The Queen's Necromancer

Chapter One

The scent of the fae jasmine faded as the sun rose, as each tiny petal curled in beneath the sun’s gaze, replaced instead by the warmth of the honey rose’s perfume. Musky twilight notes gave way to bright, silken tones, and the rays of sunrise made the lapis draconis that decorated the palace roofs glow suddenly in luminescent amber. The faint cries from the changing of the palace guard echoed through the courtyard, carried by undertones from the aria bells, and would have woken Idris, were he not already sitting at the open window, basking in the dawn light.

If he were a smarter man, he could bottle the morning scent that woke him daily – that cusp between the jasmines and the roses – and then he wouldn’t have to wake so early to appreciate it. Still, any light was good light to him. Most of the day, he would be spending in the dark.

“Thank you, Lila,” he said to his attendant, who slung the last washbowl of water out of the next window. She nodded, bowed slightly and placed the bowl down.

“Sir Idris,” she whispered as she left, bowed again, and closed the door gently.

Idris rose slowly, lingering by the sill. He should be ready for the call.

While he had a variety of heavy, official coats and robes for his position, he hardly ever wore them out of practicality’s sake. If he was due in court, he would don a handsome purple coat with matching shirt, or the deep blue of the Queen’s colours, but today he was not due in court, so the thick fabrics were abandoned. Instead, he opted for a lighter robe in emerald green, the stitching so white that it could be mistaken for unicorn hair, and slipped it on over his peasant-whites. His brown breeches would do fine for kneeling on the ground in the dungeons.

The knock came as he was pulling on his boots. He made sure he was presentable, sighed and opened the door.

“Sir Idris,” said the guard, dipping his head in reverence.

“Am I late?” said Idris.

“No, sir. Right on time. This way, please.”

The halls of the palace’s court residence shimmered in cool blue-and-violet marble in the early light. Guards nodded their heads respectfully as Idris passed. Already, the children were out in the courtyard, splashing in the circular fountain as washerwomen and nursemaids watched on. Idris smiled, waved jovially; the women curtseyed and lowered their eyes, but the children called back.

“Sir Idris! Are you working?”

“Regretfully, children. Another time,” he replied, following the guard as quickly as he could without looking impolite.

The coral marble made way, in time, to worn flagstone and brick, the further down they went. The warmth of the spring sunshine was lost to the upper halls, and Idris took a deep breath of the stale, dusty air that his work thrived on. Here, he could feel the mournful aria bells’ resonant hum through his bones.

Death magic collected here. His magic.

The guard nodded to the bells, hanging by the entrance to the dungeon.

“Wretched things make the prisoners stir crazy,” he said.

The dungeon’s tubular bells were of the same, pearlescent glass of the bells found throughout the palace, and indeed the city, but true to their nature, they captured the sound of the arias produced here in a bitter, dull melody. Death magic sounded, at least to Idris, like deep funeral dirges sung by the wind. Of course, he felt it, too, unlike others who were not of his craft. The aria weaved itself through his core, filled his throat like a choke of tears. The Queen always said the sound made her shiver.

Idris knew his way around the catacombs and dungeons of the palace by heart, but the guard was a matter of precaution. They passed the holding cells, where the inhabitants did not stir, and went deeper yet, into the cold rooms beneath the river. Water trickled and dripped down the walls, from the roof, held at bay by scores of weaver spells; Idris felt the weaver magic push at the sides of his eyes, like it was trying to invade his brain. But here, at last, he had work to do.

The room he and the guard entered was set up specifically for his craft. One table, with crystals and glass cut artfully into shapes that would magnify Idris’s powers, if the magic came through weakly or could not be sustained; a jug of wine and one of water, and some bread cakes; a towel and a bowl of water; a kneeling cushion and rug, laid out before the simple chair where, like every time, Judge Kurellan sat, waiting for him.

“You’re late,” Kurellan said, tapping his foot.

“Apologies,” said Idris, bowing low before he gathered the towel and water from his table.

“The body is starting to... smell.” Kurellan curled his lip, nodded at the covered mound on the other side of Idris’s cushion. “Let’s hurry this up so I don’t lose my breakfast.”

“Of course, Your Honour.”

Kurellan had long ago stopped bothering Idris. In his first years of service, he would trip and fumble around the old bureaucrat, while Kurellan sneered and cursed the ground Idris walked on. As time went by, Idris realised that most of Kurellan’s fussing was because, in his core, he was afraid of what he saw. Fear did powerful things to old men – the older they got, the more frightened they became. Once Idris learned this truth, Kurellan’s insults hurt less. Death was, after all, frightening – to most people, anyway.

Idris set his bowl and towel beside the rug, knelt on the cushion and indicated for the guards to remove the shroud on the body. As they did so, he took off his robe, rolled up his peasant-shirt sleeves, and breathed through to his stomach, focusing on the dull, surging tremble that travelled his bones.

The death aria told him things his eyes would know, if he had ample time to examine the body.

“Three days,” he said aloud; somewhere, he heard an attendant writing down everything he said. “Puncture wound in the... lower left lung. Speech might be difficult. How many questions do we have?”

“Five,” said Kurellan.

“I can give you three minutes,” said Idris.

“Is that all?”

“The state of the body is detrimental to continued speech. The aria is acceptable. Three minutes is a fair estimate.”

Kurellan tutted. “Proceed.”

Idris closed his eyes. He focused on the rise and fall of his own breath, on the crescendos of the aria, heard only in his head. His private orchestra of air. He conducted; the musicians obeyed. But he always came in partway through the performance, and had to wrest control of the players before they carried the aria away. Carefully, he lifted his right hand, palm up, and stiffened his fingers, making a pentagon in the air. Opening his eyes, he checked the position, inhaled once more, and asserted his will.

The aria surged through him. The sound, usually only reserved for the bells, pulsed in the air, a deep, commanding thrum of magical energy; it reverberated in Idris’s blood for a second, no more, and the body before him jerked.

“Three minutes,” he said again, this time his voice raspy and not his own.

The attendant turned a sand timer.

The corpse jolted from the chest. Idris listened hard, found the crest of the surge, and closed his fist.

The body jerked up, eyes wide, and did nothing else.

Idris often wondered what the dead saw, when they lifted themselves in this room. Likely, a sweaty young man with a trembling, closed fist, and the curt and unforgiving face of Judge Kurellan. If his mind wandered too much, though, the control was lost. For Kurellan, Idris had to be perfect, or as close to it as the arias allowed.

“Speak,” Idris commanded, with the voice of the aria. It burned his throat as it left.

“Ah... uh...” the corpse gasped.

Kurellan wasted no more time.

“Name, district, profession.”

“Lyle of Heart’s Pass,” burbled the corpse, lung fluid gurgling. “Blacksmith’s son.”

There was youth, still, in the face. Idris noted the calloused hands, the ill-fitting leather armour. The boy came partially prepared.

“The guards say you were in the armoury,” said Kurellan. “Why?”

“My mother... is sick... needed good steel...” The corpse dragged in a breath it didn’t need, rattling the lungs further. “Bandits... I thought...”

Idris focused his mind, followed the dips and weaves of the music in his bones. The aria would hold just fine, as long as he kept thinking about it. Already, though, he was tired. Heat clung to his skin; his sweat did not cool him.

“The truth, now, boy,” said Kurellan lazily. “What were you doing in the royal armoury?”

“Need... good steel... my mother is...”

“Fifth time this month,” the judge said, tutting again.

From the corner of his eye, Idris saw the final turn of the glass. With each breath, now, the aria was falling out of his mouth in breathy, dim notes.

“Speak true,” Idris said to the corpse, pushing the aria out.

The body’s head lolled.

“Swords for... ten would... be enough...”

Behind, Idris heard Kurellan’s chair creak, as if he was suddenly sitting up.

“Swords for ten?” he repeated.

Idris closed his eyes again, wrestled with the sound in his heart, in his brain. It was too loud, all at once. Little chance he could hold on much further -

“Time,” said the attendant.

The aria collapsed out of Idris like he had smashed a jar. The sound flushed out of him, from scalp to knees, and he breathed deep and hard, hand on his heart. The body, without his control, flopped back down face first, hitting the flagstones with a terrible, sickening slap.

Idris took the towel, wiped his face and forearms and took up the bowl, drinking as much as he could before he wet the cloth and dabbed his face with it.

“Get him back up,” said Kurellan. “I’m not done with him.”

“Three minutes,” said Idris, turning now. “You had three minutes.”

“That’s the first real piece of information we’ve had -”

“I need thirty minutes of rest if we are to attempt the same reanimation,” Idris said, annoyed that he had to explain this for the thousandth time. “By then, the aria will be dull, most likely. We’d be lucky to get another twelve seconds out of this one.” He gestured to an attendant, who brought forward the jug of wine. “Thank you.”

The first two mouthfuls cut Idris off cleanly from the residue of the aria. The wine was the potent, heady kind the Queen served at banquets; he was allowed one jug a month, and only for work.

“You still bark like a whelp who doesn’t know his place,” Kurellan said, eyes narrowed. “Get the body back up. That’s an order.”

Idris kept his eyes fixed on Kurellan while he drank his wine. They both knew that once the wine was drunk, the show was over.

“Please,” said Idris, holding out a hand to the nearest guard. They hefted him up, being gentle when they placed him on his right side, and handed him his green robe. “I will be in my chambers, Judge Kurellan,” he said, using the deference expected of him to hide his displeasure. “If you wish to resume the interrogation in thirty minutes, I will expect your call. Please excuse me.”

He bowed, and made a shaky way out of the room.

The combination of the exhaustion and the wine always made the journey back to the bright, warm halls of the palace seem to take forever. Idris kept his hand trailing lightly on the wall, feeling the vibrations of the background magic in the brick, until he reached the aria bells at the dungeon door. They sounded softer, now.

“Fine work, today,” he whispered to the bells. They cried faintly.

A wash, a change of clothes and a hearty breakfast would calm him. His attendant, Lila, was already waiting outside of the doors to his chamber.

“Sir Idris,” she said, bowing low.

“A bath, please, Lila. And,” he added, as she moved to open the doors, “keep Kurellan out of here, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The girl offered a slight, amiable smile. “Certainly, sir. Right this way.”

Chapter Two

One of Idris’s favourite things about living in the palace was the wide, open spaces. It was much easier to focus his studies on the more morbid aspects of his work with the sunshine beating down on him and the fountain tunefully splashing in the background. The open arches of the courtyard called to him, and he spent many of the warmer months seated on the flowerbed wall, surrounded by books, sipping mint tea.

The beauty of the courtyard garden was multi-faceted. It was covered on the outside with trellises where the fae jasmine climbed in dainty vines, making homes for birds and night owls, and was open in the large central square, where the fountain ran, delivering water down prettily designed irrigation channels to the rest of the garden. There were orchards nestled beyond thick, bushy hedges and geometric flower beds, filled with all of the joys that the kingdom’s warm climate had to offer. Idris had walked those paths more often than he could count, over many years; he knew every corner and petal, and regularly inquired of the planting schedule and maintenance that was needed.

After his bath and with no sign of Kurellan coming to take him up on his offer, he packed his book satchel and asked Lila to accompany him to the garden. With blanket and tea-tray in hand, she dutifully followed after him, out into the spring warmth. The bells in the garden rang chirpier arias than the ones in the dungeon, singing out like birdsong, high in the trees.

“The honey roses are fragrant, today,” Idris said to her, stepping out onto the gravel path.

“Truly, they bloom better in these early months,” she said. “They do make me sneeze so, though.”

“How fare the apple trees? I do so miss the cider.”

“Blossoming, Sir Idris. Should be a plentiful harvest.”

“Good morning, Sir Idris!” called the Head Gardener. Idris waved.

He settled in his usual spot, on the wall beside the rockery, placed down his texts and spread the blanket on the patch of lawn before him, and was about to dive into the knottier points of aria control when he heard, “Ah, Sir Idris, there you are.”

Lila bowed low to the elderly, red-robed gentleman coming down the path. Idris sighed, put down his book.

“And good morning to you, Magus Arundale.” He made to stand and bow, but Arundale raised a hand and shook his head. “Thank you. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“A fine day for reading, Sir Idris,” said the magus, squinting into the sun.

“It is, indeed.”

“Her majesty has summoned court.”

Idris nodded, but his stomach clenched at the news. “I see. Thank you, Magus. Is it urgent business, or will we be informed later today?”

“Not so urgent.” Magus Arundale glanced Lila. “Fetch your master a glass of water, child. It is warm, and he looks veritably parched.”

Lila hesitated, but Idris smiled at her. “That would be wonderful, Lila. Thank you.”

She bowed and hurried away; Magus Arundale took a seat beside Idris and placed his papery hands on his lap.

“She is a good girl, that Lila,” he said.

“The finest. Observant and kind.” Idris sighed again. The children were hunting for bugs beneath the shrubbery, scuffing their fine shoes in the dirt. “I assume this has something to do with my... Judge Kurellan’s work, of late.”

“It does. He claims he has enough evidence to move a force out of the palace and go hunting for dissidents.”

Idris scoffed. Instead of a reprimand, Magus Arundale simply raised his palms.

“He would threaten the peace with half-strung-together sentences from the mouths of the dead,” said Idris. “He sees danger where there is none. I wish the Queen hadn’t -”

“Finish that sentence carefully, boy.”

Idris swallowed, bit the inside of his cheeks. It would not do well for people to know he was making demands of the Queen, after all she had done for him. It was bad enough to most that he was so young and held so high in her esteem, so close to her that they were practically family.

“I understand your frustration,” said Magus Arundale. “But, the cost of the peace we have won is that we must be vigilant. That is your position here, is it not?”

“It is. Forgive me, Magus. I am... sceptical of Kurellan’s intent, that is all. I do not want fighting, again.”

“Nor do I.” The magus fanned his face with a fan he kept hidden in his robe sleeve. “You are being treated well, I hope?”

“Better than I deserve, as always, Magus.”

“Excellent. I do miss our little lessons, don’t you?”

Idris smiled wanly, thinking of the dimly lit alcove off the magician’s library where Magus Arundale scolded and cajoled for hours, the iron tension in his neck and shoulders as he tried to wrestle with arias that would not obey.

“Every day,” he said diplomatically.

“You were a fine magician then, and you are a fine magician now.” The old man touched Idris’s shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness. “Do not forget. Court. You must wear your fine robes, understood?”

“Of course, Magus Arundale. A good day to you.”

“And to you, young man. Ah, Lila, back with the water? Good girl.”

“Good day, Magus,” she said, bowing low.