Page 72 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

Epilogue

Ignatius

One year later…

Iggiesteppedoutsideontohis front stoop, breathing in the crisp winter air. He was bundled up snugly in several layers of well-made cloaks, so he didn’t mind the chill breeze sweeping down the village street as much as he once might have. Of course, it also helped that a year of good food and solid rest had put some meat on his bones.

He stomped down the short path leading from his door to the street, pausing as he always did beside the pair of statues—one a winged Celestial and the other a horned Infernal—standing silent vigil where he’d laid his parents’ bones to rest. The ache of their second passing had eased in the intervening year, and he smiled fondly, brushing his hand over the smooth stone.

His final order to them had been to protect the townsfolk…yet somehow, they’d managed to act of their own volition and save his life again anyway. For that, he would be forever grateful.

Love you, Mom and Dad.

With a brief bow of his head, he continued following the path toward the main square. Though he walked alone without undead guards by his side, he didn’tfeellonely. It had been a long time since most of his skeletons perished against the harmonite golem, and though he’d raised more undead since to replenish his ranks, he no longer felt the need for a personal guard. Here in Singer’s Rest, he had nothing to fear.

Indeed, the other villagers he passed paused their chatting or set aside their partial Dawncoming decorations to wave and smile. A welcome warmth tugged at Iggie’s breast as he returned the gesture. In all the years he’d spent on the run, he’d never imagined he might eventually find a place to call home. Yet here, among these people, he had.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing, of course. Nightmares still haunted his dreams, and not every villager appreciated having a wildling necromancer living among them. But he could live with the occasional dirty look or quickening step. Their hatred hadn’t amounted to anything more than that—not since Brother Kelvin’s departure.

That had been a messy affair. When the Order denied Kelvin’s request to send additional Knights to “resolve the crisis”—thanks in large part to missives of support for Alistair and Iggie from Erys, Liliana, and even Maxwell—the stubborn priest had attempted to rile up the town, only to find his backers far more limited than he’d expected. Apparently, even the narrow-minded could overlook quite a bit when you had literally saved their lives. In the end, Kelvin had little choice but to resign his posting here and return to the Church. Iggie wished whatever poor town they sent him to next all the best.

As he neared the village square, the noise from the boisterous crowd pulled him from his thoughts. He fought down a prickle of unease. Though he tried not to let it show, large gatherings like this still made him nervous, a part of him wondering if he’d ever truly feel like he belonged. Picturing Alistair’s smiling face, he exhaled and forced his feet onward.

He’d faced down a terror conjured from the Void. He could handle a few people.

After last year’s debacle, the council had gone overboard with this year’s festivities. Tables full of pastries and sweets lined the space while barrels of wine and ale and juice sat stacked in scattered clusters. Enormous harmonite sculptures dominated the center of the courtyard courtesy of Liliana’s artisans, their scintillating patterns playing off smaller crystals shaped like snowflakes and animals that hung strung up along wires throughout the square.

The spectacle was almost blinding in its brilliance. So much vibrancy—so much life.

A grin split Iggie’s face when he spied a pair of his undead standing guard by the square’s entrance, raw harmonite shards woven among their bones. That had been another of Liliana’s brilliant ideas. If you had access to free labor that never had to eat, sleep, or rest, then why not take advantage of it?

Iggie had started small, raising a pair of skeletons from those that had fallen during the battle against the golem. The townsfolk resisted the idea at first, but once they saw how effective the undead were at performing the less desirable grunt work around town, they’d warmed up quickly. Now, Iggie had a good twenty or so that doubled as supplemental security when needed—such as today.

The pair of skeletal guards regarded him with pitch-black eyes as he passed, and he sent each a silent thread of duskflame to reassure them that they were doing a good job. He’d grown better at utilizing his magic this past year, and while his undead still possessed plenty of limitations, he’d found that a little nurturing went a long way toward enabling them to obey more general directives or even operate on their own with limited intelligence, as Marlon and Cynthia had.

Hundreds of people already filled the courtyard, and Iggie hesitated on the outskirts, scanning the crowd.He has to be around here somewhere…

“Ah, my boy! So glad you decided to join us.”

It wasn’t who he was searching for, but Iggie smiled anyway as he turned to face Erys. “I couldn’t miss the big day.”

The wizened old mage beamed and patted him fondly on the shoulder. “Of course not! But I know how much you like to keep to yourself, and that simply won’t do—not during Dawncoming. Today of all days is a time to celebrate our bonds of love and friendship.”

Iggie nodded absently, resuming his scan of the crowd.

Erys didn’t seem perturbed by Iggie’s distracted state. He chattered away about his recent magical experiments and the latest gossip he’d heard around town.

Gradually, Iggie found himself drawn into the discussion, setting aside his search for the time being. It was nice to have people to talk to who could actually talk back.

“So, have you given any more thought to my proposal?” Erys eventually asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Iggie kicked at a patch of loose snow. “Do you really think it’d work?”

Erys shrugged. “Why not? Most wildlings, at least in Khordan, rarely learn anything beyond their intrinsic magic because no one will teach them. That doesn’t mean they can’t be taught.”

“But…what would that make me? A warlock?”

Another shrug. “Does the label really matter, my boy? Warlock, mage, necromancer—call yourself what you please. I can’t train you to use runeflame since it would conflict with your own inherent duskflame, but there’s still so much you might learn about the principles of magic with a more formal education. If nothing else, I can help you explore your existing powers.”