Daire leaned in and lowered his voice to a sharp whisper. “The coffers have never been fuller at the sept! Appointments with the dead cost close to a year’s wage for many, but the necromancers cannot keep up with the requests.”
And there it was. Sesto smiled, nodded, and offered something meaningless in response, but a critical patch of the tapestry of Rivenholde had been woven.
It had to be the pretor’s own ancestors responsible for the curse. They’d created a supply that finally matched the demand, so they could grow their wealth at the expense of the restless dead.
And if Ryquin was asking about Jesstin’s ability to travel to such a place, they must be planning something far, far worse.
“Ah, no, I’ll be going with Elloven,” Jesstin said when Ryquin blocked him from following her. Dividing people diffused their strength. Elloven might be too enamored to see it, but he wasn’t.
“She’ll be close enough,” Ryquin replied, unmoved. “Your bond won’t be affected.”
“Not the bond I’m worried about.” Jesstin watched her disappear, her arm looped through Estelar’s under a series of silver arches. Taven waited for them in the distance with a smirk Jesstin would enjoy punching again.
“About my father? He adores Aelloven.”
“He doesn’t know her.”
Ryquin started walking. Jesstin, accepting he’d lost the battle, had no choice but to come along. “You’re wondering why she’s so easily falling into place here, but you wouldn’t need to wonder if you were of the blood. Like recognizes like. Always. Kin is unmistakable. She’s home, and a part of her knows this.”
“This isn’t her home.” Jesstin glanced back, but Elloven was already gone. “And her name is Elloven now.”
“It is her home. It always will be.” Ryquin walked on, taking them past a long, tall wall that appeared to house the grounds of the circus. Esguards were stationed at all openings, solid, tall doors of dark, carved wood that revealed nothing beyond them. “But it’s you who interests me, Jesstin. How long have your necromancer talents been active?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your relationship with the dead.”
Oh. So there’s a word for this curse. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ryquin laughed. “Sure.”
The wall stretched on for a few more yards until it finally ended, opening into a garden encased by an iron cage on all sides. They stepped beneath the gates, and Jesstin looked up, observing the evening sky through the curls and lines. He wondered if the enclosure was purely aesthetic or had an actual purpose.
As soon as Jesstin’s boots crunched upon the frosted ground of the garden, the chorus of the dead returned. It was worse than before—there were more of them and they were louder—and in his panic, he dropped to his knees and clamped his hands over his ears, even though he knew it would do nothing.
“Remember what I told you.” Ryquin stood over him. “Do it now.”
Jesstin screamed at the desperate cries coming from all sides.
“Jesstin, say the words or suffer needlessly.”
“Hush... Hush now. I will hear your pleas later!” Jesstin fumbled the request, half whisper, half shout, but the sound stopped.
As he recovered, he glared up at Ryquin. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Come. Sit.” Ryquin gestured toward a bench, which was beside a tiny pond filled with jagged rock formations and some large, colorful fish that seemed woefully out of place.
“Bloody hell is this place?”
“There are spots where the barrier is thin, and the dead are louder.” He gestured at the enclosure. “This protects that phenomenon from fading.”
Jesstin climbed to his feet and perched upon a rock instead. “You knew I could hear them. How?”
Ryquin’s mouth turned down. “I’ve known for a while.”
“And how long is ‘a while’?”
“I could tell you that,” Ryquin said, turning each word slowly, “or I could show you how to control it.”
