head of a noble house and reclaim you as my heir. But where one bastard could have succeeded, I suppose two ruin every good intention. It was foolish of you to step in, Idris. None of this had to happen if you had simply let the intervention run its course.

“Your meddling has forced my hand. These people want to hurt us. I will protect what is mine, by right. If that means I have to kill everything within a ten-mile radius, I will do so. All of these bodies will be much more useful dead, anyway. You need to stay where I can see you, you are too troublesome to let loose.”

“And this is supposed to endear you to the kingdom? To me?”

“I care little about what these people think,” said Layton. “They will not listen to reason even if it is given to them. They will look upon me as an evil entity. Well, if they are so inclined to see me as a monster, let me be a monster. Fear is as effective as love.”

“You are behaving like a monster,” said Idris firmly. “Wearing cursed armour and hurting your only son. Layton...” There were few options. Layton was bent on his idea of revenge. Idris closed his eyes and gave up the act. “Layton, I am the Court Necromancer of House Naga. I am prominent and respected in the kingdom. If you stop this... if you stop this, I can introduce you to the Queen. She will welcome you with open arms, as she did with me and my uncle.”

Nothing happened. Slowly, afraid, Idris opened his eyes. Layton stood, limp, in the pentagon, gazing out through the portal. It was as if Idris’s confession, his truth, had stripped Layton of everything he believed in.

“They will reduce this tower to ashes,” said Idris, gentler now, trying to make him see. “They will kill you, Layton, for what you have done to me. We can end this now, right these wrongs. The Queen is merciful. She will understand -”

“She will never understand what we have been through,” said Layton through gritted teeth, through tears, glaring at Idris. “Never.”

“She loves me like her own brother,” said Idris, putting his hands on his heart. “She can love you if you let her. She knows you because she knows me, what I have suffered, what she can fix.”

“This benevolent queen who stripped you of your name?” demanded Layton. “Who demanded subservience of you?”

“It was not that way -”

“She will take all I have left!” he said, his voice on the edge of a wail, pure madness lodged firmly in his eyes. “I will not be left barren and destitute! If they want to take this from me, they will have to kill me first! I will not be made a fool of! I will not be belittled! I am Layton Vonner, Lord of Raven’s Roost, and if they mean to make a mockery of me, they will feel my hand upon them!”

“You cannot get an apology from a dead man!” Idris burst. “Haylan cannot make amends to you and for that, I am sorry! I am truly sorry! Please – please, Father, it does not have to -”

In his anguish, Layton raised the Spirit Staff to strike Idris again. This time, startled, Idris ducked.

The staff whooshed over his scalp. The skull of Johannes Vonner appeared to gleam with malintent.

“Layton, stop!” Idris cried, backing up.

With a strangled cry, Layton swung. Idris blocked the blow with the backs of his arms; it smarted instantly and burned, threw wild, malevolent notes into Idris’s blood and ears.

But he could work with this.

The touch of the staff rejuvenated him. It brought back everything he knew he had to do.

The next time Layton raised the Spirit Glass, Idris dropped right into a Half-Moon and shouted, “Push!”

It charred; he almost did not move his arm to direct the blast. The necrotic energy slammed hard and true into Layton’s chest. It shocked him, but it did not harm him. Idris was sure he saw grey flames lick around the breastplate’s ribcage as it absorbed the blow.

“Black bells,” Idris whispered, alarmed.

“You would strike me?” said Layton, with a manic laugh.

“As you struck me, yes.” Idris swallowed, held his stance, tried to look menacing. “I do not want to fight you, Layton, do not make me.”

“You? Harm me?” The Remaker laughed again. “I wield the Dead Walker armour. Nothing you do can harm me.”

“There is nothing stopping me from trying. And I will try.”

“From the floor?”

“From my two knees, yes.”

“This is hardly a fair fight,” said Layton, with a wicked smile.

Idris narrowed his eyes. “Dravid Orrost failed to kill me. I doubt you will fare much better. He was twice the weight of you and twice as mad and I still bested him. No prosthetic, on my knees, in the dark.”

“Stupid Eremont bastard,” Layton snarled, his face flushed and gleaming with sweat, and he lifted the staff one more time.

Idris twisted into his Half-Moon in an instant, held out his hand and said, “Give.”

He snatched his hand to his chest.

He felt it – what he had failed to feel the first time – a surge of heat and purpose, all contained on the palm of his hand, like he had touched a campfire and it had not seared his flesh, somehow. For a moment, he was sure he had hurt Layton, but then he saw the staff lurch forwards, almost like it meant to throw itself to the ground. Layton, confused, slipped off-balance.

Idris, with the grey fire alight on his palm and the sound of drums rampant in his blood, grabbed the staff and said, “Push.”

It was as if he had launched it from a ballista. Grey flames sucked in on Idris’s palm, then exploded outwards. The staff, bereft of its power for only seconds, lost all of its lustre. The glass sprang off his palm and slammed against Layton’s breastplate.

Then, the sound of musical screaming, like an orchestra was being churned in a maelstrom. Idris reeled, the pain in his head too much to bear. Layton, disoriented, dropped his half of the Spirit Staff.

Two pieces, shattered in the centre, dropped to the floor.

“No,” whispered Layton through the ear-piercing noise. “No, no, no -”

He put his hands to his ears and dropped to his knees. Idris, dazed, trying to think through the wailing of the broken staff, looked again at the skull of Johannes Vonner, still grinning, still waiting, his bone infused with dark power.

Clenching his jaw, Idris grabbed half of the broken staff.

“No!” screamed Layton, and shoved him.

Idris, flat on his back, punched Layton in his jaw to try and prevent what he knew was coming, but Layton was half-possessed with fury and hardly even reeled back. With the Dead Walker breastplate squashed between them, hard on Idris’s ribcage, Layton grabbed his son’s neck and began to squeeze as if with enough strength, he could rip Idris’s head clean off.

Idris scrabbled with his single foot, clawed at the backs of Layton’s hands. Already the edges of his vision were fuzzy. He could not hear anything but the endless screeching misery of the broken staff. The glass on his chest was heavy and tight and hot with the energy it sucked in. Layton was surprisingly strong. Idris coughed.

Right now, he thought, your body is going into shock.

Healer lessons never left him.

Every organ is fighting for a share of your last breaths. That is why your stomach hurts so badly.

He kicked, tried to scream. His eyes felt huge. Layton’s gaze, murderous and tear-filled, was the only thing in his vision, and his vision was whiting and greying. Idris wanted to cry. He wanted to do something.

And then, as if a candle had snuffed out in Layton’s mind, he stopped squeezing.

Idris dragged in a giant gasp of air, rolled onto his side. Sound rushed back to him. In the noise and confusion, he could hardly believe what had happened to him, or that Layton had let go. Dazed, he lay on the ground, hand on his throat, staring.

Layton got up. He glanced once at the broken staff, then he moved to the pentagon. He scooped up the skull.

“Let them destroy this place,” Layton whispered. “I hope they destroy it with you inside it.”

The last image Idris had of his father, in their ancestral home, was of two booted feet, walking away.