Book of The Dead

“There’s a strange atmosphere in the market today.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Madam Geller.”

“Don’t try and placate me, Cerry, I’m worried. The Marshalls arrested three people just yesterday! I knew Mr Wisten from when I was little, he’s a pillar of the community. They rolled in and took him away without a word to anyone. His poor wife is much too old to be taking care of herself.”

“If there aren’t any charges, then I hope he’ll be released soon….”

“He’s not the only one!” Madam Geller said, shaking her little fist at noone in particular. “You be careful out there, Cerry. Something strange is happening lately, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“Th-thank you for your concern. I’m sure everything is going to be fine….”

“Silly girl! You need to be careful!”

Tyron stepped out from behind the counter and spoke, not raising his voice, but being firm.

“Thank you for your concern, Madam Geller. We appreciate it.”

“Not at all. Now, I trust you are satisfied that your order has been filled.”

The little old woman looked down at the parcel she held in her hands. Bed warmers, good to ward off the chill. With winter approaching, they were selling well.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll be on my way, then.”

He walked her to the door despite her protestations and waved to her from the doorstep before turning back into the shop.

“Sorry, Master Almsfield,” Cerry said mournfully, “I wasn’t sure how to respond.”

Cerry was an amazing sales clerk, but if she had one weakness, it was the more wealthy matrons who came in and mothered her. She appeared to have a face that reminded every old biddy of their daughters.

“It’s fine. And I agree with some of what the Madam had to say. There is an added layer of danger in Shadetown these days. I recommend you step with extra care coming to and from work.”

The girl hesitated for a moment before speaking up.

“Y-you don’t think they’ll come here, then?” she asked timidly.

“What, and arrest me?” Tyron pretended to smile wide. “I run an honest business here, Cerry.”

“I know that….”

“Unless you’ve been skimming money off the top?”

“I would never!”

Tyron just laughed, though he felt no amusement himself.

“I know that. Now let’s discuss more pleasant things. Your Awakening is coming up soon, isn’t it? When’s it happening? Next week?”

The young woman pouted at him, put out.

“I’m sure not even you are so distracted by work that you forgot when Awakening day is happening. It’s next Tel’anan’s day.”

“Ah, of course.”

In truth, he had forgotten. For something like this to have slipped his mind was a definite sign he’d been working too much. He needed to pull back.

“I’m sorry I won’t be here for it, Cerry, but I’m confident everything is going to be fine. Don’t forget, you are welcome to stay on at the store afterwards, no matter what Class you get.”

She looked down, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

“Thank you, Master Almsfield. That’s very reassuring.”

She excused herself in a hurry, leaving Tyron wondering if he’d been that emotional in the leadup to his Awakening. Pretty much everyone had been unstable in that final week. Crying, fighting, unable to sleep, isolating themselves, he’d seen every type of reaction amongst the people he’d grown up with, and among the young folk who’d travelled from out of town. Looking back, it wasn’t hard to work out where he’d fallen on that spectrum. As much as he’d tried to hide it, the pressure and anticipation had driven him into seclusion, working on his uncle’s accounts and studying books.

Well, it had all turned out well in the end, hadn’t it?

Tyron chuckled humourlessly, and turned to catch the eye of Wansa, then gestured for her to join him in one of the back rooms. The thrall appeared reluctant, but didn’t have any choice but to accede to his request.

“What is it?” she asked warily once the door was shut behind her.

He eyed her. Since his falling out with her mistress, Wansa had been even more standoffish than she’d been before, if such a thing were possible, but had continued to perform her role faithfully. He might think the methods Yor used to control her creatures were detestable, but they were certainly effective.

Now, however, things were different.

“You’re close to a liability in the current environment,” he told her bluntly. “If Yor and her coven are sniffed out during the purge, then you’ll provide a trail straight to my shop.”

“I’ve been working here for months,” she replied smoothly. “Even if you get rid of me now, you’ll still be under suspicion. In fact, you may look even more suspicious, as if you knew something and sacked me once you realised the officials were investigating.”

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Yor was obviously still squeezing her if she was this eager to keep her post. Clearly the former slayer had spent some time anticipating his concerns. She wasn’t wrong, firing her could be seen as suspicious, but there were other ways.

“You could just disappear,” Tyron said, his tone flat and emotionless, “vanish, no trace of you ever found. No one would ever connect your disappearance with a little Arcanist’s shop, and as they say, dead thralls tell no tales.”

Wansa’s eyes narrowed. She tried to disguise it, but she was clearly nervous. Her gaze flicked to the door.

“My mistress would be most displeased if harm were to befall me. She would demand a price.”

“She would,” Tyron agreed, “and that is the only reason you are alive. Return to your mistress once the store is closed tonight and tell her your time of employment here has come to an end. If you are here in the morning, you will be an undead before the sun goes down. Am I clear?”

The former silver ranked slayer swallowed nervously.

“Crystal,” she replied.

“Good.”

With a flick of his fingers, he indicated she should leave, which she did, expeditiously. Another loose end tied up. With that conversation taken care of, he returned to the upstairs workshop to continue instructing Flynn and added to the stock of cores that would be needed to tide the store over while he was away.

As evening fell, he farewelled his employees, locked up the store, and made his way down to the study. There, he was greeted by a spectral voice, emanating from an orb in the centre of his desk.

“It’s boring down here,” Filetta complained.

“You know how to sleep,” Tyron told her wearily, sitting down with a sigh.

“It’s boring to be asleep! Tyron, if I wanted to spend my time drifting in an eternal haze, I would have told you to leave me as a spirit! I agreed to be one of your experimental undead with free will, not a ghost stuck in a ball.”

“If it were that easy to do, I would have done it already,” he growled, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’m trying to uncover magick before the Unseen has provided it to me. Complex magick. There are steps. It takes time.”

“Time you don’t have,” the spirit replied, a little tartly. “I’m only going to tolerate this existence for so long before I go insane or demand you release me.”

Which was consistent with Dove’s experience. ‘Living’ in such a way was simply intolerable for people, to the point even someone with a highly trained mind, with the willpower of an experienced mage, could be driven to the brink.

“You’re right,” Tyron said, holding up his hands. “I know it’s difficult. I’m working as fast as I can, but I have to admit, it’s been difficult to make any progress.”

Which was putting it mildly. He felt like he was smashing his head into a wall in the hopes of eventually wearing away the stone. To create a Wight, a higher form of skeletal undead, he needed to make another qualitative leap. The key to making Revenants was to find a way to properly fuse the soul with the remains, connect the ghost and threads that allowed it to control its body.

To create a Wight, he theorised that it was necessary to forge a connection between the spirit and the Unseen, eventually instantiating them as a new, undead entity in its eyes. He’d worked out a method via which a spirit could cast a status ritual, but how was he supposed to build that into the process of creating an undead? This was the question to which he’d been trying, and failing to find an answer.

And now he’d run out of time.

“The Marshalls have been a lot more active this week than last,” he said.

Filetta sighed.

“I find it difficult to care about the struggles of the living, given that you killed me.”

“You tried to kill me first.”

“That’s such a comfort.”

“Fine. I only mention it to provide context to what I have to say next. I’ll be leaving in the next few days. Leaving Kenmor, I mean. I aim to spend a month in Cragwhistle, on the far western edge of the province. There’s a new rift there I can use to gain levels and practise my magick.”

“You want to leave me here for months on end? You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to just wait for you.”

And where exactly are you going to go?

He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. If he wanted to create a more independent min—undead, then he needed cooperation. If his experiment with Filetta didn’t work out, then he would free her spirit, as he’d promised.

It would be a waste of good materials, but he would do it.

“Obviously not,” he said. “I wanted to bring you with me and continue my work out there. It’s possible my next status ritual will divulge some clues that light the path forward. I know you may not want to come, so I gave you the context so you could make your own decision.”

The spirit contemplated from within her orb, a slight ethereal glow the only clue as to her presence within the mundane object.

“I appreciate you giving me the option,” she said finally, “I know you… don’t have to.”

“I’m not trying to force you into anything. This will only work if you are willing. The moment you don’t want to proceed, I will release your spirit.”

Filetta made a sound like a shaky release of breath. She’d spoken to him about what it was like, to be an unbound spirit. It didn’t sound great. Half awake, half asleep, drifting through a nightmare realm of fog and spectres who clawed at the living without being able to touch them.

As a Necromancer, Tyron thought it was well past time he found out what happened to the spirits of the living when they died. It was kind of his business, after all. The church of the divines preached that the souls of the worthy were collected by one of the Five and granted entry to their respective afterlife.

It might even be true. How was he to know?

He hadn’t lied to Filetta, though, he did believe that her spirit was bound for the realm of the dead, which he knew existed thanks to Dove’s Class description.

Perhaps it would prove to be a paradise for unclaimed spirits, but he doubted it. He doubted it very much.

“I’ll come with you,” the ghost said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m still willing to have another shot at life. Unlife. You know what I mean.”

That was a relief. Tyron smiled.

“Good. I’m determined to succeed, just you wait.”

He leaned back with a sigh and glanced around the room.

“Well, It’s going to be a busy few days. Need to get everything packed and prepared for the trip, and make sure there aren’t any signs of Death Magick for the inquisition to sniff out.”

“When will you be able to work on me again?”

“Not until we get there. A week, perhaps? I recommend you sleep until then. I’ll let you know when the time comes.”

“Fine.”

The light flickered and died around the orb as the spirit within returned to that subdued state Dove had referred to as ‘sleep’. One more problem taken care of.

Now all he had to do was pack everything up, prepare the undead for transport, take care of Filetta’s bones, ensure he had enough of his alchemical mixtures to work on new minions out in Cragwhistle….

And a thousand other things.

At least he had the Ossuary to help transport everything. Whatever he wanted to take with him, he could shove into the interdimensional space. There was plenty of floor space after all, one of the benefits of pouring in as much magick as he had. Once he was done, he could close the door here, then resummon it once he arrived at his destination. Much more convenient than paying to ship box after box of skeletons and bone weaponry.

It did mean, however, that he needed to summon all his minions out of the city’s sewers, which was going to stink.

“May as well get started,” he sighed.

He enjoyed Necromancy, but it was always such a dirty job.

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