Turold tried to take it all in: that a faceless woman had brought a letter from beyond to grave to ask him to kill her. What arcane madness had Sir Otrygg dreamed up in the isolation of his apartment? And who was this woman, this sister who seemed both to protect him and encourage his doom? He began to question his sanity as he glimpsed her eyes—completely human ones—encased in the skull. Indeed, the rest of her seemed whole and untouched: the contour of legs and arms—even breasts—were clearly visible. So what was she?
He looked at the blade, resting precariously on the edge of the table. Letter or no letter, he refused to take it without a more compelling explanation. She seemed to sense his reluctance, and moved a step back into the shadows, the blue light only reaching an arm and a hand clenched tight.
“The letter wasn’t enough, was it? You want to know more?”
“He said you might indulge me,” Turold replied. “Whoever you are, whatever you’ve done, you can’t reasonably expect me to kill you in cold blood. What do you take me for?”
“An assassin,” she said, gently.
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you! I lived on the streets and fed myself through theft, and became quite good at it until Hildigrim took me in. But killing? You’ve got the wrong magician.”
“Yet Hildigrim said it was one of your gifts.”
“Then he lied,” Turold said, smacking the table. “He had no right to say that.”
“Like me, you don’t wish to be defined by who you were,” she said, drawing the hood tighter.
“Since you claim to know me so intimately, perhaps you could return the favor? Did he do this to you? Is that why he wants me to kill you? Couldn’t finish the job?”
“No! This has nothing…you’re quite mistaken.”
“Then enlighten me!”
She seemed to withdraw into herself, and for a moment, he feared she would bolt for the nearest window. Finally, she took a step into the light and lowered her hood. And there it was: her face, a perfect death’s-head skull, leered back at him. No flesh at all; only the eyes. His skin crawled as he had an inkling of what she meant by “I’m Sir Otrygg’s sister…or was, many years ago…”
“I died shortly after my eighteenth birthday; that is, Drifa died, his sister. I have no memory of this, or of her, beyond what he told me.”
“You’re dead? He…raised you?” he whispered.
“If you’re not an assassin, then I’m not his long-dead sister. I may have once been, but not anymore,” she said, her eyes flashing with impatience. “But he insisted, so I reluctantly went along.”
“Then who are you? What are you?”
“I only know this for certain: I woke up and felt my whole life slip away. It was close—I could almost see it—and then it was gone. When I looked in the mirror…” she said, breaking off for a moment, “I saw a monster. He said something went wrong, that I should have had skin, a face, his sister’s life. But try as he might, her visage never returned.”
Turold tried to understand how Sir Otrygg could have accomplished this. There were no spells for such dark and forbidden magic. Some had tried in ages’ past, but they had failed and were banned from the Order. He would have had to start from scratch, the work of many long years with the help of a dozen sorcerers and entire libraries of spellcraft…
Or a single volume. The Codex. Could it be—had he managed to translate its secrets, decode its spells? Use its magic to do what no astrologer ever could, or dared to imagine? But the simple question remained: why risk his career and reputation? Even if he had lost his sister, bringing her back wouldn’t be the same. How could he be sure that the woman who returned Drifa in anything but flesh and blood (and in this case, not even that)?
“He used the book? You saw him use it?” he asked.
She nodded. “That’s why he wanted it, to bring me back. It was his dream from his earliest days in the Council. He stopped at nothing to become Astrologer Royal; it was the only way to study its secrets.”
“And where is it? Did he destroy it, too?”
“Yes, the book is lost,” she said.
“You’re joking! But why?”
“For the same reason you have to kill me. He read too much. If I was his sister, I should have remained in the earth. Not here, not among people who will never accept me.”
“What did he read? What does the book say? Tell me!” he begged her, almost leaping over the table.
“For you, death,” she said, with an uncanny grimace. “And for anyone who reads it. It had to be shut. But too many of its words have been spoken, released into the world. He tried to silence them all. Only I remain, and as long as I exist, the book is open.”
“I don’t understand…he wants you to die because he made a mistake? But you’re alive, you still draw breath! As for your face, there are people we can consult, spells that can help you—”
“No!” she shrieked, drawing away. “I don’t want to look like her again. Or like anyone. Just send me away and let me sleep. It’s the only way.”
“That’s not good enough. I’m no murderer, I never was,” he insisted, trying to approach her. “I still don’t understand…why didn’t he kill you himself, if that’s what he wanted?”
“Because I still had to help him. We weren’t finished with our work, we needed a few more days…”
She paused, as if searching for the right words and rejecting those that came to her. He suddenly remembered her fear as she tugged at the window and ran for the door. Someone else had been there, someone sufficient to inflict terror into the undead.
“You were hiding when I entered the apartment. Why?” Turold asked.
“Yes…they came just before you. It’s how he died.”
“They? Someone killed him?”
“They didn’t need to. He only had to see who they were to know…it was too late. We were too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Wait—listen!” she said, slinking towards the window.
Turold strained his ears but heard nothing. The night was holding its breath.
“They’re close, I can hear them. You must go! Quickly, fulfill your vow!”
“I never promised to kill you. And I refuse to kill you now.”
“They can’t find me here, it’s our only chance. He knew I wouldn’t be safe. The only place I can hide from them is death!”
“Them? Who?” he demanded.
“Kill me!” she insisted, leaping over the table.
Instinctively, he took up the knife to defend himself, only to realize his mistake. Before he could drop it, she threw herself on top of the blade and impaled herself.
“See, an assassin after all,” she breathed, crumpling over him.
