Her mother checked the wound had sealed properly, then said, ‘We haven’t room. You’ll go to Emberlon.’
Smythe paled. ‘I — but I don’t —’
Ree’s mother sighed as if Smythe were being very stupid. ‘It’s all been arranged. You’re one of us now: to attack you would break the sacred truce we have all sworn to our Lady to live peacefully here.’
Smythe blustered, ‘Peacefully. I’m not sure that —’
‘I’ll take you there now.’ Ree’s mother seized him by the crook of the arm and glided toward the door. ‘None will bother you while you are with me.’
‘Mama, I don’t think —’
She had him nearly out the door.
Smythe called, ‘You’ll find me in the morning, will you?’
Ree nodded and then they were gone. The door slammed shut behind them.
Ree went into her room and sank onto the stone shelf she used as a bed, plumping her pillow and enjoying the plushness of her straw mattress. It seemed an age since she’d slept in a real bed. After everything that had happened — Smythe, Larry, a night without sleep — her entire body was heavy with exhaustion. She felt a call as powerful as death, and shucked her dusty robes ready for bed. Something thunked against the ground along with her robes. With fumbling fingers, she searched her robes and came out with the folded sheaf of paper Smythe had given her. ‘It’s not really the best time to explain,’ he’d said. ‘But if your father doesn’t kill me, I suppose we can take a moment?’
The door opened and slammed shut again. Ree’s mother appeared in the doorway. Her expression was solemn as she glided over to kneel at Ree’s bedside. ‘So you found a way to guide him to the path of shadow and truth,’ she said. Ree resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she hated how her mother turned each and every moment into a sermon on Morrin.
‘Reanima. Watch your tone.’
Ree scrubbed at her face. ‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘Well, your expression is speaking for you.’ She sighed and relented. ‘Reanima. You must like him very much. But you need to be careful.’
‘Of Smythe?’ She thought of him begging Usther not to use the word vomit. ‘I think I’ve made it pretty clear there’s nothing to fear from him.’
‘Perhaps that’s true, for the town, though we all bring our own dangers with us.’ Her mother’s gaze was steady. ‘But I was referring to your heart.’
Ree snorted, but when her mother remained straight-faced, Ree shook her head. ‘Mother! It’s Smythe. It’s not like that.’
‘You went through some terrible things for that boy,’ said her mother. ‘Right from the very start, you’ve been bound to him.’
‘Well, it’s hard to let him out of my sight for more than a few minutes without something terrible happening,’ Ree said, but heat was rushing to her face. She thought of that moment in the embalming room when she’d hovered in the doorway, watching him unseen.
She watched everyone unseen. It was just what she did.
Had she ever thought of Smythe as just ‘anyone’?
‘I see you understand.’
‘Mother!’ Ree flopped back on her bed. ‘Just let me sleep?’
‘Of course.’ Ree’s mother rose almost bonelessly from the floor and swept from the room, closing the door behind her.
Ree waited until she heard her parents’ door close before unfolding the sheaf of paper. At the top of the page, written in Smythe’s flourishing hand, was ‘Observations on Therianthropic Practice.’
A smile spread across Ree’s face. Her cheeks hurt from this new and unusual use.
She felt very, very awake. She rolled off her bed and pulled out her own research notes. Smythe had drawn from several of the same books she had, but extended some of her conclusions. One of his key notes was that the spoken spells were not just incantations, but songs. He’d even sourced a potential musical notation ...
Surely, surely …
With no therianskin and no information on the skin-crafting rituals, she could not hope to shapeshift. But perhaps some of the lesser spells — to sharpen the senses, perhaps ...
She checked the notes, then checked them again. Then, barefoot on the cold stone of her bedroom floor, she spread her hands, closed her eyes, and very quietly sang the incantations she’d learned by heart. Her voice rose and fell in the silence, uncertain but quivering with hope. The air around her stirred and she felt something inside her core shift, ignite.
Magic shivered along her skin. Let it be tonight, she prayed as her lips formed the ancient words now so familiar to her.
An unexpected result of the settlement of Tombtown is the way in which it enables necromancers to experience ‘normal’ lives free from judgement or scrutiny. Children are born and raised in the town — the first and most famous example being the infamous Reanima, daughter of both council member Igneus the Everliving and High Priestess Arthura of Morrin.
This is a new and largely unheard of phenomenon. Children of necromancers are being raised among other children of the same background. As such, the town council has put in place precautions to keep the children safe and avoid exposing them to necromancy before they come of age.
For example, children are not usually permitted to be trained in the Craft until they reach the age of sixteen (give or take a few years), to give them time to properly develop before the magic stops their bodies from ageing. The coming of age ceremony is one of great celebration. Friends and family gather to take the honoured birthday child on their first salvaging trip — after gifting them with a gift both practical and sentimental. Their very first shovel.
~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RISKY RESEARCH
Power.
It had always been a foreign concept to Ree, something observed but not experienced. She had brushed up against the edges of it: a healing from Andomerys, a ritual from her parents, the sense for death and the Craft that came of being grown in the soil of necromancers. She’d been taught to focus and shield her mind, to know the feel of a curse or a mindsnare when she encountered it. But she’d never generated power herself. The reservoir of magic inside her had remained still and undisturbed.
But now … now she could feel the magic shivering along her skin like beads of water. It prickled her veins, sending pins and needles through her limbs. Every note, every rise and fall of song sent a fresh burst of it; she felt like a cliff with waves of magic breaking against her. Her hair lifted from her neck and snaked free of its pins. Blue light gathered in her hands and flickered like firelight at the edges of her vision.
Pressure built; the pins and needles became painful jabs. But it was real; it was happening. Her heart swelled as she finished the song. ‘Serasaph!’
Magic exploded; Ree crashed into her bedroom wall, knocking over the small barrel she used as a bedside table. Groaning, she picked herself up from the floor. Her entire body ached like she’d been fleeing an undead horde. She examined her hands; the fire at the edges of her vision had left. There seemed to be no change to her sight. At a sniff, no change to smell, either.
She must have done something wrong. Perhaps it had been the wrong tune? She ran to collect her notes, rereading them and muttering under her breath. This was the closest she’d ever come to even a small taste of therianthropy. But there had been magic, however poorly cast — maybe even enough to lock her into the path of therianthropy.
‘It’s real,’ she whispered, a warm glow spreading across her chest as she sorted through her notes. She just needed to find what she’d missed, correct the spell, and try again …
The door creaked.
Ree spun from where she crouched over her notes. ‘Oh! Pa, I was just —’
Ree’s father swept whiteless eyes across the room, taking in the upturned barrel, the notes spread across the floor, and his daughter, clad only in a shift. ‘We’ll discuss this in the morning.’
Ree pressed her lips together, swallowing her protests. Her
father radiated cold. His black eyes were flat, his mouth firm, expressionless. He closed the door without waiting for a response.
Ree stared at the door, then collected her notes, tucking them back into her journal with trembling hands. She put the journal under her pillow and climbed into bed.
Tired though she was, the memory of magic buzzing under her skin kept her awake. It was a long time before sleep claimed her. She dreamed of wings and darkness.
She awoke, fuzzy-mouthed and lead-limbed, to the sound of her parents talking in low voices.
She slid from bed and crept across the icy floor on bare feet. She cracked the door open, peering at her parents where they sat at the rickety table, a mug of something hot in her father’s hands while her mother picked at a bowl of hot oats.
‘I sensed something.’ Her father drummed his fingers on the mug. ‘There was magic in that room, I’m certain of it.’
‘Perhaps she’s practicing, for once,’ said her mother. Even in her plain nightgown and lumpy woollen shawl, she still looked controlled and mysterious, dark eyes veiled by long lashes. ‘Things are changing. She’s almost eighteen. She’ll be starting to feel the weight of her mortality: Morrin draws her to her destiny.’
Her father shook his head. ‘It didn’t feel like the Craft.’
‘Healing, then.’ But her mother sounded doubtful. Ree had never expressed the least interest in healer’s work.
‘No. It must have been the Craft — a curse, perhaps.’ He lifted his mug up, then slammed it down without drinking. ‘Morrin’s teeth, Arthura! We’re supposed to be raising her. But all she does is place herself in harm’s way, with not the slightest bit of power to defend herself. We need to take her in hand.’
Ree went cold.
‘We cannot force her to learn,’ Arthura said.
‘Can’t we?’
Ree closed the door, taking long, steadying breaths. Her father had long threatened to curb her freedom, but in practice, neither of her parents had the time or inclination to watch her. But if her father had taken it into his head to force her to learn the Craft, to make it so that she didn’t need watching …
Ree’s breathing hitched. The breaths came in gasps and gulps. What was she going to do about this? If her father saw her, he would demand to know what she’d been doing. She could tell him it had been therianthropy research, but without hard evidence that shapeshifting magic was real, he could take her notes — he could forbid her from researching —
Calm. Ree tried to get her breathing under control. She needed a plan — somewhere safe to practice. She was so close now, and once she’d mastered the spell, there was no way they could stop her. She’d be locked in for life.
Her first action was to gather up her notes, clothes, and gear and rush into the washroom. There was no way her parents would bother her in there, and she desperately needed both time to think and to clean herself.
After a teeth-chattering mountain-water bath, scrubbed teeth, and a fresh robe, she considered her options. Really, there was only one. Her father might be powerful, but they had a strict ‘no minions in the house’ policy. She buckled her belt, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and ran for the front door.
‘Ree —’ Her mother’s fingers grazed her trailing robe. Ree didn’t pause. She ran straight for the front door — and into the looming figure of her father.
‘REANIMA.’ He caught her eyes. Meeting her father’s gaze was like staring into two pits of darkness. She tried to look away, but the lethargy was already setting in.
Mind snare, she thought. She built up her walls, tried to prise her control back from him, but she couldn’t break his hold. His magic started to set into her bones; a desire to stop running, to stop trying, to give up and sleep …
‘That’s enough,’ he said, his voice gaining a death echo as he worked his spell. For a moment, she roused: he was working magic on her. On her. What made him think that was okay?
Rage and indignation did what pure willpower could not. She tore her gaze from his, energy flowing back into her limbs. She kicked him in the shins and hared off through the town square.
She could hear him calling her name, swearing all kinds of retribution, but if there was one thing even her father couldn’t argue, it was that she was fast. Necromancers rarely did anything more physically strenuous than lifting a book, but Ree had jogged and climbed and crawled her way through the crypts nearly every day of her life.
It wasn’t long before she was out of town. She didn’t run far; there was a spidery tower spire with a hidden library in the attic. The noise of her passage was masked by the roaring underground river. After throwing a careful look over her shoulder to be certain her father didn’t have line of sight, she vanished inside, climbing and leaping her way up the semi-collapsed staircase, and dragged on the rope that opened the attic.
There, surrounded by pillars of carefully stacked books, she slumped, panting.
She had no magic. She had no grimoire. And now she could not practice safely in her own home.
She got out her notes, smoothing them across her lap, her fingers tracing the song Smythe had advised in his flourished hand. It was the furthest she had ever come. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember the feel of the magic. Cold, like necromancy, but somehow different, too. If necromancy was an icy wind, therianthropy was a winter tide, fluid and changing.
And it might never have happened without Smythe’s help. Sure, he had built entirely upon the research she had already done, but he’d been able to make new connections between information she’d been stalling with for the last year. She had never considered working collaboratively — necromancers rarely worked together, if ever — but then, she had never met anyone like Smythe.
Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps he was.
The next day, she crept back into town, skulking through shadows and keeping a wary eye out for her father.
She knocked softly on Emberlon’s door, her gaze darting furtively left to right as she shrank into the doorway. When he opened it she didn’t wait for an invitation, half-pushing, half-falling through the entrance.
‘Ree.’ Emberlon acknowledged her with a solemn nod as she picked herself up from the floor. He closed the door behind her. ‘Your father’s been to call already.’
‘I need to speak to Smythe,’ she said breathlessly. She peered past him into his barren main room. The sarcophagus and its coating of dust seemed undisturbed, and everything seemed quiet.
Her eyebrows snapped together. ‘Where is he?’
‘Still sleeping.’ Emberlon closed his eyes a moment in what Ree read as ‘thank the gods.’
Ree hesitated a moment, her hand hovering on her parcel. ‘I’ll set up ready for him, then.’ She hurried to the sarcophagus. She pressed two fingers to the stone cover, whispered, ‘With your leave,’ to the inhabitant, and started unpacking her notes onto it.
‘Ree.’
She glanced up at him, but continued to sort through her notes. ‘If my father asks, I’m not here.’
‘He did ask, and I told him as much then.’ Emberlon put his hands on either side of the sarcophagus, studying her notes as she shuffled them around. At length, he looked up. ‘There’s a danger in seeking power, Ree.’ He said the words quietly.
Ree shrugged. She dipped her quill in ink and started scribbling furiously on a page of previous notes. ‘Everyone here wants power.’
Emberlon inclined his head. For a moment, his normally clear eyes were shadowed. ‘But few are in actual danger of finding it.’
Ree paused, head raising. Where was this coming from? Why did everyone in this town think they knew better than she did how she should spend her life?
‘I know what I’m doing.’ Ree nearly snapped the words.
‘I never questioned that.’ He seemed to have worn himself out. His eyes grew tired, his face slack. He withdrew to the other end of his barren room, retrieving a book from the floor.
A yawning Smythe appeared in the
doorway of one of the back rooms. ‘Ree? You’re up early.’ He looked at Emberlon. ‘It … is early, isn’t it?’
Ree seized him by the arm and dragged him over to the sarcophagus. ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘I almost cast it! The song, you were right about the song!’’
‘I was right?’ He smiled fuzzily before his expression clouded over. ‘It’s — uh, what is happening?’
‘Smythe! The spell! Your notes!’ She wanted to shake him.
‘Right! Of course, the — the notes. Um.’ He ran a hand through his curls — his fingers got caught and he spent a few seconds disentangling himself. ‘Which spell?’
‘The one for wild senses — you translated it into a song.’
‘Ah! That spell, the spell, the —’ he snapped his fingers. ‘Hold on —’
He flew to her research journal, flicking through several pages. ‘You say it almost worked?’ He thumped the page. ‘Therianthropy is almost always referenced as a ritual — perhaps missing some component. You see, it might be easy to translate shar as spell, but when combined with sira es —’
‘No.’ Ree shook her head. ‘We can’t be missing components. I doubt it would have gotten as far as it did if we had. And if you look here, serasaph suggests a spiritual component, like many necromantic spells. Not all therianthropy is ritualistic. I think perhaps it was the wrong tune.’ She scrubbed her face.
Emberlon stood up. ‘I’ll be in my room,’ he said. He dusted off his book.
Ree waved at him absently, and when she heard the door snick closed behind him, she laid Smythe’s sketch on top of the other notes. ‘I think … I think maybe it’s time we visited the Lich.’
Smythe’s eyebrows twitched. ‘You —? Pardon?’
She tapped his sketch.. ‘The Lich. This tableau you found? It’s in the Lich’s wing of the crypt — that’s why it’s uncharted.’ She breathed out through her nose. ‘I know it’s dangerous but — what does the Lich do all day? I’m betting it’s the same thing it did when it was properly alive. Studying. There’ll be a library — a library with books related to this tableau. To a culture that revered therianthropes. Or a therianthrope, at least.’
Books & Bone Page 17
