6. Watchful Eyes
6
Watchful Eyes
Dorian
As Dean Vane and I completed our weekly stroll through the hallowed grounds of the Ossuary Memorial Garden, I could not help but marvel at the sheer artistry on display. The gardens had always been one of my favorite places to visit in the necropolis. Nowhere else on the grounds could one find such a fitting and beautiful juxtaposition of life and death. Delicate arrangements of sun-bleached bones had been put on display, each one telling a story of a life once lived.
Stone benches were nestled in hidden alcoves, each one adorned with hand-crocheted throws in deep jewel tones, a touch I'd added after finding too many students studying here in the cold. Antique lanterns hung from wrought iron posts, their glass panels painted with protective sigils that cast dancing shadows on the paths below. There was something endearing about how the students had turned this place of remembrance into a kind of cozy communal study spot.
Even the maintenance was a community effort. Herbology students tested their skills against the particular challenges of growing plants among bones, artistic souls adding their own careful arrangements, and my necromancy students learned to tend to both the physical remains and the lingering spirits with equal care.
Threading through each display was a carefully curated collection of flora, tended to by our master herbalist student body. Lovely green ivy snaked through smiling skulls and moonflowers spread their delicate blooms, reaching through metacarpals. I smiled at a particularly creative arrangement where someone had woven delicate fairy lights through a ribcage, making it look like a heart still glowed within. It reminded me of something Gran would appreciate, that perfect balance of respectful and whimsical. I made a mental note to mention it in my next letter to her, along with a sketch of how the lights had been placed. She always said the best magic found ways to make beauty bloom in unexpected places.
It was a poignant reminder of the fragility of our mortal coil, and the importance of treating the deceased with the utmost respect.
Dean Vane, however, seemed far less involved in the artful displays of our dead, though I couldn’t blame him. He might have been the head of the spiritual studies department, but he was, at heart, an eldritch mage and not a necromancer.
“I must say, Eamon, I find myself rather troubled by the recent uptick in spirit activity,” I began, my voice carrying a note of concern as we walked. I found myself slipping into the cadence of my grandmother's speech, the way I often did when worried. “There's an old saying back home: 'When the dead grow restless, the living should grow wise.’ Gran used to tell me that the spirits were like the weather in County Cork: generally mild, but when they turn stormy, you'd best pay attention.”
I absently touched the protection charm she'd given me years ago, a small silver disc engraved with Celtic knotwork that I kept in my vest pocket. Its familiar weight was comforting as I added, “The old ways might seem quaint to some, but they understood something about maintaining balance between the worlds. Just last week, I had to dispel a particularly aggressive shade that had taken up residence in the library.”
Dean Vane raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild interest tinged with skepticism. “A few restless spirits hardly warrant such concern. It's to be expected in a place like this, where the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. As for the unscheduled dispel in the library… Well, isn’t that what we keep you necromancers around for? You might just be the first necromancer at Blackstone to complain about the prospect of job security.”
I shook my head, unconvinced. “It's more than just a few isolated incidents. The spirits seem... agitated. Unsettled. As if something has stirred them up.” I paused, running a hand along the smooth surface of a skull adorned with a crown of forget-me-nots. “I fear that if we do not address this issue, it may escalate into something far more serious. Something…dangerous.”
The dean scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You worry too much, my friend. The spirits are our allies, not our enemies. They are simply making their presence known, as is their right.”
I frowned, my brow furrowing. “Be that as it may, I believe we have a responsibility to maintain balance. To ensure that the living and the dead can coexist in harmony.”
Dean Vane let out a heavy sigh, his eyes flickering with a hint of impatience. “And what would you propose, Dorian? Shall we send out a strongly worded letter to the spirits, kindly requesting they settle down and behave themselves?” His tone dripped with sarcasm, a sharp contrast to the serene beauty surrounding us.
I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the image his words conjured. “No, no, nothing quite so formal. Perhaps a gentle reminder of the rules of engagement. A metaphysical nudge, if you will, to encourage a return to the status quo.”
We continued our walk, the crunch of gravel beneath our feet punctuating the momentary lull in conversation. As we rounded a corner, a particularly striking display came into view. It was a towering spiral of bones, each one polished to a gleaming ivory, interwoven with delicate strands of silver sage. The heady scent of the herbs mingled with the crisp autumn air, creating an atmosphere that was at once ethereal and grounding.
Different types of magic left distinct impressions on the senses: the sharp, metallic tang of protective wards, the honey-sweet whisper of growth charms nurturing the plants, and beneath it all, the deep, rich current of death magic that felt like velvet against my skin.
I'd spent countless evenings here, grading papers while perched on one of the wrought iron benches, a thermos of Irish breakfast tea at my side. The garden had a way of settling restless thoughts, and more than one student had found their way here during moments of doubt or struggle.
“Speaking of maintaining the status quo,” Dean Vane began, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “I've been meaning to discuss the performance of that scholarship student of yours. Wickens, I believe his name is. How does he fare among the more... traditional members of your cohort?”
A flicker of protectiveness ran through me at the mention of Ren Wickens. The young man had shown remarkable promise in his studies, despite the whispers and sideways glances from those who believed he didn't belong at Blackstone.
“Ren is doing quite well, actually,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “His natural affinity for necromancy is undeniable, and he approaches the craft with a level of reverence and curiosity that is truly refreshing.”
Dean Vane hummed, unconvinced. “Natural affinity or not, one cannot ignore the fact that he comes from a decidedly... mundane background.”
I bristled at the implication, my jaw clenching slightly. “Blackstone is open to all, regardless of their lineage.”
Dean Vane raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement. “Ah, yes. The noble ideal of equal opportunity.” He paused, plucking a stray leaf from his immaculately tailored coat. “But let's be realistic, Dorian. Talent will only get him so far. The boy lacks the proper foundation,” Dean Vane continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the way my jaw tightened at his dismissive tone. “Though I suppose I can see why you've taken such an... interest in him. He has a certain earnest charm, doesn't he? Those expressive dark eyes, that passionate dedication to the craft—”
“That's quite enough,” I cut in, perhaps more sharply than I intended. The mere suggestion that my appreciation of Ren's abilities might be colored by something inappropriate made my chest tight with indignation, and perhaps a touch of guilt, given how often I'd caught myself noticing exactly those features Eamon had mentioned. “My interest in Ren's development is purely professional, though I won't deny that his approach to necromancy is... refreshing. He sees beauty where others see only darkness, possibility where others see limitations. It's rather remarkable, actually...” I trailed off, realizing I was perhaps revealing too much in my defense.
The knowing look in Eamon's eyes made me want to hex him on principle. “And your interest is purely professional, of course,” he said dryly.
I stopped in my tracks, turning to face Dean Vane directly. A surge of indignation welled up within me, and I couldn't help but let a hint of it seep into my voice. “With all due respect, Eamon, I strongly disagree. Ren's potential is vast, and it would be a disservice to him, and to the craft, to dismiss him so readily. You should see him with the spirits, Eamon. He has this... natural empathy that can't be taught. Just yesterday, I found him in the necropolis, helping two lost souls find peace with such gentle skill that—” I caught myself, realizing I was perhaps revealing too much of my admiration. “The point is, magical legacy isn't everything. Sometimes the most profound understanding of death magic comes from those who have had to transform themselves.”
“You've got a soft spot for this one, haven't you? Reminds me of how you used to talk about...” Eamon's knowing smirk made me wish I'd brought my grandmother's cursed tea set to this meeting. The one that made rude guests' tea taste like seawater. “Getting involved with students and co-workers is dangerous, Dorian. Did you learn nothing from Alistair?”
The mention of Alistair's name sent a jolt through me, as if I'd been struck by a particularly nasty hex. Old wounds, long buried, threatened to resurface. Memories of another garden, another time, when I'd been younger and more na?ve about the politics of magical academia. I took a deep breath, steadying myself before responding.
“Alistair was... a different situation entirely,” I said, my voice tight with carefully controlled emotion. “And I'll thank you not to bring him up in this context.”
Dean Vane held up his hands in a placating gesture, though the glint in his eye suggested he was rather pleased to have struck a nerve. “Of course, of course. My apologies. I only meant to caution you against getting too... invested. We both know how that tends to end.”
“My interest in Ren is purely academic,” I snapped, unable to keep my irritation from bleeding through into my tone. “The boy has a gift, and it is my duty as his professor to nurture that talent, regardless of his background.”
The dean opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, a sudden chill swept through the ossuary garden, causing the delicate flowers adorning the skeletal displays to tremble and wilt. The air grew heavy with an unseen presence, a palpable sense of malevolence that set my senses on high alert.
“Do you feel that?” I murmured, my eyes scanning the surrounding area for any sign of spectral disturbance.
A bone-chilling shriek pierced the tranquil atmosphere of the ossuary garden. The sound was unlike anything I'd ever encountered in my years as a necromancer, a primal, agonized wail that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the underworld itself.
The skeletal displays rattled and shook, as if possessed by some unseen force. Delicate flowers, once so lovingly arranged, were ripped from their places and scattered to the winds. The towering spiral of bones that had so recently captivated our attention began to unravel, each gleaming ivory piece tumbling to the ground with a sickening clatter.
The malevolent wind only grew stronger, coalescing in a swirling vortex of spectral energy at the center of the garden. Tendrils of sickly green light lashed out, striking at the surrounding displays and sending shards of bone flying through the air.
Dean Vane and I sprang into action, our hands moving in practiced gestures as we wove counterspells to contain the rogue spirit. Intricate patterns of glowing sigils hung in the air between us, a complex tapestry of necromantic energy designed to bind and banish the malevolent entity.
Yet despite our combined efforts, the spirit continued to rage, its fury only intensifying with each passing moment. The sigils we wove shattered like fragile glass, unable to withstand the sheer force of the entity's wrath. It was as if the spirit had been driven mad by some unspeakable torment, its very essence twisted and corrupted beyond recognition.
“By the gods, Dorian, what manner of spirit is this?” Dean Vane shouted over the cacophony of shattering bone and howling winds. “I've never seen anything like it!”
I gritted my teeth, my mind racing as I delved deep into my vast repository of necromantic knowledge. This was no ordinary specter, that much was certain. The level of raw, unbridled power it possessed was staggering, far beyond anything I had encountered in my many years of study and practice.
“It's not just one spirit,” I realized with a sudden, chilling clarity. “It's an amalgamation, a fusion of multiple souls that have somehow been bound together against their will.”
The realization hit me like ice water. This was exactly the kind of dark magic my parents had been experimenting with before their deaths. The same twisted manipulation of souls that had led them to their doom. But they were gone, their research destroyed. Unless... unless someone had found their notes. Or worse, unless someone else had independently arrived at the same forbidden knowledge.
The implications of this revelation were staggering. Someone, or something, had performed an act of necromancy so vile, so utterly reprehensible, that it defied all laws of nature and morality. To forcibly merge the essences of the dead, to strip them of their individuality and autonomy... it was an abomination of the highest order.
As if sensing my understanding, the amalgamated spirit let out a pained shriek. My heart clenched. The spirits were in agony, lashing out at anything that came near. I had to do something to ease their pain.
With a deep breath, I reached out with my magic, weaving tendrils of soothing energy that sought to envelop the raging spirit. I poured every ounce of compassion and empathy I possessed into the spell, hoping against hope that I could provide some measure of solace to these tortured entities.
The spirit continued to thrash and howl, its anguish reverberating through the once-tranquil ossuary gardens like a discordant symphony of misery. Shards of bone and withered petals swirled through the air, caught up in the storm of the spirit's fury. Even my best efforts weren’t enough to relieve the spirit of its pain.
“We have no choice, Dorian,” Dean Vane shouted. “We must contain it, by whatever means necessary!”
I knew he was right, loath as I was to admit it. With a heavy heart, I reached into the depths of my coat, my fingers closing around the cool metal of the spirit container I always carried with me. It was a last resort, a tool I had hoped never to use, but in the face of such unimaginable suffering, I saw no other way.
As I withdrew the intricately crafted device, its silver surface etched with glowing sigils of containment, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. This was not the path I had envisioned for myself, not the way I had hoped to use my gifts. I was meant to be a guide, a shepherd of souls, not a jailer.
But there was no time for such self-recrimination. With a flick of my wrist, I activated the container, its sigils flaring to life with a brilliant azure light.
The spirit container hummed with power as I held it aloft, the glowing sigils pulsing in time with the frantic beat of my heart. I focused my will, directing the device's energy towards the raging amalgamation of souls. Tendrils of shimmering light snaked out from the container, ensnaring the spirit in a web of arcane power.
The spirit thrashed and howled, fighting against the pull of the containment spell. The air crackled with the clash of opposing forces, the spirit's raw anguish colliding with the strength of the container's enchantments.
“Hold steady, Dorian!” Dean Vane called out, his own magic joining mine in a desperate attempt to subdue the rampaging entity. “We almost have it!”
I gritted my teeth, pouring every ounce of my strength into the containment spell. Sweat beaded on my brow as I strained against the spirit's resistance, my arms trembling with the effort of maintaining the flow of power.
For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed as though the spirit might break free, its fury threatening to shatter the delicate balance of the containment field. But then, with a final, agonized shriek, the amalgamated spirit was sucked into the vessel, its essences compressed and constrained by the powerful sigils etched upon its surface. The container shuddered in my grasp, its metal growing warm to the touch as it struggled to contain the raw, primal energy.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The ossuary gardens fell silent, the only sound our ragged breathing as we stood amidst the shattered remains of the once-beautiful skeletal displays. The spirit container pulsed softly in my hand, its sigils glowing with a steady, subdued light.
I stared down at the device, a mixture of relief and sorrow warring within me. We had succeeded in containing the rogue spirit, yes, but at what cost? The tortured souls within the container would find no peace, no rest, trapped as they were within its arcane confines. It was a fate I would not wish upon my greatest enemy, let alone these innocent entities who had already suffered so much.
Dean Vane straightened his coat, brushing bits of bone dust from his sleeves with a fastidious air. “Well, that was certainly more excitement than I had bargained for on our little stroll,” he remarked, his tone far too casual for the gravity of the situation.
I barely registered his words, my mind still reeling from the implications of what we had just witnessed. “This was no random occurrence,” I murmured, my gaze still fixed upon the spirit container. “Someone, or something, deliberately created this... this abomination. And I intend to find out who.”
He huffed. “Just so long as it’s on your own time, Professor. And make sure that container makes it down to the reliquary. Can’t risk something like that getting loose again.”
I nodded absently, my fingers tightening around the spirit container. “Of course. I'll see to it personally on my way to the alliance meeting.”
Dean Vane gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “See that you do.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path as he left me alone amidst the ruins of the ossuary garden.
I stood there for a long moment, my mind racing with questions and possibilities. Who could have done this? What possible motive could they have for creating such a twisted abomination? And perhaps most importantly, were there more amalgamated spirits out there, waiting to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting world?
A chill ran down my spine at the thought. If this was just the beginning, if there were other tortured souls crying out for release... I shuddered to think of the implications.
But I knew one thing for certain: I could not let this stand. As a necromancer, as a shepherd of souls, it was my sacred duty to unravel this mystery and bring those responsible to justice. No matter the cost.
With a heavy sigh, I tucked the spirit container into the depths of my coat, its weight a constant reminder of the burden I now carried. I cast one last glance around the shattered remains of the ossuary garden, my heart aching for the beauty that had been so cruelly destroyed.
Then, with a sense of grim determination, I turned and left the garden behind. For now.