Page 40 of Deadly Maiden (Dragons and Darkthings #1)

Wyntre

As soon as Rorsyd disappears into the blue, cloud-wreathed heavens, I head for the library. I’ve left the most promising books alone until now. Reading my parents’ account of their exploration of necromancy seemed tawdry considering where Rorsyd is going. I can never change what happened, but avoiding waving their past lives in his face seems…nicer. Is nice the right word? Respectful. That’s the one I want.

I leave the library door hooked open because the rear door to the valley is also wide open. The scents of greenery and the baaas of sheep will add a peaceful backdrop to my studies.

“So. Let’s get to work.” I smile at Kyvin, smack my hand onto a book, raising dust. He’s stuck to me like a lost puppy ever since we left the gate area. “I wish I really knew what was going on inside your mind.”

He blinks at me then trudges to a well-stuffed couch and sits. Which is when I notice the small red book he’s holding. An educational children’s book, from memory. I found it for him in Langordin.

He wants to learn, but what if he can’t progress?

I shake my head and find the third desk along, drag out my own chair. It squeaks on the grimy floor, leaving a track.

Four books are on this desk. All the desks have piles, since I was attempting to sort out the good from the ones unlikely to help. Though there must be others worth reading, these will keep me happy until Rorsyd returns this evening. Or tomorrow morning. He wasn’t sure as to the when, and might end up prowling the old battlefield, laying to rest his old memories.

Bookshelves loom from the left wall beyond Kyvin’s couch, as well as along the right wall, and the entire back of this library room is filled with long rows of ceiling-high shelves. It’s nothing like the Fromeaux Library in the breadth of knowledge covered by the books. On the other hand, all the ones I’ve examined have something to do with necromancy, magik, or Slaedorth.

My parents’ Necromantic Study Diary has gold-embossed lettering on the front. A heavy tome, for its size. Blue cover, nothing fancy except the title. I run my palm over it.

Or I could try…

The other books I stacked would be interesting— Research on the Magik of Necromancy , A History of Slaedorth , and a slim black volume titled, Comparative Magik— but, no.

I draw a breath and flip open the diary cover.

There are no pages. They’ve been carved out. The edges of the pages were glued into a semblance of a book. Just a hollow containing a shallow metal box lies concealed beneath the fake cover. The box facade with the decorative indentation reminds me of something.

I peer closer, trace the clocklike concavity. This is like the front of a safe. The center of this…

“ Ahh. The compass key.”

I jog to the rucksack left on the floor. We’ve made a habit of bringing them here every day, in case something surprise attacks us, some entity. I scoffed at that, but Rorsyd is all about being ready for unexplained shite. I shift aside the sword and belt I rested on top of the rucksack, search for that key, find it in a buttoned side pocket. Then I march back to the book and lower the compass, wriggle it to see if it will fit.

It fits, precisely, and a solid cautious turn in a clockwise direction is barely resisted. The mechanism allows it, making a series of clicks.

When it stops, hitting resistance, I pluck at the side latch and the metal front hinges open.

Inside is another book which I lift out.

My parents were clearly as paranoid as Rorsyd. What could possibly be so valuable that they’d hide it like this?

Outside, a loud baa signals a sheep is almost at the door. I ignore it and open the second cover to find a message written on tissue-paper tucked before the front page. The first page of the diary has a black-and-white illustration of creatures with long, curved, scary teeth similar to those on the silver door. But this message…

Dearest Wyntre,

We left this diary for you. I will assume our first letter found you as the raven will not deliver to anyone else. So. Welcome to Slaedorth, daughter.

I’m tearing up writing this. You’ve come to Slaedorth, despite our warning. We send you love and kisses and many, many squishy hugs.

If the war was lost by Orencia, Kyvin may be with you.

If he is, and if you have not yet discovered who he is, please go now and examine his name where it is tattooed upon his chest. No, not the first line, the second.

“What?” I look to him where he sits reading quietly, tracing the words on the page.

Then I read onward. Kyvin’s name will wait.

This diary is just an account of what we did. We came to Slaedorth long after it was derelict and abandoned. Us necromancers are rarer than dragonshifters now. We bear the brunt of much animosity from the average citizen. I know you will be a courageous woman as you have us in you, our fiber, our essence, our grit. You were born to be forthright and honest, a true warrior for the needy, a person who will resist tyrants, and generally bad people, and monsters. Of which there are many.

May this diary help you see what to do with your life, and how to achieve it.

Love Mother and Father.

Have you checked Kyvin? We both thought not. We will wait…

ONLY turn the page when you’ve done so.

Then they drew a smiley face. My parents are reaching out to me across the years and making a joke, giving me instructions. I bite my lip and swallow.

A large teardrop plops onto the page.

After drying the page with my sleeve, I shove back the chair and go to Kyvin. Leaning forward at the waist, I indicate his tattoo where it peeks from his tattered shirt.

“May I look?”

He places his book aside, stands up before me. “Yes,” he rasps.

“Okay. Thank you.”

It seems odd to do this, but I undo one more button on his shirt. There is nothing new to be found. Only that ornately written surname, Ashe below his first name. It appears the very top button was ripped off at some point. So, did they mean the Ashe part?

Kyvin Ashe . Wait.

To the right, another letter shows, but it’s written in lighter mauve-to-red ink. The trace of pinkish tattoo ink shows faintly but from this close I can read it. I suspect the color change was deliberate.

I stare at the new letter. It’s an R .

Asher not Ashe. A rare name whether first name or surname.

The only Asher I know of is…

“Asher Stryke. The brother of the Chained King.” I whisper those words through my hand where I’ve covered my mouth. As if anyone else will hear me.

Kyvin…or Asher, does not react.

“You can sit again. Read if you want?” I gesture for him to sit, and he does so.

He has no understanding of any of this. Why then? Why did they choose to make him an undead then send him to me? Is it even him? I might be wrong.

“Fuck. I need to read that diary.”

The second page of the message sticks to the first but I eventually peel them apart.

Yes, that is Asher. He is, or was, Asher Stryke, the brother of our king, Jannik Stryke.

In case you don’t know of his life, he died in the early days of our war against Zardrake. He was a good man, and would have been a great ruler, if Jannik was not already on the throne. The king of Zardrake, Madlin Darsh, is however not a good man. If he still reigns, be wary of him and his queen Ruelle.

“I have noticed.” Odd to be getting parental advice from the grave. Landos would have approved. I frown, sigh, wipe away the obligatory tear and read onward.

In these pages, toward the end, you will discover our attempts to utilize what we called dark matter. It can be deadly. Take precautions. Read our words before doing anything yourself.

“Too late.” I smile and trace the familiar signature below.

Love, Aislinn and Sabre Gothschild

So, they called darkthing matter by the term dark matter. Did Rorsyd overhear it being discussed back then? The labels are so similar it seems likely.

“Darkthing is better. Agreed Anathema?” He materializes below the desk, sniffs my feet then leaps onto the desk and curls up on the book stack. “They told me not to mess with stuff like you. Too late, hey.” He levers open one eye, sends a piercing look, then closes that eye and snuffles at his paws where they poke his face. “I don’t regret it at all.”

I turn to the first page of the actual diary writing then lean back in my chair to study Kyvin. Make that Asher. “I still don’t know why,” I muse. “Just an experiment? I doubt it.” I should skip to the end of the diary to find out the answer. I’m a fast reader though. A glance at the writing reveals most of it is quite legible. Thank the gods.

Decision made. I’ll skim and skip through to the good bits. Leave a bookmark of some sort if anything piques my interest. Yes.

I begin to read. The beginning is dated only a few years prior to their deaths.

The hours flit by. I have a late breakfast. Some of this makes for alarming imagery. The things my parents did trouble me. I leave a trail of amateur bookmarks created from torn paper.

Lunch outside with Kyvin, overlooking Slaedorth valley. Then more reading. More damn reading. My butt begins to ache.

No matter how startling the revelations, I keep reading, churn churning through the pages. My eyes feel like they’re made of dried-out parchment and filled with grit, but I need to know what I’m dealing with.

I yawn and look up, turn to sight the corridor. Sunlight still slants in. I’m three quarters through the diary, and the day is ending.

I traipse out to the forecourt, and open one wing of the gate enough to see what’s happening outside. Nothing really. The undead are less active. Should I make them rest, burrow under the earth again? I don’t know if I should. The books might tell me?

Keep reading then. Rorsyd will return tomorrow. I beckon Asher into the valley, summon Anathema, and we have a late game, kicking the ball to each other, and fetching it when it rolls too far, then kicking it again. Exercise done, I go to the library and grab the diary to take to bed with me, while being careful not to let any bookmarks fall from their places.

Did I lock the rear door?

I get up to check. Yes, I did.

Even with my acute ability to feel what lives, or unlives, in Slaedorth, I’m anxious by myself.

It’s close to midnight when I turn the final page on the diary and lay the book on the floor. I may have nightmares if I let what I read overwhelm me. Maybe I misread some of it? Tomorrow I will see. Instead of fretting, I count sheep in my head.

I turn over and pretend Rorsyd is here with his broad back heating the bed. It requires much imagination, but drowsiness wanders in, then a dream slips in to nestle beside it, then sleep claims me.

I dream of Rorsyd flying me across the skies.

A strangeness follows me, and I fall from his back. Falling falling…

The ground comes up.

Morning? Yes, it is.

Staring at the immensely high ceiling, I blink myself into wakefulness. Then I spring from the bed and run to look out that shuttered window. No sign of Rorsyd out there. If he was in the fortress, I would know. The front silver door needs a key to open, but he has the spare key.

“Damn.”

I amble out to the valley with a bowl of honeyed grains, some rock-hard bread, and a strip of the smoked meat Andacc left us. I am not yet willing to try the mutton Rorsyd prepared.

Asher is sitting with Anathema, and a sheep crops grass near him. He’s admiring the mountains. Or I imagine he is doing that. How did he get out here? I’m shocked and chagrined to realize I somehow locked him outside, all night.

Then I check the fortress and the sky behind us. Still no sign of Rorsyd. I will make use of my free time without my soulmate by running through what I found in my parents’ diary. The bizarre, somewhat ugly stuff needs airing, needs turning over in my brain.

Doing that in the fresh air is definitely best.

I fetch the diary and sit next to Asher. Asher, almost king of Orencia? If he had survived his brother’s capture, yes. He might have been king, but only for an instant. The Aos Sin had marched into Orencia by then. No one will consider him ruler material now.

Maybe I will be able to understand my parents’ intentions today? I know what they did to him, and it revolted me when I saw that in the diary. Perhaps I read it wrong? I was exhausted by then—late last night, my eyes were raw and bleary. And I was worrying about Rorsyd, even though he can take care of himself.

“Right. Rereading time.” I will do this methodically.

I turn to the first bookmark of note, take a spoonful of crunchy grains and nuts, then a swig of water to wash it down. There is some hard cheese somewhere in the rations. Must look for that later.

I load up the points to muse over. One . Raising an undead is mentioned in this early passage, but only after they found instructions in one of the textbooks here. No notes as to which. I’ve already gleaned the fact that the founder of this place is someone they call Yeavin the Shadow. Catchy name for a villain. It could have been his book. Must look in the aisles of shelves for his books.

Bookmark Two. Their first wondering about darkthing matter was one of their own breakthroughs. Same as me. Only it was not due to healing anyone or an animal. Theirs came from a newly dead man. Note. Darkthing matter can be extracted from the newly dead, if they suffered a wound that went gangrenous prior to death. But it must be extracted quite quickly.

Bookmark Three. They embarked on investigating the generation of gheist or getharum from etharum, but it appears they were unsuccessful and only extracted it from the ghosts of the dead soldiers brought here. Curious that I succeeded. They referred to a list in a textbook which has the different uses of etharum and its different forms. The textbook is the skinny Comparative Magik volume I already nabbed.

Must read that soon.

Asher has wandered inside Slaedorth, and the sun is getting high. I may have to retreat to the library to avoid sunburned skin.

I run through the next bookmarks, and these add little to what I have. Then…

Bookmark. Oh yes. This must have happened earlier, but they wrote it here.

They obtained permission to keep the corpses of killed Aos Sin soldiers and stored them here, and pulled a lot of darkthing matter from them. Were they all dead when they arrived? That part is unclear. The gheist must have come from some of them, too, obviously.

The war had begun.

Heart thudding, I rise and gather everything. My skin feels hot. My feet are heavy. My parents were venturing into the edges of what most would call evil, using necromancy on a large scale. Rorsyd saw it in that lower room, too, and neither of us twigged it might be this. It explains the missing body parts. They stored the darkthing matter somewhere and used it in battle.

I slink into the library, sit in my chair with a thump, and cradle my head, running my hands through my hair.

“Moving on. I need to know this.” I skimmed so much last night I lost the meaning of it all.

This time, today, I’m concentrating.

He isn’t back. I could check the front, but he isn’t.

The information in the diary builds a bigger picture. The war made them dare to do what they might otherwise never have tried.

Somewhere in Slaedorth is a vat they used for the darkthing matter. Do I want to find that? I’d have to find a plan of this place. We must have missed a room. Two rooms. Because…

I tap the current page.

There is also a place where a massive amount of gheist and etharum is hooked up to use for powering the pumps and lights. And it is still here. Somewhere.

Lunchtime passes. I nibble on something. Drink something. Reading lets me forget he is late.

The most condemning diary passage concerns experiments they did on what happens to the brain after death. Why did they? I’m not sure. TOD or time of death is mentioned. It’s useful in determining whether the dead can be harvested for darkthing matter or…here it is…or to have their brain copied and stored? The final bookmark is about trialing injecting it back into the undead. The diary ends there, with a reference to a room here called RM 31 where the TOD essence is stored.

After that, they went to where the Battle of Orish was fought, and they died.

“Fuck me.” I massage my aching temples. Should I find that room?

Of course, there is more in here about happy times and places they went on holiday before the war. On meeting practitioners of magik. On me. There is so much stuff about me. This is half a family diary. Half a necromancy one.

I’m not sure I like being mixed in with brain experiments.

I cannot let Rorsyd see this. It’s of little use in war?

I should be able to find a plan of Slaedorth in that history book. Late afternoon is rolling in. He’s not here. I’m getting so anxious I cannot think in straight lines.

I shouldn’t have let him go anywhere by himself.

And…he will laugh at me when I tell him I thought this.

The volume about this place is inches away, and I side-eye it then drag the book off the small stack making a thump and a miniature dust cloud. In the front matter, after the title, I find it—the floor plan for Slaedorth.

Room 31 is on the lower level. I trace the corridor and the room that branches off and goes to RM 31 . That’s the same room where the mummified corpses are lying on slabs. Okay, easily checked. Why not look. It will be a good distraction that might scare the pants off me. Brain recordings after death? Some things do seem closer to essentially evil. I may be condemning my parents there.

I shrug and slip off the chair, beckoning to Kyvin to follow me. Anathema appears at my heels, stubby tail twitching. As if I need them both, as if we go to confront some dire enemy.

I frown at Anathema. “Is this necessary?” He ignores me.

Downstairs, I carry our etharum torch, unlit for now, in case the power fails. The gloom here is deeper than elsewhere, though that may be designed to conserve power. I slink into the corpse room and traipse between the slab tables, heading for the back wall, left corner, where a darker shadow conceals whatever is there.

A door coalesces into view, confirming the plan.

Once its open, etharum lights glow to life on the walls. It’s stark, with shelves only, a narrow room about twice as big as the bookcart. The shelves line the rear wall and bear rows of rust-marred, magik-shielding, iron boxes. As I run a finger along the front edge of each shelf, I check each label, crack open a few boxes and look inside. Most contain tiny samples—variations of darkthing matter extracted after different TOD times.

But one shelf has only three boxes and these are all labelled: Brain imprint within five minutes of TOD, with a person’s name below. Inside each is a marble-sized sphere of darkthing matter. The last box bears a name that’s like an ice shard stuck through me, freezes my breath, jumbles thoughts.

“Asher Stryke! Fuck me. Mother…Father… Why?”

Raising him as an undead, that I have grown used to. In a way it preserved him, gave him something, maybe it was a good gesture? But this, storing the very essence of his being? His thoughts, his memories, the way he walks and talks and makes decisions, if I am to believe what the diary says. Is that not sacrilege? Or did they have some notion to somehow bring him back to life if they had to?

Maybe?

I take back my curse. What if we, I, could do that?

Asher aka Kyvin stands in the doorway, silent, unaware of my fussing and my shock.

“I’d ask your opinion, but I’m not sure it would help either of us?” Still, I go up to him and then I do ask, “If I could make you a man again, alive again, would you want me to do that?”

He blinks four times, and I’m counting blinks like this answer actually means something. Then he says, “Yes.” The grated word is louder than his normal volume, and I take a startled step backward.

“Well.” I suck in a long breath, feeling my nostrils flare. “Then we should try.”

Certainly, no one would ever allow an undead to rule them. But Asher Stryke, a live, functioning man? Maybe?

Questions would be thrown at him. Like where in hell did you come from?

Kyvin…no, it’s Asher. Must remember that. Asher turns away and wanders down an aisle between the slabs.

This probably won’t be feasible.

I’m torn as to whether to try. Two other samples are in here. Donder S . I squint at the second label. “Harrod? Is that you, Harrod, whoever you are? Okay. We could try with you two first.” I have no attachment to these dead men. I don’t have their undead bodies, either, but surely that won’t matter? I only need to reverse the dying…on some undead to trial this. Inject the imprinted darkthing into the brain, meld it into one structure. I visualize it spreading in tiny filaments through the brain, like a fungus through a dark forest, and I’m suddenly eager to try this.

Except Asher has to look like Asher.

If it works, I need to make Asher alive again, after being dead twenty years. Start small with someone newly dead? And who is going to deliver themselves for that to happen to them?

I close the door and stroll toward the front, thinking, wondering about this unearthly road I am contemplating.

It feels like a boulder starting to roll downhill. Like an explosion frozen and slowed down but ready to brighten the world with its stark destruction. Like dragon flame newly spawned as a tiny ember in the dragon’s mouth. If there is a prophecy, this is the one, this is it. Not princesses, not dragons, but a prince with a throne as yet unclaimed.

His brother, Jannik, lives but his sanity and ability to rule would be questionable.

So would be the abilities of a resurrected man.

I contort my face, mouth twisting. “Yep. This is impossible.”

When I emerge from the lower level, the sun is descending. Night slowly falls while I sit on the step before the front silver door. And I am still alone.

Out here, what I saw in that room seems a dream. I retreat to the bedroom.

When morning comes around, I’ve been awake for the past few hours, restless, pacing the corridors. My main problem, now that Rorsyd still has not appeared, is that I’m penned in by those enforcers. I cannot fly out of here, or ride, if I even had a horse.

Unless I command the undead to overrun the encampment?

I dress and arm myself, choke down some food in a dead-dry throat. Then I go out the gate to study the road by which we arrived. I guess I have to take a chance. No horse. No dragonshifter. And a stomach churning with worry. As I advance, Asher appears at my side, having somehow caught up despite his shuffling, awkward gait. Then Anathema appears and bounces along with us.

“Reinforcements?” I smile at them both. “The Terrible Trio?”

“Yes. We come.” Asher smiles the creepy smile of an undead.

“Thank you. Both of you.”

Slowly, I spread my arms, position my palms upward, then raise my arms to the heavens. Faces turn, and their feet shift in the dirt. They follow me, my shambling, groaning crowd of the lost.

I bring with us an entourage of the undead, though we three are at the pinnacle of this scattered, slow-moving triangle. From above it would look pretty horrible. I look back, to left and right, at my small army with their scrambled-egg faces and shattered bodies.

Ugly, but they are mine.

If we have to, we can fight. I loosen my sword in the scabbard as we near the site where they camped. Three tents remain, half toppled, with two enforcers who retreat slowly, and a tall woman in a purple, hooded tunic and leggings, who stands beside a pale gray mare. Her face is covered in purple script and tiny scars, and her long brunette hair is gathered in a translucent strip of cloth that flutters in the breeze.

I command my undead to stop at my back, but out on the wings, the farthest of them amble forward, quietly, making a pincer movement to envelop the site from the rear. Those enforcers can stay put until I’m ready to deal with them.

This woman, however? A Sister of Artreos? They worship our world and our magik, are known for their ambivalence to fae politics and disagreements.

“Greetings, young Wyntre.” She inclines her head, looking down her elegant nose. “Well met.”

“Well…met? I think this is more like worst met. Why are you here when I expected only enforcers? Have the rest fled?”

Surely, I would have seen signs of them doing so, if it only just happened?

“I come bearing both unfortunate and good news. For the first, I offer my sorrow.” Her face is grim.

“What is it?” My throat tightens, but I manage to get more words out. “I have no one left to lose except Rorsyd. It cannot be him.” A flat statement that I do not want refuted.

The tiny frown line that creases her forehead seems a harbinger. “I am so sorry. The bad news does concern your soulmate.”

The world stalls, silences. I hear myself speak as if from a distance. “Tell me then.”

“He has been captured by enforcers. They ambushed him at the gravesite of Orish.”

I rock on my feet, dizzied. After that, how can there be any good news? “How? He is alive?”

“Yes, but sorely injured. They sank an iron spear into him to quell his dragonshifter magik and are taking him to Tensorga to be displayed.”

Displayed? My jaw tenses. What does that even mean?

She merely waits. I resist sinking to the ground and wailing.

This is it. In this moment, I feel the fracture in my world, creating the two paths I could take.

Go this way or that way. Choose.

One requires less from me, just natural reaction and a willingness to not push past any boundaries placed on me by gender, by physical presence, or by the resources I can call my own. I have no armies at my feet. No legions of advisors. Well, I do have a small undead army, but will they even count?

The second path will be terrible and destructive but may be the better path. It is the only path that delivers a chance to bring back my soulmate.

Though the first path is simple, I do not trust King Madlin. Give in and cry and crawl to him and beg for Rorsyd’s life? It would be the ultimate weakness to do so. We would end up dead.

“Fuck that,” I whisper to myself. How fucking dare he.

I can no longer afford any weakness if I am to rescue Rorsyd. I am stronger than that. I will walk the second path.

I clench my fists, pull myself taller. I am a necromancer, and I will find a way to wrench this king from his throne, and with my hand at his throat, I will rescue my soulmate. “Tell me the rest.” My voice croaks, my anger sizzling in my veins.

No. More. Weakness.

“The good news is that the Sisters of Artreos are ready to aid your cause, though the king believes we are on his side. He believes we are simply giving you his message. Those men behind me know nothing.”

Unless they overhear her words.

Then she smiles the gentle smile of someone who is thoroughly at peace.

Me, I close my fist in a gesture that summons the undead encircling the site to close in and take the two enforcers in their undead hands. The men shriek until they are gagged by whatever my small but merciless army finds to shove in their mouths.

I have no sympathy for these soldiers. Not with Rorsyd having an iron spear stuck through him then being put on display by the king, as if he were some trophy.