“I shall endeavor to be so,” Nezael said, letting his lord feel his throat as he spoke. Another test. Magic carried across the body when cast and though Nezael knew he had dispelled it from his own fingers, many sorcerers forgot to let it go from their voice as well. If not released, the magic could continue unregulated through speech alone and form a mind of its own. “All of my success today has been because of you, my Lord, so it is only apt I thank you for this and more.”
“Mm.” Carrow released him. “You’ve done exceptionally well this year.” He swept to Nezael’s side to lean on the ritual slab they’d been using as a desk and allowed Nezael to stand. His eyes tracked Nezael’s every move and Nezael studied him the same.
His lord was a tall man with broad shoulders and long elegant limbs which Nezael could have watched for days as they weaved magic. Never a movement out of place; he truly deserved the title of Great Sorcerer. Always dressed in the finest clothes one could weave on magic alone with protective enchantments imbedded into the fabric. Today, he wore his smokey gray coat with fur lining the inside with his usual black tunic, breeches, and boots spelled to glide on air if he wished when he walked. The coat was trimmed in glimmering gold that hid all manner of counter spells within. Not a seam was out of place. The muted colors never distracted from his eyes shining like ambers and from his vibrant honey brown waves he kept brushed back so it trickled down around his neck.
Nezael wasn’t quite as perfect or finely put together as his lord. While Carrow was tall and commanded a room on presence alone, Nezael was of middling height and a shrinking violet in comparison. He’d stopped growing a head shorter than his lord and wouldn’t bulk up with weight despite attempts otherwise. Carrow had once said sometimes magic was the culprit. Given how young Nezael had been when he began weaving his own spells, it likely curbed much of his growth to further augment his magic instead. Although Carrow never expressed regret over this because steeping Nezael in magic while he was young made him worthy to be the apprentice he was trained to be.
In contrast to his lord’s honey brown locks, Nezael’s hair was a soft black with texture that reminded him of feathers. His eyes were softer than Carrow’s sharp stare and were a subdued cherry compared to the brilliance of his amber. He wore simple tunics and breeches from town, not yet been given his own garments woven from magic. Maybe soon, when Carrow felt Nezael was a true necromancer like him.
It had to be soon given the way Carrow gazed at him with all the hunger of having an eager student and all the delight in the world of that said student having passed one of the most fragile tests.
Nezael couldn’t help the pride swelling in his chest. It must have shown. Carrow’s eyes darted to his and Nezael forced himself to keep eye contact. “Yes, my Lord?”
Carrow shook his head, his smile so warm and inviting, Nezael could have stared at it all day to memorize it for as long as he could. “Oh, naught is amiss, my blossom.” Carrow reached out and cupped Nezael’s face in his hands. “Isabella wanted your assistance once you were done in here. I have meetings to attend with visitors coming in, so do right by her and please, stay out of sight, hm?”
“Of course.” Nezael smiled and his whole body warmed when Carrow pressed his lips to Nezael’s forehead again. “Are many coming this time?”
“Enough to keep me wary.” He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Perhaps soon we’ll be able to do more than simply hide. See to Isabella now. I must prepare.”
Carrow headed out of the hall without another warm word and the corvid took flight after him. The creature was a magical marvel on its own; Carrow could see through its eyes and even control its movements if he wanted to. Nezael had a lot more to learn before he could even think to try that. He peered up at his own tiny bird. It had nestled itself against the crook in the rafters, looking right at home.
“Stay wherever you wish,” he said gently. The bird cocked its head toward him. “My home is yours forevermore.” He blew it a gentle kiss, letting magic carry the gesture farther, and was delighted when the bird shuffled unseen feathers in reply.
Hopefully, it felt as at home as Nezael did and he trekked after his lord.
Nezael didn’t know how long he’d been at the tower—or even his own age, if he was honest—but it had been his home for as long as he could remember. There were snapshots of a life before the tower, but they were silent and fuzzy with nothing to say about them but vague shapes and ideas. Nezael ignored them. What did the past matter when he was here now? With a Lord who smiled at him so? With magic thrumming through his body, wanting to help the world change? And who could grant him the ability but his one and only lord?
As such, this tower hidden past the forest full of brambles and thorns was his home. Stone walls fortified with latent magic, windows which creaked when opened (if they even could be), and drafts aplenty ghosted through hallways covered in mismatched tapestries to stave off the long winters. Rugs of all kinds covered the floors, each one treaded on for years before and would still be around years later, creating a splash of muted colors across the halls. Lord Carrow never quite made the place homey—he likely hadn’t intended to spend so long here—but Nezael had done his best to bring life to it once he saw how the town south past the brambles looked.
There, the interiors were warm, with golden hues from the windows always lighting the rich warmth of the wood. Colors aplenty were draped across barren walls in patterned fabrics and Nezael loved it all. It reminded him of life and he wanted it here too. Sure, his attempts were paltry at best, relying on what little he received from selling potions in the marketplace during the summer, but it let him enjoy the tower more. He’d even hung bushels of dried flowers from the wooden beams, their muted shades the perfect pop of color most hallways needed, and bought old and worn tapestries from merchants to give it second life on their walls. This way, they had colors among the cold drafty hallways. Though his lord never quite complimented the frivolous change, Nezael had caught him smiling at everything more than once.
Nezael turned into the spiral stairwell leading to Isabella’s workroom. It was located in the lowest room the tower had to offer so that if one of her potions met an unfortunate end, the rest of the tower would be spared.
Isabella had agreed with adding more colors to the tower so much, that she’d decked out her workroom in all the shades she could gather. Bright, gaudy cloth that never seemed to dull went across any wall she wasn’t using. Those that weren’t covered had honeycomb shaped shelves made of wood fixed to them, the wood made of soft, golden shades. Each cubby was filled with jars housing all manner and color of herbs. The center of the room contained her table with a cauldron and burner, various glass measuring instruments, stone pestles, and even her bronze scales. The floor was covered in rugs crisscrossing on top of one another, each one soft on her skeletal feet. Her bed was pushed into one corner, draped in as many colors as the floor and walls, and she’d hung up a floral printed tapestry to act as canopy over her bed. All the pops of colors were dear to Isabella, what she called memories of her excursions to the town marketplace with Nezael by her side.
Isabella herself was dressed in thick fabrics as vibrant as her personality. She always kept a shawl wrapped around her head to protect her polished skull, tucking it in expertly every time, and wore long robes to hide the fragility of her bones within. She wrapped her skeletal fingers in strips of fabric that differed in color from one finger to the next and on top of that, she wore jeweled rings enchanted to protect her hands. Nezael didn’t know how old she was (and he learned very quickly it was a rude question) and had no idea how long she’d been Lord Carrow’s skeletal potions master, but Carrow’s magic within her bones was as strong as ever, woven so precisely, it was as though she still maintained the fluidity of her once muscles.
She looked up from her measuring beaker as Nezael slipped past the curtain in the doorway. The room always had an air of incense and herbs Isabella herself could no longer smell, but to Nezael, it smelled like home.
Though Isabella had no face, as was the case of all the raised skeletons, Nezael still felt the warmth of a smile as she gazed at him.
“I see you’re about and smiling,” she said, her voice oscillating against the magic in her skull. She never knew if it was really how her voice had sounded in life, but Nezael liked it for what it was. It had a strange kind of cadence he adored. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this smile, my little lord?”
Nezael came up to her table and let the smile stretch. “I raised the bird! None of the bones cracked once and I really did it this time.”
Bones pushed against Nezael’s leg and he glanced down. The cat he had raised earlier this year rubbed against him like it always did when he visited Isabella. He gently bent down and massaged its forehead with his finger. A glint of magic reacted, reinvigorating the cat, and it sauntered back to the bed where it must have been napping before he came in.
Isabella clapped her hands. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you mastered a bird! Our Lord must have been so ecstatic. Why, that must have been him I heard dancing across the floor above.”
Sarcasm dripped from her voice and Nezael bit back his snicker. Lord Carrow was indeed hard to impress and held many of his emotions close to his chest.
“He was happy,” Nezael said and left it at that as the ghost of the kiss fluttered across his skin. “As much as he’s ever happy, I suppose. He told me you needed my help?”
Isabella paused, tilting her head like she was confused, and then chuckled. “Oh dear. I was fussing and he must have heard me. Well, a bored little lord such as thee needs distractions, I suppose.” She set her beaker down and shuffled past him, the aroma of spice and herbs trailing in her wake as it cascaded off her robes, and he followed her to the honeycomb shelves. She trailed a boney finger across the contents until she found the jar she searched for and wiggled it free.
Empty, but the lingering magic inside from the herbs that once was made the glass shimmer. Nezael took it and read the label. “Vistarium herbs?”
“Yes, they grow very precariously and are even more precarious to gather.” Isabella returned to her table and pulled a tome of herbs out from her pile of books. She never quite treated her books with the same reverence as her herbs, but then again, she likely had all the pages memorized. This was purely for Nezael’s benefit.
She flipped through the thick vellum pages until she reached the center. On one side of the spread, there was a carefully rendered sketch of the plant and herb in question, and on the other, the list of potions to be made with such a plant.
“It absorbs magic,” Isabella explained, too impatient to wait for Nezael to read the entire thing. “Given how late it is in the year, it’s risky for me to search for the plant on my own. It’d take what scant power I have left.” Without magic, skeletons ceased being able to move. Dangerous for her when her magic was at its thinnest so close to winter. “All our wards use these herbs as a base to protect us from any strange spells used against us and our lord has been going through it like it’s going out of style.” She tilted her head toward Nezael in what he construed as a mischievous grin. “You up for fetching me some more? I do know how you adore walks outside.”
Even if sometimes Lord Carrow wished Nezael never left at all. Nezael smiled all the same and nodded. “Of course.” He giggled as Isabella leaned forward and bumped her bony cheek against his. Her magic tickled across his skin, reminding him of a kiss on the cheek, and she withdrew to gather supplies for him.
Normally, she’d accompany him on forest excursions and sometimes to the marketplace in town, but given Carrow was meeting with others today, she probably had her hands full on a truth serum to keep their guests truthful. It was simmering in her cauldron if Nezael had to guess; it always smelled like roses. There were too many who wanted their lord dead, so the serum was a requirement.
Nezael didn’t mind heading out alone. Once Isabella had given him basic information for finding the herb (it made magic thin when it grew and she described how the petals were a golden yellow in bloom) and saddled him with a cloth bag and jar, he was back up the stairs to get dressed for the trek. If it was summer, he would have gone as he was—loose tunic and leggings, even foregone shoes completely—but it was closing in on winter and he needed more layering than that.
On went the thicker tunic, the cloak lined in dark fur, his thicker leather boots, and he remembered his dagger. Usually used for rituals, but it came in handy for cutting herbs and also protection. Although he hadn’t had to protect himself. Yet. His lord always reminded him to be careful and having it was surely better than not.
Nezael headed out into the noon sunshine and peered up at his home. Their tower was a solid brick and stone building hidden in the middle of the woods. It was the color of a tree’s bark, the bricks light and dark with wards hidden within, and the windows absorbed the sunlight instead of reflecting it. Vines slithered up the front and, in the spring and summer, blossomed so many different flowers Isabella collected for potions. Now, they were withered and dormant. Instead, what bloomed now was a line of razor-sharp bushes across the front gardens. Always gave late autumn flowers which fell off and was collected at the first snowfall. Past them were walls constructed to protect the tower within should anyone attempt to invade. It made the place a kind of sanctum, in a way.
Magic was warm in the walls, each one carefully warded, and as Nezael passed each one, the power grew weaker and weaker until he’d stepped outside the spells altogether.
It was always a shock to the system. Once suddenly so invited and warm, only to be deposited in the cold and the sudden realization he was alone. Looking back, one would hardly guess the tower was there at all. It was perfectly obscured beyond the trees, the brambles and thorns, and even the walls made it look like a ruin long since plundered. Safe in all regards in its bubble of protection.
Being out here, however, meant being away from that very same protection and Nezael tightened his focus. Though the forest this deep was seldom traveled, it did Nezael no good to walk as though entranced by a dream. Magic made the place grow too wild to tend safely, keeping the travelers at the path, but sometimes people wandered in. Those usually became skeletons under Carrow’s lone will. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often enough to arouse suspicion. Locals said the forest was haunted, so the only ones who did get caught were travelers no one would miss.
