True darkness had fallen by the time Rhea rounded the corner to The Broken Flask, a tavern that had become her refuge during the last decade of her work. It was a typical working class level establishment with little frills or excessive luxury, but the owner had long made it silently clear that she was welcome regardless of her chosen occupation. The owner’s brother had arrived at her door shortly after she had started spreading word of her services in the village and for several years Rhea had adhered to the contract and paid his widow monthly. While the tavern owner had never directly spoken with her about what she had done, he had made a point to quickly take aside and speak to any tavern patron who tried to give her too much trouble.

On the walk over, the meeting with her new client kept replaying in her mind. Though she had made these contracts countless times, they never were just thoughtless business. The young ones, especially those younger than her, always felt especially unfortunate. While the idea of her own mortality did not particularly scare her, they still created an uneasy feeling that was hard to shake. She much preferred to see an older person in her office, sad about what was to come, but feeling like they had at least lived and experienced with warm memories to leave behind for their families. However, since death was not picky she could not be either.

Warm light spilled out onto the damp cobblestone and the gentle din of the conversation of travelers and work weary customers murmured through the heavy wooden door. Just putting her hand on the brass handle, shiny and bright from the hundreds of hands that touched it each day, made the stress from the day melt farther into the distance. Inside, her eyes scanned over the tavern until they fell on the curly haired waitress who gave her a knowing nod before delivering the steaming tray of stews she was carrying. Without considering if her friends might be sitting anywhere else, Rhea made a sharp turn to the left and ignored the few sneering stares that were cast her way as she pushed past the packed tables to the alcove next to the fire where she met her companions every evening.

Oliver and Cedric had been her friends since she had arrived in the town shortly after leaving her medical training. They had been initially hesitant about Rhea’s work, especially Cedric, but the three of them had come to a sort of truce to agree to disagree about the finer, more delicate points. Rhea was certain that without Oliver’s more open minded approach to necromancy that Cedric would have long ago become one of those silently staring daggers at her from the opposite corner of the tavern.

Oliver’s fingers were wrapped around his tankard of beer, slowly nursing the single drink he would allow himself for the evening. Though a talented mage who showed a lot of promise in his magical growth, a childhood accident had permanently damaged his memory and alcohol only made his forgetfulness worse. He could muddle through life and had found ways to cope, but when it came to making large magical mistakes he simply couldn’t afford to take the chance.

At thirty years old, Oliver was the youngest of the trio, though often mistaken as the eldest. A silver streak starting from his left temple was prominent against the rest of his black nest of hair, a permanent reminder of the head injury that nearly killed him. Further proof of his near demise was a jagged, pink scar the width of his thumb that traveled down from that same streak of hair, narrowly missed the outer corner of his mahogany eyes, went down his cheek, and stopped just before meeting the corner of his lips. The scar stood out prominently from his bronze skin, it had faded little over time. Combined with the fact he stood on average a foot taller than his peers and tended to wear clothing adorned with arcane symbols, many on first glance thought him some sort of dangerous, mercenary mage for hire. Locals no longer paid the scar any mind and he was perceived as a gentle giant prone to wandering around the village market square with a bewildered look on his face as he tried to recall what exactly he went to the market to purchase.

Seated across from him was Cedric, sitting stock straight, a hesitantly accepted second tankard of beer sitting before him. Cedric had no physical or mental reason to restrict his drink, but over indulging felt uncomfortably against his self-imposed sense of morality. The glinting golden angel wing pendant that hung around his neck was a symbol of his fervent reverence towards a so-called deity that he believed he had beseeched and had answered his call to save Oliver those many years ago. Despite Oliver’s, and much later Rhea’s, insistence that this deity may not be as they claim, Cedric’s devotion never wavered and over time he had built himself up as a cleric of sorts to a god that no one else had heard about.

Cedric was a year older than Oliver and though stood a foot and a half shorter than his friend, he very much tried to live out the role of an older brother figure. Cedric’s stormy blue eyes and curly straw colored hair had always turned heads towards him, their eyes often filled with desire, but those that dared approach him were let down time and time again. He had, through his own choice of showing piety, decided on the path of celibacy early in his teen years. He did not want to divide his attention and devotion to his god. It was not that he did not feel the draw to temptation, but he took pride in the fact that he was able to ignore such mortal desires and forsake to bask in the glory of the divine.

“A late evening for you,” Oliver greeted with a soft smile and a nod.

“It was not supposed to be,” Rhea replied, “the client was scheduled earlier in the evening, but it seemed to have been a difficult journey for him.”

Oliver let out an empathetic sigh, but a different, more judgemental sniff escaped from Cedric. Rhea ignored the sound and instead slumped heavily into the chair left for her after placing her coat and satchel around the back. She was glad to see her beer was already waiting for her on the table and she took a long gulp, draining a quarter of the glass in her first drink. It was a bit flat from sitting so long, but it was still very welcomed.

“It is a shame at all a man in such a state should feel the need to sell his mortal body,” Cedric said with another distasteful sniff.

Rhea flicked her tired eyes up to meet his, hoping that he would be able to read her worn expression and realize that perhaps it was not the best night for his needling at her line of work. He stared back with steely determination, a glint of holy fervor in his eyes.

“It is a shame that anyone need to worry about their family after death,” she agreed, “but unless you think the Baron or perhaps even the King of the land will open their coin purses to pay his young widow and child from the goodness of their own hearts, then I think my services are very necessary in this case.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

She kept her voice as even as possible, but she could not hide the bit of razer edge that threatened to peek through. There were nights where she could entertain nearly endless debates about the good or evil of necromancy and not let any of the judgement touch her heart, but tonight was not one of those nights.

“Cedric,” Oliver interjected before another word could be said by either, “perhaps this is not a good topic for this evening. Rhea has obviously just had a hard day, not the best time to bring up some sensitive topics.”

“On the contrary, I think it may be the best time.” His nostrils flared slightly with his convictions. “A man has sold his mortal body and perhaps even his immortal soul tonight out of desperation. It is a vile idea that he traded his very soul to a mere mortal for them to twist for their own desires.”

Silence fell between the friends as Rhea took another deep drink that drained the beer entirely. Oliver shook his head and cast her a look of pity and support. She clanked the tankard heavily on the table and again met his gaze, though this time with a hard look.

“I do not twist any soul for my own desire. We have gone over this many times before. Nothing in my magic binds the soul to the body. I merely reanimate and repurpose, not trap people against their will for all eternity. Do you think the gods would allow my magic to exist if mere mortals could achieve such a thing?”

“Dark and evil gods would see nothing wrong in doing so, no, and that is exactly who empowers you.”

Cedric spoke with utter certainty, as though he had directly spoken with the gods and they had told him everything. He was prone to bouts of unfounded confidence in his opinions, and was maddeningly stubborn. It got a measure worse any time he had been contacted by his divine patron who seemed to revel in lighting the divine fire in his soul and watching whom or what he would end up burning with it.

“You have spoken directly with the gods, have you?” Rhea questioned with a sarcastic laugh. “Has your angel friend been whispering in your ear again? Surely you must start to see at some point that it does nothing but stir up feelings of righteousness and point you in the direction of whatever ambition it has.”

His eyes narrowed and he pushed away the rest of the tankard in front of him, as if cutting himself off now meant to punctuate his devotion.

“My angel is the direct tongue for my god and I will not have anyone question the divinity I feel flowing through me. My questioning of your deeds is my own, I only wish to prevent you from continuing such a dark path.”

Oliver leaned forward and broke Cedric’s gaze that had been locked on Rhea. “We cannot deny that she ensures the families of the departed are well cared for and do not fall into abject poverty, unlike countless others. We have both seen those who lose the breadwinners in their houses and end up cast on the street, dirty, sick, and begging for scraps of food not even fit for dogs. Let us say for even a moment that she does accidentally bind the souls of the dead, she still does immeasurable good for those living and that must count for something.”

Cedric looked like he wanted to argue more, but the waitress arrived and plopped a steaming bowl of stew in front of Rhea. Rhea thanked her and handed her a coin from her pocket and motioned towards her empty tankard to signal for another. Begrudgingly, Cedric held his tongue as she ate and by the time she had finished and her second beer had arrived his fury had tempered and he had again picked up and sipped at his remaining alcohol.

“My angel did contact me early this morning,” he finally said, though in a much more conversational tone. “They told me to prepare my ritual instruments and anticipate an opportunity to be presented to me.”

Rhea resisted starting another fight by pointing out that the angel often repeated this exact line and it seemed much more of a way to keep him strung along rather than any sort of prophecy. Instead she nodded and feigned a low level of interest.

“I spent the first part of today praying for guidance and the later refilling ritual reagents, I would suggest that you do so as well Oliver in case your expertise is necessary for the coming crusade.”

“My pouches are always full unless I’ve forgotten something, which is highly probable.” Oliver lightly laughed. “I think we are well prepared for anything that may come our way.”

As if waiting for such a cue, a well dressed man who had been failing at pretending not to be eavesdropping for their entire conversation stood up from the next table over, smiled at the companions and bowed before them.

“If I may interrupt for a moment of your time, I have an offer for a Miss Rhea Mortis and her companions to meet with Baron Greene at his estate at your earliest convenience.”

A look of triumph and divine ecstasy washed over Cedric’s face as he looked to the sky with thankfulness and devotion, clearly taking the Baron’s summons as the exact situation the angel had vaguely predicted.

“What does the Baron want with a necromancer?” Rhea asked with confusion. “My line of work is usually something he would prefer to ignore happens in his village.”

The man inclined his head slightly to acknowledge that it did indeed seem like a strange request. “I have been told no more, only to offer that it is not in regards to what you may or may not do for your career, but instead to present an offer of work that he believes you may prove useful and to sweeten the deal with the promise of good coin.”

“How much coin?”

Rhea was feeling suspicious, but he would not be the first person of high class to make use of her particular talents. Though usually they sent more secretive summons, not a request in the middle of a crowded tavern where everyone was stretching their necks to hear just what the Baron wanted with the town necromancer.

“I’m not at liberty to say right here, but you can be assured that the Baron intends to make it well worth your trouble.”

The trio exchanged glances, Rhea and Oliver were always more than happy to earn a bit of extra coin, it was usually Cedric who found some reason or another to find a moral quandary. Tonight though Cedric smiled back at them, ready to accept the summons, sure in his mind that this was direct divine guidance.

“We’ll meet with him, when would be the earliest he can receive us?” Rhea asked.

“Tomorrow over breakfast.”

With a final bow and then, turning to plop several coins on the table he had been sitting at, he exited the tavern having completed his mission.

Oliver let a small chuckle escape his lips and he raised his tankard in a gesture of cheers.

“To gold!”

“To gold!” Rhea replied with a clink of her on tankard.

Cedric raised his own tankard and with a satisfied sigh, added “To prophecy!”