The Lich Without a Soul Vessel

Mason looked away from Evan's eyes and toward his shoulder. "Is the flower fairy your pet?"

"I am absolutely not Wang's pet," Shuang said, with considerable pride. "We're equals." She had taken an instinctive dislike to Mason, though she didn't realize that her very presence was the reason Mason hadn't connected Evan to the word lich at all.

"More precisely, a mutual symbiotic contract," Evan said pleasantly. "Neither party's death affects the other."

"That's remarkable. Someone practicing dark-aligned magic who still earned a flower fairy's trust — that speaks well of your character."

"I wouldn't say that. I just try to stay true to myself."

"Well said." Mason's tone became more deliberate. "The Maker gave humanity free will. Every soul chooses its own path — to the eternal joy of heaven when judgment comes, or the unending fire of hell. That is always the soul's own choosing. A person who says they stay true to themselves is telling me their nature faces toward the light."

Evan didn't believe in any Last Judgment, but this was not the moment to say so. He pressed his hands together at his chest. "The Maker above all. All power to the Maker. All glory to the Maker."

Mason looked genuinely satisfied. Shuang, from Evan's shoulder, was privately appalled — a lich performing sincere piety, and if the Maker had any awareness of the situation, surely a lightning bolt was warranted.

"Of course," Mason said, folding his own hands at his chest, his eyes carrying the kind of sincerity that Evan recognized as completely real. "Every gift we possess comes from his hand. He created everything — including all our abilities." He bowed his head in prayer, and Evan had no choice but to mirror the gesture.

After a moment Mason laughed softly. "Forgive me — I drift into prayer without noticing. I feel the Maker's presence very close. As he says, every miracle we witness is an expression of his nature. And what are we, if not miracles ourselves?"

The fervor in his eyes was unmistakable. Evan arranged an expression of being moved. Mason was the kind of believer who could, apparently, tolerate a prince drawing power from an infernal being because the Maker's light was still spreading. That level of conviction made him formidable in ways that had nothing to do with his divine techniques.

Evan let his attention drift for just a moment, thinking about what Mason's face would look like if he ever found out what he was actually sharing a cabin with.

"Where did your thoughts go?" Mason asked.

"I was thinking about how completely our abilities fall short of the Maker's," Evan said.

"Be careful with that thought — it borders on blasphemy." Mason's tone was gentle rather than sharp. "You're a mage. All your abilities were given to you by the Maker. To compare them to his is a form of pride. Mages in particular develop this blind spot, this sense that their power is somehow their own. The gifts were never yours to compare."

Evan hadn't meant it that way, but he'd stepped into the trap neatly. "You're right to correct me. I spoke from arrogance without realizing it."

Mason shook his head. "It's a common failing among mages. You carry yourself well, Mister Wang. Your faith seems genuine."

The door opened. Prince Elloran came in looking considerably better than he had on the ship, his color improved, the control back in his bearing. He smiled at both of them. "Who's being praised for their faith? I could hear from outside."

"Your Highness." Mason rose. Evan rose with him and offered a formal bow.

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Elloran waved them down. "Sit. I've heard Mason's theology enough times to recognize it. I came to thank you personally, Mister Wang. I'm feeling much better."

"We were on the same ship," Evan said, with a mild smile. "That was reason enough."

"On the same ship — a neat turn of phrase. I didn't realize you'd studied rhetoric."

Rhetoric was one of the Seven Noble Arts — the gentleman's curriculum of etiquette, music, poetry, rhetoric, philosophy, swordwork, and horsemanship. Recognizing the idiom and deploying it naturally was a marker of that education.

"I'm not a nobleman. I never studied it formally."

"Then you were born to it." Elloran smiled. "Mister Wang, would you consider a position as my adviser?"

He made it sound offhand, which meant it wasn't. For a mage, attachment to a royal household carried real advantages — funding, protection, access. Most mages found the offer at least tempting.

"I'm flattered," Evan said, with what he hoped read as genuine regret. "But I already have a commitment to Hollingburton. I can only apologize."

What he had was a letter of introduction from Leonardo — not a formal appointment. But that distinction didn't need to be shared. What he wasn't saying: Elloran was the third prince of the Norma Empire, which put him in the running for the throne, which meant supporting him meant making enemies of the other candidates. More immediately, Holy Eton occupied Norma's second-largest city as a sovereign presence within the empire's borders. The Curia answered to no one in Norma's government. A lich walking into Norma was not a problem he intended to create for himself.

Elloran accepted the refusal gracefully. "A pity. Hollingburton moved faster. If you ever leave — Norma's doors are open to you."

"If that day comes, I'll hold you to that," Evan said. "I hope Your Highness remembers the promise."

Everyone smiled. Elloran gestured toward the corridor. "Come. Lunch is modest aboard ship, but join us — it's the least I can offer."

"The honor is mine." Evan rose and bowed.

......

The ship's repairs had cost them some speed, and the winds helped compensate. The remainder of the crossing passed without incident. The dead were kept in the lower hold — two sailors killed in the attack, three more wounded, and several passengers. No compensation existed in law for casualties lost to piracy. The captain had already begun composing his company report and intended to argue hard for the bereaved families. There was nothing more he could do. The Maker willing, their souls had found rest.

The sails filled and the vessel ran westward.

......

Back in Rotterdam, a figure in a dark cloak with a hooded cowl and black gauze across the face moved through the city's slum quarters behind a guide who called himself Serpent-Head Serckel. The lanes were narrow, the smells unpleasant, the buildings indistinguishable from their neighbors in their shared state of disrepair. No lanterns here.

Serckel knocked on a door. It opened. A man in patched clothing looked up and grinned with immediate deference. "Boss, you made it."

"Tom — is James here? Tell him everyone's assembled. We leave in two days. You're staying here tonight." Serckel gave the instruction and turned to the cloaked figure. "How long to cross the Nabos Strait? And are they reliable?"

The cloaked figure spoke. The voice was dry and unpleasant. It was Boniface.

He was in his third body — a young man's, this time — though he kept himself wrapped tight regardless. The two deaths had cost him pieces of his memory. His early years were largely gone. But Evan Wang remained perfectly clear, every detail intact, and killing Evan was now the only purpose his half-life served.

He remembered both defeats precisely. The lich Nicholas Andrew was formidable in magic and surprisingly skilled with a blade — a knight's skill on a death mage, which Boniface had never bothered to puzzle out, but which had been the thing that killed him twice. He wasn't going to make the same mistake a third time. He'd gotten Evan's current location from the Harpist Guild and followed at a distance.

He was smarter about it now. Not smarter — more patient, which was different. Direct confrontation gave him poor odds. His only real advantage was that death couldn't stop him permanently, but dying twice had made it clear he couldn't treat that advantage carelessly. The plan this time was simple: follow without being seen, identify a weakness, and strike when the opportunity was actually an opportunity.

The trouble was that he looked like what he was. Even in a fresh body, even with stolen vitality, he could only pass for normal for so long, and he couldn't afford to cross paths with Church clergy. Smuggling was the only viable crossing method. The dozen-odd ordinary people Serckel had assembled would provide cover. He tried not to think too carefully about what else they might be useful for.

His eyes moved across the group in the dim light. Something flickered in them.

......

Three days out from Rotterdam, the coast of Nabos resolved from haze into solid ground.

Evan was standing at the rail when it appeared. He watched the shoreline come clear, and after a while he allowed himself a small, unhurried smile.