Songreaver

by Andrew Hunter

  Marsten nodded. "The words first used by the dragons to shape the world. They were given to the dragons by the Dragon Queen who gave each of the First Words to a single dragon chosen to bear that word and use it. One of the words was the one that could be used to undo whatever the other six words had done. I suppose even dragons make mistakes from time to time." Marsten chuckled and sighed.

  "How did Brahnek learn the word?" Garrett asked.

  Marsten shrugged. "No one knows. They say he went away into the mountains with a handful of his greatest warriors, but returned many months later, alone. After that, he had the power to break the spells of the Faefolk who opposed him, and with that power, he wrested the bastion of Wythr from them. Of course it wasn't called Wythr then, but the elvish name eludes me. I'm not so great a scholar as I pretend sometimes."

  "Who named it Wythr then?" Garrett asked.

  "I don't know," Marsten said, "I would guess that it had something to do with the Spellbreaker's entrance into the city, and the effect he had on it."

  "Huh?"

  "They say that the gardens of the city turned gray and withered away when he first stepped through the gates, and that the sun has never shone again here since that day," Marsten said. Then he laughed, "Of course that's just a silly folktale to explain the dismal weather that the city enjoys, thanks to its location, sitting snugly between the mountain and the sea."

  "Do you think he might have written the word down somewhere?" Garrett asked.

  "I don't know," Marsten admitted, "but I think it unlikely. He died without heirs and nothing that I've read mentioned anything him sharing the power with anyone else. He probably took the secret to his grave, too jealous to give another the power he held in life."

  "Hmn," Garrett said, "Do you think he's buried in the city somewhere?"

  "Who knows?" Marsten said, "And why would you want to know how to break magic, anyway? It is through magic that we make the world a better place... through magic that we can even bring the dead back to life. Why would you undo that, even if you could?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Garrett said, "I guess I was just curious, that's all."

  "Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," Marsten said, "but do stop by my townhouse as soon as you can. I'm looking forward to helping you with your... little problem." Marsten waved his fingers around the top of his head, and nodded gravely at Garrett.

  "Yeah... and thanks," Garrett said.

  "Anything for a friend," Marsten chuckled.

  ****

  Garrett made his way down the hall to Uncle's study. The light of Uncle's lamp spilled out into the dark hallway beneath the crack of the door. As he drew closer, the sound of a quill pen scratched across parchment, pausing only occasionally and briefly for more ink.

  "Uncle?" Garrett called softly, "Do you need anything?"

  "No, thank you, Garrett," Uncle Tinjin said, then more pen scratching. It had been almost a week since the last time Uncle Tinjin had asked Garrett about his day.

  "Is your research going well?" Garrett asked.

  "Quite well, thank you," Tinjin said. More scratching... pause... scratching.

  Garrett slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling Marsten's card there. A part of him wanted to tell Uncle Tinjin about Marsten's offer to help him, but he still did not know why Tinjin disliked the man. What if Tinjin told him not to see Marsten again? Garrett pulled his hand from his pocket and walked back to the kitchen where Tom was charring a fish on the stove.

  Garrett sat and ate his dinner at the kitchen table in silence, listening to the slow scuffling of the dead cook. He looked across the table at the empty chair where Uncle Tinjin used to sit for their meals. Perhaps he should have Caleb sit there and pretend to eat.

  A sudden idea seized him then, and Garrett got up from the table and hurried into the hall.

  He glanced down the hall toward Uncle's study and retrieved his essence flask from his satchel by the front door before quietly making his way to the doors of the dining room. He winced at the creaking sound as he pulled one of the doors open and slipped inside. The witchfire sconces flared to life, illuminating the room and the table where two dead men sat, staring at their withered hands before them on the table, Max and Cenick's proxyliches.

  Garrett crept to the far end of the table where a tiny skull lay in the bottom of a silver bowl. He pulled the stopper from his canister of essence and dribbled a little bit of the glowing green fluid out into the palm of his hand. He was going to have to make this part up.

  Garrett picked up the little white skull in his free hand before lifting his glowing palm to his lips. He whispered, "Please work."

  He then placed his palm to his throat and whispered, "Max, Cenick, can you hear me?"

  Nothing happened.

  A bit of the essence dribbled down into his collar, but he felt the rest of it grow cold and fizz against the skin of his throat. Something was happening.

  "Max, Cenick," he said again, louder now, "can you hear me?"

  The little skull in his left hand began to vibrate.

  "Max, Cenick, please hear me," he said.

  Suddenly one of the dead men lifted his crowned head and turned to face Garrett with open eyes. "Uncle? Is that you?" the proxylich croaked.

  "No, it's Garrett. I'm using Uncle's skull to talk to you."

  "His skull!" the proxylich hissed, "Garrett, what happened?"

  "No, I mean the little skull! Uncle is fine!" Garrett said.

  "Ah... good to know," the dead man's voice rattled, "Garrett, don't scare me like that."

  "Sorry," Garrett said, "I just had a question."

  "A question... Garrett, how are you using Uncle's skull? It was attuned to him specifically. It shouldn't work for you at all," Max's proxylich said.

  The dead man with the painted face hissed with laughter. "I guess you aren't as clever as you thought you were," Cenick's voice spoke through its lips as though from somewhere far away.

  "Are you guys all right?" Garrett asked.

  "Quite well, actually," Max's lich said.

  "Speak for yourself," Cenick grumbled, "I've got every knight in Astorra lined up to challenge my men in the tournament. Have you ever tried to teach a zombie to joust?"

  "Tournament?" Garrett asked.

  Max's lich cackled. "Good luck with that. You got yourself into it."

  "It was the only way to keep them busy without killing each other," Cenick's lich said.

  "Have your knights won any tourneys yet?" Max asked.

  "A few, by default," Cenick said, "It is surprisingly difficult to knock the head off of a man in plate armor."

  "Well done," Max said, "Just keep them busy a few more days before you acknowledge defeat and retire from the field. I should have a solid foothold in Weslaen territory by then. The Astorrans won't pursue me there, and the redjacks aren't putting up much of a fight."

  "They aren't?" Even through the proxylich's croaking, Garrett could hear the concern in Cenick's voice.

  "Only a few token troops guarding the border," Max said, "Either they've gone soft, or they're trying to lure me into a trap. Their mistake either way."

  "Be careful, Max," Cenick said.

  "I've planned this assault for years," Max said, "The advantage is mine."

  "Overconfidence is a weakness," Cenick said.

  Max's proxylich made a rude noise. "Just keep the tin soldiers distracted a little longer and let me worry about the Chadiri."

  Cenick's proxylich creaked as it shook its head.

  "What was your question, Garrett?" Max asked.

  "Oh, I wanted to know if you know where Brahnek Spellbreaker is buried?" Garrett said.

  Max's lich laughed. "Looking to make a name for yourself as the city's greatest necromancer while I'm away, are you?"

  "No, I..."

  "I'm just kidding, Garrett," Max said, "The truth is that we've been looking for the Chamber of Kings for a long time. It's supposed to be buried deep beneath the city somewhere, but, e
ven with the ghouls' help, we never found it. If you're up for an adventure, I'll go hunting for it with you when I get home."

  "The Chamber of Kings?" Garrett asked.

  "A place where they buried the ancient kings of Wythr before the Church took over the city. It's said to lie far deeper than the deepest catacomb. If it exists at all, it's deeper than we've ever been."

  "Garrett," Cenick's proxylich spoke up, "Don't go looking for it without one of us. Max and I have stumbled across some very dangerous things in the catacombs, and there are places that even the ghouls won't go."

  "For once, the big scaredy-savage is right," Max said, "Just wait 'till I get back and you and I will ferret his old bones up out of the ground together."

  "All right," Garrett said, "Thanks for the help."

  "And when I get back, I'll make you your own proxylich so you don't have to borrow Uncle's," Max said, "I'll find a good skull for the purpose as well. Would you prefer Chadirian or Astorran?"

  "Max!" Cenick growled.

  "Thanks again," Garrett said, "and be careful."

  "Of course, Garrett," Max said, "Oh, how is the Templar thing going?"

  "Pretty well," Garrett said, "They mostly have me working in the library these days."

  "Learned any dark secrets yet?" Max asked.

  "That's enough, Max," Cenick said, "Don't you have a war to fight?"

  Garrett laughed. "Nothing interesting," he said, "Boring history stuff mainly."

  "What was that?" Max said, "I can barely hear you now." His voice trailed off as the magic faded, and the proxylich's head slumped again to its chest.

  "Goodbye, Garre..." Cenick's lich said as its voice faded and it slouched into lifelessness once more.

  "Goodbye, guys," Garrett said, feeling the palm of his hand, dry and warm again, against his throat.

  Chapter Twenty

  Garrett yawned, blinking to clear his vision at the outskirts of Marrowvyn. He extinguished his torch and slipped it back into his bag, anxious to have the use of both hands for carrying the heavy bucket that Uncle Tinjin had insisted he bring.

  When he reached the little ruined house that Warren and his father called home, he blinked again, startled by the sound of music and light that spilled out through the old cracked windows of their home. A pipe whistled a merry jig, and the warm light of an oil lamp filled the old house.

  Garrett paused at the canvas flap door and called out, "Warren?"

  The flap jerked back, and Warren grinned at him from inside. "Come in, Gar," he said.

  Garrett stepped inside, and Lady Ymowyn smiled at him without taking her lips from the little wooden fife she was playing. She continued to play the cheerful tune, bobbing her fox-like ears in time to the music. Her green eyes sparkled in the light of the ornate glass lamp that sat on the table beside her chair.

  Warren's father looked up from where he lay on a real bed, another new addition to the ghouls' nest. He smiled, weakly, baring his long yellow fangs as he struggled to rise enough to nod his head toward Garrett. "Ev'n boy..." he rasped. The pale scars of his battle with the Volgrem still crisscrossed his shaggy arms and chest.

  "Good Evening, Mister Bargas," Garrett said. He lifted the sloshing bucket in both hands. "Uncle Tinjin couldn't make it, but he wanted you to have this."

  Bargas's nostrils flared and he sniffed loudly. "Can't... quite make it out, boy," he said.

  Warren gave Garrett a worried look and glanced in the bucket, giving its contents a sniff himself. "Good stuff, Dad," Warren said, "plenty ripe."

  "Uncle says this one was a great minstrel," Garrett said, "just not a very good burglar."

  Ymowyn's curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned over to peer inside the bucket. She choked on the note she was playing and pulled the flute from her mouth as she turned her head away, making a little gagging noise. "Fie! Please tell me that's not what I think it is!" she gasped.

  Warren grinned as he took the heavy bucket from Garrett. "Yep," he said, "good old thinkin' meat!"

  "I think I'm going to be sick," Ymowyn murmured.

  "Aw, bless you, boy!" Bargas sighed, "Thank your uncle for me. He's a good friend."

  "He said he was sorry that he couldn't make it tonight," Garrett said, "but he's going to try to make it down here tomorrow night, if he can finish up what he's working on enough to take a break."

  Bargas nodded, sinking back into his pillow. "Keep an eye on him for us, boy," he rasped, "Tinjin's old... he pushes himself... too hard..." Bargas's body shook as a fit of coughing took his breath. Warren moved to Bargas's side, putting his hand on his father's arm.

  Lady Ymowyn set aside her fife and fetched a small brown bottle from a nearby table covered in a wide array of jars and other glassware. She dribbled a bit of honey-colored liquid out into the bowl of a broken-handled ladle and forced Bargas to drink it. Bargas's coughing soon subsided, and he thanked her before lapsing into a gentle slumber.

  Ymowyn corked her medicine bottle and ushered the boys outside. They sat down together in the rubble of Warren's patio and watched a pair of ghoul pups playing in the shadowy street.

  "Is he going to get better?" Warren asked, his voice hollow.

  Ymowyn nodded. "Bargas is a fighter," she said, "He'll recover... though I doubt he will ever again be as strong as he was before the attack."

  Warren grimaced, fighting back tears, and he smashed an old brick to pieces with his fist.

  Ymowyn started at the sudden display of violence but then put her hand on Warren's shoulder. "He will live," she whispered, "That is all that matters."

  Warren nodded. "I know... I know."

  Ymowyn smiled and ran her small hand across Warren's furry brow. His eyes lifted to hers, and he smiled back.

  "Thanks, Ym," he said.

  Ymowyn scratched him behind the ear then pulled away. She regained her ladylike composure, crossing her legs and smoothing her blue dress as she sat, perched on the broken wall of an ancient, withered garden. "Well, Kingslayer," she said, turning to Garrett, "what have you been up to?"

  Garrett frowned at her. "Do they still think I killed that guy?" he asked.

  Ymowyn raised her eyebrows. "Oh, yes," she said, "You'll be pleased, no doubt, to learn that they have declared a national holiday. Every year, on the anniversary of King Haerad's death, they plan on making little dolls of you and burning them in the streets. It's quite an honor, really."

  Warren snickered.

  "It's not funny!" Garrett said.

  "Yeah, it is," Warren said.

  Garrett felt the old anger swelling in his chest, and his face flushed hot, but he knew they meant no harm.

  "If I were you, I'd have it embroidered on my sleeve and wear it as a badge of honor," Ymowyn chuckled, "Garrett, Slayer of Tyrants."

  Garrett fell silent for a moment, absently snapping a branch from a dead shrub. "He was just an angry old man... Cabre wanted his dad to be proud of him, but..." Garrett's voice trailed off into the memory of the terrible murder for which he had taken the blame.

  Ymowyn gave a bitter laugh. "Haerad may have been an angry old man, but he wielded the power of a kingdom with merciless cruelty," she said, "Don't you dare... don't you dare feel sorry for him!"

  Garrett looked up, seeing for the first time the pain in Ymowyn's eyes.

  "I only wish that I could have been there to see it," she said, "I would have gladly traded places with you, Garrett! I wish they were making little dolls of me to burn in the streets. I wish they were cursing my name. So, don't you ever feel sorry for that murderer... not ever!"

  Garrett nodded, saying nothing.

  Warren sucked in a breath. "Well, who's hungry?" he said.

  Ymowyn glared at him. "I am not eating what's in that bucket!" she said.

  "No!" Warren said, "That's for Dad... I just meant we should go see what Chunnley's cooking for supper."

  "Oh," Ymowyn said, her scowl softening.

  Garrett yawned. "I'd... I'd better get back home," he said, "
I've had a pretty long day."

  "Thanks for coming to visit, Gar," Warren said, "It means a lot to Dad."

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "Oh... there was one thing I wanted to ask you... Do you know anything about a place called the Chamber of Kings?"

  "Huh," Warren said, "You mean that place where all the oldest dead guys in the city are supposed to be buried?"

  "Yeah."

  Warren shrugged. "We never found it," he said, "We've been way down in the catacombs, down to where it's mostly old lava tubes and such, past where anybody ever bothered to bury anybody, but we never found any king tombs or anything like that. The stories just say that the kings were buried in the heart of the world. I guess that would be pretty deep."

  "Oh," Garrett said.

  "You lookin' for a really old dead guy?" Warren asked.

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "but nobody seems to know much about him."

  "We can ask my dad when he's feeling better," Warren said, "If anybody can find him, it'll be Dad."

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "Thanks."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The townhouse at 630 East Primrose Street stood, tall and narrow-faced, between its neighbors in a long row of similar, unassuming houses. Nothing about the stately brick facade gave any indication that a necromancer lived there.

  Garrett pulled the bell rope and waited at the door. It opened a few moments later, and Marsten, dressed in a somber black suit smiled and greeted him.

  "Come in, Garrett," Marsten said quietly as he ushered him inside, "Please wait over here for a few minutes, if you don't mind. I'm with clients."

  Garrett nodded, taking his cue to keep silent. He stood off to one side of the entry hall and tried to look unobtrusive as Marsten went back into the parlor.

  "My apologies," Marsten's voice carried from the other room, "Are we ready to begin?"

  "Yes, please," an older man's voice answered. He sounded as though he'd been weeping.

  Garrett heard the clink of glass against glass and then Marsten's voice, singing, softly at first, but growing louder.

  Look back on this gray world of sorrow. Look back

  Your eyes have stolen away our light. Look back