by AC Cobble
After a moment, Cinda frowned at him and said, “These things are basic necromancy. Even Ambrose is capable of those feats. Why me, Ranger?”
“What if a soul was attached to a different body?”
“I don’t know if that is possible,” replied Cinda. She brushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “The soul recalls the body, Ambrose told me, and what I’ve felt matches his explanation. There’s a familiarity between soul and body. When a necromancer animates a corpse, they are binding a soul to a vessel it already inhabited. When done at the moment of death, it’s easier because the soul does not yet know it has departed. Even when done after some time, the soul always remembers the old vessel, like a former home, and it yearns to return there. I… I’m not sure it could be done, tying a soul to a different body.”
“It is possible,” said Rew. He let that statement settle before continuing. “That’s not to say it’s easy or that it has often been accomplished. There has to be a true connection, for one. That is the element of the low magic hidden within what you do. Not any soul can inhabit any body. Blood—a familial line—is the only connection I’m aware of which makes it possible. A part of a parent is in each child, you understand? In addition, the necromancer must learn much about their subject, and both parties must be willing to consummate the bond. Immense power, naturally, is required for success.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Cinda. “What does this have to do with me or with my father? Are you saying that my father somehow could have bound a soul to a body different than its own?”
“No, I do not think your father was capable of such a feat.”
Cinda frowned. “It was said my father had no equal outside of the royal line.”
Rew nodded.
“Rew…” said Anne.
He held up a hand to silence her. “For both parties to be willing, presumably one must be ignorant, don’t you think? A necromancer of high talent would not likely be fooled and agree to the casting. But one who was not a necromancer, who believed they were participating in a ritual which would grant them immense power…”
“I don’t understand,” said Cinda.
“I began on this path years ago,” said Rew. “I learned that during the first Investiture, when three sons competed to inherit the throne from Vaisius Morden the First, just as they do now, one of them was a necromancer. He won over his brothers, but he never took the throne. That is the only time the winner of the Investiture did not ascend. It’s not common knowledge, but it has been passed down through ranger lore. Never since then has a necromancer competed.”
“But all of the Mordens have the talent for necromancy, do they not?” argued Cinda. “For hundreds of years, the Mordens have been the most powerful… Hold on. Talent for high magic is passed through the blood. The princes… Valchon is an invoker, yes? Calb, you said, was a conjurer…”
“And Heindaw is an enchanter,” completed Rew.
“King’s Sake,” spit Cinda. “How then… But none of them should have any affinity for necromancy, unless you are saying… No, that cannot be.”
“When they ascend the throne, they suddenly gain the talent?” asked Anne. “I don’t understand.”
“We say talent is passed through the blood as a convenient way of explaining something we do not understand,” responded Rew. “It is hereditary, that is true, but it’s more than the physical nature of one’s blood. It has to do with one’s soul and how it melds with the physical vessel.”
“Blessed Mother,” gasped Cinda. “None of the kings have been necromancers until they take the throne. You’re… you’re saying there has been only one Morden! That they’re all… Oh my.”
Rew nodded.
“Wait,” said Zaine, turning around and giving them her full attention. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Are you implying that the king is the same… that there has only been one king? Someone would know!”
“Who? How would they know?” asked Rew. “These things are not written in books. They’re not stories the nobility tells each other. No bard would survive long singing tales of the Mordens’ dark secrets. Even within the royal family, none know all of the pieces. The king takes on a new body, so to any casual observer, it’s impossible to see the difference. Those close enough to the former prince to observe a change in behavior—primarily his brothers—are dead. Other nobles and servants that don’t fall in the Investiture are removed from the king’s presence by granting them far-flung titles or killing them. Even if someone did suspect, what would they do about it? How does one challenge a necromancer who has survived the last two centuries by inhabiting other bodies?”
“He’s… he’s immortal,” breathed Cinda.
Rew nodded.
“If they knew, someone would do something,” said Zaine.
“They would run,” said Rew. “They’d run and they’d hide. Believe me on that.”
“There’s only been one Vaisius Morden,” whispered Anne, “one soul taking over the bodies of his children… Blessed Mother.”
“I think,” said Rew, “that the Blessed Mother has little to do with this.”
“What does this have to do with me?” asked Cinda. “I have a talent for necromancy, but not like this, surely not…”
“It’s my thought that your bloodline branched off from that first child of Vaisius Morden,” said Rew. “The princes do not have children now. Valchon, Heindaw, and Calb are all childless. No surviving children, at least. I believe that’s because Vaisius Morden learned from his first attempt at this foul game. The first generation had children, and I suspect they sired your line. Since then, Vaisius Morden has been carefully pruning his heirs for two hundred years. He’s developed strength beyond imagination, but your line is pure as well! Of all of the noble families in Vaeldon, only the Fedgleys have fostered a true talent for necromancy. The others with the skill are like Ambrose, bastards. Think about it, Cinda, have you ever heard of a nobleman who had the talent of your father? His ability was unique in Vaeldon. If it wasn’t for the need to monitor the barrowlands and the ancient souls which reside there, I think Vaisius Morden would have stamped out your line generations ago. As it is, he’s left himself vulnerable.”
Cinda worked her mouth, unable to come up with the words she was looking for.
“Your blood, descended directly from the king himself, may have the strength to face him. I only began to suspect when your father was captured. I’ve thought about it, and I think it’s the case. Heindaw, of all of the Mordens, would know. You are unique, Cinda, in your ability to face the king and to end his dark ritual.”
“But how?” asked Anne. “We can’t… Cinda can’t just walk up to him and fight him, can she?”
Rew shook his head. “Of course not. I have an idea, but it’s not for tonight. If Cinda is willing to do this, then that is a discussion for another day.”
“Why?” demanded the empath. “If we know Morden’s secret, then why should we not learn the rest? What else could there be? Rew, we are in this together, and that means we should keep no secrets from each other. You have to tell us what you know.”
“Because if Valchon, Calb, or Heindaw understand the possibilities, they may not understand the mechanics,” said Rew. “Knowing something could be done is not the same as knowing how it’s done. There’s a reason Heindaw did not act immediately when he captured Fedgley.”
“But…”
“Anne,” said Rew, reaching across the table to put a hand on hers. “The world of the king does not end at death’s door. The world of the living is not the only plane he has skill to inhabit. Even when you die, he can reach you. Death is not what you should be concerned with. If you know the way Vaisius Morden passes his soul from one body to another, if you know how it could be stopped, then you’ll never be safe. Not in this life, and not in the next. Do you understand me? Your soul may pass to the realm of the dead, but there you are in even more peril! Vaisius Morden could call upon you, and he will imprison you so that no o
ne else may reach you. There is nothing—literally nothing—that man would not do to destroy this knowledge. He has the power to trap your soul for all eternity. His sons, his own children, have been in his thrall for hundreds of years. Those first children and all since then are completely powerless against his whims. The princes that prevailed in the Investiture know his secret, and because of that, he will never release them. If he is willing to imprison his own children, think what he will do to you. But as long as you remain ignorant, he has no reason to hold you. It is once you know the truth that you could be doomed for eternity.”
“Oh,” said Zaine. She stood, steadying herself with a hand on the table. “I, ah, I need to go to the watercloset. I think I’m going to be sick. Or a drink. I need a drink. I’ll be sick and then a drink.”
“Anne, can you follow her?” asked Rew as Zaine staggered away from their table. After the other two were out of earshot, he turned to Cinda. “Perhaps I should not have shared even this with you. It is difficult to know. I do not believe the king would hold you, not for what I’ve told you tonight, but I can’t be sure. I hope this is enough, though, for you to understand what is at stake. You were right, Cinda. You could be in grave danger meeting Prince Valchon. I can’t put you into that situation without you knowing why, without your understanding and agreement, but I also can’t seal your fate with the rest of what I know until I’m certain we have a chance to stop the king. Until we know there’s a chance, it is safer not to have this knowledge. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” rasped the girl. “I… I think I might like some wine.”
“Of course,” said Rew, reaching to grab Anne’s mug and scooting it toward the girl.
Cinda, her eyes blank, like the world around them had ceased to exist, stammered, “I-I… It is good we know this, though it terrifies me. I had faith in you, Ranger, that this was important, that we were following you to a worthy destination. I didn’t realize… Blessed Mother, watch over us all.”
18
The tavern, which had started the evening relatively quiet, was growing rowdy, thanks in no small part to Borace’s decision to buy ale for anyone who asked. The berserker, his purse fat with the coin he’d gotten from Baron Appleby that he no longer had to share with seven dead mercenaries, was celebrating. Rew wondered if Borace’s pride had suffered at the loss of the nameless woman’s company and as the one who’d taken the most grievous injuries during their fight with the narjags, and now the big man was trying to salve that hurt with enough ale to quench a house fire.
The nameless woman’s continued barbs did not seem to be helping, as Borace’s expression got more and more surly as the two of them started another round with the knives. It seemed the giant brute was having difficulty reconciling the idea that she used to share his bed, but that she’d changed her mind. Eyeing the man, Rew thought that surely it couldn’t have been the first time the berserker had experienced such a thing, but maybe as a mercenary who spent his time on the road and was only in the cities following a large payment, perhaps he had not. He wouldn’t be around long enough for any one woman to empty his purse or to grow tired of his antics.
Drowning his frustration in ale seemed a terrible idea, but Rew was certain the berserker wasn’t going to listen to him if he advised slowing the pace of the drinks, so he didn’t bother. Raif, enamored with the giant berserker, had raised plenty of those ales to join the celebration and kept encouraging more. It seemed the nobleman was throwing himself into the big man’s wake, perhaps to forget the earlier conversation about the princes and to find some rock that he could hold onto and understand.
“My brother is going to be sick,” worried Cinda, watching as Raif and Borace finished a raucous song and then tilted up their mugs, the muscles of their throats working as they drained every drop.
Rew, who was supposed to share a room with the boy that night, looked on sourly.
“You should tell him to slow down,” advised Anne. “Sometimes men need a reminder that they’re drinking too much.”
Cinda did not respond, so Anne turned to Rew.
“He’s not going to listen to me,” said the ranger, shaking his head. “Maybe you ought to try? You’re the most experienced at that sort of thing.”
Anne reached over and punched Rew in the shoulder. “Aye, and my experience tells me that if I try to talk to him, it will only remind him that I’m an empath, and tomorrow morning, he’ll be begging me to take the pain of his headache. Sound familiar?”
Rew felt it best to stop talking.
“I’m his little sister,” declared Cinda. “There’s no a chance he’ll listen to me.”
All eyes turned to Zaine, and despite themselves, they burst out laughing at her terrified expression. It wasn’t the first drink for any of them, and Raif wasn’t the only one who would benefit from making it their last.
There was a roar across the room, and they turned to see Raif was now engaged in the knife tossing game, except it appeared the loser was required to quaff whatever ale they had remaining in their mug and buy another round. The woman was assembling an impressive array of full ale mugs, while Raif, staggering and belching, had enough empties that the serving women couldn’t keep up clearing them away.
Shouts from the other watchers heckling Raif for losing to a woman were starting to get under the boy’s skin, Rew could tell, but when Borace started in on the lad, his booming voice thundering around the interior of the tavern, Raif’s face glowed beet red.
“Beat by a girl? No, you throw like a girl!” roared the giant berserker.
“Oh, no,” murmured Cinda.
Rew made to rise, but instead of swinging a closed fist at Borace’s chin, Raif merely shook his head and shouted back, “Aye, she’s beating me, just as she beat you every time you threw against her! I’ve still got a better record against her than you do because I haven’t lost as many. Pfah. Whether it’s a game of knives or a fight, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you win anything.”
Borace stumbled back as if he’d been struck. “What?”
The nameless woman sauntered in front of the men, spinning one of the throwing knives in her hand and offering them her cat-like smile. She purred something at them, but Rew couldn’t hear it over the noise in the tavern. The ranger glowered at her. She might not be enjoying the berserker’s bed any longer, but she did enjoy teasing him about it. Surely she could see that was not helping matters.
Ragged chanting broke out amongst the onlookers, and Raif, encouraged by the display, pulled out a handful of gold coins from his share of the purse they’d taken from the bandit fortress. “Eight, ah, nine gold that she beats you two times out of three!”
A raucous roar went up from the crowd. Nine gold was more than many of them would have ever held at one time. Rew rubbed his hands over his face, feeling that perhaps the others had been right, and he should do something about this. Before he could, Borace, half a barrel of ale sloshing in his belly, the shouts of several dozen onlookers encouraging him, took the wager, and the crowd parted, giving room to the woman and the berserker to throw their knives.
Borace went first, and it was luck that everyone had backed far away. Only one of his three knives actually struck the target, and it wasn’t as close to center as all three of the woman’s tosses which followed seconds later.
Shouts and catcalls erupted from the tavern, many of the spectators riding on the river of Borace’s free ale. Rew began to wonder just how much Appleby had paid the man and if Borace had coin to survive the rest of the night at this rate. Amidst the tumult, in a questionable display of masculine bluster, Borace demanded another pitcher of ale and suggested doubling the bet with Raif. The nobleman, perhaps still smarting from the ribbing Borace had given him earlier for losing to the nameless woman, offered to triple it.
“If Raif loses, he’s going to be asking you for the coin,” Zaine quipped to Rew.
Rew grunted. “Raif isn’t going to lose. The question is, what does Bora
ce do when he loses?”
The black-bearded berserker was turning up the new pitcher, his throat working mightily to handle the deluge of ale that poured mostly into his mouth, though plenty dripped into his beard and off his chin.
“Thirty gold!” yelled Borace over the cacophony in the tavern. He shook the pitcher upside down to prove it was empty and then leaned toward the nameless woman, his voice carrying throughout the room. “When I win, how about I lay you down on a bed of that gold?”
The nameless woman, with no gold at risk and having not yet lost a match to either man, laughed spitefully in Borace’s face.
Rew wondered, if given her history with the berserker, she was enjoying this more than she should. She waited a moment, as wagers were made, silver and copper flashing as coins changed hands or were slapped down on tables. As soon as it seemed the bulk of the wagers had been placed, the nameless woman turned and flicked three gleaming steel knifes at the board. They all thumped firmly into the target. From the distance, Rew couldn’t see exactly where they’d struck. He didn’t think it was the best trio of throws she’d made, but he suspected it was better than any Borace had flung so far that night.
After the audience tallied the nameless woman’s score, the bearded berserker walked forward and yanked the knives from the board. He stalked back and prepared to throw. A rictus of a grin split his lips, as if it was carved there from wood, or as if he was afraid to let it slip for fear he’d never get it back again. He no longer showed the teeth-baring glee he had minutes before, and Rew suspected that even Borace could do the simple math and realize how difficult a time he would have matching the woman’s throws.
A skinny man lurched from the crowd. Clearly, he’d been imbibing more free ale than was good for him, and he smacked a hand against Borace’s chest. He slurred, “I bet gold on you, big man. Don’t you go losing it to a woman, now.”
