The Necromancer’s Dream – Excerpt

Chapter 1
A Midnight Murder

He kept a hand tight on the collar of his hooded cloak, guarding against the night winds that set the streets to murmur. He liked this city at night, its hidden places made of shadows and the way the lanterns swayed in the wind. Gibbous moon tonight. There were guards at the end of this cobblestone street, clanking along in their armor, holding lamps high. Only a patrol; still, it could be fun if they found him out and gave chase. He passed an old man huddled in an alley.

“Say there, my lad,” the old man called to him. “Might ya spare a crown or two so I might get out o’ this cold?”

The man was covered in rags, sheltering beneath a threadbare cape as gray as his hair. The lad could tell this man was strong, judging by the toned muscles of his neck and calves. Dirty face, dirty hands. Yet when he reached out with another sense — beyond those of his physical body — the lifetime of darkness he felt in this old man delighted him. Hunting such darkness had brought him to these streets tonight. This man, he wanted.

“Yes,” the lad said, his voice gentle, trusting. “I think I can help.” He knelt beside the old man. “I’m afraid I haven’t any coin, but if you would care to break bread with me, there is a lovely spot across the way where we can light a fire.” The breeze teased his hood, revealing in turns his nose, eyes, his companionable smile. “It would be much better than staying out here in the wind, I think.”

The old man scratched his scraggly beard, considering, when a strong gust whipped up his cape and made the choice for him. “Ye make a good argument. I accept.”

The old man followed him up the street, across a lamp-lit bridge. This district was older than much of the city. Buildings loomed above narrow streets, closer and closer as they walked, the eaves almost kissing. Soon they came upon an alleyway of stone walls that opened onto a channel. The ghost of the moon rippled on the water. Here was a niche: a stone landing, shielded from the night winds by a building on the left, into which the landing was partially set. This landing, especially those crates stacked along the wall, smelled strongly of fresh leather and cabbage. Perhaps because of this, it was vacant.

The lad glanced around, checked the crates, and, with some effort, shifted two aside to open a space against the wall. A discarded lid had fallen back here; plenty of wood for him. He was aware of the old man watching, gauging. Ill intent tingled in the air for him alone to sense. “This will do,” the lad decided, then half-turned and tossed the old man a loaf from his satchel. “You break it. I’ll start the fire.” One good kick from him broke the wooden lid apart.

The old man smiled, showing teeth brown or missing. A nice, friendly smile to enchant, to disarm. He turned toward the channel for better light and began to tear the loaf down the middle. Kneeling in the moonlight, fixated on this lovely piece of bread, he never saw the lad come up silently behind him. He never saw the dagger. It came down and pierced the base of his skull. The old man slumped forward; the loaf spilled from his hands. Dead. The lad pulled the dagger free. He stepped over the body and knelt to wash his dagger in the flowing water, which was almost even with the landing. He took special care drying the obsidian blade and its ebony hilt. It would not work properly if it was not clean. When he had replaced the dagger on his belt, he bent over the fresh corpse. He smiled. Tonight’s had been an easy hunt.

He dragged the body into the center of the landing and tore the rags from the cadaver’s back. Down on his knees beside the corpse he had made, the lad pressed thumb and forefinger together until they smoldered with ruby light, a nightmare-red illuminating the folds of his black cloak. He spread those glowing digits and used them to slice a strip of flesh from the spine, all the way down, from nape to tail, exposing bone. There was no blood; the ritual dagger had arrested the bodily fluids. The lad took up the strip of flesh with the ease of a butcher handling a fresh cut, then wound it up tight. It went into the spelled pouch on his belt; quite safe in there, where any offense smells would be contained. Now he examined the spinal column.

“Lovely,” he whispered. “So straight.” Unusual, for an elder, but not unwelcome.

The lad ran his fingers down the glistening white segments of the spine. The red light he had used before spread to all the fingers of his right hand. From that vermilion glow came the runes. Tiny symbols like blood-colored smoke danced off his fingertips and inscribed themselves into the bones, fine as needlework, precise as surgery, as line upon line upon line of spellwork was incised into the cortex of each vertebrae. They had a story to tell for those who could read them. Such delicate work this was, so delicate. Keep focused, mind the connections, layers upon layers of control and power. When work on the vertebral column was complete, the lad spread his hands over the shoulder blades. More runes fluttered from his hands to print themselves into the skin in spiral patterns. Just like that, deep down, enough to form a link… perfect. The lad licked his lips. Doing this always thrilled him.

“Halt, there!”

He froze, recognizing the sound of bootsteps over his pounding heartbeat. The lad snapped his head round to see two guards, ironclad — cuirasses and halfhelms over mail. His hands still hovered over the body, though the red light of his runes had gone. He had become so enamored with his work that he had ignored the world. These men had come up behind him, and now, scarcely twelve feet distant on this stone landing, they blocked the only exit. One guard held a lantern. Its sooty light, and the moon sliding over the channel, were the only illumination.

“Stand slowly,” ordered the guard with the sword and the light.

The lad did not move.

The other guard stepped forward, brandishing a mace. “Now, thief!”

The lad stood. “I believe you may have mistaken me,” he said in soothing tones. “I am no thief.” He would concede it must look that way to them: a creature in the shadows mantling a prone man like a raptor, pecking for bits to scavenge. How to handle this, now… The lad reached out with his special sense, as he had with the old man, and smiled at what he felt from these men.

“We’ll see what the magistrate has to say about… that…” The swordsman’s words trailed off. Approaching, his lamp revealed the corpse, and the work done to it. “Necromancer!” the guards cried. They readied their weapons, but neither steel nor hate could conceal their fear.

Necromancer. How predictable he found the contempt of these men, facile, offensive, yet their fear was amusing. Their intent flared in his special sense, fear feeding hate feeding fear feeding rage. They would butcher him if they could.

“Step back from that man!” the swordsman bellowed.

The lad backed away with slow, careful steps.

The guards advanced, forcing him to the corner of the landing, the edge of the channel. They stepped over the corpse. “Move unbidden an’ we cut ye down, heathen!” the maceman snarled.

“Heathen,” the lad echoed. “Is that all? No curses? Insults?” Firelight flickered on his smirk. “Surely you can do better.”

“Silence!” they ordered together. “Arms out! No tricks!” snapped the swordsman.

Humoring the guards, the lad spread his hands.

“Remove yer hood,” the maceman ordered.

The lad saw no reason to refuse. This exchange would not last long. “As you like,” he said, and with both hands brushed back his hood.

The guards recoiled in surprise. “A—a boy?”

The word was correct, concerning his appearance. These men did see a boy. They saw a gentle face of soft, clear skin and wine-red lips, the features just beginning to mature. His nose was straight, his eyebrows sleek. His hair was long and thick and worn loose, in turns pale, in turns flame, changing as quickly as the lambent fire. Lamplight played over his cloak, showed a hint of his fine clothes beneath. Always, it was his eyes that first caught the attention: big and bright yellow eyes as might belong to an owl.

“Well,” said the lad, “since pleasantries are out of the question, it would seem we have little left to say…” With his left hand he gestured, as if motioning someone over. With his right he waved at the guardsmen like a friendly child, and opened his eyes wide and round. An owl hunted with his eyes open wide, and with a smile. The guards did not see the shadow rise up behind them. “…except goodnight.”

The old man’s corpse fell on the guards, too fast for them to see the gaping maw and the crushing hands. The lad watched excitedly as his work took the patrolmen apart with strength it had never possessed while alive. The men screamed as they tried to fight. Screamed, as their blows did nothing. The silent carnage left behind resembled the feeding of wolves.

The lad sighed. “Damn. I was hoping there would be something left to harvest.” He nudged a bent and bloody cuirass with the toe of his boot. “Useless.” He turned his eyes up to the thing that had been an old man. “Still, you did well enough.” The walking corpse swayed where it stood, its dead eyes seeing nothing. Distant shouts and footfalls signaled the approach of more guards. “So soon? Let’s be off, then. I have plans for you,” he said to the corpse. He paused, considered. “Although… that could be interesting. Perhaps we’ll see what they do.”

To his creation of living death, the necromancer commanded, “Etanimret Fles.”

Rune spirals flared in the cadaver’s back and turned the moonlit landing briefly, brightly sanguine. The creature howled like wolves could never howl. Then it fell to lie still amidst the mess of gore on the ground. Now it was time to leave. The lad called upon a Familiar, hidden in distant eaves, to observe the reaction of the city guard. Satisfied, he stepped off the edge of the landing, onto water as onto solid ground; his enchanted boots never failed him. He ran, leaving neither ripples nor wake, as shouts and lamplight neared.

An hour passed. The city guard secured the landing and sent word of the incident to all who needed to know. The priest who came to give last rites to the dead turned away in horror, while his page retched into the channel and his personal escort looked on indifferently. More guards were needed to keep away folk who ventured out into the street to see what all the commotion was about. Most went away when they determined they would see nothing of interest, though a few lingered nearby, morbidly curious.

By the crier’s call of three of the clock, torches had been set in iron sconces at the entrance to the alleyway. There, a portly sentry saluted the man he had been told to expect. “Sir Balthazar, it is an honor, Sir!”

Sir Balthazar Maskin, tall and lean in his armor, smiled, and inclined his head in acknowledgment — the picture of knighthood. Wind picked at his cape and torchlight flickered over his polished steel. “My thanks,” he said graciously.

“It truly is a great honor to have a true knight grace our city, Sir! Truly!” the guard went on, heedless of the sidelong glance from his partner. “We’ve the Knights of Saint Alastra, of course — fine men, every one — but a true Knight Vigilant, and a sung hero! In our city! That is… something. Sir!”

Balthazar ran a hand over his slicked-back blond hair, forcing himself to keep smiling. “Yes, indeed. You do me honor. Would you show me the way?”

The portly guard obliged, leaving his partner at the entrance and leading Balthazar down the tight curve of the alley. The echoes of their clanking armor made them sound an army. Balthazar found the scene on the landing far more gruesome than had been described by the messenger. Lanterns lit the gore, giving the wet red a sleek, crawling aspect. Blood ran in broken rivulets between the stones of the landing and dripped into the channel. An eye torn free glared red and malevolent at the sky. Behind Balthazar, the plump guardsman swallowed noisily and turned away, his fist of lobstered mail against his mouth. Balthazar thanked the man again, which gave him leave to return to his post. He did just that.

“Sir Balthazar,” said another voice. Balthazar’s eyes went from the ghoulish sight to the wiry man on his left, plain of face save for his beak like nose. A halfcape rested on his shoulders. His only armor was a breastplate, which bore the river-encircled tree that was the sigil of the city of Caraban. The man saluted Balthazar. “Captain Reskil, at your service, Sir.”

Balthazar returned the salute, a fist tapped against his heart. “What do you have, Captain?”

Captain Reskil turned a baleful eye on the scene that filled the landing. “We’ve identified these… remains, as guardsmen Vargus and Merlow, both assigned night duty after instigating a drunken brawl last week, again. They were discovered like this after one of the clock, when shouts and screams were heard. Their names were on their weapons, helms, and boots. The old man has been identified as Harry Tine — matched to the sketch on his wantbill, barely — sought in six counties for theft, as many for cheating in games of chance, three more on suspicion of murder, and for indecency toward the Archbishop of Dawnhill.”

With his boot, Balthazar shifted aside a severed ear, then knelt to inspect the intact corpse. He swept his cape over his thigh so it did not fall in the blood. The elder’s face was frozen in a silent howl, the eyes rolled back to whites. A strip of flesh had been cut away down the back to reveal the spine, as cleanly as a cook might fillet a fish, but with no bleeding from inside. What blood there was on the corpse was splattered over its front and sides from a face-first fall to the ground. There was also a small, straight wound in the back of the head, possibly from a dagger; again, without blood. The clothes were meager and ripped. A loaf of bread lay nearby, torn almost in half, near a broken lamp.

“While there is debate, most in the Guard believe this to be the work of a necromancer,” Reskil continued, “but we have no one experienced in matters of dark sorcery. Nor have the Knights of Saint Alastra, and none of us wish to involve the Union unless necessary.” Disdain edged his voice. “There are others of the Basilica we thought to call, but given your recent work in the city, and word of your deeds, I felt it best to consult you first, Sir. Commander Veril agreed.”

Balthazar moved to the left of the corpse for better light. “You were right to call on me, Captain. This is indeed the work of a necromancer.” He removed his gauntlets, set them down beyond the blood. He held his hands over the body, and as his eyes narrowed in concentration, a spray of golden runes pulsed from his fingers, floating like misted breath about the body. “Curious,” he said to himself. “The controlling spellwork has been erased… quite thoroughly. But there are remnants of energy, layered, complex, then sharply cut, as if without ceremony. It seems the necromancer suddenly halted his enchantment process.”

“Our man first to arrive did report the old man’s back was smoking,” Reskil added, sounding uncertain.

Balthazar concentrated, seeing beyond the corpse, focusing all his senses on what had been. He commanded, “Vision of the Past.” His eyes blazed with brilliant light, and he was gifted sight of what events had transpired here. The figures he saw were blurry, their bodies made of golden light. “The necromancer brought the old man here. He gave the old man bread, then, when he was distracted, drove a knife into his skull.” Keep your focus, Balthazar thought. Don’t lose the Vision. He had it, right here! He needed to see this. “The necromancer began to enchant the corpse. The guards surprised him. That is what interrupted his work. The guards advanced,” he grimaced, “that was their mistake. They stepped past the corpse while trying to apprehend the necromancer, but it was already bound by his power. It killed them. They had no chance.”

The captain shook his head and muttered a prayer. Balthazar stood, light fading from his eyes, the Vision firmly in his mind. “The necromancer erased his controlling spell on this corpse after these guards were killed, then he ran down the channel.”

Captain Reskil turned an incredulous eye on the waterway. “Ran, Sir?”

“Yes. His shoes were enchanted.” Balthazar surveyed the channel. Torches glowed on landings like this one, which by day, served for the handling of crates floated along the channel on small barges. Guards watched all those landings now, those islands of light marching away into night, but in vain. The necromancer had passed them all. Balthazar scooped up his gauntlets and buckled them on. “There is nothing more to be done here,” he said, stepping around the gore toward the guard captain. “I must follow the trail. Burn the body and the remains of the guardsmen. The ashes may be interred without fear. If there are complaints about giving rites to ‘cursed men,’ invoke my name. If that will not do, send for me.”

Reskil nodded. “Of course, Sir. It will be done.”

Balthazar returned the nod and started away. He paused at the entrance to the alley to glance back at the scene, and at the man who remained. “We shall catch this monster, Captain, and bring him before the Justice of The Light.” Sir Balthazar Maskin nodded once more and left the landing, trailing boot prints marked in blood.

Dawn soon came, and the city awoke. The sun rose into a warm and cloudless sky over towers and chimneys and steeples and people. When the bells of the new day tolled, the priests held Mass in churches of every size, and beneath the brilliant dawn they proclaimed the divine glory of The Light. Then the day was begun. The streets and markets came to life at once. Farmers brought their pickings in on wains and fishermen flaunted their catches from the river. Drunks were booted from the taverns so their keepers could clean. Merchants opened their stalls and their shops to any with the want and the coin for their wares. Nobles rode and peasants worked. Life went on, heedless of the dangers in the night.

Concluding his temporal duties by midafternoon, Balthazar gave his men leave, then departed his provisional quarters in the guard barracks. His plain dun tunic, jerkin, trousers, and boots gave no hint of his station, and he absconded without encountering any more admirers of knighthood. Staying in the barracks, instead of the minster across the square, aided him in this. After the week he had endured, he was glad of it.

Knights were always accorded great respect in the kingdoms, but here in Caraban they had garnered a status surpassing even that of songs. This was due to the work of Saint Alastra the Blessed and her faithful knights. A century past, they had not only rid the lands around Caraban of criminality, but had swept through the city righting all manner of wrongs. All who came to them, they aided, regardless of birth or wealth. Since that time, the Knights of Saint Alastra had watched over the city from the nearby Castle Alastrana… or continued to stick their noses into everyone’s business. Whichever version one currently believed seemed to depend on how recently one had encountered these knights.

Either way, it was the gallantry that lived on through singers and plays, and people always preferred to remember the chivalry. Balthazar had quickly learned that if he did not want to be accosted with praise or pestered for tales, he had best wear common clothes. Especially now, when he had an appointment to keep. Balthazar spotted a noble he recognized and hurried in the opposite direction. The aristocracy could be as bad as the commons when loving knights. Worse, they could afford not to love them.

Out of the square and through the bustling streets, Balthazar considered his Vision of the necromancer, to which he had devoted these past hours. The cloaked figure had been surprisingly small, with a stature like that of a child. That would explain the surprise I saw in the guards, he thought, why they recoiled.

There were spells with which one could assume the guise of a child, but that knowledge did not help. If the necromancer could take different forms, then he, or she, could be anyone, and there were few façades as effective as the plight of a helpless child. Balthazar could match the resonance of that person to that from his Vision, which no power could conceal, thus revealing the culprit. Said criminal need be found first. Following the trail beyond the channel, forward and backward in time, had gotten him nowhere. The golden echo of the murderer had literally appeared from, and vanished into, thin air — transitory spells had been invoked. Those, Balthazar could not follow, and no amount of pestering from the guard commander would change that. A pity the Vision muddled sound, or he might have gleaned some clue.

He paused while passing through busy Saint Alastra Square to investigate a crowd gathered near the steps of a magnificent chapel, rich and gilded in color and carving. There was no priest atop the steps giving sermon, yet there was a crowd all the same. Balthazar could guess why. It was not easy to see over the heads of the crowd, even for a man of his height, but he did soon spot an older man bound in stocks by head and hands. The bearded man wore only a white smock, which had been discolored by thrown vegetables; the evidence lay rotting about him on the ground. Balthazar was not surprised by the sight, but listened for the reason.

“Heard ’e were keep’n alms for hims own use,” sneered a fishwife.

“Naw,” said a farmer, “I’s heard were tak’n small boys fer his pleasure.”

A merchant scoffed at them both. “No, no, no. I heard from my brother’s wife’s cousin that the Father there was selling appointments in his canons. Then he started selling pardons.”

“Ooh,” the fishwife and farmer said together in drawn out comprehension. They turned a look on the man in the stocks that said rotten vegetables were too good for him. “Fiend,” the fishwife muttered.

Balthazar left, disgusted. That a man of The Light should stoop to simony was abhorrent. The Basilica offered guidance and salvation. Those could not be bought for any price. Good that the man’s crimes were known. His life might be spared if he repented, but he should not hope to ever again don holy robes. Balthazar departed the square by Parchment Street. He shook his head, frustrated, though one dishonest priest was the least of his concerns. Events around Caraban were not going as he would like.

First, his investigation of Dark rituals in the Caraban farmsteads — which had brought him to this region at the first — had turned up all but the leader of those black rites; the leader had never met his followers in person, and thus could not be followed through the Vision. Having trained in many modes of inquiry, Balthazar would have continued that hunt had the Archbishop of Caraban not “requested” his urgent assistance.

A curse had been placed upon the city tax collectors, causing all manner of misfortune, most of it harmless, much of it hilarious, but every collector who stumbled in noble company or had a pigeon shit on his head weakened the authority of the Crown. Balthazar had finally located the culprits, but they were only some boys from the Caraban Union Academy, not one of them in his twentieth year. Penance, and a fine on the Academy, were the expected punishments — a mercy, Balthazar had assured the boys. He had been glad to leave that business behind him, especially after noticing how many of those tax collectors reported to the archbishop.

After that had come a haunting in the old quarter, reports of a “wraith” — a near useless description — in a village to the south, a legion of walking dead along the river to the north, something about a “great serpent” in the forest, and rumors among the city nobles of the practice of “dread powers” late in the night. Sir Balthazar had set about his duty at once.

The haunting was no more than raccoons fighting in an attic; that wraith was a discarded dress blown into the branches of a tree; the “legion” of walking dead was a single shambling corpse, easily dispatched; of a “great serpent” there was no sign; and that practicing of dread powers turned out to be late night gatherings of the not-quite-grown children of the fearful nobility, prancing about in black capes, masks, and little else, drunk out of their skulls and chasing each other while singing bawdy songs. His own men had laughed about that last all through the night. All this, while also patrolling with local guardsmen, riding with nobles, and sparring with overeager knights from the Order of Saint Alastra.

And now, just as Balthazar had been ready to resume his investigation of the farmsteads, in swoops a necromancer. He supposed it was too much to hope this was the leader of the Dark rituals in the farmsteads. He thought it might be time to request assistance. He was only one man, and the more he stayed in one place, the more trouble seemed to find him. His was a greater purpose than this errand running. His task was too important. Yet… the people came to him in need. He could help them. How could he refuse, when their pleas were little enough for him to fulfill? He knew that if he could not find what he required here, he needs must follow other leads, but to leave when he could still do so much good vexed him to no end.

Enough, he ordered himself. There would be time later for his grim business. He had an appointment to keep. That, he was looking forward to.

Balthazar made his way to the gardens in the southwest of Caraban, a place of lush greenery and flowers beyond count. Here, the walls quieted the noise of the city, enough to hear the songs of birds. He waited by the stone bench nearest the gateway to the merchant quarter. Scents of bread and dyes mingled with the flowers, turning some smells pleasant, befouling others. Balthazar watched throngs pass through wide, shop-lined streets, coming, going, buying, selling, laughing, talking, haggling. He liked seeing such normality; despite the shadows, life continued in the light. He glanced about the gardens again. He still saw no sign of the person he had arranged to meet.

Did I leave too late? he wondered, beginning to worry. Did I confuse the meeting place? The time?

“Bally! You came!”

Balthazar turned as a little figure flew at him from behind some shrubs. At once, his fears were forgotten. He knelt and caught the small boy who came running, beaming like a sunrise. The sudden, fierce embrace around his neck had Balthazar laughing. “I would not miss our outings for duty or battle!” He lifted the boy without effort. There was something about holding a happy child that reduced even the worst of days to a simple, innocent joy. He switched the boy to one muscular arm and ruffled thick, flowing hair with his other hand, eliciting a squawk of laughter. “So,” Balthazar asked playfully, “what shall we do today, Simeon?”

The boy in the arms of Sir Balthazar Maskin looked into the knight’s ice blue eyes with the yellow gaze of an owl. “First, let’s get something to eat,” the boy said, smiling at his friend. “I’m starving.”

They took a dinner of fried fish and cider at the Knights Rode Inn, just inside the northwest gate of the city. It was a long walk there from the gardens, but worth the wait. There were two reasons for choosing the Knights Rode Inn. First, they had the best fried fish in the city. Second, the Highroad passed through Caraban from southeast to northwest in its westward curve, and there were always more interesting travelers from the north and the west. Through both gates came the usual parade of locals, farmhands, fishermen, dyers, thatchers, and every other manner of common folk, though every now and again a noble or knight would ride through in grand colors and heraldry. But through the northwest gate there were sometimes visitors from far afield: rough and grizzled Imounese come down south, out of their cool, northern holds, or olive-skinned Madatians traveling east from their river homes aside the great desert. All of them men and women under the banner of the Alliance of Lands, but a foreigner was ever a foreigner, and worth a watching.

After their meal, Balthazar and Simeon enjoyed the show of a street corner troupe, which employed many jugglers and monkeys in its performance. Soon after, they happened upon a show of dancers flitting across Caraban’s famed Garden Bridge — itself bedecked in chaplets of wildflowers — to the cheers of spectators. Someone among the jongleurs surely had a grasp of sorcery, for how else was one to explain incorporating a flight of hummingbirds to dash and twirl about the dancers trailing a rainbow of colored ribbons?

From there they took to wandering the merchant quarter. No one paid them any mind, beyond the occasional feminine glance at Balthazar. Some glances he returned, but then Simeon would tug on his hand and point at some new attraction, and off they went again; it reminded Balthazar of caring for his younger siblings. Amidst bustling stalls they studied trinkets ordinary and alien. Simeon found a small clasp shaped like a moth, and a belt buckle that, while it had long lost its jewels, possessed an elegant inscription that enchanted the boy. Balthazar treated Simeon, despite protestations.

“I can buy it myself, Bally,” Simeon objected, as Balthazar produced his purse.

“I know.”

“I have money. You don’t have to buy everything for me.”

“I know.” Coin changed hands. The merchant nodded happily and bid them come again.

Simeon looked at the trinkets he held that were now his, mouth stretched aside in a look both irked and grateful. “Thank you, Bally,” he muttered.

Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder. “What are friends for?”

Simeon had money enough to survive, Balthazar knew, though he never asked its origins. He trusted Simeon not to steal. The boy had taken an apple once, and had been so sick with guilt that, after actually being sick, had returned to that farmer and paid twice the value of the fruit, in addition to a teary-eyed apology. Balthazar had given him a stern lecture after that escapade. Now, while he was sure of the legitimacy of Simeon’s incomes, they certainly could not be sufficient to afford random baubles desired on a whim. It was enough that Simeon could get himself food, clothing, and a place to sleep. What was the harm in buying him a little something now and again? The cost was nothing against seeing him smile.

As the sun began to set, they left the city walls to walk the southern bank of the great river Tager. Simeon became tired and, as young boys do, complained until lifted up to ride on Balthazar’s shoulders. He held onto Balthazar’s hands, a breeze making streamers of his hair. With the wharves concentrated farther north in the wider, deeper waters, only the sundown fishermen remained to share this grassy bank, all with their backs to anyone walking by.

Feeling Simeon’s weight on his shoulders reminded Balthazar of the first time he had done this. Simeon had loved being up so high, and had shrieked with laughter when Balthazar took off running. Even that low tree branch had not dampened his spirits. Balthazar felt the hands holding his, elegant hands, at once seeming fragile, yet surprisingly strong when need be. How well they reflected their owner.

Thinking of that first run with Simeon on his shoulders, it surprised Balthazar that already a year had passed since they had met. He thought that if he tried to explain their odd little relationship to anyone else, he would not be believed. Why should he care for this boy following him around, who was neither his blood nor ward? Why should he feed and treat and walk with this boy who was not part of his company? Insinuations might be made after that, for which Sir Balthazar would demand an apology or a duel — either would satisfy impugned honor. But really, it was a simple tale.

Sir Balthazar Maskin, Knight Vigilant of the Order of the Holy Shield, had encountered Simeon in the thick forest known as the Evengreen. There with his company investigating rumors of a cult, Sir Balthazar and his men had caught the sound of fighting, and had rushed to drive off bandits attacking a nearby village. Though the bandits were slain to a man, few in that forest-bound village had survived. Balthazar’s company had done what they could for those poor folk. Then, as they were leaving, there was Simeon by the trail out of the village. Taking pity on the small, disheveled, orphaned boy, Balthazar had given the child a loaf of bread and coin enough for a new pair of shoes.

Simeon had followed him like a lost puppy. First to the encampment, then to his order’s bastion, then even farther south to the Basilica of Holy Light. No matter if he was told to go, that battle was no place for untrained children, Simeon would make a jest of things and have the company laughing like boys themselves. And, gathered around the fire, Simeon never failed to fall asleep against Balthazar’s arm. How long had it taken before Simeon began calling him “Bally?”

In one act of kindness, Balthazar seemed to have adopted the boy. Simeon would appear whenever Balthazar was free and they would spend much time together — take a meal, tour town, see a show, anything. Balthazar had, at first, been uncertain about taking so much time for himself, but that had quickly fallen away. No longer was work his sole focus, not with such enjoyment at hand. It was like being back home with his brothers and sisters, all younger than himself. He was not that old at thirty-four, but Balthazar soon realized he had forgotten what it was like to have so much fun. It did not matter how far they traveled, nor how many hours his duties demanded. Simeon always found him.

Now Simeon yawned loudly as the deep gold of the setting sun sank into the treetops. He nuzzled Balthazar’s hair. “Sorry, Bally. I’m getting kind of…” yawn, “sshleepy.”

Balthazar smiled. “You needn’t apologize. I have a bed available, if you would have it.”

“Thank you, Bally, but I found a place for tonight.”

Balthazar looked up at Simeon as best he could. “You’re sure? The nights have been windy of late. I should hate for you to take ill.”

Simeon chuckled. “It’s fine. My nook’s out of the way, and I have blankets.”

Balthazar hesitated. He misliked the notion of a child sleeping on the streets, even one as shrewd as Simeon. Especially Simeon… “Perchance it were to rain? Would you be sheltered?”

“It’s fine,” Simeon repeated, with a touch of annoyance. They’d had this conversation time and again. “I’m out of the wind and out of the rain. No one will bother me there. I made sure.”

Simeon often went off by himself to sleep. Where he went, Balthazar never knew. Simeon had evaded the men Balthazar tasked with keeping an eye on him. The boy was too clever by half. All this worried Balthazar, but time after time, through the months of their friendship, it was common that Simeon refused his offers to find him lodging, ever with amity and courtesy.

Balthazar nodded. He knew he had lost this round. “You have coin enough to break your fast?”

“Yes, Bally.”

“Same time and place?”

“Yes, Bally.”

“You remember not to go near Butcher’s Lane after dusk?”

A sigh. “Yes, Bally.”

Defeated, Balthazar lifted Simeon off his thick shoulders. He made himself smile, and tousled Simeon’s hair. He played with this a little, tilting his head this way and that, making a show of squinting and inspecting, while keeping a hand on the boy’s head.

“What?” Simeon said, smiling at whatever game this was.

“Oh, I’m still trying to decide what color your hair is,” Balthazar mused. With his one hand he turned Simeon’s head side to side; Simeon was plainly trying not to laugh. What would this color be? Balthazar had never been able to name it. Red, ginger, but very pale, as if someone had squeezed the juice of an orange into a bowl of cream. “I think I saw this color on a cat once. Or a chicken.” He rumpled that hair again, three quick nips, as livestock might nibble.

Simeon laughed and snatched that hand with both of his. “Well, if you find them, perhaps we’ll have a contest,” he grinned, “see whose color is the best.”

Balthazar laughed as well. “Might that we will. On the morrow, then?”

Simeon began to speak, but yawned instead, still holding his friend’s hand. He glanced up when the yawn had subsided. Then, on some whim, he pressed Balthazar’s hand to his cheek; soft skin against hard-tempered knuckles. At length, Simeon met his friend’s eyes, and agreed, “On the morrow.”

Balthazar told himself he should not fear. Simeon always came back. For a year, he had come back. Now Simeon was trotting away down the riverbank. Small boy, slender boy, scarcely ten years old, simply dressed, wise but trusting, no weapons, only his wits, alone against the world.

Simeon stopped when Balthazar called his name. He turned back. “Yes, Bally?”

Balthazar watched him a moment. Had he been about to offer a bed again, or more? Was this a father’s worry? “I had not noticed before,” he said, fumbling slightly for words. “Your hair turns lavender when lit by the setting sun.”

The boy ran a hand over his hair. His eyes said he knew his friend’s intent, and his smile was his thanks.

As soon as Balthazar Maskin was out of sight, Simeon hurried to an abandoned dock and slipped underneath. Alone, save for pugnacious river crabs, he extracted a violet crystal from a pocket hidden inside his vest. To it, he spoke one word, a command: “Tropelet.” The world shrank into a pinprick of light beneath his feet, leaving him in vast, momentary darkness, before that pinprick exploded into a new existence. The crystal became dust in his hand.

The ancient underground structure in which he now stood always seemed dark upon his returning from daylight. The light of spelled lanterns and candles was dim compared to the sun. His eyes adjusted as he scanned the wide, circular chamber. Four central pillars held aloft the vaulted ceiling. Dark stone, old stone. He saw everything was as he’d left it: his alchemical instruments, his racks of potions and poisons, his hundreds of books on their shelves, his numerous charts on anatomy and astronomy, and the many fetishes scattered about on their tables and stands.

Simeon smiled. Home again.

Nearby, in an island of candlelight, Simeon approached a worktable alive with the scent of cooking meat. Centered on a rune-inscribed plate was the long strip of flesh he had taken the night before. Five violet crystals stood around it on metal legs, bleeding dark, runic energy into the flesh. The strip would have its uses. For now, it needed to simmer, and grow.

Simeon thought about continuing his study of the idol he had acquired days prior from that Auranian merchant; thought about finishing the treatise he had been reading on entropic entanglement; about the thing in the dungeon and how long it could really go without eating. But he had so enjoyed this day with Balthazar that he could think only of what to do tomorrow. He wandered for a time, found a place for the trinkets Balthazar had purchased for him in the merchant quarter, and finally decided he was tired and would go to bed.

Off the main room was a stair curving down to his bedchamber, a large room that had been left to rot for centuries before Simeon had claimed it and replaced the furniture. His bed dominated the room, surrounded by furnishings worthy of a palace. Tapestries of red and gold adorned the walls. An arrangement of twelve bronze pieces above the lintel bore a tale of conquest and downfall. With a wave of his hand he dimmed the candles so they would not disturb his sleep. He disrobed and tossed his clothes into a spelled trunk — it would clean and fold them — before climbing under the blankets of his bed.

This large bed, which he had acquired from the famed, and now extinct craftsmen of the Aoues Forest, was also enchanted. Ever soft, it never became too cold nor hot, and made itself when he left it. He smiled to himself. Cigam. Whatever would we do without it?

Simeon tossed in bed, unable to relax. His mind would not quiet. His thoughts kept drifting back to that man, that knight. Knowing Sir Balthazar Maskin was a Knight Vigilant of the Basilica of Holy Light, and on a quick ascension through their ranks, he had thought to use such a friendship to access the many Cigam Artifacts in the Basilica’s possession. Or a certain one, at the least. The protections around the Basilica itself were far too strong to challenge directly; none but the highest of their orders could access their vaulted reliquary. If that lot really knew what they had, it would prove troublesome, but as it was… if Simeon wanted in, he had to be subtle.

He had known such a goal would take time. Time to build trust, time for Balthazar to rise in his station. Simeon had time enough. Studying Balthazar had made plain the best avenue of approach. The man was a hero — indeed, true, but far more in character. It was his nature. If he saw someone in need, he would help, no matter what. Especially if that person were an innocent… a small, frightened boy, say, “barely surviving” a bandit attack. And Balthazar could never bring himself to turn away someone so helpless, were that person to follow him.

That much had been almost too easy. That village, those bandits, Balthazar and his men, they had all been right where Simeon had wanted. There’d been no need to maneuver anyone. Just place himself in the right spot at the right time, make himself dirty, haggard, add some soot and tears, and there was one terrified orphan ready to be rescued… though the act had struck him closer than he would have liked. When Balthazar had handed him those alms, Simeon knew the day was won.

That much had been easy. It was the long game that would prove difficult. Simeon had anticipated the challenge of the plan. He would need to keep close, oh so carefully prodding Balthazar to take this task over that one, to cultivate a friendship with this count and that marchioness, all the while avoiding the knight’s suspicion and his Vision — a rare time-sight he put to expert use in his investigations. Treating with nobility would be no less perilous than battling Dark powers, but the right friends would help him make more friends. With these would come balls, gifts, favors, galas, and through those more introductions, and when Balthazar was high enough, those noble friends of his would want him to meet their friends in the Basilica.

All this Simeon knew, the twisting paths of fake smiles and greased palms, yet he had not imagined he and the knight would develop a true rapport. He had not thought he would come to genuinely care for the man. Now, not a week passed when they did not meet. Simeon looked forward to it. Whether riding, exploring, swimming, laughing at jesters, or sitting inside by a fire on a rainy day, all of it was fun. He’d not had such simple, uncomplicated fun in… a long time.

“I wonder,” Simeon whispered into his pillow, “what would he do if he found out?”

“If who found out?”

“Dammit!” Simeon shot up in bed, hand aimed at the invader, a lethal spell crackling over his fingers. He stopped. He knew that cloaked figure, black in dim candlelight, back to a door that had not been opened. “Visantiago!” Simeon yelled. “I told you not to appear out of the darkness like that!”

A smile crossed the pale lips under the tall man’s hood, eyes red in the dark. “I thought the greatest necromancer in the land would be used to things leaping out from the shadows.”

Simeon puffed out his cheeks, his heart pounding. “I am,” he dropped his arm, “but I don’t want them in my bedroom. Be grateful I’ve as much control as I do, or you’d be growing yourself a new head.”

The man glided toward the bed, eyes sanguine beneath his lengthy fringe. “Your heart is beating so fast. I can hear it,” Visantiago said in his smooth baritone. That voice belied the kindness of his youthful face. His eyes beheld the pulsing arteries in Simeon’s neck. “Like a sonata.”

Simeon huffed. “Just take what you came for. I’m not in the mood to play.”

The man blurred and was suddenly on top of Simeon, pinning him to the bed, covering him. “Really? Such a shame,” said the mouth bearing two oversized eyeteeth. Red pinprick eyes traced the rhythmic blood flow from head to neck to heart, as if they could see through the naked skin to what lay beneath. Those pale lips drew close, cold breath causing the flesh to quicken.

Simeon felt the lips kiss his neck and the teeth press against his skin, sharp points teasing, threatening. He sighed. It’s been so long, he thought, I almost forgot what this feels like. He slid his hand up beneath the hood, through the man’s hair. It was very soft, this straight brown hair, as it had been all those years ago. As he let down the defenses warding his body, Simeon whispered, “Just try not to kill me this time.”

The teeth pierced his throat, and such heat welled there until it seemed to spill over and flood his body. Simeon moaned and closed his eyes. He held to the man, each breath a shudder, his small form clothed only in blankets of cotton and silk, his head back against the pillow. Fingers under his jaw, an arm around his waist, holding him tight, holding him close. Drinking. Drinking him up. He let the vampire be a vampire.

When it was done, Simeon was lightheaded and spent. He winced as two hot needles withdrew from his neck. A smooth tongue licked his wounds, devouring the last of the blood while forcing his flesh to heal. His body began to relax from the involuntary tension of the long drink, his breath and pulse slowing. This too was familiar, this exhaustion, like the kiss, like the hair. It conjured memories of the last time, and the first. Simeon said nothing as he stared up at those red eyes wreathed in darkness. They were red because of him. Because he had made a choice. Because in the ancient places of the world there were treasures to sate the deepest avarice, and curses not even death could overcome. These eyes above him now were red because undeath had been the only cure… the only way to save this man he had named Visantiago.

“You are out of sorts tonight,” the vampire said casually. He rose from the bed, his cheeks flushed with fresh blood. “You did not even ask what I brought in trade.”

Simeon rolled lazily onto his side, not at all wanting to sit up. He pushed deeper into his pillow. Yet there was pleasure in this drained feeling, as in the act itself. “Well?”

From his cloak, Visantiago withdrew a book bound in old, black leather, unmarked. “This is written in the ancient script of the First Empire’s Second Era. It is protected by cipher, but if I have judged the diagrams correctly, you may find use for it.”

Simeon smiled. “Thank you. You always bring such fascinating treasures,” he said honestly.

Visantiago set the book on the ornate nightstand. Absently, as if by habit, he pulled the blankets over Simeon, then turned to leave. “I may not be out this way again for some time.”

“Good. Last time you came by, my neck was sore for a week.”

The vampire chuckled. “Well, that was just after that encounter with the Mire Reapers. I’m still rather surprised I escaped intact. They were better organized than I anticipated. If I must, I’ll again apologize for taking so much blood, although it was fun to see you in such a torpid state.” He stopped and turned back halfway, as if remembering something nearly forgotten. “I should warn you, there have been stirrings of late.”

“Stirrings?”

“Numerous practitioners of the dark arts have been killed in recent weeks, and not only those new to the trades. Some, too, were captured. It is feared the Basilica has infiltrated one of the Dark Organizations. At the very least, they seem to have a new High Paladin, someone with great aptitude for Vision, who has been pointing the Holy Crusade at the right people. Either way, it is a considerable threat, even to the Order of the Deep Ones.”

Simeon barked a laugh. “I like the sound of that. It adds more flavor to have a good seer to match wits against.” The mention of Vision made him think of Balthazar.

“As a predator myself, I agree,” said Visantiago. “However, as a fellow darkling, I advise caution. The Basilica’s focus onto those like us has intensified these past years, since their new leader came to power. I daresay there are few in the Basilica who can match her zeal. Moreover, none I know have been able to discover the identity of this new High Paladin. The Basilica is making a remarkable effort in concealing him… or her.”

Simeon pushed himself up on an elbow, the blanket slipping off his shoulder, revealing skin the color of cream. “Times change. Mayhap I should have you turn me. It would be easier to hide if I could vanish on a whim.”

Red eyes glanced at the curve of that bare shoulder. “Perhaps, but it would not matter with your power. Even then, if it did work, you would no longer be able to walk in the sun. Not without drinking at least once per day.”

Simeon sighed. He lay back against his pillow and ran a hand over his hair. “You’re right. Sounds like too much work.”

Visantiago moved toward the door. “The nightlife is not for everyone. By the way, I hear the Deep Ones still wish you to join their ranks. They’re willing to make quite the offer for your services: a position of leadership, gold, castles, virgins, whatnot.”

Simeon made a dismissive wave. “Eh. I have no use for those irritating, power-mad fools. So long as they stay out of my way and don’t make too much of a mess, I don’t care what they do.”

“Indeed,” Visantiago agreed. He glanced back. “And how is that coming? ‘Your way?’”

Simeon studied the vampire, wondering at the game behind the game behind the question. He decided on truth. “Very soon, it will begin. Everything is ready. I can feel it.” He could, on the edges of his deepest senses. The innumerable facets of the world were aligned. He need only pluck the right strings, and all would fall into place. This time, it would work.

“About time, no? You’ve been awaiting this for a very, very long time.” The man hummed a little to himself. “By the way, how goes your grooming of that delicious-looking knight?”

“Well enough,” Simeon said simply. He had no great wish to discuss Balthazar with Visantiago.

“I am curious,” the vampire continued, “was it merely to play out time that you chose such a route? You hardly need him to take noble guise yourself. You do it often enough.”

Simeon nodded. “True.” Then he allowed himself a smirk. “Yet it’s so exquisite to use one of the Basilica’s best against them.” And it was, to have himself edging a Knight of the Basilica this way and that, carving a path through the defenses of that tyrannous faith. It was… so long as Bally would be all right.

Visantiago considered this. Was he searching for a chink in the armor, that one grain of doubt? He so enjoyed his games. If he saw anything, he kept it to himself. “That it is,” he said slowly, savoring the idea. “If you have need of me in your grand scheme, you’ll have my help.”

Simeon smiled warmly. “I would appreciate that.”

Visantiago returned the smile as he faded into the darkness of the long lost ruins. “Of course. We’ve always made a good pair, old friend.”