Broken Pieces: A Tale of Romance and Necromancy

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The dirty looks being shot in Raizia's direction were almost enough to make her wish she would die for a third time.

Almost, but not quite.

The market was packed this time of day. Hot sweaty bodies pressed against each other in the summer heat, pushing through the labyrinth of wooden stalls selling produce, cured meats, enchanted amulets, jewelry, herbals brews, and more. Everyone seemed to be in a rush, and it was nearly impossible to get through without bumping into someone else.

This wouldn't have been an issue for anyone else but Raizia.

The 20-year-old brushed against one man inadvertently, and when he turned to glance at her, his eyes immediately widened and he stumbled backwards, as if even slightly grazing her skin was akin to drinking poison.

"Sorry," Raizia mumbled, putting her head down. This is why I should never shop when there's daylight still out. But she had to. Her right hand had been aching something fierce since this morning, and she had run out of healing balm earlier in the week. Normally she'd wait until it was dark out, when she knew the market was quieter and the shadows could better hide her identity, but after a few hours of cradling her hand in agonizing pain, she had forced herself to go out.

And now she was paying the price with the glares and the stares and the flinching, over and over again.

She was well known in the city of Taaz. Everyone had an opinion of her—and nearly none of them were flattering. She was a necromancer after all, and dealing with the dead carried a certain stigma. About half of the city hated her because of the church. At their pulpits, the priests would cry out that "death was death," and that any interference with the natural order was a slight against the gods. And then there were the others, people who didn't care about the churches and wanted her services, but couldn't afford her prices. People who thought that she was cruel and selfish for not raising every dead grandmother in the city free of charge. Those people didn't seem to realize the costs of resurrection, costs that Raizia knew far too well.

The necromancer was finally able to peel away from the large crowd, reaching her stall of choice. It was much smaller than the others, tucked away in the corner of the market. Not as many villagers traveled to this end of the labyrinth; this is where the sorcerers typically sat, ones who dealt with "dark" magicks. Of course, "dark" was a made-up term in Raizia's experience. It was the priests who categorized magick, listing certain skills as either "light" or "dark." Acceptable vs. non-acceptable. It wasn't as if Raizia had had a choice. Being a necromancer was a part of her, something she hadn't been able to hide ever since she had died the first time at six years old.

There was an old woman sitting behind this stall, fanning herself from the unbearable heat. She was wrinkled, with deep umber skin, and her eyes were cloudy with cataracts. But despite her poor vision, her ears were as sharp as ever. She heard Raizia's steps, boots squelching in the mud, and she smiled.

"My Raizia," she said. "What are you doing out in the heat like this? Gonna burn your pasty skin."

"It's my hand, Zaidi," Raizia mumbled, looking down at her gloved right hand. "It feels like it's going to fall off, and I ran out of your salve."

Zaidi gestured, inviting Raizia to take off her glove.

Raizia looked around, a habit she had developed. She didn't like removing her glove. But thankfully, no one else was present. Satisfied that she was alone, she removed the glove.

Zaidi took her hand, running her own fingers over Raizia's flesh, assessing it with her touch. She traced the lines in Raizia's palm and then delicately went down each finger, only pausing when she reached the third and fourth digits, both of which were missing several inches of length.