Chapter 2: Chapter 1: Fragile Things

There are many things that can be said about my father. He was strict, sometimes cold, forever faithful to a fault. What little he owned was built by his own two hands, and he was never one to accept an act of charity. He had the sort of stare that could crumple lesser men, and had little tolerance for affronts to his honor. He did not tend toward violence, but would never shy from a fight. For my sake, then… he bore bruises in body and soul. As a child, I didn’t understand. But when I was older, he told me of those early years.

He told me the price of my life. We kept to ourselves—little did I know that was a privilege won in late hours, paid in full by my father’s blood. We were outsiders. It didn’t matter that he was a human, or that he’d been a decorated knight. Those things had lost their sway the moment he’d decided to father a blackblood.

Times being what they are, I don’t need to explain the hatred between Elthysians and us. There are songs and stories that speak of it readily. My father never kept those things from me. And had he not been the man he was, worse would’ve befallen us than a few broken bones.

Many things can be said about my father… but there are only two that matter. The first, that he was a good man. He was patient and kind, but not in an obvious way. He kept his stern demeanor because beneath it all, he had a bleeding heart.

The second is that he loved me. He loved me with everything he had. Again, it was not obvious. Even I didn’t know it, for a time. There were days where I thought he resented me, my nature… where I thought he condemned me for the horns on my head. Now, I understand that he was trying to prepare me for a merciless world. Were it not for him, I would not be the woman that I am.

I mean that he is responsible for what good is left in me, still. My crimes are not his… and yet, he paid far more than was fair for the things that I’ve done.

No matter what it cost, he wanted me to be happy. Because it is as they say. Love is blind.

And blind he was. Where he saw a girl, there was a monster.

* * *

“Chin up, Valhera,” my father said as we stood on the streets of stinking Gazmere. “You have nothing to hide.”

I heard his voice, but kept my arms folded within my cloak, hood resting on my horned head. Silent, I watched the cobblestone below me as if its curves and bumps held the answers to all of life’s questions. My agitated tail, concealed by the cloak, brushed the ground as it twitched. The late summer wind rustled through my hair, its warm caress kissing my skin.

I breathed in deep, the smells of the town. Accustomed to the vast air of the countryside, I too often found myself suffocated by civilization. Standing in narrow alleys, fenced in by countless walls of wood and thatch, I could only long for the open sky. It was inevitable, I supposed, that I would be uncomfortable, coming to town. But on this day, my discomfort ran a shade darker and deeper than the press of so many people.

They passed us by, paying us no mind. They laughed, talked, sang, for today was a holy day. A thousand years ago, Elthys had trapped the demon-king Plass in the stars. She had saved her children, so today, we celebrated accordingly. It marked the start of the harvest season, where the goddess touched every life, great and small, with the blessing of her plenty.

In the late Elthysian summer, the wind bore untold joy. Repose. Songs and merriment. And yet, somehow, it was the season I hated most.

“Valhera,” my father repeated. This time, I looked him in the eyes.

They were blue, dark and deep, though of a tint rather different from mine. His graying hair betrayed his age, but where some men grow soft in their latter years, he had tempered his body, wielding the plough and blade with oxen-strength. Too often, I had been on the receiving end of that strength, toppled in the course of our many evening spars.

Truthfully, we looked nothing alike. I stood inches taller, face lacking his many ridges and lines. He was a human, of course, without the horns and tail that marked me as something else. He told me I’d inherited those traits from my mother, a charming direling who had died in childbirth.

He had been a warrior in his prime. Now, even though he led a quieter life, that strength, severity, and discipline endured. He squinted at me, showing his brow’s many wrinkles, the frown on his lips largely hidden by the short, thick bristle of a salt-and-pepper beard.

“It’s been a long time,” I muttered, and his frown grew deeper.

“I know… this is difficult. For you.”

“You could say that.”

Folding his arms, he spoke a pitch deeper. “But you have every right. As much as anyone else in this town.”

I sighed and faced the building before us. It was, by far, the largest and grandest structure in Gazmere, even dwarfing the lord’s mansion. Its golden spires poked above the many trees, glinting with the light of dawn. The walls were cut of glistening marble, seamless and tall. On its front, there was an image of stained glass. An image I’d seen far too often… that never failed to set me on edge.

Elthys stood there, manifest in the many panes. Arms outstretched, smiling in all her regalia. Her long, golden hair billowed behind her while her white-as-snow robes fluttered in the wind. She watched the town with eyes blue like the sky, the look of a proud mother on her face.

It was meant to convey her grace and her beauty. I found it patronizing. But my father was one of the faithful, so to him, it demanded respect.

“Do I?” I asked, frowning at the Mother.

“You are my daughter,” he said, as if it were that simple.

I looked once more at the cobblestone street. I tensed, feeling his hand between my shoulders, then relaxed as he escorted me forward. We crossed the street and stood before the open doors of the cathedral. Eyes downcast, I stepped inside.

Somehow, it seemed brighter in here than out in the sun. Skylights peppered the vaulted ceiling, bathing the congregation in symbolic light. Towering pillars supported the structure near walls decorated by countless works of Elthysian art. They portrayed every labor of Elthys, from her vanquishing of the demon-kings to the creation of the first Divine. My eyes drifted until they settled on the largest image of all. The Mother stood battle-ready, her lance crossed with another figure’s sword. A man, tall and broad, with blackest hair and blackest blade. Two horns curved upward off his head as a tail, long and broad, sprang from his back. His face was cast in shadow, rendering its details invisible.

The Betrayer. The Blackblood. The Dead God. He had many titles in Elthysia, but none dared to speak his name. Eyes fixed on his shrouded visage, I decided to doff my hood, baring to Gazmere my similar head of horns.

My attendance on holy days was not unexpected—were I to do otherwise, I would be branded a heathen. Still, as always, certain eyes found my own, skeptic or suspicious. Faces tightened, never openly hostile, but making clear my status. Parents turned their children’s gazes away, whispering warnings, myths, or startling tales. Things to which I was accustomed… that never failed to spark embers of my frustration, my exhaustion.

“Let’s find a seat,” my father said, quiet, to be heard by none other. He steered me toward the back corner of the cathedral, to a place where none would disturb us. In time, the eyes looked away. The faces turned to other matters. But even forgotten by the crowd, I found it difficult to relax.

I had been to the cathedral with my father many times over the years. At first, he’d hoped that Elthys’s word could offer me guidance in my life, or that I would, like my mother, be her servant. The Rising Sun holds that while it is against our nature, direlings are capable of redemption through the Mother’s light. They say that our corruption runs deep, but it is not our fault. That by effort and faith, even the most errant knave can be made whole.

Years ago, my father had dropped that dialogue. He’d seen the effect it had had on me, and, I think, silently accepted that his life’s charter wasn’t suited to be my guide. He and I had a silent understanding. One that we had never articulated, spoken aloud… but that was understood nonetheless.

I did not love Elthys for a whole host of reasons. He did, for reasons just as many. I did not understand that about him, as he did not understand my lack of faith. Thinking of that shrouded visage of the Dead God, I mused that even had I been faithful, I would’ve been hard-pressed to earn the Mother’s favor. To be anything more, or less, than a blight on this town. The local demon-girl, a dark spot in Gazmere’s otherwise perfect sun.

Still, despite my species, I was tolerated. Maybe the townsfolk respected my father for his service to the realm… or maybe they feared his fist and his blade. We suffered our share, and our peace had been hard-won, but a fickle peace we had.

My idle hands kneaded as I sat on that bench, waiting for the sermon to begin. My father had his head dipped in what I could only assume was a prayer, but instead of looking to the images of Elthys, I looked at the single portrayal of her brother.

From the recesses of my cloak, I brought out a little book. From another pocket, a slender length of wood and charcoal. I flipped through the pages to find one that was blank, then envisioned the Dead God and started to draw.

First, the horns. In the painting, they were jagged and tall. I fixed my hair around my own, and decided to draw them less pronounced. Slim, smooth… of a certain stark grace. Then there was his hair, as black as my own. I drew it well-kept, sweeping behind his head and gleaming like ebon flame. In his hands, a blade like hardened tar. I drew it turned downward, driven into the dirt. But then there was the issue of his face.

I realized the congregation had grown silent, and that a new voice pierced the room. Lady Gazmere stood in front of us all, a warm smile on her face, the white dress of the priesthood hanging from her body. She welcomed us, offered a blessing, and began speaking about the significance of the day

I didn’t much care to hear what she had to say. I had heard the stories of Elthys’s labors more times than I could count. I knew of her tenets—my father lived them every day. So as she spoke, I redoubled my focus on drawing the Betrayer.

I wondered about his face. Depictions of him were scarce and always shrouded. I remembered the cathedral’s facade, its stained-glass image of Elthys, tall and magnificent and beautiful. I looked to the cathedral’s art, every canvas rendering her in a striking pose, hair billowing to expose her perfectly curving cheeks and radiant eyes. Her lips, pink like peonies, and her nose, dainty and small. I then looked at my father’s face, and found that I preferred the creases, lines, and rugged edges of a long and wearisome life.

So I drew. My subject’s eyes were not kind, but they did not push away. His mouth was a hard line, but not from anger. His nose was large and crooked, while his cheekbones were sharp and steep. Deep wrinkles ran across his brow, and a few days’ stubble covered his chin.

My father elbowed me, and I fumbled a line. I glared at him and he glared at me, the look in his eyes saying what words he held back—you know not to draw the Dead God.

I sighed and snapped my tiny sketchbook shut. He was right—if the Lady in White saw that picture, or her lord husband, the fallout would be painful. We could be banned from the cathedral… or rumors could spread. More rumors than there already were, anyway. Internally, I snorted at how casually acts of heresy could be committed.

At some point, I drifted asleep. Lady Gazmere’s words floated into my dreams, unable to be focused or fully heard. Several times, I drifted back to semi-consciousness, blinking awake for a few moments, but my mind invariably returned to the dark. I tried to stay awake, if only for my father’s sake. I knew these words, spewing from the priestess’s mouth, meant so much to him. I wanted to give them the attention they deserved, but it seemed I had no patience for drivel.

Eventually, something prodded my side and brought me back, more fully, to the waking world. I blinked my eyes open, squinted at the too-bright sunlight, then looked at my father.

He was watching me, the wrinkles on his brow even harder, even deeper. Not angry, but… disappointed. The rest of the congregation milled about around us, rising from their seats, or discussing the now-finished sermon.

“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes as I made to stand. Counting the people trickling out of the cathedral, I figured that if we hurried, we’d be able to slip out largely unnoticed.

My father said nothing, but stood with me. Together, we pushed past the small crowd starting to clog the cathedral entrance, and emerged on the trodden streets of Gazmere.

“Really?” he growled, under his breath as we walked. “Drawing the Betrayer? The one day this month I’ve asked you to come with me?”

I folded my arms and shrugged. He stopped and turned to face me.

“We’ve talked about this. There are certain folk that are waiting for you to give them a reason. To fight, to throw you in jail… it doesn’t matter what.”

“I can fend for myself,” I said, but my words only tightened his gaze.

“That’s not the point. We don’t say his name or draw his likeness for a reason, Valhera, and I know that you know better.”

I decided not to answer him for a long while. I think that even though he knew how I felt about his faith, he tried not to believe it. I glanced behind him at the stained-glass Elthys and mused that I would draw her next. Bare naked, in a compromising pose.

My father took breath to reprimand me further, but a voice called out to us above the crowd. The moment I heard it, my tail twitched behind me. Two men approached, and I glared at them with all the annoyance I could muster.

“If it isn’t the Marharts!” one of them spoke, and my father’s face similarly fell. While he addressed the two of them, one of my hands crept into my cloak, fingers brushing the smooth hilt of my knife—not that I expected to use it, but I felt comfort in its chill.

“Don. Gath,” my father said, addressing each in turn. The left one was Don Levy, owner of a little bakery in town. His wife, Irene, was one of the few people in Gazmere who would do fair business with me, treating me almost the same as any other woman. The same could not be said about her husband, with his gangly form and thinning hair. He tended to be more standoffish than this, but his brother, Gath had long been a thorn in mine and my father’s sides.

Gath was the closest thing we had to a neighbor, far as we were in the countryside. Every week, it seemed, he would demand Lord Gazmere venture out to our land to settle some fictional dispute. He would claim we stole his cattle when our fields were bovine-bare. Or that his sheep had fallen into a trap we’d set on his land. Or, once, that my father and I had been digging to find the flames of hell, deep beneath our farm. We had been searching for water rather than fire, but the truth had done little to dissuade him.

He was portly, but well-kept; his farm was one of the more profitable ones around. He fancied himself a local aristocrat, I knew—much to the actual lord’s chagrin.

“Leaving so soon?” Gath asked, arms spread as if to welcome us. “There’s so much more festivity to be had!”

I watched him from the corners of my eyes. My father stepped to be more fully between the two of us.

“We have work to do before nightfall.”

“Oh, of course. Though if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you took issue with exactly what we were celebrating.”

Behind him, his brother smirked. I glared at them both, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

“If you’re going to say something, then say it.” my father said. His brow grew heavy, voice of a similar weight. It jarred Gath a moment, but he lifted his chin and seemed to tap some deep well of brazenness.

“I’ll say nothing,” Gath shrugged. “Just that I would be uncomfortable, too, were an entire nation to celebrate the death of my esteemed ancestor.”

“You’ll have to be more creative if you want to insult us.”

“Oh, that was not my intention.” His smile went wide, hands raised as if in surrender. “I was only… observing. Though I have to ask, what drove you to marry into such a twisted family? Keep such… twisted bedfellows?”

Outwardly, my father showed no reaction, but I knew Gath had struck a nerve. While my father could weather nearly any storm, my mother was his sorest spot.

A long time passed in silence. My father wielded that silence as oppressively as his sword. Small beads of sweat formed on Gath’s brow, and it was easy to tell which man found it easier to save face.

“Let’s go, Valhera,” my father said. “Gath… enjoy your holiday.”

The two of us turned, but emboldened by the broken silence, Gath spoke again.

“Look me in the eyes, Stal… and tell me you’re not ashamed. A man like you, a servant of the Mother, consorting with her children’s worst enemy.” His voice tarried with us, keeping our pace. “Watch the stars tonight, demon,” he spat the last word in my direction. “See what Elthys did to your damnable kin.”

I stopped. My father met my gaze, a warning in his eyes, but I ignored it. Rather, I turned to face our heckler. He nearly stumbled into me, and seemed to take some foolish satisfaction in my burgeoning anger. It was hot, wild—for now, barely fettered.

Red flashed in my eyes. A bitter blackness settled on my tongue. In Elthysia, I had not yet learned the secrets of my birth… but know that I am born of Void and demon-fire. These things run through my veins as much as my mortal blood. We did not know the depth and breadth of my ability, but my father and I knew how ruinous my anger.

Over the years, he had witnessed my eyes turned red. He had seen my tears and drool, black and burning. Sometimes, it came out when we were sparring, if I was having a hard time keeping up. Or, in moments like these where a few words, a few deeds got the better of me. They had become rarer as I had found a fickle peace within myself, but anger tends to be slow leaving the heart. Even so, my father had taught me exercises to quell my inner inferno, to not succumb to the wrath of demon-fire.

Then, looking at Gath, angry as I was, I let myself relax. I blinked at him once, twice, then tilted my head and thought.

There were times, I suppose, that I wanted to be angry. I wanted to not let things lie. My anger, cold, logical… perhaps could benefit from a tinge of my fire.

This was one such moment. My vision flashed red for an instant, and I drew back my fist. Fast enough that Gath didn’t have time to wipe off his smirk. I drove my knuckles into his eye and nose, and something cracked beneath them. He shrieked in surprise, then pain, falling hard onto the cobblestone street.

Gath scrambled to find his feet, and the other townsfolk turned their eyes to the commotion. I looked at them each in turn, massaging my smarting knuckles. Don stepped to hit me back, but faltered at my threatening stare. He turned his attention instead to his sputtering brother, to help him gain his footing.

“You… black-blooded bitch!” Gath snarled, lunging at me, only to be held back by Don. “One day… one day, this town will lose its patience.” Blood trickled from his nose and forehead as his eye rapidly swelled. “Your reckoning…” he spat at my feet, a foaming red, “is long past due.”

I watched him dispassionately and turned to leave. I raised my hood and withdrew my arms into my cloak, still feeling the shock in my knuckles. My father caught up with me, and in silence, we left the town behind. I looked at my hands, both calloused, one bruised, and thought about what Gath had said.

My father’s shame. I considered the visage of the Dead God, hidden from view. A curse. Profane. The horns he bore were mark of an ancient evil, one that would have ended human life if not for the intervention of one tall, blonde goddess.

I brushed aside my strands of pitch-dark hair. I opened my sketchbook, flipping past pages darkened by portraits of the things from my imagination. Direling women, mostly, drawn as if to lessen my loneliness. Countless horns, tails… until I ended on my most recent rendering of the Betrayer.

What could I be, but a burden? So many accounts claimed that my ancestors were descended of the Dead God himself. Others, like Gath’s, said we came from the demon-kings instead, the last living remnants of mankind’s greatest adversary. And the Blackblood was not permitted a face, nor a name, for the fear and destruction he had wrought. He had betrayed his sister, entering a pact with Hell that had marked half the world as his.

The stories I’d heard of Khaldara, the direlings’ home… they told of a land where people like me were free to roam. The most fervid tales spoke of undead outnumbering the living, of curses and plagues and ruin. Even the smallest passing mention declared that their world was dying. That wars were fought over infertile soil. That they would never stop killing each other.

Maybe I was nothing. Nothing but the thing the people of Gazmere had made me out to be. And, like how I knew that my father, in his heart of hearts, believed that I would one day see the goddess as he did… I knew that he could not help but be abashed, regarding my species. No matter how he tried to hide it. No matter… how much he loved me.

His voice startled me from my thoughts. “Don’t be bothered by the things people say.”

I didn’t turn. “They’re not wrong.”

I could hear the hesitation in my father’s step. The deliberation in his silence, and finally, the doubt in his voice. “Do you really think… I’m ashamed of you?”

I stopped walking, eyes still fixed on the image in my book. My father’s gentle hands came up and pulled the hood off of my head. I looked at him, breathed in deep, and let it raggedly out.

He watched me for a long moment. The wind flapped through his thinning hair, age apparent in the wrinkles on his face.

“I have made many, many mistakes, little doe,” he said. “More than I can count. More than I can bear. But you are… not one of them.”

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I moved to step past. His hand on my shoulder compelled me to stop.

“You are my daughter. That means more than… anything. More than your horns. More than my pride. More than the goddess herself.”

I paused. I thought. I closed my eyes and knew that he meant it. Oh, how he meant it. But… not every gulf may be bridged. There were things about me that he… could not understand. How I found pain where he found peace. My loneliness, even as I knew I was loved. The truths I held at my core, written in darkness, that had never seen the light of day.

He was my father, so he tried to understand. He loved me despite it. And that, I supposed, was his best.

“I know,” I whispered. He lifted his hand.

But silence was our only company on the road. Spoken words are fragile things. They had never spanned the chasm between us, and that was not about to change.

* * *

By day, my father and I tended our fields and tended our livestock. Most summers, we grew corn and squash and pumpkin, all while keeping the many goats that called our land home. Most summers, when the harvest came around, we were well-prepared for the imminent colder seasons. That summer, I remember, our margins were less comfortable. Once we tallied the yield and stored our excess, we realized that our fields had not been as fertile as years past. We had enough to survive and to feed our herd, but little more than that.

In the afternoons, I would often sit on the hill behind our cottage, pencil or charcoal in hand, sketching the things from my imagination. I would walk among the goats, sit with them, watch as they played and grazed, carefree despite the horns they proudly displayed. Over the years, I had taken a liking to the creatures, as they had taken a liking to me. Sometimes I wondered if they saw me as kin, owing to my horns, my tail. But their lives were simple. They had no faith, no worry, and no one wishing them harm. They lived and died like all mortal things, but paid little attention to what it all meant.

I think that, had things been different, I would have enjoyed that life. I would have taken over my father’s land or found my own in the North. Content with only animals for company because they lived without judgment or fear. While the time since has changed me, while there’s little sense in dreaming of what could have been… I know a part of me will always be the girl from a farm.

Even in those days, I kept my sword close. Evenings marked our time to practice the blade. It was odd, how much my father drilled me despite Elthysia’s apparent peace, but I was grateful for it. Not only because I knew how to defend myself, but because it was the one passion my father and I shared. I remember his subtle smiles as I bested him or learned some new maneuver. My father was not typically expressive in his emotion, but that only rendered his pride all the more valuable. I knew how he struggled, making known the things in his heart. Being his daughter, it was my struggle too. I suppose… we found a certain vulnerability in crossing blades.

For me, that dance of steel was an outlet. It was much like my drawings, though my father ensured that I was aware of more practical applications.

He taught me how to take a life… and defend my own. I never thought I’d exercise that skill. I never could’ve imagined… just how bloody my hands would become.

But I am getting ahead of myself. One night we, as usual, crossed our swords. My father, as usual, advised me on form and footwork, reminding me of his many axioms. Outwit your opponent at every turn, but don’t get too clever. Strength means nothing if wielded by an unpracticed hand. Steel alone will win no battles, but it is your only buffer against death. His eyes were hard, mouth a steady line, speaking with the immovable gravitas of a battlefield commander. I wondered, as I often did, about his life before the farm. Before me. He was not entirely forthcoming about his past, though his regrets often surfaced in moments such as these—even as he taught me the warrior’s art, every lesson concluded the same way.

“I teach you these things so that you are prepared,” he said, gravelly voice rumbling above the wind. “Because the world is not always kind. But as your father, I can only pray… that you never have need of a killing blade.”

After that, we had our exercises. Over the years, he had taught me how to find clarity in a storm, peace amid turmoil. Often times, we would sit together in silence, finding our centers, focusing on sounds, smells—the little things that grounded us. It made the world feel smaller, less overwhelming, and I think he found as much peace in those moments as I did despite his blood’s lack of demon-fire. Too often, those exercises were the only thing that stood between my heart and my ruinous anger.

The curse, we called it, because we had no better name. Red eyes, black tears, black drool. I had found other ways to deal with it over the years, including my drawing, but it was forever in my blood, a beast sleeping beneath my surface.

That evening, as we sat on the hill, I drew the things that brought me peace. I drew the dark trees that surrounded our house, painted by the setting sun; I drew myself, standing alone beneath them. I drew the stream that quietly ran at the base of the hill, and I drew the sky as it so often was in these calm moments with my father—darkening, half-clouded, moon just starting to brighten its glow.

There were hoofbeats along the distant road, growing louder as they veered onto our little farm’s path. My father’s eyes hardened, taken from their meditation, as the two of us both steeled for a hostile arrival. It was rare that we got visitors, especially well-meaning ones, and at that time of day, there was little doubt in my mind that Gath had decided to repay me the punch I’d dealt days prior.

We were nothing if not prepared to handle an angry neighbor. We would stand firm, uncompromising, and if they were altogether keen on bloodshed, the two of us were always armed. Even the hint of a blade was usually enough to scare such people away before the steel was even drawn.

So, silent, we stood in wait. As our visitor drew closer, it soon became clear that this was not the man we had expected. There was a single rider climbing our hill, though the evening’s light made it hard to find details. His black robes flowed behind him, flapping in the wind. His steed, black-as-night, seemed possessed of a certain well-bred tenacity. My father tensed at the sight, and I found myself similarly unnerved.

Growing up in Elthysia, I’d heard plenty tales of robed men and women on shadowy mounts. Some said their horses were old war steeds, summoned from beyond the Veil and bound to their masters. Some said they were born from the depths of the earth, rather than a mare. Some even said that they were sculpted from darkness by human hands. Regardless, only one type of person rode so clad in black, an agent of neither the church nor a lord… but of the Order of Eventide.

They were a more common sight closer to the capital, but this far in the country, their necromages were only known through whispers and tall tales. Some said that every one held immeasurable power in their hands, enough to kill with a touch or to cure the sick. They could twist a mind against itself and turn a man insane, or carefully unwind the tangled threads of madness. Some said they could read a person’s mind, seeing memories and thoughts like acts performed on-stage. In all the hearsay, there was one common thread—necromages alone dealt with undead. They were feared by the faithful and the Rising Sun because they held no loyalty to Elthys… and yet, they could do what priests, bishops, even the Divine herself could not.

They cleansed the monsters of the past. They rendered death to things that should be dead. Their methods were not always clean, but they were effective.

As with most rumors, most of the hearsay was exaggerated. However, as with most rumors, they were rooted in truth. Even so, these were tales told by the same voices who claimed direlings were defilers of the dead, warlike and inhumane by nature, so I decided to reserve my judgment.

The lone rider slowed as he neared our cottage. He reined in ten feet from my father and I, looking down on us from the saddle.

“Good evening,” he said, a smile spread across his lips. He scanned us over, settling his gaze upon my bared horns. They seemed to pique his curiosity, as his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly. I twitched my tail as he dismounted. The man landed on his feet with all the grace of a practiced rider, then extended his hand to my father and I in turn.

“I am Azareth,” he said, bending his body in a bow. “A necromage.”

My father shook his hand, but did not return the bow. I did similarly, sizing him up.

He was short in stature, the top of his head barely reaching my chin. His appearance was rather meticulous, hair laying in careful, straight rows, skin absent the typical tan and wrinkle so common to rural men. Cleanshaven, his cheeks folded in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Between rigid lips, he bore teeth as white as alabaster, gleaming beneath a hooked nose. Though his face creased with shallow laughter lines, his skin hadn’t started to sag or fade with age. I guessed him to be middle-aged, halfway between myself and my father.

He wore robes that were nearly as black as the deepening night, etched with silver stitches reminiscent of the moonlight. Emblazoned on his chest was a silver emblem—the half-sun, half-moon that was the symbol of his order.

“I apologize for the hour,” he said, straightening his spine, “but my work does not rest. From your… warm welcome, I assume you know what work that is.”

My father’s face was as hard as ever. “Undead.”

“Undead,” Azareth affirmed, dipping his head. “Specifically, the cleansing of it.”

“I’ve heard no rumors of undead,” my father continued.

“Then news travels slowly, this far from Gazmere.”

My father’s scowl deepened. He stood broad-shouldered, feet apart, as if indeed Gath had shown himself. He held a similar threat in his stature—not hostility, exactly, but the assertion that he’d tolerate nothing untoward.

If Azareth noticed, he was not the least bit daunted. “The night grows dark,” he said, grin ever-present. “And I have much to ask. May we discuss this matter by light of your hearth?”

My father grunted. He looked to me, eyes hard and inscrutable. Eventually, he turned and entered the cottage, bidding the necromage follow. I walked in behind, carefully closing the door and doffing my long cloak.

The necromage clasped his hands behind his back, wandering and observing our home while my father fanned the fireplace, still hot from our dinner. Within moments, his practiced hand saw the blaze come up again, licking at fresh logs and tinder. He settled in his rocking chair, and I took a seat on the bed. Azareth continued his pacing, then paused with his hand in his robes.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked. “The day has made me tired.” My father offered no verbal reply but dipped his head, eyes focused on the growing hearth-fire.

Azareth pulled a pipe from his pockets alongside a small tinderbox. He struck at it, setting the pipe’s contents alight. I shifted in my seat, letting down my hair as I waited for our visitor to break the silence.

A few moments passed, punctuated only by the crackle of the hearth. Sweet smoke plumed out of Azareth’s pipe, and my eyes watered as it spread to every corner of the room.

“What are your names?” he asked, leaning against a wall by the fireplace.

“Stal,” my father said, before gesturing at me. “And this is my daughter, Valhera.”

“After the old Divine?”

I answered, bending my tail. “That’s what I’m told.”

Azareth snorted before drawing on the pipe. “A strange name, all things considered.”

“You mean my horns.”

Azareth held my gaze for a while, indifferent, then my father spoke up.

“Her mother picked it.”

“A direling woman? Faithful to Elthys?”

My father’s face shifted ever so slightly. “Faithful as any woman could be.”

That seemed to intrigue him. “Truly. Will she be joining us?”

“Died in childbirth.”

“Apologies.” Azareth lowered his head in a moment of reverence, then walked to a window. He watched the darkening sky outside in silence, then spoke as he exhaled smoke.

“Your Lord Gazmere has petitioned my order,” he said, looking at us from the corners of his eyes. “There has been evidence of undead in this countryside, as he tells it. A few dead sheep, a few withered crops, typical signs. Often times… the prelude to something worse.”

“Worse how?” I asked, and he pursed his lips around the pipe.

“The undead may take many forms. It would be impossible to say what, exactly, our particular haunt may be capable of. What it may rend, should it spend too long in its agony.”

“Make a guess,” my father said, eyes tracing Azareth’s path as the necromage resumed his pacing.

“It is not so simple to do so, Stal. Undead are people, denied their rest by great grief, anger… pain. Ask yourself—what is a person capable of while in distress?”

Expectant, he awaited my father’s reply. When none came, I answered on my father’s behalf.

“Anything,” I said, to which Azareth smiled.

“Anything. Bloodshed. Torture. Sabotage. So surely, you must understand that I take my duty seriously. That whatever the cost, I will do it well.”

“Starting with us,” my father growled. His tone gave Azareth a moment of pause.

“Why… yes. It is where milord Gazmere suggested I start. I mean no prejudice, of course,” he added, eyes flicking to my horns.

I sighed. “Where direlings tread, undead tend to follow.”

“So the common folk believe. But my understanding is… different. Nuanced. Surely you understand,” he said, offering his palms.

I offered little response, only a noncommittal shrug. Azareth folded his arms, pulling the pipe from his mouth.

“As I have only just arrived, I have little information beyond the rumors spreading among the townsfolk. However, one such as I,” he said, breathing in as if to savor the air, “may see with an alternate set of eyes. Lives lived, deeds done… they stain this world, and objects in it. While the living may speak with bias and with fear, those remnants of the past tell unequivocal truth.”

My father’s voice, low. “And what have they said?”

His lips curled in his particular smile. It had… an artificial air. As if sculpted in stone rather than rendered in flesh. “Nothing, as of yet. Such things are not so readily seen.”

“Then speak plainly,” my father replied. “To the living.”

Azareth’s smile spread a tooth wider. “The living and dead are more entwined than you would know… but very well.”

He continued his path, wandering the kitchen. Pausing, he closed his eyes and puffed on his pipe. His next question came abruptly, pointed like a glinting dagger.

“Tell me, Stal. Do you live, burdened by regret?”

My father held firm. He turned his head, regarding the necromage with a glowering reply.

“No.”

“Indeed?” Azareth resumed his pacing, circling the kitchen like a vulture over carrion. “Such conviction is rare. I would think that any life, lived, would have its regret.”

My father regarded him silently as he continued to circle. The necromage hesitated, seeming to listen for something. His voice came again, deliberate and methodical.

“Often, I have found… those that deny their regret are most tangled in its frigid web.”

There was a nearly-masked tension mounting in my father’s shoulders. When he spoke, his words seemed to grant him similarly subtle relief.

“I’ve served the goddess. I’ve raised a daughter. Please, show me the sorrow in that.”

Azareth only raised his brows. “No light touches the earth without casting its shadows.”

“No shadow can endure in the presence of light.”

The necromage’s grin stretched ear-to-ear. A silence prospered between them, of a weight and tension like the air before a storm.

Neither seemed inclined to break it. Knowing my father’s stubbornness, I took it upon myself.

“What do you want from us?” I asked, and Azareth spared me a glance.

“I want to cleanse these hills and woods of a dangerous thing. I want to grant a tortured soul its rest.”

My father’s growl. “And here, you think you’ll find the means?”

“There is no harm in looking. Though I feel I must reiterate the gravity of this situation. And, perhaps, explain myself in more certain terms.”

He made eye contact for a long moment, sucking in smoke and breathing it out. “As a necromage, I have become accustomed to a certain hostility from common folk. The Order stands not in Elthys’s light… and yet our work would be impossible if we did. But know that we alone understand the forces of life and death, standing as opposites, complements, much like the sun and night sky. My perspective may be strange, uncomfortable, heretic… but only a fool faces matters of death looking strictly where his candle may light. Do you understand?” he asked, a serious bend to his brow.

My father took some time to answer. “Yes.”

“I alone can right this wrong. Not your goddess, nor your immovable faith.”

Another moment, silent, tense. “I’ll reserve my judgment,” my father said, and annoyance glinted in the necromage’s eyes.

“Your judgment matters little. Need I remind you, the dead deal only in unequivocal truth. In cleansing their ilk, know that no detail is superfluous. No lie is without harm.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“I have done no such thing.” Azareth blew a plume of smoke, tilting his chin as he read our two faces. “But answer my question, knowing that all falsehoods inevitably fade. Stal… do you live, burdened by regret?”

I felt my father’s anger, tinging the air like heat from a flame. A moment passed. He denied, as opaque and unyielding as a rough-hewn stone.

“No.”

Azareth smiled, though the expression couldn’t be called good-humored. “Have you always been a farmer?”

My father stopped rocking. “No.”

“How long have you lived on this land?”

“Since Valhera’s birth.”

“Some… twenty-three years, then?”

“Give or take.”

Azareth smoked as if finding patience in his smoking bowl. “Tell me of that time. Before her.”

“There’s little to tell.”

“Isn’t there?”

My father shook his head, great hands gripping his armrests. “I was a knight. I served a noble in Orloth.”

“Was yours… a violent past?”

His brow clenched, hard and heavy as lead. “I’ve slain no innocents.”

“Oh, but seldom does a man consider himself guilty.”

My father’s nails dug into his chair’s grainy wood. “If you want to accuse me of something, speak it plainly.”

Azareth held his eyes for a long moment. In time, his wide smile faded into a more disappointed look. He pulled his pipe from his lips, rolling it through his fingers.

“A necromage makes no accusations,” he said, easing himself onto a stool by the hearth. “But I have cleansed enough dead to see how regret may manifest. In undead, certainly… and, also, on this side of the Veil.”

“Then you aren’t as perceptive as you think.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I won’t say it again. I regret nothing that I’ve done.”

Azareth leaned back, seeming to think on that for a moment. The embers in his pipe flared as he breathed in, then out. His eyes hovered on my father’s, lingering, analyzing, then turned unyieldingly to my own.

“Is that so?”

My father drew breath to answer, but stopped, seeing the direction of the necromage’s stare. He followed those dark eyes, turning to regard me, fire brightening only half of his weathered face.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I knew little about his past, aside from the few stories he’d elected to share. But, seeing me, his frustrations seemed to subside. His face, no longer set like adamant stone. His wrinkles seemed to deepen as if remembering, in fact, that he was growing old. That no man reaches his age unmarred by regret’s withering grip.

His eyes found the floor, then the fire. Mine found my hands. Azareth worked his pipe a while longer, then sighed, pulling it from his lips.

“Perhaps I push too far,” he said in a quieter voice. “Sometimes, there are dead who refuse to be buried. That does not mean we must unearth every ancient grave. I have sensed the things you hide within, Stal… but perhaps they have naught to do with undead.”

He shook his head as if to purge it of such thoughts. “I suppose my final question should be altogether more straightforward. Have either of you seen the object of my search? Any signs, perhaps, of something… unnatural?”

My father didn’t respond, at first. I shook my head. Then, a measure of vim returned to his eyes, and he watched the necromage, mimicking my motion.

Azareth stood from his seat, contemplating in the solemn silence. One last draw on his pipe, then he upended it over the hearth-fire. Blackened herbs and embers tumbled out, then he procured a handkerchief and started to clean the sooty bowl.

“Very well. It is, I suppose, just as well. Regardless, remember what I said. Stal, Valhera.” He watched us each while scrubbing away. “Withholding information is not without harm. The undead… as you said, it is capable of anything. There is no telling what harm it may rend. What blood it may spill.”

I only offered him a nod. My father similarly dipped his head.

“Then my investigation carries on.” Azareth ran a hand through his hair, then stowed his pipe away. He stared at the hearth for a moment, then spoke, regarding my father in the sides of his eyes. “Memory can be a difficult thing—I know that all too well. The signs were first sighted near Gazmere proper, so the lord’s walls will be my interim home. Should you recall anything that you wish to share… seek me there.”

Inwardly, I grimaced. With an undead sighted nearby, my father and I would hardly be welcome in town. Still, my father kept his stoic air, rising and extending his hand for the necromage to shake.

“I apologize that we weren’t of more help,” he said as Azareth accepted the gesture.

“It is no issue. Only remember my parting words.”

I found the necromage unreadable, then. But, as a stranger, I knew none of his tells. The same could not be said for my father. At times, he seemed unflappable. Sober and stolid as our cottage’s walls. But that mask had slipped, and even now, it had not fully returned. There was something written in the rut of his brow, the set of his frown. A sorrow, maybe, or a dread. Fear, perhaps… though he was not the type to fear.

Azareth took my hand, jarring me from my thoughts and shaking it in a farewell grip. “And you, Miss Valhera. I wish you fortune befitting your name… and your faith.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. Azareth, seeming to expect such a reaction, replied with a quiet voice as if to hide his words from my father.

“Have you ever considered leaving Gazmere?” he asked, tilting his head. “These people, I know, spare you no pity.”

“I don’t want their pity.”

He raised his brows and released my grip. I understood that he was still waiting for an answer.

“Where would I go?” I finally said. “Direlings are hated all across Elthysia. At least here, I… have my father.”

Azareth shook his head. “I don’t speak of Elthysia. There is another place where you would not need to hide.”

“Khaldara,” I growled, and Azareth chewed his lip.

“It is worth consideration,” he said, before turning to leave. “And… it is not the place you think it to be.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Azareth exchanged one final farewell with my father, then stepped out the door. My father followed, watching his departure through our darkening window and listening to the soft sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance.

The cottage was silent after that, and in that silence, I considered what Azareth had said. Not about the undead, but about Khaldara. I swished my tail and mused that the idea of running had crossed my mind before. Venture east and never return—find the people who would welcome me, horns and all. But that idea was a romance, nothing more. I knew the cold reality of what lurked east of Elthysia’s border—warlords fighting over the few remaining scraps of arable land, direlings dying every day to the undead, the environment, or each other. The Dead God had long ago blessed them with a place of sanctuary, but their land lacked Elthys’s bounty. It was a place where survival was hard and not a single day could be taken for granted.

I thought about my father’s training. I figured that even in that half of the world, I could protect myself from what danger may arise, though not all dangers could be conquered by simple steel. Looking out at the darkening treeline, I almost felt wistful. But in the back of my mind, I knew that even though I lived in the Elthysian countryside, a place where others valued my life little more than the goats that I tended, a life in Khaldara was hardly a life at all.

My father leaned on the windowsill, creaking the wood beneath his weight. I strove to forget the fantasy, opting instead to stand by his side.

“Father, is… something wrong?” I asked, remembering his broken mask.

“Nothing’s wrong, little doe.” The words came steady and low, much like one of his axioms.

I frowned. “You don’t… have to lie to me.”

He watched me for one long moment. Then he looked outside again.

“I’m worried for you.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter what the necromage says. Farmers, smiths… they don’t understand this sort of thing. I can’t help but feel… that it doesn’t matter what the necromage says. Who is at fault. You’ll bear the blame.”

“Who’s to say they’ll blame anyone? An undead… surely that’s no one’s fault.”

“It’s an undead,” his voice hammered down. “Someone is always condemned.”

I looked down. “This is the first we’ve heard about it. I figure… the town’s as confused as we are.”

“But that confusion will turn to rage, sooner rather than later.” His old, calloused hands gripped the windowsill “And when it does…”

“We’ll be alright,” I finished.

My words seemed to surprise him. In a way, they surprised me. I gave him a wan smile, and he took a deep breath. He stood up straight and put a hand on my shoulder. It seemed, for a strange moment, as if he’d wrap me in his arms.

“Yeah.” His voice was like a weary sigh. “We’ll be alright.”

I’d said it, and he’d repeated it. Somehow, I think we both knew it was a lie. But lies can be comfort. Relief. And, just as we both knew it was a lie, maybe we knew that such comfort was about to become rare.

That night, we said little more, as spoken words are fragile things. They could not fend off the coalescing storm. Words, spoken too long, would unearth the truth. The dread, the sorrow that we knew and tried, still, to hide.

For now, it was better to rest. It was only a matter of time before sleep took us both.