Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (55 page)

“That is the question many of our primary intelligence believes is wrong with the art of summoning, young Yamda. It is thought, without an
y preconceived notion, that if one drops the blood of one’s forefather onto the body or remains of a loved one, along with a piece of their hair, they can summon the soul simply by will. This is why, on that night, they were able to bring the young man back to life.”

“Was he normal?”

“For a time, yes, he was. But, sadly, his semblance of reality was somewhat altered. He could not eat, could not sleep, could not cry, excrete bodily fluids or even speak. This young stag was perpetually a living entity that existed for no other purpose other than to simply
be.
Do you know of a creature who exists simply to
exist,
Odin?”

“No.”

“That is why when this young man’s father came to these people to ask what it was he had done wrong, they could not answer, but it had become a common principal that they
were
able to revive the dead with the soul recently pulled from the Ether.”

“I don
’t understand something,” Odin said, unable to resist the urge to frown as Jarden drummed zirs fingers along zirs knuckles. “Why was it made forbidden?”

“Because shortly after the tribe began to revive the bodies of the dead, the
magicians themselves began to exhibit…
changes.
You see, a Necromantic summon—whether it be flesh, bone, or even complete—cannot remain in existence unless the Necromancer is using his or her  will in order to maintain the creature. So when this hold slipped, the construct would die and the Sprite would be released to the world. Ah—yes. But before you interrupt me, let me start by saying that these ‘changes’ that I described came in the clan’s psyche, or the mind, which would be better and more eloquently phrased.”

“What happened to them?”

“They first experienced a madness that consumed their minds. That would claw at their bodies until they drew blood and then lick it from their wounds, suckling them like infants on a mother’s breast, tearing the wounds open further with their teeth. Then their skin began to sallow. It eventually darkened to the point where they appeared to be nothing more than strange, purplish beings that resembled nothing of themselves. They were able to hold some amount of control over their bodies for a time, but it soon became apparent that these creatures were no longer Elves—at least, not in the traditional sense.”

“What made the court decide that this was not meant to be?”

“When they began to attack civilians and raze buildings to the ground. This clan held some three-hundred individuals, Odin. You have to understand that such high levels of magical energy could be used to kill and revive corpses to fight against the living, which did occur in Lesliana at one point. The dead from beyond the walls and entombed within the Elven burial grounds were pulled from their places and forced to attack the living—much, like I have heard, what occurred in the farming community within the country of Ornala. And not only that, the Elves had to contend with the dead of the non-sentient as well—the wildlife.”

“What happened after the rebellion?”

“They were eventually driven from the mainland—forced toward the tails of the Dark Mountains, then to the sea. In their flight, they managed to construct ships and fled the mainland, from which we watched from afar as they made their way across the Martyr’s Ocean, before the Three Kingdoms, and eventually through the Salem Sea.”

“I don
’t understand something,” Odin frowned.

“What might that be?”

“You said that a corpse couldn’t be maintained unless the mage had a physical hold on the person itself.”

“Yes.”

“Then would it not be possible for someone to use a medallion or amulet inscribed with the magic to keep it alive beyond death?”

“I imagine it would, yes, but I have never heard of such a thing happening.”

“Can I ask something else, zir, if it isn’t inappropriate?”

“Yes. You may.”

“Where do they keep the book?”

Once more, Jarden
’s eyes narrowed.

No,
Odin thought.

He couldn
’t have come this far just to be denied the information that he needed.

“They keep the book,” the Neven D
’Carda said, lowering zirs eyes to zirs hands on the table, “in a guarded location here at the castle.”

“Why would they keep it within the castle?”

“Because it is guarded for the protection of others.”

“I imagine that would be a fairly difficult job to take.”

“It is, I imagine, but I do not pity the guards for what they are doing. It is their job and servitude to protect what it is that needs to be protected.”

“Zir… I don
’t understand something though.”

“What might that be?”

“Where do they keep the book?”

“That is information that is better left blind to your eyes, young Yamda.”

“Why?” Odin asked. “Doesn’t every Elf know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Then why shouldn’t I know?”

“For your ears to be tainted by its location would be to tempt the blood in you.”

Tempt the blood in me?
he thought.
What is ze—

It clicked, suddenly, like a lock turning into place.

“That’s ridiculous, zir.”

“Extra precautions need be taken when dealing with such things.”

“I just as well as anyone deserve to know where the book is. I am of Elven blood.”

“You will not be here for long, Yamda. Besides—you are escorted by
armed guards. What reason would you need to look at the Book of the Dead?”

“Who wrote it?” Odin asked, standing, nearly unable to contain the emotion that poured out. “Was it them? When did they write it? After they revived the stag or before?”

“I believe it was conceived before.”

“But it
’s here, in the castle, detailing everything on how to do it?”

“Why is it that you desire this so much, Yamda?”

Why?
Odin thought, almost unable to contain the urge to laugh.
Just
why
do I need it?

For life, for sanity, for perseverance, strength, need
, calm, rejoice, integrity, and by all means, love—these things and more were what drove him toward his ultimate goal, toward the thing he so desperately struggled to reach but seemed unable to grasp, so to be asked why it was he needed this thing seemed incompetent on this being’s part. But who could blame zir, though? He was, after all, a high mage, a guardian to one of the world’s best-kept secrets, so it was no wonder why he was being interrogated on such personal matters.

In looking into Jarden
’s pale, pupil-devoid eyes, Odin couldn’t help but feel he were staring at a laughing jester and trying to maintain control of his emotions, to throw his hands in the air and push the thing away from him, as it held no good bearings on his life and only served to drive him insane.

“I just want to see where it is,” Odin whispered.

“Why?”

“I want to know where he came from!”
he cried. “What
made
him. What
created
him. What
shaped
him into the
thing he was before he died!”

“Your emotions hold more control over you than you could ever possibly imagine.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Human emotion—“

“Human emotion
this,
human emotion
that.
At least when
he
said it to me, it made
sense.”

“Yamda—“

“Quit calling me that. I hate being called a half-breed!”

“Are you not proud of your Elven heritage?”

“Not when it makes me feel like this!”

Jarden made no move to reply.

Turning, Odin started toward the doorway.

Something flickered on the podium before him.

It took but a moment for his eyes to adjust to the faint lighting streaming from the desk.

In all its glory, it could have been described as a monolith—a great, towering thing that rose before all that was petty and declared itself as the one thing that could rule hearts, minds and lives. Encapsulated within a sphere of white light, obviously made of magi
c to protect and ensure its safety, the book lay stoic in its presence and regard. Bound in bloodstained leather, buckled with a clasp of dark metal that had to have been constructed from the most horrible of smelters and embossed with the skull of what could have possibly been a rat or possibly a rabbit, it seemed to haunt him all the more—not only for the fact that it stood directly before him, so close yet so far out of reach, but because it seemed to create the very effigy of the thing he’d been searching for for far so long.

“Your eyes have not deceived you,” Jarden said,
stepping forward and setting zirs hand directly on Odin’s shoulder.

“You… you have the book?” he asked.

“It has always been instructed to remain in the care of a Neven D’Carda.”

“Why haven
’t I seen it before?”

“Your mind allows you to see what you want to see.”

Then is it really there?

Stepping forward, but careful as to not trip on the stairs that led into the pit, Odin reached forward in an attempt to touch the sphere that
surrounded the book, but found that he couldn’t push his hand forward unless he forced his wrist to remain locked in place. A moving force couldn’t have simulated what it was that he currently felt. Perhaps something gelatinous, like water, could have recreated the effect, but it would have had to be bound to a physical form, one which could revolve according to the oppressing force’s touch.

“You cannot touch it because I have willed it untouchable,” Jarden said, reaching forward to take Odin
’s wrist from its place in front of the object.

“Why not just destroy it?” Odin asked. “Wouldn
’t that be easier?”

“Perhaps, yes, but it is said it can find its way back into the hands of those who desire it.”

“Is that true?”

“I do not know. It has never left my inhabitance.”

Unable to force his eyes away, Odin took a few steps back until he bumped into the Neven D’Carda.

“I should go,” he said.

“You should,” Jarden agreed. “Today has been much too stressful for you.”

Without a second word of goodbye, Odin started for the office door.

In the back of his mind, a plot began to weave itself like some ever-expanding quilt.

“You found it?” Virgin asked.

“Yes!” Odin cried, flinging his hands into the air as he continued his mad pursuit about the room. “I already said that!”

“Calm down, Odin. We need to take this one step at a time.”

“I know where the book is!”

“I know you do, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to be able to get to it anytime soon.”

“What does that mean?” he barked, freezing his companion in p
lace with one simple glare.

“It means,” the older Halfling said, easing his hands down onto Odin
’s shoulders as if unsure of his action, “that this might take us a little longer. Patience, my friend. Breathe.”

Though he did as instructed—first by taking a long inhale through his nose, then exhaling it out his throat—it seemed not to do him any justice. That in itself forced him to reach up, take his friend
’s wrists, then force them away from his shoulders and back to Virgin’s sides.

“I don
’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to take this madness,” Odin said, collapsing onto the foot of the bed with his head held low and his hands within his hair. “We’re so
close
Virgin.”

“I know we are.”

“How am I supposed to stay calm?”

“Let me explain something to you,” Virgin said, kneeling at Odin
’s feet and pressing a hand against his knee. “Do you know how a lone wolf manages to eat in the wild?”

“No.”

“He waits for the mouse to appear from its hole as calmly as possible—seldom breathing, always alert. He can wait for hours, you know, because he knows the mouse is there. Maybe he’s seen it go into the hole or maybe he just smells it, but regardless, he knows it’s
there.
In order to get what he wants, he has to wait for it, because most things normally don’t come to you exactly when you want them to. Right?”

“Right.”

“You have to be the wolf, Odin. You have to
wait
for what it is you want, because even though you know exactly which hole your mouse is in, you’re going to have to wait for it to peek out before you can lunge and bite its head off.”