A week later, the accusations against Merov Tyran had been levied, and his apparent misdeeds had grown all the larger in the city prints. Some disreputable, underground printers even went so far as to suggest that the official had carried out blood rites within the halls of the Palace, plotted to overthrow the Empire, and aimd to become a successor to the vampiric Black Prince who had taken the throne a generation ago. Anything to sell a paper.

Merov Tyran’s trial had attracted the attention of more than just Vatan’s press. A high ranking official of the Emperor’s court taking part in complex magical rites was the sort of thing that attracted the attention of that most debased of social classes; mages.

A case with magical aspects as complex as this, many argued, could not be decided by a judge who did not have knowledge of magic. No, if there was to be a fair trial then Tyran must be considered, at least legally, a mage. Which meant that he would be tried by his peers. Tried by a council of mages. Five of the Empire’s greatest magical practitioners had been assembled for the trial. Hoten the Seer, Tylan the Blue, Vorek of Abencour, Aurelia Thrice Eyed, and Svenja the Sorceress.

They had commandeered the Cathedral of Undine for their court, - though not without grumblings from the clergy - certain that no injustice could be perpetrated under the watchful eye of the Goddess and had set the Five behind a high domineering bench that let them peer down at the subjects of their interrogations. The court of opinion had already damned Tyran to the stockades. There was only one thing that could truly unite the nobility and common folk of the Empire; a hatred of taxes and tariffs. Considering Tyran had been the man who presided over the most recent of those, all stratas of society were quite eager to see him brought low.

“And so!” Sigismund thrust a finger up into the air. The wizard had been the star of the trial. He had bewitched the public with a bold charisma that few mages ever seemed to demonstrate. Usually mages were isolated loners, and yet the last few weeks had seen him vaunted in the prints as not just the bane of spirit conjuring murderers, but as a rougish playboy just as likely to dance with nobility as drink a pint in a commoner’s local pub. It didn’t really matter if the latter was true or not, just that people believed it. “That was when Merov Tyran summoned a murderous spirit, in the midst of one the holiest of streets in the Empire, under the nose of the Maces! He ordered it to kill a man who trusted him as a friend, so that he could claim what was left of Jacob Richter’s estate. Greed, plain and simple, was this man’s motivation. A greed so great that he claims he was meeting his own victim in the midst of the afternoon, a time we know he spent summoning the spirit that killed him! Need I remind you that it was I who brought the creature under my own power, and who pierced through the veil of its lies? This council has a moral duty to ensure that Tyran is punished not just for murder, but for betraying the Empire’s trust.” He stepped back from the podium, settling into a pew in the makeshift court’s front row.

Murmurs echoed through the Cathedral. It was packed with every eligible noble, every wealthy merchant in the city. Even the upper levels were filled with gawking commoners who had paid a silver piece each for the privilege of watching the proceedings. Everyone had been waiting eagerly for Sigismund’s testimony. To see the mage who solved this vile murder in person.

“Thank you, Sigismund.” The council was headed by none other than the Mage’s own very proud mother, Svenja the Sorceress. She was a beauty that rivalled the most makeup slathered of nobility, but even the most youthful and eligible ladies couldn’t compete with an illusionary glamour that was all enticing curves, plump lips and piercing green eyes. She looked to be in her mid twenties, but she was far older than that. “I think this council has much to deliber–”

“There is one other thing.” Hoten the Seer had not yet spoken during the trial though to be frank, the blind man rarely spoke. He had lost his eyes many years past, and he refused to cover the blackened sockets with any sort of fabric. Despite his disability though he seemed very much able to see. “I have received a request from another Mage. An interested party, who has something to say to the court. I think we should hear him out.”

“This is highly irregular, Hoten.” Svenja seethed at having been so rudely interrupted, though she maintained a smile that was all brilliant white teeth. “I think we’ve seen all the evidence that we need to, I doubt that an unrelated Mage will bring any great revelations.”

“I agree with Hoten. This is a council of equals, isn’t it Svenja?” It was Aurellia who had spoken. Where Hoten lacked eyes, she had more than one would expect. A set of brilliant blue irises were offset by a singular, utterly crimson eye upon her forehead. Today it was covered with a strip of white linen fabric, but she and Svenja had been shooting veiled insults to one another through the entire trial. Their rivalry was one of the things the cheaper prints liked to speculate about. “We should take account of all the information we possibly can in this matter, not just that of your favourite son.”

Hoten motioned a hand toward the far side of the cathedral, and where there had once been a murmur there were now frustrated titters. A man clad in a billowing cloak hurried his way down the centre of the cathedral, followed by a pair of hulking brutes who carried a stretcher between them - though its load was wreathed in a white shroud. The man was Renard.

“Thank you, Hoten.” Renard bowed as he passed the crowd and came before the Council of Five. He had removed his spectacles, his one eyed gaze looking everywhere except his brother in the pews. “And thank you to the rest of the council, to the court. My name is Renard. I am a Wizard in the service of Svenja.”

The rest of the council looked a tad perplexed at the man who stood before them, Svenja in particular was clearly confused - a fact Aurellia savoured - and the squinting crowds seemed on the urge of jeering at the appearance of a weedy little Wizard delaying the ‘guilty’ verdict. They held back though, out of a singular curiosity at what was beneath the covered bulk between the two brutes.

Aurellia leaned forward, “And why have you come before us, Renard?”

“I wish to call another witness forward.” Renard said, ripping the white cloth from the stretcher between the brutes and revealing the grizzly nature of their cargo; it was a pallid, motionless corpse. “His name is Jacob Richter.”

Gasps, hums and a few shouts filled the halls. Bringing a corpse into the Cathedral of the Goddess of Life was the sort of thing proper, Goddess-fearing sorts frowned on. The Council of Wizards each seemed more intrigued than insulted though, most of them had spent the trial indulging in a chance to air petty rivalries to a crowd and had been deathly bored by the mundane legal aspects of the trial.

Only one man was silent; Sigismund’s pale visage stared at the back of his brother’s head, boring into it. Renard couldn’t bring himself to meet his sibling’s gaze, he was certain that if he did he would falter and be unable to press forward with what he was about to do.

“The victim?” Aurellia leaned forward, elbow on the counter before her. “You’re going to have a little difficulty getting testimony from him boy, will you not? On account of his being a corpse.”

Renard wrung his hands beneath his cloak. He was not the sort of visage that crowds enjoyed. The man was a more traditional wizard’s apprentice, bespectacled and nervous. The crowd could sense that nervousness in him and they were irritated that someone so dull had interrupted the climax of the trial, corpse or no. “I have been given permission from his next of kin to revive him, and to question him in regards to whether he met Merov Tyran in the afternoon on the day of his murder.”

“Revive him?” This came from Vorek. The wizard was a frail, sickly old man decked out in so much bejewelled finery that many doubted he could walk with it weighing him down. “Are you suggesting what I believe you’re suggesting? You wish to invoke the arts of the Black Prince in these halls? Necromancy?”

A titter filled the hall, along with renewed jeers at the use of that word. Only the unyielding gaze of the Maces situated around the Cathedral stopped peasants on high from throwing anything more substantial than insults toward the court.

“Yes. Necromancy. As I said, I have the permission of the victim’s next of kin. The only other thing that I require is this council’s permission.” Laws around what magic a sanctioned mage could perform in the Empire were lax, the art was complex enough to befuddle even the most educated bureaucrats - which was saying something, considering the byzantine complexity of some of the Empire’s laws.

“And are you certain you’ll be able to carry out this magic, Renard?” Svenja finally spoke, tone harsh and cutting. “Something such as this requires a steady hand. It requires someone with more experience. Perhaps Sigismund shoul–”

“I think the boy can handle it, dear Svenja.” Aurellia cut in, delighting in the way it made Svenja scowl, the way it highlighted the faint lines of her crows feet. “He is your student, is he not? A student takes after their teacher. Give him the chance to show his worth to the court. I assent to this.”

“As do I.” Hoten said.

“This is utterly unnecessary. It would be a desecration of a place as holy as this. I say nay.” Vorek crossed his arms, glittering finery banging and clanging.

“I agree with Vorek. Necromancy is a foul craft. It has no place in this investigation.” Tylan the Blue shook his head at the thought.

It left the decision down to Svenja. Renard forced himself to do something he had not done in a long time. He met her gaze. The Sorceress didn’t notice, she was far too busy glaring at Aurellia. The underhanded comment about her merits as a teacher had stung. “Very well. I shall cast the deciding vote. Renard, you have my permission to raise this corpse.”

Sigismund stood then, beginning to move away from his seat and toward the darkened edges of the Cathedral. The man could only let out a small, disappointed ‘ah’ as a pair of Maces stepped up on either side of the pew, steel gazes firmly set upon him and Vespia at their side, cap under her arm. He settled back down into his seat, and silently stewed.

At the same time, Renard revealed what was hidden beneath his sea blue cloak. The small, black book and a glass jar which contained a well preserved Human tongue. “The victim had his tongue removed.” Renard explained, “And so as part of the spell, I shall give him a new one.”

The jeers and titters had died off now, replaced with an expectant silence. Even the more devout sorts held their tongues. Very few would admit it, but they had come to this council to see some proper magic done. To watch a show. It seemed they were all about to get something more interesting than a charismatic wizard fluffing himself up on stage. They would all witness a man return from the grave, or they would witness a comical failure. Either way, the crowd would be pleased.

Renard cleared his throat, “Move the body over here, please.” His lumbering hired help did as he commanded, before scuttling back toward the pews. It left Renard alone beside the body, in front of the council and the eyes of the crowd. He opened up the jar, procured the still dripping tongue from within it and proceeded to kneel down to place it within the mouth of the cadaver. Then he replaced it with another tool. A strange curved dagger, made with a shimmering alloy and inscribed with unfathomable runes. Summoning spirits through a circle was one thing, but magic like this would require a focusing tool and it would require blood.

He flicked the little black tome open at the page that detailed the spell he would require, steadied himself, and began to practice magic.

It started as it always did, he took a deep breath and searched within himself for that well of power that resided in all mages, in all people if they knew where to look. A personal strength of will that let one grab hold of the electrifying currents and eddies of the Wyrd and bend it to their will. The Cathedral, the glaring crowd, his mother, Sigismund. All of them disappeared. Renard disappeared. In that moment he was one with the currents of unreality, freed from the strife and mundanity of mortal life. An untrained Mage could lose themselves to this sort of thing, most simply disappear into the swirling void of unreality.

Pain was what brought him back, just as Svenja had taught him. The pain of that knife slashing across his palm, the searing sensation as the Wyrd dripped out of that wound, and his sizzling blood splattered onto the corpse below him. Without truly realising it he had started to chant and bellow in indescribable tones, tones that made the stained glass of the Cathedral flex and bend in unnatural ways, that made the candles and torches lining the walls flare up with a brightness that burned the eyes.

He raised his hands above him, and a crack of thunder made the crowd - from peasant to nobility - cower. Sparks flew from his fingertips, jumping this way and that, swirling around Renard as he tried to control more power than he had ever called on before. The Council remained still, the only spectators that were unimpressed.

Then every candle and torch, every oil wick in the Cathedral died. Shadows grew longer, the bitter coldness that lurked within the corners of the halls grew, and the body sat up.

“It was so dark. And cold. Where am I?” The Jacob Richter that sat before Renard was not who he had been in life. He may have moved and spoken, might have shivered at the coldness in his bones, but no one would ever mistake him for being alive. This was a corpse, a spirit wrenched from the relief of death and stuffed back into his mortal form.

Renard was already sweating, panting from the exertion and a deep, powerful tiredness settled about his body. The Mage realised that this was the point in which the crowd would expect him to proclaim that he had conquered death, torn a spirit free from Undine’s grip and that it was within his power now. Instead he removed his cloak and wrapped it around the dead man. “My name is Renard. You’re in the Cathedral of Undine. I understand that this will be very distressing for you. I have prevented you from moving on to the other side. Just for a little while.”

“I saw my father. He was trying to say something to me, but I couldn’t hear him.” The corpse tried to curl its fingers, but rigour mortis had worked deep into the bones, and all he managed to elicit was a sickly crack. Renard was not an accomplished necromancer, he didn’t understand the true intricacies of the magic he had just carried out, properly restoring a corpse was the sort of thing that needed more than a magical dagger and a few drops of blood.

“I understand. You’ll see him again, Jacob, very soon. I just need you to answer a question for me. Do you think you can do that?” Renard asked. He removed his spectacles, and met the ghoul’s gaze.

“What do you want to know?” Jacob tried to touch his face, but his fingers still refused to move. “My tongue doesn’t feel right.”

“I understand, but this is very important. All I need you to tell me is when you last saw Merov Tyran. Do you remember that? When was the last time you spoke with him?” Renard’s tone was soothing, caring, almost fatherlike.

“I saw him just this afternoon. At noon. He let me have some of that brandy I like. The expensive stuff, from Yilnar.” Jacob’s deathly visage had knotted into a frown as he tried to put together a memory fogged by the grave. The crowd finally made another sound at this revelation. Shock, horror, gasps of betrayal. If Merov had not been summoning the spirit, that meant Sigismund was a liar. Jacob shivered in fear at the strange sounds on the edge of his perception, and he almost shook himself free from Renard’s soothing grip.

“Thank you, Jacob. I’m sorry I had to stop you from meeting your father again, but trust me when I tell you that you have saved your friend’s life.” He placed a finger upon the body's forehead, and slowly pushed Jacob down onto his back. “I release you from my service. It will be cold no longer.”

Renard, still cradling the head of the murdered man, finally turned his focus toward the murderer. Sigismund stood, head held high, and met his brother’s gaze.

“This is preposterous. It doesn’t prove anything! It just–” Sigismund had puffed up his chest, ready to give a speech defending himself, but he noticed the crowd’s demeanour, and realised the reality of his situation swiftly. With lightning speed his hand thrust into his jacket, procuring a wand of thistlewood and thrusting it out at the nearest Mace. Before he could let off an incantation though Vespia had rapped her heavy blackjack across his wrist, and the wand clattered to the floor.

“Maces. Seize that man, and take him to the dungeons.” It was Svenja who gave the order, without any hesitation or motherly mercy. “He has lied to the court, and betrayed the trust of his Emperor.”

“What? Mother!” Sigismund struggled against the iron grip of the two Maces that descended upon him, dragging him away from the gawking crowd as Vespia followed. “This is ridiculous! Get your hands off me! Mother!”

His protests faded to silence as he was forced through heavy wooden doors into a more secure part of the cathedral, and Renard deflated as he felt the last of the magic leave him.

“We would not have known of his treachery, if not for you.” Hoten spoke, nodding. “I’m sure the magistrate will be able to reward you, in some way.” It wasn’t likely any of the Mages on the council were going to.

“Indeed. An interesting boy, Svenja. Where have you been hiding this one?” Aurellia arched her brow at the Sorceress.

Svenja barely even noticed the words though, she was focused on Renard. “Get that corpse out of here, I don’t want to see it again. Nor do I wish to see you. This council will adjourn, and discuss what we have witnessed here. This court is no longer in session.”

Renard was left cradling a motionless corpse, watching as the Council left and the crowd filtered out of the Cathedral. He stayed there for some time, even after the two hired hands had retrieved Jacob Richter’s body, and went off to return it to his brother. The Wizard wondered if he should pray, though he had a feeling it might be a tad insulting after he had carried out magic like that in Undine’s halls. His reverie was broken by the step of polished boots, and by a sigh.

“I guess I was right to trust you.” Vespia offered a hand out toward the Wizard. “I was in the upper level. Not important enough for a seat down here. It was quite a show.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” He let out a bitter chuckle. This didn’t feel like a victory, not in the slightest. Renard took her hand and stood upright, though he wobbled this way and that. “The magic took a lot out of me. I’m not quite sure what to do next, Svenja made it quite clear she doesn’t want to see me.”

Vespia looked him up and down, then shook her head. “I’ll regret this, but…You can stay in my apartment if you’d like - just until you’re back on your feet though. It’s a little cramped, but I think we could make do.”

He managed to force a smile to his face, his false eye not quite meeting her gaze. “Thank you. Usually I’d say no but, uh, I don’t think I’d do very well in a debtors house.”

“I think you’ll find a debtor's house the last of your concerns. This is going to be in the prints for weeks. You’ll find new work in no time, I’m sure of it.” Vespia dusted off the front of his cloak. “You better, at least. I’m going to throw you out in a month if you can’t pay rent, after all.” And then she turned, making her way out of the Cathedral.

“That was a joke, right?” Renard limped after her. “Right?”