Nathye was exhausted. He had not slept much the night before and had ridden hard all day and climbed through the night, helping carry his father. What should have been his first victory had become a nightmare, one where some ancient power linked to his house would deprive him of his rightful place in the world. It was all his father’s fault.

Ser Dafeld had convinced him of the urgency of talking to his father. The dour man had served their family since before Nathye was born and was never one to jest. He had taken the lack of ‘the word’ as a serious threat to the house. Nathye would not rest until he knew what this word was and had secured what power drove their house to its heights. He was not willing to wait until tomorrow, not willing to let his father drift further into the restful sleep of the dead.

The acolytes of this monastery were a strange lot. They all had names like Deathstealer and Lifedefier, as if they were ferocious tribesmen of the Suenu plains. Yet they were simple people who wielded brooms and wore homespun habits; the most dangerous weapons they carried were simple knives.

The older acolyte had finally agreed to hold the speaking ceremony immediately. Nathye was ready to draw his sword again if needed. The younger one, Lifesbane, was easily controlled by his master. They were finally on the way up to the main building, Nathye once more carrying his father’s body. This would be the last time.

Nathye scoffed at the need for the meal before the ceremony, but he was hungry enough after the day’s exertions, and so were his men. If the master of acolytes wanted to provide one, he would partake.

He had heard of the D’ell before. Everyone had, though none since the empire had lain claim to it. This place had the strategic value of a rotten bridge over a dried river bed in a hundred-year draught, other than the power to talk to the dead.

Legends had it that the Great Conqueror Chamai Gani of Al-Yeron had once marched an army all the way to the gates of the monastery. The priests at the time had opened the gates to him and bid him enter. He had tried any conceivable way to move the rock, trying to take it with him. His soldiers died trying exotic magics to dislodge the rock from its place at the top of the mountain. After a year and a day in the monastery, a year and a day where he had conversations with his dead soldiers who told him it could not be done, he gifted the priests with a better central building to replace the one he had destroyed, as well as orphans to become acolytes from the many he had created during his conquering. He then marched his army back down the mountain and never returned.

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“Place the body on the table here,” said Edmund Eyser.

Nathye lifted his father’s corpse by the shoulder, Ser Dafeld grabbing the other. Together, they jostled the body onto the table, with Edmund Eyser and one of the guards doing the same by the feet.

The body had begun to smell. Nathye wrinkled his nose and moved away. At least there’s the smell of horse masking most of the decay.

“We will place the body at the place of honor there”—Edmund Eyser pointed to a niche in the wall to one side of the chamber. “There is water for you at the back there, and we will have a place for you to sit if you so desire.”

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Just then, the younger acolyte stepped into the room, carrying plates and some food.

“Roge,” said Edmur Eyser, “set up the meal in the next chamber. The Duke will eat, but his companions might also partake.”

“I will,” said the young man and left.

“Do you know what to expect?” asked Edmund Eyser.

“I expect I will speak to my father,” said Nathye. Vaguely, he heard his men joking in the hallway.

“You will have a few minutes. The dead cannot lie, but they can choose what they answer to some extent. Sometimes they know more than what they did in life, but that is rare.”

“More?” asked Ser Dafeld.

“They have passed on. We think they might have gained more insight or seen more. We do not know.”

“Is there anything I need to do?”

“Have the meal, and think of the questions you would like to ask or the things left unsaid between you. Your next conversation will be when you have both passed on.”

A shudder went through Nathye. He did not relish the conversation with his father.

An empty-handed Roge made his way past the men and into the room.

“The meal is ready,” he said.

“Your Grace, why don’t you go and prepare yourself? We will finish setting things up here,” said Edmund Eyser.

Nathye looked at the shrouded form. “No one else is to talk to him,” he said.

“He will only return to talk when one person is in the room and the door is closed, Your Grace,” said Edmund Eyser, “and even then, only once. After that, there will be no more conversations with him.”

“Very well.”

“How do you want him? Lying down or upright?”

“Upright. He will have his dignity,” he said, then walked out.

His men followed him into the nearby chamber, where food had been laid out. He grabbed a plate and took some of the smoked dallen, as well as some water. Sitting down he took a few bites, though his appetite was suddenly gone. His mouth was dry and the water did not seem to quench his thirst.

The men were quiet, subdued, knowing what was to come. The mirth he heard previously in the hallway had disappeared now that he was about to speak to his father.

“Your Grace,” said Ser Dafeld, “are you ready?”

Looking up, he saw all the men looking at him. His hands felt clammy, and his stomach lurched.

“Leave me. I need time to myself,” he said.

The men looked to Ser Dafeld, who must have nodded since they got up and cleared the room, taking their plates with them.

“Your Grace?” Ser Dafeld was still here.

“Out!” yelled Nathye. He got up, walked to the door, and stood there, ignoring the old castellan.

Ser Dafeld walked past him to the hallway, and Nathye slammed the door shut.

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What was he doing? Will his father blame him for the murder? Will his father even know? The Master of Acolytes, that cursedly cursedly helpful old man had said that the dead had more knowledge than when they died.

“Arrrgh!” Nathye vented his frustration. He looked around the room, grabbing a plate and readying to break it when he saw movement in the corner of the room.

There was a live dallen sniffing around the room, its fur-covered form and large round ears mocking Nathye’s frustration with its indifference. Stomping his feet in anger, Nathye chased the dallen around the chamber; the tiny animal, not used to people causing it harm, only moved a few steps each time. Kicking it for good measure, Nathye finally got it to cower at the corner of the room.

With a final act of anger and frustration at the gods, at his father, at whatever power resided in his family’s crypt, he lobbed the plate in his hand with all his force at the creature. The plate went through the dallen’s neck, decapitating it in an instant, then continued to hit the wall and shatter. Blood and earthenware shards sprayed the wall and the floor, the small body making some last grasping motions with its legs as the heart pumped its last blood out the neck and onto the floor.

There were noises at the door and pounding. Someone was trying to get in, yelling Nathye’s name. It sounded muffled as if coming from far away.

The acolytes of the monastery, the Lifebanes, Necroshields, and Mortguards, have failed.

Inside the room was now someone alive and something dead.