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D uring Ambrose’s service to the witch king, the witch king had died twice.

Once, it had been poison. At a feast with an allied prince, the witch king had taken ill.

He ordered Ambrose to take him to his chamber and ensure no one, not even the physicians, was allowed in.

After an agony of hours, he’d finally passed.

Ambrose had knelt by his deathbed until morning, waiting.

Eventually, sunny life returned to the pallid gray of the witch king’s face.

Vigor returned to his body, once locked in rigor mortis.

When he’d sat up, he’d asked for a glass of water, then asked who had done it.

There had been no evidence. The cooks claimed no knowledge. Ambrose had been ordered to dispatch them all for their negligence. The prince insisted he’d had nothing to do with it, that he would never.

The witch king went to war with him anyway.

The second time had been more difficult to hide: a fatal wound to the neck on the battlefield.

Ambrose had to drag his king into a tent under the guise he’d still been breathing and physically force the medics to leave for their own good.

If they’d witnessed him return from death, he would have had them killed.

Instead, people began to think Ambrose had some magical ability to heal.

He’d been observed healing admirably from scrapes himself, though he’d never been so invulnerable as the rumors claimed.

It meant they did not know the witch king was immortal, but that had another adverse effect: They saw Ambrose as the key to the king’s vitality, and didn’t know just how right they were.

So long as you live, so will I.

It appeared Morcant’s idolatry of the witch king had gone much further than they’d known. He’d found a way to cheat death, too.

Emery didn’t move, didn’t speak. He abandoned his liar’s facade and stared, uncomprehending, eyes wide.

“Dad,” said Hellebore. She did an admirable job subduing her feelings, but Ambrose could see her shaking.

“You both look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Morcant said. “Which is appropriate for today’s lesson. We’ll be taking a little field trip. Give me a moment.”

He reached for his tithe belt, but he wasn’t wearing it. Probably because the acidic bog had destroyed its contents.

Ambrose couldn’t quite believe he planned on moving forward with their lesson as usual. He kept waiting for some punishment, or for Morcant to call him out from his invisible hiding place.

Grim Wolf , he’d said before dying.

“I appear to have misplaced my tithe belt. Would you lend me some bone powder, Hellebore?”

At the sound of her name, she jerked into motion, fumbling a liberal amount into her father’s palm.

Emery still hadn’t moved, watching Morcant as though he was a mirage. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t ask the question they both wished to know.

How did you do it? How are you here?

Morcant went up the steps. Portals couldn’t be opened within the mausoleum’s wards, so he waited until he got to the top. He tossed the bone powder in the doorway, blocking the one exit from the mausoleum. “Come now, we have to make up for lost time.”

The other initiates obediently filed through the portal. Hellebore lingered a moment longer until her father nodded, and she went through.

Emery hadn’t moved. The narrow stairway would force him to squeeze past Morcant, a nearness that felt perilous.

They didn’t know what he had planned, but it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Portals didn’t transmit sound, so none of the other initiates heard Morcant say, “Feel free to bring your little pet.”

Emery stayed at the foot of the stairs, frozen in place. Ambrose, invisible behind him, didn’t wish for the other students to see him, nor did he want Emery to feel alone.

He touched Emery’s hand, balled into a fist. Emery jerked at first, surprised, then relaxed into his touch. Low in his ear, Ambrose said, “If you want me to kill him again, it can be done.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Morcant, the tunnel capturing the sound of Ambrose’s voice. “It would only be temporary, and things would get awfully messy if I had to raise assault charges against you. Very difficult to finish your education from behind bars.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Emery said softly.

“I’m teaching a lesson, as usual. We’ll see if you learn it.” He paused, tilting his head. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about. That wouldn’t teach you anything.”

They had little choice. With the only exit blocked, their best hope was to portal somewhere else the moment they emerged on the other side.

“After you,” Morcant said.

Emery hesitated, then released Ambrose’s hand and started up the steps. The passage wasn’t wide enough to walk two abreast, so Ambrose kept as close to his back as possible. Morcant ushered them through.

Ambrose, preparing for the momentary pain of separation the portal would cause, didn’t notice Morcant slapping a hand to the back of Emery’s neck until it was too late.

Emery let out a yell of pain. Ambrose could do nothing from his disadvantaged position on the lower step, but he could see the mark left behind on Emery’s neck. A rune glowed like cinders there.

“Just to ensure you don’t try to run,” Morcant said. “You’ll only be able to use my portals, not your own. The spell will wear off after an hour.”

Emery rubbed the back of his neck, the mark fading from an ember glow to sooty black.

Ambrose’s heart hammered. They would have to endure whatever punishment Morcant had devised.

Ambrose had once wondered why Morcant tolerated Emery’s impunity so often when he seemed perfectly capable of getting Emery imprisoned or expelled, considering both his wealth of power and his ability to manipulate the perceptions of the faculty.

Now, he saw that it was a game, the aim of which was to control Emery completely.

These thoughts frayed the weave of Ambrose’s convictions, as his mind drew unerring parallels to someone else he’d known.

Emery said, “Fine.”

Morcant put his back to the wall to let Emery pass. Just as Emery reached the portal, Ambrose wound an arm around his waist. They passed through as one, the momentary tear at Ambrose’s collar barely making him wince. They stumbled out the other side into a graveyard.

Ambrose didn’t remove his arm right away. He whispered quickly, “Tell me what I can do to protect you.”

Emery’s heart beat so hard Ambrose could feel it through his back where they were pressed together. “Just don’t let him kill me?”

The tremor in his voice made Ambrose ache. He’d always had a weakness for those who entrusted him with their protection. What’s more, Emery hadn’t compelled him. He wasn’t being ordered. He was being asked.

His chest felt like an oven, hot and hard to breathe.

“I can do that.”

He released Emery just as Morcant came through the portal behind them.

“Initiates,” Morcant said. “Today we will be practicing the simple art of spirit summoning. Though these spells aren’t terribly complex, they do require a degree of …

shall we call it sensitivity? To the arcane, occult, and otherworldly.

This sensitivity can atrophy with disuse, so consider this exercising the muscle. Now, follow me.”

The necropolis where the guild held their vigils had weathered untold centuries, but here the graves shone with polish, some with detailed portraits above lengthy inscriptions. Aside from a few older plots, most seemed well-kept, the gardens of aster and autumn crocus tidy and free of leaf litter.

Morcant approached a tombstone with fresh flowers laid in front of it. He’d already prepared the spot. Silk covered the gravestone like a funeral shroud, with a candle and a parcel of leaves and twine placed on top of it.

“This exercise will be old hat for our veteran guild members, so … Emery. Care to give our newest students a demonstration?”

Emery narrowed his eyes at the tableau. Ambrose understood his skepticism. As punishments went, this one was suspiciously benign.

“Well?” Morcant prompted.

Emery swallowed and took a step forward. Ambrose couldn’t follow him through the crowd of initiates to the grave plot, not without bumping into someone. He edged around the perimeter.

Morcant produced a matchbox and held it out. Emery took it like it might be a stinging nettle, but nothing happened. He struck a match and lit the candle, then ignited the string of the wrapped parcel.

“Dried hawthorn leaves, marigold petals, and wild blackberries,” Morcant explained.

“Burn these to thin the veil between this world and the next. The tithes are helpful, but not required. All that is truly required comes from within the witch. Magical theory disputes what, in lieu of physical tithes, allows some witches an easier time communicating with the dead than others. A popular theory is that witches with more empathy and love draw spirits to them like moths to flame. But we’ll likely never know for certain. ”

If that were true, Morcant would be incapable.

Ambrose studied the students’ faces, wondering what they made of all this.

Saoirse listened intently, her expression studious, but a little confusion flickered in her face whenever she glanced at Hellebore, who hadn’t spoken and looked nearly as uncomfortable as Emery.

The others’ faces ranged from confused to exhausted. None of them offered Ambrose an answer to what Morcant intended to do.

“Go ahead, Emery,” Morcant said. “Show them how it’s done.”

The parcel’s twine acted like a wick, carrying the flame to the dried herbs within.

They caught faster than the leaves woven to encase them, which were still a lively green.

It burned like a lantern, glowing from within, the scent making Ambrose’s throat itch.

In the amber light, a track of sweat ran from Emery’s temple to his jaw.

He took a step back from the grave. When he opened his hands, fingers bent into claw shapes as if trying to dredge the earth, the air chilled. Ambrose had to breathe shallowly to avoid making visible clouds of vapor with every exhale.

Emery gritted his teeth, concentrating. A few wisps of ghostly light filtered up from the earth like motes of dust, drifting and converging into mist. Emery paled in their spectral glow.

“It does not normally take so long,” Morcant said. “You’re out of practice.”

“Or getting old,” Saoirse jibed. She looked to Hellebore, expecting her to carry on their usual banter, but she seemed in no mood, watching everything with her arms crossed. Not her usual, confident posture but defensive, warding against what was to come.

“Or he’s stalling,” Morcant said.

Emery clamped his eyes shut and twisted his neck, as if weathering a wave of pain. A few specks of light seemed to drift like rain from the spirit mist, watering the grave. He was losing his grasp on it.

“I hope you haven’t developed a sudden phobia of ghosts,” Morcant said. “That would be unfortunate for a necromancer.”

The initiates tittered nervously. Emery’s fingers made the tense, crooked shapes of spider legs as he rallied his concentration. A few more motes of light joined the rest.

Morcant looked like a smug predator watching its prey take one delicate step after another toward an ambush. Ambrose edged closer, ready to intervene if Morcant tried to cast a spell.

“Or,” Morcant said, “could it be you’re afraid of what this particular spirit has to say?”

“What?” Emery gasped between clenched teeth.

The mist shifted and resolved into a vaguely human shape, completely transparent except for the place its heart would be, and a sound that was half moan, half speech filled the graveyard.

“Y-you!?”

Morcant moved with swift subtlety. His hand vanished into a sleeve. Ambrose didn’t know what spell he’d prepared, but he knew he wouldn’t let it reach its target.

He ran to place himself between Morcant and Emery, making no attempt to disguise the sound of his footsteps.

The other students startled, the word “ghost” whispered between them, then they shrieked as a gale-force wind blasted through them.

Something shiny had collapsed in Morcant’s clenched fist. Ambrose staggered to a stop, bracing against the wind. The students wearing hats held them on, robes flapping. Emery’s candle guttered and fell from the tombstone, taking the silk and herbs with it.

A wind spell? Had he done it to interrupt Emery’s concentration?

It hadn’t worked. Emery still dragged at the ephemeral scraps of spirit, the assembled glow hanging in the air before him, but something made the initiates stir. A hush fell over them. Ambrose followed their gazes to the tombstone’s inscription, revealed when the silk shroud had been blown away.

He knew the moment Emery’s focus had diverted long enough to read it, because the air suddenly warmed with his lost concentration.

The assembled dust of the spirit scattered to the wind.

Emery stared at the grave. He looked stricken, worse than he had upon seeing Morcant walk down those steps, hale and whole.

Ambrose didn’t understand the nature of the war unfolding before him, and he couldn’t read the inscription himself, but he was sure of one thing.

Emery had known whoever was buried here.

“Can’t do it?” Morcant said. “That’s disappointing, when you were once my best and brightest.”

Without warning, Emery lunged at him.