A Graveside Negotiation
T.S.Austen
6 min read
—‡—
Resurrection is a messy business, necromancy a thankless trade.
Dalmodo kept in mind these truths as he exited his muddy, unmarked heretic’s grave, now an oblong hole in the ground. Had he died in one piece, he might not have felt so bad for his resurrector. This necro-priestess, who was sweating from all her ritual dancing, despite the cold, had been a while putting him back together, he could tell. But such is drawing and quartering on charges of spreading so-called lies about the gods among his fellow seminarians.
You can hardly expect to piece a desecrated human body back together nearly as quickly as you can rip a whole one apart.
Dalmodo inspected his still-undressed body to make sure the effects of his dismemberment had been sufficiently reversed.
“Everything’s there, don’t worry,” insisted the necro-priestess, dabbing her brow. She was impatient and ready to go about her night. Understandably so. “All the fingers and toes.”
“And what about these—?” As politely as possible, Dalmodo indicated the rippling, golden sutures mapping what looked like rivers all over his skin.
“Scars. From all the ripping and breaking. What did you expect? The Lord of Sagevale had you tied to five horses because you were writing a book that claimed anyone may sing wards and blessings into Dōlian’s trees, not just the state-licensed priests. My trade may be illegal, punishable by death, but even I am not that stupid.”
“Right, but why are the scars—?”
“Gold, you mean? That’s my trademark. Throughout history, we necromancers have struggled to establish a recognizable artistic style, each for ourselves. Once you raise the dead, off they go, and no one can tell one artist’s work from another. Hard to build up a reputation. I have to make a living, after all, don’t I?”
“Of course,” said Dalmodo. “Branding, of course.” He added a laugh, as if that would help. He knew what was coming. Nervously, he kicked a stone into his grave with a gold-rippled foot.
And sure enough:
“Speaking of which,” said the necro-priestess. “Where did you say you burried the payment with you? I couldn’t find it when I dug you up.”
“Oh, right. That. Um, before I died, you told me you accept—?”
The necro-priestess groaned.
“I knew it. I just knew it. I told you I accept some forms of credit. But if you think you can swindle me—”
“No, no, of course not. I would never—”
“I took you out of that grave. I can put you right back.”
“I’ll pay. I said I would pay,” Dalmodo insisted. “Is a promise one of the forms of credit you accept?”
The necro-priestess anchored her fists on her hips and studied the empty grave behind him. Dalmodo had worried about this. He knew he couldn’t pay right away, and that when she found out, she very well might put him back in the ground.
He’d need to convince her fast. Just because he had already experienced pain worse than anything she could inflict, that didn’t mean he wanted to die again so soon.
Perhaps the matter of security would be his saving grace. Sunrise wasn’t far off. Sure, heretics weren’t buried in the main graveyard with the saved, but guards did come through the criminals’ yard every now and again to check for weepy mothers, remorseful fathers, and vengeful friends paying illegal respects to executed loved ones.
The necro-priestess threw up her arms and snorted in exasperation.
“Alright, what’s your promise?”
“Thank you,” sighed Dalmodo in relief. “Thank you.”
“Hurry up.”
“As you said, I was working on a book before I died. It’s very, very important book. People need to know the gods are generous with their gifts of priesthood, that those gifts belong to everyone. The divine energies suffuse all of creation—”
“What—is—your—promise?” the necro-priestess demanded.
“One of my friends hid a copy of my manuscript. Which means the Inquisitor didn’t burn all of them. He only thought he did. If I can finish my book and get it to one of the printers in the city, I will give one hundred percent of the profits to you.”
The necro-priestess stared at him for a while, shaking her head. Eventually, her terse frown loosened into a mocking smile.
“That’s why you wanted me to raise you? So you could finish your book?”
“I will be sending you money until the day I—well, for quite some time. Probably.”
With two fingers, the necro-priestess pinched the bridge of her nose. She exhaled a long, beleaguered sigh, patted her robes to ensure her relics, herbs, books, bones, clamps, waxed thread, and various sewing needles within them were all where they should be, then snatched her shovel from the mud.
“And here I thought you wanted revenge against your killers, like all the other ones do. I thought you were going to promise me Sagevale’s head, or something.”
“Oh, no, no, I harbor no ill will against him,” said Dalmodo, and he meant it. “You know, I feel peace about what happened to me. I really do. Changing the public’s perceptions about god takes time, especially in such traditional societies as our own. I intend to pray for my killers every day. Someone has to, after all.”
“For crying out loud,” the necro-priestess muttered.
“Someone will buy my book.”
“From now on, I’m demanding a deposit before execution,” she huffed. She stomped away, toward the woods.
“So, I’m free to go?” Dalmodo called after her.
“You had better send me money,” she hollered over her shoulder, “Or you’re going right back in the dirt.” And she disappeared among the misted trunks of hemlocks and elms.
He did feel bad. She seemed a goodhearted person, even if jaded. But forbidden books do sell, even if it takes a couple of years for their notoriety to accrue. Yes, Dalmodo was confident of that.
He smiled and scratched his head. He ought to go find a puddle or trough, check how much hair was left on his head. And then, after he found some clothes, he had work to do. At the time of his execution, he was in the middle of a chapter on the different chants required to bless oak trees versus maple. He intended to pick up right where he left off.
His work was important. The world would appreciate that—someday.
Written October, 2022