The only other travelers through the Silver City’s gates were the clumps of dust and dirt that rushed in and out with the wind. On either side of Alize, the great iron doors dwarfed even the gates of Parousia and high above her, men’s silhouettes on the ramparts faded into the gray sky behind them. They overlooked Alize’s entry with the same empty gaze as her guide. Together they appeared an untended garden of tattered clothing and sagging skin. Their bodies had overgrown in the nearly twenty years that they had rested soulless. Their hair blew loose in the wind, their long beards tossed in the same rhythm.

The breezes flushed the salty sea smell through the streets, renewed with each gust. Dust wrestled the air, infesting Alize’s mouth and lungs. Unlike the villages, the Silver City had not crumbled. On the main street, its buildings stood faultless, casting harsh shadows into the cobblestones. Water gurgled in the aqueduct, and a few windmills still caught the breeze, powering the grinders on the ground level. These signs of life disconcerted Alize. The Soulless stood everywhere, their presence becoming thicker still as her guide trod towards the palace spires. Everywhere Alize looked she met dead eyes. And she knew they watched her with a single consciousness, the mind of a Conjurer who awaited her somewhere in the city’s recesses.

The Silver City lies a graveyard now, Hesna had explained when Alize begged to visit as a child.

But it was a living graveyard, where Death wreathed itself in life. All the Soulless’ had rendered their consciousness to the Conjurer from the instant he consumed their souls. As Alize faced their hollow stares, she wondered why he chose to stay. A murderer who lived amongst the bodies of his victims, all extensions of himself and his cruel magic. For him, it resembled a life surrounded by mirrors, each reflection monstrous.

They passed under the arch of the palace entrance, into the damp light within. The lamps flickered through patterned glass. The donkey brayed in clear apprehension but Alize coaxed him forward. Though the cart rattled Davam’s body, nothing perturbed the prince’s haunting expression.

Alize nearly coughed on the smell of bread that wafted through the hall. She followed her guide through a massive room lined with tables. It resembled Icar’s banquet hall in Parousia, though the tapestries on the wall teemed with gray dust that obscured the colors underneath. At one end sat a group of Soulless with plates before them, pressing food to their mouths with all the agency of sleepwalkers.

“The bodies die if I don’t feed them,” the woman stated. “It means every year I must devote some to raising crops. As my population ages, less and less are capable of the task.”

Spoken with such practicality, the words scattered Alize’s thoughts, drawing them away from death and towards the present. For the first time the guide halted before a set of closed doors. The two Soulless guarding it turned to open them, their movements as perfectly timed as two hands of a single body.

Light swept across the threshold and burned spots in Alize’s eyes. She shielded her gaze with her palm. When she withdrew it, she saw a man rising before her. He kept his profile to her, and Alize could see his sagging skin.

Columns supported the archways, cloistering half the balcony from the blunt sunlight. In the brightness the Conjurer’s white hair almost shimmered like the Silver City’s stones. For a moment the only sound was the sea’s rushing far below.

Alize jostled when he turned towards her. With his face fully exposed, she could see that it had collapsed, the skin sinking towards the bone, pulled taut around bloodshot eyes that seemed larger for the flesh drawn away from it. Alize had seen Soulless retaining more humanity than him.

His eyes searched the shadows where Alize still stood. His gaze nearly arrested her. It held an abyss of sadness, a sorrow of such desperation she almost recoiled. It hurt her, curdled her stomach and for an instant she feared it engulfed her.

“Come,” Arouah spoke, his voice no stronger than Alize’s Soulless guide. It had probably rested derelict just as long. What need had he for words when his docile army performed all his bidding?

As Alize stepped forward, the Conjurer seemed to swell, to drink in her features. It clouded his sadness and transformed his expression into an uncomfortable intensity. He tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes.

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“I’ve Deku blood and soul,” Alize announced, fearful his resolve indicated suspicion on his part. For her, it almost always did. “But I spurn my heritage. I accompany the last Ginmae so we may save him. So we may save all the provinces from the Deku.”

But the Conjurer made no acknowledgement that he had heard her words. As he arrived before Alize, he peered at her, then reached out to grasp her chin with spindly fingers.

“Your eyes,” he murmured, “black as prison shadows.” He raised smoothed his other hand down her shoulders.

Alize could feel him trembling.

“You’re tall for a Deku.” He squeezed her forearms. “Strong, even for a Hrumi.”

Alize furrowed her brows, unsure of what he knew or how he knew it. She was about to withdraw when his fingers closed on her left wrist, his face eager. But as she watched, his expression transformed to horror.

“But you are utterly empty,” he choked, “where is your magic?”

Immediately Alize tugged free from his grip, bitter to reveal the rawness of that grief to a man she could not read, “The Deku took it from me.”

Arouah stepped back. “No!!” He drew his hands to his face, pulling at his loose skin. “When?”

Alize watched him, as useless to guess the source of his pain as any reprieve from it. “They took me prisoner after the Temple Battle.” So there were limits to his knowledge.

“Hesna was such a fool!” Arouah roared, his rage as sudden as a hailstorm. “Why did she not bring you to the Temple years ago?”

“Hesna? Hesna is dead,” Alize snapped. Fury rose in her. Not even she knew how much Hesna had sacrificed in her efforts to protect the future.

The Conjurer cast his gaze to the sky that peaked through the granite columns. “That’s scant penance. And her life one of thousands of others who might not have died.”

Alize took a step forward. “I have brought you the last Ginmae soul! It is more than any of your dead have done!”

“You would tend cancer with rose water, child.”

“It’s not worthless,” Alize shouted. She pulled the salt mineral from her waist, presenting to the Conjurer. “You told Benay you could restore him!”

But Arouah shirked from the soul glowing within. “Do not present that to me. My blood is Deku too, but I have none of your Hrumi protections.”

“You’re a Deku?” Alize withdrew the mineral quickly. “Then he’s not safe here!”

“Safe?” Arouah scowled, “he’s not safe anywhere. But he knew that. The rest of us are not so fortunate. We poison ourselves of the delusion of safety, deign ourselves immortal until the day our hearts come loose. Bless him, for he has greeted his death.”

“Then you will not save him?!” Alize responded, appalled. She had not journeyed all this way to be ridiculed and rebuffed.

Arouah watched her through his eyelashes, drawing his shoulders up.

He’s fascinated, Alize realized. And feigning disinterest. Why?

“I can see that the Oghuz have already restrained his soul. Your Hrumi knowledge can do more.”

Alize hesitated. “But, you told Benay you could save him – even though you are Deku? How-“

“Your ignorance is staggering, child, that much is clear. If you had known anything, you would have protected your magic. Did the trees mean nothing to you?”

“The trees meant everything to me!” Alize hissed.

And the sorrow flooded Arouah’s features once more. “Well then,” he said softly, “perhaps we do share something.”

“What-”

“Your skills will yet save the Prince. He languishes now in the Wasteland, the dark place of suspended souls-“ Arouah paused in his words as his gaze scoured Alize’s face. “I see you know it. I assume you have recovered your dagger-“

“What do you know of my dagger?”

“Enough of this. Please give your friend’s soul to your erstwhile guide.”

“You’re not getting his soul until we’re helping him. I’ll hold it until then, thank you.”

Again Arouah turned a keen eye to her. “I wonder, is your loyalty to his friendship or his title?”

Alize scoffed, “I do not make friends easily, and I honor the ones I have. Perhaps you cannot relate to that.”

When Arouah made no response, Alize wondered if she would regret her words. He grimaced. It looked painful against his disfigurements and the sorrow inundating his every movement. “Perhaps,” he agreed lowly. Arouah watched her with pursed lips, then released her from his gaze to face the sea. “I will alert you when I am ready to proceed. For now, you are dismissed.” From the hallway, another Soulless woman emerged, nodding to Alize as she gestured towards the door.

As Alize turned to follow, Arouah snapped backwards. “Wait,” he wheezed.

She met his gaze, her own questions written all over her face.

But for her, he had only one. “What is your name?”

Alize frowned, puzzling over the extent of this Conjurer’s knowledge or his power. “Alize,” she answered.

“Alize,” he repeated. “A remarkable name.”

“I know the Deku,” Alize was all too conscious of the words she censored. My family. “I know they worship a Ginmae ancestor by the same name. The ancestor of courtesy.”

“Pay no mind to our family’s foolish rites,” Arouah uttered tersely.

Our family. He had said he was Deku. So they were, in fact, related.

He continued, “They stake no meaning in their victims. The name Alize has deeper origins. It comes from the old Ginmae language, once enshrined in their religion, and now lost altogether.”

“What does it mean?” Alize asked.

“It means,” Arouah sighed, “contrition. So very apt of Hesna.”