Chapter Five
Sikras
THE CLOAKED FIGURE loomed before Sikras, the canvas of her hood partially obscuring the locks of dark hair flowing from her fleshless skull. As the embodiment of every truism, the Grim Reaper showcased no individualistic fashion sense, utterly absent of flare in her tattered gray robes.
Sikras had seen his fair share of skeletons throughout the years and, damned if underneath all that flesh and muscle, they didn’t all look the same. Still, he knew her immediately. He should have, given how much she insisted on visiting over the last four years.
“Death.” Sikras spread his arms and grinned. “Ole Grim. Thánatos. Reaper of—”
“Stop that.”
“Of course.” Sikras pretended to clamp his mouth shut. “Anything for an old friend.”
“Typically,” the reaper muttered, “when people make that gesture, they actually stop talking.”
“Death is here?” Excitement spiked in Benjamin’s voice as he scrambled from under the bed, a dusty lute in his hand. “Dammit. Will she let me see her this time? Or hear her at the very least? I’m tired of feeling like a third wheel.”
“No.” The clack of bone-on-bone sounded as Death dragged her hand down her face. “Speaking with you is trying enough. Were the Cat’s Eye not woven with your soul, I would spare myself the torment that is your company.”
Sikras leaned into this scythe, his bottom lip jutting out in a mock pout. “Sorry, Benjamin, Death’s crabby today. I’ll play middleman though. So, Death”—he grinned—“to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“You know why I’m here. When will you end Mr. Reese’s suffering and allow him the luxury of rest? Honestly, you can’t keep checking souls out of Enos as you please. It’s the afterlife, Mr. Nikabod, not a damned library.”
Spinning on his heels, Sikras regarded Benjamin with a wink. “Death said you’re looking particularly well this evening.”
“Did she? Tell that darling woman I said thank you. I’m sure she’s looking extra fine this evening as well.”
Sikras flashed Death what he had hoped was a wry smirk. “Did you catch all that?”
“Every time. Every time I come, I hope some divine intervention has blessed you with an epiphany, but no.” Irritation sparked in the reaper’s echoing voice. “I can tell by your chirpy tone and delusive smirk that you’ve learned nothing. Have you no respect for the balance between life and death?”
Sikras arched a brow. “Really? You’re asking a necromancer that question?”
“What question?” Ben asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Sikras said with a casual wave of his hand. “Death was wondering if I could do anything to make your stay outside of Enos more comfortable. I must say, Benjamin, I think she’s very fond of you. You still have a way with the ladies.”
Benjamin’s free hand flopped over the empty space where his heart used to be. “That is so sweet. If she’s asking, I’m still waiting for some clothes. Four years later and walking around without pants has yet to feel natural in any way.”
“I’m sure all those women you courted in your time would beg to differ, but we’ll find you pants nevertheless.” Sikras faced Death, a cupped hand near his lips to carry his stage whisper. “Hard to find a tailor for the poor fellow. Thin hips, you see.”
A haunting groan left the reaper’s jaws. “Were it that I could die to spare me from this conversation.”
Sikras gave Death a playful nudge with his elbow. “Come on, you wouldn’t keep dropping by if you didn’t find us at least a little charming.”
“In my eternity of existence,” Death mumbled in a strict monotone, “only seven casters successfully played host to the Cat’s Eye.
You are by far the worst. Those before you may have allowed the power to corrupt their bodies, minds, and souls, but, here you are, of sound mind and spirit, still willfully torturing your alleged companion by denying him his right to eternal rest.”
Sikras gasped, hand over his heart. “You think I’m of sound mind? That’s so flattering.”
If Death had eyes to roll, she surely would have.
Instead, she gently rested both palms on Sikras’s shoulders and squeezed.
“I know there is good in you, Mr. Nikabod. You may be a killer, a compulsive liar, a man who has little respect for the dead’s right to eternal rest, and you certainly conned me out of my precious scythe—”
Sikras smirked. “Was it really a con though? A bit of luck, maybe, but—”
“I know you’re not a bad person,” Death continued, “which is why it is so frustrating when you act like one.”
A flicker of a flinch, then nothing. I know you’re not a bad person.
Words Vessik had said to Sikras many times.
So often, in fact, Sikras had believed him.
He wanted to embody his dear friend’s pure heart.
Nobody was kinder, more compassionate than Vessik before the cheese slid off his cracker, and he started slaughtering people like they were sacrificial lambs.
Sikras inhaled deeply. He could still be a good person. He could still be the man Vessik thought he was. Maybe. At the very least, he’d never let anything bad happen to Benjamin. “Ben is in good hands. You’ll see. I’ll find him some pants; it’s just taking longer than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, tell her I’m not that worried about the pants,” Benjamin called out as he absently strummed the lute. “I’d settle for a cloak or a long tunic. A man must leave something to the imagination.”
“See? He’s fine. Besides”—Sikras wriggled his shoulders out of Death’s touch—“I’ve got eight more lives left to find him a proper tailor.”
A low, thoughtful hum rumbled in the reaper’s throat. “At the rate you’re going, Mr. Nikabod, not even eight lifetimes will be enough to see you past the first stage of grief.”
“I never made it past the first stage of a lot of things. My wizardry apprenticeship, for example. Blood and bone, Vessik and I lasted all of two months, and we turned out fine. Mostly. I mean, if you don’t count Vessik’s last four years of mayhem, the thirty before that were exceedingly well lived. Don’t you think?”
Death’s arms disappeared into the cavernous sleeves of her robe. “Necromancers. Liches. Diavoli. You beings who violate essence, soul, and spirit will be the end of my sanity. Do you have any idea how many blank patches mar Enos’s garden where human essence should be?”
“Liches and diavoli are a little beyond my skill level,” Sikras mumbled, “but since you loath necromancers that much, you’ll be happy to know we’re off to kill Vessik.”
“Forgive me for not leaping for joy, Mr. Nikabod, but I’ve heard this proclamation before.”
Sikras frowned and turned away. “It’ll be different this time. We’ll have the Red Sentinel on our side.”
The reaper scoffed. “You could have the whole of Siaphara behind you, but you’ll still freeze faster than a flower under the chill of a frost giant’s breath when you come face-to-face with your undead wife.”
A sudden twitch betrayed the crumbling infrastructure of Sikras’s feigned confidence.
“Just because that worked exceedingly well for Vessik last time doesn’t mean it’ll work again.
Besides, failure isn’t an option. Saelihn has threatened poor, fragile Benjamin with jail time.
You and I both know he’s too pure to rot in a dungeon. ”
“Actually,” Ben cut in, “she threatened you. I’m just a casualty of your refusal to pay taxes.”
Death huffed. “Yet another slight Mr. Reese is forced to suffer in your company, it seems.”
An unsettling stillness locked all retorts in Sikras’s throat, until he cleared it. “Are you done wagging your finger at me, or is there more?”
“Just one.” Death’s eyeless gaze turned toward the scythe. “Have you been treating her well? My Niapoli?”
Sikras gave the weightless scythe a twirl and planted it into the ground. “She’s definitely not a glorified walking stick, if that’s what you're asking.”
Tension stiffened Death’s shoulders, and the sound of her grinding teeth rippled through the room. “An ancient relic of legendary acclaim reduced to holding the weight of a broken man.”
“I kid. I’d die for this scythe. If I ever got married again, this scythe would be the best man at my wedding.”
A ghostly sigh filled the air. “That’s the last time I barter with necromancers.”
“Probably for the best.” Sikras waved. “Safe travels, old friend.”
In a flash, the reaper vanished.
Benjamin cocked his head. “Is she gone?”
“For now.”
“Too bad. Are you all right? You have that look of someone who just got chastised by an ageless, omnipotent being.”
“Never better.” The lie came out as swift and easy as they always did.
“You know, since we’re in Her Majesty’s castle, with its plentiful offerings, why don’t I see about sending one of Saelihn’s errand boys to Carpin Capers?
We’ll get you in the queue for some pants befitting a man of your . .. unique proportions.”
Benjamin plopped onto the bed, lute in lap, and ran his hand over the duvet’s textured embroidery. “If you’d like. I’ll be here in the meantime, pretending I can still feel how soft these pillows are.”
Oh, that short stab of guilt was a surprise.
Sikras wondered for all of three seconds what it must have been like to lose the sensation of touch before mental self-preservation rose to perish the thought.
He quietly stepped into the hall, closed the door, and locked the source of his mixed emotions behind him.
After several echoing footsteps into the corridor and one existential crisis later, he blew out a sigh, and his tension along with it.
Of course, Death had to say those things.
She was Death. Housing and protecting spirits until the gods came to Enos to split soul from essence and claim their worshippers’ souls was her whole deal.
Surely, her heavily implied accusations were wrong; Sikras wasn’t really a gods-awful, horrible monster bent on tormenting his dear brother-in-law by shackling him to a fleshless prison of bones that couldn’t process the joys of touch, taste, or smell for the rest of his unnatural life.
... Surely.