Grave

by Michelle Sagara

  He remembers—only now—the sound of her laughter.

  He loved her as the young love the young. She was the center of his world. He believed, had believed, that his family would accept her. He had wanted to spend his life by her side. He had wanted what young men want.

  He cannot imagine that he could tell that young man not to love that young woman, not with any hope of success.

  “Lord Eric,” a young woman says. She curtsies, her back stiff, her expression wary. “Please, accompany us.” Before he can speak, she continues. “You will want to change before you meet the Queen.”

  She is wearing the robes that the Necromancers wear in the Citadel. She rises. Her eyes are living eyes, but they, like Longland’s, are heavy and bright with fear. And he has earned that fear.

  Can you kill someone who loves you so much?

  Yes. He has always said yes. But he is aware that “yes” is a simple word, an easy word; it encompasses broken desires and self-loathing and memory. He is not certain how he would answer that question if Helmi asked it now.

  But he will know, when he sees Reyna.

  He’ll know.

  IF NATHAN HAD HOPED that the Citadel would be empty enough he could find and search the kitchens, he realizes he has been naive. A story is unfolding in the Citadel’s many halls; even the dead speak of it—those who can.

  Eric, they say. Eric has returned.

  Nathan knows Eric.

  Nathan knows that Eric could not have returned alone—if Helmi is to be trusted. Emma is somewhere in the City of the Dead. But Emma’s name is not mentioned. Emma’s existence is not mentioned.

  The dead who are free to travel—and they are few, and bound to the Necromancers or their Queen, as Nathan was—speak only of Eric. They speak of love, the Queen’s love. They speak of the King, although they use that title in whispers. Eric is here.

  If Nathan were comfortably dead again—if Nathan, like the disembodied, could move through walls and closed doors—he might confirm the gossip for himself. Then again, he might not. He has seen the illusion of Eric occupying the empty throne at the Queen’s side in her audience chambers; he might, in his search for Eric, stumble across the Queen herself. He has no doubt just how pleased she would be to see him.

  But he is not free to wander the halls. He is seen and noted. He is given orders to make himself fully presentable. He is not, however, given aid. Apparently the few living people who act as servants have been sent to tend Eric. The dead are perfectly capable of speaking to the Necromancers, and the Queen has sent them to deliver pretty much the same orders that Nathan received.

  Emma.

  Emma is here.

  He swallows, out of habit. He drinks water and forces himself to eat something. He is trapped in his body. He is trapped in the Citadel. Even while the Queen is distracted, he cannot escape her. Not yet.

  • • •

  He dresses himself, which is awkward; the clothing is cumbersome. Before he was resurrected, he knew how to reach the audience chamber—the grand chamber—without the need for a map; he could take the direct route because he could see where the Queen was at any given moment. He cannot do that now.

  He is terrified that he will be late. In that, he has company among both the living and the dead. The sense of dread permeates every conversation he can hear—although admittedly, there’s little of that.

  He knows the living need to eat.

  He knows that Emma and the rest of his friends will need to eat. He doesn’t know where they’re coming from—and he only has a vague idea of how, because Helmi isn’t exactly forthcoming with information. He wondered, at the time, if he could trust Helmi.

  But Eric is here. And if Eric is here, the rest of it might be true. He can’t take the risk of suspicion. No, he can, but he can’t refuse to act because of it. And yet, he can’t get to the kitchens. He can’t figure out how to leave the Citadel. Not today. Not this afternoon—if it is afternoon.

  He walks. He takes a wrong turn, or possibly more than one; the Citadel is a maze of large, decorated halls.

  He is therefore relieved to see Helmi. She is not wearing the usual clothing; she is wearing something that looks fussier and more fairy-tale formal. Her hair is in loose ringlets at the front, but only the front; the back is a monstrosity of a setting into which something like a tiara has been placed.

  She did this herself, of course, and looks him up and down quite critically. “What did you do?” she asks him.

  “I tripped over a few standing suits of armor and shouted in shock. I was abjectly apologetic.” He hadn’t been certain he would survive, which is ironic, all things considered.

  “And the other things?”

  “I’ve spent the rest of the time getting dressed. I’m not sure the formal audience is meant to last; I think, if it goes well, there will be ‘festivities’ and celebration.”

  Helmi curses. She uses a very modern set of words, at odds with the rest of her presentation.

  “Is—are they here?”

  “Emma’s in the city. She’s not in the Citadel.”

  He doesn’t ask where. He doesn’t ask how. He is afraid that the knowledge will stand out, like a signboard with flashing neon lights. But he wants to know.

  “Did you—” He stops. “I’m lost.”

  “I like her. I understand why you like her. What do you mean, you’re lost?”

  “I don’t know how to get to the audience chamber by foot.”

  Helmi stares at him as if he’s just said the most idiotic thing she’s ever heard. It’s the most ordinary expression he’s seen on her face. “She’s going to be very angry if you’re late, given what she’s done for you; it’s a poor expression of gratitude on your part.”

  Nathan feels no gratitude at all. He has almost become used to the constant sense of loss and pain that’s wrapped around him—he’s only fully aware of it when he tries to sleep. But if death—well, if dying again—removed him from the layers of that external pain, he would be grateful.

  “Follow me. Follow me quickly. I have other things I have to do.”

  Nathan doesn’t ask.

  But Helmi hasn’t finished. “Did you know, when you first met her?”

  He’s confused.

  Helmi recognizes this. She’s impatient. “Emma. When you first met Emma, did you know that you loved her?”

  “How could I know that I loved her? I’d just met her.”

  “Do you remember when you first met her?”

  “Helmi—if I’m late, the Queen will be angry.”

  “Talk while we’re walking. You’re half-way across the Citadel, and you were going in the wrong direction. So, Emma.”

  This is a conversation Nathan has already avoided once—as if by avoiding it, he could protect something precious and rare. But Emma is here, and Helmi knows it. He can’t tell what the queen’s sister wants from him—he’s certain she wants something. And he knows that for Emma’s sake, he wants to give it to her. He begins to follow her drifting, slow lead.

  “I remember when I first noticed Emma.”

  Helmi waits.

  “It was because of Michael. Emma is—she’s polite and she’s social. She fits in. Michael . . . doesn’t, really. I like Michael. He’s direct and it doesn’t often occur to him not to be honest. He doesn’t always interpret questions the way the person asking them intended, though.” Seeing her expression, Nathan moves on. “I’d expect that Michael wouldn’t have a lot of friends. If he had friends, I wouldn’t expect to find Emma Hall or her friends among them. I’m more than a little used to seeing a lot of judgement. Everyone’s trying to fit in. Everyone’s trying to be normal enough that they won’t be the outsider.

  “But Emma walked to school with Michael every morning. Emma and Allison. When there were changes in Michael’s schedule, Emma was often the per
son who explained them—Michael doesn’t always deal well with change. Emma even laughs at Michael’s jokes, because she considers some of them funny.” Glancing at Helmi, he sees that this has not really answered the question she thinks she’s asking.

  “I didn’t love her for it. I liked her for it. I liked her more because it surprised me. Emma is capable of kindness. Not pity. Not condescension—kindness. She actually considers Michael to be a friend.”

  “But you didn’t love her.”

  “Helmi—I told you, I barely knew her.”

  “My sister fell in love with Eric the minute she laid eyes on him. It was all Eric, Eric, Eric.”

  Nathan coughs. She sounds like an eight year old. An eight year old younger sister. “I don’t believe in love at first sight,” Nathan says.

  “No?”

  “No. I think love at first sight is a story. Don’t get me wrong; I like stories. But I don’t think stories—no matter how complicated—are things real people can actually live in. What I knew, when I noticed Emma, is that she could see Michael as he was. And if she could do that, and accept him in spite of the fact that other people couldn’t, she could probably see me, and accept me, in the same way. Emma wasn’t my first girlfriend. She was just my first non-disaster.

  “I know what it’s like to tell stories about love. I know what it’s like to look for love as—as purpose or salvation. I know what it’s like not to see the person in front of me because I’m too busy looking at what the person should be or do if they really love me. I’m not a saint. I like to think I learn from my mistakes.”

  “You probably just make new ones.”

  Nathan chuckles. “All the time. I just try to make sure they’re different. I didn’t love Emma at the very beginning. But I thought I could, in time. I always thought she was attractive.”

  “That’s not really romantic, Nathan.”

  “No, not really. Sorry.” He turns to the left as Helmi does. The halls here are not as empty as they were when Helmi found him. “If it’s any better, at the end of the second month, I couldn’t imagine life without her.”

  Helmi is silent for half a hall. “You loved her because she was kind?”

  “It’s not just that—but without it, in the end, I don’t think I could have grown to love her.”

  “What did she love about you?”

  “I don’t know.” At the sound of Helmi’s impatient snort, he says, “No, I mean it. I honestly don’t know. I’m responsible for how I feel, but in the end, I can’t dictate how other people do. I don’t understand why she was interested in me—and I probably didn’t want to question it too deeply. I didn’t want to break things.”

  “But you died.”

  He stumbles. “Yes. I died.” Just like her father had. Of all the things that torment Nathan when he thinks of Emma, this is the worst. He knows what death means to her; he knows how much she feared it. He died, anyway. “I left her, permanently. I destroyed my mother.”

  Helmi has stopped moving. She drifts to hover in front of Nathan. “My mother said that the only good thing about dying when she did is she didn’t have to see me die. I didn’t understand it, when she said it. I couldn’t see anything good about dying. And I always thought—” She grimaces. “I always thought my mom only had eyes for Reyna. Reyna the talented. Reyna the powerful. Reyna the next magar.”

  “She was your older sister. I had no siblings. Neither does Emma. Reyna was Emma’s age when you died. You were eight. You might have developed talent or power—but power isn’t always a good thing.”

  “No,” is Helmi’s dark reply. “Do you still love Emma?”

  “Helmi, what is this obsession with my love life?”

  “Eric loved my sister,” Helmi replies, her voice lower and inexplicably deeper. “My sister loved Eric.”

  But Nathan shakes his head. The motion goes on that little bit too long. “I can’t even sleep without hearing the wailing cries of the dead. Do you know what I’m wearing, Helmi? Not the clothing, but the body?” He stops himself. He knows, intellectually, that Helmi is ancient. He reacts as if she’s eight. He’s been trying to train himself out of that—but life has been hectic and disturbing and heartbreaking enough that he hasn’t tried very hard. If Helmi doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to tell her. He wouldn’t tell any eight year old about what was done to the dead.

  Is still being done, to the dead.

  “What she did to me, she did to Eric. To someone you say she loves. I don’t know Eric well. But I think I know enough to say that it’s not something Eric wanted. It’s not something he wants now.”

  “Does Eric love my sister, do you think?”

  Nathan wonders just how much pain he would feel if he attempted to put his head through the nearest wall. “Helmi—”

  “She did all this because of love.”

  “She did not.”

  “I think I know why she did things. I’ve known her for a long, long time.”

  Nathan exhales. “People tell themselves that they do things for love all the time. People kill their wives because they ‘loved’ them.”

  Helmi frowned. “What are you doing with your fingers?”

  The wall continues to look very promising. Nathan is not up to explaining what air quotes actually mean, and gives up. “. . . Because they felt they loved them. But love doesn’t destroy the person you love.”

  “Eric is not—”

  “Helmi, if Emma had ever done this to me, it would break me. It’s almost breaking me now. Having this done by the Queen of the Dead is like having it done by a—a demon or an enemy. You don’t expect kindness from either. But if Emma, a Necromancer, had done this to me—how could I love her? How could I believe that she was still the person I noticed because of her kindness?

  “I couldn’t. Maybe—just maybe—I could convince myself that she was having some kind of breakdown. Maybe I could convince myself that my dying had driven her insane—and that if I held on for long enough, she would go back to being my Emma. The one I loved.” He tosses his hands in the air. “But that’s just me lying. I don’t think I could hold on for long enough. If I couldn’t talk to her, if she didn’t listen, if she couldn’t hear me and what it meant to me—I could never accept it.” His shoulders slump. “You can never know all of what’s in another person’s mind.

  “But I believe, I truly believe, that Emma loves me. She would never do this to someone she loved. Even if I wanted it, even if I asked, she could never, ever do what—what was done. And Helmi? I’m grateful for that.

  “Your sister will tell you that Emma never loved me. Not truly. That Emma’s love is too weak. Or that she’s not committed enough. And that’s a lie. What I loved about Emma was that she was capable of what I considered love. She loves her mother. She loves her friends—especially her best friend. She loves her half-deaf dog. And she loves me. But I’m part of that life. I’m not—I don’t want to be—an excuse to abandon it.”

  Helmi stares at him as if he is trying to grow an extra head.

  “Why are you even asking?”

  “I told you—my sister loved Eric.” Her frown deepens. “And Emma loves you. You don’t understand what love means—has meant—to all of us. You don’t understand why it’s terrifying. Everything that has been built here—everything—comes down to love.”

  Helmi is wrong. Nathan has already explained that in the only way he can. He tries again, as the halls become more crowded. Unlike school, crowded halls aren’t noisier; there’s a tension in the gathering, a suspicion, a certainty of fear, that makes them far less lively. Then again, Nathan can see all of the dead people as well as the living—and he’s fairly certain he’d like the dead better if they spoke to him at all.

  “It isn’t, Helmi. Maybe it’s built on grief. Maybe it’s just one giant cemetery, and all it’s been waiting for is its guest of honor.”
>
  • • •

  The doors to the audience chamber roll open. The Queen is not on her throne, and there are benches in tidy rows and columns across the majority of the floor. This is unusual; it makes the audience chamber seem like the nave of a church.

  The benches are not empty; members of the Queen’s court have been admitted early. Nathan is not among them, and he is grateful for it. They are wearing robes, not the more intricate—and uncomfortable—clothing demanded of the dead. Nathan can see their backs; they do not appear to be chatting. They appear to be rigid.

  The Queen terrifies the living as well as the dead. The Necromancers do not feel that they have power over their own lives, in this Citadel. If they are careful, they will not join the ranks of the dead. That is possibly their only concern as they sit in the front rows.

  The benches are old and finely carved, but they are otherwise unadorned; there are no flowers or ribbons on their ends—something Nathan has seen in churches, at weddings. The chamber feels funereal. A rug—a long, narrow rug—travels from the door to the dais upon which the empty thrones stand. This time, there is no image of Eric. The chair that the image usually occupies is empty.

  Helmi leaves Nathan at the doors. She doesn’t drift away; she vanishes. Nathan would vanish too, if he thought he could get away with it. He is momentarily frozen. The dead occupy the benches; to someone living, the chamber would appear to be almost empty. But Nathan is uncertain where he’s to sit. There are no place-cards or ushers; no one to direct him to the seat the Queen has chosen.

  He tells himself she won’t care, but doesn’t believe it. This is her moment of triumph. She will expect everything to be perfect, and lack of perfection might ruin her day. It will certainly ruin the day of the poor fool who doesn’t know where to park his butt.

  Emma is in the city, somewhere.

  Nathan has seen some of that city—it is empty, a literal ghost-town. There are no stores, of course; there are no markets. There is no food; there is water—but that won’t be enough, and Nathan isn’t certain that Emma will have the freedom to explore. Not for long.