Within the hour, Idris and Riette were side by side, their horses at a heavy canter on the road to Marbury. There had been no time to pack or make plans. Riette had grabbed their weapons and two good warhorses, boosted Idris up onto his and yelled for the gatekeeper to open the gate. Idris hardly knew if it would make a difference whether they had plans or not. All he wanted to do was make sure his mother’s people were safe.

  “Your father?” said Riette as they rode.

  Idris simply nodded. It could not be anyone else.

  Marbury was roughly a week’s ride from Veridia. Idris’s uncle, Haylan, had managed the journey on a single horse with Idris strapped to his back in that time. It made no sense how the villagers had got to the palace, unless they had walked the whole way – which begged the question of when this attack had happened. Just after Idris left Raven’s Roost? How long had Temple Hill been waiting for aid?

  He should have sent someone straight after Polly came to Summer’s End. Why did he wait? How could he assume she was the only casualty?

  They swapped horses at a royal guard post, hardly even pausing to drink from the well, and began again. The sun began to set. It was black dark when they reached the second guard post, and by then, the adrenaline was wearing off and the anxiety had set in. Idris was breathless and disoriented – he hardly knew which direction they had to go in – and Riette decided they did not have to ride so hard. Instead, she sent word to the nearest guard barracks to send a contingent to Temple Hill to check the situation.

  “You cannot ride any further tonight,” she said to Idris, who shook his head and tested his right leg.

  “I can ride.”

  “You cannot,” said Riette firmly, gripping his shoulder. She was the only person he would listen to, which was part of the reason he was avoiding her. She had a way about her that invited confidence; he could not risk saying something he should not. “We can get a carriage to the next guard post, and we can sleep on the way. By then, we will be halfway there.”

  Idris nodded.

  It was not the sort of carriage he was used to. Riette managed to acquire a covered wagon and a driver, and she piled the back with blankets and pillows for the journey before she helped Idris up. He made the mistake of wincing when he placed his right leg on the step; Riette’s face flushed with concern.

  “Careful,” she said, giving him more of her shoulder to use.

  “I have it,” he said, stepping up.

  Once they were in, Riette tapped on the backboard and the wagon started to move. Idris wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and watched the guardhouse become a blurry dot in the distance.

  “Sleep,” said Riette, putting her sword sheath down.

  “I will. I… what is the next town? Gleesdale?”

  “I think so.”

  “We should send word to the Queen to meet us there.”

  Riette nodded. Idris stretched out his leg, pulled a face. His hip and knee ached, and the stump throbbed.

  “Regardless,” the soldier said, “we cannot turn up tired. That way, we make mistakes.”

  There was no light in the back of the wagon, but the moon was buttery and Idris was sure he could imagine Riette’s face perfectly anyway. He found her fascinating and beautiful; she did not laugh at him or treat him as an invalid. This was the first time they had been alone since the conversation at the pond at Summer’s End.

  “May I speak plainly, Idris?” Riette said, her sharp edges soft in the dark.

  “You may.”

  “Your friends are worried about you.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “I am worried about me,” he said. “But there is not much that can be done on that front. I have duties. I must see them through.”

  “You cannot do your duties half-starved and exhausted,” she said. “Let Willard carry some of the load.”

  “He cannot.”

  “He tells me much.”

  “Willard, apparently, tells everyone too much. He should learn to keep his mouth closed.”

  Riette scoffed and crossed her arms. “Oh, really? How else is anyone supposed to know how you are? You tell Lila you are eating and you are not – she told me so,” she added, when Idris opened his mouth to protest. “She says there are chalk sigils drawn all over your parlour –“

  “Only on the floor –“

  “And that your leg is swollen and stiff all the time. Willard tells me you are not sleeping and you are replacing sleep with herbs –“

  “That is not entirely accurate –“

  “And Kurellan keeps coming and tutting at me and telling me I have to ‘watch the whelp,’” she said, with a surprisingly accurate Kurellan impression. “When were you going to tell me about Layton’s letter?”

  Idris was quiet, then. The Gleesdale Court was supposed to have access to all of Layton’s correspondence, but Idris had neglected to show Riette the last letter. He did not want her following him to the overlook, but he was not sure why.

  Riette sighed, gazed at the road they were leaving behind.

  “We do this together,” she said firmly. “We do not allow our own to fall behind.” She shook her head wearily. “Sleep, Idris. I will watch the road.”

  The motion of the wagon sent Idris out as soon as he shut his eyes. When he started awake again, the sky was lightening in peach streaks; Riette turned from her vigil at the opening of the cart.

  “A beautiful autumn sunrise meets you, Sir Idris,” she said, with a warm smile.

  He sniffed, rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “We are on the approach to Gleesdale. Once we get there, we can get new horses and make it to Temple Hill by tomorrow.” Idris nodded. “You slept more peacefully than I anticipated,” said Riette, moving to sit against the wall.

  “I needed it.”

  “Wake me when we reach Summer’s End,” she said, with a wide yawn.

  Summer’s End was Idris’s farmhouse in Gleesdale, a quaint grey-brick affair with a yard filled with chickens. They had spent some weeks there after the Raven’s Roost business while Idris recovered and they made their plans; it became the official residence of The Gleesdale Court, Cressida’s secret team assigned to the recapture of the Spirit Glass. She had given the place to Idris as a back-up plan many years ago, and it seemed to be paying off.

  When the driver called back to say they were there, Idris shook Riette’s knee. She woke immediately, turned her head.

  “Already?”

  Before they had left in the summer, Idris had employed a boy from the village to look after the garden. His name was Ned, and it was not long before Idris saw him chasing down the wagon, waving his hat with a friendly, “He-ey! Mister Idris!”

  Idris waved back, smiling. “Good morning, young Ned! I need horses for two, at your earliest convenience! Good horses!”

  Ned nodded and peeled away from the wagon, sprinting out towards some of the farms that adjoined Summer’s End.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Bells, he is quick,” said Riette, watching the boy leap grassy clods of earth in the field.

  “Perhaps he could pull the wagon,” said Idris, smiling. Riette dug her knuckles into his shoulder and tutted.

  “Come. Let us eat and wash. By the time we have done that, Ned will have what we need.”

  Idris wished he could see Summer’s End in better circumstances. He had rather missed its musty thatch and green shutters. He was, however, glad that nobody was around to see Riette bodily lift him from the wagon and set him carefully on his feet.

  “First we treat your leg,” she said, as he stumbled forwards.

  He could not protest. It was starting to smell.

  The reading room on the bottom floor of Summer’s End was laid with the simple comforts of a country house – a couch and an armchair, some woollen blankets, a sheepskin rug and a hearth perfect for building a fire. Riette collected water from the outdoor pump and heated it on the coals while Idris popped the prosthetic off and began peeling off the sock.

  When Riette came over, Idris finally realised how bad it looked. When the amputation had first been done, it took off his foot, ankle and went a few inches up his shin; after the second, more recent surgery, Idris had little more than half of his shin left. The amputation never looked good – parts of the skin were grey with necrosis and it was always rife with callouses and peeled skin – but over the last few weeks, it had become red and raw, chafed on the end with continuous movement against the prosthetic cup. It smelled like sweat and slightly turned pork; he wrinkled his nose and gingerly touched the side. Since the destruction of the Spirit Staff, it had been considerably worse than before. Lila had let necrotic blood from it twice since the event.

  “That looks painful,” said Riette, setting down the bowl of warmed water.

  “It rather is.”

  “Can you make do without a foot today?”

  “I do not think so. Let’s wrap it well and... I do not think I have medicines, here.”

  “The least we can do it clean it,” she said, fetching a towel.

  “Riette, you do not have to -” Idris started, embarrassed and upset, but she shook her head.

  “I will not have it said that I did not look after you on this trip,” she said. “Not like last time.”

  “That was not your fault. And this is not your job, I can do this.”

  “There is no shame in asking for help,” she said, resuming her kneel on the rug. “Or in accepting it.”

  But there was a kind of shame in this, something Idris had never recovered from. He hated the stump, how ugly it was, how pitiful it made him, and he did not like the idea that anyone felt obliged to assist him – Riette least of all. In truth, they hardly knew each other, and this was a very private matter, and he did like her more than was probably gentlemanly. She had always known and never made a fuss; for that, he was grateful.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, as she dipped the towel in the bowl. She smiled.

  “You are very welcome. This might sting.”

  “Oh, it will. Please do not flinch when I complain.”

  “I won’t.”

  The whole time, Idris blew through his teeth and muttered curses as Riette dabbed at the skin, wrapped it in fresh linen and, eventually, replaced the clean sock and cup to the end of his right leg. He was just buttoning his boot around the metal skeleton when he heard Ned calling at the door.

  “Mister Idris, two good horses! All tacked up!”

  “Give him a coin,” said Idris as Riette got up. She nodded.

  “Cor, a whole piece?” said Ned a moment later. “Thanks a lot!”

  They left Gleesdale quickly, but made sure to leave the door on the latch for when Kurellan finally showed up.

  *

  When Idris and Riette finally reached the outlying villages of Temple Hill, it was mid-morning the day after. The death aria was practically pungent; Idris felt it fill every pore like stinking smoke, invading his bones and thoughts with low vibration.

  “What is it?” said Riette, seeing his face pale.

  “It... do you feel it?”

  She paused. It felt absurd to Idris that nobody else could sense this, or knew it inherently. To him it was worse than walking into a burning building.

  “Should we leave the horses?” she said. He nodded.

  Temple Hill was still about five miles away when they tied the horses to the fenceposts, but Idris already knew that they would not need to go that far. Layton’s music was woven tightly into the aria he felt.

  “Three weeks,” he said to himself.

  “Hmm?”

  “The... the bodies,” he said, louder, uncomfortable talking about it to Riette. “The bodies he used, they are about three weeks old.”

  “You can tell that from here?” Riette said, frowning.

  “I can tell more than that.”

  “Keep talking.”

  They started to walk down the track. Idris took off the glove on his left hand, held it by his side, filtering the aria through the gaps in his fingers.

  “Seventeen bodies,” he said. “The aria is weakening in them. Some of the corpses are immobile but still present. One died from a heart attack. Another from a fever.” He frowned. “The rest... it is hard to say. And that is worrying.”

  “What does it sound like?” said Riette. Idris sighed.

  “I... cannot accurately describe. Layton said -” And he bit his tongue, because he did not want to think of the days he had spent in Raven’s Roost, actually learning his craft with a master, in a place he belonged. “Drums,” he said finally. “I sound like drums, apparently.”

  “But what does this sound like?”

  “Like... an orchestra made entirely of strings.”

  “That sounds pleasant.”

  “The only music is plays is a constant funeral dirge.”

  “Less nice,” said Riette, wrinkling her nose.

  They crested a small hill and the situation was spread out below them like a puzzle board.

  There was no obvious destruction. Thralls did not hurt and maim with much intent, but the chaos they caused in their relentlessness was enough. Fences were broken where shambling corpses had smashed through them with momentum they could not control, and animals were roaming the streets. Bodies of torn-apart cattle and sheep littered the village; their death arias pulsed through the air, sombre and simple. A few houses had windows smashed and doors broken off their hinges. The herb gardens were trampled and thralls who had been successfully stopped lay in them, legs jerking, heads thrashing.

  “Eleven villagers,” Idris whispered. “Eleven villagers were killed. Between... between three weeks ago and as early as this morning. Blood loss. Broken neck. Head wound. Punctured lung -”

  “You can stop,” said Riette, touching his arm gently. He nodded, understanding, but he felt them all in his lungs, in his fingers. “What do we do?”

  “We will have to immobilise each of the thralls. Take the aria from them.”

  “Do you know how to do that?”

  “I do. It will take some time.”

  They descended into the village. The aria bells the people had hung on walls and fences all sang the same song, melancholy and dreary. With every step, the aria revealed more to Idris. He could pinpoint the location of the thralls as if he was using sonar, feeling their connection to the music and pulsing it back. He could feel the freshly dead, too, lying still in their slumbers.

  “Once we are done,” he said, “we burn everything. Thralls and the departed. We cannot allow Layton to take any more material to bully us with.”

  Riette nodded, her eyes on the houses. “Seems strange,” she said.

  “What does?”

  “That The Remaker would bother destroying this.”

  “It is not strange,” said Idris, feeling sick. “It is a punishment. I rejected his offer. Now, my mother’s people have to suffer for it.”

  Riette scowled, the scar on her chin twisting.

  “Petty men insult me,” she said darkly.

  “Master... Master Idris?” came a voice.

  He turned. There was a middle-aged man in one of the fields, holding a pitchfork like a weapon. There was a familiarity in his gaze that made Idris think that this man knew Haylan, or even his mother, at some point in the past.

  “Oh, arias on high,” said the man weakly, “it is you, Master Idris, I’d know that face anywhere.”

  Idris smiled kindly. “I am sorry, I do not recall...”

  “My name’s Benny,” he said. “I used to tend the garden up at Temple Hill. You were a small man, then – my, look at you now, the spit of your uncle, eh?”

  “Black bells, so you did,” said Idris, remembering. “Benny... what happened here?”

  Benny sniffed, pointed in the direction of Outer Arbedes and Temple Hill.

  “The dead came from that way. They moved fast and hard, I think they already hit the house. Once they got here, seemed all they wanted was to stay. We tried to fight them off but the dead don’t lie still for long once they’re back up. We managed to cut the legs off some, to stop them, but it was hard going. They panicked everyone and we had some accidents... tore the livestock up, too.”

  Idris nodded, looking at the pieces of sheep on the ground just ahead.

  “Panic them, ruin the food – classic warfare,” said Riette.

  “Benny, this... it will not do for people to know who I am,” said Idris. “But I can help you with this particular problem. There are some supplies I will need, if you can fetch them – and if you could tell everyone to stay in their homes, that would also help.”

  “If you can get rid of ‘em,” said Benny, “I’ll do anything.”

  Idris gave his list – water jugs, wine, a few energy-boosting leaves that would keep him standing and a list of medicines for his leg, too – and Benny complied. Idris put up the hood on his cloak and sat on a haybale, watching the villagers ushered into their homes, casting him suspicious glances.

  “I do not think they would be upset if they knew it was you,” said Riette, standing beside him. Idris shrugged.

  “The secrecy is not for them,” he admitted. “It is for me.”

  He did not want his mother’s people to know what he was because he was ashamed. The more people knew, the more Layton could claim victory over him. Once, Idris had thought he would be the lord of this place, as a healer aria adept. That dream was killed with the death of his foot.

  “Besides,” he said, “if they know I am a necromancer, they might believe I did this to them.”

  Riette sighed heavily, tilted her head. “Perhaps.”

  Idris appreciated Riette’s optimism, but it was unfounded. The kind of warfare necromancers wrought on civilians was mostly psychological. The idea that they existed was enough for most to worry. One being in court was outright distasteful.

  Benny returned with the supplies, and Idris thanked him and said he should hunker down, too. The farmer retreated, gave Idris a grateful wave, and shut himself into his home.

  “We begin,” said Idris, standing.