Page 50 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

MISCHE

W hen Asar had said necromancers —plural—I’d been hesitant.

I had, after all, only conducted necromancy once, and it hadn’t exactly gone well.

But when Asar had extended a hand to me like my participation was just a natural given, I found myself sliding into the spell work like it was a second skin.

Ironically, conducting necromancy made me feel more alive than I had in days.

Sylina observed us work with fascination, and Atrius sat back with considerably more wariness. Necromancy, apparently, was too much for even the Bloodborn’s well-trained horses, who clustered at the other end of the bridge, as far away from us as they could get.

I sensed the Keeper’s soul nearby, a blurry presence lingering just out of sight.

It was easy—instinctual, even—to craft the glyphs that would lead him back.

Still, the logistics of the spell were challenging.

We didn’t have a lot of space considering the size of the Keeper’s body, which was so heavy that it took all four of us—plus Luce—just to drag him away from the wall.

None of us had known much about the Keeper in life, which made it difficult to choose the five components of his ritual circle, especially since we were limited to what we could find in this room.

“The components are more symbolic than literal,” Asar said, at my trepidation. “As long as we’re able to sense their connection to him in some way, they can work.”

On the surface, this was not a helpful answer. But once I began working, it made perfect sense. Some innate, intangible part of me was able to tell which items were close enough to the Keeper’s essence and which weren’t, even if I couldn’t explain why.

In the end, after much trial and error, Asar and I crafted a complete ritual circle around the corpse.

Body was represented by a bloody piece of stone where he’d fallen.

His sword, which was so heavy Asar and Atrius had needed to drag it across the bridge together, represented breath—the thrill of battle.

Psyche had been challenging, but after many failed attempts, I found a beaded bracelet tucked away in the pocket of his belt—so small it nearly disappeared into the seam.

A relic of his past, clearly. For secrets, we took a lock of Atrius’s hair to represent the shame of battles lost.

That left only soul. This had been tricky. The others rummaged through every little stone, every possession on the Keeper’s corpse, in search of some trinket that would work, but I shook my head at each one.

Finally, on a hunch, I crouched at the edge of the bridge, staring down at the snow beneath it, glowing faintly.

“Why do you think this is here?” I asked.

“It’s preserved by magic.” Sylina knelt next to me. She reached out to take a handful. “I can tell it has come a long way. The threads are different from everything else here.”

I reached into it, too, letting it sift through my fingers. The ghostly almost-shadow of the Keeper’s soul, still just out of sight, stirred. I felt a tug on some intangible link between them.

Even though I couldn’t explain how I knew it, I sensed that this snow had been precious to someone. A connection to a previous life.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that maybe it’s here because it came from his home.”

Atrius said that the Keeper had taken it upon himself to guard this gate to the deadlands. He had confined the rest of his endless, immortal life to this tiny room. Perhaps he had wanted to bring one piece, however small, of his old life.

What was soul-deep, if not that?

A handful of enchanted snow became the final piece of our circle, the spokes of the wheel now complete.

When it was done, Asar and I surveyed our handiwork in satisfaction. I was beaming so hard my cheeks ached.

“Beautiful work, Dawndrinker,” Asar said.

“Not bad yourself, Warden,” I said. “Not bad at all.”

A map to help a soul to walk back to life. Stunning.

Atrius, who’d been lounging against the wall looking bored, rose and picked up his sword. “Yes, wonderful. Now bring him back, we’ll defeat him, and then finally be on our way.”

I looked at the Keeper’s slackened face and felt a little sad for him. “Seems impolite to drag someone back from death just to immediately start hacking at them.”

“I’m certain he won’t have as many qualms about coming after us once he’s back,” Atrius said.

“He’ll likely be?.?.?.?unhappy to see us,” Asar agreed. “I’ve resurrected my fair share of warriors, and they usually come back angry.”

“At least he’ll be alive afterward,” Sylina said. “A fair repayment for a little humiliation.”

Still sounded like a very bad day for the Keeper to me.

I turned to Asar. “Alright. Then go ahead.”

But he just stared expectantly back at me and gestured to the ritual circle.

My brows arched. “Me?”

“If the Keeper is as enraged as I suspect he will be, we’ll need to be prepared, and whoever conducts the ritual will be distracted.”

Which meant Asar—and his drop of god blood—would be more useful ready to fight than entangled in the spell during those crucial seconds when the Keeper awoke.

Still, I was uneasy.

How do you even known that I’m capable of doing it? I asked him silently. I’m dead myself.

You have a stronger grip on your magic than you ever have. The dead will happily follow you anywhere. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk that made my not-heart flip in my chest. As they should. They have exquisite taste.

Gods damn this man. What could I even say to that?

I sighed. “Fine.”

I knelt by the ritual circle, staring down at the etchings in the stone. I was acutely aware of everyone’s stares, especially Atrius’s—mildly interested—and Sylina’s—deeply interested.

How do I start? I asked Asar, too embarrassed to say the question aloud.

He gave me a knowing look before unsheathing his sword.

Let’s not ask stupid questions, he said. You’ve done this before. You already know.

You’re such a frustrating teacher.

As if you were any less cryptic in your day, missionary of the “You Just Have to Believe in Yourself.”

Gods above, he really did know me.

I closed my eyes and pressed my hands to the glyphs.

Last time we’d conducted a ritual like this, Asar had been beside me—he was the needle and I the thread.

Now, I held both, but the pattern before me was so simple.

Each glyph, each offering, was a plot on a map from death to life, designed for a single soul.

I no longer was conscious of everyone watching me, nor the bridge nor the door.

Instead, I peered past the veil, into the realm of the dead.

I could sense the bounds where the underworld should be, like indentations in a copper gear, but none of them fit together properly.

The veil was tattered, bleeding. The souls of the dead wandered in chaos.

Once they felt my presence, they rushed for me.

Please help ? —

—looking for ? —

—so lost ? —

My heart ached for them. It was a terrible, endless fate. Soon you’ll be at peace, I promised them.

But none of these were the soul I was looking for. I kept returning to the offerings we’d collected and the map we’d drawn.

And then, at last, there he was.

He was unmistakable. I’d already familiarized myself with him in the creation of the ritual circle—the only solution to the puzzle we’d created. He hadn’t been gone long. Some of the dead that reached for me had degraded beyond recognition, but he was still whole.

I cast the web out for him, and pulled, thread by thread.

In another world very far away, his body twitched, sending the ground trembling. “Be ready!” Atrius commanded.

As I urged him closer, the Keeper’s life rushed by me in a thousand fragmented glimpses—a birth in a place of snow and stone, a life in a grand bustling city, years of loyal watch.

His soul was difficult to grasp once it approached, big and unwieldy. He rushed closer to life, first slowly, then faster.

Faster—

The ground shook. In the physical world, the Keeper’s body flailed. Shadows looped around his limbs, Asar’s attempt to pin him down, but they wouldn’t hold for long.

In the realm beneath this one, the Keeper’s eyes snapped open and met mine.

He resisted me. He didn’t want to return. But I had him ensnared now, triangulated between all these pieces of his essence. I pulled harder, a roar of exertion escaping between my teeth. Darkness spilled from my fingertips, flooding through the glyphs.

The images sped up. Years and years of watch here, upon this bridge. Countless battles, won and lost.

And then?—

Death.

I felt the blade in his gut. Felt his skin tear, his intestines ooze free. Tasted something sour, felt the unmistakable whisper of a god’s breath over his skin. A metallic, rhythmic tick rang in time to the final beats of his heart— click click click click ?—

A realization dawned on me, as I lived that last breath with him—that when he died, his sword had been left untouched, and he had felt nothing but grim resignation.

The Keeper’s soul barreled toward me, faster, faster. Greater than that of a mortal. Greater than I could control.

I tried to shout a warning to the others. Tried and failed.

Because the sound drowned beneath the Keeper’s bellow as he crashed back into the land of the living.

I flew back against the wall. The ritual circle exploded in a burst of darkness. The ground trembled.

And the Keeper’s massive body rose, and rose, and rose, as he stood and let out a bone-trembling roar.