The necromancer continued to scratch Divian’s ears as he considered Ian’s question. “Why does it matter how I know him?”

“I want to confirm that you’re the necromancer Achemiss knew from his pre-ascendant days. I also want to know more about you.”

Soolemar grunted. “I suppose that’s fair. Of the many necromancers Achemiss knew before he ascended, I am the only one still alive.

“Achemiss and I had very different ideas on the apex of necromancy. A thousand or so years ago when we were both contemporaries, necromancy wasn’t forbidden like it is today. It was spurned by the masses, but the powerful didn’t concern themselves with its practice. Knowledge was more valuable back then before glossware brought enlightenment to the ungifted.

“Achemiss was born somewhere in Adrillon; I can’t even remember the name of the specific state. Long story short, the two of us each presided over schools of learning for the dark art. We formed cloistered communities of practice away from regulars, but on a bi-yearly basis our two schools would meet for friendly competition, the location switching off between the two of us. Some smaller schools would occasionally join, including those for practitioners of other affinities, but the focus of the competition was always on our chosen pupils.”

Soolemar sighed. “I was the first to make the ultimate breakthrough toward defying death. Technically, Achemiss never succeeded in replicating my methods, but he didn’t need to: Something about my practice lit a fire of passion in him. In only three years, he became a half-step ascendant and shortly left the world.”

“Have you heard from him since?” Ian asked.

Soolemar’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Once, a hundred years after his ascension; he’d just developed a method to speak through dreams.”

“What did he say?”

Soolemar sneered. “He answered the question I’d wondered about for decades: When would I join him? When would I leave behind this close-minded, limited world? I didn’t know–still don’t precisely know–what lies beyond, but I do know that it’s a vast expanse. Achemiss said that some call the ascendant realm infinite, but I’ve heard from returnees that it’s not so. Apparently even infinity has an edge.”

Ian’s mind latched onto all the new information, trying to make sense of what a nearly infinite expanse would look like. “Is it just...flat? Or is it a sphere, like our world?”

Soolemar shook his head. “You’re thinking too simply, too literally. From what I understand, it’s a world of layers. Returnees also seemed to suggest that time doesn’t move at the same speed everywhere, but I digress. ”

“...But what did Achemiss say regarding when you’d ascend?”

Soolemar was quiet for a moment. “He said I wouldn’t–couldn’t–ever.”

Ian could imagine Achemiss contacting his old rival and lording the unfortunate news over him. “He never explained why?”

“Oh, he did. But there was nothing I could do: The die was already cast. The ascendant realm is only open to the fully-living. The very technique I was most proud of–the breakthrough that took me to the peak of my craft–was the very wall blocking my way forward.”

Ian could imagine the painful irony of the situation. While contemporaries, Soolemar had outclassed Achemiss as a necromancer, but in doing so disqualified himself from ascending; ultimately Achemiss left him behind.

“What did you do when you found out?”

“I didn’t accept it, of course. I considered Achemiss narrow-minded and less-talented. Just because he couldn’t find a solution didn’t mean I couldn’t.” Soolemar sighed. “As you can see...I’m still here.”

“And Achemiss never spoke to you again?”

“No.”

And yet Achemiss called Soolemar an old friend, Ian thought. Perhaps in a perverse way he really thinks that. If there was only one person left from the world you left behind, even if they were once an enemy...familiarity and nostalgia might turn them into a friend.

“People still choose to return after their ascension,” Ian noted. “I doubt it’s a paradise.”

Soolemar grunted. “It doesn’t matter, so why bother to speculate?” The necromancer stood up and twisted his ring, causing Ian’s mannequin to disappear. He pointed to the remaining construct. “I want you to do whatever you can to force my mannequin to stop hovering.”

Ian gave Divian one last scratch before standing up. “That sounds easier than it probably is.”

The necromancer smiled. “As are most things. I’ll intervene if you need help.”

Ian eyed the plain-looking mannequin in distaste. “Thanks.”

—

Ian spent the next few days visiting Soolemar’s cave, practicing during the day until the necromancer arrived in the evening. Soolemar’s sarcasm and casual demeanor created a relaxed learning environment. It was a welcome change of pace from the frenetic training sessions with the SPU’s princes and Guard: Ian could slow down and focus on what he was doing.

“We’re going to try something new tonight,” Soolemar said, twisting his ring. He stepped forward and nonchalantly caught the form of a materializing corpse.

Ian flinched, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. I thought we didn’t need to work with real people? He thought that Soolemar’s brand of necromancy did away with human sacrifice.

“This is someone who died of unnatural causes. I want you to tell me how she died; more specifically, I want you to describe who killed her.”

This wasn’t what I expected. “Didn’t her soul already dissipate?”

Soolemar shook his head. “Not hers. It's uncommon, but happens when someone is unwilling to let go. Her soul would release on its own eventually, but I’ve taken the liberty of stabilizing it.” Soolemar lowered the woman to the floor and stepped back.

Ian walked up to the corpse, inspecting the face of the seemingly-uninjured woman. She was middle-aged and plump; Ian had trouble imagining why she would’ve died of unnatural causes. “How did you acquire the body?”

“It’s no secret I’m well connected, Mr. Dunai. People believe me when I say to look the other way for a day, only to come back later with useful information.”

“And nobody notices...?” Ian hesitated, gesturing to Soolemar’s body. “You don’t look alive to anyone with the ability to see vitality.”

“While true, that hasn’t been a problem. When you’re older than everyone else, you can shape the people who enter positions of power. For the greater good, of course.”

“Gnoste hasn’t been doing well these past few decades after Ventrebel,” Ian pointed out. That’s a bit harsh, Ian thought, wincing to himself. Way to practice diplomacy.

Soolemar’s expression fell. “There’s a limit to what a deft hand can accomplish. My situation is stable because people have little to gain coming after me and everything to lose. By participating in the Fassari Summit, Kurin incited backlash that I couldn't stop.”

Soolemar almost certainly taught Kurin Ventrebel, Ian realized.

“I digress. Try what you can to read the woman’s soul. As always, I’ll intervene if you need assistance.”

Ian had a much better sense of souls now than just a few days ago. He no longer needed the crutch of making physical contact with the soul’s vessel–in this case, the woman’s corpse–though he still needed to be in close proximity. He sat down next to her chilled body and closed his eyes. Though he could only see souls with his eyes open, soul sight didn’t help him when the soul was embodied.

He felt a tendril of what Soolemar called his ethereal body extend toward the corpse, slipping into her skin and between her ribcage to pierce her soul. Ian grunted as he made contact, disorienting sensations flashing across his vision. The sensations didn’t–couldn’t–make sense: The soul may be embodied, but the sensory input coming from it wasn’t strictly audiovisual. It was a mix of odd shapes and mismatched sounds as well as emotions of desperation and hopelessness...

Ian withdrew his ethereal tendril and opened his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Without hesitation, he delved back in again.

—

“What have you gleaned so far?” Soolemar asked as Ian resurfaced from yet another metaphorical dive.

“How long have I been doing this?” Ian asked.

“A little more than an hour.”

It hardly feels like fifteen minutes have passed. “I think that she was held prisoner in her own home by a younger man, possibly her son.”

“Good; it was her son, he looks just like her. What else?”

“She was afraid of him, but also scared for him. Was he not in his right mind?”

The necromancer nodded. “That was my conclusion as well. Do you know yet how she actually died?”

Ian shook his head. “The sensations became more fragmented. I wasn’t able to untangle them.”

“I don’t think you need my help,” Soolemar replied. “Have you ever done something like this before?”

“Once I communicated with a soul fashioned into a necromancer’s puppet. I could only convey rough thoughts, but the soul was willing to cooperate.”

Soolemar hummed in consideration. “Must have been one forcefully taken from its human host, else it wouldn’t have been able to communicate at all.”

“The puppet was the product of a ritual that involved flaying a woman alive and feeding her to a mannequin.”

Soolemar snorted. “That would do it. Anyway, just keep doing what you’re doing. I have faith you’ll arrive at the right conclusion.”

—

Half an hour later Ian thought he’d finally teased out the shattered sensations at the epicenter of the woman’s last moments. The present is the soul’s kernel; time moves outward radially, winding like a spiral, entangling sensation and thought.

“I’ve got it,” Ian murmured, standing up and stretching his back.

Soolemar threw Divian’s bone. “Alright then, let’s hear it.”

“It was simple. She tried to leave while he was asleep, but he woke up. He knocked her on the back of the head and that was the end. I don’t think he even hit her that hard; I’m surprised she died. Her son disposed of her body by tossing it in a dumpster.”

“I appreciate your ability to summarize without including subjective emotional experience from the deceased,” Soolemar said.

Ian sighed. “She didn’t die well. I’m not surprised that she lingered; I wonder if she was so afraid to leave her house that her soul refused to leave her body.”

“So what next?” Soolemar asked. “What should I tell the detective investigating her death?”

“The body wasn’t disposed of particularly well,” Ian murmured. “A Beginning practitioner should be able to piece things together without us.”

“There’s no Beginning practitioner on this case,” Soolemar stated. “It’s just a regular detective.”

Ian frowned. “They should still be able to figure it out.”

“So you don’t think I should say anything?”

Ian considered his thoughts. “The woman was more afraid for her son than she was for herself.”

The necromancer smiled. “And?”

“I don’t think she’d want us to use her memories as evidence against him. All the same, her son needs help.” Ian sighed. “I suppose you should give the detective a tip, then.”

“You don’t sound concerned about getting justice for the woman herself,” Soolemar pointed out.

“Perhaps I’ve had a skewed childhood, but I don’t think my mother would want to prosecute me from beyond the grave.”

Soolemar cocked his head. “I personally can’t imagine dying without wishing death on my killer.”

“I think I’d care more if it were a betrayal or a crime of passion.” If Euryphel stabbed me in the back, for instance, I don’t think I’d be able to let it go. “Conversely, if an adversary like the Eldemari killed me, I think I’d have to accept it: All’s fair in war.”

The necromancer grunted. “That’s awfully considerate of you. Let’s hope your enemies think the same.”