Chapter Sixteen #4
condemned your life, and, in the same breath, he became adamant that I must not
provide him with a weak vessel, in case his enemies in the Diet thought of
betrayal. Oh, believe me, Isaac, if it were possible, I would have strangled
his soul, right through the machine.”
The
thralls kept their hands cocked with ice and fire. Zaria returned to Isaac’s side,
keeping her poleaxe low to the floor. He had seen her athleticism, her speed in
combat. He knew she could easily barrel through the crowd of humans.
If she
could get to the stage. . . .
“Needless
to say,” the Bone Hunter said, “this was unprecedented. The Diet of Nine would
have fractured, if the news had spread. Your sacrifice would’ve violated every
ethical principle the collective was founded to protect. All the dukes and
regents that provide our autonomy would’ve demanded censure, imprisonment,
execution. More importantly, if what lies in this darkened earth was ever made
public, it would destroy the peace our forebears
strived so hard to achieve. Every kingdom in the region would fall back to war,
and the Scorch that came again would make the fires of hell seem a candle’s
flame.”
Isaac’s
gaze roamed over the metal extractors.
Glass
coffins.
Retention
tanks.
“Debate
raged for days,” Berith continued. “Stunningly little of it was about you. The
Archons were solely concerned with the reports of what your father discovered.
The consequences of making it public knowledge.” He glared down at Isaac. “It’s
amazing how quickly people murder their fellows, if they stand to gain from it.
It happened to your father. It happened to the Archons.”
“Happened
to you, too,” Zaria said.
“Not by
choice,” Berith replied.
She
snorted.
“Thus,”
Berith said, “in the end, they agreed. They would meet your father’s demands.
Half of the Archons could barely supinate their arms to sign a document, let
alone a casting. All of them were riddled with gout, blindness, infirmity. They were political creatures, creatures of
habit and want. So, of course, they agreed.”
He
folded his hands behind his back, still pacing.
“And,
of course, it was not enough. It would’ve never been enough. Before you had
even dried from the blood of your mother, some of the Archons approached me
with an offer. A conspiracy within a conspiracy. They wanted to claim the prize
of this tomb for themselves, and they did not want the rest of the wizards to
know they were violating the deal. They wanted to kill your father in secret,
to snatch the prize of this tomb before the rest of the Diet would kill it with
regulation. And I, alone, was perfect for the task.”
The
bones on his robes twisted and crawled. His eyes glowed, and thirty pairs of
eyes responded in turn.
“A
parasite,” Berith said. “A necromancer. Oh, how the darkness can fester.”
“You
specialized in necrotics,” Isaac said, feeling some need to argue. “You’ve . .
. that was always your specialty. Does this mean. . . .”
“I have
the same inheritance as your father.”
“A
dual-specialist.”
“That’s
right, Isaac. I could divide my skill, just like you.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
Berith echoed. “Why can we train ourselves?”
“Why
this?” Isaac asked, gesturing at the thralls. “Why would you choose to dominate
the innocent?”
“Because
that’s already what I was doing.” He looked at the thralls himself. As he
roamed from face to face, there were hints of recognition. “Because I may be
one of the most renowned hunters of necromancy this side of the wasteland, but
the sheer mass of your father’s necrotics would have posed an insurmountable
barrier. It was a question of energy, not skill. The need was for ammunition. I
needed an army.”
His
gaze lingered on the flowing hair of a human girl, close to Isaac’s age.
His jaw
clenched.
“Because
I was a college professor,” Berith said, “and these students trusted me. If I
led them away from their families, I could claim it was merely an expedition
into the Charnel, and no one would bat an eye. Not even if they died.”
He went
silent.
“Because
if you only care about yourself,” he said, “it’s always easier to seize
control, rather than allow the choice.”
Zaria
glanced at Isaac, saying nothing.
“The entire
thing,” Berith said, “disgusted me beyond expression. The injustice of it all
was staggering. They ordered me to kill my own brother. They ordered me to
raise his child, solely as livestock. I would be forced to sacrifice dozens of
my own students in the pursuit of naked betrayal. The conspirators—on both
sides of the equation—threatened me with censure, exile, even death from
assassination. That was the only way they could ensure my compliance.”
His
uncle continued to watch him. Isaac struggled to return the gaze.
“It was
not enough,” Berith said. “When you were born, I demanded your death. I used
every favor I had to try and escape this fate. If necessary, I would’ve walked
to the river behind my tower and tossed you in the wakes. I spent many nights
over your crib, knife in hand. I wanted so dearly to bring it down.”
“You’re
fucking scum,” Zaria said.
A trio
of femurs screamed past her face. There was a clanging on the door, a
reverberation of bronze and steel. It sounded like the necromancer was still
coagulating her forces, just on the other side. She had risen in protest.
The
necromancer.
His
father. . . .
“It
would’ve been a kindness,” Berith said. “It would’ve saved you from a life of
imprisonment, a life spent in the service of greed and malice. Many times, I
was close to doing it. Not once in all your years did I stop considering the
option.”
Berith’s
gaze peeled away from his nephew. He looked around the room, roaming over
coffins, piles of clothes, ancient stains of blood, the massive, curving walls
of bone.
His
gaze lingered on the bone.
“And
then they told me,” he said, “I would have to kill you. Once again, it
would have to be me. It was not enough that I must raise you. It was not enough
that I must spend hours, every day,
teaching you magic, teaching you spells that I knew you would never use. It was
not enough that I must lie about the purpose of your entire life.”
Berith
clenched his fists.
“No. I
had to kill you myself. All to shield the Archons who wanted to betray the
deal, in case their plot was ever discovered. All to make sure your father
never received his vessel. After everything I had to do for you, after
everything. . . .”
The
hanging bones shuddered through the dust.
“How
could anyone raise a child and not grow fond of them? How could. . . .”
His
uncle gazed down at him from the platform.
“How
could I ever stand the sight of your body?”
His
face softened. Isaac remembered, all at once, all the times his uncle had ever stayed the cane, had ever broken the mold of
lecturer and master to sit with his nephew, to chat, to share and smile and
laugh. It always seemed like a breaking of his composure.
It
always seemed like a moment of weakness.
An
allowance.
A
betrayal of himself.
“I had
to make a choice,” Berith said. “What lies in this tomb is more important than
you, or me, or your father, or any other singular life. I had to comply with my
orders. But. . . .” He gave another softened look. “But if what lies in this
tomb would not change the world, I would’ve forsaken the Diet, the kingdoms,
the entire wizarding world . . . just for you.”
For a
moment, the only movement in the factory was the feeling of a distant rumbling
scream, deep within the earth.
“What
were you thinking?” Isaac asked, his voice trembling. “All those times you—”
Berith’s
face was highlighted beneath the red stripes of the necromancer flag.
“You
brought me books,” Isaac said. “I knew you went out of your way to find them. It—I was so elated, every time you brought one for me. I
looked forward to it. It was the only thing I looked forward to. Every time you
ate a meal with me, every time you’d joke, every time you’d smile, I thought—”
He
swallowed.
“I
thought I’d made you proud. I thought I’d finally impressed you. I thought I
had earned all the time and effort you spent on me. Even when I hated you, even
in the worst of my despair, I still always thought there would be some—some purpose to your cruelty. I thought if I
tried hard enough. . . .”
Berith
looked up, eyeing the crest of a pelvic wing.
“The letter.
The—” He almost reached for his pack. “The letter you wrote me, before I left.
I carried it with me the entire way. I read every word, over and over again.
You said—” He swallowed the sharp knot in his throat. “You said, ‘your father
will be proud of you.’”
Berith
did not look at him.
“You
always told me,” Isaac said, “that my father and I were ‘two souls sharing a
body’.”
Berith’s
robes hung loosely on his frame, as black as a necrotic scar.
“Was
that a joke to you?”
Berith
lowered his gaze, staring into the platform at his feet. His lips pressed
together. The bald dome of his head reflected the golden light.
“What
were you thinking?” Isaac asked. “Every time you allowed yourself to be nice,
what was crossing through your mind? Did you feel sorry for me? Was it
pity? Remorse?”
His
uncle took a deep breath.
“I had
nothing.” Isaac’s vision blurred with tears. “Only you. Nothing else. No
friends, no love, no experience. Nothing! Your kindness gave me nothing
but hope! It would have been better if you’d killed me from the start!”
Berith
shut his eyes.
“You
lied to me!” Isaac shouted, his voice hoarse and shaking. “You denied me
everything! You robbed me of my life!”
The
chamber fell silent. The two mages remained in place, staring at each other
across the gloom and rust. Tension hung between them, like the reeking stench
of blood.
“Did my
mother,” Isaac said, “really die giving birth to me?”
Berith
repressed a sigh.
For the
first time in his life, Isaac snapped.
“It was