The Necromancer of Sariklend kept a heart in his bag.
He clutched it close to his side, hurrying along with his head down so as to not draw too many stares. The passersby on the cobbled road to the queen’s palace couldn’t see the heart, of course, but the necromancer was sure they could tell from the way they stared.
It was deep in his bag, next to inert reagents and stacks of paper scribbled from top to bottom with notes. All of it was thrown together in a moment’s notice when the necromancer heard the news from his sentry crow. He had dropped everything: his plans, his experiments, and even his dinner simmering in a pot over a pile of embers.
When he was needed by the queen, he arrived, worked, and left. That was what was expected of him: to stay out of the way until needed. He had locked up his small cabin seven miles from town on the fringes of the forest and made for the queen’s sprawling city.
The streets were crowded today, and all the people he passed were so caught up in their own devices that many failed to notice him rushing by. Those who did not gave the characteristic sneer or gasp.
The necromancer was allowed entry through the Kantic Wall—the towering bastion separating the city Commons from the Ridvael, where the queen lived—via a paper stamped with the old queen’s wax seal. The guard at the Wall cocked an eyebrow, then let him through with a grunt.
The new queen was different and harsh, some said, but at least it didn’t appear she had gone back on her predecessor’s agreement. For that, he was grateful. The last queen, her sister, had died in a hunting accident two years ago. There had been no body for the necromancer to attempt to revive.
He had stayed away from the city since then. Until now.
He followed the thin road—whose cobblestones had been replaced with marble tiles on this side of the Wall—all the way up to the queen’s palace. Two guards were posted on either side of the double oak doors, each with halberds couched in the crook of their arms, standing at vigilant attention. Their shoulder sashes revealed that they had served in two Ages: Faryan’s and that of her deceased sister, Rethona.
That brought a smile to the necromancer’s face as he approached. It was not mirrored by the guards as they crossed halberds over his path. “Halt, stranger! What business have you here?”
He stopped mid-stride, hesitated, then held up the wax-stamped paper clutched in his hand. “I’m here on business for Queen Faryan.”
The guard on the right—mustached and thick-necked—spared only a cursory glance at the paper before returning his critical stare to the necromancer. “The High Lady does not associate with those such as yourself. Be gone from here.”
The necromancer gave them a cockeyed stare. “Would it be better if I took the skull of my shoulder? It’s mostly for show, anyways.” Give people what they’re expecting on the outside, and they fail to notice the smaller ways you don’t match. “Could you at least ask her?”
Metal squealed as the oak doors parted, making way for a tight-belted and full-stomached merchant. The man bumbled through with his arms full of books and papers, many of which were stamped with a large red seal. Slowly, dramatically, the man’s eyes widened as he took in the necromancer’s hood, his staff with the crow’s head, and his long, thin fingers. The merchant gaped, choked on an unhealthy gulp of air, then buried his face in his papers and hurried along.
The guards closed the door after him, then the shorter of the two—bald and sharp-nosed—responded, “Perhaps I can alert the High Lady Faryan to your presence. But know that she does not take kindly to scoundrels wasting her time.”
The necromancer sighed. “I can assure you, I have no intent of wasting her time. My business is strictly waste-less.” He paused, glancing between the pair. The joke was lost on them. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you.”
The guard simply nodded to his compatriot, snatched the wax-sealed paper from the necromancer’s hand, and slipped through the squeaky doors. After ten minutes of excruciating silence, the necromancer opened his mouth to ask when the guard might return.
He was cut off before he had a chance to speak. “Requests made of the queen will be answered by the beginning of the next regal day; no sooner and no later,” said the guard in rote monotone.
The necromancer deflated and placed a hand on his bag. “It’s already evening, and my cabin is too far away to return by nightfall.” The guard stared at him and proceeded to offer no helpful suggestions, only rude ones.
So the necromancer made his way down the winding marble road and up to the Wall before remembering he did not have his paper anymore. The warden there could not ensure that he would be let back in, so that left the necromancer with only one option:
Purchase stay at an inn in the Ridvael, where the citizens were rich and the inns were just as expensive. His coin pouch was light, and he had had enough of this city already, but the necromancer turned round and set off in search of the most run-down inn within the Walls.
That was a small snippet of Witness for the Dead! The third draft is complete, so I'm sending it out to some beta readers to get their thoughts on it. Once it's through the initial rounds, I'll put more on here.
Cheers!
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