Horse’s death danced down her veins, swirled through her like tainted blood. Lore channeled the Mortem quickly through her system, pushing it through every vein like a half-frozen winter stream, fighting against her flagging heartbeat, her gone-shallow breath. Death magic circled her every organ, pausing them all, like frost on a bud at the edge of spring.
This was the part that was supposed to make you live longer, freezing your insides so they moved slower in time, so the years touched you more gently. Those who took poison couldn’t channel the death it brought to them back out, couldn’t make it do anything but curdle them into twisted immortality as it awakened the dormant Mortem in their bodies. To channel Mortem, you had to embrace death like a lover and hope it let you go, and hardly anyone ever got that far, not on purpose.
At least, that’s what Lore assumed. She’d been born with this. Born with death beside her like a shadow.
Slowly, slowly, Lore pushed the Mortem she’d channeled through herself back to her hands, like gathering fistfuls of black thread. Then she thrust all the death she’d taken back out.
Mortem arced from her fingers, death eager for a new home, and Lore had just enough presence of mind to direct it to a flower bed in the center of the road, already browned and limp from an unseasonable lack of rain. The blooms withered and dropped, the roots that held them up going dead and brittle, all of it turning gray. More Mortem cut into the rock, sending cracks spiderwebbing beneath scrambling feet. It didn’t open into a sinkhole, thank every god dead or dying, but still screams rose into the air.
Her heart seized in her chest, just once, tithing a beat. The instinct that had seized her ebbed away, leaving only fear and panic and disgust.
And with a grunting, pained sound, Horse stood up.
CHAPTER THREE
Death, for mortals, is inviolable: Any who would raise a body from the dead is guilty of the worst heresy and must be executed, so they may suffer forever in their own hell.
—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 1
Cedric had been a year older than Lore, fourteen and worldly as a prince for it. The son of a runner on Val and Mari’s team, he’d been the only child Lore spent much time around, in those months after Mari found her. Warm and kind, with wide brown eyes and messy hair that was always falling in his face. He’d taught her to swim down by the docks.
Then he got run down by a bloodcoat’s horse during a raid.
His body was a horror. Lore remembered it in vivid detail. Things sunken where they shouldn’t be, other things sticking up, making tents of torn flesh and valleys of mashed bone and organ. But his face had been untouched, those brown eyes staring into the sky as if transfixed.
She hadn’t thought. She just acted, gave in to instinct. Lore had wound Cedric’s death around her fingers like the games of cat’s cradle he’d taught her to play, spun it out of him and into her. She’d channeled it through her body and sent it down into the rock, down to where the roots of trampled grasses strove toward the sun, planting his death in the earth instead of in his body.
And he’d sat up. There’d been a terrible sound when he did—nothing within him was where it was supposed to be, and all of it squished—but he’d sat up, then turned to look at her. His eyes weren’t brown anymore. They were black, without iris or pupil.
It was clear he wasn’t going to do anything until she told him to; he was an automaton that needed winding up, needed direction. So she’d taken the ball of string they used for cat’s cradle from her pocket. “Play with me.”
That was how Val found them. A girl and a dead boy with thread woven through their fingers, acting as though nothing was amiss.
It was honestly astonishing that Val hadn’t killed her then. After seeing what she was. What she could do.
And it was with that memory flashing through her head that Lore watched Horse rise from the ground, clearly dead and yet moving. Animals were different from people, apparently. She hadn’t had to tell Horse what to do.
“Shit.” It came out of her mouth thin and breathy; Lore’s legs felt like limp pieces of string, the death she’d channeled manifesting in numb limbs and a straw-thin throat. She fell to her knees, the cold tip of the bloodcoat’s bayonet slipping away from her neck with a slight scratch, not deep enough to draw blood. “Shit on the Citadel Wall.”
For a second, Lore thought her dear-bought distraction was pointless—the bloodcoats still held her and Jean-Paul, not sparing so much as a glance for the horse rising from the dead in the center of the market square. She’d given in, succumbed to the call of Mortem, and for what?
A broken, furious sound wrenched from her mouth.
The bloodcoat holding her arms tried to haul her back up, but then he caught a look at her eyes, still death-white and opaque. Lore watched him take in her blackened veins and corpse-like fingers, watched the color slowly drain from his face as he put together what it all meant. The guard retreated until his spine met brick, his hands springing open to release her. “Bleeding God save us,” he muttered in a tone of quick-rising panic. “Bleeding God save us!”
That was more like it.
The other bloodcoats finally noticed the undead livestock situation. Curly Mustache slashed at the animal’s now-fully-risen corpse, but Horse didn’t mind, being already dead. If anything, he seemed curious, nuzzling at his gore-caked shoulder with a bloody nose, neck hanging open like a second mouth. The long lashes around his opaque eyes fluttered, dislodging a fly that had landed there.
“Sorry, Horse,” Lore mumbled, then heaved up her coffee on the cobblestones.
When she looked up, Curly Mustache was staring at her, at all the ways channeling Mortem had made her monstrous, his face gone nearly as pale as her own.
“Heresy,” he said, voice hoarse from shouting. “Evil!”
“Melodrama.” Lore’s lips felt numb, and so did the rest of her.
Chaos erupted then, as if time had suspended for the few seconds after Lore raised Horse from the dead and now had returned to normal. Curly Mustache brandished his bayonet, bellowing for backup, ordering his company to surround the horse and apprehend the deathwitch.
It took Lore a moment to realize that was her. Deathwitch was what they’d called necromancers, back before everyone who could channel that much Mortem had been executed or sent to the Burnt Isles. Now there was only her. A deathwitch alone.
Channeling Mortem left her fingers waxy and pale, her skin nearly translucent, the tracery of her sluggish veins an easy map against her skin—she looked worse than a revenant, which was really saying something. Strands of death tied her to Horse, a dark braid that could be seen only from the corner of her eye, when she didn’t look directly at it.