Chapter 105

Ezekiel Cried Dem Dry Bones

I go looking for my throwing bones. Everything has got moved around, but I eventually locate them inside a fat ceramic jar labelled ‘sugar’ on a shelf in the kitchen. I fish out the small bag of precious items and spread them on the kitchen table.

Jenkins sticks his chin up inquiringly. His friends seem to have left for now, and he reaches up a paw to pat the nearest fingerbone.

“That one used to belong to an old king of Einheath,” I tell him. He noses it curiously, then swats it off the table with a contemptuous flick. “Hmm. I don’t care for the monarchy, either.”

“A fine thing for a queen to say!” calls my mother from her position on the shelf. I jump. I had forgotten she was here. I had collected her skull with my other furnishings when I last went to Dunbarra Keep. She would probably be safer at the castle but she had insisted, saying she also misses the quiet of the forest.

“It’s true. I don’t. But if someone has to be queen it will be me.”

Jenkins leaps onto the kitchen table, nosing at the various items.

“What have you been up to, Jenkins?” I ask him, scratching his poor worn chin. He headbutts my fingers affectionately, but does not say anything, as is usual for a cat, even an undead one. “I don’t begrudge you your social life, mind,” I say, peering down at the scattered objects. “I’m simply curious. Do you think the bones will tell us anything useful?”

Jenkins promptly loses interest in the conversation and jumps off the table. He settles on top of the cupboard and starts to wash himself, watching me with beady green eyes. I’m surprised he is not bald yet, although he is running the risk in several well groomed places.

“I don’t hold with all this divination nonsense,” says my mother’s skull. “It all seems very flaky.”

“Hush,” I say, absently. “Or I will bury you upside down in the garden.”

She snaps her jaw, but wisely decides not to say anything more, leaving me to my trinkets. I sort them out on the throwing mat, turning each over in my hand. To an uninformed and ignorant bystander they might look like a pile of junk, but to me, each is significant. Some of them are trophies, like the Acolyte’s little silver bell. The bell serves a dual purpose—that of significant object, and that of making sure the Whisperer does not influence the reading.

As always, before I toss my bones, excitement grips me. Today I feel rather daring. Asking other gods, or spirits for advice about this particular subject matter is definitely dangerous. If the Whisperer somehow hears, then my undead life is done. However, I have faith in the little silver bell. It has not yet let me down.

Last time I consulted the bones they helped me find Janvier’s phylactery. The time before that they helped me locate the mysterious magical item shop. While divination is not my area of expertise, having outside guidance from time to time is very nice. On the other hand, I have no idea who, exactly, is guiding me. The bones are the Wavewalker’s domain, and I’m not sure he will help me after I stood by and allowed the wholesale slaughter of his beloved clerics. Not that there was anything I could have done, but since when are gods ever reasonable?

I fetch some fresh yarrow from the forest, light it, and waft the bitter curls of smoke over the pieces. Each is doused in turn; the rusted key from my original cottage door, the bark, the paladin’s molars, the old king’s fingers, all the bits and pieces of my life from the last year.

When they are finished I set aside the burning herbs.

“Are we ready?” I ask the bones. “Alright. Resurgemus iterum.”

They wake.

I give them a moment to get used to the sensation and welcome them back. I’m not sure if talking to them helps, but it is a habit I have got into, and it seems to do no harm. I’ve always enjoyed talking to my plants as well, they are much better at listening than most people.

Once I am sure the bones are settled, I ring the silver bell. As always, the sound cuts through me like a blade, rinsing all trace of whispers from the air. Picking my bones up in two hands, I toss them lightly into the air.

“How do I kill the Whisperer?” I shout, as they soar. “Show me the way!”

“Oh my,” murmurs my mother from the shelf.

The bones fly high, and I follow their progress with eager eyes. They land, bouncing and jiggling on the cloth. Will they aid me? Or will they fob me off with some vague answer? The bones hop and drag themselves around the mat. I turn my head this way and that, trying to decipher their meaning as the objects crawl about in fevered necrotic animation. They lie still.

“Are you done?” I ask. A large incisor tumbles into its spot and then lies still.

I lean forward eagerly.

For once the vision is clear. The bones have arranged themselves into the form of a cat’s eye. Huh. Or… could it be a dragon’s eye? As if sensing my doubt, the bones start to scurry once more,, wiggling over the cloth to drag themselves into new positions.

“Thank you,” I murmur, a little taken aback. The image on the mat is of a skeletal cat. It is unmistakable. A domestic cat. I glance up at Jenkins, who is washing himself on top of the cupboard.

“Well,” I say, “Jenkins, my lad. It looks like it is time to turn you into a lich.”

I sweep the bones back into their special bag, with a few words of thanks. Then I bustle off to fetch my notebook, the one detailing the recipe for the Whisperer’s Holy Water. I keep it hidden in a cookery book because I doubt anyone would think to look for a way to make the dark god’s holy water sandwiched between jam compote and sourdough starters.

I find it without too much trouble, and flick the page open:

The Whisperer’s Holy Water

Blessed is the night, and holy is the madness!

To traverse the rivers of ritual death:

Take the penitent bones of seven clerics, the mashed tails of six rats, the putrid eyes of five grave worms, the rotting roots of four belladonnas, the malignant juices of three cave spiders, the steaming blood of two virgins, and the last wail of a dying man.

Boil for a night, a day, and one night more. Add a drop of tears and a pinch of salt.

Stir widdershins at midnight, under the light of a waning moon.

May the darkness bless you with its quiet embrace.

Since I have been planning this for some time, I have many of the ingredients already prepared. I check my almanack. The moon is waning. Perfect. I can begin brewing the potion at once. Bustling around I assemble the clerical bones, blood, the rat's tails and so on, laying them all out in readiness. Humming under my breath I clean out a cauldron and set the fire to burn. In short order it is bubbling away, a vile looking stew, letting off the occasional noxious fume, but then how could it be otherwise?

I look fondly at Jenkins. He has given up on the cupboard and is now perched comfortably on top of a basket of yarn. Eyes half shut, his toes are tucked neatly under his body. A low purr fills the kitchen with happy rumbling. Almost, he looks like he is sleeping, but I know the dead cannot sleep. Maybe Jenkins has mastered the art of daydreaming? Either way he looks very comfortable.

I can see some of his ribs showing through the soft hair of his side.

“Don’t worry, Jenkins,” I say, scratching his ears. “I will make sure you are fine.”

How will Jenkins help me destroy the Whisperer I wonder? Regardless, knowing he will survive me if I am myself destroyed is enough.

“You obsess about that cat too much,” says my mother’s skull. “Haven’t you got better things to do? You are a ruler now! All these people look to you!”

“Be quiet, mother,” I say, and turn her to face the wall. “The bones say Jenkins is the key. And I’ve been meaning to do it anyway, it is only sensible. I’ve just been lacking the courage.”

She chatters angrily for a few moments but subsides when I threaten to put her back in her grave.

Where was I? Oh yes. I have put great thought into Jenkin’s lichdom. Should I test the procedure on a lesser creature first, to make sure all goes according to plan? The chance of error is great. My own existence is a testament to the dangers of such an upset.

Who or what to practice on though? Not a human. Two liches was already more wickedness than any sensible kingdom could contain, and our fighting nearly brought Einheath to its knees. I have not gone to all that effort to destroy Janvier only to make another rival in his stead.

Not a dragon, no, nor any naturally powerful creature. A lich dragon would be a disaster. Whatever I create will not be compelled to obey me, like my wights and draugr. Who knows how it would behave? It would come into existence answering only to the Whisperer, and its own wishes. A mundane animal then. A wolf? No. A sheep? A rabbit? A hen? Those are possibilities. I toy briefly with the idea of a lich goose, but decide that would be simply too monstrous, if amusing. It needs to be something I can easily destroy, if it behaves in an unsatisfactory manner.

In the end I decide against it. Conversation with the Whisperer is risk enough.

There is nothing left to do but plan my outfit, fantasize about stabbing the Whisperer, and wait for the potion to finish brewing. This will take another day and another night. To make the best of the time I sit in the kitchen feeding the fire, and spinning. Spinning the raw wool into workable skeins is very satisfying and takes my mind off the fact that very soon I will be voluntarily summoning my god.