Page 16 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

“Weaker in what way?” he asked.

Iggie ticked each answer off on his slender hand. “The distance at which I can communicate effectively with them. How well they obey orders. How long they last before breaking apart. Even their own inherent strength and intelligence.”

“Intelligence?” Alistair glanced at the nearest skeleton. It hadn’t budged since their conversation began. “You’re saying your undead aren’t mindless brutes?”

“Some of the older or weaker ones are close, but most of mine have retained something of themselves. Take my cook Pierre, for instance. I know you’ve been refusing to eat his meals, but I assure you, they taste as good as they smell. He was a lord’s private chef before he died, and he leaped at the opportunity to continue putting his skills to good use in death. I have another skeleton capable of giving an excellent haircut.” He frowned. “Or at least, I did. You incinerated him during the raid on Singer’s Rest.”

“But…that’s…” Alistair struggled to wrap his head around what Iggie was telling him.Undead barbers and chefs?It defied everything he’d ever been taught. “What about warriors?”

Iggie shrugged, his gaze flicking to his two undead guards before flicking away. Alistair had long since noted the swords they wore sheathed at their waists. “I have some of those, too—a couple soldiers from a forgotten war, a mercenary who died defending a caravan. But most of my skeletons’ weapons are only for show. They can barely even wield them since they never learned how in their former lives.” He blinked, a hint of alarm flitting over his face. “N-not that they couldn’t still defend me in a pinch from anyone who tried to harm me!”

Alistair muffled an amused snort at Iggie’s obvious posturing. “How does that even work?” he asked, ignoring the challenging look on Iggie’s face. A shiver raced down his spine. “Does your ritual of raising trap their spirits within their rotten flesh?”

“Of course not!” Iggie tensed in his seat, his eyes hard as flecks of ice. “I told you before, their souls remain at rest in the Great Beyond. But that doesn’t mean they don’t leave a sliver of themselves behind—an echo, if you will, of the person they once were. Sometimes, you catch it only in glimpses, while other times, it’s more pronounced. Like a half-forgotten memory that their bones can’t help but act out to the best of their ability.”

A half-forgotten memory.Alistair couldn’t decide how to feel about that description. While the idea of bodies performing roles like fleshy puppets still struck him as creepy, there was also something vaguely romantic about the idea that who you were while alive left so strong an impression that, even once you were gone, the fabric of reality never fully recovered from your absence.

Something else Iggie had said struck him then. “Hold on. Did you say one of your undead is namedPierre?”

A confused furrow notched Iggie’s brow. “Yes? Is that a problem?”

“Younameyour undead?”

Iggie looked at him like he was the daftest person in the cosmos. “Of course! I need something to call them, don’t I? Sometimes, I can figure their real names out from their tombstones or from any research I conduct before raising them. Other times, I just make one up that seems to fit. I like to believe that something in the magic itself helps guide me toward an appropriate moniker, but I have no idea if that’s true.”

Undead with their own names and identities—yet another thing Alistair wasn’t quite sure how to wrap his head around. “What aboutthem?” He jerked a finger toward Iggie’s looming protectors. “They must be fearsome warriors if you chose them to be your personal bodyguards.”

Emotion flickered across Iggie’s face too quickly for Alistair to interpret. “Their names are Marlon and Cynthia, and there’s no one I trust more to protect me.”

“How long have you had them?” Now that Alistair looked more closely, he could tell that their bones appeared more yellowed with age than the others he’d seen.

“Awhile,” Iggie replied tersely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Though the necromancer kept his face composed as he rose, Alistair could tell that something in the mood had shifted, and he let out an internal curse.Seems like I accidentally struck a nerve. This wasn’t a good way to end their first genuine conversation—not if he wanted to avoid spending the next couple days back in isolated silence.

“For what it’s worth,” Alistair said, “I believe you. About Singer’s Rest. I don’t think you kidnapped or murdered those missing people.”

Iggie’s face softened slightly. He stopped beside his chair, fingers hovering over its back as they picked at the wood. “Gee, thanks for that ringing endorsement—probably not a murderer.”

Alistair gave a full-bellied laugh, eliciting a grin from Iggie. Just like that, the growing tension between them evaporated. Alistair settled back in his own seat, watching Iggie as he retrieved his plate to take with him upstairs. “If you didn’t come here for Singer’s Rest, then whyareyou all the way out here?”

“This is but my latest stop in a long litany of temporary hideouts. I’d intended to stay here through the winter and then move on once the mountain passes cleared, but given the Order’s involvement, I may have to hasten my departure. I’ve found it’s best to hide myself from a world that would rather a necromancer like me die than remain a part of it.”

The simple way Iggie said it, as if it were an incontrovertible truth as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, made Alistair’s heart ache more than any screaming or raging ever could. He recalled again what he’d heard Iggie say in his quarters about being worthless and wished there was something he could say to comfort him.

Stick to the mission—don’t forget what really matters.

Alistair clenched his jaw at the reprimanding words he heard spoken in his father’s stern voice. Just because it was a valid point didn’t mean he needed to like it. “But if it’s not you and your undead terrorizing Singer’s Rest, then who or what is?” he said, half to himself. “If we set aside the stolen supplies, that still leaves the missing villagers and strange light.”

Iggie froze, spinning to face Alistair from halfway across the room. “Light? What kind of light?”

“During my briefing in Singer’s Rest, the village elders mentioned that an odd light had been spotted outside town. I’d assumed it part of a duskflame ritual, but now, I’m not so sure.”

“I’ve seen it myself!” Iggie pursed his lips, tugging a hand through his crimson hair. “Or at least, something similar. When I was searching for you after you escaped the tower, I spied a blue glow out in the storm.”

Alistair’s heart pounded in his chest.A clue!“Did you get a good look at it?”

Sighing, Iggie shook his head. “It was too far away, the snow and wind still too heavy. But whatever it was must have been lurking nearby.”