Rivermoore frowned. "…You believe you'll get anywhere groping around in
the dark? My workshop is hardly that small. Can you find what you seek?"
"That, I don't know. But we're in a hurry, so our search will be rather reckless.
Who knows what damage we'll do on the way. What if something that matters
got hurt?"
Oliver let that line hang. The more a mage pursued singular magecraft, the
more they stood to lose if their workshop got raided. Especially when preparing
for a major ritual. It would be impossible to put that out of mind and focus on
the fight at hand. That was why Lesedi had told them ahead of time—their
target was not Rivermoore but what lay behind him.
"…Is that a threat?"
"No. I'm proposing a deal."
Refusing to wither in the face of the warlock's glower, Oliver got down to
brass tacks. This was likely the sole route to ending this mess in any positive
light.
"We'll be taking back President Godfrey's bone. But—after you've achieved
your goal. We can wait until your ritual is complete. Our goals need not be
opposed; both can be achieved to our mutual satisfaction. Correct?"
"Ha?!" Tim snarled, glaring at him.
"This meat has a mouth on him," Rivermoore growled. "You speak like you've
deduced my intentions."
"You're resurrecting a coffin discovered here. And salvaging necromancy lost
to time."
That certainly made Rivermoore waver.
"That's not a deduction. We know. We gathered the bone fragments from
your undead, and my sister read your memories from them. Allow me to
apologize for intruding on your past uninvited."
"…The Sherwood girl? Quite a stunt you had hidden up your sleeve."
He gave Shannon some side-eye, but then Yuri called out from the rear
passage.
"Oliver! Let me say the rest. I've figured some things out after seeing the
undead here. Mind playing along and seeing if I'm right, Mr. Rivermoore?"
"…I'm curious. Do go on," Rivermoore said, his back still mostly turned toward
Yuri.
"The core of your magic is etheric bonding."
" !"
"The undead, by their nature, do not grow. You might get them to re-create
what they knew in life, but once dead, they fundamentally can't learn new
things. Yet, the undead you wield are full of surprises. Skelebeasts that
reassemble themselves into new forms, wyverns fused with the dragoon riding
them, zahhaks that bust out totally different skills in the middle of the fight—no
way they could do any of that while alive. This whole time, I've been trying to
figure out how you can even do that."
Yuri spoke eloquently, his voice rising and falling—almost like a song. Oliver
could tell from listening: He was having fun. All peril forgotten, simply digging
into the secrets of the Case of the Stolen Bones.
"And my answer: You've been joining etheric bodies. Stitching different
ethers together, manufacturing new undead. Ether is closer to a being's true
nature than the flesh ever will be, so if you can connect them up, alterations to
the container are the easy part. To you, bones with ether affixed to them are
like glue-covered wood."
"..."
"The key here is that it's bonding, not fusion. Pure speculation, but I bet if
they meld into each other, it doesn't work. They'll lose their individuality, like
the restless hordes do. The essence lies in connecting the undead to these
etheric outlines, preserving the nature they had in life. That's why you put so
much effort into managing the undead. To preserve the contours of their being,
to prevent them forgetting who they were—that's why you re-created the
fallen kingdom here."
Yuri broke off, swinging his athame in a circle. He wasn't casting any magic, so
Oliver took this as a gesture born of heightened enthusiasm. Unspooling this
mystery had him at peak excitement.
"Back to the point. Resurrecting this ghost requires a flesh equivalent to what
she had in life. Naturally, there's no hope that her body would have survived
the last thousand years. You have to make a new one from scratch, but
obviously this can't be some slapdash puppet. If you need her to reproduce
ancient necromancy, post-resurrection, she has to be capable of acting like a
mage."
Yuri wasn't hesitating to break down the sorcery of a mage far beyond his
capabilities. Oliver remembered the phrase "curiosity killed the cat" and
shuddered. Even if Yuri had come here without a single ally, he would have
done the exact same thing.
"That's why you've been stealing students' bones. Carefully, painstakingly
selected mage bones assembled into flesh worthy of the one you wish to revive.
And the last piece you needed was President Godfrey's bone. Which means—
you're poised to attempt the resurrection ritual that's been the focus of your
entire life."
Yuri brought things to a rousing close, and Rivermoore folded his arms.
"…Loath as I am to admit it, you're right on the money," he said. "But why the
optimistic belief that Purgatory's bone will survive the ritual intact? Usage
incurs degradation. At the least, alteration."
"But we have evidence to the contrary. The fragments of your bones we
recovered from those undead have not been altered. Since Ms. Shannon could
read the memories from them, that much is clear."
Yuri had clearly anticipated this question. Every scrap of information they'd
acquired on the way in was a clue leading him to the solution.
"You're using ether as glue to hold the container's flesh together. With the
resurrection, the techniques involved will be on a much higher level, but the
principle is the same. It's easy enough to imagine that your bone fragments in
those undead were that link and played a core role—if they survive intact, then
there's no reason to assume President Godfrey's bone will be damaged,
especially since it's just one of many. They're bound together, but not fused—
and that suggests the process is reversible. Right, Oliver?"
Rattled by the pop quiz, Oliver thought for a second, then said, "I'm with Yuri.
And I'd add that when we defeated the wyvern rider, we saw a portion of the
creature still moving, severed from the whole. I assume that's because it was no
longer in contact with your bone, and thus the connection to the ether was
severed. That also suggests your etheric bonding is reversible."
Rivermoore's frown was deepening, and Oliver took that as a sign to press his
advantage.
"Naturally, there's an element of risk. Our analysis is partly speculative, and
it's possible the bone will be damaged for reasons even you can't anticipate.
Even so—balanced against the losses both sides will incur if this fight continues,
I'd say those risks are well worth taking. Wouldn't you, Mr. Rivermoore?"
Pressed for a commitment, Rivermoore's silence was weighty. His eyes left
Oliver and turned to Tim, who still looked ready for murder.
"…Lesedi intentionally sent the Toxic Gasser in here to force me to the
negotiating table. She always did have a knack for plays that could easily go very
wrong but somehow don't."
Oliver privately agreed. Without Tim Linton's volatile nature, these talks
would never have begun. Not just because his poison had opened the hole in
the wall—but because his very presence here could well wreck the entire
workshop, and Rivermoore could hardly overlook that. Lesedi's plan had hinged
on taking his life's work hostage.
The next silence was even longer. His expression showed no dramatic
changes, but there were clear signs of turmoil and strife. At long last, those
faded away, and the warlock lowered his wand.
".........Fine. It is hardly what I intended, but I shall upgrade you from
grave robbers to guests. In appreciation of your 'solution.'"
Despite Rivermoore's words, he looked ready to rip Yuri's head off. Yet, Yuri
just grinned back, looking proud of himself. Rivermoore snorted and turned
toward him.
"But you will mind your manners. This is a tomb. Respect the dead within."
Meanwhile, the turns at the front line had ripple effects on the defenses
above.
"Hmm."
Lesedi's foot pulverized another ghoul, and she ground to a halt. A ripple of
confusion ran through the crowd. The relentless army of undead attackers was
now standing stock-still, like so many scarecrows.
"The fight's gone out of them. The invasion crew either beat Rivermoore or
closed a deal. Either way, good for us."
"Do we join them?" Chela asked, eyeing the entrance.
Lesedi considered it, then shook her head.
"…No—if they've brokered a deal with him, rushing in could upend it. Be on
standby, ready for anything."
She took a canteen from her satchel and quaffed the water within. All that
fighting had her body overheated, and she needed to cool down.
"Looks like we're in the endgame," she whispered. "Unless something else
flips the board."
They'd pulled off a delicate negotiation by the skin of their teeth, but that
didn't mean the conflicts were over. Tim Linton had a lot of disgruntled griping
left in him.
"…Yo, over here. The hell's going on? Nobody told me a damn thing about
this."
"Sorry, Mr. Linton. Ms. Ingwe's orders," Oliver replied. "Said you'd be more
intimidating if you had no clue a deal was in the cards—"
"I'll give her that. I was hell-bent on killing this son of a bitch. Now I gotta take
all that fury and stifle it somehow. Just look at this poison I wasted!"
Tim jammed his elbow into Oliver's side, and Shannon put her arms on her
cousin's shoulders, trying to pull him away from the needling.
"Enough goofing off," Gwyn said, at his limit. "No matter how we got here,
we're now witnesses to the rite. Let's not disturb the minister's focus."
He jerked his chin at Rivermoore's back. They took any number of branches
and moved through a door at the end of a passage into a reception room, with
a coffee table set between two couches. Rivermoore waved a wand, and the
crystal lamps filled the room with a warm glow.
"Sit where you please," he intoned. "I've never invited anyone living, so I can't
vouch for the comfort."
"Some hospitality you got there," Tim spat. "At least offer tea."
"I never said I wasn't."
Tim flopped down on the couch. A door at the back opened as if in response
to his snark, and a skeleton in butler clothes came in. It had a tray in both hands
with six steaming cups of tea. As its guests gaped, it set them down at even
intervals on the table.
"I've got a few checks to run before I start the ritual," Rivermoore said, not
even turning to face them. "How long are you waiting for?"
"Max twenty-six hours. Given the run back to campus, Godfrey's recovery,
and enough time to prep for the finals…we can't really go longer."
"That'll do."
Rivermoore vanished through a door in back. If this was going to be a while,
Oliver would rather sit—except he wasn't entirely comfortable kicking back in
the warlock's lair. But Nanao and Yuri didn't even hesitate. Worse, they reached
for the tea.
"…Mm. Most excellent."
"?! You drank that, Nanao?!" Oliver said.
"Indeed. I sensed no ill intent."
"Mr. Butler, sir, can I get another? All that talking left me parched!"
Yuri sure had a lot of nerve, but the bone butler bowed and poured more tea
from the pot. Oliver couldn't believe his eyes.
"Settle down, Horn," Tim said, holding his own cup out for more. "If there was
poison in it, I'd know. I'll handle the whole vigilance thing, so you just unwind a
bit. This had to have taken a lot outta you."
He was clearly speaking from experience. Yet, Oliver still hesitated. Only when
Shannon pulled his arm did he finally sit down. The butler brought out cookies
—to Nanao's and Yuri's evident delight.
Upon depositing his guests in the parlor, Rivermoore headed to the back of
his workshop. He moved right to the waiting coffin and gingerly explained the
situation.
"…Not how I planned it, but they weren't taking no for an answer."
"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! This is a real turnup! I love it! The more the merrier!
You've told me lots about your school friends, so I can't wait to see them!"
She sounded every bit as pleased as he wasn't. Having expected that,
Rivermoore snorted and rapped his knuckles on the coffin.
"Final tuning on your flesh is done. The rest is down to focus. Prepare
yourself."
"I'm ready as I'll ever be. I sure had enough time."
Her confident response was the push he needed. Rivermoore nodded and
seated himself at the center of the magic circle next to the coffin. He took
several long, deep breaths, quieting down the adrenaline of the fight, clearing
his mind—so that his heart would not waver no matter what lay ahead.
Two hours after their arrival in the parlor, Oliver's lap had somehow become
a pillow for both Nanao and Yuri.
"…Mmmph… See…they're tasty, Oliver…"
"..."
Yuri had gone down first and was talking in his sleep. Oliver heaved yet
another sigh. He'd moved to this couch on the grounds that his sister's embrace
would never end otherwise, only to wind up with these two all over him—and
now he was trapped between them.
"Oliver, if I may venture a question…"
As he watched Shannon nod off on the couch across from him, a voice drifted
from his lap. Nanao's eyes had opened, and she was looking up at him.
"Your discussion with Rivermoore was, from the start, based on the
assumption that the bone would be returned."
"It was. We can't be entirely sure the bones won't be harmed in the process,
but weighed against the risk of fighting—"
"That's the point that escaped me. Before any considerations of degradation,
we are discussing the return of a departed soul from the afterlife. What is now
a heap of bones will be granted flesh anew. And once that has happened, I
cannot imagine asking for the bones' return."
Nanao folded her arms as she spoke—and Oliver at last spotted the source of
her confusion.
"Okay, let's wind it back a bit. I see why you're lost now. My argument was
based on a pretext you are unaware of. Let me get you up to speed."
He took a moment to martial his thoughts, to consider his approach. She'd
been at Kimberly two years and change, yet there were still occasional
discrepancies between Nanao's knowledge and those of your typical mage.
Especially in areas unaffected by practical concerns. He was filling these gaps in
when he stumbled across them—he rather enjoyed it, really.
"First, our world does not allow the dead to resurrect. This is not a concern of
law or theory but the fundamental world order—one that invokes the frenetic
principle. It violates the rules our 'god' made. This is something that no mage
can escape as long as they are acting within this world."
"I had imagined as much. Yet, that is what Mr. Rivermoore aspires to."
"I'm getting to that. Second, Mr. Rivermoore's ultimate goal is the
revitalization of ancient necromancy. Strictly speaking, this resurrection is
simply a means to that end. When mages attempt a resurrection, that is nearly
always the intent. What matters is not the return to life but what you stand to
gain from it. Bear that in mind."
On his lap, Nanao nodded. Seeing that, he decided not to rush through this.
They had plenty of time on their hands.
"Imagine an ancient scroll, exposed to the elements and badly deteriorated.
You wish to unfurl it and read the contents, but touching it at all could make it
crumble to dust. So you take every caution, utilize all means available to you,
and attempt to decipher it. Mr. Rivermoore is doing this not with a scroll but
with a human being," Oliver explained. "Resurrection is an extreme means of
doing so, but in terms of our example, it's akin to transferring the entire
contents of the scroll to a new piece of paper. Making a copy—in this case,
moving the soul to a new body. And that counts as the resurrection the world
forbids."
He paused there. To ensure she fully understood, he would have to dig a little
deeper.
"Incidentally, there are other phenomena that might appear to violate this
rule. Possession is an infamous example. In that case, a ghost will take over
flesh that is not their own, but it's less a new host than something they've
wrapped themselves around."
"Wrapped?"
"It's tough to explain, but…to put in terms you'd understand, let's go with
horses. Horses are the flesh, and the rider is the soul. Only the horse's real rider
—the genuine soul—can move that horse. A rider can dismount from their
horse, but not climb onto another. Ghosts are riders who have lost their horse.
Despite this, they want a new horse more than anything else—so they cling to a
horse's torso or legs, trying to bend it to their will. That is how possession
functions. Since that's just an analogy, there are several practical differences,
but essentially, possession is an extremely unnatural and ineffective means of
control."
"Mm, I'm with you so far."
"Since possession is so ineffective, it's not counted as resurrection and
doesn't violate the world order. Necromancers take advantage of that, giving
the dead temporary hosts and turning them into familiars. But in that form,
only a portion of the soul's true power is available. They have no growth
potential or creativity, and it's difficult to maintain high-level thought. You can
make it so they perform basic tasks like the undead here, but if you need to
bring someone back as a mage, that simply won't do. Most magic can only be
performed if the caster is currently alive."
Nanao closed her eyes, murmuring thoughtfully. Oliver went over things once
more in review.
"Let me summarize. Rivermoore wants to revive ancient necromancy, but to
do that, he has to fully resurrect an ancient mage. Unfortunately, the rules of
our world forbid that. You with me there?"
"I believe my understanding suffices."
"Then let's get to the real point. If you must violate the world order and
perform a resurrection, there are theoretically two primary approaches. One is
to head to a different world and perform the resurrection there. What is not
permitted in our world may be allowed in a world governed by a different god.
But this is a pie-in-the-sky idea—one purely theoretical."
"Oh? Whatever for?"
"None of the tírs that mages are capable of reaching allow resurrection the
way we'd want it. Compare it to the laws of nations—theft is illegal in Yamatsu
and equally here in Yelgland. Same difference. There are any number of other
practical concerns—but for now, assume resurrection in a tír is impossible."
Nanao nodded. There was plenty more to discuss about tír themselves, but
that was a tangent best left unexplored here. He'd have to fill her in some other
time.
"Which means Mr. Rivermoore has only one path remaining. Namely, he must
create his own world in which to attempt the resurrection."
"…You mean…"
Nanao looked tense. Knowing exactly what she'd pictured, Oliver nodded.
"You've been to one: the sights we witnessed during Ophelia's incident. The
Grand Aria—that technique allows a mage to deploy a domain that operates
under different rules, turning infringement legitimate. Resurrection included. If
the Aria is designed to allow that from the get-go, then nothing there can
prevent the resurrection. Out of all possibilities, that is the one place Mr.
Rivermoore's purpose can be fulfilled."
If the world did not allow it, then make your own world. That was perhaps the
highest expression of a mage's craft and every bit as difficult as it sounded. Not
something that could ever be achieved in a single generation.
"…Even if a mage of exceptional talent prepares very, very carefully, it's nigh
impossible to keep the Aria under control. Just as we saw with Ophelia, if you
surpass your limit, you'll be consumed by the spell. Which means anyone
resurrected within will survive only until that limit is reached."
Nanao's eyes filled with understanding and a deep sadness. She knew the
harsh truth, and Oliver consoled her, stroking her hair.
"Mr. Rivermoore's manner made it clear. We're about to see both the
resurrection of a mage—and her funeral. We'll stand in silent vigil until the task
is done. And when all the dust settles, we'll pluck one bone from the remains
and take it home."
A good eleven hours after they were brought in, Rivermoore finally called for
them. The bone butler led the group down silent corridors to the ritual
chamber, where a coffin was placed at the center and a magic circle covered
the entire floor around it. The space itself was considerably larger than any
previous rooms. Oliver could tell this was the undead kingdom's throne room.
"…Before we begin, I want to make one thing clear," Rivermoore said.
He stood before the coffin, speaking softly. No signs of the heightened
emotions he'd displayed in their earlier battle. His mana itself was tranquil, yet
brimming over the edge. His focus was clearly honed—and it made everyone
present instinctively straighten up.
"During the ritual, no matter what happens, you are not to intervene. You are
witnesses only. In return, I can guarantee your safety."
"Naturally, none of us is foolish enough to meddle with a ritual we can't
possibly understand," Gwyn said. "I swear we will remain seated even if you
perish before our very eyes."
Rivermoore nodded once and turned to the coffin. Neither side belabored the
point. They could easily disrupt the ritual if they wanted, but in that case,
Rivermoore would destroy Godfrey's bone. If either wished to achieve their
ends, they would have to keep their hands to themselves.
The moment was upon them. White wand in hand, Rivermoore slowly turned
around.
"Hahhhhhh…"
One last deep breath, and before their watchful eyes—his chant began.
Omnes suas calvarias ad eandem partem vertentes ceciderunt.
Corpses on the ground, their gazes aligned.
A shiver ran down each spine. Oliver felt an urge to flee rising up within and
did his very best to force it to subside. He'd been too preoccupied to observe
the last Aria, but this time was different.
Hi ipsi pedes quibus feriebant terram hae ipsae manus quibus serpebant ad
punctum temporis mortis eorum.
Their feet had tramped earth, their hands had clawed the dirt—until the end
arrived.
Yuri's cheeks were flushed red. Nanao's lips screwed up tight. Even without
prior knowledge, any mage knew on instinct alone—this here was the summit
of Rivermoore's sorcery.
Ossa dissipata clamant se ipsos etiam egere et feriendi et serpendi.
Your weathered bones cry out for further tramping, further clawing.
Dum voces vestrae sonant nemo vestrum mortuos est.
As long as those voices cry for more, none of you are truly dead.
Rivermoore's wand pointed at the ceiling, and something began encroaching
on their surroundings from below. Innumerable black threads, winding around
one another as they ascended. The air above their heads was dyed a uniform
shade.
Tectum sericis nigreas novum caelum hoc ipsum non ad vos ascendendum sed
ad abscondendum et tergendum est.
A veil of black silk, a canopy betwixt you and heaven, obscures your path to
ascension.
Sub caelo nigro nullus mortuos sed est vivens sine sanguine et carne.
Beneath that inky sky, there are no dead, only living souls lacking flesh.
As the canopy closed above, all colors, all sense of distance were lost. The
world was shrouded in darkness. Shannon clenched Oliver's hand.
Dulce dormitatione vetita morte iucunda deposita ergo electa est vita doloris.
Death is rejecting the temptation of slumber, abandoning peace and
tranquility; we choose the suffering that is life.
The invocation droned on. The total darkness was broken by warm lights,
emerging one after another.
Neque sanguis neque os neque caro sed ipsa voluntas est signum vivendi.
Life lies not in the flow of blood or the flesh itself but in the will alone.
A world born, its range beyond spatial magic, the mage's will manifest, a new
order imposed by one man. Infringement made legitimate.
Sub hoc nullum sepulcrum est. Dum animas vestras tu reveritis vivitote in
aeternum.
There are no graves here. You shall live until your very soul has frayed to
nothing.
"Mundus sine morte—Paradise Lost!"
No moon or stars. Yet, the night sky above was aglow with a dim light.
Countless undead wavered indistinctly, passing back and forth overhead.
Perhaps they were no longer undead. In this domain, the loss of flesh no longer
signified death. If they had the will to choose suffering, then their beings
remained on this side of the line.
"…Whoa…"
Oliver was left stunned. Every single thing in sight had been repainted, now
far more pastoral than he'd imagined. At the end of his gaze, Rivermoore was
wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Don't confuse me with a mad genius like Salvadori. My great-grandfather
developed this Aria. I merely inherited it."
With that self-deprecation, Rivermoore turned his eyes from the view above
back to his coffin. A Grand Aria was the peak of any mage's labors, but today it
was merely setting the scene. His true designs lay on what was to come.
"I'm popping the lid, Fau. Patentibus!"
Rivermoore swung his wand wide. The sound of countless locks opening
echoed—and then the lid slid aside. Outside air rushed into a bed sealed off for
a thousand years.
"Spiritus animae resuscitatio!"
And the spirit within—left alone, it would likely soon disperse, but
Rivermoore swiftly led it to the flesh nearby: the body of a young girl,
assembled from bones gathered over the years. He could feel a new interior
taking over that host.
There was a long silence. The body remained at Rivermoore's feet, not
moving.
"Hmm—"
"C'mon, you can't blow it here!" Tim called.
Unable to directly observe the movements of the soul, all they could see was
the shimmer in the air—but their concerns proved unfounded. Rivermoore
waved his wand a third time.
"She needs a wake-up call. Tonitrus!"
A bolt from the tip of his wand struck the body in the chest, forcing the heart
to start beating, the blood to rush through the body once more. The pale face
regained its color.
"Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"
Her eyes snapped open, and a howl escaped her throat—from silence to full
throttle, but Rivermoore just stood and watched. She rolled around at his feet
for several seconds, clearly in agony; then she got her hands on the ground and
stopped. A few more seconds passed, and her head went up—tears in her eyes.
"…Why?! Cyrus, why lightning?! All this time I've waited, and you give me the
worst awakening possible!"
"Don't blame me. You took too long to kick-start your heart."
"There are other ways to resuscitate people! At least try some healing first!
And whoa, your voice! That's what it sounds like in person?! Do it again! Let me
hear it one more time!"
The girl scrambled, running over to him. She stretched way up to reach his
face, poking his cheeks with her fingers like a baby does with their parents'
faces. She was delighting in the capacity for touch.
"…You look so old, Cyrus. Aren't you twenty-two? What happened?"
"Dealing with the dead takes its toll on you. You're more or less what I
assumed. I know you're excited, but how's the body working for you?"
Letting her touch all she wanted, Rivermoore started checking her over. His
question made her gasp and look at herself. She hopped up and down a few
times.
"…It's incredible! What? How—? This might be better than when I was alive!"
"Good," he said, nodding. "Well worth the time I spent on component
selection."
She tried reaching for his face again, but then she remembered he was not
alone. She spun around to face the others, beaming at them.
"You're Cyrus's school chums, right? Nice to meet you! I'm Fau. I'm an oldtimey mage who stubbornly refused to pass on. Thanks for attending my second
coming!"
"…Sorry," Tim said. "I get that she's saying hi, but no clue what language that
is."
To the group's ears, it was a stream of unfamiliar sounds. As the other five
members blinked, Gwyn put his chin on one hand, listening close. It was rare he
expressed this keen an interest.
"The language of the ancients," he noted. "In hindsight, not surprising. How
would an undead learn Yelglish? We understood her in the memories because it
was filtered through Rivermoore's perceptions."
"So I have to interpret?" Rivermoore said. "You've just woken up, and you're
already a handful."
Fau and the others could communicate only through him. The next few
moments were all regular chatter; the two had almost forgotten why they were
here. With her ever-changing expressions and good cheer—she certainly acted
the age she appeared to be. And that made this even harder for Oliver. She was
too young for the burden she bore.
"My mind and senses are working fine," she noted. "So what about mana?"
Fau drew the wand at her hip and held it aloft. A flame appeared at the tip,
and she began to dance—the choreography distinctive, to say the least. As she
moved, the wand's tip kept changing colors, and each time it looped, the pace
of her steps quickened.
"…!"
"Oh-ho! Such elegance."
Oliver's eyes went wide while Nanao let out a cry of delight. Attribute shifting
at a high tempo was a magical warm-up Oliver himself employed, but when Fau
switched elements, the transitions were nigh invisible. That alone proved she
was a deft hand at mana manipulation, but what really boggled the mind was
how smoothly the mana flowed through her entire body. Attribute shifts
inevitably sent ripples through you, but Fau's were barely noticeable. Training
your flesh for mana use alone wouldn't do that. This control lay deeper, likely
within the ether itself.
Once she'd danced her fill, Fau came to a graceful stop and spun to face
Rivermoore.
"Mm, all good. Then let's get started, Cyrus. I hate to rush, but…"
Rivermoore nodded. "Right. Come on in."
He turned away, heading to a little hut on a hill inside the Grand Aria. The
witnesses, gathering that the necromancy instruction would take place there,
silently watched them go. Fau followed Rivermoore, turning back once to wave.
Oliver couldn't help but grin. She was so easy to like, it was hard to believe she
hailed from a millennium ago.
"Nn—!"
But Rivermoore stopped in his tracks just outside the hut. Fau looked up in
surprise, only to sense the same thing a moment later. They both spun around,
staring back the way they'd come—and soon everyone knew what was wrong.
"Something's coming," Yuri whispered, staring up at the void. A crack
appeared in empty space.
"…That's…not good…"
As the world crumbled, a pale bone arm thrust through, clad in black rags. Fau
winced, and Rivermoore turned pale. Both knew all too well what this was—
and what it meant for them.
"…The Aria seal was incomplete. They've caught our scent."
With no legs to stand upon, a black cloth hovered in the air, only the arms and
a scythe emerging. The blade itself reflected no light, existing solely to end lives.
All here knew the bearer. Innumerable songs, poems, and children's tales told
of its grim visage. Rules established by the fallen god brought an end to all life in
kind.
The second law of the frenetic principles: No one lives forever.
"A reaper…!"
The name crossed Oliver's lips like a shudder. As he stood rooted to the spot,
Rivermoore and Fau drew their wands.
"Resuscitatio!"
In answer to their chant, twelve figures rose from the ground. Ancient mages
of all genders and ages. Zahhaks Rivermoore had long made use of, reborn as
the living here within the Grand Aria. The passage of time may have worn away
their personalities, but the spell correctly rebound their flesh and souls,
allowing them the use of spells and dramatically heightening their combat
potential. The last card Rivermoore had up his sleeve.
A hitherto unseen skelebeast rose up from the feet of one ancient. Another
deployed a shadow, from which emerged a massive bulk. Still a third was
surrounded by a swirling vortex of curse energy. No time for analysis—every
attack was launched directly at their quarry.
And like so much wheat, all were mown down by a single swing of the
reaper's scythe.
" !"
Thus began the promenade of death. The skelebeasts were pulverized, and
the reaper's ire turned to the ancients themselves. The first put out a bone
beast to shield itself—and the swing cut through both as one. A second dove
into its shadow, attempting to flee, but the scythe sliced through shadow and
diver. The spectacle was overwhelming, and Oliver's every bone rattled. The
ancients threw all their long-lost secrets at it as one, and it was not even a
contest.
"Gah…!"
Rivermoore clenched his teeth. Within the Aria, loss of flesh held little
meaning, but the reaper's blows sliced directly to the ether itself—and with
that damage, resurrection was not possible, even here. Less than a minute after
the fight began, his final hand of cards had been reduced to half their number.
And still the reaper rampaged, bearing a message from the world on death's
inevitability. "…No use," Tim muttered, watching Rivermoore and Fau struggling
in vain. "Given that only one reaper showed up, the Aria greatly diminished
their power…but necromancers just don't have what it takes to fight a reaper."
" "
Even as he spoke, Nanao unconsciously reached for the blade at her hip,
unable to bear it. But Tim clapped a hand on her shoulder, his grip firmer than
ever before.
"Don't even think about helping them. This thing's only after the resurrected
girl—and Rivermoore, because he's protecting her. As long as we don't stick our
noses in, the reaper won't bother us."
"Hrm."
"This is why Rivermoore made us swear not to intervene. This ain't a matter
of logic anyway. You can feel it on your skin!"
Tim raised his hand, showing it to the third-years. Oliver gulped. Tim Linton,
the Toxic Gasser himself, the Watch's crazed berserker, a mage who'd faced
down death countless times—and his hand was shaking.
"Even if the president was with us in peak condition, I wouldn't wanna fight
that thing. Two-hundred-year-old mages are absolute monsters, but eighty
percent of them fall when they first face the reaper. That's how powerful this
curse is. You don't stand a chance against a thing like that, not with
underclassmen in tow."
This was patently obvious, and all the more convincing since it came from
Tim's lips. As a grim silence settled, Gwyn added his two cents.
"I'm afraid Tim's right. Even if they go down, we've still got a shot at
recovering Godfrey's bone. And that's our best bet."
The only real option left to them here: watch the reaper mercilessly cut Fau
down, then pluck the bone from her corpse and beat a hasty retreat. They had
no idea if Godfrey's ether would remain intact, but they'd just have to cross
their fingers.
"...…"
Putting a tight lid on his emotions, Oliver ordered himself to remain still. This
was for the best. No matter the outcome, they could not afford to lose anyone
on this team. Rivermoore had been their enemy not long before, and Fau was
on his side. No matter how you looked at it, this was not worth risking all six of
their lives.
"Gah…!"
"Cyrus, step back!"
A blow from the reaper had damaged Rivermoore's ether, and his face
contorted in pain. Fau stepped forward to guard him, but Rivermoore himself
pushed her back, adamant.
His heart frozen, Oliver realized: By the tenets of all mages, the Scavenger's
actions were in error. Unable to fend off the reaper himself, Rivermoore's ritual
had already failed. There was no point in fighting. If you considered the future
ahead of him, then the right choice here would be to let the reaper claim Fau.
All Rivermoore was doing was putting his own life at risk for nothing—and he
likely knew it.
"…Honestly. You would do that," Fau said with a laugh.
She'd already turned her wand to her own chest. Ah—Oliver felt a sigh echo
through his heart. He knew only too well how she felt and what had led her to
that choice. He'd have done the same himself in her shoes.
A short breath followed. Then a spell echoed across the night sky.
"…Huh?"
Her wand braced, Fau gaped, forgetting what she'd been poised to do.
Before her, the reaper had stopped. A bolt of lightning had come in from the
side just as it was about to attack Rivermoore again. Its scythe held high, the
agent of death's very being momentarily fluttered like a candle in the wind.
Fau and Rivermoore both turned to see who'd done the deed. Sparks still
fading around his athame, well out ahead of the observer's post, a boy stood—
doing the most foolish thing possible.
"Noll…"
"Hah?! The hell are you doing?!"
Shannon's eyes were on her little brother's back, and Tim's face turned
another color.
Rivermoore had never dreamed of this intrusion; he glared at Oliver like a
wounded beast.
"…What's the meaning of this, third-year? I told you not—"
"It's not for you!" Oliver roared, the words ripping out of his throat. He was all
too aware how inexcusable this act was. This was not for Rivermoore, and deep
down he knew it was not for Fau, either.
He had no compulsion to overturn the principle of human death. That would
be a rebellion against the design of life itself and was entirely separate from his
own heart's desire. And yet—the sight unfolding before him was not
acceptable. Snipping this girl's life by the same standards applied to mages at
the end of an already extraordinarily long life—the pigheaded nature of that
rule filled him with such fury, he felt positively dizzy.
Glaring at the reaper, Oliver asked: Where is the sin in this resurrection?
This girl had endured eons in a lightless casket, solely for the purpose of
passing on her knowledge to the future. Time she should have spent out in the
sun had been whiled away, buried in darkness. She had waited there, grappling
with the terror of her very self withering away. All for a fleeting resolution that
might never come to pass. The significance of her birth entirely depending on it.
To her way of life, he felt equal parts sympathy and respect. But those were
not what moved his hand.
When the man who brought her back was in danger, Fau had not hesitated to
end her own life, well aware that doing so would invalidate all the time she had
endured within that coffin.
Rivermoore had fought a reaper twice. Once now and once some time before.
The first time, he'd hoped to grant her new life; the second, to ensure the life
she had was not in vain.
Oliver wished only to guard those urges. Even if that was stupid, even if that
was the wrong choice, he had to do it. He fought to protect not the ritual, not
the secrets of ancient necromancy, but their hearts. The kindness of a boy and
girl, unbroken by the harsh toll of time's passage.
Hear me, Grim Reaper. I do not ask you to leave this place, only to bide your
time.
"…Complete your duty, Cyrus Rivermoore! Though the world may not
approve! That's what we mages do!"
A shout from his very soul, directed at a mage far more powerful than Oliver.
Rivermoore stood as if struck by lightning—and then two figures joined Oliver.
"Pray, what is the plan?" Nanao asked, drawing her katana.
"Uh, how do we fight reapers again?" Yuri asked, his head cocked askew. "I
mean, they don't die."
Oliver forced aside the urge to apologize, deeming that best not said here.
"Nanao, Leik—"
"Only one way to handle these things. Hit 'em with effective elements,
continuously canceling the phenomenon. Never get hit; their swings strike only
ether."
Gwyn and Shannon flanked the trio. Oliver's expression momentarily
crumpled.
"Brother, Sister…"
"We know…what you want to do, Noll." Shannon raised her white wand.
"Doesn't matter what we're up against. If your heart desires it—then we are
here with you." Gwyn shouldered his viola, and the sole remaining
upperclassman pushed his way between Oliver and Nanao.
"You're all a bunch of idiots. Lesedi and her dumbass schemes… She really
blew it this time."
"Mr. Linton—!" Oliver gaped at him.
Tim drew the athame at his hip and cast Oliver a sidelong glare. "And here I
thought you were less crazy than we were. Boy, was I ever wrong. You've gone
and jumped right into madness here."
The Toxic Gasser clicked his tongue. Thorough preparations, situational
advantage, fighting only foes you knew you could beat—Lesedi had talked her
mouth off going over those principles, and they were the ironclad rules of the
Campus Watch. But all the older members knew—they'd broken every one of
those rules countless times in their day.
Their foes had never once seemed beatable. Opponents they had to fight,
enemies they had to beat—those had never arrived at their convenience. If
they had time to calculate their odds, they'd be better off casting another spell.
If they had someone worth protecting, then they'd wade into the fray with that
alone in mind. And the crucible of those gambles was their source of pride.
This was no different. In other words: It was merely Watch tradition.
"Fine! I'm in. Didn't know what else to do with these vials anyway. But lemme
just say this—if any of you dies here, I'm kicking your ass myself."
His very mana laced with bloodlust, the Toxic Gasser bared his fangs. The
reaper recovered from its stunned state and began moving.
"Twenty minutes, Rivermoore!" Gwyn yelled. "We'll keep the reaper at bay
till then! Can you make the most of it?"
The warlock clenched his jaw, then grabbed Fau's hand and turned to go. No
time to hesitate. He had a purpose to fulfill.
"…I owe you!" he called.
Those were words he'd not used once since his start at Kimberly. Running by
his side, the corner of her eye on the six fighters behind them, Fau smiled.
"See, Cyrus? You have lots of friends!"
That provoked the dourest expression human flesh was capable of making.
But before anyone caught a glimpse of it, Rivermoore and Fau dove into the hut
on the hill.
Yuri made sure they were in, then said, "I think I solved another mystery,
Oliver."
"?"
"The Case of the Kindhearted Friend. I've always wondered: Why do you
worry so much about other people? It'd be so much easier if you just let them
be, no matter who was risking their neck or where."
This left Oliver rather rattled, to say the least. But Yuri spoke with conviction.
"I finally figured out why. You value the heart most of all."
Oliver staggered as if shot through the chest. But Nanao tugged at his sleeve.
"I knew that much already," she said.
"No time to flirt! It's here!" Tim roared, vial in hand.
They braced for battle—and the reaper swung its scythe.
Inside the hut, Rivermoore put a seal on the door that would hardly last long,
then caught his breath, glancing around. There was a big, round worktable at
the room's center; a dozen varieties of powdered magingredients in little
dishes; and a row of mummified fetal corpses. All were children who had
perished in the womb—and like Carmen had heard, he'd acquired these from
mages' homes. He breathed easily. Everything they needed was here.
"…No time, so let's skip ahead."
"You got it," Fau said, nodding. "Overlap your space with mine."
She moved to the worktable, raised her white wand, and went still.
Rivermoore joined her, using spatial magic to merge his perceptions with hers.
Ears and eyes alone would not suffice here.
"…Hahhhhhh…"
Eyes closed, she let out a long breath—and something the eyes could not
detect rose up from the fetal cadavers. Fau wound that around her wand like so
much taffy, then cast a spell that made the amorphous thing separate into
layers of disparate density, arcing before Fau like a rainbow. Imperceptible to
the naked eye, Rivermoore could only perceive it within his personal space.
"…!"
"Soak in the feel of it. You're pretty good at etheric bonding but still at a
patchwork level. To reach the next stage, you'll need to make finer divisions in
the ether, applying clear measurements to it. Like cutting wood in regulation
lengths. It's a lot easier to work with than the whole log, and there's so much
more you can make from it."
As she spoke, Fau's wand kept moving. Like peeling bark, the rainbow's layers
came apart from the outside in, lining up in the air. Rivermoore was blown
away. He, too, had been working on ways to split and classify ether, but the
most he'd achieved was three layers. Meanwhile, the rainbow Fau was peeling
apart was divided into seventeen. That alone showed the sheer discrepancy in
their respective necromancy.
"Naturally, this is easier said than done. Etheric research lags behind research
on the flesh for the simple reason that it is that much harder to observe. As a
rule, you can neither see nor touch an etheric body. Even ghosts who flicker like
a candle in the wind—what you're actually seeing is the air, dust, and magic
particles moving as the ether passes by."
Each word Fau said, each move she made—Rivermoore was heightening all
his senses, trying not to miss a thing. This was what she'd been born to do.
"Almost the only exception is here, within a mage's spatial magic. In that
space, what we perceive lies outside the five senses, and some people are able
to directly perceive and manipulate the ether there. Problem is, that's highly
dependent on the individual's background and impossible to make universal.
Anything that takes place in a mage's personal space is inherently subjective.
You can tell someone an apple is red, but no words can truly define what being
red entails. Same logic."
Even with the spaces overlapped, facing the same subject, what Fau and
Rivermoore sensed was not alike. Sensations within personal spaces were far
more disparate than those experienced via the eyes and ears, organs of similar
construction. At best, that was a nursery that could raise a mage of singular
sensibilities, but at worst, it could create an impassible information-processing
incompatibility. Since these sensations were yours and yours alone, there was
no way to communicate them to others.
"Since we are both mages, we've got ways and means of sharing experience
vicariously. But it's ultimately still a game of whispers. The information
exchanged is fundamentally altered by the senses of the recipient, and the
more people it passes through, the more significant the alteration becomes.
This is hardly specific to necromancy; it's the reason mages create heirs with
similar sensibilities, allowing them to pass down their techniques with minimal
deterioration. But that simply elevates a personal skill to a family heirloom.
Great if you want it kept secret, but useless for making things widely
accessible."
As Fau talked, the powders on the table before her wafted upward, mingling
with some of the etheric layers. Once she'd used the full amount of all twelve
components, Fau began merging the layers back together again. The
disassembly and alteration phases complete, she was now demonstrating how
to reassemble.
"Given the aforementioned issues, we ancient mages spent a long time
seeking one thing: an etheric body all could see and touch in the same way.
Only with that manifest could a measure of objectivity be applied to etheric
manipulation; only then could necromancy go from being a household craft to
an academic discipline. And we achieved just that—shortly before the collapse."
Rivermoore swallowed hard, and Fau raised her wand, quite literally
bestowing life upon her creation.
"Spiritus animae resuscitatio!"
Wind and light in tow, her mana swirled. And within, a new creation let out its
birthing cry.
Mere mortals up against death incarnate—Oliver was learning just what that
meant with every fiber of his being.
First, he could discern no consistencies in its movements. The reaper just slid
through the air above the ground, no feet to have footwork, the existence of
footholds irrelevant. Yet, neither did it follow the principles of flighted creatures
like brooms or wyverns; no experience with them applied here.
"Tonitrus!"
When it appeared to slow, he took aim, firing a lightning bolt at what he
assumed to be its back. But the next instant proved all his expectations wrong.
The reaper's body scattered like mist.
" ?!"
The black particles flew higher. No one was sure how to respond. The
particles quickly spread out, turning into a large black cloud.
Gaping up at this, Yuri muttered, "Oh, it's gonna fall."
"To me!" Shannon called.
The others rushed to her side, forming a tight circle, and raised their wands
overhead.
""""""Impetus!""""""
Together, they deployed a barrier of wind just as the rain of death began. The
drops dissolved the ground around them. The barrier was hardly immune to
this, and only with all six pouring mana into it was it able to withstand the
corrosion. Oliver gulped. If they'd been hit while separated, not all of them
could have lasted it out.
"Do not assume a reaper has a set form! Death is everywhere and can be
anything!"
Oliver chiseled his brother's warning into his heart. The rainfall ceased, and
the mist rose up from the ground, gathering in the air above—and coalescing
into a giant sphere. When it shot toward them, they scattered in all directions.
"Ah, it's gonna burst!" Yuri yelped.
" !"
Everyone took another leap backward, and an instant later, the sphere
imploded. Using wind to deflect the particles that flew his way, Oliver felt a chill
run down his spine. If they'd gone from the first dodge to a counterattack, that
could have ended poorly. But more importantly—
"Leik, can you read its movements?!"
"Yep! Seems like I know what it's about to do. I can hear it way clearer than
those undead!"
Yuri appeared confident, and that itself was astonishing, but then Oliver
realized—this was because they were fighting an avatar of death. The undead
had been under a mage's control, while the reapers were a part of the natural
order. He'd known Yuri's powers worked better with natural objects, and this
foe fell right in line with that.
"Excellent!" Nanao cried, slashing aside reaper spray. "Then we shall follow
your command!"
With that, she charged straight ahead. The fight so far had told her
instinctively that they needed a front line. If they all feared incurable attacks
and kept their distance, the reaper would simply shift shapes and come for
them. But if, instead, they closed in, it would likely stick to its initial form and
swing that scythe. Both options were a threat, but keeping it locked to a single
form was preferable to the unknown.
"Ah, crap! Back off, Nanao!"
"Mm!"
As she neared its range, Yuri caught its next move and called her off. As they
watched, the reaper grew highly condensed, exuding an uncanny pull. It was
less a black sphere than a hole dug into space itself.
Feeling himself being dragged toward it, Oliver yelled, "Wind? No—this is
curse energy gravitation! It's sucking us in!"
Spotting the nature of the attack, Oliver followed that with a pull spell at
Nanao's back. She'd been closest to the reaper, and this dragged her to him just
before the gravitational pull grew fatal. Each fought off the pull in their own
way, standing their ground. From the moment of their birth, all creatures were
equally affected by death's curse. The reaper was tugging the strings of that
connection to drag them in.
"I've been waiting for this!"
But some mages could turn this to an advantage. Tim grinned viciously, and
several things flew out from under his skirt. Winged insect familiars, the sacs on
the abdomens filled with magical brews. Rather than fight the gravity, they flew
right into the reaper's side, bursting. The fluid released was all inhaled as well,
and the reaper's entire body warped. Steam shot out, and it started boiling in
midair.
"A deluge of elixir! Suck on that!" the Toxic Gasser crowed.
Made by means only he knew, this was extremely concentrated and would
prove highly poisonous if any human ingested it. Since the root concoction
enhanced life functions, this same brew provoked a virulent reaction in a
manifestation of death. He'd brought this along to handle undead threats.
Watching the reaper fade out in a puff of volatile white smoke, Nanao gave an
astonished yelp.
"Is it defeated?" she asked.
"Don't be stupid," Tim spat. "If it were that easy, I wouldn't have been losing
my damn mind."
True to his word, a familiar black form seeped back into view in the empty air
a short distance away.
"You can put out a fire, but it ain't dead. You can scatter a breeze, but the
wind won't die. No matter how many times you push it back, death ain't ever
really gone. No matter how we fight this thing, we can't win—we're creatures
with a finite life span, and that's what we get."
"Then we will just prolong our lives with all our might," Gwyn said and began
playing his viola.
Surprised, Tim blinked. "A consolation concert? Does that work on reapers?"
"It's arguably the primary purpose. Death originated as a primal curse placed
upon us by our god. Offering up the sounds of music is an ancient means of
placating and distancing it."
And the proof lay before them. The reaper was re-forming as they watched,
but the speed of that manifestation grew markedly slower the moment the
performance began.
"Still…," Gwyn said, playing on. "We've already incurred its wrath. The best I
can do is delay the inevitable."
"That's more than enough, Brother," Oliver said, blotting his brow with one
sleeve. "It gives us time to recover."
Even a handful of seconds was worth a thousand gold.
Bathed in orange light, it bobbed in the air, vaguely humanoid. Rivermoore
watched it with bated breath—as did Fau, its creator.
"…That's not…"
"Right, not a ghost," Fau said. "The etheric bodies I took from the unborn
babies' ghosts formed the base, and I merged those with other ether and
matter, reconstructing them into a man-made being. An astral life."
Fau let that name hang in the air. The astral life hovering above the
workbench floated over to Rivermoore. Then it draped itself across his neck and
shoulders, like a scarf with a mind of its own.
"It likes you already." Fau grinned. "Maybe because some of my own ether is
mixed in?"
"..."
The astral life was staring intently up at Rivermoore, and he back at it. It
showed no fear or caution—in that sense, it felt like a human infant.
"There's two fundamental differences from ghosts," Fau began. "First, like I
said, anyone can see and touch it. The movements of the etheric body have
been shrouded in mystery and subjective perception, but anyone can make
observations with this little one."
Fau reached up and tickled the astral on the neck. It seemed to enjoy that.
Clinging to Rivermoore, the astral life's lights fluctuated.
"And the second difference—unlike ghosts, this one's mind won't fade away,
won't give way to hatred. Quite the opposite—it will learn and grow. It's as
stable as our own etheric bodies, despite the lack of flesh. The components of
its body are both material and etheric, those qualities combined. It is a
complete life-form."
"…So not immortal."
"Right. Astrals can be lost by any number of means, and its soul is human,
taken from one of these unborn babies. It has the same two-hundred-year limit
we do."
Fau smiled sadly, then turned to Rivermoore.
"I know this child will be an invaluable research subject for you and all the
mages of this generation. But if possible, I hope you'll look after it. As if it was
our child."
"That's not something to joke about. But if it's going to serve my research for
any length of time, I'll have to take good care of its mental health, too. No need
to worry about that."
His tone was resolutely curt yet as earnest as Rivermoore was capable of
being. He nodded, and the tension drained out of Fau's body.
"Okay. Then…then my work really is done."
Rivermoore's silence was weighty. He tried offering some words of comfort,
but his throat was frozen and would not move. If he voiced agreement, if he
thanked her—then it would all be over.
And she knew that. So she cut to the chase in his place.
"Sorry, Cyrus," Fau said. "Can I leave the last task to you?"
"Hyahhhhhhh!"
A bold step forward ducking under the scythe's swing, and with a roar, Nanao
swung her blade up. All six mages battled the reaper in a state of extreme
tension; release was a luxury they could not afford.
"Hahhh, hahhh… I—I can tell what it'll do, but…my body can't keep up!" Yuri
gasped, stepping in as Nanao stepped out and pulling the reaper's attention to
him.
Making full use of Yuri's predictive talents, he, Nanao, Oliver, and Tim were
trading turns in the front line, minimizing the reaper's shape-shifting—that
alone had kept them going this long. There had been several close calls, but
Gwyn's and Shannon's precision assists had pulled them through.
"…Ngh…!"
But Oliver could feel their limit coming up fast. This style was especially taking
a toll on Yuri, and Oliver swore to pull him out before it was too late,
shouldering that risk himself.
"Hrm?!"
Yet, Nanao felt the threat on her very skin and spun around. All five others
followed her gaze, spotting the same sight. Another black stain seeping into this
space. The same threat they'd barely been handling before.
"…You're kidding! Now there's two?!"
Tim scowled. Reaper appearances had strict rules. When a mage reached two
hundred, one reaper would appear each night. Every fifty years they lived, that
number went up by one. Fau's circumstances were unusual, but if her age
included all the years spent in the coffin before her resurrection, then it stood
to reason there'd be more than one. Even if that wasn't the case, should other
mages step in to help, the reaper quantity increased proportionally.
They'd had to deal with only one reaper because Rivermoore's Grand Aria had
kept them at bay, but they had always known a second might make it through.
Yet, knowing it was possible had not stopped them from hoping it wouldn't.
And now that it had, they were at the end of the line.
"Ah—!"
Between his fatigue and the distraction of the second reaper, Yuri's step was
a moment too late. The first reaper's scythe swung his way, and he knew too
well he couldn't dodge or defend in time.
"Yuri!"
Oliver lunged toward him. He'd been right there watching, and only he could
get there in time. He shoved Yuri out of the scythe's path, but that just made
the reaper target him. The backswing was mercilessly coming his way.
"Sorry I'm late."
The blade stopped an inch from his throat. A girl's voice echoed across the
land of death.
Six mages and two reapers all turned toward her. The hut on the hill—and Fau
standing outside, the warlock a step behind.
"Thanks, Cyrus's school chums. Honestly, I didn't think we'd get this much
time. I speak for all the Parsu people, in honor of your strength and spirit."
She plucked the corners of her skirt and curtsied. Both reapers shot toward
her as one. The others were little more than an impediment; Fau alone had
been their true target. She smiled at their approach.
"You two are so mad at me. Given your task, you would be. But don't worry.
I'll make no more trouble."
Fau spread her arms wide, accepting the fate she had so long denied.
"I've done my part. The long struggles of the dead end here."
And with those words, Rivermoore's athame pierced her heart from behind.
The group gasped, watching over her. Fau's heart beat its last. The reapers
bearing down stopped halfway up the hill—and as if the fight had never existed
at all, they vanished without a trace. They no longer had any reason to be there.
"Ah—!"
For the first time, Fau saw the view around her. So preoccupied with her task
and the urgency of it, she'd never even looked. Only now did she realize—they
stood on an island, floating in the sea at night.
"Oh," she said. "This is a beach!"
The blade in her heart was retracted. Fau crumpled into Rivermoore's arms,
and the astral life squirmed around them both, like a child fussing over its
parents.
In Rivermoore's embrace, she used the last strength in her dying arms to
point.
"Cyrus, over there. Take me there."
"Mm."
Rivermoore nodded, and a bone serpent rose up from his feet, carrying them
both on its back across the ground past the crowd of witnesses, down the
gentle slope to the little strip of sand at the water's edge. No moon hung above
but there was a mystic glow, striking enough to evoke a little sigh from Fau.
"Wow, you've even got shells! Hee-hee. Gently lapping waves… How lovely."
"You made me take enough walks on the shore."
Cradling the girl, he stepped onto the sand, his voice wistful. Nothing he could
do would bring her back for good. He could never take her to the real ocean's
edge. And when that sank in, he'd made his choice. To at least show her the sea
here.
Time passed quietly. There was only the lapping of the surf. Fau's lids slowly
drifted shut.
"Thank you, Cyrus," she whispered. "You kept…your word…"
With the last breath she was allowed, she voiced her thanks—and passed
away.
The world crumbled. The night sky shattered like glass, swallowed by the sea.
Soon it reached the island the others stood upon. Ripples of white light covered
their eyes, causing them to squint—and before they knew it, they were back in
that cold stone room. Still sitting where they'd been when the ritual began. The
man had his back to them, cradling a heap of bones.
"Mr. Rivermoore…," Oliver said.
"Take it."
He tossed something over his shoulder. Oliver caught it and looked down to
find a human bone. Rivermoore had made adjustments to it for the ritual, but
Oliver knew it was Godfrey's sternum.
"If you've got that, the doctor can patch him up. I won't forget the debt
you're owed. So—it's time you all left."
Rivermoore never turned their way.
His goal achieved, Tim urged his juniors toward the door. As the others turned
to go, Oliver took a step after them, then— "If—!"
He stopped, calling out. Words failed him. But his mind caught a scrap of a
memory, and he spoke as a witness to what had transpired here.
"…If she smiled at the end, then you have nothing to regret."
Oliver's voice never wavered. And with that, he left the grave behind.
Rivermoore said not a word, letting it all wash over him.