Prince Dirjir left his palace on horseback in the late afternoon, accompanied by a large procession of servants and guards. The servants had paired their orange robes with beautiful silk sashes of every shade, while the Tiger Guard stood tall in their bronze and crimson uniforms. All of them had adorned themselves with deathmasks for the celebration– not the eerie wooden ones that Swampreachers wore year-round, but beautiful creations of linen and painted leather. Dirjir had mixmade his own, a bird head made of a feathered buckskin pelt that had been taken off a crow-deer hybrid. It had a large curved beak made of gold that covered his nose, but his mustache and grin were still visible for his city to see.
Teren had been given his choice of masks to wear. He ultimately had decided on something simple yet chilling, a hooded veil that left his face obscured in shadow. Dirjir liked the pick and had paired it with a loose-fitting tunic, trousers, and a shawl that wrapped around and melded into folds of the hood. The outfit was the maroon and purple of a Gravecaller, which he did feel a bit guilty about. But when he found out that Rotwood and Farstride wouldn't be coming along with him, his heart hardened.
Ronic and Baltry had wanted to come and support him, but Farstride had forbidden it. And so Teren rode through the streets surrounded by laughs and smiles, yet feeling very alone. The familiar he had been lent, a small brown mare with a white mane, turned back and snorted at him as if she could see the expression hidden behind his mask. He scratched the side of her neck absentmindedly.
The procession led out of the Maze District, back to the market where they had traveled to by Leygate. This area was known as the Reservoir District, and it along with the Maze District was one of the three areas making up the center of Merdz. The third section was known as the Glass District, although Teren didn't understand why. These three parts made up the brunt of the Crater City, with the Rim District surrounding them on all sides. Much of that area belonged to the Quia Boralz, who were some sort of separate tribe or caste. Teren hadn't looked into it too much. Whatever the case, the Rim District and the Rimfort surrounding the city was their domain, while the Narabir people had settled in the center.
The Reservoir District was similar to the Maze District. The roads were narrow and twisted, but without the darktwisting curse it was more of a novelty. Shrines and statues dotted every other corner, and masked figures placed black candles at their feet in preparation for the night's festivities. The streets sloped downwards, and as the Prince's procession descended the roads got wider and emptied out into larger markets and plazas.
All along the way they had been swarmed by commoners who were eager to get a glimpse at the Feathered Prince. The Tiger Guard kept them at bay, but every so often Dirjir would allow a child past. He would laugh and raise up the children onto his own horse, a beautiful feathered hybrid with large antlers. There they could be a royal, if only for a moment.
"Hey," said Teren. "Is the Feathered Prince a title given to all Princes of Merdz, or just you?"
"No, that's my own. My gift emerged when I was out dealing with a tribal leader. Father and I had rode out to meet with him, and we dressed in the religious garb of their people– a crown lined with dove feathers. I touched the crown and accidentally mixmade wings onto my horse."
"That's impressive, I take it?"
"For a twelve winter child's first ever mix? Very, hence the title. And so I became the Feathered Prince, flying on wings of destiny to bring peace to the Southrange." He smiled faintly. "But Da always omitted the part where my horse panicked and flew me into a tree."
The sloped streets leveled out and opened up, and Teren found himself staring at the reason why they called it the Reservoir District. Here at the center of the crater was an incredible sight. Eight man-made lakes, just like the pyramid-shaped hole that had been in the middle of Dirjir's Palace. But these were massive, each over three hundred spans long and wide. They were arranged as a square that surrounded the ninth middle piece– a massive pyramid that must have been over a hundred and thirty spans tall. It had nine layers to it including a cubed top, with a set of stone stairs leading up to gates at the cube. The thin walkways keeping the eight reservoirs separate were the only paths provided to the pyramid. Each pathway was guarded by a squad of Tiger Guardsmen armed with bronze-tipped spears that matched their uniforms. They seemed more ornamental than practical, as none had a familiar or a hybrid with them, nor were any skinswitched. But whatever the case they kept the gathering crowd at bay, who had begun to cluster around the edges of the reservoirs.
The locals were all masked, many in veils or simple cloth face coverings. Laughing children ran amok, squealing as they ducked and dodged through a sea of legs. Dirjir's procession was able to pass to the front, but not without his guards having to jostle some desperate beggars out of the way.
Teren watched all this play out from behind his veil. The Southrangers didn't pay attention to him now that his Fendali features were hidden, making him just another party-goer in the Prince's entourage. "I'm not going to be deathcrafting on stage or anything, right?"
Dirjir shook his head. "No, but I was considering that. Making a big show out of it and all, add to the celebration. Although in the end I figured it would be best for you to do it discreetly while Mother's performance is going on. Make it look like it's her fault." He smiled and waved to his adoring subjects. "And on that note, I think it's time for you to break off. Go, find somewhere quiet. The show starts at sundown. When it does, start working your magic."
"Not a problem. Where should we meet up afterwards?"
"Back the way we came, right where the Leygate Market meets the Maze District. Any questions?"
"None that come to mind." Teren carefully got off his horse, scratching behind its ear one last time in gratitude. The beast snorted at him. He cracked his neck twice and nodded to the Prince. "I'll see you when I see you."
Dirjir grinned, slapping him on the back. "Unjabit won't be far behind. He'll pull you out if things start to go north."
The crowd was thick, but his size worked to his advantage as he pushed against the current. A thousand masked faces passed on by, gathering to share the night with the dead. Teren smiled at the thought. A deathcrafter could get used to a place like this.
He stopped by a vendor and bought some more of that delicious orange curry and rice. Walking as he ate, Teren looked for a quiet spot to perform. Something of this size would require more than a little chanting and finger-waving. Eventually he found himself crouching in an alley next to a tannery that reeked of piss and rotting flesh. Aside from an emaciated beggar picking through the discarded waste for bones to sell, nobody was close enough to pay mind to him. It would be doubly effective with everyone's attention focused on the ceremony. And despite being a block away from the large open area with the reservoirs, he could still make out the top of the pyramid thanks to its size and the slope of the streets.
But it wasn't long before the smell got the better of him and he decided there was no reason to wait there for sundown. He walked the streets, occasionally glancing around to see if he could spot Unjabit trailing him. Teren was almost positive that he had changed outfits and masks, because no way could he be that good. He stopped in an outdoor drinking hall for a while, a dingy alley that was packed with festival-goers. The people working it didn't speak any sainted tongue, so he shrugged and held up a few slivers. In exchange he received a large cup of soured wine, which he barely managed to keep down.
The Southrangers kept on swarming in for the celebration, and by the time the sun was about to dip below the mountains he had to shove through the crowd to get back to his alley. The beggar was still there, muttering to himself as he examined animal remains. He gripped a rat in his hands and was mixmaking it to identify what bones belonged to what. Teren ignored him and turned back to watch the festivities.
As soon as the sun hit the mountains, doors creaked open at the top of the distant pyramid. The crowd grew quiet as a woman emerged. She wore a sleeveless violet dress that was coupled with a cloak made from a white tiger's pelt. Her mask was nothing complex, merely a matching violet veil that obscured her features. It left her dark hair exposed, which was a mess of curls that nearly hid the mark of royalty– a silver crown adorned with glittering gemstones that caught his eye even from this distance. The woman that could have only been the Queen waited until the crowd grew completely silent before beginning her descent.
Teren pried his eyes away. It was time to focus. He closed his eyes and called out to Spellhaunt. Nothing. Where the hell was she? Her role was to stay in the Maze District and draw strength from the land, but he still should have been able to sense her from this distance. Yesterday they had formed a sort of connection that she had called Spiritlink– not unlike a weaker version of the connection between beastbinder and familiar. She would draw in power and the link would pass it on to him, giving him the strength to make the dead appear with Parade of the Damned. That was a spell that favored quantity instead of quality, so it would bring about numerous ghosts without much strength on this side. Just enough to be seen and heard, and in an ideal world it would last all the way until the end of the nine nights. He was pretty sure he'd have to recast it though, possibly every night going forward.
Removing his hood and kneeling down to put his hands on the ground, Teren slowly lowered his head until it touched the dirt. It was filthy with the remains and scraps from the tannery. He pretended it was part of the ritual. Lay in death and become one with it, or something along those lines.
Teren began to mutter titles. Mother, father, sister, brother. Farmer, soldier, beggar, butcher. All titles, any title he could think of. It was long before he started to hear people whispering back to him.
The dead were bored. Always so, so bored. That was why most tended to depart for the void after a couple of decades. But these ones were young, and their boredom in Aren Fultas hadn't yet surpassed their fear of the unknown. And so they answered his call and rushed off to tell more spirits of the deathcrafter. It wouldn't take long with so many already gathered for the Nine Nights. Nothing like a celebration to fight off the encroaching ennui of eternity.
Teren glanced back at the pyramid. The sun had disappeared completely below the horizon, and the fading twilight gave way to a thousand thousand candles lit by each and every person, still watching silently as their masked ruler knelt in front of one of the reservoirs and dipped a hand in the water.
Suddenly, monsters emerged. A gigantic bioluminescent stingray with a spiked dorsal fin arced through the air before crashing back down, splashing the guards and the cheering audience in the front. Seven other monsters splashed about, one for each reservoir. Upon seeing this display the crowd went wild. They roared in approval as their queen raised her hands to the sky, egging all of them on. She pointed at random, and whichever body of water she landed on had its hybrid perform a show of its own.
Teren's jaw dropped. Each leviathan was a distinct mixmaking masterpiece. A golden carp with blue and green marbling, a frog with bat wings and a shark fin, an amphibious leopard with webbed feet and a duck bill. Each one was unique and awe-inspiring. A chitin covered bear with crab claws stood up and roared as the Southrangers applauded.
At that moment a shiver ran through him. He felt a presence from far away that must have been Spellhaunt. There was a feeling of readiness emanating from her. About time.
He half-stepped into Aren Fultas and was immediately greeted by a second crowd. Thousands of decaying spirits stood before him, staring at him with lifeless eyes.
Teren was no stranger to Aren Fultas, and it had been years since fear had found him in the fading world. But seeing the sprawling horde of endless dead looking straight at him brought that terror right back. Once again, he was that child crying under the sheets because a thing was staring at him from the corner.
He closed his eyes and turned away, focusing on his deathcraft and nothing else. In the darkness he reached back out to Spellhaunt, who was practically pounding on the door to his mind. Teren let her in, and power took him.
It was a crashing wave knocking him off his feet. A crackling fire that had grown out of control. Mud, swallowing him from below. It was darkness, and it was blinding. He gasped and cowered from the intensity.
Teren gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the dirt until they bled. It mingled with the discarded waste of the tannery. Just another animal adding to the mess. He forced himself to choke down the current inside of him, glaring at the gathered spirits before him. "Well?" he yelled. "The living are calling out to you, can't you hear them? Get out there and show them a good time!" And with that, he vomited.
Raw, primal energy erupted from his throat. It was alive, a rush of spirit residue that spread across the ground like frost crystals. It shot out in all directions, seemingly visible only in Aren Fultas– as the beggar hadn't even glanced up from his activities. Teren groaned. The experience was awful and overwhelming. His stomach lurched, and he gagged again. The smell of spirit residue was like a spike being jammed into his nose. He gasped for air in between fits of spiritual vomit. "Oh, no. No no no…"
The spreading residue crept up the legs of the gathered dead. It enveloped them row by row and then faded away to reveal spirits with more substance and vitality. They flexed their joints and rolled their shoulders, adjusting to this new state.
The vomiting finally stopped. Teren spat the remaining residue out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Behind him came a yelp. The beggar stumbled back, pointing at the army of the dead. He turned and ran deeper into the alley, cowering behind a pile of tannery scraps.
"Guess they're visible," Teren muttered. He stood up and his legs nearly gave out. Saints above, that had taken a lot out of him! Throwing his hooded mask back on, he briskly walked away from the scene. Already the ghosts had begun to mingle with the crowd, and just like that the city dissolved into panic.
The living and the dead crashed together like two waves meeting. Unable to touch each other, the living screamed as the dead howled. The crowd turned into an incoherent stampede of masks, unable to find refuge from the frightful specters. A little girl ran past, wailing as an obese corpse with a neck bent at an unnatural angle waddled after her laughing. Three Tiger Guardsmen stood fast in the middle of the street, trying to tear their way through incorporeal figures with their rakji blades. The ghosts just laughed, and the oncoming storm of Southrangers forced them to turn and run as well. It was a haunting of the likes the world had never seen.
Teren stuck to the walls, worried that he'd get caught underfoot if he tried to mix into the crowd in his weakened state. He looked around for Unjabit, but still couldn't find him. Then something more interesting caught his eye.
Halfway up the pyramid, dozens of the Tiger Guard attempted to fight off the dead with the help of their familiars and hybrids. The dead brushed right past them, swarming the Queen. Shockingly, she hardly even reacted as the bodiless spirits clawed at her, merely turning her back to the city and walking back up the steps. She calmly undressed as she did so, slipping off the tiger pelt cloak and violet dress. She ripped the veil from the crown, but with her back to him and the crowd he couldn't see anything but the curly hair that tumbled down her back. A thousand cackling spirits dogpiled the pyramid, obscuring the queen in a flood of incorporeal flesh.
And then a golden eagle shot up and out of the writhing mass. It carried the queen's crown in its talons as it soared like a comet in the night, heading over his head west towards the Maze District.
A shaky grin emerged behind his mask. He had done it! Coupled with Dirjir's rumors, this should work just as planned. Teren turned to head back the way he came, and as he did so a firm grip grabbed his shoulder. He turned to find a figure in grey robes and a mask made of bandages looking back at him. The man pulled the bandages to reveal a frowning Unjabit.
"Ha!" said Teren. "I had thought you might've switched outfits!"
"This is much panic," said Unjabit. "Follow close, we meet with Prince Dirjir."
…
It had been a battle getting back to the Leygate Market. Teren couldn't decide which was more grating, the laughs of the dead or the screams of the living. But Unjabit got him to the meeting place safely, jostling his way through the night's chaos. The ghosts didn't bother Teren much, but on more than one occasion Unjabit had to fight off frenzied Southrangers.
The gate marking the entrance to the Maze District wasn't so much a gate as it was an archway. It had large wooden doors, but they were more ceremonial than practical, with murals painted on them and the bolts all but rusted away. Dirjir stood under it, his horse and servants nowhere to be seen. He too had changed his attire, now wearing peasant clothing and a red scarf that covered half his face. His eyes lit up when he saw the two of them approaching. "Unbelievable. Teren, was this your plan all along?"
Teren removed his hood, smiling sheepishly. "Well, yeah. But I didn't imagine the spell would be this strong." He didn't mention that he was unsure of how long it would last. A spell this powerful couldn't possibly last longer than half a day. He'd have to recast it for sure.
The Prince laughed, throwing his arms around Teren and squeezing tight. "Not that, the Maze District! I'll go down in history for this!"
"The Maze…" Teren frowned, gently pushing the Prince off of him. "What, the curse is gone?"
"Yes! My servants just reported it to me. The ghosts are running rampant but the curse is gone. Gone!" He whooped, a strange sight in the panicking city.
Teren ran a hand through his long hair, thinking. "Uhm… Maybe the fear is… Cutting through the illusion? I don't have any control over darktwisting."
Unjabit said something urgent in narabic to the Prince. The Prince responded, shaking his head reassuringly. The two of them argued back and forth, raising their voices until they were shouting at each other.
"Hey," snapped Teren. "Clue me in."
The Prince glared at his guard. "Unjabit here thinks that curing the Maze District is enough of a victory. That we should stop now, and completely go off plan. Making the rumors I've been spreading useless."
Unjabit grabbed Teren by the shoulders. "Teren! Send dead home. Too much fear."
"Remember your place," growled Dirjir. "I give the orders, Guardsman. And I say this hasn't been enough! By the Ninth Night of the Lost, Merdz will be begging for me to take the throne."
Unjabit shook his head. There was a sadness in his eyes. "No. King does not rule with fear and tricks. King rules with… Duty." He gripped his sheathed rakji blade, and his skin shifted into green scales. Spiked ridges replaced his eyebrows, and his eyes turned golden amber. He switched back to narabic, as he turned to look at his Prince, but Teren got the meaning.
The Prince wavered, taking a step back. "Deathcrafter." His speech was slow and deliberate. "Kill this guard, and I'll give you a hundred servants."
Teren glanced back and forth at the two of them. Right then he didn't think he had the strength to fight either of them. "Uh…"
He didn't have to decide. At that moment, a familiar-looking man charged out of the Maze District, tackling Dirjir to the ground. In the blink of an eye he snapped the startled Prince's neck, not even giving him time to cry out. The life faded out of his questioning eyes as the man howled in triumph.
Teren gasped, stepping back. It was the animal merchant, the one who had threatened him. His skin looked ghastly, and his movements unnatural. He grinned a foul grin at Teren before jumping up and running off.
Unjabit stared slack-jawed, processing what had just happened. He gaped at Teren, and then to the lifeless body of the Feathered Prince, and then he sprinted after the thing wearing the merchant's skin.
Teren groaned, turning away from the body and running his hands over his eyes. "You? That spirit I summoned wanted revenge on you? What in the sunken hell are the odds of that?"
"Slim," said Dirjir.
Teren whirled around.
Dirjir was sitting upright. He carefully adjusted his head, clicking it back into place. It still tilted at an unnatural angle. "Far too slim. The odds of me running into you, of you being sent exactly where I needed to go, to perform a task that would directly help me get back in the game?" The Prince stood up. "No. This is destiny."
He clenched his fists. "Who am I speaking to?"
What wasn't Dirjir giggled. "I dreamed this, you know. Back when I was still young and pretty. Still alive."
"Spellhaunt."
He… No, she shrugged helplessly. "I would be lying if I said I understood it myself. The dead don't dream. All I have is bits and pieces half-remembered from a lifetime ago."
Discreetly, he tried to muster the power to banish her spirit from the body. "Bits and pieces of what?" He gritted his teeth. No use, he hadn't recovered any of his strength yet.
"Instructions, or maybe a mission. And I can't really answer what that entails, aside from the fact that my whole life and death has been setting me up for this power play." She looked around. "Maybe more than that. How else can you explain such a powerful reserve of darktwisting stored right where I needed it?"
"You aren't a Gravecaller. You're a Moonlight Apostle."
She grinned. "Didn't you wonder why I only appeared to you at night? Without my magic I wouldn't have seemed anywhere near as impressive."
"So what happens next? You just murdered the heir to the Southrange."
She scoffed, placing Dirjir's hands on Dirjir's hips. "I didn't force you to give that spirit access to that body. And honestly, Teren. He wanted to usurp his mother by terrorizing his own people! Good rulers don't raise the dead to get what they want.
"Let me guess. You'll wear his skin and ascend the throne. Not a bad plan, until his body starts rotting."
"I'm not after that kind of power." Spellhaunt raised a fist, and a vortex of shadow gathered around it. "Now that's interesting. I don't have to be alive to fully access darktwisting. I just needed a body."
Teren's leg began to tremble. "Give up that body and I'll make it easy on you," he warned. "Soon the spell will run out, and the dead will fade away. You'll be right back where you started, a ghost in the fading world."
"Well, not exactly. First off, I'm inhabiting this body using the effects of the spell you used on that poor merchant, not the spell we cast together. Some of that promise of possession must have rubbed off on your friend's corpse. Cycle of abuse, maybe."
Teren cursed silently. There was a precedent for this sort of thing happening, and it was known to spiral out of control. If that possessed merchant kept on killing, there could be a serious reanimation problem forming.
"Second, I powered your spell with the darktwisting curse that lingered here. It's convenient that being dead is all it takes to form a bridge between my magic and yours. But deathcrafting has always been something special, hasn't it?"
The implications ran through his mind. If his spell was being powered by a curse that had lasted centuries, then that would mean… "Oh, hell."
"Hell is right. You and I just turned Merdz into the city of the dead." She gestured around at all the chaos. "This spell won't wear off anytime soon. Unfortunately, you're running it, albeit unintentionally. So that means your energy will go towards keeping this place stocked full of the dead, and I don't think that will leave you much left to work with." She paused thoughtfully. "But since it's being charged by all that darktwisting, I wouldn't be shocked if the effects greatly diminish in the daytime."
Teren lunged at her, but her hands reached him first. The second her fingers touched his forehead, his mind began to shut down. He dropped to the dirt, and as he faded into unconsciousness the last thing he saw was Dirjir pulling him out of the way of the stampeding traffic, smiling down at him.
"I'll be leaving now, Teren. I'd tell you to go home, but I've dreamt the future. And I know that we'll be seeing each other again."
The cold lips of a dead man kissed his forehead as he fell into an unwilling slumber.