This story is by Celeste Wolfe and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
No child aspires to become a necromancer. Nor did Azarion, until he resurrected his mentor.
Azarion scanned the battlefield from a high turret. Frost covered the cobblestones outside the castle’s gates, muddied with warm blood. A carpet of bodies became high ground as weapons clashed. He shivered.
This is a temporary position, he reminded himself.
He focused on a felled rebel soldier. Energy radiated from the corpse, amassing for departure. Superimposed over the body was the crumpled form of Azarion’s mentor.
Professor Rulam had seen potential in him. Took him in. Azarion had a home in the Citadome, a place at the academy, a promising future…
With a wave of his sceptre, Azarion forced the Lume back inside the corpse, just as he had done to the Professor. The corpse battled for the Crown and its rebel comrades retreated in horror. Puppeteering several bodies, Azarion pushed the rebels back. The blare of horns and waving of flags signaled victory for the king of the North. Azarion waved the sceptre again and the reanimated bodies dropped, energies dispersed. He wanted to examine them in his charnel workshop, but the king’s own men could not bear further desecration of corpses. To them, the tactics of the Imperial Lumagus, Master Azarion, were abominable.
*
“A divided kingdom is a weak kingdom,” the king reminded his generals, advisors, and Azarion. Prominent creases cleaved his forehead from days of anxiety. “Foreign adversaries will aim to infiltrate the bay. The next phase is pacification and fortification.”
Discussions continued around the table until thick curtains were drawn over the windows. Servants cleared the dishes and stoked the fire. Light from the sconces danced.
“At dawn, send for the priests. Arrange guards for the funeral march.” The king waved a hand dismissing everyone, and Azarion rose with them.
“Master Azarion.” Azarion flinched. “I’ve another matter to discuss with you. Sit.”
The king ushered Azarion to a smaller table near the fireplace. Azarion followed slowly, nerves twitching.
“First,” the king began, lowering himself into a chair, “Congratulations. You’ve fulfilled your contract. My generals are sentimental, but even they were amazed.”
Right. They think it less reprehensible to cut down a person than to raise a corpse…
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Azarion bowed his head, adjusting his expression.
“My daughter is half dryad, as you may have heard,” began the king, “and must be paired with a powerful Lumagus like yourself.”
“P-pardon?” Azarion stuttered.
“Marriage,” the king clarified. “And a permanent position as Imperial Lumagus.”
“Shall we consult the princess, Your Grace?”
The king smiled. “Tomorrow evening, in the royal dining chamber.”
After dismissal, Azarion escaped to his balcony overlooking the sea. A bitter wind pierced him.
A permanent position? In this hellish landscape? Could he say ‘no’?
Marriage was furthest from his mind. Instead, his eyes closed nightly to visions of a bloated cat, his first resurrection, and the decomposing visage of his mentor. Azarion had been expelled from the academy and banished from the Citadome. Professor Rulam was placed in suspended animation until the academy found an ethical release.
But Azarion would find a way to fully restore him.
Movement along the shore caught his eye. The princess?
Princess Elowen paced her coastal courtyard barefoot, hair and dress flowing. A head popped out of the shallows—a seal—and she bent to greet it. Suddenly, a man surged out of the water, catching hold of her. She squealed gleefully and the two rolled around. Azarion averted his eyes. He returned to his quarters and plopped on his bed with a sigh.
A Selkie lover? Should he warn her beforehand?
Azarion resolved to follow her lead during tomorrow’s dinner
*
The next evening, as planned, the king and Azarion met with Princess Elowen in the royal dining chamber. A clamor of tapestries covered the walls and illuminated crystals rained from the ceiling.
“Master Azarion! Come, come!” The king indicated the chair to his left with a crystal flute sloshing clear liquid. Azarion’s gaze fell on the princess. Gone was the untethered girl enjoying a moonlit tryst. The regal woman occupying the right hand of the king would someday ascend the throne. Her father sat at the head of the table, rosy and merry from drink. Servants filtered in with numerous extravagant dishes.
Azarion took a breath and sat. The princess narrowed her eyes, suspicious.
It was too obvious.
“A toast to Master Azarion!” The ignorant king held up a fresh flute. The princess and Azarion procured their own flutes and raised them together.
“Congratulations, Lumagus,” she brought the drink to her mouth, gaze averted.
Azarion nodded to her, “Much appreciated, Your Highness,” then to the king, “Your Grace.” He let the liquid touch his lips but did not drink it. Clarity is honesty.
“Elowen, show your enthusiasm! Celebrate your future husband properly!”
Princess Elowen and Azarion choked.
“Husband?” she coughed. Her gaze pierced Azarion before darting back to the king.
“Agreed, Master Azarion?” urged the king. Azarion bit his tongue.
The princess pushed herself from the table and stood. “Apologies, Lumagus. Father. I am fatigued and shall retire.” She curtsied stiffly and left.
“Elowen!” the king called after her. She did not return.
“Pardon my daughter. Feminine troubles, you know? We will reconvene for a luncheon tomorrow.”
But the luncheon was canceled. Azarion awoke to chaos.
“The princess is with child!” The servants gossiped loudly.
They overheard the medical staff after she collapsed in her quarters and the doctor discovered a child in her belly. Azarion was less surprised.
Selkie lover, indeed.
Princess Elowen was awake and responsive, but the fetus was killing her. Her halfbreed body could not support the high-frequency fae. None of the numerous concoctions she was prescribed aborted the child. Furthermore, after the king called for the heads of every male Selkie, their father-daughter relationship deteriorated.
The princess was bedridden and weeks passed before the king called on Azarion.
The king looked wrecked. His robes hung tragically from his deflated frame. “The doctors are useless. My daughter—” his voice strained against tears and his bloodshot eyes held Azarion’s. “She will not be disfigured. You must kill that… thing from the inside!”
“Your Grace, extracting Lume will not remove the fe—”
“That is an order!” the king bellowed.
Azarion bowed, “Yes, Your Grace.”
When he arrived at the princess’s inner chambers, the maids groused, opening the doors grudgingly. He sighed, approaching the bed.
“Your Highness?”
Elowen’s eyes blinked slowly, focusing on Azarion.
“How do you feel?”
“Like sleeping forever.” A corner of her mouth lifted weakly.
“May I examine you? Like so…” Azarion’s hands hovered above the lump in the blanket where her stomach protruded. She nodded.
He concentrated, sifting through physiological impulses to find the right wavelength. There! Lume thrummed within her, oscillating inconsistently from interference. Her essence was split; half mixing with the fetus, half keeping her alive. Unraveling would kill the fetus, but it may not even save her.
“Please,” whispered the princess, “save my baby.”
Perhaps if…
Azarion pushed her remaining life force into an empty ovum, using Lume from her bedside flowers to amplify it. The flowers wilted but the ovum pulsed. She should live long enough to see her baby and, theoretically, the dryadic energies within the ovum could be reborn from the earth if she’s buried.
Plus, the baby was the last of an eradicated race!
When Princess Elowen went into labor, the king commanded the medical staff to dispose of the child. Struggling with their consciences, they delivered the baby, then bathed and swaddled it. Azarion, who stood by, stopped them as they ran between mother and child.
“I will finish here,” he reassured them. They blinked, thanked him, and hurried out.
“Is…” Elowen’s voice was faint, lashes fluttering heavily, “my baby…?”
“Alive. Healthy,” Azarion assured.
She sighed, relieved. “His name—” she struggled; her breaths shallow, lips white. “—Kairius…”
The baby didn’t cry, so Azarion startled when he turned and saw it staring at him from a tiny casket.
“Kairius?” Azarion mused.
“Guhg!” replied Kairius.
Azarion watched the black-haired babe wriggle helplessly in his swaddle. “Ahggggg!” Kairius gurgled.
“Uncle,” Azarion corrected.
Outside the bed chamber, the servants grew anxious. “Master… Lumagus?”
“Be very quiet, Kairius,” Azarion hushed. The hinges on the casket squeaked closed. He exited with the coffin to ‘dispose of the child’. Servants were rushing this way and that, and the medical staff would be busy trying to resuscitate the princess. She would soon be buried in the royal cemetery near the coniferous forest.
Azarion bound Kairius to his body and a bundle of necessities to his sceptre, leaving the castle through the dungeons. The port was a mess, so Azarion and Kairius escaped the kingdom through the Kobold’s underground network. Kairius did not fuss and, as they traveled somewhere warmer, Azarion theorized about birth and rebirth. Professor Rulam was trapped, without dominion, inside his own decaying corpse. He needed a living body from a willing participant. Perhaps, in about seventeen years, a new body would be ready for him…
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