The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [53]
“I’m serious, little Awa. Don’t think I can’t smell what you’re thinking. You can’t hurt me, you can only hurt yourself, and if you try I’ll make you suffer in ways you can’t imagine. You think it was bad that I let you rape your little friend’s bones before cluing you in to the way things work? You have no idea. I’ll play with her myself, and have your bandit friend do the same, and you’ll have to watch, you’ll have to watch your Omor—”
“Don’t speak her name! You horrible thing!” She was crying and her fists were balled. “I hate you!”
“So long as we understand each other, anything’s better than ambivalence,” said the necromancer. “Now do as I say, yes?”
Awa stared down at her seemingly matching feet for a long time, then wiped her stinging eyes and nodded.
“Right. All you do is take that sheet hanging over the bear’s arm and pull it up over me, all the way to my head, and then you let it lie atop me, and then you slowly pull it back down again. I can do what I need to do whether you oblige me or not, but my chances of a complete success are far stronger if the sheet covers me during the process. Understand so far?”
Awa numbly walked around the table to the bear and took the sheet draped over its forepaw. The linen was covered in lines and scribbles, much like the table. Drawn in blood, of course, but also fouler substances, gauging by the smell. Then she noticed the bear was dead, stone dead without even a fraction of its spirit, and she froze, her heart beating so hard she nearly threw up. If—
“The smoke can’t be helped but get on with it,” snapped the necromancer. “No excuses for dawdling, not now. Bring the sheet to my feet and wait until I start the invocations. Don’t cover my head until I’ve gone quiet, and then count my heartbeats. After exactly one hundred heartbeats slowly remove the sheet, and I’ll tell you what to do next.”
“Why?” said Awa, trying to make herself sound out of sorts and drugged from the smoke. That was easy enough. “What are you doing?”
“These aren’t exactly traveling clothes,” said the necromancer, pinching a wattle of loose skin under his chin and shaking it. “Have to trade in this old hide for something fresh, something new. The sheet and the smoke help obscure the transformation—recall how with the ring and the rope the process did not take effect until you had looked away and then back? If you don’t do as you’re told I won’t be able to become as young as I’d prefer, and I’ll be very cross. That’s the worst you can do, but I would still not advise it. You have not seen me cross yet, Awa.”
Awa did not know if she believed him, but she focused on his words rather than letting her mind settle on what had flitted through it, like the little bonebird arcing over the abyss for an instant before sailing back to safety.
“Do not fail me, Awa,” the necromancer said quietly. “Please. I have been harsh, I know, but I think in time you might understand even if you cannot forgive. I love you, Awa, I love you and I only seek to keep you safe from a world that would bind you in chains, that would make you a slave to selfish children who spurn your kindness, who resent your mercy. I love you, and that is why I have been cruel. But no more—after tonight you will be a favored daughter instead of an abused pupil, a queen instead of a slave. Understand?”
How could she? No words he had spoken, no blows he had delivered, no dreams he had crushed stabbed her as viciously, broke her as thoroughly. She felt disemboweled, she felt on fire, she felt icy water fill her lungs. What could she say, what could she do? Her tears cut through the smoke, and she heard him begin the invocations. No gods or goddesses were mentioned, no prayers given, only commands, and Awa realized she had already drawn the sheet up to his neck.
Looking down at his face, weathered and leathery, Awa wondered what it would feel like