* * * * *
Less than two days later, Dahrkren was sitting in his tent, in the dark hours beyond midnight. Zabur's body and the wooden bench it lay on were the only other objects of stature in the room. The rest of the place was a disorder of pots, skins and feathers, and the strange and varied instruments of necromancy.
He had been given seven days.
What he needed to do would only take seven minutes, and he could do it at any time. But he waited. He spent the first day and night pacing through the tent, debating with himself, not once pausing to lift the linen that covered the girl's lifeless form. By dawn he was sitting on the earthen floor. He sat this way all day, motionless, never rising, not until long after the sun had set again.
He didn't have to worry about being bothered by anyone else. Amphet's king had ordered that no one disturb the process, which did little good. Dahrkren was plenty disturbed by himself as it was.
He knew the course of action, and now he knew its result. The black horse, as he'd requested, was tethered behind his tent. All day long it had raged and squealed, running in tireless circles, refusing food and water and attacking anyone who came near it with gnashing teeth. Despite its behavior, it had been examined and said to be in fit condition, probably only stressed by events it couldn't comprehend.
Stressed. Sure.
Dahrkren looked all around his dark tent, this little mound of his life, all the things that would remain for someone else's use should he die. Should he die. Death's reminders crept through his imagination, all the uncertain, eternal horrors of the afterlife. All that had awaited each spirit he had sent on into death. Everything that awaited him. Everything that now awaited all the people in Nifushunm.
Unless he sided with death.
He had consulted with no one, knowing that the other diviners would abhor what he'd done already. They were not ones to meddle with forces meant only to guide them. But they hadn't been guided to this truth, to this level of action. They'd never been promised this kind of power. Death had chosen him. He would show the rest of them how, if they asked. And if any stood in his way, he would move them. He would not willingly pass up this divine offer, to go on and suffer, only because so many others had done so before him. He had decided.
Just before midnight, Dahrkren stood and crossed the length of his tent. Not without reverence, he pulled the unstained linen away, revealing Zabur's unwounded―and unadorned―anatomy in its entirety.
Her dark, grape-skin eyelids were closed, and her white teeth glowed in the darkness, visible through the gentle snarl of death, the shape of an unfinished breath. She reeked only of the floral oils that had been spread over her icy, blanched skin; decay's stink was not yet detectable. She was perfect.
He did as death had instructed. It was very simple, what he'd been told to do, but he used every extra precaution to ensure success. He put out the fire in his tent, leaving himself only one oil lamp to see by, and tied the entrance flap tightly, just in case of an unauthorized interruption. Once his eyes had adjusted to the new degree of darkness, he walked all around the bench, testing it from all angles for sturdiness. Satisfied, he placed three items on the edge of the bench, just beside Zabur's shoulder: a ball of moist clay, a lump of black resin, and a clean bone dagger.
He then grabbed a handful of glittering white sand. Moving around the bench, he chanted an invocation of protection while leaving a complete circle of sand behind him, a circle he was not to step outside of again, not until he had seen this through.
Dahrkren centered himself, straightened his white robes, and stepped onto the bench. He lowered himself gently, carefully, onto Zabur's body, and seated himself about her waist. His breath quickened, and the blood rushed hot in his ears. After faltering several times, he finally managed to force out the first of those ancient words, words that no one else has ever heard or known since.
The wind stopped rattling the tent. The horse ceased its raging and was still. The air grew cold and the lamp went out, but the fearful necromancer was not left in darkness. A strange silver light illuminated his surroundings, seeming to come from everywhere.
Confused, Dahrkren paused to watch and listen. His mind and heart were in tumult, but there was no turning back. He looked at Zabur's face, fear stinging his eyes in the form of hot tears, and stammered on, stuttering the words until something took them from him in a quick, pronounced stream. Upon uttering the final tones, he picked up the lump of palm gum.
With shaky but expedited movements, he rolled the gum into four small balls. He stuffed one in each of his nostrils to seal them off, and tested them for any leaking of air. Finding none, he then issued the same treatment to Zabur's nose.
Next, he pulled out the black resin, kneading it until he found the runny, gluey center. He carefully parted Zabur's lips, and, with his finger, painted them with a layer of the sticky substance.
His chest was heaving uncontrollably as he applied the remaining resin to his own lips, the pace of his breath now verging on hyperventilation. Enough of that. He couldn't allow himself a moment's pause to rethink this. Holding tightly to either side of the bench, Dahrkren inhaled deeply and plunged forward, sealing Zabur's lips securely with his own and willing himself to breathe no more.
With resolve, he fumbled for the nearby dagger, his wide eyes now fixed in position, unable to take in anything but those thick purple eyelids below him. His fingers found the handle, and steadily, cautiously, he guided the blade through the empty space between Zabur's throat and his own, where he let it hover in his hand. Only then did Dahrkren allow himself to hesitate, to tremble and tighten his grip, to choke on the foul air drifting into him, to feel mortally afraid. He squeezed his eyes shut.
With a sure, hard motion, he sliced his own throat open from one side to the other.
* * * * *
"Jesse!"
"Just hear me out. I'm almost finished."
"That's sick! What is wrong with you?!"
"Oh, honey. Just you wait and see."
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 17
