It took me nearly 15 minutes to change. Houppelandes and other gowns were popular among the older Magi, but I’d always been one for tunics and trousers. Robes had a way of snagging on bushes and tracking dirt everywhere. Plus they were far heavier than a standard forester’s faire.
My belt went over top of the gown along with all its accoutrements. It might have impacted whatever fashion statement I was supposed to make, but it was better than losing access to my weapons. I wasn’t convinced the necromancer was safe to be around.
I also kept my tattered tunic on underneath. The hole wasn’t as bad as I’d remembered it being so it was nearly presentable even if it was a little tight.
The sun hadn’t moved in the sky the whole time I’d been here. Neither had the tea in both of our cups cooled nor the teapot run out. The necromancer was sipping from hers when I returned.
She raised her carefully arched eyebrow, “Better. Terrible, but better all the same. Perhaps you’re not entirely hopeless. Sit.”
I sat.
“Not like that! Hands should be in your lap when you’re not holding something.”
I raised my left hand, “I’m holding my bow.”
She reached across and rapped my knuckles with her spoon. Now that I was ready for it I barely felt it, “Longbows are not appropriate for tea.”
I smiled at her. Once I got used to it, the sheer ridiculousness of our situation was kind of fun.
“So the bells, manacles, chains, nightgown; you’re a necromancer?”
“Far too forward. Ease into the topic next time. But yes, you are correct. I was a necromancer.”
I shook my head, “Necromancers, Magi, I’m pretty sure I ran into a sorceress at one point. What are the warlocks up to?”
A fan appeared the necromancer’s hand and she began to fan herself. It was rather warm. I almost wished I had one myself. Almost. A bit of sweating and discomfort was worth it after the dungeon’s chill.
“I couldn’t tell you. I was captured by the warlocks some four years ago now. They kept me in chains in one of their cells. They thought it would be enough to take away my cornum and ethers. But I can whistle as well as I play,” she looked over both shoulders then covered her mouth with her hand so I couldn’t see her lips, “And there was plenty of,” her voice now dropped to a whisper, “corpses around.”
She straightened and dropped her hand, “Escape was trivial once I drew enough... assistance. I’d hidden some needles in the sleeves of my robes which I used to permanently bind them, and once away I summoned the voice of the stones to guide me free from the place.”
I took a sip of the tea. It seemed like the warlocks had increased security sometime after her escape, perhaps even because of it. I hadn’t been left with any clothes to smuggle anything with, let alone a mouth free enough to make noise.
“What stopped you?”
Her eyes tightened and her lips curved briefly downward into the beginning of a frown. She caught herself from delivering whatever the reflexive admonishment would be so I didn’t learn which social norm I’d transgressed this time.
“I’m still not entirely sure. I was in the process of binding a servant. I’d found a chest of women’s clothes so I constructed a vessel and an offering for her using the wire wrapped around the lining of my cloak.”
She’d been allowed to keep her cloak? And they’d barely patted her down from the sound of it. The worst part was unlike her I hadn’t been prepared for being kidnapped in the slightest. They could have avoided risking me freezing to death without a concern in the world.
The necromancer continued, “The spirit was in my manacles and nearly bound to the vessel when I found myself being pulled into the vessel instead. I soon found myself sitting in that very chair,” she extended a pinky towards me, “and being yelled at by a most unpleasant woman. When I finally graduated from her ministrations I resolved in myself to be a far kinder teacher than she ever was.”
She sniffed, “I like to think I succeeded.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
She laughed suddenly, and her face transformed. There was a sparkle in her eye and the creases across her forehead eased. She sounded young. She was young. Younger than me.
She raised her hand to her mouth to cover her smile, “I’m sorry, I haven’t had much to laugh about for the last few years. Endless lessons and endless admonishments mostly. But it is true. I’ve treated you far kinder than my old mistress.”
I grinned in return. She looked far more pleasant this way, “And what might I call you?”
Her face snapped back to disapproving wrinkles so fast I jumped, “You may call me Mistress or ma’am, depending on the situation.”
I crossed my arms. Necromancers specialized in information and the slow binding of followers to their service. Given time to prepare they were a nightmare, but here, I had nothing to fear from her.
“I’m not doing that. I’m your best chance out of here. We’re equals or I leave without you.”
Anger flashed in her eyes, but at the same time a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Creepy. Normally it was the other way around.
“Very well. You may call me Attart. It is not my name, was not my name, but it will do.”
“Pleasure to meet you Attart. Here I thought you’d be called Claennis or Winfred.”
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Attart’s lips puckered and she waved her spoon threateningly, “And that is what happens if you assume. You make a fool of yourself.”
Then her face relaxed into that young smile for a second time, “Although... my given name in my native tongue is much the same. Which is why you’ll not hear it from my lips.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t even that funny, but everything felt warm and easy under the light of the sun. Even laughter.
Anger flashed in the necromancer’s eyes once again, but this time she bit her lip and the moment passed. Holding back another reprimand? Was it her or the cursed book making them in the first place? The best way to acknowledge her struggle was probably to not acknowledge it at all.
“Tell me what you know of this place.”
Attart raised her fan to cover her mouth and her eye did the quirk thing again.
“Governess Attart, could you please tell me about this place?”
Snap!
She closed her fan.
“Much better. Listen carefully girl:
This terrace is located at the centre of our manor. The manor is quite large with nine wings in all. None of them quite line up with the other which is undoubtedly a deliberate choice of the warlocks?”
Her voice raised at the end of a sentence which was clearly not a question. I recognized the affection. It was common for Magi to be consulted on the more esoteric reaches of nature and reality.
“It is a sign of chaos and to an extent both lesser and greater, dark magic. I suspect it wasn’t the warlocks themselves who trapped you here nor constructed this prison but rather the dark influence of Bleakfort itself. I myself have found casting spells leads to nonsensical results at times, and it has gotten worse the further I’ve descended.”
Attart nodded once sharply, “Very well. Nine wings as a reflection of the chaos which binds us here. Darkness even. You did say you were titled Darkswallower? How did you come by that name?”
I winced. I wasn’t particularly fond of the title, though I’d never say it for fear of the orc hearing. It didn’t roll off the tongue nor match my others, but it did mark me as an enemy of the warlocks as fast as possible, which had been the point. Maybe it would grow on me.
“The orcneas Goreswallower granted it to me upon hearing of my exploits. I killed Neferiti... Nef—Nef-someone the Shadowmaster, one of the warlocks who trapped me.”
Attart let out a scandalized gasp and raised her hand to her mouth, “That is not a proper topic of conversation for a young man! Not in polite company!”
Her jaw snapped shut like a crocodile’s, like she was forcing it closed, and her benign smile resumed. I was beginning to see the vaguest of hints that her time spent in this etiquette book hadn’t been kind on her sanity.
But she seemed to be fighting back. Young man instead of girl. I wasn’t young, but she was clearly fighting against the script of a governess and her ward. Perhaps the book was recording our conversation anew.
I waited, and sure enough, a moment later she resumed her explanation as if nothing had happened, “I’ve explored the entire manor. You can go anywhere. You can even go to the grounds of the household and beyond. You can go as far as you like, talk to who you like, but you’ll always end up back here.”
“There are other people here?”
“The proprietress of the grounds, various servants, my charge before you, passing travellers and merchants.”
“Who am I?”
“A student studying under the proprietress. She is an unusual and wealthy merchant. Doubled her fortune since her husband died.”
“Where are we?”
“Someways south of the Vineyards. Near the coast. I made several trips to the Barbarian Lands and the Delta from the nearby port. Even made it to the Delta once.”
“What happened?”
“I fell asleep. Or my mind drifted off. Or I took a wrong turn. Like I said, I ended up back here,” she tapped the table, “put the cup down, you never want to look like you’re too thirsty or hungry.”
I set the teacup down and picked up one of the scones. I’d already broken the cardinal rule of no food or drink when dealing with strange realms. I hadn’t even thought of it. But now, ready for an acorn; ready for an oak.
The scone tasted like not fish, so I forgave it for being made of corn.
“So are we on the surface or inside the book?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Time doesn’t change here, but it does elsewhere. I watched the sun from sunrise to sunset once to be sure.”
“What about other things? Have you moved the table around? Redecorated your chambers?”
The necromancer covered her mouth and leaned forward with a whisper, “I burned the manor down on my first day here.”
She leaned back with a scandalized look on her face. Her cheeks were faintly red on her pale skin.
I whistled, impressed, “Day one? You didn’t try anything else first.”
“Speak no more of it. Arson is hardly a topic befitting young ladies,” she tutted, but this time I could see the twinkle in her eye. She gestured at the surrounding building with her fan, “Besides, it didn’t do anything.”
I winked at her and leaned back in my chair. That earned me a bop to the top of my head, but I ignored it. I shielded my eyes as a shadow passed by and squinted up against the sun to study the albatross, “What else did you try?”
“All number of things. Running away. More... housewarming parties. Talking to the citizens with demands. Begging. A noose. None of it worked, though I do have a contingency prepared.”
“Go on.”
She tapped her bodice just below her collar bone, “You saw the nightgown in the dungeon. I made an exact replica of it here and bound the spirit to my own soul. I never take it off.”
“After four years?”
Her eyes flashed, “It is improper to question a lady on her hygiene! One must simply hold their nose and exclude them from future gatherings once they have left. And my nightgown is refreshed whenever I return to this place. Everything is.”
I raised my hands, longbow in one, scone in the other, “I apologize for asking.”
Her face scrunched up in exasperated anger, a different sort from the cold fury earlier. It was kind of cute. She turned away and lifted her fan so she couldn’t see me and took several steadying breaths.
She lowered the fan, “The point being, in the dungeon lies all the tools to summon a specific spirit. When she is summoned, I will be summoned along with her. If death cannot resist necromancy this book won’t be able to either.”
“Wouldn’t you be summoned without your body? And under the control of whomever bound you?”
She nodded, “Both temporary problems. The larger is the fusion of my soul, but that has already occurred and cannot be undone.”
“So you and the spirit...”
“We’re one and the same. I tried the noose first.”
It was only on the second mention of her suicide attempts I felt the call of Elysium. Or rather, it’s absence. It could not be felt here, even with the sundering of the mosaic, and she’d attempted it anyway.
“You’re very brave.”
She sagged somewhat, as if under a heavy weight, “Desperate.”
“Desperate and brave. We’ll find a way out of here. I already have several in mind.”