The Morality of A Necromancer Read online

  “More errands for your uncle?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is Edar safe?”

  “I’d think that’s up to you more than I.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Only what’s important -- and the rest I do not need to know.”

  Realizing he did not have to ask his aunt, he knew his apprenticeship was over. His childhood was over.

  *

  Chapter 20

  A forest in Fairhdel

  The pale crescent lingering in the sky cut an icy light through the gloom of the forest. Kian wrapped his thick woolen cloak around him, wondering how his father fared in his thinner clothing. The silence was as suffocating as the cold darkness, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “Winter should be early this year,” Pa said as he pushed leaves into a small pile, exposing the hard dirt below. He struck a flint. A speck of light and warmth grew until their campfire exposed the bare branches above them. Kian unpacked two tubers from the pack and stuck them in the fire, sending a few sparks skyward. Remembering his childhood, Kian asked, “Perhaps, you might tell me a story while we wait for them to cook?”

  “A wandering myth has taken my elder son. You went on an adventure with Larcians, a Daosith, and became friends with a young lord, what stories could I tell?”

  “I could tell ...”

  “Ki, enough.”

  Kian tried to think of something to tell him. “Lord Roark taught me to quick draw a dagger; want to see?”

  “If you wish,” Pa said in a low monotone.

  Kian removed the dagger from his scabbard so smoothly and quick he doubted his father even saw it, then spun around and threw a dagger at a nearby tree. The thunk as it entered the bark was satisfying.

  Grinning, he looked at Pa, who scowled until he met Kian’s eyes. Only then did Pa smile and nod.

  “Well done.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes,” Pa said without any pleasure in his voice.

  “I can do it blindfolded too.”

  “Excellent,” Pa said in the same monotone.

  Kian retrieved the dagger, heart sinking. As his hand touched the cool metal, he knew he made a mistake. “What do you think Eohan’s doing?” Kian asked, no longer caring if he angered his father.

  “Probably learning many new things with the great lady,” Pa replied, his voice caustic.

  “Roark …”

  “You’ll soon outgrow that fancy tunic, but don’t you forget you’re a baker’s son.” Pa gripped Kian by the arm and with his free hand, he shook his finger in the boy’s face. “You consider him a friend, but his friendship is only pity. And Han, a Guild Master.”

  Hot anger flared in Kian’s heart. “You don’t even know Roark! And Han will always be my brother. That’s what he said when we parted.”

  “He meant it, but he won’t look back often.”

  Kian bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted his blood. The blood reminded him of the old hunger which he shoved down to his stomach. “He won’t ever throw us aside. Don’t you understand what he did for me! What Lady Alana did? What it cost her?”

  “If he doesn’t die in battle, maybe he will send some money home now and again. Maybe it will be enough to find you a partner in the merchant class, and maybe I won’t die when I can’t knead bread.”

  Kian hated that he was shouting at his pa but couldn’t stop. “Is that all you see? That I’ll need my brother to save me -- us -- from poverty?”

  “What else is there to see?”

  “He won’t be saving me from poverty. I’ll save myself.”

  Pa’s grip tightened on his arm.

  “Let me go.” Kian clenched his eyes shut. He wasn’t afraid of Pa -- not after what he had been through, but the furious urge to open his father’s thin throat and leave him gasping terrified him.

  Alana’s face was calm as she removed Pa’s hand from Kian’s arm.

  “You followed, my lady?” Kian asked.

  “Did you not call me a witch in your mind?”

  “You don’t need to be mock us, milady,” Pa said.

  “I would never mock you. I ask your sons to look into the future and take the path that they desire.” Alana put a finger on Kian’s chin, forcing him to meet blue eyes so common in House Eyreid. He thought of Roark -- the epitome of a nobleman.

  “Do you want the future of which your father speaks?” She asked.

  “No. I don’t know. I know I don’t want Eohan to make me a marriage or send us money as if we were poor relations. I saw many things at the Guild: intelligence officers, surgeons, librarians … I’ve been thinking about all that since we parted.”

  “If you don’t know your path; you belong with me,” Pa said.

  “Kian is near the same age as Roark when he started his apprenticeship. You can wander with me until we discover it, then the door can open for you.”

  “If you live outside your province, you’ll dance on coals for sure.”

  “Pa.” Kian rolled his eyes. He had met three Martlets -- four if he counted Roark. None of them seemed interested in making him dance on coals.

  “Promise me you’ll never put them in a barrel full of spikes and roll them down a hill.” Pa was serious.

  “I’ve never put anyone in a barrel full of spikes and rolled them down a hill. I certainly wouldn’t to my apprentices. If you don’t want to be parted from your sons, I could find you a position at the Guild House at Olentir. The House Master and I have long been acquainted. Or perhaps in my sister’s house. Otherwise, I’ll bring you home. The boys will visit in Midwinter.”

  “How would the Guild treat a baker’s sons?”

  “The Guild has a long tradition of egalitarian education. House Master Corwin is a better man than he lets on.”

  “You know him well?”

  “He’s the 51st Martlet of House Silba. We moved through the ranks together until he sought his current position.”

  “If that’s true, why aren’t you a House Master?”

  “I’ve no interest in or talent for administration,” Alana said.

  *

  Chapter 21

  Province of Josael in the Realm of Daouail

  Byronia crept towards Daena’s cottage following the directions, map, and the slave Telchine. She felt slight remorse as sie lifted branches or helped her over and under the twisting muddy roots with always a polite: “Let me help you, milady.”

  By their law, Telchine only enslaved their criminals, but this young individual seemed too young to be a criminal to be sold to someone who took hir away from hir homeland to Dynion and sold hir on the slaveblocks of Port Dentwort. Hir hair was too green, hir eyes too bright and no cracks had formed in hir clay-colored skin.

  I’m finally being taught what the Guild really is. I need to learn if I can accept this. What had this young person done to be worthy to be sold into slavery, then sold to my uncle who gave him to me to kill?

  With every sweet word from the Telchine’s mouth, Byronia wished to retreat. Alana’s lessons whispered in her mind, but they did not overtake ten years of lessons with her uncle. With every step in the muck, she pondered over her vow until she came to the conclusion: I wander for the good of my people, and this Telchine is not of mine. Sie is a slave and criminal.

  The two reached Daena’s fairy fire. Byronia did not hesitate to cut hir throat and shoved hir into the flames from behind. The slaves gurgled, choking upon the clay spilling from hir throat as sie landed in the flames.

  The Telchine’s body spasmed as Byronia stepped on hir back to cross the dancing fairy flames which licked at her feet.

  Byronia watched the dead body crumble back to the clay from which the Telchine was formed. “I hope your next life is better than this one,” Byronia whispered. “May the Waters of Resurrection wash you clean.”

  Refusing to welcome the festering guilt, she silently ascended the muddy hill to a shuttered hut. With a gloved hand, Byronia silently e
xtracted a dead frog from her belt pouch. She opened its skin and cut out its liver. She put the rest of the frog back in her pouch then protecting the liver.

  This would be an interesting experience. She might not be in a family line, but at least she’s a noble woman. A noble woman who dabbled in illegal technology.

  Byronia left from the shadows and faced her mark. She shoved the frog’s liver into her mouth.

  Daena could not shout for help as her throat closed around her words. She scratched at her quickly-swelling mouth and throat.

  Byronia checked for a pulse from the artery in her neck. Daena was still. She studied her dead eyes. She took her blade and opened her chest. The metal slid through into her flesh. Byronia cut out Daena’s heart ensuring she left enough of the ventricles for Corwin’s use and wrapped it in a tarred sack.

  She searched the shelves until she located the crumbling moldy tome written by Thysta Candlewick and a newer volume written by Daena. Since she was alone, Byronia also searched for jewels, silks and anything else that she and her sisters might find enjoy or to fatten the family coffers. If Corwin was right and war was coming, then House Silba would need every advantage. She enjoyed her sisters’ company too much to wish them death or any ill will for their fortune. She was third born, so she was a Martlet. It was an aging system of chance, sometimes it was best to play the hand she was dealt until something better came along.

  *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am fortunate for the ability to pursue my passions--even when the first drafts don’t turn out. The Martlet Series started out life as my second novel. Though I always loved the characters, I knew the original work had issues. Thankfully after being published a few times, I was able to look at the original novel with a more discerning eye. I realized the problem and broke the original manuscript up into novella sized chunks. Like The War Ender’s Apprentice, The Morality of the Necromancer wasn’t even in the original text. It was written literally because my first readers wondered what happened to Kian between the first novella and what’s now the third novella, The Assassin’s Twisted Path.

  First of all, I would like to thank my darling husband for always believing in me.

  I would also like to thank my editor, Joe Dacy II.

  I would like to thank my writing group for believing in the project and to thank my friends at Two Hour Transport, since I started reading this novel aloud before it was edited.

  I would also like to thank my fans who support my endeavors. Without you, none of this would be possible.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Much to her chagrin, Elizabeth Guizzetti discovered she was not a cyborg and growing up to be an otter would be impractical, so she began writing stories. Guizzetti currently lives in Seattle with her husband and two dogs. When not writing, she loves hiking and birdwatching.

  Guizzetti loves to write science fiction, horror, and fantasy with social commentary mixed in – even when she doesn’t mean it to be there. She is the author and illustrator of independent comics. She became a published author in 2012 and her debut novel, Other Systems, was a Finalist for the 2015 Canopus Award.

  ALSO BY ELIZABETH GUIZZETTI

  Comics published by ZB Publications

  Faminelands

  Out For Souls&Cookies!

  Lure

  Fantasy published by ZB Publications

  Chronicles of the Martlet

  The Grove

  Science Fiction published by 48Fourteen

  Other Systems

  The Light Side of the Moon