Songreaver (25 page)

Garrett paused at the canvas flap door and
called out, "Warren?"

The flap jerked back, and Warren grinned at
him from inside. "Come in, Gar," he said.

Garrett stepped inside, and Lady Ymowyn
smiled at him without taking her lips from the little wooden fife
she was playing. She continued to play the cheerful tune, bobbing
her fox-like ears in time to the music. Her green eyes sparkled in
the light of the ornate glass lamp that sat on the table beside her
chair.

Warren's father looked up from where he lay
on a real bed, another new addition to the ghouls' nest. He smiled,
weakly, baring his long yellow fangs as he struggled to rise enough
to nod his head toward Garrett. "Ev'n boy..." he rasped. The pale
scars of his battle with the Volgrem still crisscrossed his shaggy
arms and chest.

"Good Evening, Mister Bargas," Garrett said.
He lifted the sloshing bucket in both hands. "Uncle Tinjin couldn't
make it, but he wanted you to have this."

Bargas's nostrils flared and he sniffed
loudly. "Can't... quite make it out, boy," he said.

Warren gave Garrett a worried look and
glanced in the bucket, giving its contents a sniff himself. "Good
stuff, Dad," Warren said, "plenty ripe."

"Uncle says this one was a great minstrel,"
Garrett said, "just not a very good burglar."

Ymowyn's curiosity got the better of her, and
she leaned over to peer inside the bucket. She choked on the note
she was playing and pulled the flute from her mouth as she turned
her head away, making a little gagging noise. "Fie! Please tell me
that's not what I think it is!" she gasped.

Warren grinned as he took the heavy bucket
from Garrett. "Yep," he said, "good old thinkin' meat!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ymowyn
murmured.

"Aw, bless you, boy!" Bargas sighed, "Thank
your uncle for me. He's a good friend."

"He said he was sorry that he couldn't make
it tonight," Garrett said, "but he's going to try to make it down
here tomorrow night, if he can finish up what he's working on
enough to take a break."

Bargas nodded, sinking back into his pillow.
"Keep an eye on him for us, boy," he rasped, "Tinjin's old... he
pushes himself... too hard..." Bargas's body shook as a fit of
coughing took his breath. Warren moved to Bargas's side, putting
his hand on his father's arm.

Lady Ymowyn set aside her fife and fetched a
small brown bottle from a nearby table covered in a wide array of
jars and other glassware. She dribbled a bit of honey-colored
liquid out into the bowl of a broken-handled ladle and forced
Bargas to drink it. Bargas's coughing soon subsided, and he thanked
her before lapsing into a gentle slumber.

Ymowyn corked her medicine bottle and ushered
the boys outside. They sat down together in the rubble of Warren's
patio and watched a pair of ghoul pups playing in the shadowy
street.

"Is he going to get better?" Warren asked,
his voice hollow.

Ymowyn nodded. "Bargas is a fighter," she
said, "He'll recover... though I doubt he will ever again be as
strong as he was before the attack."

Warren grimaced, fighting back tears, and he
smashed an old brick to pieces with his fist.

Ymowyn started at the sudden display of
violence but then put her hand on Warren's shoulder. "He will
live," she whispered, "That is all that matters."

Warren nodded. "I know... I know."

Ymowyn smiled and ran her small hand across
Warren's furry brow. His eyes lifted to hers, and he smiled
back.

"Thanks, Ym," he said.

Ymowyn scratched him behind the ear then
pulled away. She regained her ladylike composure, crossing her legs
and smoothing her blue dress as she sat, perched on the broken wall
of an ancient, withered garden. "Well,
Kingslayer
," she
said, turning to Garrett, "what have
you
been up to?"

Garrett frowned at her. "Do they still think
I killed that guy?" he asked.

Ymowyn raised her eyebrows. "Oh, yes," she
said, "You'll be pleased, no doubt, to learn that they have
declared a national holiday. Every year, on the anniversary of King
Haerad's death, they plan on making little dolls of you and burning
them in the streets. It's quite an honor, really."

Warren snickered.

"It's not funny!" Garrett said.

"Yeah, it is," Warren said.

Garrett felt the old anger swelling in his
chest, and his face flushed hot, but he knew they meant no
harm.

"If I were you, I'd have it embroidered on my
sleeve and wear it as a badge of honor," Ymowyn chuckled,
"
Garrett, Slayer of Tyrants
."

Garrett fell silent for a moment, absently
snapping a branch from a dead shrub. "He was just an angry old
man... Cabre wanted his dad to be proud of him, but..." Garrett's
voice trailed off into the memory of the terrible murder for which
he had taken the blame.

Ymowyn gave a bitter laugh. "Haerad may have
been an
angry old man
, but he wielded the power of a kingdom
with merciless cruelty," she said, "Don't you dare... don't you
dare
feel sorry for him!"

Garrett looked up, seeing for the first time
the pain in Ymowyn's eyes.

"I only wish that I could have been there to
see it," she said, "I would have
gladly
traded places with
you, Garrett! I wish they were making little dolls of
me
to
burn in the streets. I wish they were cursing
my
name. So,
don't you
ever
feel sorry for that murderer... not
ever!"

Garrett nodded, saying nothing.

Warren sucked in a breath. "Well, who's
hungry?" he said.

Ymowyn glared at him. "I am
not
eating
what's in that bucket!" she said.

"No!" Warren said, "That's for Dad... I just
meant we should go see what Chunnley's cooking for supper."

"Oh," Ymowyn said, her scowl softening.

Garrett yawned. "I'd... I'd better get back
home," he said, "I've had a pretty long day."

"Thanks for coming to visit, Gar," Warren
said, "It means a lot to Dad."

"Yeah," Garrett said, "Oh... there was one
thing I wanted to ask you... Do you know anything about a place
called the
Chamber of Kings
?"

"Huh," Warren said, "You mean that place
where all the oldest dead guys in the city are supposed to be
buried?"

"Yeah."

Warren shrugged. "We never found it," he
said, "We've been way down in the catacombs, down to where it's
mostly old lava tubes and such, past where anybody ever bothered to
bury anybody, but we never found any king tombs or anything like
that. The stories just say that the kings were buried
in the
heart of the world
. I guess that would be pretty deep."

"Oh," Garrett said.

"You lookin' for a really old dead guy?"
Warren asked.

"Yeah," Garrett said, "but nobody seems to
know much about him."

"We can ask my dad when he's feeling better,"
Warren said, "If anybody can find him, it'll be Dad."

"Yeah," Garrett said, "Thanks."

The townhouse at 630 East Primrose Street
stood, tall and narrow-faced, between its neighbors in a long row
of similar, unassuming houses. Nothing about the stately brick
facade gave any indication that a necromancer lived there.

Garrett pulled the bell rope and waited at
the door. It opened a few moments later, and Marsten, dressed in a
somber black suit smiled and greeted him.

"Come in, Garrett," Marsten said quietly as
he ushered him inside, "Please wait over here for a few minutes, if
you don't mind. I'm with clients."

Garrett nodded, taking his cue to keep
silent. He stood off to one side of the entry hall and tried to
look unobtrusive as Marsten went back into the parlor.

"My apologies," Marsten's voice carried from
the other room, "Are we ready to begin?"

"Yes, please," an older man's voice answered.
He sounded as though he'd been weeping.

Garrett heard the clink of glass against
glass and then Marsten's voice, singing, softly at first, but
growing louder.

Look back on this gray world of sorrow. Look
back

Your eyes have stolen away our light. Look
back

Close not your heart forever, but remember
us. Look back

The cold road beckons, but we call to you.
Look back

Not yet. Not yet. Hear our fervent prayer.
Look back

Let your hands that hold our hearts reach for
us again

Let us look into your eyes again. Look
back

Wake again from this little sleep. We wait,
faithfully. Wake

Wake and remember those you love, those who
love you. Wake

Death cannot conquer where Love is strong.
Wake

Wake!

A sudden gasp of breath sounded from the
parlor, and a man cried out in alarm.

"Emma!"

Marsten muttered something in a language that
Garrett did not recognize, and Garrett heard the sound of a woman's
voice, starting as a low moan that became a delicate sigh.

"Emma!" the older man sobbed, "You're alive!
You're alive!"

The woman sighed again.

"Emma, speak to me!" the man said.

"Remember what I told you," Marsten said,
"She will not fully recover for a long while. Emma has been through
a great ordeal and needs time to remember her place in this world.
The truth is, she will need your help to get through this time of
transition and readjustment. Please be patient and give her the
time she needs."

"Yes, of course," the older man gasped, "of
course. Thank you, Mister Marsten, thank you! You've done it!"

"No," Marsten said, "It was the strength of
your love that brought her back. You were her only anchor to this
world. Without you, Emma would have been lost forever."

"Thank you... can I take her home now?"

"Of course, Gerry," Marsten said, "I think
Emma is ready to go home again."

"Thank you," the man said, "Come Emma, let's
go."

An older gentleman in a brown coat stepped
out of the parlor. A silver-haired lady in a long white gown walked
beside him. Her eyes looked straight ahead, unblinking, but her
cheeks were flush with a pink hue, and a gentle smile sat on her
lips. The man patted her arm gently and spoke encouraging words as
he led the woman to the door.

A smiling Marsten saw them out and said
goodbye. He softly shut the door behind them and turned to face
Garrett with a look of benevolent joy.

"It means so much to help those in pain,
Garrett," he said, "There's no feeling like it in the world."

Garrett thought for a moment before speaking.
"She was a zombie, wasn't she?" he said.

Marsten shook his head. "A crude term,
Garrett, unworthy of our art. We are
Resurrectionists
, and
she was no shambling, rotting husk. It is more proper to refer to
her as
reborn
."

"You did something different," Garrett said,
"She
looked
different. She looked alive."

Marsten nodded. "Thank you," he said, "I have
refined my process to further aid in the restoration of the
appearance
of health as well as motility."

"How do you do that?" Garrett asked.

Marsten laughed. "That is a trade secret,
young master!"

"Sorry," Garrett said.

"A valid question," Marsten said, "It shows
you have an appreciation for refinement, and it borders on the
nature of the matter which you wish to discuss with me."

Garrett's hand lifted to his hood. "You mean
my scars?"

"Your
blemishes
," Marsten said, "and
blemishes should never stand between a promising young man and his
advancement in society."

"Blemishes?" Garrett said.

Marsten rubbed his chin. "What do you know of
the Zhadeen?" he asked.

Garrett thought for a moment. "They live
really far away?"

"Yes," Marsten said, guiding Garrett into the
parlor and offering him a seat, "but what is their defining purpose
in life?"

Garrett sank into the cushions of a broad,
cream-colored sofa. He looked around the room, admiring the wide
array of gilded-edged mirrors hanging upon the dark paneled walls.
A nearby bureau supported a number of ornate glass bottles in
various colors. He recognized the telltale glow of essence in at
least one. A low divan, surrounded with fresh-cut flowers stood at
the center of the room, and on it lay a lady's hand purse. "I don't
know," he said.

"The Zhadeen pride themselves, foremost, on
their appearance," Marsten said, stripping off his overcoat and
hanging it inside a nearby wardrobe.

"I guess I probably wouldn't fit in very well
there," Garrett laughed.

"Again, you belittle yourself, Garrett,"
Marsten said, "I've warned you before. It is beneath you."

"Sorry," Garrett said.

"And stop apologizing!" Marsten laughed. He
tugged his cravat loose and carefully folded it before placing it
on a shelf inside the wardrobe.

"Sorr..." Garrett stopped himself, "What's
wrong with apologizing?"

"It smacks of incompetence," Marsten said,
"No one trusts a man who is always apologizing for things."

"Oh."

Marsten ran his hand through his hair and
walked over to pick up a dimly glowing bottle from the bureau. He
then crossed the floor to sit beside Garrett on the sofa. "All
right then," he said, "Take off your hood."

Garrett hesitated only a moment before
dragging the hood from his head. He smiled hopefully.

Marsten frowned. "What happened to you?" he
asked.

"Dragon," Garrett said.

"You're serious?"

Garrett nodded.

Marsten shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter.
We'll have you as good as new in no time."

Garrett watched as Marsten poured a measure
of essence out into his palm and set the bottle aside. Marsten
rubbed his palms together, whispering something in the same,
unfamiliar language he had used before.