The Necromancer's Nephew Page 4

  A faint smile tickled the corner of Tinjin's frown. "Be off then, but stop by this evening. Garrett and I may have something to show you."

  Garrett sat up in his chair, curious now.

  Zara arched an eyebrow. "I wouldn't miss it!" He waved his goodbyes and swept from the room.

  "What are we going to do?" Garrett asked.

  Uncle Tinjin regarded him coldly. "First," he said, "we are going to finish eating breakfast. Then you are going to raise your first zombie."

  Garrett felt a strange tingle on the back of his neck, though he wasn't sure if it was excitement or fear.

  "And yes," Uncle said, crunching a piece of charred bacon, "you can name this one."

  Chapter Five

  The black oak doors of Uncle Tinjin's laboratory swung open on tarnished brass hinges. At the center of the circular room beyond squatted a gray slab of polished granite. Stretched upon the stone table was the body of a young man. His eyes were closed, and, if not for the large sutured wound in his chest and his bloodless complexion, he would have appeared to be sleeping.

  "Not all who linger in the streets after curfew are so lucky as you," Uncle said.

  Garrett said nothing but followed Uncle toward the corpse on the table. Garrett noticed that the body lay upon the sparkling fleece that he had brought home with such difficulty the previous night.

  "A shimmerfleece," Uncle said, "they are found only in the mountains at the headwaters of the great river Neshat. I encountered a fragment of one among the river tribesmen once, years ago. Until now, I have never seen one whole."

  "What does it do?"

  Uncle Tinjin smiled. "I would very much like to know myself."

  Garrett had seen the gleam of curiosity in his uncle's eyes only a few times before, and this made him afraid. If Uncle didn't know something, it was likely to be the sort of thing that no one had yet survived to write about. He took an unconscious step away from the table.

  "Going somewhere?" Uncle raised an eyebrow.

  "Uh... should I get an essence flask?" Garrett asked.

  "No need," Uncle said, "I've set aside a bit of essence already."

  Garrett watched in amazement as Uncle opened the elixir cabinet and took an old bottle down from the top shelf. A bright blue-green glow shone from it, even through its thick coating of dust.

  "What is that?" Garrett whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

  Uncle smiled. "This is the essence of a satyr thief. Quite an accomplished burglar in his time. He once stole a necklace from around the neck of a Zhadeen Empress... His bones have long since crumbled to dust, but this remains. It is the last of him."

  Garrett did not know what to say and remained silent.

  "I think today is the day we set our larcenous friend loose upon the land once more."

  "But..." Garrett said, "It won't really be him though. I mean the essence just animates the zombie, right? They still can't think for themselves or remember things, can they?"

  Uncle Tinjin looked at him for a long moment before speaking. "You've been paying attention, I'll give you that... Of course you're right, zombies have no memory of their past lives, and I've never found any evidence that the nature of the essence used to animate them makes much difference in the final results. Still, as long as we're trying something new, we may as well stack the cards in our favor."

  "New?"

  "To my knowledge," Uncle said, "no necromancer has ever used a shimmerfleece in the performance of a resurrection. That is to say, no necromancer before you."

  Garrett's heart nearly stopped. "Don't you... I mean wouldn't you rather... I don't want to use the last of the special essence. What if I mess it up?"

  Uncle regarded him coldly. "I would advise against messing it up then."

  Garrett's insides turned over a time or two, and his mind raced with what little he knew of the necromancer's trade.

  "What is the first step?" Uncle asked.

  "Ah... get a body?" Garrett said, and then winced at the look on Uncle's face.

  "The next step."

  "We see if the essence will take to it," Garrett said.

  "Very good," Uncle Tinjin said, "however, we'll be trying something new today."

  That hardly seemed fair, Garrett thought, but he kept this feeling to himself.

  Uncle broke the red wax seal atop the bottle of essence and worked the ancient cork free with some difficulty. It opened with a hollow-sounding pop. "Take the flask, Garrett."

  Garrett reached up to take the bottle with both hands, terrified that he might drop it. He had expected it to be cold, but the flask radiated a discomforting warmth as though it were filled with fresh blood.

  "I want you to walk around the slab," Uncle said, "pouring the essence out onto the fleece around the body. It must form an unbroken outline, and you must be certain that you have enough left over at the end to complete the outline. Do you understand?"

  Garrett nodded, "Yes, sir."

  "Good, begin."

  Garrett lifted the heavy flask, tipping the mouth of it over the shimmering wool of the fleece at the spot nearest the young man's shoulder. He poured out an unbroken, if slightly unsteady, stream of liquid essence onto the sparkling wool.

  He walked slowly around the table as he poured. He marveled at the size of the shimmerfleece stretched beneath the corpse. The creature that it came from must have been larger than a man. Garrett wondered how he had been able to carry the fleece at all. It must be far lighter than it looked.

  "Careful," Uncle said.

  Garrett had to reverse the trail of the poured essence, looping it back to cover a small gap. He was careful not to repeat his mistake.

  By the time he had circled the table and returned to his starting point, the essence had soaked almost completely into the fleece, the spot where the trail began now barely visible. Garrett upended the bottle, pouring the last of the satyr essence into the fleece.

  Uncle took the cold, empty bottle from Garrett's hands. "Well done."

  Garrett allowed himself to breathe again and stepped back from the table.

  Uncle picked up an old hide-bound book from the workbench and cracked it open before handing it to Garrett. The book's spine bore a deep crease, and the binding had begun to fray apart at this particular page.

  "The Calling of the Dead," Garrett read the heading aloud. The title and the incantation below were written in Gloaran.

  "You seem puzzled," Uncle noted.

  "I just thought magic would be written in some strange language," Garrett said.

  Uncle smiled. "It isn't the words you use that matter but the will and the intent behind them. You must mean what you say, and the essence will answer. Do you understand?"

  Garrett nodded, not at all certain that he did.

  "Of course I have the same spell written in Old Draconic, if you want to sound more impressive while you're casting it," he said, setting his finger on the spine of an enormous black book.

  "No, this is fine!"

  "Good, now face the table and form in your mind an image of the essence inside the fleece."

  Garrett closed his eyes and imagined the glowing liquid seeping through the white curls of the wool.

  "Now read aloud the words written in the book."

  Garrett opened his eyes and read from the page, "Fallen ones, I bid you rise. Spirit and Flesh undone now mend..."

  "Stop!" Uncle said, "Don't speak to the book. Don't speak to me. Speak to the essence, and speak with a voice that cannot be ignored... not even by the dead."

  Garrett hesitated. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  Uncle Tinjin strode forward, his long fingers tapping the skull medallion on Garrett's chest. "Your voice has to come from your heart. You have to mean the words. The essence has no choice but to obey, for you are a necromancer, and the dead answer your call."

  Garrett's mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips and turned his attention back to the corpse on the table.

  He spoke again, his voice loude
r, insistent, "Fallen ones, I bid you rise. Spirit and Flesh undone now mend. To the Spirit a body given. To the Flesh a quickening gift."

  As he spoke, his words hardened, losing their uncertain tone and reverberating with the timbre of command.

  "Join as one, oh wisp and bone. Join in strength and know new life. Fallen ones, now one, arise. I give you life to serve my call."

  Garrett's skin tingled with the rush of power. He could feel the spirit that stirred upon the slab, not quite alive, but no longer dead. It writhed and recoiled from the cold strange flesh of the pallid corpse. It did not wish to obey.

  "Again, boy!" Uncle shouted.

  Garrett held the book open with one hand, clutching his gold medallion with the other. It's comforting weight grew warm in his grasp as he read the words aloud again.

  A fine, glowing mist began to form upon the corpse's white skin. The essence rose like a billowing cloud from the fleece to envelope the dead young man.

  Garrett's hand ached upon the amulet, his eyes wide as he shouted the words again.

  Suddenly, the corpse's arm twitched. Its leg bounced on the slab.

  Garrett released the amulet and stretched forth his hand over the body. The words of the spell rolled from his tongue.

  The dead man arched his back. One hand clawed at the fleece. Its head turned toward Garrett, and its eyes opened.

  The words came from Garrett's mouth with no aid from the written page, but this time, when he came to the end, he did not begin again. He simply said, "Rise."

  The zombie sat bolt upright on the slab, gasping for breath. It looked straight ahead with an expression of horror upon its face and uttered a terrible, anguished moan.

  Garrett suddenly felt as though he had just dropped an armload of heavy stones. He sagged forward, leaning against the table and breathing heavily.

  "Well done!" Uncle said, clapping Garrett on the back so hard that it stung.

  Garrett smiled weakly and started to speak, but his vision went all gray and the floor suddenly rushed up toward him.

  He felt a cold hand closing around his arm as the blackness swallowed him up.

  Chapter Six

  The Evenchimes sounded over the city of Wythr. Garrett had to get home before curfew.

  No, he was already home, in his bed.

  His eyes fluttered open to find the long shadows of night already filling his room. A cool, damp rag lay across his forehead, and his entire body ached when he tried to move.

  He looked to his bedside table and saw the faint glow of Lampwicke. She lay curled asleep on a bed she had fashioned from the piece of bread he had given her. The grapes, untasted, were strewn about the cage floor.

  He heard voices in the hall.

  "Uncle?"

  In a moment, he heard footsteps and the door creaked open. Uncle Tinjin entered, followed by a grinning Max Zara and the tattooed Cenick.

  "He survived!" Zara laughed, "I guess we don't get to zombify him after all."

  Uncle ignored him. "How are you feeling, Garrett?"

  "Sore," he answered, "did I do something wrong?"

  "No," Uncle said, "you performed admirably."

  "Is my zombie all right?"

  Zara laughed. "He's a necromancer all right."

  "Your zombie is fine," Uncle said, "He's downstairs. You can name him when you're feeling better."

  Garrett tried to lift himself, but his arms shook with effort. He fell to bed again, and the room seemed to rock like a boat around him.

  "I said when you're feeling better," Uncle scolded.

  "What's wrong with me?" Garrett gasped.

  "Resurrexhaustion," Zara said.

  Uncle winced.

  "At least that's the term I invented to describe it,” Zara continued, “…hasn't quite caught on with the older members of our profession. Anyway, it happens to all of us the first time."

  "Some of us," Cenick corrected.

  "... All of us," Zara repeated, "Anyway, nothing to worry about. You'll be fine after a night's rest."

  "Indeed," Uncle Tinjin said, "all the more reason for us to be leaving him to it."

  The three necromancers bid Garrett good night and turned to go.

  "Cenick," Garrett called out, "can I ask you a question?"

  "Certainly, Garrett. What is it?"

  Garrett waited until Uncle and Zara were out of earshot. "You know about fairies, right?"

  "Some, yes."

  "Do you know what they eat?"

  Cenick smiled sadly, an expression that looked like pain on his rune-marked face. He crossed the room to stand beside Lampwicke's cage. He stood in silence for a moment, watching her sleep.

  "Do you know where fairies came from, Garrett?" Cenick asked.

  "The southern forests?"

  Cenick nodded. "Do you know how they were made?"

  Garrett shrugged his shoulders.

  Cenick took a moment to drag the chair from beside the window and sat down next to the bed. "Long ago," he said, "when the world was whole and new, the dragons were a great and beautiful race..."

  Garrett shifted uncomfortably in his bed.

  "They weren't always as they are now, Garrett. The dragons were the creators of beauty. Through Dragonsong, they could call into existence creatures of pure magic."

  "What's Dragonsong?" Garrett asked.

  "They sang their magic, Garrett," he said, and his eyes softened, looking far away.

  "So the words were magical?" Garrett said, "Uncle told me that the words weren't important."

  "All words are important, Garrett... What Uncle meant was that we humans don't use magic that way. We possess a binding will that controls the magic we find in the world around us. We cannot make it ourselves. We cannot call magic into being with our words. The dragons could."

  "So the dragons made fairies?" Garrett asked.

  "And all the Fae folk," Cenick said, "Thus the Fae are not bound by the same rules as mortal men and beasts."

  "So, they don't need to eat?" This idea appealed to Garrett. Perhaps Lampwicke would not be so hard to care for after all.

  "They do not eat food as we do," Cenick said.

  "Then what do they eat?"

  Cenick's broad shoulders slumped and his lips tightened. "They live on hope, Garrett."

  "Huh?"

  "A fairy will live as long as it has hope. They love stories and songs and new experiences... Denied those things, they will fade and die."

  Garrett looked at the little fairy asleep in her cage. He felt sick.

  "How am I supposed to feed her that?"

  "A captive fairy can live for a long time on the hope she has left," Cenick said, "but eventually..."

  "What if I let her go?" Garrett asked, "How do I let her go?"

  "I do not know a way, Garrett. She is bound by vampire magic. The vampires know some of the old songs. They cannot make new things, but they can bind and control the old."

  "I'll ask Marla then," Garrett said, "She'll know what to do."

  Cenick smiled. "Get some rest, Garrett. You made a fine zombie today."

  "Thanks, Cenick," Garrett said.

  "Good night, Garrett."

  Cenick pulled the door shut behind him. Garrett rolled onto his side and watched Lampwicke sleep.

  ****

  "Raise your left leg, Caleb" Garrett commanded.

  Garrett's zombie looked at him, his expression unreadable. He lifted his left foot a few inches off the kitchen floor.

  "You see?" Garrett said.

  Uncle harrumphed and sipped his tea.

  Garrett frowned. Tom, the kitchen zombie shambled over to lay a plate of scorched eggs in front of Garrett.

  "Tom," he said, forgetting Uncle's policy on naming the servants, "raise your left leg."

  Tom stared at him and then looked slowly down at his boots. Ancient sinews creaked as the kitchen zombie lifted his right foot.

  Tom raised his head to look at Garrett again, and then fell over sideways. The tea tray balanced on
the edge of the countertop followed him to the floor with a crash.

  Uncle regarded Garrett in stony silence, taking another sip of tea.

  "After you are done cleaning that up," Uncle said, "you can join me in the library. We can then discuss your zombie's remarkable sense of balance." He stood, shaking his head at the fallen kitchen zombie, and walked from the room.

  Garrett grinned as he helped Tom get to his feet. The zombie stumbled back to his corner at Garrett's command, and the boy got to work. He knelt down to pick up the wet shards of a broken teacup. He reached for one that had skittered further away than the rest, and was suddenly aware that Caleb was standing above him.

  It occurred to Garrett that he hadn't told Caleb to stop standing on one foot. Zombies weren't supposed to think for themselves. He hoped that was a good thing.

  Caleb looked down at him, tilting his head slightly in puzzlement.

  "You wanna help?" Garrett asked.

  Caleb stooped and reached for the broken piece. He swayed a little, bracing himself with his free hand against the wooden cabinet. Caleb's bloodless fingers closed upon the shard, feeling at it, not quite grasping it.

  Caleb moaned, sounding almost frustrated.

  "You can do it, Caleb!" Garrett said.

  Caleb's brow furrowed. He had a face that had probably been accustomed to laughter from the look of it, his hair, curly and red, his eyes green. Garrett wondered what sort of person he had been before the Watchers got him.

  Uncle had dressed Caleb in the standard gray doublet and hose worn by the other servants. Zombie attire was a matter of personal taste among necromancers. Cenick kept his servants dressed in rich funerary garb and beaten gold death masks. Zara preferred black hooded robes. Jitlowe dressed his zombies as a carnival troupe, much to Uncle's disapproval.

  Caleb's fingertips at last gripped the shard, and he gave a little groan of triumph.

  "Good job, boy!" Garrett said. He held out his hand, and Caleb deposited the shard in his open palm.

  Garrett rose and tossed the broken cup into the dust pail. Caleb leaned against the counter, standing up with deliberate slowness.