Books & Bone

by Victoria Corva

  ‘Are you quite all right, Larry?’ Smythe touched the minion’s arm; Larry jerked away from him as if burned. Smythe’s mouth gaped. ‘Oh — I’m so sorry! I never meant — there’s no need to be afraid, old chap. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?’

  ‘It’s going to attack the town. And it’s because of you, isn’t it? Because it saw us together.’

  If he understood, he didn't respond. Just continued to tremble.

  ‘You can't blame that on him, it's unfair!’ Smythe gave Larry's shoulder a squeeze, grimaced and wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘If it's anyone's fault, it's the Lich’s. And … well, I mean maybe not even his. He’s undead, isn’t he? Bit unfair to blame someone who’s already dead.’

  The Lich wasn’t technically undead, although at its age and power, it was hard to tell the difference. She opened her mouth to tell Smythe as much — and that he really ought to know that, considering he had foolishly decided to follow in the Lich’s footsteps — but the words died on her tongue. Larry stood, stiff as a cadaver, his eyes fixed above Ree’s shoulder.

  Ree’s muscles tensed. Before she could turn, or run, or shout, a spectre smashed into her, pressing her into the wall. It was like being caught in a gale, or a between a tidal wave and a cliff. Gasping, she stared through its translucent body to see Smythe similarly pinned to the other side of the corridor.

  ‘Not to worry — I can — I’ll just —’

  But the air was getting thinner and thinner, charged with an icy current. Larry still stood transfixed. Ree tried to wrench free of the spectre, but it held her fast. She felt like she was drowning. This spectre had so much more shape and force than the one Usther had used to pin her. ‘Don’t —’

  ‘Trzak trukoma — ahh!’ The magic Smythe gathered abruptly cut off. He screamed as the spectre pinning him darkened and snarled, shadows winding through the pale light that formed it.

  And then the world seemed to go still. The Lich glided toward them down the corridor, somehow graceful in spite of its shrivelled limbs and long, ragged robes. It didn’t spare a look for the denizens slammed against the walls. Its gaze was fixed on Larry as it spread its arms wide, fingers crooked in a gesture of welcome. ‘Athenkryzta,’ it intoned, its voice like the crackle of old parchment. Larry walked stiltily toward it. The Lich’s lips, so thin and withered that they barely scraped its teeth, widened in what might have been a smile. ‘Atho athenkryzta. Kurat kwizzima.’

  Ree managed to wrench one arm free of the spectre pinning her. She reached for Smythe, muscles straining, then her stomach flipped as she tumbled to the floor. The spectres vanished in a cloud of grave mould. Smythe yelped as he hit the ground; Ree scrambled over to him.

  ‘We need to leave,’ Ree whispered. Her eyes were on the Lich, now embracing Larry as if welcoming home a long lost son. She seized Smythe’s wrists and tried to tug him away, but he held firm.

  ‘We can’t just leave him!’ He held Ree’s gaze with his own, eyes bright with fear.

  Ree could feel time getting away from her. At any moment, the Lich would remember them and finish what it started. She tugged at his wrists again, but he gripped her wrists with his own.

  ‘He doesn’t want this,’ he said.

  They had already lost Larry once and it had hurt as much as losing anyone could. He was more than the town’s weird pet; he was her friend.

  For a heartbeat, Ree could see it. She could see them seizing Larry and running for all they were worth. She had resisted the Lich’s magic once, and Smythe had much more fine control of his will now. They could take Larry, and hide, and come up with a better plan.

  But as her gaze swung toward the undead reunion, the Lich raised its marble eyes to meet her. Gently, like a father shepherding a child, it moved Larry aside. Then it happened all at once: the Lich pointed at them and cast a spell in an echoing whisper; Ree snatched at Smythe’s arm to drag him behind her; Smythe shrugged away to plant himself between Ree and the Lich.

  Bright light surrounded them and the world quaked. Everything seemed to peel, like the paint was being stripped from the world. And all Ree could see was Smythe, clutching her hands and mouthing ‘I’m sorry.’

  It was a curse like none she’d ever heard of. A maelstrom of wind and magic whipped around them, throwing them up, leeching the warmth from her skin, sucking the breath from her lungs. All the while, Smythe gripped her hands with icy fingers, eyes round and full.

  Ree wondered if Morrin would greet them when this was over.

  But then the spinning slowed; the wind died down. Colour and detail seeped back into the world, like ink spreading through water.

  When they hit the ground, they hit it hard. Cold stone and a force that jarred through their limbs. The maelstrom was gone; they were in the corridor again.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ Smythe scrambled to his feet, straightening his glasses. ‘Larry?’

  Ree stared at the walls, a frown pulling at her mouth as a headache dawned. ‘Does this look wrong to you?’

  ‘Ree?’

  ‘There’s no moss on the walls …’ Her gaze dropped. ‘No cracks in the floor. I don’t understand.’ There was pressure building up in her chest, anxiety preceding understanding. Her stomach cramped as her meagre breakfast threatened a reappearance.

  Smythe touched a wall, muttering to himself.

  ‘What?’

  He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised. ‘It’s fourth era stonework — see the tessellation of the bricks — but it’s … unaged. Marvellous stuff; I rather wish I were a better artist, so that I could take a good image of it.’ His hands twitched toward his threadbare satchel.

  Ree got unsteadily to her feet. Was this some sort of illusion, or had the Lich transported them away?

  ‘Jolly impressive spell, sending us away like that.’

  Ree started to run down the corridor. ‘Magic doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Hold up!’

  Necromancy, healing — even therianthropy. It was all about bodies, about life and death. This should not — could not — be real. She came to a door, not dry and knotted like she was used to, but smooth and polished. Heart in her throat, she pushed it open.

  Two women in robes of lavish lace — one red, one black — were talking. As the door opened, they turned and caught Ree’s eyes. Ree gasped and yanked the door shut, crashing into Smythe as she turned to run.

  Smythe seized her shoulders, steadying her. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘They’re speaking old Antherian,’ Ree said. It was the language of necromancy, the oldest language ever spoken.

  ‘They’re necromancers, then?’

  The door creaked open; Ree dragged Smythe aside, tucking him into an empty alcove. ‘Nobody speaks Old Antherian,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a dead language. The dead language.’

  Smythe straightened his glasses. ‘I’m not certain I understand. Are you suggesting —?’

  ‘Halt!’ The word was cried in Old Antherian, in an accent Ree had never heard spoken. The lace-robed women slid to a halt in front of them, their fingers crooked in spellcasting shapes. ‘What business have you in the city of the King?’

  Smythe’s eyes were bright. Ree could practically see the questions queuing up at his tongue. But for Ree, there was another sickening twist in her gut and a cold prickle along her skin.

  This was not something running away could solve.

  The town hall of Tombtown is of particular significance, as it uses the largest tomb in the central mausoleum that makes up the heart of the town. Believed to be the final resting place of a king of old, it also depicts necromantic iconography on its columns and on the sarcophagus itself.

  Though the name and origin of this king is unknown, he is a town favourite and much beloved. The name ‘The Old King’ is often invoked as a familiar, watchful figure, much like a local deity.

  ~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE OLD KING

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nbsp; The lace-robed women stood before them, fingers crooked and ready to cast. The air stirred and shifted as if in a breeze. Echoes of their power hummed through Ree’s body.

  Ree frowned. She did not recognise either of these women, but the one in traditional black was clearly a practitioner, with her hollow cheeks and dull, ash-coloured hair. The one in red did not look like a practitioner, but neither did she have the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed vitality of a healer. Her skin was the colour of baked clay, her eyes liquid amber. Blue paint lined her forehead down her nose, flicked across her eyes, and spotted her cheeks, giving her a faintly beaked, bird-like appearance.

  Whoever they were — and wherever Ree and Smythe had ended up — their magic was making Ree’s teeth ache. She held her hands out, palm up, to show she was unarmed and not casting, and Smythe followed her lead.

  The women did not relax their stances, but the pressure of their magic eased. The red woman’s gaze flicked from Smythe to Ree. ‘You have not answered us. What is your business here?’ The Old Antherian sounded so different in her mouth than it did when denizens cast spells in it; rich and rolling, more natural.

  Ree scrambled for an answer in their tongue. She had read and written in the language since she was a child, but had never needed to be conversational in it. ‘We were cursed here by a powerful Lich, the most ancient in our sprawling necropolis.’ She glanced at the woman in black, trusting that whoever these people were, they were sympathetic to practitioners. ‘We don’t actually know where we are.’

  The women exchanged a look, frowning. They looked like they might be about to say something when Smythe leapt in, ‘Pardon me, but if you don’t mind me asking — how do you keep the brick work in such excellent condition? We’ve dabbled in restoration techniques at the university, but little can be done to rectify the erosion. Also, where did you get your robes? They’re very authentic, most convincing! I didn’t —’

  ‘No.’ The woman in red held up a hand to silence Smythe. It looked like he was going to babble on, regardless, so Ree jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He yelped and rubbed his side, but finally stopped talking.

  ‘They’re funny, don’t you think?’ The woman in black tilted her head to one side. ‘Their clothes. Their accents.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the red-robed woman.

  ‘Chandrian Smythe, Third Rank historian at the Grand University and foremost burial scholar in the southern reaches.’ He stuck out his hand to shake, which the women ignored with wrinkled noses. ‘I’m quite delighted to meet you,’ he continued, undeterred. ‘And my companion here — she’s really quite an extraordinary scholar and — well, I’m sure she can tell you —’

  ‘Ree,’ said Ree. When the women waited for something more, Ree offered, ‘From Tombtown.’ More waiting. ‘A necromancer settlement.’

  The women exchanged a look, and Ree resisted the urge to squirm. She didn’t like talking about herself at the best of times, but even less when she had so little information. Giving these women knowledge was giving them power over her — and she had precious little power over them.

  The woman in black tittered. ‘Definitely funny. Can I play with them, do you think? I’ve been ever so good.’ There was something about this woman’s dark eyes; they seemed to smoulder in her face. Ree instantly brought her mental guards up, praying to Morrin that Smythe would do the same.

  The red-robed woman gave her companion a hard look. ‘The King will decide.’

  The woman in black sighed. ‘I’ll tell him, shall I? Oh Frederick!’ She summoned a spectre in a whisper of magic. Ree felt a jolt at the sight of a creature that had only moments before been crushing her, but this was not the Lich’s spectre.

  The woman in black smiled and stroked the spectre’s cheek. ‘Dear Frederick. Do Mummy a favour, would you?’ She murmured something in the spectre’s ear, and then it glided away in a gust of wind.

  ‘I am Wylandriah,’ said the woman in red.

  Ree tried to draw breath and couldn’t. Her eyes fixed on the woman in red. The paint … the strange colour of her eyes … she was the mirror image of the jewelled woman in the tableau.

  ‘Wylandriah … Witch-feather?’ Ree managed to squeak the word.

  Wylandriah’s head turned, studying her with a hawk’s precision. ‘Indeed.’

  She heard Smythe suck in a breath.

  ‘And I’m Lizeria,’ said the woman in black. She narrowed her smudgy eyes at them. ‘I’m most pleased to meet you. And don’t attempt any magic: it would be a shame to kill you, when we’ve not yet had a chance to to get to know each other, don’t you think?’ Her power gathered, and before Ree could so much as cry out, she flung a long rope of intestine at them, which wriggled like a snake and cinched around their wrists. She started walking, yanking them after her. Ree tried to resist, but every pull of the gory rope burned like hot coals. Wylandriah brought up the rear, eyes gleaming under the stripe of blue paint.

  ‘Aah!’ Smythe stumbled after Lizeria, tears streaming from his eyes. ‘Is this quite necessary? We’ve hardly been introduced!’

  ‘Be silent.’ Wylandriah shoved Ree into Smythe, and Smythe muttered an apology. He turned wide eyes on Ree, but Ree had more worries than unknown necromancers. More even than the sudden appearance of her hero.

  Something about this place was wrong. These corridors were shockingly familiar, as if someone had put a new layer of paint over the crypt. Lizeria led them along a path that was seemingly step for step the way back to town from the Lich’s wing. And behind them, Wylandriah, in her red robes and blue face paint, radiated an unknown magic that made Ree shiver.

  Not entirely unknown. She had felt the brief kiss of it once. A magic like water that had rushed over her like the incoming tide.

  The conflicting emotions around that threatened to crush her. She walked beside Wylandriah Witch-feather, the last therianthrope and figure from magical legend. But how could that be? How could any of this be?

  They passed many rooms, nearly all occupied. The sound of shifting paper and murmuring voices was constant, if incongruous with the crypt that Ree knew. Every time she heard the sounds of life — voices, shuffling, footsteps — Ree’s skin would crawl. She felt hemmed in by people, claustrophobic, suffocated. Worse, sometimes someone would come to a door and greet the women as they passed, their eyes following Ree and Smythe. She felt their gazes sliding down her spine like cold water.

  But worse than the people was the sense of displacement. Everything here was wrong — brighter, cleaner, more alive. Ree lived in a world of dirt and shadow. She had memorised every crumbling stair, she’d explored every cold tomb. But this place made a mockery of that. It took her memories and painted over them, so that every glance was startling, every blink caused a headache.

  She knew these paths and these rooms. This was home, but it also wasn’t. How had the Lich trapped them in this paradoxical place? She had never heard of magic like this.

  Smythe, by contrast, seemed energised by every change. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said, gazing up at the tiled ceiling or trailing his eyes along a bright-threaded tapestry on the wall. His excitement seemed even greater than his fear, or than his yelps of pain when Lizeria tightened the leash. ‘Did you ever imagine that it looked like this?’ She could see his hands twitching toward his satchel for his journal and pen, but the gory binds were too tight.

  ‘Did you ever imagine that it looked like this?’ With a growing dread, Ree was coming to terms with what kind of spell the Lich must have cast. And when Wylandriah and Lizeria led them up to the doors of the Old King’s tomb, where she had attended every town meeting since she was a child, she knew that it was true.

  ‘The King awaits you,’ said Lizeria. ‘Pray to the Undying One for his mercy.’ Her smile grew wider. ‘My prayer is quite different.’

  Lizeria and Wylandriah pushed open the doors of what in Ree’s time was the grand tomb, and was now an opulent throne room. Many of the treasures that Ree had carefully catalogued and pushed to o
ne side were now proudly displayed on stands and shelves, or lined the stairs up to the raised marble throne. The rest, she assumed, remained with their original owners, as they had before she had found them.

  Ree, almost without thinking, started toward the throne, but Wylandriah held out a hand. ‘Wait.’ Her eyes were not on Ree, but on the throne.

  Wylandriah. Ree tore her eyes away from the mage and followed her gaze.

  A figure stepped around the throne. Velvet robes of midnight blue swirled about his legs, and a plain crown of thorny and blackened wood rested atop his brow. His dark skin was ashen with necromancy, but he didn’t look as tired as most practitioners — his beard was perfectly curled and oiled, the hollowness of his eyes hidden by artful paints.

  He lowered himself onto the throne and with a curt gesture, beckoned them over.

  Wylandriah gave Ree a jab, and together, she and Smythe stumbled after Lizeria up the stairs. Smythe’s eyes were full of stars, the treasure and candlelight reflecting constellations. Ree’s fingers itched to raise her hood, to hide. She ached to disappear.

  When they approached the last few steps, Smythe stopped and knelt. Ree looked around uncertainly until Lizeria yanked the rope. Ree hit her knees hard beside Smythe, biting back a cry.

  ‘So these are the intruders,’ the King mused. His voice was deep and calm. It reminded Ree of Emberlon, but there was an edge to it that Emberlon never had. ‘Chandrian Smythe of the Grand University. Ree of Tombtown. Curious that I have never heard of any such place.’

  Though Ree had already suspected as much, his words fell like stones in her stomach. Smythe, however, looked up with bright eyes.