Book of The Dead

Tyron was confused.

“So there’s a rebellion of sorts developing out there. Although, it doesn’t seem like much from what you’ve said. Slayers can kick up as much of a fuss as they like, they’re helpless once the Magisters turn the screws,” he finished bitterly.

Not even Magnin and Beory had been able to deny the power of the brand. Resist it, delay, blunt, perhaps, but ultimately, even they had fallen prey, despite their preparations.

For all their power, the Slayers were the most helpless people in the Empire. The stronger they became against the rift-kin, the more vulnerable they were to the Magisters.

“Even if they could rebel despite the marks, what could I do about it? I can’t… lead them.” He couldn’t think of anything he was less suited to do. “I’m not even willing to fight at all until I reach my milestones and advance my Class.”

Elsbeth shook her head and looked at him as if he were dim.

“What do you think is going on out there? Armies in the field or something? Don’t be ridiculous. Is there anyone on this plane who understands their weakness more than the Slayers? You think they’re just going to start throttling Magisters in the streets?” She raised her eyebrows and shook her head once more, sending her golden hair rippling in waves down her back. “They are moving slowly. Trying to train unmarked people in secret. If this is going to work, it’s going to take years.”

Tyron leaned forward and pressed his palms together, his elbows resting on the table. This made a little more sense, but such things had been tried before. It was impossible for Slayers to rebel, the brand would strike them dead if they ever raised a hand to a Magister or Noble. Even with all they had done to mitigate the mark, it was likely even Magnin and Beory hadn’t found a way around that particular restriction.

It was, however, possible for them to raise up others, to teach and train villagers, or hire a rat and give them a bit more experience than was strictly necessary. His father had been the one to tell him about it. Magnin could even name a few of the incidents. The Farmer’s rebellion. The Sundered Siege. The Red Fields.

It always ended the same way. Throughout history, the Magisters had been consistently shitty at their job. A surprising fact, but when they had literal divines on their side, as well as the unbreakable magick of the brand, it may be excusable that they dropped the ball every couple of hundred years. However, they found out eventually. Sometimes they uncovered an unmarked warrior in the rifts and got on top of things early, sometimes they woke up to find a Keep had been burned down and one of their order had been strung up by the neck.

Once it started, it was basically over. The Gold Slayers would be compelled to crush the rebellion, and if the situation was dire enough, they would bring help from the Central Province. Not even Magnin knew who these enforcers were, he just knew they were absurdly strong, and inhumanly brutal.

“This is dangerous stuff, Beth,” he warned her. “How deeply are you involved?”

With an exasperated scoff, she slapped the table with the flat of her palm.

“You can’t seriously–are you trying to warn me off? I know what you want, Tyron. I think it’s a stupid waste, but you’re determined to do it anyway.”

The Necromancer felt the anger in his chest roar into life. He clenched his jaw and spoke deliberately.

“You think it’s a waste?” he rasped. “After what they did to my family?”

She sensed his pain and her eyes brimmed with sympathy, but she didn’t back down.

“Yes. Yes. Because your mother and father did everything they could to ensure you would be free, that you wouldn’t have to live your life for vengeance.”

She reached across the table and clasped his hand.

“Look at what you have here. Look at what you’ve built. A shop, a trade, respect from you workers, a chance to make a difference in people's lives. You probably don’t know this, but the people down there in the Market are so pleased, so proud, to have someone like you living and working down here with them. They love your work, they rave about it.”

There was a dull ache in his chest, but it was quickly consumed by the fire.

“All of this,” he waved at the building around them, “only exists because I want vengeance.”

He released her hand.

“It seems a little strange that the person who’s supposed to be getting me to help this doomed rebellion is trying to talk me out of it. What do you need me to do? What do your patrons need me to do?”

Despite everything she’d gone through the past four years, he could still see the old Elsbeth in the way she looked back at him. She cared so much, and she didn’t mind who knew it, her emotions were still written all over her face. It was… difficult for him to hurt her, even now, but he was unshakable.

“I’d hoped… after everything that happened, you might have had a chance to be happy. That’s all.”

Tyron shook his head decisively, his eyes void of feeling.

“No.”

The word cut through the conversation like an axe blade, silencing them both. He waited. Elsbeth drew in a slow breath.

“For now, there isn’t much that you’re requested to do. Mainly, funnel resources. Gold, weapons, supplies, things that can’t be traced. You have contacts in the city that aren’t connected to any followers of the Three. Information is the other key element. There are already people on the inside passing along snippets, but they’re Slayers. You can access places that they can’t. Hear things that they won’t.”

“And the Three expect me to stick my neck out like this for no reward? Our relationship is very much one of give and take.”

His old friend pulled a face.

“You’ll get your reward. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I haven’t been told what it will be, and the Three aren’t exactly known for their generous natures…. So I have no idea what you’re going to get.”

“Didn’t they literally hand out divinity itself on a whim?”

“Yes. Once.”

“Technically five times.”

“... In one instance.”

Tyron sighed.

“As long as they provide something that will help me with my Necromancy research, I’ll be satisfied.”

“Your Necromancy research? What do you mean?”

He rubbed his hand through his hair and scowled at Elsbeth.

“It’s not like there’s a manual or teacher I can use. Necromancy is illegal in the empire, remember? I have to figure everything out myself. It’s painstaking work, and slow going. I’d love for a little help from my patrons, but they seem extremely reluctant to come good on their promises.”

Elsbeth scratched at her chin with one finger as she thought.

“Well. I have no idea if there’s anyone amongst the worshippers of the Three with any knowledge of necromancy, but there might be. I’ll ask around, and if I can’t find anything, I’ll appeal to the Gods myself.”

A generous offer, much better than what he’d received from Yor and certainly far beyond the vague whispers of the Abyss. Even so, he was concerned.

“Isn’t this dangerous for you? Approaching the Old Gods and needling them for favours isn’t something I would consider… safe. I don’t want you to risk yourself.”

The Priestess scoffed.

“Pestering the Gods to help people they wouldn’t normally help is basically my job. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get some help. If you’re going to stick your neck out for them, the least they can do is cough up a few secrets.”

“I’m… grateful. Really grateful. I appreciate it ‘Beth. I haven’t been comfortable dealing with the Three, but with you around, I think… we might be able to get somewhere.”

She beamed at him.

“That’s what I’m here for. I’m a link between the people and the gods.”

With their business concluded the two old friends fell to reminiscing, joking back and forth and discussing their experiences over the past four years. They talked back and forth until Tyron realised just what the time was.

“Oh. I’ll have to ask your forgiveness, Elsbeth. I have an… appointment in the city.”

She nodded easily and rose from her seat.

“That’s alright. I have a place to stay not far away, so we can meet up again soon.”

“Probably best if you don’t come too often….”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes. Mr Secrecy. I understand. I’ll be discreet, don’t worry. I won’t come back until I’ve started making my enquiries. When I have something for you, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

“Fantastic.”

She walked around the table and enveloped him in a firm hug before he escorted her down the stairs and out the door.

It had been good to reconnect with her, and it was almost odd to have someone be so unreservedly on his side. If there was anyone in the realm he would trust to deal with him straight, it would probably be Elsbeth. She didn’t have a deceitful bone in her body. If the Old Gods decided to screw him over, she would likely just tell him to his face, which was far better than a knife in the back.

Thinking of knives made him shudder. If he wanted to make it to the restaurant on time, he would need to leave shortly. Filetta would be pissed if he was late.

~~~

Two days later, Tyron had mostly healed from his encounter with the thief and was busy in his workshop when he received another visitor. It was closing time and heavy clouds hung in the sky overhead, when a wide-eyed Cerry knocked on his door, practically vibrating at the effort of restraining her gossip-loving spirit. Wondering who in the world it would be this time, he descended the stairs and almost tripped and fell flat on his face when he saw Yor standing on the shop floor, dressed as if she were attending a ball.

Cerry studied his every move out of the corner of her eye, and once again, he could see the door to the back-room creak open so Flynn could listen in.

These idiots!

Trying to regain some semblance of poise, Tyron stalked across the shop floor until he drew near enough to hiss, “What in the Abyss are you doing in my shop!”

The vampire eyed him with icy dignity.

“Perhaps we should take our discussion somewhere private,” she announced, caressing the final word.

Cerry squeeked behind the desk and Tyron was pretty sure he heard Flynn fall off his seat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he stood to the side and gestured for Yor to follow him upstairs. The whispers downstairs from the few remaining customers chased him up each step until he ripped open the door at the top and strained with all his effort not to slam it behind him after his guest had passed through.

She watched him with a slight smirk on her blood red lips, doubtless waiting for him to explode with rage, but he throttled it and matched her stare for stare.

“I assume the cloud cover is helping you rise a little earlier in the day?”

“Indeed. Not to mention winter is drawing near. The days grow shorter, and the nights grow longer.”

“I thought we had an agreement that you wouldn’t come here in person. There’s a reason I’ve been trudging over to your place of business and it isn’t because I like the atmosphere.”

Yor looked at him imperiously.

“I would have thought you would be a little more grateful. Besides, having a reputation for associating with beautiful women is hardly overtly damaging. Besides, Master Almsfield and I have already been seen in public together.”

“But not here. Wait, did you say women?”

Did she know about Elsbeth?

“The Court delivers on its commitments,” she announced, reaching into the bag slung over her shoulder and removing a tightly bound volume. “Let it not be said that we renege on our agreements. As we agreed, this grimoire has been provided by my Mistress for you to peruse.” She raised a finger. “For one month.”

Tyron stared at the book with naked hunger.

“Oh,” Yor added, almost as an afterthought, “I also brought this.”

She reached into the bag once again and removed a carved, onyx, skull.

“Fuck me,” Dove exclaimed. “You live here, kid? The place looks positively habitable. I was expecting a stinking cave or some shit.”

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