In the morning, Layton asked Idris to take breakfast to their hostage, including a full cup of wine.

“Make sure he drinks the whole thing,” said Layton. Idris hesitated.

“Why?”

Layton smiled his fatherly smile. “You know why. There is nothing harmful in it. Take a sip for yourself.”

On the way up the stairs, Idris did just that, and could not taste anything other than wine, and scolded himself for being paranoid. Either way, he was not looking forward to taking Willard his meal.

The thrall posted outside of the bedroom was particularly unpleasant. Idris did not know where Layton had found it, but it looked like it had maybe fallen from the ruins somewhere and that was how it met its end. Its left arm was mangled, as if a horse had trampled it, and there were pieces of its skull still protruding from greying, green flesh. Corpses did not regularly trouble Idris – in his line of work, they were unavoidable, and he had seen many that looked worse. Its eyes were what made Idris most uncomfortable. They were bright and grey with necrotic fire, and they watched everything, and he knew plainly that it was not under his control. It was strange to think that, but it was startlingly obvious. There was no invisible thread that Idris felt with this one, like his thralls and all the other thralls he had ever experienced in his life. He was sure now that the thralls had some kind of connection to Layton and could relay images and sound to him, but how, he could not say.

At Idris’s approach, the thrall moved out of the way in a single, loping step. Idris slipped past and into the room.

Willard was awake and washing his hair haphazardly in the bath.

“Oh. Morning, Master Vonner,” he said.

“Good morning, princeling.” Idris placed the tray down. “Lord Vonner has requested that I stay and watch you drink the wine.”

He gave Willard a meaningful look; Willard nodded and held out a hand for it.

“That you may do,” he said, and he tipped the whole thing into the bath water and pulled out the plug.

“Here is your breakfast,” said Idris, jerking his thumb to the door and making a pentagon shape with his fingers.

“Aye, many thanks,” said Willard, questioningly pulling a finger across his own neck. Idris nodded.

“Is there anything you require to make your stay more comfortable?”

“Don’t think so, no. Will I get lunch and dinner, too?”

“Yes. I will bring them. If that is all, princeling...”

“Aye. Much gratitude, Master Vonner.”

Idris hoped, as he left, that Willard had enough mastery of his fae magic to be able to manipulate the seeds from where he was trapped.

Layton was in a bright mood, that morning. Once Idris returned from his single chore, Layton lay out a fine breakfast of chilled jams and toasted pastries. For his faults, he was quite the chef. While Idris ate, Layton outlined the plan for the day.

“I expect,” he said, “that we will see His Fae Highness this evening. When he returns, he should have the staff in tow. If he does, we return the princeling and give him the chest with the breastplate in it, as long as he hands over the staff first, for insurance.”

“I do not think he will part with his ill-gotten gains,” said Idris, but Layton shook his head.

“I either receive the staff or his son stays with me.”

“I do not like having a hostage,” Idris said again.

“You do not have to like it. It is necessary.” Layton dabbed at the crumbs on his mouth with a napkin. “There have been... interesting developments.”

“Oh?”

“Visitors in the ruins.”

Idris breathed slowly, carefully. “That is strange.”

“Quite. I wonder if the prince has called some friends to try to threaten me. There are some soldiers, I think. They are nothing to fear, but I wonder if I need to hurry them away so that we can be left undisturbed.”

“Send some thralls. That might be enough.”

“Perhaps.”

“I could make some, if you have too much to do here,” said Idris, hoping it sounded as casual as he wanted it to. Layton considered it for a moment.

“That could be useful,” he said at last. “I will send some thralls to find some... good bodies. I will inform you once they have arrived.”

“Skeletons might suffice.”

“Then skeletons they will bring. In the meantime, I will consult the library for ideas and then I will likely retire to prepare for this evening.”

There was time, then, for Idris’s plans.

He went back to his own room, examined the seed he had placed behind the bed, by the window. Sprouts were already forming, curling creepers that clung to the brickwork. When he reached his hand to touch the new shoots, he felt pins and needles in his fingertips. The seed in the vault room was surely the same; he hoped Layton had not noticed it.

The next stop, while Layton was busy elsewhere, was further up the tower. Idris hurried upstairs, pausing to look at the smashed thrall guarding Willard’s room. He wondered, again, if there might be a way for him to take control of the body without Layton noticing – but that would have to wait. Instead, he threw a book to under the thrall’s legs. When the corpse looked down at it, Idris sped past and upstairs, towards Layton’s bedroom.

The black chalk mark on the doorframe was still there. Idris redrew it, remade his spell. Already, the effects of the necrotic energy he had summoned there were evident. Quiet, splintery rot marred the edges of the bolt-home. Tomorrow, there would be no stopping Idris from entering the bedroom where the strange aria lay.

Once he was satisfied, he completed other chores for Layton. He took Willard fresh towels and lunch; Willard was sitting on the bed, eyes shut, his hands glowing with fae sparks, so Idris did not bother him for conversation. Working the seeds had to be difficult going, in a place so devoid of fae magic. Idris cleaned up the parlour, setting it up for Joa’s second visit, and he took Layton a pot of tea in the library.

“My, you have been up and down the place today,” said Layton, accepting the cup.

“Lots to do, Father.”

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“Does that not bother your leg?”

“My hips, actually. My knee, mostly.” Idris flexed his hand. “I usually have a cane. I forgot it.”

“How is our guest?” said Layton.

“Quiet. He is no trouble.”

“The soldiers are setting up camp,” Layton said, as if this was the next natural part of the conversation.

“Oh? Where?”

“About half-a-mile from here. They are not... busy, per say. It may be a scouting party.” Layton sank back in his chair, gazed at the shelves. “They are no threat. If they get too close, they will find that out the hard way.”

Idris remembered what Layton said about the tower being able to protect itself, and he hoped Kurellan paid attention to the directions Willard must have given him.

“We can divert them once I have my thralls,” said Idris.

“Oh, no need,” said Layton mildly. “I have already sent some.”

Idris paused. He had thought that maybe he could gain a little foothold in the running of the tower if he had thralls of his own, but Layton must have deemed it too much of a threat. Stranger still, even with all of the necromancy they had been performing, Layton never seemed tired. If he really was constantly getting information from the thralls, it should have shown on his face, in his voice. He was always remarkably composed.

“Let me handle the protection of the family,” said Layton, seeing Idris’s hesitation. “I trust you to handle internal affairs, hmm? Our guest requires attention I cannot provide.”

“Of course, Father.”

“Feed the ravens, will you?”

“I will. The cats, too?”

“They will find a meal,” said Layton, returning to his book. “They always do.”

At the top of the tower, the ravens rustled and creaked, watching Idris with suspicious black eyes. They huddled against the warm wind, trying to ignore him. Carefully, he lay out stale bread husks until, certain he was seeing things, he noticed a raven, threadbare and bony, with a maggot in its belly, watching him from the floor with fiery grey in its eyes.

There was a message on its leg.

Idris abandoned the feeding, collected up the note and felt his own death aria inside the raven’s hollow body. Drums, Layton had said. Idris heard drums and shivering strings.

He dismissed the aria, to allow the raven its peace, and tugged the navy seal apart on the note.

IYE -

Honour at your disposal. Be safe.

I love you.

CNR

Idris clutched the note to his heart, closed his eyes. Cressida had sent Kurellan not as a punishment, but as protection. He should have known she would understand. He wished he could crook his arm for her to thread hers through, tell her he was thankful and that she was too soft on him, telling him that she loved him so wantonly.

Family, he thought. The family that chose me.

And then,

I am such a fool.

He tucked the note inside his boot and returned to the warmth of the tower. He mixed the fae circle paint for Joa’s arrival, laid it in the parlour; he took Willard a final meal, but Willard was sleeping. At a loss, Idris returned to the practice chamber, and he held Half-Moons until his stomach was sore, and he thought about Lila and Riette, out in the ruins, waiting for him.

Family, he told himself, as he twisted and strained. The family that chose me.

He bathed before the evening meeting, wore the same clothes that he had worn the night before, and met Layton in the parlour to make the circle. Once it was painted, though, Layton said, “Go and get the princeling. I must retire before His Fae Highness returns.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. Just preparations.”

Idris frowned, but he complied.

Willard looked less fae and more like himself when Idris arrived to escort him. The green lace jacket had been discarded and the thin brown shirt that was underneath reminded Idris of the hemp coat Willard used to wear.

“Circle time?” said Willard. Idris nodded.

“Be on your guard.”

“Aye.”

The shattered thrall was gone.

The men waited quietly in the parlour. Layton did not come back. Time crept on.

“The seeds?” Idris whispered. Willard nodded.

“They’re a-doing. Should be enough.”

“Kurellan is setting up camp in the ruins.”

“I told Lila to tell him not to come too close -”

“Thank you. I do not want the old man getting hurt.”

“What d’you think your pa is doing?” Willard whispered, frowning.

“I do not want to think,” muttered Idris.

Midnight came with its fuzzy fae edges, and the circle paint glowed gold. Willard’s shoulders stiffened, but when he saw Joa emerging from the light, he sighed and smiled.

“Evening, Father,” he said. Joa smiled, too, but it did not touch his eyes.

“Kin Willard. You look well.” The prince gazed over the room. “Where is Lord Vonner?”

“Perhaps I should fetch him,” said Idris, concerned.

“D’you bring it?” Willard asked Joa.

“I must speak to Lord Vonner,” said Joa.

Idris’s neck prickled. None of this was as he had expected. Layton should have been waiting beside him, to collect his birth-right; what was he doing upstairs alone? Maybe he knew about the black chalk mark. Or the seeds. Or -

“Apologies for my lateness,” said Layton, smiling as he entered the room. He seemed bigger, somehow; Idris could not put his finger on it. Broader, perhaps, the way he looked when he was casting. “Your Highness,” said Layton, bowing to Joa. “I trust you are well.”

“I am, Lord Vonner.” Joa tilted his head towards Willard. “I will take my son, now.”

“Oh, no,” said Layton, his smile not shifting. “Not yet. I want to discuss our next steps, first. Will you leave the circle and sit awhile?”

“I will not,” said the prince. “I will stay, but I will stay in the safety of my glen, if you do not mind.”

“It makes little difference to me. Idris?”

“Father?” said Idris, feeling nauseated.

“A quill and some parchment, please. And the copy of Binding and Bequeathing from the third shelf in the library. Hurry, now, let us not waste our guest’s time.”

“Yes, Father, right away,” said Idris quietly. He tried not to look at anyone as he strode out.

Layton was playing his hand. It was time to spring Idris’s traps, too.

He did not go to the library. He went to his bedroom, checked that Thistle was safe under the bed. The seed’s contents were spilling haphazardly across the tile and up the wall, orange flowers already blooming. It would be difficult to hide it, now. Idris pulled the curtain across the window and hoped it would do enough.

“Wait here,” he whispered to Thistle, who stretched and yawned.

Idris went upstairs. Past the library. To Layton’s room.

The doorframe was rotten enough now for Idris to kick the door down. He used his metal foot – he did not care much for hurting his only good leg – and it took only two good slams for the lock to shatter and the door to swing inwards.

The room was busy. A multitude of patterned rugs and tapestries adorned the dark stone, in a wild variety of reds and greys, as if an autumnal sunset had bled to death on every surface. A thick velvet curtain covered the space opposite Layton’s grand bed. The desk spilled over with parchment and books; scribbled sigils and stances sprang from the cream-coloured sheets. The air was stuffy with incense and the smell of wine.

The death aria rolled through Idris like a wave of exhaustion.

It was not the usual. Idris could almost remember where he had felt it before, but it evaded him still. Cautiously, he padded over the rugs into the centre of the room, trying to pinpoint where the energy was strongest. On a shelf, he saw the vertebrae of some impossibly large creature, beside two raven skeletons. Jars and jars of casting salts and coloured chalk sat beneath the desk, in chests and on top of books.

This man is obsessed, he thought, glancing overhead to see a giant bony wing, splayed out across the ceiling. It was as close to a childhood’s fantasy of an evil necromancer’s room as he could imagine. The whole enterprise made Idris feel lazy in comparison, despite the fact that Cressida always told him all he ever did was work.

Idris closed his eyes. The objects were a distraction. He simply had to feel the aria, to hear it and be within it. It would tell him where it was. He had already been too turned-around by pretty trinkets and kind words. He knew his loyalties. They were the same as they had always been, less disposable than blood, more iron-clad.

The family that chose him, not the family that owned him. He could hardly believe it had taken him so long to remember that. It was what Uncle Haylan had taught him all along, had stressed in his letter. Blood did not matter. Actions, kindness and intent, they all mattered.

And, as if thinking of Haylan was all he had truly needed to focus his senses, Idris felt the death aria, and he remembered it.

It was the same aria he had felt from the bones on the bier in Outer Arbedes.

The realisation stirred in his stomach. Slowly, he opened his eyes, stared right at the velvet curtain. The sound was coming from there.

Idris did not know – and he did not want to know – what he was going to find when he pulled the velvet back. But he had already gone this far. Whatever it was, he was certain that Layton was not supposed to have it, that perhaps its presence was malevolent, and it would be better for all involved if it was destroyed.

So he gripped the curtain and he tugged it aside.

A skin-stripped skull stared back.

But it was not the presence of the skull that made Idris gasp, or step back, or trip on the edge of the rug in his haste to be away from it. It was the sheer force of the death aria that blasted out from its smooth white bone, that screamed through the room like a warning blast. Idris gazed up at it from where he fell and he could see the lines of necrotic energy, like veins, pulsing through the cranial bones, leaking like ink through the teeth.

Whatever killed the owner of the skull, it was still there.

And that was when Idris felt a short, sharp ‘crack’ against the back of his own head, and everything went dark.