Despite sitting in a tiny hut on the bank of a river in the center of a thick jungle under a blazing sun, all Devorah could sense was the stillness of the grave; cold, silent wind, dusty ancient rot, gently sifting earth… From somewhere far off, a voice drifted to her, repeating a litany she’d come to memorize in the past months.

“Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. And those of us with power over death are privy to one of the greatest mysteries of all the Realms. It is not a mystery without danger, for in understanding there is always, always, the temptation to act. But this we must never do, for the risen dead are only ever hungry for the living.”

Devorah whispered the words in concert with her teacher.

“As you well know.”

Devorah nodded faintly, acknowledging her mistake.

“Come, Little Shadow. Let us explore the greatest mystery.”

It was as though a hand took hers and they suddenly stood nowhere. Devorah caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-skinned woman with tightly curled black hair, clad only in shadows. Devorah assumed this was what Madam Iyabo had looked like in her prime.

Madam Iyabo gestured into the nowhere and four spheres appeared, one in the center with the other three orbiting it, always partially overlapping it and each other. Devorah knew what she saw was not reality, but a mental metaphor constructed by Madam Iyabo for her introduction to the necromantic arts. Like Sister Clarice, Madam Iyabo considered the mindspace a tool for beginners.

“The Prime Realm, infinite from within, but finite from without, is constantly suffused with the Realms of Mind, Soul, and Body. It is the combination of these three with the Prime that give us life. Undeath is the state of deficiency to the degree of insatiable hunger.”

All this Devorah had heard from her teacher before, and though she was sick of it, she understood Madam Iyabo was using repetition to fix the basics of necromancy in her mind. So she kept quiet and let Madam Iyabo guide her.

“In your religion, Little Shadow…”

“It’s not my religion.”

“…the punished dead go to the moon while the favored to go the sun. In my people’s lore though, the dead separate into mind, body, and soul to be reborn. Are you ready, Little Shadow?”

Devorah nodded. “I’m ready if you are, Madam Iyabo.”

Madam Iyabo laughed, a deep sound that reverberated through the nowhere. “So confident. Today then, you will contact the specter yourself. You must erase the Body Realm from your senses, feeling only the Realms of Mind and Soul.”

Devorah had dealt death at the end of the blade, had witnessed executions, had raised corpses to do her bidding, but despite her association with death, she hesitated.

“You're afraid, Little Shadow.”

“I'm not afraid of death.”

“No. Not of death. Of yourself.”

Devorah wanted to deny it, but found she couldn't. What she had done in reviving Frederick Vahramp had been a colossal mistake with wide-ranging consequences. What if she erased the Body Realm from her senses and unleashed something even worse on the world?

“Do you really think I would let that happen, Little Shadow?”

“What if you can't stop me?”

“I've been navigating death for longer than you've lived. I think I can handle one fledgling necromancer.”

Devorah nodded and, before she could think of another reason to talk herself out of it, blanked her perception of Body, like gently closing a book. With only Mind and Soul, the sense of undead was immediate. The specter she'd spoken with now on several occasions, a specter who had haunted this jungle for decades, was easily within her mental grasp. Though it hungered for the minds of the living, it was a relatively impotent creature, easy to stave off. But there was something else, something closer. It didn't quite match the undeath of the ghost, so Devorah adjusted, opening herself a little to Body.

And the book began to sing.

Devorah screamed and jerked away from the song. She pulled her mind away from the mental metaphor, away from her mindspace, and opened her eyes in the tiny hut on the sluggish river in the humid jungle. She closed her eyes and pounded her head into the wall behind her.

“It’s only a book, Little Shadow. It only has the power it’s permitted to have.”

“That’s easy to say when it’s not reminding you it exists every minute of the day and night.” Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the frail, elderly woman.

Madam Iyabo made an irritated tsking noise and waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve learned nothing. Go fix my roof.”

Devorah knew the ancient necromancer didn’t mean it when she said Devorah had learned nothing. Despite this most recent failure, Devorah had quickly learned how to locate and communicate with ghosts, a feat she’d never thought to attempt before; she had raised the remains of the dead into zombies and learned several different local funeral rites. Unfortunately the spidery song of the book still haunted her, and Madam Iyabo was right, she feared her own power to create monsters.

She also knew Madam Iyabo was not kidding about fixing the roof. Despite her total naiveté with hand tools and only a vague idea how a building was put together, Madam Iyabo insisted Devorah spend time each day sawing, pounding, and cursing at a stack of lumber delivered on her second day in the jungle. The tools were probably well made and once, long ago, well maintained. Now they were a cacophony of rusted, bent, poorly wrapped hunks of wood and metal that hurt her hands more than any weapon handle had. Even so, Devorah went out into the muggy jungle and did as she was told.

Mid-morning in the jungle was just as hot as noon which was just as hot as late afternoon. The rain that would come at early afternoon did little to mitigate the heat. According to Madam Iyabo, it was always hot and sunny in this part of the Empire, no matter the season in the south.

Devorah climbed on top of the old hut, a wide, leather belt festooned with bag-like pockets and filled with tools, secured about her waist. The roof was an octagonal frame supporting dried palm fronds. One half of the roof had fallen in since she'd begun her inept repairs, and that was what Devorah worked on now. Looking at the part that was still intact, it seemed she needed a piece that could stretch from the wall to the peak of the roof and then further support could come from crossbar-like pieces. The trick, of course, was getting a piece of the right length to stay in place long enough for her to put nails in it. And putting nails in it was nothing short of a trick either.

Devorah struggled with the problem for the rest of the morning. By the time the sky had grown so heavy Devorah's ears popped with the pressure of it, she had managed to bruise her right thumb with the hammer twice, make up half a dozen swear words, and come no closer to putting a new roof over the other half of the hut. She sat down next to Madam Iyabo and the small fire in the half-sphere that served as a firepit.

“And what did you learn?” Madam Iyabo asked. She always asked this of Devorah after a fruitless construction session.

“I learned that thumbs are remarkably resilient. What was I supposed to learn?” Though Devorah always asked her question in response, Madam Iyabo never answered. Devorah didn't understand the strange little game, and she couldn't divine its purpose from Madam Iyabo's thoughts. Perhaps it had no purpose.

The tea kettle set upon a grill over the fire whistled and Devorah served them both tea. She was blowing over the top of her tea when the rain started. Half of the roof still stood and provided them adequate shelter from the rain, so only half the hut floor became soaked. Devorah decided to try another tactic.

“Some people here have black hair.”

Madam Iyabo looked at her, but Devorah was careful to examine only her tea. She wasn't certain where she was going with this, but she had learned from Colonel Lambert that sometimes an unplanned attack was best.

“Yes,” Madam Iyabo replied

“In Khulanty, everyone's hair is a shade of brown.”

“Yes. Ever the symbol of conformity, many jokes at your people's expense is based upon that.”

Devorah felt a faint pang of nationalistic pride, but went on. “I have black hair. And until I came here, I thought it was strange.”

“Not at all, my apprentice.”

“What about white hair?”

Madam Iyabo gestured at her own paling curls.

Devorah shook her head. “I mean on a child.”

“I have heard that the people of the Mountain Kingdom have pale hair.”

Devorah could sense Madam Iyabo didn't understand the aim of her questions but was equally prepared to wait patiently.

“I never knew my parents. Perhaps they come from the Empire?”

“It's possible. Your skin and features would suggest not, though there are more kinds of people in the empire than in your Khulanty.”

Devorah fell silent. That one or the other of her parents might hail from the Empire was as likely as anything else for all she knew. It would certainly explain her hair and her proclivity for necromancy. But not why people said she looked like the Heir.

Devorah inhaled the scent of her tea and took a sip. The heat of the tea with the heat of the day and the mugginess of the rain made her overly warm, but she ignored it; the tea was good. A long, gentle rumbling of thunder rolled over them, heralding an increase of enthusiasm in the pounding of the rain.

“Perhaps that's it then,” Devorah said, as though it did not matter to her either way.

She watched the rain coming in through the half of the roof she'd failed to repair. She watched it soak the slatted wooden floor and drip down to the soggy ground beneath. It was then her ruminations were shattered by a sinuous, scaly, shadowy shape beneath the hut. She yelled and leapt to her feet.

Madam Iyabo looked where Devorah pointed and made a surprised sound. “Oh, a crocodile. I wonder if the river is rising.”

Indeed, within moments, Devorah could see water lapping at the pillars of the hut closest to the river bank. Devorah was more concerned with the monster, the crocodile.

“Not to worry,” Madam Iyabo assured her. “It won’t attack unless it's hungry.”

“How do you know it isn't hungry?” Devorah demanded.

Madam Iyabo opened her mouth to respond, then paused. She nodded toward the small pile of Devorah's personal belongings. “Do you actually know how to use that holy sword you carry?”

The crocodile did not attack, but Devorah waited out the rest of the rainfall with Father Shane’s sword near to hand.

• • •

“Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. And those of us with power over death are privy to one of the greatest mysteries of all the Realms. It is not a mystery without danger, for in understanding there is always, always, the temptation to act. But this we must never do, for the risen dead are only ever hungry for the living.”

Devorah whispered the words along with her teacher as they walked the soggy path between the hut and the port city, ignoring the heat of a new morning and the increased mugginess of harder rains and risen rivers. Apparently the jungle got wetter in the spring.

“But we may, with care, commune with those spirits of the departed. Tell me, Little Shadow, what is a ghost?”

It was a test, of course, a simple test Devorah could pass without the advantage of being able to read Madam Iyabo's hidden thoughts. She shifted the large sun blade strapped to her back before answering. Though the blade's power made her uncomfortable, it was the only weapon she had other than a truncheon, and she didn't think a crocodile would balk at a rap from a short stick.

“Ghosts are the memories and emotions of the dead. Oftentimes they are exaggerations of what they were in life. A man prone to anger in life might produce a ghost whose primary feature is anger. Because ghosts lack Body, they hunger for it, not unlike zombies or... or my own creations. Paradoxically, because they are incorporeal, they can rarely interact physically. This drives many ghosts mad.”

“Very good, Little Shadow. Did you get all that from Dr. Milton?”

Devorah winced at the name as it summoned the mincing staccato song of the black book. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the song as Madam Iyabo had insisted she should be able to do. “Dr. Milton describes a ghost's desire for the physical and their madness. He seemed quite interested in madness.”

“That is likely because he was mad himself,” said Madam Iyabo.

“Did you know him?” And Devorah immediately knew that her teacher had.

Madam Iyabo moved on without answering. “Today we will speak with a ghost.”

Devorah nodded. They had done this before and the feat had become commonplace. But she sensed something more to this particular ghost communion.

“And today,” Madam Iyabo continued, “We will exorcise it.”

“We're destroying a ghost?” Devorah knew the undead were abominations hungering for life, she'd seen the evidence first hand, but she couldn't help thinking that destroying one would be common murder.

“Do not become confused now, Little Shadow. Though some undead might show the ability to reason, their hunger makes them a threat, always. This ghost we will exorcise is a beast that has killed innocents and, worse, driven some mad.”

Devorah decided to shift the topic. “How did you hear of this ghost? I haven't seen any messengers lately.”

“That's because you were busy swearing at my roof.”

Devorah doubted she was so focused on her inability to repair the roof that she would have missed a messenger, and she knew Madam Iyabo wasn't telling her everything, but she let it go.

As the jungle thinned and the paved road flattened, Devorah could see the edge of the port city and smell the salty sea over the heavy vegetation. From this vantage, Devorah could see the city was quite a bit larger than she'd thought. At its hub, tall buildings of rich ornamentation basked in the sun, only barely obscured by the hazy mist ever-present at the junction of jungle, river, and ocean.

They stayed at the edge of the city and soon came upon the cemetery they’d stopped at on their way out. The yard was held behind a fence of iron rods, straight and even and meticulous. Each grave was marked with a carven stone. The vegetation was carefully groomed. A small crowd had gathered. Devorah hesitated, remembering the call of the dead when last she'd been here. The skittering, mincing song of the black book tickled through her mind.

“Control it, Little Shadow. What have we been doing if you cannot control yourself at the sight of a graveyard?”

Devorah swallowed hard but took the rebuke to heart. Control was paramount.

As they approached, the crowd fell silent.

The necromancer is here.

Thank the Gods.

We are saved.

But among the thoughts of gratitude and relief, Devorah sensed one was not glad to see them. She scanned the crowd, but was unable to pinpoint to whom the thoughts belonged, nor was she able to determine what about their arrival upset those thoughts, but she kept her mind ready in case it became relevant.

They were met at the edge of the crowd by a young man and woman who looked similar enough to be siblings: the same dark brown skin, the same broad nose, the same dark golden eyes. They evenhad similar tall, thin frames.

“I am Abasi, and this is my sister, Aailyah. It is my wife who...” Abasi cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. “My wife died thirteen days ago. And she has become a terrible ghost.” His voice broke.

“This ghost is not the woman you knew,” Madam Iyabo said, her reedy voice far more comforting than it ever was with Devorah. “It is nothing more than memories and emotions, lacking key aspects of humanity.”

“But I heard her,” Abasi cried plaintively, “It is her voice, I know it.”

“Echos and memories, dear child, only echos and memories.” Madam Iyabo patted Abasi on the arm before continuing to the cemetery gate, still leaning on Devorah's arm for support.

For her part, Devorah's attention was focused on the sister, Aailyah. The negative thoughts Devorah had detected intensified as Madam Iyabo spoke to Abasi, and Devorah was certain they came from the sister.

Interfering old woman. She might reveal me.

Aailyah saw Devorah staring at her, and her expression twisted, abandoning all pretense of careful mourning, only for an instant, then returned to that careful mask. And Devorah knew this woman was responsible for her sister-in-law’s death. No wonder the ghost was on a rampage, victims of murder lingering in undeath were often indiscriminate in their wrath.

Once they had passed into the cemetery, the crowd did not follow, and Devorah whispered to her teacher.

“Abasi's wife was killed by his sister.”

“Yes,” Madam Iyabo replied. “All the more reason to exorcise the monster quickly, before it claims another victim.”

“But, that's murder.”

“A crime you've committed a time or two yourself, no?”

Devorah frowned. She had killed enemies to be sure, but all of those enemies had offered her violence first. All her deadly actions had been in self defense. It had seemed an adequate reason at the time.

“So, we do nothing?”

“Of course not, Little Shadow. You will exorcise the ghost.”

They sat in the cemetery on either side of a fresh grave. Devorah looked at the headstone, but the people in this part of the Taranaki Empire used a different writing system than they one she knew, and she couldn't read the engraved words.

As with their previous ghost communications, Devorah waited for the mental invitation from Madam Iyabo. It was like they clasped hands though neither moved. They blocked Body from perception, then cast their senses from their bodies, looking for the ghostly mind. They didn’t have to look for long. Within moments, fear, anger, and grief, a maelstrom of emotion, hit like a blinding headache.

Devorah was mentally bowled. The ghost tried to rip at her, tear her mind from her body. It's mental wailing played counterpoint to the black book's song and, for a moment, Devorah felt herself on the edge of forever. She sat on the floor of the room in her mind and stared though the space where normally stood a plain stone wall, into the purple-edged cosmos. She shivered back from that inviting nothingness, but she could not move away.

Madam Iyabo's mental grip tightened and Devorah was pulled back to her self.

“Little Shadow, can you hear me?”

Devorah snapped her eyes open. The ghosts she had communicated with before had all been wispy, docile creatures who, though they envied her life, hadn't tried to eat her. Or at least hadn’t tried very hard. This creature, however, was a murderous storm, and Madam Iyabo had contained it above the grave of its former body in a sphere of necromantic power, her force of will given physical form.

“You're a telepath and you never learned to make a shield?” Madam Iyabo demanded, tone scathing, but Devorah knew that tone was directed not at her but at whomever her teacher had been.

Devorah just shrugged.

“Bah. You must focus now on the creature, Little Shadow.”

Devorah was already focused on the creature, but she didn't press the issue.

“Within yourself you should feel the power of the dead. It is a pool of power that you can manipulate. And you can use it to manipulate the proximal dead.”

Devorah knew immediately what Madam Iyabo was talking about: the knot of power at the back of her head. It had not troubled her with headaches since she'd fought General Vahramp in Sunslance. Thinking on it now, it was not unlike her other powers, a cool well of water, and she dipped her fingers into it.

“Now, you must undo the undead, like untangling a knot of thread.”

This too Devorah was familiar with, it had been the same thing she'd done to the emaciated monsters in the mayor's house. And she was on the moment of doing so when she remembered the recently deceased's sister-in-law.

Devorah had left her Governor, her province, her people, because she couldn't continue to fight a war she didn't agree with. She had thought she'd also given up the responsibilities therein. But she could not ignore the sense that justice was being ignored. These weren't her people; she had no jurisdiction to dispense justice.

And yet.

Devorah took hold of the ghost, and Madam Iyabo surrendered it to her. But rather than unraveling its existance, Devorah stood and turned to face the rapt crowd. She focused on the fearful thoughts of the murderer, Aailyah, and decided in that moment to make her fears come to fruition.

“This ghost was victim of murder,” she said in her quite voice that was heard by all. All murmurs and whispers fell silent. Even the wailing of the ghost quieted. Only the shrieking song of the black book filled her ears. “And she seeks justice,” Devorah said.

She watched Aailyah's eyes go wide. The woman backed up several steps, and the rest of the crowd noticed. The crowd unconsciously moved away from her. They knew. Even her brother, as husband of the deceased, looked at his sister in horror. And more importantly to Devorah, the ghost of the deceased saw the truth too.

Devorah let go of the creature and in a moment it was upon her murderer. Aailyah screamed once, twice, thrice before dropping to the ground, dead. And the ghost sighed. Devorah felt a few moments of pressure before the creature dissipated, unraveling itself.