Dragontail clouds curled through a clear blue sky, formations of migrating birds cutting effortlessly through them. The mid-autumn sun turned the red edges of the leaves into stained glass. Despite the lateness of the year, the air was still warm; the leaves crunched like fresh snow beneath Idris’s cane.

  He took his time. Autumn was his favourite time of year, usually, but he had not been able to do most of the activities he loved. This outing was not for pleasure – it was business only. He carried a sword on his hip that changed his stride and he had to get better at managing his weight with it on, or else he would not survive through the winter.

  That was the only thing he was certain of.

  He climbed the hill, using the path worn into the rocks to guide him, and found a copse on the overlook, masking a perfect platform of flat rock in the dwindling afternoon light. Beneath the blood-red leaves of the witch oaks, sitting on a spindly garden stool, was Layton Vonner.

  The set-up was partly romantic, partly absurd and partly terrifying. There was a table, laid with a floral cloth and a tea set, and a matching stool opposite Layton. Beside Layton’s teacup was the skull of Johannes Vonner, its deep sockets glinting with malice, necrotic energy pulsing over its bone like veins of grey blood. Layton had one thin hand upon it and the other unfolding a napkin onto his lap. Beneath his handsome coat of black and emerald green was the curling, clutching ribcage of Spirit Glass that made up the breastplate of the Dead-Walker armour. The sound of the death aria pulsed through it all, through Idris’s ears, bones and blood, mournful and forever and theirs.

  Idris stopped, gazing on the scene as if it were a dream he could wake from or a colour plate from a book. He had not seen his father since the man had left him gasping for air on the floor of Raven’s Roost’s parlour. He had known that seeing Layton would be trying, but he had been unprepared for the sheer flood of fury that rose inside him.

  Idris clenched the head of his cane tight and reminded himself of his purpose.

  “Ah,” said Layton, looking up, smiling amicably. “Master Vonner.”

  Idris loosened his jaw.

  “Lord Vonner,” he said coldly.

  “Do sit. You are right on time. The tea is ready.”

  If Idris were braver, he would have taken his chance there and then, lifted the sword and struck – but he knew any blow he tried to mete out would hit only the magic of the breastplate and Layton would be unharmed. Layton had no weapon but the inherent magic in his blood. If Layton meant Idris harm, Idris was sure that he would already be dead.

  He approached the little table, sat on the stool and gazed out over the field below. There, he could see his escort.

  “I did not bring tea for all of your friends, unfortunately,” said Layton mildly. “Are they expecting a fight?”

  Idris said nothing. The armed guard was a necessity. Queen Cressida had insisted upon it.

  “I must admit,” said Layton, pouring the tea, “I did not expect you to come at all.”

  “I wanted to see if you were telling the truth,” said Idris.

  With the tea served, Layton settled back, placed his hand on the skull once more. Idris examined Layton’s grey-green eyes, his long blond hair, the cold frission beneath his quiet smile, and loathed it all.

  “You look well,” said Layton at last.

  Idris nearly bit back with a sharp remark, but he kept it to himself.

  “If you touch me,” said Idris, “then my friend will fire an arrow right into your temple.”

  Layton’s smile widened. “I have no doubt.”

  “I can have her demonstrate, if you wish.”

  “I do not wish. I believe you.”

  “What do you want, Layton?”

  The Remaker tutted, lifted his cup. “So impatient. Did you think I would have all of this nice tea party set here just for us if I what I wanted could be fit on a piece of parchment? I have sent you enough letters, Idris. I wanted to see you. My dear son.”

  This time, Idris ground his teeth; the fake molar in the back left of his mouth smarted.

  “I rather find the time for pleasantries is over,” he said.

  At this, Layton did not respond. He sipped his drink, looked out at the countryside. Idris waited. When his father did not speak, he decided to make his feelings plain.

  “You killed my friend and used her as a carrier pigeon,” he said. Layton snorted in the back of his throat.

  “You did not know that girl. If you did, you had not seen her since you were a child. Do not make it personal.”

  “You made it personal.”

  “Had I known that every corpse and piece of carrion would upset you so, I would have been more careful,” said Layton, as if Idris was being particularly squeamish.

  Idris had been brought up a gentleman, yet everything he had ever been taught slipped through his fingers when he sat with Layton. There was nothing civil about the man, save this farce he had established on the overlook. Layton’s gentle movements, his quiet voice, made Idris want to fall feral, start beating the head of his cane over the soft blond hair. But if he did not behave himself, he might not get what he came for – that would be too much of a waste.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Idris,” said Layton patiently, “had I wanted to harm you, I would not have made this much of an effort. Please relax. The tea is quite sublime. It is a beautiful afternoon. Indulge me.”

  “I am not going to believe the word of a man who tortured me and beat me. Forgive me if I have to decline.”

  “You do not seem to have suffered so much.” Layon cast a lazy eye over Idris’s attire, his face. “Palace living suits you well, Court Necromancer.”

  “My patience is wearing thin, Layton. Tell me what you want.”

  Layton sighed, rolled his eyes and put his cup back on the saucer.

  “Nobody ever taught you manners, it seems. Very well.” He reached into his pocket and placed a sheathed dagger on the table. “This is yours. I thought it might have sentimental value to you and I decided to return it.”

  If there was a trap, Idris did not see it. The dagger on the table was his grandfather’s old stiletto, in the chest sheathe he had worn to Outer Arbedes. It looked clean and unused.

  “A gesture in good faith, see?” said Layton.

  “I see.” Idris shifted his jaw, nodded his head at the breastplate. “You are still wearing it.”

  “I must protect myself.”

  Idris wondered if Layton had taken it off, yet. Maybe the skin beneath was already wasting, the muscle and bone. Maybe Layton could not survive if it was pried from him now.

  “I am rather surprised not to see you wielding the staff,” said Layton, looking down at Idris’s cane.

  “The staff is gone,” said Idris.

  “Gone?”

  “Dissolved.”

  “That is impossible,” said Layton, his smile self-assured.

  “Not impossible. Spirit Glass destroys Spirit Glass. I pushed the two halves together, and they took care of themselves.”

  Layton’s smile did not change. “Why are you doing this, Idris?”

  “I thought that was clear. The Dead Walker set is dangerous and it should be destroyed.”

  “At the behest of your queen?”

  “No.”

  The truth of this, Idris could not tell Layton. The information was delicate.

  “Prove it,” said Layton.

  Idris removed his gloves and showed Layton the burned flesh on his hands. He did not want to think about that awful morning in the palace vault, forcing the two pieces close as they shrieked and screamed through the death aria – the piercing pain in his head, in his ears, and the smell of charred skin in his nose, and the tightness of every muscle. He had fainted, afterwards, and had to be revived by the palace healers. Three days of bedrest had followed. Weeks later, the skin was still healing.

  “Can you hear the aria it left?” Idris said. “The high-pitched noise?”

  Layton’s smile was gone, now. He seemed paler than usual.

  “This does not have to be difficult, Layton,” said Idris. “I have a goal. I will see it through. It has nothing to do with you, save that you still wear the final piece. I would like if you would simply give it to me and we can be done with this sorry business. You are, after all, my father, and if I do not have to hurt you that would be the best course of action. But if you insist upon keeping it – using it? Then I have no choice but to take it.”

  “Try,” said Layton, his voice cold.

  “My friends are very upset,” said Idris. “They did not like how they found me at Raven’s Roost. They are more accomplished soldiers than I, and I believe they wish me to kill you if I have to.”

  “Try,” Layton said again, this time a snarl.

  “I have a missive from the Queen. She has laid out a rather generous treaty with you, if you would read it.”

  “She has nothing I want. She cannot buy me.”

  “What are you trying to prove?” said Idris.

  “Prove?” said Layton, with a single laugh. “Idris... we are necromancers. How long do you think it will be before all those noble souls in the Queen’s court turn on you? How much time do you think you have before you are on every poster in the land and the villagers are crying for your head on a pike? I am trying to survive. I am trying to preserve our family, our bloodline – that is my duty.”

  “All of this is spite, then.”

  “This is nature. The weak absorbing the strong. The strong pushing back.” Once, Idris had seen madness in Layton. He was sure he saw it now, lodged firmly in his father’s eyes. “You and I could make our own kingdom. Don’t you see that? We would be unassailable. Why do you give yourself to a family that is not yours when you could learn and grow with your real family? You could be a king.”

  “Am I going to have to stop you?” Idris said.

  It was silent, then. Layton took a deep breath, picked up his tea once more.

  “It would seem that way,” he said. “But I hope you know that I will not lay down and allow you to rule me. You or that Naga sea witch. If this is the path you want to choose, then you are choosing violence. I will defend myself.”

  “I understand,” said Idris.

  A small, satisfied sigh came from Layton’s lips, and he drank.

  This was not how Idris had hoped the conversation would end. He thought he was done with hoping anything good from Layton, but he found himself disappointed – disappointed that in the end, Layton could not surprise him. His father wanted independence or nothing at all. Maybe all he really wanted, still, was to force Idris to come with him, to accept his fate as the last in a long line of necromancers – necromancers who had made the cursed armour in the first place, to harm and dominate, to rule.

  But Idris had no desire to rule. He had no desire to do much of anything, these days. He wanted to go home.

  “Where are you staying?” said Idris, taking his sheath and dagger.

  “You will have to find that out for yourself.”

  “Please stop sending me letters.”

  “I will.”

  “Are we done here?”

  “Yes, I think we are.”

  Idris stood. He felt cold, suddenly, and upset, but he did not want to show it. He inclined his head to Layton; Layton nodded back.

  “Such a shame,” he said quietly.

  “There is still time to see the Queen’s letter,” said Idris.

  “No.” Layton sighed. “You will not have the tea?”

  “I will not. Good day to you, Lord Vonner.”

  “And to you, Master Vonner.”

  “Do not call me ‘Master Vonner’,” said Idris, as he walked away. “It is not and will never be my name.”

  “You prefer The Puppeteer, then?” Layton called. It carried on the breeze as Idris descended the rock path.

  The armed escort waited patiently for Idris to approach. Lila, arrow still nocked and pointed to the treeline, lowered her bow when she saw him. She was very much the same as she always was – loyal and by his side – except she wore armour when she travelled with him, made of thick leather and sturdy plate on the shoulders. Her nut-brown hair was tied in a soldier’s braid, close to the nape of her neck.

  “He was there?” she said as Idris came into earshot.

  “He was.”

  She motioned for the other soldiers to lower their weapons, too, and begin preparing for the journey back. A deep frown furrowed her brow.

  “Did he hurt you, sir?” she said.

  “Only my pride, I think, Lila.”

  “Did he take the deal?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She licked her bottom lip, glanced back up to the overlook. “We could apprehend him now -”

  “No,” said Idris, exhausted. “No, let him go. It is better if he goes.”

  Lila always seemed worried, nowadays, when she looked at Idris. He supposed he made everyone feel like that.

  “Home, then?” she said.

  “Yes, Lila. Home.”