Ryffin Wellis may have been a genius-- but alchemy was not his true passion. The second half of the Potion Brewer's Guide To Alchemical Theories stood as proof of the fact, for it had gradually turned into a guide for Ancient Sorcery, and how its principles could be applied in the practice of necromancy.
"There," Linder found the right page at last, and the word he'd been seeking. "Vasaeni, plural for Vasaen-- origin: a dialect of ancient Drisian spoken in Glasswolf. Roughly translates to 'corpse vessel.'"
He raised his eyes from the book. “That's what they named the ships carrying back corpses from a battlefield. To necromancers, the shipments of dead bodies served as a valuable resource.”
“Gods,” muttered Klo. “This is the stuff of nightmares.”
Linder turned the page. “Drisian necromancy has come a long way since then, but the word has remained, though with some changes in its meaning. The corpses themselves are now referred to as carriers or vessels.”
"Vessels for what?" asked Farren.
"For the souls that are brought back from the Realm of the Dead," said Linder. "The souls enter and reanimate the bodies."
Farren did not like where this was going.
In the dying light of dusk, the words stared back at Farren. The concept of the Vasaen felt... wrong, and oddly familiar.
From the side table, she picked up the crystal dagger, which she had plunged into the heart of the Drisian undead mere hours ago. As always, it responded with a feeling of familiarity, as though the blade knew her well-- down to her very soul.
That's the bit that's worrying me.
How much does it know?
The warm feeling left by the healing magic waned with the chill that settled with nightfall. Minutes later, Klo got up and lit a lamp-- though the long, flickering shadows they cast upon the wall did not help.
Beneath the page was a small footnote citing the source of the information: the writings of A. Loneblight, apprentice sorceress.
"Well, then. That's the secret behind Drisia's undefeated armies during the Great War?" said Klo, inspecting the lines with a squint, "raising the dead?"
"That seems to be the case, yes,” said Linder.
The flickering light danced in his grey eyes. Rough shadows outlined his sharp features, the firelight contrasting them with an eerie allure as he flipped through the pages brimming with forbidden sorcery. His gaze was focused and intense, one that Farren found difficult to look away from.
When he spoke without taking his eyes off the book, his voice was low and husky. "If you're done admiring me, dear Corporal, do spare some of your precious attention to the book."
With a start, Farren dropped her gaze and stared hard at the page number in the corner as though trying to decipher some deep philosophical ideas from it. Klo pressed her lips together to hide a grin.
He leafed through a few more pages and stopped at a diagram showing a necromancer standing beside a corpse upon a table. The dim light glimmered on the spidery lines of the drawing, revealing runes drawn on the floor encircling the table.
"This is a form of necromancy, yes. Yet this technique is more than just commanding a reanimated skeleton. Creating a Vasaen is essentially dragging a soul back from Draedona's own realm-- reversing the natural process of death."
Farren ran a finger down the lines. Ryffin had described where the Vasaeni came from, yet not a step by step guide of the whole procedure to create them-- the reason for which was rather obvious.
"But wouldn't Draedona notice if there's a soul missing from her realm?" Farren said, "if she does, the poor necromancer is-- well, screwed. She'll unleash her ravens on them or something."
Linder smiled, as though he had anticipated that exact question. "Ah yes. That's where the next part comes into play," he turned the page. "Offering a sacrifice. An eye for an eye."
On the page, there was the same necromancer again; robes flowing in the wind, he held out in one hand a severed head. Blood dripped from it upon a stone altar of some sort.
"To bring back a soul from the Realm of the Dead, one must offer a soul in return," Linder read, "the sacrificed soul would replace that of the dead, and keep the number of souls unchanged."
"Oh, good."
"Absolutely not," said Linder, "look at the rest. Ryffin says : 'while offering a sacrifice may keep the number of souls unchanged, thus avoiding the notice of the Goddess of Death, this process is certain to throw the realms into chaos eventually, for the sacrificed soul is a mortal one-- one who has not repented. They do not pass through what priests of Draedona describe as 'Golden Gates'. They appear directly in the Celestial Realm-- the Realm of the Gods.""
On the page was a picture of foul, ghostlike figures materializing in a serene plain, beneath the illustration-- the words in bold letters :
'MORTAL SOULS DO NOT BELONG IN THE CELESTIAL REALM.'
"The mortal soul, says Ryffin, is tainted with its unfulfilled desires. They begin to corrupt the inhabitants of the Celestial Realm. The harmony between the realms is thus disrupted."
With a sigh, Linder closed the book. "This is what the Drisians did during the Great War."
"So that must be the reason behind the Apocalypse that wiped out nearly all of Stormvale," said Klo. "Wrath of the Gods-- for disturbing their realm."
"Yes, I believe the same. I've looked into several other books, which more or less claim the same. Although, Ryffin is the only one who goes into so much detail and mentions the existence of the Vasaeni."
His eyes shifted to Farren next. "However you may despise it, the law of restriction of magic is not all bad. The Council enforced it to prevent the kind of disaster like the Great War from happening again. Although Drisians have been breaking the law for a while now, it appears."
"I'll have Foxward run an autopsy of the Drisian you fought. The one who bled black; see if he can find something noteworthy," Klo said, getting up, "I better go and find him fast."
"Gave us such a hard time, that monster of a man," Farren rolled onto her stomach, then looked at Linder. "Hey, Sarge? Ryffin mention anything about why these Vasineey things are so stupidly overpowered?"
"Vasaeni," corrected Linder. "And of course. It's because when a soul is taken back from Draedona's realm, it has already repented-- thus ascended from mortal to an immortal one. It then goes to possess a corpse. The immortal soul lends the body much more strength than a mortal could ever manage. Only weapons like the crystal dagger can hurt them, it appears..." Linder went on.
But Farren's head was already spinning, and it had little to do with her blood loss.
"...Immortal soul you say?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"One that is not mortal. Yes," explained Klo.
"In a mortal body?"
"Aye, that's the definition of a Vasaen."
"Vasaeni are corpse-vessels for immortal souls, to put it briefly," Linder then showed her the concluding line from the page.
Farren froze, eyes fixed upon the gleaming dagger in her hand.
No wonder the dagger reacted strangely to her. The blade did sense her deal-- and all that was wrong with Farren's soul.
All this time, Farren had believed herself and Atruer to be the only ones to know how their deal worked, where her strength and endurance, and excellent tolerance to pain came from.
She'd thought only the two of them knew what the deal had done to Farren's soul, made her fit to wield such power.
She had been ever so wrong.
The concept of an immortal soul in a mortal body was nothing new, it now turned out. It had existed for centuries; had been written about in books of sorcery, and ancient Drisian tyrants had waged war across the lands with the same idea.
Her deal with Atruer, the God of Despair was shaped by the very same concept.
And the weapon in her hand-- it knew.
'Despite you being such a brat, you are of use to me.' The God's words came back to her. 'A living vessel for me to store the immortal soul I have stolen from the Celestial Realm.'
Farren had hesitated, back then.
'Come on now, you want to be strong, don't you? And I want a place for safekeeping, where that damned tyrant who calls himself King of the Gods does not find it. Benefits us both, doesn't it? Ah, a perfect deal.'
The energy she'd been sensing from the crystal dagger all this while was perhaps naught but an intent to kill.
To kill her.
To the weapon, she was no different from the black-blooded Drisian she had slayed-- a vessel for an immortal soul. She put the dagger away again as a wave of nausea washed over Farren with the realization.
Farren stood up abruptly, then grabbed a chair for balance as her head reeled. The wooden floor of the infirmary swayed beneath her bare feet.
Linder got to his feet in alarm. "You alright?"
"Never felt better." Farren mustered a weak laugh, although the room swam in her vision. "I just-- need some fresh air..."
She dashed out of the infirmary.
✦✧✦✧
Am I one of those undead monsters?
From the stable roof, Farren stared longingly up at the blinking stars who had no answer to offer. The cold wind played with the rough strands of her hair for a while, then grew tired and sank its claws in her. Farren shivered, but did not care.
Right now, the cold was the least of her worries.
She had always carried that immortal soul within her own, mortal one-- ever since that deal. While it did have its downsides, like making her a resistant, she had never really thought of it as too bad a thing. At least, not a thing that she would have in common with black-blooded folk brought back from the dead with foul magic.
Farren decided she would have to confront the one responsible-- the God of Despair himself, but not here. A few moments passed in agonizing silence.
--"You'll catch a cold if you stay up there all night."
Farren peered over the edge to see Linder below, running a gentle hand down the mane of the chestnut mare, who snorted. He smiled reassuringly up at her.
"Figured you'd be here." His smile faded then. "Are you alright? You ran out rather abruptly."
There it was again, the overwhelming urge to spill everything without worrying about the consequences-- things, secrets that she had suppressed in herself for so long. But she would hate to see his concern turn to disgust if she revealed the truth-- she had imagined that disgust in her mind's eye many times now.
No, it was better this way. To pretend everything was the way it should be.
"Too stuffy, inside the infirmary. Felt like I was gonna throw up," she said. Not a complete lie. "All's well now, no worries!"
Linder's eyes searched her face for a moment, the characteristic frown wrinkling his brows-- perhaps not really believing her. But he chose not to press it.
She patted the place beside her on the roof. "Care to join me for stargazing, Sarge? Who knows, maybe you'll discover the meaning of life or whatever it is people discover by staring at the sky."
"A will to live will suffice."
He grabbed a part of a wooden beam that jutted out, swung a boot over another; the next moment he was at her side. A gust of icy wind whipped at his wavy hair as he looked at the distant lights in the windows of the Olde Weasel Inn.
"By the Gods, this is truly a second winter, isn't it?"
Farren nodded in agreement, only to have her vision obscured briefly as he took off his cloak and draped it across her shoulders; did up the clasp, and then pulled the hood low over her face. "Better cover up, or you're in for some more god-awful intensive healing."
It surprised her how she did not want to protest. Oversized and reaching well beyond her feet, the cloak was warm and cozy around her. A faint scent of coffee lingered in the soft folds of the fabric. This time, she simply accepted the gesture without questioning it.
He gave her a curious look, the stars reflected in his eyes outshining the shadows beneath them.
"That's it? No protestations? No cynical comments to affirm my hidden motives behind this act?" Linder let out a genial laugh. "Ah, that's a big progress. Thank you, Farren."
She found she rather liked it when he called her by her name. She held his gaze for a while, then a mischievous smile played on her lips.
She leaned close to him-- so dangerously close, she felt his breath hot on her cheeks. His eyes widened at her sudden proximity, yet he made to move to lean away. He regarded her with a hooded gaze. "Is this your definition of stargazing?"
"Maybe. This is a really nice cloak, you know?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Perhaps I should pay you back for this..."
With a satisfied smile, she watched his gaze flick to her lips, and heard him take a shaky breath in. He was fighting a battle within himself, trying hard not to give in. Her eyes scanned their surroundings. Not a soul in sight, the patrollers being busy with their rounds down at the village. No one would know...
"...by answering the question you asked me in Brittlerock. A fair exchange. I'll tell you why I let myself get arrested."
Farren leaned away at the last moment with a teasing smile, leaving him breathless. She could swear she heard him curse under his breath. Linder ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and letting out a harsh breath. "Ah, yes-- that. I'd like to hear that. I was getting rather...carried away."
Yet from his eyes it was clear that he was plotting his revenge already. Farren would be looking forward to it, though.
She chuckled, looking up at the jeweled sky. "My story is simple, Sarge. No place for righteousness here, no search for glory. My Gran was ill, you see," she said, "and I did what I could to get her healed."
"How does that land you in the most notorious place for illegal magical trades?"
Farren twisted a strand of her hair around her finger absent-mindedly. "You just cannot see that place as anything else other than a den of corruption, can you?" she said, "well, you're not wrong. But you can also get healing medicines there-- far cheaper than what the Dark Saints' got, but the very same quality. Same labels, even."
"That's exactly what the Silver Knife is infamous for. Bartering of smuggled goods and tax evasion."
"What does it matter?" Farren shrugged, "The Council's coffers are overflowing anyway. I just needed it for cheap.
"We had nothing-- me, my brother Finnian and Gran, when we moved to Fallmead after Larton was destroyed." Farren paused, and fought back a wave of nausea that assailed her out of nowhere. It annoyed her. All these years, and it still bothered her, though she remembered almost nothing from her childhood except the day Larton burned.
Linder's eyes snapped to her. "You are from Larton?"
"Was," she said. "Finnian worked in a farm all day, but what little he earned would never be enough for proper, sorcery-crafted healing potions. I was a sheltered kid, you see. Gran never let me do hard work of any sort. So when she fell ill, I felt so... useless.
"I wanted to help her get better. But what could I do?" she said, "I'd never learned anything worthwhile-- anything that would earn gold."
Farren continued looking skyward, feeling his eyes on her. "So I chose a short-cut, which seemed a great idea then. Found myself one of those Quarleen masks, and sneaked into the Silver Knife Square. A few other kids in Fallmead worked for a gang there, you see. I signed up with them. You cannot just walk in there and buy stuff-- not unless you are recognised by one of the gangs."
"Rhilio's mercy, Farren." Linder pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was such a terrible idea."
"Thought the same. My plan was to leave as soon as I got my hands on those medicines-- which I got soon enough," said Farren, her voice low. "Only, I didn't leave.
"It turned out, I rather liked gold a lot. Felt like I was finally doing something worthwhile. Learned their tricks, I did. Blended in well, until," she said, "the boss asked me to kill this poor bastard who owed him money-- and set an example for folks. Nothing new in this line of work, as you'll understand. A swift job it would've been-- blade slicked with Glikayne. But-- I chickened out."
Linder listened intently, frowning hard. There was no malice in his expression, yet a sense of uneasiness lingered-- as though he wanted to empathize, to understand, but despite all, he was still the city guard who'd wanted to free the capital of corruption.
Nevertheless, the words came easy to Farren, without hindrance of hesitation or shame. He already knew she was a crook, didn't he?
"Now, I panicked there a bit. I could've let someone else do the killing instead, but I didn't think any of that. I tried to leave. And... the boss found out," she said, her voice so low he leaned close to listen. "and when he threatened to kill my family, I had only one way out."
Farren rolled up her sleeve, revealing her thief's brand beneath puckered up burn scars.
Linder closed his eyes, taking one look. If he had been fighting against his rigid righteousness, his black-and-white sense of morality, he had won the battle in the end.
"You wanted the mark on yourself..." he said.
She smiled up at the sky. "Old tradition of the gangs, you see. They don't keep marked ones among them. Bad luck, they say. So I figured if I were to get caught and branded, they'd kick me out anyway."
Linder looked at the stars, too. "That's where I come in, I take it?"
"Aye," said Farren with a grin. "My city guard in shining armour, off to save the day."
A silence settled between them, one that was peaceful rather than uncomfortable. A feeling of bittersweet relief washed over Farren, having let out the things she'd held back for so long, and Linder seemed to turn her words over in his mind-- answers for which he'd waited seven years.
Yet little did he know, it was only the half of the tale she'd told him.
In Farren's morose little tale, next came the part where she crossed paths with the God of Despair, where she committed the biggest mistake of her life. Or at least one of the big ones.
The star studded sky above blurred, and memories took her back again on the training ground, to the part of her story she would not tell him.
It all started with an axe and a broken arm.