Idris had never had the inclination nor the prompting to learn how to shape the aria so it harmed people. Magus Arundale had taught him basics, and the rest Idris had taught himself, conducting as much research as he could into useful, good things he could do with necromancy that would stop people from thinking he was evil and depraved. He found applications for thralls that were intriguing and innovative, rather than destructive. He realised how reductive that had been to his education, now.

  When the sun came up on the next day, Cressida found him kneeling on the floor of his adopted bedroom, sucking arias from a bowl of chestnuts.

  “Well,” was all she said, upon seeing the nut shrivel to dust and the appearance of the grey flame on Idris’s palm.

  “Quite,” he said, clenching his fist and letting the aria go. He was sweaty and aching, but he had managed what he had not before – consistent results.

  “Where did you learn that?”

  “Um...” It pained him to think of it. “Layton taught me.” He ran his tongue over the fake molar. “It is not magic I want to know.”

  The Queen settled on the edge of the bed, looking at the bowl of half-rotted nuts.

  “You made up your mind, then,” she said.

  It had been a debate for weeks. Idris had wanted to bring Layton in alive, if possible, and keep him captive. Almost everyone else wanted Lord Vonner dead. He had wondered if there was a way to save Layton’s life once the breastplate was destroyed; he wanted to keep his father close and well on the off chance that they might be able to reform him. After talking with Kurellan, though, Idris knew it was not possible. If anyone was going to kill Layton, it would be his son.

  “I see no other recourse,” Idris said quietly.

  “Kurellan already told me about yesterday. The hateful man is obsessed with ravens,” she said, in what she hoped was a bright tone. “Anyway, your luggage is here, with your soldiers. I wanted to know what you intend to do, today.”

  There was a swift knock at the door.

  “It’s me, sir,” said Lila’s voice.

  “Come in,” he called. She hurried in, saw the Queen, bowed low; she was out of breath and red-cheeked. “Whatever is the -”

  “Your mother is here,” Lila burst.

  “How?” said Cressida, standing, frowning.

  “I... I do not know, Majesty, begging your pardon, but her carriage just pulled up and -”

  “How did she know where we are?” said Cressida furiously, sweeping through the door.

  Idris did not move from his kneel. Lila watched him, a frantic air about her, waiting for instructions.

  “I will wear my good coat, Lila,” he said, “and my best boots, if you would be so kind.”

  “You aren’t going to -”

  “She is my mother,” he interrupted. “I will greet her as she expects to be greeted.”

  Lila pursed her lips, bowed once more and hurried out to fetch his court clothes.

  While he dressed, he was silent, and Lila did not offer her opinion. She made sure his coat was brushed down and his breeches uncreased, and that the prosthetic did not look false on his leg, and by the time they were done, it was clear that Lady Eremont was not taking ‘no’ for an answer; they could hear the commotion clearly, rising through the morning air.

  “How do I look?” Idris asked. Lila stood back, appraised him.

  “Like... like a necromancer, sir,” she said softly.

  Usually, Idris shuddered when she said that. Today, it felt appropriate. In his black coat, lined with olive green and embroidered in silver, he hoped it had the effect of showing his mother the damage she had done.

  “Good.” He held out his arm for her. “Let us go and see Mother, then.”

  The scene outside was charged with the frustration that diplomatic conversation tended to have. Cressida was in front of the carriage, standing imperiously in her armour, before a series of attendants and courtiers who wore the Eremont shawl. Behind her was Kurellan, his arms folded stiffly across his chest, and Riette, who had the pursed lips of a woman who was desperately trying to hold her tongue. Willard, who Idris had not expected to see, was holding Thistle, another addition that surprised Idris.

  They all turned when Idris and Lila walked out.

  “The Court Necromancer, Idris of Gleesdale,” said Lila, bowing to her superiors.

  “My thanks, Lila,” said Cressida, letting a sliver of warmth through for her.

  Just past Cressida was a woman that Idris had not seen for fifteen years.

  She looked, remarkably, the same. He supposed faintly that healer arias might do that to a person. Her hair, a fierier red than his own, was pulled into a twisted knot on the back of her head, covered with a nurse’s hood; her eyes were dark green, her skin pale white. Her clothes, always better than those of her underlings, were more ceremonial than usual – her nurse’s cloak was heavily embroidered with morning thistles on the lapels and hems, and her tunic and loose trousers were made of fine-woven cotton instead of the rougher threads of Marbury’s attire. Around her neck, she wore a vial held with a silver chain, and on her delicate hands were olive green gloves, matching the shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  Idris’s mouth went dry. His gloved hands felt cold. He forced his face to stay calm and still; he knew what was expected of him but he loathed to do it. The last time they had seen each other, he had been waist height to her, gripping his uncle’s hand tight as they waved her onto the carriage which would take her to the ship. She had waved, once. Obrin had blown a kiss, called that they would write and for Idris not to cry, and Idris had held his tears in until the carriage was out of sight. Haylan’s hand in Idris’s was firm and strong. They had thought that the Eremonts would be back before his tenth birthday.

  Now, he was just shy of his twenty-fourth.

  Without a word, Idris dipped his head to Lady Astridia Eremont.

  Lady Eremont did nothing but stare, wide-eyed, white-faced, her lips a thin, hard line. He wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she was trying to see an inch of the boy she had left behind in this young man that she did not know.

  “Sir Idris, Lady Eremont wants to make herself useful to our cause,” said Cressida in her most queenly tone. “I said if she wanted to, she should consult with you.”

  Idris looked his mother in the eye, his chest hurting.

  “Lady Eremont, an unexpected pleasure,” he said, bowing again. “I must apologise for my tardiness in greeting you. I did not think you would leave Temple Hill so soon after the unpleasantness there.”

  When he straightened up, there was, to Idris’s surprise, fury in his mother’s eyes.

  “You have done a lot of travelling,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I would understand if you want to freshen up inside before we talk. I will be ready to receive you at any time. But my companions have a lot to do, and Her Majesty is too busy to attend to us. Please, come inside.”

  Lady Eremont opened her mouth with a scornful look in her eyes, so Idris cut her off. He was done with the charade already; seeing her face made him hot.

  “I would very much like to avoid making a scene in the street, Mother,” he hissed.

  She clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath and nodded.

  “I will come in,” she said.

  “Apologise to my friends, please.”

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  “Do not presume -”

  “We are all tired,” said Cressida diplomatically. “Lady Eremont, please. There is breakfast inside and I am sure you are hungry.”

  Lady Eremont stepped down from the carriage and swept past Idris into the tavern. Idris took a deep, steadying breath; Willard cast him a pitying glance.

  “Ey, you want your cat?” he said.

  “Yes, actually. What is he doing here?”

  “He hitched a ride on the war-cart in my cloak, apparently,” said Riette, her voice quiet. “I think he found the prospect of staying home alone quite intolerable.”

  Thistle purred and nibbled Idris’s gloved finger as Willard relocated him.

  “Idris, you do not have to -” Cressida began, but Idris shook his head and cradled Thistle.

  “I do. Please give us a little space. It might get ugly.” He pursed his lips, let Thistle up onto his shoulders. “I thank you all for trying to protect me,” he said.

  “Some mother,” muttered Kurellan, turning on his heel and wandering into town.

  Idris could not help but agree. At least with Thistle’s warm comfort on his shoulders, he had an ally.

  “I can accompany you,” said Riette, putting her hand on her sword hilt.

  “I do not need a bodyguard, my lady, although I appreciate the offer. My mother knows better than to try and harm me.”

  He returned to the tavern alone, unsure what he was going to say or how to begin the conversation. So much had happened in the last few months. His whole perception of her and her actions was different. She was a liar and a coward, unfeeling towards her only child, unconcerned about his welfare or troubles. In some ways, she was just as bad as Layton, and everyone had seen how that had turned out.

  His mother stood in the hallway, without her attendants and nobility. The more Idris looked at her, the less he recognised her. It was not that his mother had ever been soft and gentle – she was a workhorse who valued efficiency and education – but the memories he had of her were mostly pleasant. The healer who stood in front of him was pink-cheeked with anger, her shoulders stiff, bristling resentment in her gaze, her back rod-straight from serving in royal palaces and noble homes in a different culture.

  Before Idris could even ask if she had got his letter, she spoke.

  “How dare you call me ‘Lady Eremont’ and make demands of me in front of Her Majesty?” she said.

  “How - “ Idris was dumbstruck. His whole torso ached suddenly. All these years and all she was concerned about was social standing? Not how he was, not a hug, not an apology? “How dare I?” he said, with a scornful laugh, placing a hand on his chest. “How dare I? You – you want to talk about civility?”

  “I am your mother,” she spat.

  “You could have fooled me,” he said, clenching his teeth.

  It was silent, then. She pulled down her hood, glared fiercely at him, her chest heaving. Thistle hissed, digging his claws into Idris’s shoulder; Idris let him down so he could run beneath a table.

  “You are my mother when it suits you, do not start waving that flag around like it means something,” said Idris scornfully. “An excellent fifteen years of mothering you have done from halfway across the ocean -”

  “If your uncle had not -”

  “My uncle,” he said, shaking with anger and tears, now, both things he did not want, “did everything you should have done. He stood beside me. He raised me. He picked me up off the ground and rode me to healers I should have had access to as the heir of Temple Hill but that I did not, because you did not have the decency – the self-respect – to come back here and tell me the truth that I deserved. I will not have you speak of him with hatred in your voice like he did wrong, like he was the worst of the two of you. Uncle Haylan was my mother and my father because you deprived me of both, and you know it, because not once have you replied to a single letter I have sent you, begging for a drop of ink to show me that you were still alive.”

  Her face paled again, but Idris was not done.

  “Why should I not call you Eremont? It is a name that was taken from me because of you, because you did not come home and do the decent thing and claim me, because you are ashamed of me. Well, take a good look. It might be the last look you ever get. I am a man and I am certainly old enough for my father – my real father – to put his hands around my neck and try to rip my head off. Next week he might accomplish it. I can show you the scars he left but it makes no difference because this is hurt you cannot fix. I doubt you will shed a single tear if I walk out there tomorrow and Layton blasts me into red mist. Do not speak to me. Do not come near me. I do not want your apologies, your explanations, your excuses. I want you to do what you have done for my entire life and leave me alone. I have not needed you, and if I did, it did not matter.”

  Lady Eremont’s face was tight, controlled, but the tell-tale redness of her eyes showed Idris how close she was to tears. “I kept it from you so that you would be -”

  “Protected? I am at war with my father. Some protection. Or do you want to see what your secrecy did to my leg?”

  Lady Eremont sucked her cheeks. For the first time, she looked ashamed.

  “If you really want to help, go back to Temple Hill,” said Idris. “And leave me be. Or better yet, go back to the Imperial Kingdom. Is Obrin still there? Did you tell him you were coming?”

  “Your father -”

  “He is not my father and I resent the fact that you used him, too,” Idris spat. “It is not his fault that you lay with a necromancer when he whispered pretty words in your ear. He is not the one in the wrong and he deserves better. Thistle, here.”

  The cat slunk back over to him, his ears flat against his head as he looked at Lady Eremont. She gave Thistle a sulky look and did not turn back to Idris. Her silence, her reluctance, pained him more than anything else.

  “You could have at least come for Haylan’s funeral. The funeral I was not permitted to attend, on account of being a necromancer,” he said, with finality, and he walked away.

  “They...”

  Idris paused, took a deep breath. His mother’s voice was gentle, this time.

  “They did not let you see where they buried him?” she said.

  “Why would they?” he said, turning back. “I am not to be trusted. Haylan specifically requested it. The temptation was too great, apparently. Like I would subject him to...”

  He stopped; the thought was the most terrible image he had ever conjured.

  “Ask Her Majesty,” he said. “She knows.”

  He went back to his bedroom.

  Once there, he gathered his cat in his arms and sobbed into his warm fur, while Thistle purred and licked his cheeks.

  He thought of the weeks before Uncle Haylan’s death. Haylan deteriorated quickly. The man Idris had known – kind, gentle, strong, wise – disintegrated before his eyes. His uncle lay in the room that became Lila’s, coughing hard, pale and thin, and Idris could do nothing. Nothing Haylan or the other healers could do was helping; the death aria got louder every day, weaving through Idris’s days and nights, reminding him of the fragility of his only protector and friend, taunting him about the wrongness of his blood. He wrote frantic letters to his mother, begging her to come home and help her brother, apologising for unknown offences on the chance that she was staying away because she was angry or upset, promising her everything if she would jump on a ship and come home right away.

  There was silence, then, too.

  On the day of the funeral, knowing Uncle Haylan’s final wish, Idris sat alone in his parlour, dressed in the mourning clothes he would have worn to the procession, and sobbed and drank wine so that he could not feel the death aria that lingered in the next-door room, waiting to hear if Lady Eremont had come to the funeral, expecting a letter at any time.

  And there was none.

  The loneliness that day and the days that followed was paralysing, like a heavy chain on his limbs that held him to his chair. The idea that somewhere his mother was reading his letters and choosing to ignore them was bitter and poisonous. He thought he might die alone in his rooms, stinking of wine that kept that music at bay, already dressed for his own funeral. He lay in bed, refusing any help Cressida sent, so despondent that she had to push sleeping nettle into his mouth to coax him to wash and dress. Lila came days after. She and Cressida did everything his mother would not.

  Idris wished he had the strength to confront Lady Eremont. He wanted to make her tell him everything, from his conception to her arrival at Obsidian Lake, but he was tired and hurting and it mattered very little. Her actions had told him everything.

  It was quiet downstairs when Cressida returned. She settled beside Idris on the bed, scratched Thistle between the ears and sighed.

  “I wish I could stop crying at everything,” Idris said, wiping his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

  “You have always been a sensitive soul, Rissy.” Cressida squeezed his wrist. “It is the healer blood in you, I think. If it makes you feel any better, Lady Eremont was crying when she left the building.”

  “It does not.”

  “I do not know what she expected,” said the Queen mildly. “How else were you meant to react? Ooh, you should have seen her face when she gave Lila an order and Lila walked right past her like she did not exist. Like curdled milk.”

  Idris stifled a laugh, and Cressida grinned and nudged him on the thigh.

  “Lila does enjoy making powerful enemies,” he said.

  “She took a special satisfaction in that one, I think.” She thought for a moment. “Let us make you your own family crest, once this is done.”

  Idris frowned, shook his head. “There is no sense in having a family crest without a family name.”

  Cressida shrugged. “You can have any name you want, Idris.”

  “I want something of my own. I do not want to take a name from anyone who does not love me and will not protect me.”

  “My father was going to adopt you, you know,” she said.

  Idris ran his tongue over his fake tooth.

  “He and your uncle were talking about it when my father died. The paperwork was mostly drawn up. They swore me to secrecy.” She pursed her lips. “It would only need a few changes and my seal to be binding. If you wanted to be a Naga, Idris… I would accept you as my brother tomorrow.”

  “I wish my father would come home,” he whispered, and then, “I mean Obrin. I wish…”

  “Have you written to him?”

  “No. I did not know how to begin that letter. ‘I hope this letter reaches you well, but I found out a crazy necromancer is my actual father, so you no longer need to pretend that it is you.’” Idris tutted. “I do not want to alienate him further. He is likely already embarrassed.” He sighed. “Where did she go?”

  “To her carriage. I think she is looking for lodgings in town.”

  “Stubborn woman.”

  “Well, you got it from somewhere, Rissy.”

  “Cress, do you… do you remember your mother?” he said.

  Cressida smiled joyously. While it was a topic they hardly ever broached, Idris knew that her feelings about her mother’s passing had long ago been reconciled.

  “Oh, I do. She would have slapped your mother silly to hear her speak so.”

  “I would have liked to meet her.”

  “And she you. Although I fear she would have spoiled you rotten, like I do.” She sighed. “Kurellan wants orders, so at your next convenience, Idris…”

  “Of course. Thank you, Cress.”

  He wondered, suddenly, what had been in the crate his mother had left him.