Idris insisted that he personally inspected each dead bird before they put the cart onto a pyre; the soldiers left him to it, their noses wrinkled, their eyes wary. He had taken the first raven from the pile when Lady Eremont joined him.

  “What are we looking for, Sir Idris?” she said. He put his tongue in his cheek.

  “Abnormalities,” he said, unconcerned about her sudden interest in necromancy.

  “Well?” she called to her inferiors. “You heard Sir Idris, did you not? Abnormalities on these birds. Quickly! We do not have all day.”

  Without another word, the attendants joined them.

  “These must be the birds that attacked me,” Idris muttered, looking at their moulding eyes and pus-soaked feathers. “They cannot be different animals, surely. When did this cart arrive?”

  “Not ten minutes ago,” said Lady Eremont.

  “What was pulling it?”

  “I did not see. Perhaps the soldiers know.”

  “Why send me a cart full of dead ravens?” said Idris, gazing at the pile.

  It was some time before one of the underlings said, “Um, Sir Idris?”

  She was holding, by the wingtip, a raven that seemed to be sewn to a second one.

  Idris took it carefully. The two dead birds lay in a mockery of the Vonner crest, sewn by the necks. In the mouth of one was a scroll.

  “I hate this man,” Idris said to himself, plucking the scroll out.

  Following the blood of my blood is easy.

  The princeling cannot save you a second time.

  I will welcome you home if you want it.

  Family comes first.

  Idris sucked his cheeks, sighed and selected another raven.

  “What is that for?” said Lady Eremont.

  “It is about time I wrote a letter of my own,” he said, walking away.

  He settled outside his tent, raven at his feet, and began.

  I remember asking you not to send me any more letters.

  The gifts are excessive.

  It is exceedingly rude to follow me and not make yourself known to us.

  It would be easier if you gave me what I wanted.

  I will do this your way.

  An Eremont makes do with what they have.

  Idris put his tongue in his cheek, sighed and raised the raven. He could still hear the remnants of Layton’s control in its body; he was relying on that to send the raven right to its master.

  “Willard?” he called.

  “Aye?”

  “Can you do me a favour?”

  “Sure.” The hedge witch clocked the undead bird. “Oh. We sending letters again?”

  “We are, but I need to know where this raven goes. If I set it loose, can you follow it through the fae realm?”

  “Mebbe not through the fae realm,” he said, scratching his head, “but I can track it on foot.”

  “If you go on foot, take a soldier. Kurellan, maybe.” Idris tied the letter to the bird’s rickety leg. “But do not go alone. Report back to me when it lands, please.”

  “Aye. Lemme get ready.” Willard hesitated. “Your ma wants to know if you really want to burn all them birds. She seemed to think it might be useful to have them.”

  “I do want to burn them. Layton might still have control of the corpses. If I burn them, he cannot do any more harm with them.”

  Willard nodded and went to get his pack. Idris picked up the raven, still but sentient in his hand, and returned to the forward camp, where the soldiers and Eremont attendants were building a huge kindling pile beneath the cart. Lady Eremont saw Idris with the raven clutched in his fist and approached.

  “Can you not...” She gestured vaguely to the cart full of bodies. “Do something with these?”

  “I do not want to risk inviting Layton’s eyes and ears into camp,” Idris said. “But there is a plan.” He waved the risen raven in his hand. “Meet my little spy.”

  “Goodness,” Lady Eremont whispered, seeing the grey fire in its beady eyes.

  “Necromancy is nothing if not glamorous,” he said dryly, seeing Willard settle on a bench to tighten his suede foot straps. “Ready, Master Princeling?”

  “Aye, Master Dead-Talker!”

  “Very good. Mother, if you might step back.”

  “Certainly.”

  Idris knelt, raised his hand high and breathed in the aria that the dead ravens stank of, and he felt the heat and the shakes, and he let the music roll within him.

  “Deliver,” he said, charring his throat.

  He released his grip. The bird shot into the air with surprising speed. Willard took to his feet, running out into the plain.

  “Be safe, Willard!” Idris shouted, letting the aria go.

  “Won’t be two shakes!” Willard called back. They watched until he was over the horizon and the dead raven was a speck in the sky.

  “It is... hot,” said Lady Eremont. “The death aria. I always expected it might be cold.”

  Idris shook his head.

  “Hot and impatient,” he said softly. “I do hope Willard makes it.”

  “Idris... can we talk?” his mother said.

  “Not right now,” he said, getting up. Truthfully, the idea of talking with his mother after yesterday’s incident was abhorrent to him. “Right now, I am doing the work of the kingdom.”

  This, she seemed to understand. She stiffened her back and shoulders again and nodded primly.

  “Certainly. Then, can my students assist you? You should know that they have been studying the healer arias to find ways to combat... necromancers with malintent,” she said delicately. “This is a valuable learning opportunity for them.”

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  The fact that his mother had students that she had prepared specifically for this situation was grating to Idris, but he nodded anyway.

  “The first thing we will do is burn these birds,” he said.

  It did not take long to reduce Layton’s cart to ashes. Idris watched until the whole thing was cinders and bone, relishing the smell of charcoaled carrion in the air. It frustrated him to think that Layton was so wasteful, but mostly he was saddened. If he was correct in his assumption, that cart contained most of the beautiful birds from Raven’s Roost. Nowhere else could Layton amass such an unkindness.

  The remains of The Gleesdale Court assembled in Cressida’s war tent. The royal tent was three times the size of Idris’s and contained a bed, a war desk and a writing bureau, as well as Cressida’s other odds and ends that she took travelling with her. The war table felt empty. Kurellan had indeed travelled with Willard and Joa was unable to cross into the Harransee yet, but Idris had to share the latest information with his companions in a formal setting. Riette held the double-raven by the wingtip, wrinkling her nose.

  “He is charming, your father,” she said, passing the corpse to Lila. “I asked the soldiers, they said nothing pulled the cart. It rolled into view sometime this morning and kept rolling, without any purpose or direction. Is that something necromancy can achieve?”

  “No necromancy I know,” said Idris, troubled. Lila delicately placed the two bodies on the table, her eyes fixed on the stitching.

  “Whatever it is,” said Cressida, “we know two things. One, he knows where we are. Two, he knows Willard managed to fairy you away. How he knows these things is anyone’s guess.”

  “His choice of words is odd,” said Idris. “He says ‘blood of mine’. That is unnervingly specific.”

  “Well...” But Lila blushed and shook her head. “No, that is too silly, forgive me.”

  “Go ahead, please,” said Cressida.

  “Well, Sir Idris has necrosis in his blood,” said Lila quietly. “Correct?”

  “And he already used my blood to power a pentagon once,” said Idris, stomach sinking. “Meaning he is familiar with the way it sounds, feels. He must be somehow using my blood to track me – again, necromancy I know nothing about. With the breastplate, I cannot estimate how far he can reach.”

  “Is it something we can mask, somehow?” said Cressida. “Joa already told you that the healer blood in you makes you visible to the fae in a way that they cannot usually see necromancy. What if we somehow overloaded your blood with healer magic?”

  “Is that possible?” said Riette.

  “We have the right person to ask in our forward camp at this present moment,” said the Queen. “I say it cannot hurt.”

  “We cannot do much else until Willard returns,” said Idris. “If it is the only option, then we may as well take it.”

  “Lila, be a help and ask Lady Eremont to join us?” Cressida said. Lila bowed and exited the tent.

  Lady Eremont seemed surprised to have a private audience with the Queen. She bowed low, gave the appropriate greetings, and then waited patiently for her instructions. When Cressida posited the question, Lady Eremont’s thin eyebrows rose high.

  “A cleansing?” she said.

  “Is that what it is?” said Riette.

  “A cleansing is an art that was used many, many years ago,” said Lady Eremont. “My father would have been one of the last to attempt one – at Old Risston, if I recall correctly – and it did not do much good. I am also... unsure what a cleansing might do to a living, breathing person, much less to a necromancer.”

  “In what way?” said Riette.

  “Aria magic resides in the blood,” said Cressida, recalling Magus Arundale’s old teachings. “Meaning that Idris’s magic is an intrinsic part of his physical health and the way his body functions. Cleansing Idris might, theoretically... I suppose strip the death aria right out of him.”

  “Then we cannot do it,” said Lila firmly. “It will do more harm than good.”

  “But Sir Idris has healer magic in his blood, also,” said Riette, “so surely whatever cleansing is attempted, it will boost one part over the other?”

  “I think my uncle tried it,” said Idris quietly.

  Nobody spoke, then. Idris cast his mind back to the hazy, awful first days he remembered at the palace, and he pursed his lips.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that after my accident, Uncle Haylan tried to correct the necrosis by simply willing more healer arias into me. I... I remember... I woke up before they cut my foot off, I think. It is a memory that is faint so I cannot say for certain. But I do recall Uncle Haylan with both of his hands on my leg and with sweat on his brow, and I could hear the healer arias flooding out of his nose. The next thing I knew, I woke up and my foot was gone.”

  He sighed, shook the thought away.

  “Regardless, that is not how blood works,” he said. “Or at least, it is not how I think blood works.”

  “There is necrosis still present in Sir Idris’s amputation,” said Lady Eremont. “It makes sense that Lord Vonner would be able to sense it and utilise it like any other death aria that exists. Perhaps... I do have an idea, Your Majesty,” she said. “Can I present it to the court?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I might be able to make a talisman. An amulet made of bandages, if you will, that Sir Idris can wrap beneath his prosthetic to mask the necrosis. It will not remove it or indeed harm the aria in his blood at all, but it might go some way towards making Lord Vonner lose his connection to the necrosis. Of course, we should let the blood, first, to give the talisman time to work. I can have a rudimentary one made up by nightfall, if the court wishes it.”

  “Weaver magic does enough against necromancy,” said Riette, but Idris shook his head.

  “I cannot wear anything with heavy weaver magic in it. It prevents me from accessing the aria. It is too risky.” He tapped his prosthetic on the ground. “This is quite enough restraint from the palace weavers.”

  “And we cannot have weavers following Sir Idris around, making barriers and protection fields around him. It is not sustainable,” said Cressida. To Lady Eremont, “The talisman sounds like a good solution, Lady Eremont. I would like to see it when you place it onto Sir Idris. Do you need assistance to let the blood?”

  “I shall be able to perform that task as soon as Sir Idris is ready,” his mother said.

  “Excellent. Then, court is adjourned.”

  “I shall meet you in your tent within the hour,” said Lady Eremont to Idris.

  He simply nodded. While the idea of his mother letting his blood was unsettling, it was better than they thought of Layton using his necrosis to trace him. He was, however, interested in the idea of cleansing. The likelihood of it working to rid him of necromancy was slim to none (it would probably kill him, first), but it could be a useful tool against Layton’s magic.

  Lady Eremont was impressed when she returned to Idris’s tent; everything was clean, set out in an orderly fashion, and he had the bandage and medicine for the aftermath ready beside the bed. He shrugged.

  “I was brought up by healers, after all,” he said.

  She placed the bowl, cleaned the belt. “Shall we have that talk, now?”

  “Now is not the time.”

  “When will the time be?”

  “Mother,” said Idris, irritated, “I wrote you letters for twelve years, and now you are impatient? We will talk when I am ready. Not when you deem to stoop to my level.”

  She was silent.

  The incision was made without either of them making eye contact. Idris hissed between his teeth, swallowed his bile. His mother tutted.

  “Come, now, it does not hurt.” She held the bowl steady, placed the knife down. “I know you think me cold and cruel. That I ignored you and I was absent because I was ashamed of you.” She took a deep breath. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

  “It hardly matters.”

  “I meant to protect you,” she said firmly. “But I cannot do that from the Imperial Kingdom anymore -”

  “Anymore?” said Idris. “What were you doing from thousands of miles away that had any bearing at all on anything that happened to me?”

  She sucked her cheeks, turned her attentions back to her work.

  “Being here would not have brought back your foot,” she said. “It would not have made you a healer or an Eremont. There was nothing I could do.”

  “I did not need you to do anything,” he said. “I needed you to be here.”

  “For what?”

  “To be my mother. To fight for me. To help me learn to walk again. To tell me the truth, perhaps, that was owed to me? It does not matter, like I said,” he finished, resenting his own anger. “I did everything without your help. I do not need your permission to be upset that you lied to me.”

  “You are a grown man,” she said.

  “Shaped by your absence, yes. A man who grew up believing he was abnormal and his family hated him for that. You know I thought it was something I had done, that made me this way? That did this?” He gestured to his stump. “Do you know what the truth might have given me?”

  “It would have had every person in court calling you Master Vonner,” she snapped at last. “It would have made Layton Court Necromancer. Can you imagine?” When Idris said nothing, she sighed sharply and glanced at the blood, now dripping slower and clearer. “I had to keep him in obscurity,” she said. “That was at the expense of your peace of mind, I understand that, but I cannot be sorry for it.”

  “That does not replace all that I was denied.”

  “You are alive and free,” she said, as if the matter was settled. “Everything else is unimportant.” She untied the belt, examined the incision, placed her palm flat upon it. “What do you want me to do with the run-off?”

  “It needs to be disposed of. Soak a cloth with it, dry it, burn it.”

  “They should call you Lord, as Court Necromancer,” she said.

  “Lord what? King Gael made me sign my name away.”

  “Lord Idris would do. You allow them to treat you this way because it is easier.”

  Idris opened his mouth to argue, but the healer aria was already filtering through her nose. The conversation was over.

  It was dark when Lady Eremont returned with Cressida to administer the talisman. It did not look like much – a long piece of bandage with some sigils sewn into it – but when Lady Eremont held it, it glowed with the cool white of healer magic. Cressida watched as Idris and his mother pulled it around his stump. As soon as it touched Idris’s skin, he felt a slight burning sensation, replaced with a constant tingle.

  “Does it hurt?” Lady Eremont asked.

  “Not so much.”

  “This stays on, always. Cleanse it with a mixture of clean water and ice pine sap. Under no circumstances do you unravel this, unless it is wearing thin.”

  “Understood.”

  “I will make replacements as they are needed.”

  “Is there anything else that we can do to make you feel safer, Idris?” said Cressida. He shook his head.

  “I know my purpose,” he said. “This is mostly to protect you, Majesty. Layton has already made it quite clear that he does not care who or what he has to kill to get to me. If he knows where I am, then he knows where my friends are, and that I cannot abide.”

  “That is a noble sentiment,” she said quietly. “I will have the weavers start work on shielding the camp immediately.”

  For the rest of the evening, Idris reviewed his notes, checked texts, practised shapes and forms. If and when Layton came, he needed to be ready.