Without hesitation, Benjamin and Helspira hung their blades, while Sikras removed a few hidden daggers and propped his scythe against the wall.
“That’s everything?” Theodore asked.
Everyone nodded.
The wizard dug into his pockets, a small green gem in his hand. Sikras recognized it as jaracore, a precious stone material casters used for spells of detection. His suspicions were confirmed when Theodore whispered an incantation. The stone dissolved into ash, and all the present weapons charged with a current of electricity. Had anyone been concealing blade, bow, or steel, they would have received quite the shock.
“Good. No hidden surprises.” Theodore wiped the leftover ashes on his robes before he withdrew a different object, something metallic by the looks of it. He uttered a second spell, and theclickof a popping lock foreshadowed the door’s opening.
Sikras struggled to adjust to the rapid change in light as he entered a room smaller than the others but no less ornate, with pedestals and glass cases surrounding a dozen artifacts.
“You were right to presume I delight in sharing my finds with fellow casters. I find they have a great appreciation for these types of items,” Theodore muttered as he stepped farther into the room. “Even if necromancy scrapes the bottom of the proverbial arcane barrel. The lazy man’s magic, I always said.”
Sikras ran his finger over one of the glass domes and inspected the dust he had gathered. “You got that right, pal. Let the undead handle the heavy lifting, I say. I haven’t had to wash a load of laundry in years.”
Benjamin scoffed. “Don’t lie to the man. If you delegated tasks more often, our home wouldn’t look like it was ransacked by an army of drunken ogres.”
“It’s organized chaos, Benjamin.” Sikras wiped the dust off on his vest. “I wager if Theodore employed the undead, he’d have cleaner knickknacks.”
The wizard’s chest puffed, his cheeks and ears turning a fiery shade of red. “My sacred objects are far more than justknickknacks. And I wouldn’t be caught dead employing ... well, the dead. It’s so inferior. True wizardry requires everything necromancy lacks. Cultivation. Discipline. Intellectual control.”
“And the ability to pronounce impossibly long words.” With his back to Theodore, Sikras inspected each item with a nonchalant gaze. “Not to mention the subtle intricacies between elemental spells, memorizing the energy cost of each enchantment to avoid killing yourself, the practiced finger poses for literally thousands of spell variations, the hours and hours andhoursof endless study. Not for me, thank you very much.”
Theodore scoffed. “Necromancy is obviously the route taken by those who have no respect for nature’s order.”
“Tell me about it. Death thinks I disrespect her all the time. I don’t mean to, but my blatant disregard for nature’s order really gets under her skin. Wait. Under her bones, maybe?” Sikras pursed his lips. “Death doesn’t have any skin.”
“And ...” Theodore continued, nostrils flaring, “let’s not forget the obvious delusion and control issues one must have to desire manipulating people like puppets.”
Sikras nudged Theodore mischievously. “Preaching to the choir on that one, my friend. I’d ask you to hold my baggage, but a barbarian with an elixir of strength would still struggle to hoist that load; am I right?”
Tight-lipped and stiff, Helspira leaned toward Sikras, her voice a whisper. “Thank you for behaving in light of his insults.”
“Is he insulting me?” Sikras blinked. “Oh, dear, he’ll have to try harder than that. Those words are kind compared to the ones I tell myself at night.”
“What’s this?” Benjamin poked a mannequin wearing an ornate robe.
Theodore glowered. “Watch your hands. That is my Robe of Imperviousness.”
Sikras snorted. “Robe of Perviness?”
“Imperviousness,” Theodore snapped. “Imbued with protective spells that shield the wearer from unnatural harm, but like everything arcane, its power comes at a cost. Once it’s put on, it can never be removed.”
Benjamin swatted Sikras. “I wager that makes going to the bathroom quite the event.”
“Don’t remind me,” Theodore rumbled. “Took an eternity to remove the stench of human waste from that thing.”
Helspira recoiled with a wince. “If they protect the wearer from unnatural harm, how did you acquire them?”
“I waited for the wearer to die naturally, of course. Old age. I purchased her corpse from her family for a hefty sum, awaited decomposition, and plucked her bones out myself.”
Sikras paced the room, hands behind his back. “Right. Because that’s totally normal, but necromancy is gross.”
“And this”—Theodore flitted across the room, ignoring Sikras as he stopped before a vial of sparkling liquid atop a red satin pillow—“is a potion of healing, capable of restoring vitality and curing wounds in moments. The catch? It keeps, so-called, improving your body, never ending. If you get cut, it’ll turn your flesh to stone so you’re never cut again. If one day you find yourself fumbling to carry too many supplies, you’ll grow a third, accommodating limb. If your peripheral vision doesn’t prevent you from being on the wrong end of a sneak attack, you’ll grow another set of eyes on the side of your head.”
“Charming. And this?” Sikras poked a vase.
“Don’t touch that!” Theodore threw his arms around the vase, pupils shrinking to tiny dots. “This vase, if opened, reveals the future to any who peer inside ... But at the cost of unleashing the poltergeist trapped within the porcelain.”
