The piling was empty.

  Coradiel was certain of it. He’d circled the massive support a dozen times now. Unfriendly eyes stared at him as he ran a hand over the grimy rock that held the Irespan up. Nearly a hundred paces around, it held plenty of secret hiding spots, and yet there was no sign of Arlo. No body, no urn, nothing.

  Was he supposed to leave the rest of the money first? That didn’t seem right. If he did that, what would stop the thief from stealing the gold and never returning Arlo to him? No, that wasn’t the proper order at all.

  He could only assume the stranger failed. Or he’d been ripped off. Exhaustion filled his body — he hadn’t slept in twenty four hours. But he wasn’t done. A night of study, a night of work had opened up a new avenue to him. The name of a psychopomp, a servant of Pharasma. This one was often at odds with their mistress.

  He just needed a mage to contact them. Finding one would be much easier than finding a rogue — the Stone of the Seers was the predominant magic school in Magnimar. Surely someone there would know the magic he needed.

  Shivering in the morning chill of Underbridge, Coradiel rushed to the checkpoint out of the district. He passed with ease — by now, he was a known visitor. From there, it was simple to get to the Keystone district.

  In the northeast corner of the district, a crystal pure spring sat within delicate gardens cared for by wizards and oracles. The Stone of the Seers sat before the gardens, a stony facade that protected the precious waters from harm.

  The Seerspring was not Coradiel’s concern. Somewhere within the school, a teacher, a master, someone must be able to cast spells of a tier high enough to allow him to speak with Saloc.

  Mages wandered with purpose unknown. Oracles chanted prayers, wizards cast prestidigitations. The world went on.

  And a guard barred Coradiel’s entrance to the school.

  “Halt. Only those with business within the Stone of the Seers may enter,” the elven woman said. Coradiel could feel the power in the hand she held to stop him — not malicious, but enough to make him think twice about approaching.

  “I am looking to hire a mage to cast a spell for me,” Coradiel said, stopping a good metre from her. “I can pay for the services, but I need a master’s assistance.”

  The elf held up her hand and whispered something into a silver bangle. She nodded a moment later, and returned to staring at Coradiel.

  “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Shortly” turned into an hour’s wait. Coradiel’s eyes drooped heavily. Every few minutes, he started, fighting off the urge to fall asleep. But it mattered little — the stress of the past day was inexorable, and he was crashing hard.

  “Lord Arthien! Have you come at last to test your intellect and become a wizard?”

  Coradiel startled again. Bleary eyes opened, taking in an aged man. Aldo Corvus, one of the head mages responsible for recruiting promising talent. And an old friend of his father’s.

  Coradiel blinked slowly, his head shaking. At least, he hoped it was shaking.

  “I need to contact someone,” he said. “A psychopomp named Saloc.”

  “An extraplanar contact?” Aldo shook his head. “Those are beyond dangerous, Lord Arthien. There aren’t many who can manage that kind of magic, and those who can are smart enough not to attempt it.”

  “I can pay for the casting. I just… please. I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t of the utmost importance. I need a question answered.”

  Aldo sighed. Motioning for the guard to step aside, he turned toward the school. Coradiel hurried after him, almost tripping in his haste.

  “What you ask is dangerous,” the mage reiterated. “There is the risk that the caster will be left a dullard by the mere presence of the one you seek. Even if they are not, the question you ask must be worded properly. More often than not, you will annoy the one you ask; favours are ill-advised. Their answers will always be a single word, no more, no less, and you will never know if they are deceitful or not.”

  They passed through a wide hall. Students flowed around them, many clutching impossibly heavy tomes in their arms. How wizards were not stronger was beyond Coradiel; if the look of their books was anything to go by, most mages should have incredible upper body strength.

  The two entered a room with a single desk and a floor covered in chalk dust. Aldo waved a hand, and a chair appeared beside the desk. Coradiel sat gratefully, listening to the door close behind him. Aldo stepped around the desk and lowered himself into his seat with a groan. Steepling his hands, the mage studied Coradiel.

  “You have lost something.”

  “Someone,” Coradiel corrected.

  “You wish to bring them back, but are uncertain if they are free to do so.”

  Coradiel was beyond being surprised by the wizard. Aldo was a master of divinations, and an expert at reading people. He could direct entire conversations with little input from his partner. It had always annoyed Coradiel, the way the mage seemed to know what he would say before he said it. Now, with his exhausted state, the paladin was glad for any aid in carrying the conversation.

  “This person is beyond important to you. I never thought I’d see the day you found someone to truly cherish.” Aldo held up a hand, forestalling Coradiel’s complaint. “You praise them. You worship them, even. But you do not cherish their beings. You do not love them. This one is different.”

  “He’s an amurrun. A catfolk.” Coradiel hesitated, not sure how much he should reveal. How much was safe to reveal. “We have travelled together for a few weeks now. He is… standoffish. Insecure. He is scared of his own body, his own pleasure. I…” He swallowed tightly, blinking away tears. “I was trying to teach him to let go. To be true to himself.”

  “He went against the Pharasmins. He must have,” Aldo said. “You would have turned to them for aid if not. They would know the state of his soul better than anyone I could contact.”

  “The being I wish to speak with… it is said he looks out for souls unjustly judged. Arlo has committed no crime, yet he pays for one. I believe Saloc will be sympathetic.”

  “Believe? Or hope?” Aldo sighed, pulling out a ledger. He opened an inkwell, making some figures in a row. “I have the spell you need. I can prepare it today, and we may cast it. I can ask a being three questions. But I must know the questions beforehand, and they must be worded such that the being we seek can answer properly.”

  “Will he-”

  Aldo held up a hand. He scrawled something, and passed the book to Coradiel.

  “These are our rates. A hundred gold sail charge for the school. Six hundred for my expertise. And an extra three hundred for the risks involved.” The mage turned the book around again once Coradiel had verified the numbers. “That is to say nothing of the costs of resurrecting a soul. I know you donated your family’s wealth to Cayden Cailean. I am afraid you will not be able to afford both services. One way or another, you will be disappointed. Even the Lucky Drunk does not work for charity.”

  “I understand,” Coradiel said quietly. “I have the money. In gold sails.”

  Pulling out a sack from Arlo’s bag, the paladin set it on a scale. Aldo added a set of weights to the other side.

  “I will not ask where you got the funds,” he said a moment later. “I know you to be an honourable man, and would not wish to accuse you of breaking your oaths. If you wish to go through with this, then we will begin. I will have your questions now, and we will work them into the proper format.”

  Pulling out a fresh paper, Aldo waited for Coradiel to speak. It took a moment to get his foggy brain in gear.

  “Is Arlo Green’s soul free to return? Will…” Blinking away tears, Coradiel cleared his throat. “Will Saloc permit his soul to return?”

  “And right there, we have a duality,” Aldo interrupted. “If the soul is free to return, Saloc will answer that he will permit the soul to return. If the soul is not free, Saloc will answer whether he will permit the soul to return regardless. The state of Arlo Green’s soul is a nonfactor in this moment.”

  Coradiel’s eyes closed. He took a deep breath.

  This was going to be a long day.

  The chalk was placed. The money was spent. Three mages stood outside the circle, waiting to interrupt the spell should something go wrong.

  Coradiel stood with them. Legs trembled. Eyes pried open.

  The ritual began.

  Kneeling within the magic circle, Aldo stared at one dot among dozens. He had explained the meaning of each dot to Coradiel as he made them, but the paladin was beyond comprehension by then. He had enough energy left to get his answers, but at some point, Coradiel needed to sleep.

  “Within the Planes, within Pharasma’s Spire, within the Boneyard, within Spire’s Edge, within Tumulus, a psychopomp usher sits. Saloc, Minder of Immortals, I request your attention.”

  Aldo’s eyes rolled. He slumped, and Coradiel’s heart shattered. It had failed. He’d cost a friend their mind-

  The mage held up a hand, stopping his apprentices from interfering with the circle. Head bowed, he whispered frantically, staring at the paper before him. A moment later, Aldo collapsed, panting heavily. This time, he allowed the others to clear away the circle, sweeping chalk away before casting [Prestidigitation] to clean the leftover dust.

  “Arlo Green’s soul is held in the Boneyard. Judgement has not been passed. Saloc will not request that Pharasma withhold her judgement. Pharasma will not interfere with resurrection.”

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  Aldo rubbed at his face. He stood up stiffly, aided by his apprentices. Stumbling to his desk, the wizard sat heavily.

  “You have your answers. I do not know what time you have. The Pharasmins will not help. But I do not see why another church won’t grant you what you seek.”

  Coradiel swayed where he stood.

  “Thank you….” he breathed.

  Turning, the paladin slammed into the sealed door to the room. He bounced off, rubbing at his face. Opening the barrier, Coradiel rushed from the room, stumbling through the school until he found the entrance. He raced from the building, doing his best to remember the path to the Cathedral of Abadar.

  Another hour of wandering and waiting, and Coradiel left the Cathedral, the paperwork for Arlo’s resurrection left in the care of a clerk. A carriage just missed him as he stepping into the street, its driver yelling obscenities at him

  “You are late.”

  He blinked. The Deer stood in front of him, holding a door open. Coradiel couldn’t remember walking to the temple. He was just… here. Swaying. Fighting back yawns, shivers, tears.

  “You do not know anything about someone breaking into the temple last night, do you?” the Deer asked, setting a hand around Coradiel’s shoulders.

  Coradiel shook him off, slumping to the ground. He pushed… and his arms collapsed, leaving the paladin stranded on the floor.

  “Don’t-” He waved weakly, trying to push the druid away.

  The Deer hoisted him to his feet, all but dragging him deeper into the temple.

  Coradiel blinked, and they were in a narrow hall. Coradiel blinked, and they were in a dim columbarium.

  Coradiel blinked. And an urn sat before him, nestled in a tiny niche.

  His hand reached out. Only to be blocked by the Deer.

  “Arlo…” Lips quivered. Tears poured from already blurry eyes. “Let me-”

  “No.”

  His hand reached out. Only to be blocked by the Deer. Images swam in his mind. One urn became two became one again.

  “Mine….” He whimpered, reaching out again. “Don’t touch me!” Coradiel pushed at the Deer. He fell to the side, his body weak from the effort of standing so long.

  The Deer wrapped his arms around the paladin, holding him tightly as Coradiel wept.

  “Don’t… Arlo…”

  “Rest.”

  The weight became too much. Coradiel’s eyes closed.

  Something itched. Rolling over, Coradiel groaned. A blanket fell to the side, and a chill washed over him.

  Arlo!

  Coradiel shot up. His head collided with a shelf, and a book dropped onto his chest. Wincing, the paladin rubbed his head. He picked up the book, reading its title in the flickering candlelight.

  “The Bonelands in a Spiral.” Coradiel grimaced, setting the tome aside. Eyes peered around the small room, taking in a simple desk and a closet with two robes within. Across the room, his estoc rested beside Arlo’s bag.

  Swinging his feet off the bed, Coradiel stood up. His body protested the motion, but he forced it to work. He was still dressed, his garments flickering from a simple shift to a full-length dress. Coradiel grabbed his boots from beside the bed and slipped them on.

  The previous day remained a blissful blur to him. All he knew was he was in Pharasma’s temple, and he had a mission to complete. Arlo was coming home. And then… Coradiel still needed to figure that out. But he would do it.

  A quiet knock came at the door. It opened unbidden, and the Deer stepped into the room, his ever-present mask glued to his face. In his hands, a small tray held a piece of meat and some bread.

  “Food for the prisoner?” Coradiel demanded.

  “For a friend,” the Deer replied, setting it on the desk.

  “We are the furthest thing from friends.”

  “I am sorry I could not get you more,” the Deer added, ignoring Coradiel’s spat. “I am but a guest here, though I consider this temple my home.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Even as he said it, Coradiel’s stomach roared.

  “There is no need to lie, nor to starve yourself. You are to be commended, Lord Arthien. We have not been blind to your activities, and we know you did everything you could to save Arlo.” The Deer cut into the meat with a dagger, pulling it apart into bite sized pieces. “Even the attempt to steal his remains will go unpunished; it was the act of a desperate person, and no harm was done, save to a follower of Urgathoa.”

  “How…” Coradiel’s eyes narrowed. “How long have I been here?”

  “Long enough. Father Jivorus has given leave for you to take Arlo with you.”

  “How long?!”

  “Ten days. I kept you unconscious during that time. Rather, grief kept you unconscious. I merely offered my aid to keep your mind whole.”

  Ten days… Coradiel didn’t know a cleric willing to revive someone after ten- no, eleven days.

  “We have not been enemies by choice.” The Deer’s voice came from a distance. Blood thrummed through Coradiel’s ears, and even the candlelight couldn’t pierce the dimness in his eyes.

  Eleven days. If they were releasing Arlo… they knew it was too late. He was too late.

  Something brushed his lips. His jaw opened unbidden. Coradiel swallowed drily, his first bite of food in… he didn’t know how long.

  “There you go. Depression is natural. It will pass eventually, but you’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  “I hate you.”

  Food pushed between his lips, and Coradiel was forced to swallow again.

  “You are not the first,” the Deer said. “My teachers at the Magaambyan warned me many would fear what I’ve become. But it is my calling. I guide souls into the world, and I offer them comfort when they depart.”

  “Who comforted Arlo? Who told him his death was necessary, his death was-”

  “His death was a blessing,” the Deer insisted. “Quick, painless. It’s more than most receive after crossing Pharasma.”

  “Bullshit!” Coradiel’s arm swept out, sending the platter flying. “It was senseless! It should have been me! I told him to run. To save himself.”

  “Then it wasn’t senseless. Someday, you’ll have to accept that he offered his life for yours.”

  The Deer knelt down, picking the fallen food off the floor. A murmured prayer cleared what little dirt had collected on it, and he set the platter back on the desk.

  “Eat,” the druid said. “Slowly, but eat. You’ll feel better.”

  Turning, he left the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Coradiel to his numbness.

  Arms curled around Arlo’s urn. Coradiel stumbled as he was ushered from the temple. Eleven days. Or was it twelve now? Did it matter?

  He trudged through the Keystone district, holding Arlo close to his chest. Carriages sped past him, pedestrians glowered at him as he pushed past. None of it mattered.

  “Coradiel?”

  Somewhere in his mind, he registered his name. But Coradiel just kept walking, through the gate to the Naos district. His home was just a few blocks away now-

  “Lord Arthien!”

  He blinked as a hand waved in front of him.

  “Hey! Oh….”

  Ameiko Kaijitsu stared at the urn in his hands. Her face fell.

  “Arlo?” she asked quietly. Then louder, “You dolt, why haven’t you had him resurrected yet?!”

  “It’s too late-”

  “Horsecrap,” the noblewoman cursed. “Give him here. I have a friend in the Church of Iomedae. She can revive him. Call it a thanks for what you did in Sandpoint. ‘Course, you’re losing the free room and board,” she added, all but snatching the urn from Coradiel. “And drop the murderous glare. You got a diamond? Nevermind — I always carry a spare.”

  “I have one,” Coradiel stammered out, racing after her.

  Ameiko glanced at the gem he pulled from his pocket.

  “Nope. Too cheap,” she declared. “That might be worth six thousand at best.”

  Coradiel was beyond lost. The component for a resurrection was a diamond. Everyone knew that! And how was Ameiko going to bring Arlo back?

  The Temple of Iomedae was a fortress, as many of her places of worship were. Arrow slits lined massive walls, and a gatehouse protected the interior of the temple. Guards in shining white hauberks stood on either side of the gatehouse, and another pair stood within the entrance hall of the temple. Gleaming longswords threatened any who would desecrate the temple’s sanctity. From what Coradiel knew of the Iomedaeans, their blades were just as bad as their spells.

  “How do you know someone from here?” Coradiel demanded.

  “We were old adventuring buddies.” Grabbing a guard’s attention, Ameiko muttered something to him. He nodded and pointed through a doorway. “My thanks,” Ameiko said, hurrying through the door.

  Coradiel hung back for a moment.

  “If you see a man in a deer mask, please stall him,” the paladin said, before racing after Ameiko.

  They emerged into a hall brimming with mage-light. A group of clerics stood with their heads bowed, watching one of their members dress several wounds on a doll.

  “Ilena!” Ameiko hissed, waving at one of the clerics. “Ilena!”

  “Commander, my apologies,” the cleric said, shooting a scathing glare at Ameiko. “My former companion is lacking in common sense.”

  The rip of fabric tearing filled the hall, and the head cleric wrapped it around a wound.

  “Go,” she said, barely-contained rage in her voice. “You will have extra sparring practice this evening.”

  “Yes Commander.” Ilena saluted before marching toward Ameiko. “Ameiko Kaijitsu, what in the goddess’ name are you doing here?!” she hissed.

  “Mission of mercy,” Ameiko said, holding the urn out. “My friend lost his friend. You know how adventures go. I need a resurrection. Fifteen thousand gold sails, right?”

  “Fifteen-” Coradiel paled. He didn’t have anywhere near that kind of money!”

  “Ten for the materials, five for the spell,” Ilena confirmed.

  Ameiko knelt down and pulled at her boot. A diamond appeared in her hand, and she held it out for Ilena.

  “That’ll do,” the cleric said. “Let’s find a quiet place. How long has it been since they passed?”

  Ameiko looked at Coradiel.

  “Twelve days,” the paladin murmured, steeling his heart to hear the worst.

  “We’ve got time then,” Ilena said, grabbing the urn. “Commander Jessica does not approve of lesser clerics casting resurrections, but I think she’ll let it slide this once.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble.” The cleric glowered at Ameiko. “More trouble,” the Tian woman added.

  “It’d take a day of prayer for anyone else to revive them,” Ilena pointed out. “Resurrection is not in the Lady of Valour’s purview, so nearly all her clerics do not pray for the ability. I do. You never know when another church will require our aid.”

  She led the two to a small, dark room. A table took up most of the space, and a murmured prayer set a light within the wooden surface, casting the room in a warm brown glow. The cleric took the lid off Arlo’s urn and dumped it out onto the table.

  “Wha-”

  “Shush,” the two women snapped at Coradiel.

  “Battlefield resurrection,” Ilena added, dropping the diamond into the pile of ashes. “O Iomedae, Lady of Valour, hear our prayer. Light of the Sword, revive they who fall in battle. Let fervour fill their body, let justice fill their soul.”

  Ash spread out. The diamond rose, dissolving into dust. The dust mingled with the ash, pouring across the table in the vaguest shape of a body.

  “Lady of Valour, bring forth the victorious dead. Let their wounds be sealed, let their bodies be whole. They who fight evil yearn to fight again. We beseech you, do not let their sword arm languish.”

  Bone formed, draped in muscle that was draped in skin. Fur spread across the body, until Coradiel was staring down at Arlo. Tears flooded his eyes, dripping onto the stone floor.

  “Lady Justice, guide his soul. Grant him the breath of life!”

  Silence filled the room. Coradiel held his breath. Outside, the town bells struck noon.

  Arlo gasped.