Once the sound of Padme’s footsteps had grown too faint to hear, he started along the path. The pale moonlight shrunk to a sliver as the underbrush grew thicker, but he could see the wisps of his breath coming from him like a trail of smoke.

  Each movement took an age. He walked with measured steps, careful to avoid stepping on twigs that might snap and reveal his presence. A bend in the trail revealed a squat brick cottage; he could see the embers of a fire through the windows facing him, but judging by the lack of shadows no one was awake inside.

  His mind raced, making it difficult to continue the slow creep toward the front door. Itan focused on his breath, forcing it to come out evenly as his hands began to shake. He pushed the cottage door open to reveal a bed and the woman he sought; her snoring confirmed to him she was unaware of the danger.

  To the left was a table bearing the largest mortar and pestle he’d ever seen; to either side lay a collection of dried herbs and flowers, some of them already crushed. On its right side, he saw a jagged knife, its edge orange with rust. He stepped over to the table to grab it by the antler handle, inspecting it for a moment before continuing.

  The shaking in Itan’s good hand – in which he held the knife – grew as he approached her supine form. He brushed her silken hair away from her face, his lip curling to a snarl as he prepared to strike.

  He sunk the knife into a post of the bed with a loud thud. Elysa started, but Itan grasped her by the nightgown. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop it! If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead right now.”

  Her flailing legs stilled, although her eyes seared into him with the heat of a thousand suns. “To what, then –” she said with a venomous tone, “— do I owe this late-night visit?”

  Itan’s chest heaved with hard breaths. “You should know I was considering killing you. Skora, up until the moment I had the knife I was sure I was going to. But I didn’t, for one reason only: now you know I can get to you. You’re not the only one capable of threatening a life. So I am done being your puppet. The orphans you have tainted with your poisoned words will stay with me, but they will never – never – be sent to the Synod. I will find a new group to teach, and if I so much as see you whispering to them we will have another late-night rendezvous. Only, I won’t be aiming for the bed post next time. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Her narrowed eyes followed him out.

  Itan barely noticed the trip back to the temple; despite the fact that his hackles were raised the whole time, he encountered no threats. Due to his late-night sojourn, he slept past the sunrise.

  He opened his eyes the next morning to find the sun nearly at its apex. Heck and Padme were nowhere to be found, but he found Ponto in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a stew.

  The boy paused, glancing at Itan over a shoulder. “Padme said we shouldn’t wait around for Elysa this morning. Did you do something to her?”

  Itan sighed. He’d known they would find out eventually, but he hadn’t expected to be confronted with the question so soon. “I spoke with her last night. She won’t be involved with your training anymore.” His fingers traced the nearby wall, feeling along the grains of the wood. “You should know… the things she’s been teaching you are evil. The immortals granted us with one gift even their own deaths couldn’t take away: our souls. The promise of an afterlife gives our existence meaning. It’s the common thread that connects paupers and kings, thieves and aspects. The priests of Mirao swear a holy oath to ferry the dead to their promised place in the Everlands, never judging what a soul has been, done, or what it has become.

  “When you trade the light of a soul in exchange for short-term avoidance of pain, you violate that promise. That’s what the power she’s teaching you to use does: it extinguishes the souls you have taken into your body for all time.” Itan forced himself to meet the boy’s eyes. “I should have stopped Elysa’s corrupting influence sooner, and for that I’m sorry.”

  Ponto frowned at him, setting the knife down so he could face Itan fully. “I don’t get it. The ones who’ve been dead for a long time have already lost all their memories. What does it matter if they make it to the Everlands or not?”

  “If they were standing in front of you in corporeal form – a living, breathing body – would you ask the same? Imagine a man who remembered nothing of his life before today and yet still had several years to live. Would you take a knife to his throat if it meant easing one of your attacks?”

  Ponto grimaced. “No. I-I didn’t think of it like that.”

  Itan reflected over the journeys he’d made; some of the souls he’d seen regain awareness on the long road to the Synod. He considered sharing his experience with Ponto, but decided it would only make things worse. This is why he can’t join our order. Why they can’t join. If he and Padme discovered the truth about what they’ve done it would destroy them. Heck, though… The thought of Heck made him shiver. If there was one among the three who was likely to take the path of a necromancer, it was him.

  “What can I do?” Ponto asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What can I do to make things right? I thought what I was doing was okay. I didn’t… I would never…” his voice trailed off as his wide eyes pleaded with Itan to give him an answer.

  Unfortunately, there was no good answer Itan knew how to give. He shook his head. “Sometimes in life, we’re cast as the villain without our knowledge. The best we can do is change our ways once we’ve learned the error in them.”

  “It doesn’t feel like enough, though. I—” Ponto stopped at the sound of the temple doors barging open.

  Itan’s jaw dropped open at the man standing in the threshold. It took him a moment to recall the name. “Ox,” he said. The man’s face bore stretched scars reminiscent of a burn victim along the left side; his left eye was puckered and bloodshot, his upper lip curled in a mixture of snarl and grimace.

  The large man managed a momentary smirk at Itan’s expression of surprise. “I’m pleased you remember us. That was quite a trick you pulled back in the forest all those months ago. Not a night passes I don’t think about destroying that damn urn – the blinding pain, the raking of raw power across my body. And the screams. Oh, the screams.”

  “How are you here? Why…?” Itan trailed off with a chuckle. “Of course. I should have guessed. Elysa is Miss Crane, isn’t she? Which would make you her husband.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I have been called that before, yes. And I’ve had to get used to being called Ox, which I’ll admit I detest.” Ox – or whoever he was – stepped into the temple, approaching Itan to tower over him. “See, after your trick, Miss Crane found my men and I – souls bare to the biting cold – and stuffed us into the only body still capable of drawing breath. I took some time to emerge as the victor, but eventually I vanquished the others.”

  Itan’s mind raced. He’d never heard of multiple conscious souls inhabiting the same body; necromancers always used feral souls for a reason. “What was it like?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “How did you ‘vanquish’ the others?”

  The man-who-was-not-Ox cocked his head. “You know, I’m not rightly sure myself. My mind was broken for what felt like an eternity; it felt like hurricanes of fire were weaving their way through the very fibers of my being. My body shook and shook beyond the ability of any of us to control. Pelle was the first to go, I think – I felt some part of him join with me.

  “I only managed to get the shaking under control when it got down to Ox and I. I think he was able to hold on a bit longer because it was his body – or maybe his will was just stronger than the others. He was a tough bastard, that’s for sure. We survived for a time, the two of us in the same body, but it still felt wrong. Simple tasks became impossible, and there were maybe three hours in the day that weren’t taken up by all-consuming pain.

  “Eventually, Ox succumbed to the pain as well. Now it’s just me. Lord Goran. And it brings me pleasure to see you again, if only so I can repay you for what you did to me.”

  Itan took a step back, anxious to get away from the feral look in the other man’s eyes. “Elysa is the one who did this to you. Or, if you want to talk about your death, you are the one who’s responsible. I didn’t ask to be accosted in that forest.”

  “No, but you told us to smash the urn, didn’t you? Knowing full well it would bring our deaths, in the most brutal fashion imaginable.” Goran took another step forward. “I’m not here for you, though.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. I’m here for him.” Goran shoved Itan aside, reaching out for Ponto. The boy raised the knife in his hand, but Goran grabbed his wrist before he could put it to use. Itan leapt toward the larger man, only to be thrown to the ground with another shove. His head struck the far wall of the kitchen, making his vision swim.

  By the time Itan managed to regain his feet, Goran had already made it halfway up the stairs to the second floor. The larger man held Ponto like a large doll, carrying him by the collar of his shirt as he ascended out of view. Itan chased the sounds of heavy footsteps on the wood floor. Moments later, he heard a shutter open.

  He arrived in time to watch Goran toss Ponto head-first from the window. A sickening thud followed; even though he knew what had to have happened, Itan ran to the window to see for himself. Ponto’s motionless body lay on the hard-packed earth, scarlet blood pooling from him where his head had struck.

  Nausea overwhelmed Itan. He gripped the bottom of the window to steady himself. Down on the street, he heard someone scream.

  “The Death Priest!” a woman’s voice cried. “Look, at the window!” Others on the street followed her words to the window where Itan was bracing himself, their eyes widening as they took measure of the situation.

  Itan turned to Goran, anger overtaking him. His fists struck the other man, barely doing any damage. A backhanded slap from Goran sent him sprawling; he stumbled, landing on his hands and knees. The knife Ponto had been carrying gleamed inches away from his good hand. His fingers closed around it as Goran closed in on him.

  In a single motion, Itan spun and buried the knife in Goran’s breast. The snarl on the larger man’s face gave way to surprise; he clutched at the blade, fingertips tracing the handle for a moment before he fell.

  Thoughts still on Ponto, Itan fled from the room. He raced down the stairs two at a time, praying to the aspect the boy would still be alive. Somehow. He turned at the base of the stairs, weaving his way past the table and through the open doors of the temple.

  A small crowd had gathered, formed mostly of those Itan had seen from the window. A woman knelt at Ponto’s side; Itan recognized her immediately as Elysa. With a growl, he picked up his pace, determined to keep her away from the boy.

  He arrived to see Ponto’s eyes blinking open. Elysa had been cradling his head in her hands, but when she saw Itan she set it on the ground. “Get away from him!” she shrieked. “I will not let you have him, Death Priest!” she moved to place herself between Ponto and Itan, as if planning to use her body as a shield.

  The gathered men and women jeered. “I didn’t attack him!” Itan tried explaining. “It was Elysa’s husband! He attacked the boy, threw him out of the window.”

  Elysa cocked her head. “And where is my husband now, Death Priest? He should be out here by now.” Her quiet voice seemed to address him instead of the crowd.

  “He’s dead,” Itan said. “He was an abomination, and he had just killed… Ponto.” He took a step back, cursing himself for giving in to his emotions.

  A grin flashed across Elysa’s features – a private expression he assumed was meant just for him. “No! Not my husband!” she cried, resuming her performance for the crowd. “This man murdered my husband and tried to murder an orphan I left in his care! I thought he was different, but I was wrong. No death priest can be trusted. We must make him pay for these crimes!”

  The expressions of the crowd turned murderous as the circle they had formed around the scene tightened. Itan’s every instinct screamed at him to run, but he doubted he would be able to escape if he tried. He smelled the same combination of onion and rot that had lingered over the crowd the day he’d arrived; the memory flooded back to him, bringing with it a sense of clarity.

  I’ve survived a crowd like this before. All he had to do was stay calm – a difficult prospect with their bodies pressing in. I’ll never make it out of the city. Too far. If this was any sane place, the guard would see the crowd and intervene. He held little hope of that, though; there were no guards in sight, and they tended to avoid the poorer sections of the city anyway.

  The keep. There will be guards at the keep. He charted out a course in his mind; it would be a difficult trip even without a crowd to harry his steps, but with those surrounding him he doubted he’d make it before someone fell upon him.

  Itan raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I did not do as this woman claims. I am not a murderer. And to prove it, I’m going to turn myself into the city guard.” He took a step forward, his will faltering as those ahead held their ground.

  Another step, but they held still. The next step brought him face-to-face with the woman who’d brought attention to his presence at the window. He inhaled deeply and took another step, using one hand to usher her aside.

  The contact was like a thunderbolt going through the crowd; rough hands grabbed Itan by the shoulders as he felt something hard hit his back. He was tossed to the ground, assailed by stomping feet. He managed to crawl forward, teeth grinding against the kicks from those closest to him.

  Blinding pain screamed up from his left leg, and he knew without a doubt it had been broken. He closed his eyes, crawling forward another half-pace. His eyes closed again, promising the sweet embrace of surrender.

  He regained awareness with a start. I’m not going to make it. He knew with absolute certainty: the crowd was going to kill him for his perceived crimes. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never be able to crawl past all of them.

  To his right – a pace away and barely higher than his head – he sensed a dead soul. It had not grown feral yet, but had been allowed to linger long enough that it would soon unravel. The temptation to reach out to it made Itan recoil; he curled up, doing his best to put the soul out of mind.

  And yet, it lingered there. Why shouldn’t I? he asked himself. Elysa will just use it for another, darker purpose if I die. If I survive, I can ensure the Synod knows of the danger in the city. Is not the sacrifice of a single soul worth it, considering the alternative?

  He forced himself to confront the same question he’d posed to Ponto what felt like ages ago. If this were a man standing in front of me, who had lost his memories but otherwise might go on living, would I kill him? He was surprised to find the answer was yes.

  The soul resisted his attempts to bring it under his command; what remained of its will poisoned his mind, robbing his vision, then his sense of touch. He grappled with it in darkness, forcing it to oblivion. The fog over his vision retreated, and with it the pain throughout the rest of his body.

  With newfound awareness, Itan could tell all but the most bloodthirsty in the crowd had given up on him. Only three remained, their kicks coming in weaker as they tired.

  He sprang to his feet, tearing down an alleyway before they could react to his sudden movement. As he turned, he chanced a look at the group behind; they had given chase, dogged footfalls betraying their exhaustion.

  By contrast, he felt reinvigorated as he raced through the streets. For a moment, he considered changing his course to head toward the city gates rather than the keep – a piece of him screamed to escape, but the rest remained committed to his original course.

  They will get their trial, he thought. If this city can be saved, my name – and the name of Mirao – must be cleared. The footfalls behind him grew fainter; by the time he reached the main street leading to the keep, it seemed he was running alone.

  Itan’s steps slowed, switching from a sprint to a jog, and then to a brisk walk. As the gates of the keep grew closer, he saw a group of guards milling nearby. He slowed his pace further, drawing deep breaths to satisfy his aching lungs.

  “Hello,” Itan said, addressing a white-haired woman who appeared to be in charge. “My name is Itan Mirao. There’s a woman who will soon come to you – if she hasn’t already – claiming I am a murderer. I’m not.”

  The white-haired woman blinked in surprise. “Well, that certainly takes it. What are you expecting us to do with this information?”

  “I want you to arrest me. She’s incited one mob to attack me already, and I have no doubts she will soon rally another.”

  “Our prisons aren’t your personal inn. You don’t get to check in simply because you feel like it.”

  Itan sighed. “Alright, then. How about I present you with the evidence she would use against me? There’s a man’s body in the mortuary temple. I killed him in self-defense, but surely Lord Protector Ma’isa will want to have a trial to determine the truth of what I claim.”

  The woman nodded slowly. “He will, if what you say is true. Show us to the body.”

  He led the way back down the path he’d taken, noting two exhausted men wheezing on the side of the first street they turned down. He nodded at the taller of the pair, who responded with a glare.

  They arrived to find the crowd reformed; the men and women turned at the sight of Itan, barraging him with insults. He side-stepped out of the way of a thrown tomato, letting it splatter harmlessly against the ground.

  “Let us through!” the white-haired guard shouted. “In the name of Lord Protector Ma’isa, let us through!” To her men, she said, “Swords at the ready. I don’t like the look of this.” The sound of steel scraping leather followed as the guards around Itan liberated their swords.

  The crowd parted enough to let them through, revealing Elysa and Ponto. They were both on their feet, facing Itan and the guards; Elysa’s arms were folded as she scowled at the interlopers, but Ponto simply looked confused.