Get up, bastard.

Idris sniffed, wiped all of the mucus off his face.

There is still work to do.

He struggled onto his knees, turned his head to the portal and the pentagon. The air was filled with the dreadful screech of the staff.

There is a plan.

Idris crawled to the pentagon. Once inside it, he felt a wave of energy; the aria lifted up through him like a pleasant updraft. Even without the skull, the pentagon carried the necrotic energy of the five objects of power. Idris knew parts of the theory, but not enough to truly work the sigil. All he had to do here was take the curtain down.

Coughing, dizzy, he dragged himself up the crystal’s stand, closed his eyes and put his hands on the cool surface.

Stupid, useless...

Idris sniffed again, this time to hold back his tears.

Your own father tried to kill you.

It was nearly impossible to kneel high enough to hold the stance, with his body as wrecked as it was. Everything trembled and complained. The noise was too much to bear.

Lord Idris Vonner of Raven’s Roost. What a joke.

Idris sobbed once, and then gave himself up to the aria.

It pulled at his bleeding face, at the tooth hanging in his gums. The energy crackled across his sweaty palms. All he had to do was undo the weaving they had made together. With the force being exerted on the curtain from outside, it was easy to find the holes. But the entire time Idris tugged and disrupted and broke his work, he thought of how artfully Layton had made the song, how they had woven it together, and how he was never going to experience that ever again.

He was a lone necromancer once more.

When the work was done, Idris slid his hands off the crystal, rested his brow on the wooden stand and felt how exhausted he was. The screaming of the broken Spirit Glass scored through him.

The job was not finished, yet.

After some time, there were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and someone clattered into the parlour, and said, “Sir Idris?”

“Hello, Kurellan,” whispered Idris, not turning, not lifting his head. He wondered what this whole enterprise looked like to the old judge – the portal, the pentagon, the court necromancer half-dead on the floor. “I am quite well, please do not worry about me,” he said.

“Well my arse,” said Kurellan. Then, Idris felt Kurellan’s thick, strong hand under his arm, surprisingly gentle on Idris’s sore muscles. “Steady now, whelp. We have to get you out of here.”

“The danger has passed. Layton – Lord Vonner – he is gone,” said Idris, but it did not stop Kurellan hoisting him to his single foot and supporting his weight.

“Idris!” cried Lila, careening up the stairs. She skidded to a halt, eyes wide, looking only at him. Idris smiled loosely, and then, overwhelmed, he stumbled. His vision whited for a second, and when it returned, Lila was helping Kurellan hold him up.

“The staff,” he said, as soon as he could see. “In the chest, put it in the chest.”

“The...” Lila turned and saw the two pieces on the ground. “Oh.”

“I have it, Lila,” said Kurellan. He slid Idris’s weight onto her and gathered up the two halves.

“So this is where your family lives, Sir Idris?” said Lila softly.

“No,” Idris said, feeling sick. “It is where nobody lives.”

Kurellan deposited the Spirit Staff into the chest, and once he closed the lid, everything went still and silent.

“Is there anything else we need to take out of this place?” the old judge said.

Idris thought of the library, filled to the brim with books and tomes, and the cats in the kitchen, and the ravens on the roof, and he said, “No. I just want to go home. Please just take me home.”

“Lean right on me, Sir Idris,” said Lila, her voice a balm. “That’s it. Off we go, now. What happened to your good boots?”

“I’m sorry, Lila,” was all he said. “I am so very sorry.”

The three of them descended, Kurellan with the chest, Lila with Idris. The aria was quiet. Idris felt numb, like he would never feel again.

What a waste, he thought, as they walked out into the stable yard. What a waste of a life and a family and a home.

One of the horses was gone. Idris had not seen any thralls on his way out. He assumed Layton had taken them.

Outside the stables, there was a small contingent of fae creatures, watching the ruins with nocked arrows, and Riette stood, sword ready. Her stance softened immediately when she saw Idris.

“Black bells, what did he do to you?” she said, coming forwards as she sheathed her sword.

“I am well,” said Idris again. Never a larger lie had fallen from his lips. “I... I only need a moment.”

“You are the most dreadful liar,” Riette said, lifting him off Lila’s shoulder. “We are your escort. We’re going home.”

“Please,” said Idris, gripping her wrist tightly, “do not destroy the tower. Please. There are... invaluable books, and...”

“We will make the area safe,” she said. “And then we will take anything you wish. But your health comes first.”

Riette eased him into a wagon, tucked a blanket around him; Lila hopped up beside him and held out a skin of water for him to drink from. Slowly, the wagon clattered down the wide-open streets of Outer Arbedes. As they went, Idris tilted his head to see Raven’s Roost one last time.

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It was tall, and stark, and black. It was as if the Spirit Staff had grown giant, pierced the land as it plundered the arias from the surrounding city; the ravens encircled the pentagonal palisades on top like gathering storm clouds.

It was ugly.

Idris turned away.

*

Idris dozed, mostly, through the countryside and farms of Marbury. Everything hurt – his pride, his body, his heart – and it was easier to be unconscious than it was to be present. When he woke, he was surprised that they were not on the road to Veridia.

“Where are we?” he asked Lila. She turned her head, smiled.

“This is Gleesdale,” she said.

Idris had never been to his small farmstead, nor seen any of the villagers who lived in the boundaries of Gleesdale. Gleesdale was a gift from Cressida, when he became the court necromancer without a title nor a family name, to allow him some legitimacy within the high court. He had always viewed it as a necessity rather than a place he could govern or protect.

As they passed the quaint stone walls and boundary hedges that marked out the farms and roadsides, Idris relished its simplicity. It was pleasant in the way that a vegetable garden was, rustic and utilitarian. The summer sun blessed its hedgerows and the tiny honeysuckle flowers that grew wild along the dirt roads. The people watched the wagon, then waved when they saw Riette driving it.

“They know you?” Idris said to Lila.

“We stayed here, remember, sir,” she said. “They were very helpful. They are excited to meet you, finally – but another time.”

Idris had almost forgotten that places like this existed. For so long, his whole world had been Raven’s Roost.

The house the wagon rode up to was a two-storey stone building. Ivy crept amiably up the walls, in shades of green and amber; the windows had criss-cross leading on them and were covered by shutters, painted olive green. The garden was thriving with summer flowers and wild herbs, and bees happily ferried to and fro between them. The roof was cosy thatch, grey with age. There was a small stable, a yard filled with chickens.

“This is... mine?” said Idris quietly, dazed.

“All yours, sir,” said Lila, jumping off the wagon. “Let me help you down.”

Idris could not stop staring at the house. It was like a dream. His eyes did not leave it even when Lila lifted him off the back of the wagon, not even when they were about to cross the threshold.

The hallway was floored with dark, polished wood; the stairs had a handsome iron railing that curled up into the next storey. Lila took Idris upstairs, to an open bedroom, with bookshelves the librarians would envy and a large, low bed. There was even a little balcony, with a reading chair and a covered patio. The breeze pushed at the light curtains.

Idris had managed to hold himself together for the last two days rather well, but at the sight of the bedroom, he burst into tears. He did not even know why he was crying. The toll everything had taken on him was great, he knew, but the little farmhouse made him long for the kitchen in Raven’s Roost, and the cats, and the comfortable reading room.

“I wondered when the shock would hit,” said Lila, more to herself than to him, and she placed him on the end of the bed and brought in everything they needed so he could sleep.

“Where is Cress?” he said, through his crying.

“Probably still tying up the loose ends at the tower,” said Lila, wetting a towel.

“Kurellan?”

“The same.”

“Willard? My cat?”

“Last I saw Willard, sir, he was with his father. I am sure he will be here soon. Please stop worrying,” she added, patting his knee. “Everything went better than you think it did.”

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Am I intruding?” said Riette. Lila shook her head. “Sir Idris, are you hungry?”

He nodded, but Lila spoke for him. “He should eat, but something soft. His jaw is very swollen.”

“I will check the pantry,” said Riette.

Idris did not turn to look at her – it was all too embarrassing for that – but she came around to the end of the bed and tilted his head so she could examine the injuries.

“What did he hit you with?” she said, frowning.

“Glass,” said Idris quietly. “I... think I have a tooth loose.”

“Tilt your head back,” she said.

“Lady Riette, I think -” Lila said quickly, but Riette had already positioned Idris’s head and put her hand in his mouth.

“This one?” she said, touching the tender molar.

Idris could not respond. She yanked it out regardless.

He yelped, put a protective hand on his face. Riette held the tooth to the light and raised her eyebrows.

“Better out than in,” she said, placing it in Lila’s towel. “I will make some soup.”

At least, Idris thought, the pain had stopped him crying. Lila made him spit blood into a bowl and swill his mouth with salt water.

“Soldiers,” muttered Lila.

Idris ate, and bathed in a small tin bath that Riette brought in, and Lila tended to his cuts and bruises as best she could without Willard to assist her. By then, night was falling.

“Sleep,” she said, gathering up the used towels and dirty clothes.

There were sounds downstairs, though, and she paused. Idris listened. It sounded like Kurellan.

“One moment,” said Lila, hurrying out.

Whatever conversation happened downstairs, it was so hushed that Idris could not hear, but the bootsteps on the stairs were Kurellan’s. Idris turned in his bed to see the old judge in the doorway, dressed in his black-and-white magpie armour, watching Idris carefully.

“We will talk in the morning,” said Kurellan, in a gentler and quieter voice than Idris had ever heard him use. “But I want you to know, the chest is here, now. Do you have any idea where Lord Vonner went?”

Idris shook his head.

“The confession was useful, then,” Kurellan added.

Idris nodded.

“I’m glad.” The old man paused, sighed. “Get some rest,” he said at last. “You’ll need it.”

“Kurellan?” Idris whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I was glad to see you. I... I am still glad to see you.”

Idris was sure he saw Kurellan smile, then.

“You’re overtired, whelp.”

And the judge left.

*

A scratchy, sandy object brushed at Idris’s cheek. Then, there was a soft mewing.

“Thistle?” Idris whispered, opening his eyes. The kitten changed his plan of attack and pounced on Idris’s fringe instead. “Thistle, you are...”

Idris fell to stroking the kitten’s soft head, and Thistle purred and submitted.

Thankfully, Idris’s sleep was dreamless. The light pouring in was bright and warm, and somewhere downstairs he could hear someone washing dishes. The smell of freshly baked bread floated upstairs.

“Idris?” said Willard, and opened the door. He beamed at the sight of Thistle on the bed. “Aw, there now, he knows his pa. Missed you something awful. He didn’t like the fae realm, not one bit.”

“Thank you for taking care of him,” said Idris, his voice scratchy.

“Ey, he was a little sweetheart. He’s getting big and strong.” Willard sat on a stool beside the bed. “We’re making soup. The Old Honour wants to talk to you and -”

“You were...” The events of the last few days were fuzzy, still. “You were in the plant.”

Willard smiled. “Aye, that I was.”

“For how long?”

“Only when you called me. It was like a... a door, my old pa said.” The smile faded from his face. “You had me right worried, Idris. Thought I weren’t never going to see you again. Your poor face and all.”

Idris said nothing. He was not certain what he should say.

“Well,” said Willard, “the plan almost worked, eh?”

“Almost,” said Idris quietly.

“Get something to eat. I’ll send up the old man when you’re dressed and proper.”

“Thank you, Willard.”

“Oh,” said Willard, as he got up, “and about being your apprentice and all -”

“You do not need a teacher, Willard,” said Idris. “You know more about fae magic than I ever will. I trust your father can give you the education you need.”

At the phrase ‘your father’, Idris’s throat felt thick and hot. Willard hesitated, then he patted Idris’s shoulder comfortingly.

“You don’t need any father who is going to beat you like he did,” he whispered. “He ain’t your proper pa. You know who your proper pa is.”

Idris simply nodded.

“Take all your medicines,” Willard said, louder. “Gotta get that bruising on your neck down, hmm? I’ll bring it all up with your breakfast. Young Master Thistle-Whiskers, you take care of Master Dead-Talker.”

Thistle pounced on a sunbeam. Idris watched his cat play and listened to his friends making plans downstairs, and he wished he was in the library in Raven’s Roost. He realised, suddenly, why the arias sounded strange here. It was because they were not all death arias, and they were playing through glass bells attached to fenceposts and banisters, and not coming from within.

Maybe it was grief he felt, but he wished it would go away.