The Lord Warden's soup arrives, and it smells good enough that Caris is willing to try a sample of it when he offers to allow Caris a taste from a smaller bowl that is provided for him. He would have thought this to be extremely scandalous or at least embarrassing to be sharing food from someone else’s bowl. However, looking around he could see other customers sharing or exchanging portions. So it was not something that was considered to be strange here--but it was still strange.

  The soup is very spicy, hot enough to cause tears to well up in his eyes, and make his nose run. The broth is thick, but not as thick if were stew, and there are ribbons of cooked, scrambled eggs floating suspended with mushrooms and vegetables. The Lord Warden immediately hands him a handkerchief. Caris wipes his nose, and has a feeling that this would be a theme with tonight’s meal since he hadn’t been given an opportunity to choose something milder.

  "So, what are your plans to convert me?" the Lord Warden asks, sounding amused.

  "I hardly know," Caris says. "And I'd rather you didn't mock me." He tries to keep his tone polite and even, but he can’t avoid the trace of sullenness.

  "Your Highness," the Lord Warden says, sounding chagrinned and faintly embarrassed with himself. Caris is barely mollified by this. “I’ll admit to being flippant, but I’m not mocking you any more than I was mocking the Sarmateon missionaries who went away angry, because their founding argument is that Tsarin, Spirit of the Black Mountain is other than what he claims to be.”

  "What does the Black Mountain Spirit claim to be?" Caris asks. He knew that the necromancer was involved in some form of death cult--a sure sign of Ashten's influence--but he doesn't know very much about it.

  "Tsarin is the guide, judge and guardian of the dead," the Lord Warden says. "He is the protector of Rusan, the spirit of the Sonnu River. He gave time to those who had none and preserved them in the face of both error and disaster. I don't think your moon god could impersonate him for very long, not so I'd be deceived."

  "You're implying that you've spoken to this spirit," Caris says. "That you know this spirit as one might know a living person."

  The Lord Warden continues to smile, though there's a certain coldness to his expression now. "You might say that, yes," he says. "I've known Tsarin since I was much younger than you." He starts in on his steamed buns.

  Caris starts with noodles and chicken. The sauce for the dish is sweet but also sour at the same time. The vegetables are carrots and strips of cabbage. Concentrating on the food is a bit easier than the casual reminder of how old the Lord Warden is. He eats and tries to come up with a counterargument. "Even if this spirit has helped you in the past, even if you know it, how do you know it's not in service to the dark god?" Caris asks.

  The Lord Warden pauses eating for a moment. "Do you think no priest of your faith has tried to convince me of something like that?" The Lord Warden says. His tone is suddenly flat, and his smile is gone, something cold and angry in his eyes. "Should I be grateful you're not asking the question while breaking my hands?"

  Caris can't help the shiver that runs down his spine. Both at the Lord Warden's anger and the implication of torture. Is the Lord Warden claiming to have been tortured by the Sarmateon priesthood? He knows there had been a period when the Lord Warden had been held captive by the Sarmateon priesthood. Attempts had been made to convert him, or failing that, liberate his soul. The attempts had proven unsuccessful. Caris had not thought much of the mechanics of liberation or conversion of the unwilling. However, he knew that torture and brutality had been used in the past.

  Was the Lord Warden somehow still affected by his experiences? More than a century later? It didn’t seem possible, surely the memories would fade over time? The evidence, Caris realizes, indicates otherwise. There is a tension in the Lord Warden’s body, in the line of his jaw. His eyes are dark and piercing, his brows drawn together in a scowl. For a moment Caris imagines the Mark of Ashten there, seared in like a brand, instead of the usual tattoo. "My lord implied he was open to the topic of the Sarmateon faith. If he is not, he has only to tell me, and we will not speak of it," Caris says with careful courtesy.

  The Lord Warden sighs, and the anger fades somewhat. "The problem isn't the topic, it's the insult," he says. "I'll listen to any amount of scripture, philosophy, or descriptions of rituals and holidays, but I won't endure any insults toward the spirits, to the gods. They have nothing to do with your moon god unless they're Dosai spirits. And if they're Dosai, they don't have anything to do with the ancestors, spirits and gods of my people or the ancestors, spirits and gods of the Tosa."

  "I would not offend you," Caris says carefully. Cautiously. "but I was taught that all 'spirits' were under the sway of Ashten, god of inconstancy, magic, and chaos."

  "Your evil moon good," the Lord Warden says with a weighted emphasis. He frowns. "Not mine. Any more than your sun and law-giving god is mine," he continues, showing that he knew at least a little of the Sarmateon religion. "I've said it before." The necromancer pauses and visibly collects his temper.

  There’s a small pause and then he says, "You should try the steamed buns. They might be a little spicy for you though." This seems to end the conversation as far as the Lord Warden is concerned. All he talks about thereafter is food and Caris’ preferences.

  Eventually, they return to the House of the Lord Warden once the dinner is finished. Still, in the company of the guards, the Lord Warden gave Caris a tour of the house from top to bottom it seemed. It seemed a very ordinary manor house, though Caris still partly expected to find--like in some children's story--a locked room he wasn't permitted to enter that would turn out to be where the necromancer kept his torture chamber.

  There is no such room. There is instead one very large, cold room where there were many dead bodies on tables and shelves. Among the tables were people dressed in white and gray. "My basement is also the city morgue," the Lord Warden says. "Or rather, the main one. If we aren't sure how someone died, they're brought here. You will occasionally see necromancer-coroners from down here upstairs. They're supposed to be conferring with me or one of my students or doing research in the Calamity Archive. Despite what they may tell you, they are not allowed to raid the pantry."

  "Not allowed to raid the pantry," Caris echoes faintly. There are so many bodies, in various stages of decomposition. Most of the bodies are covered by cloth, but some are not. The uncovered bodies are being...studied by the coroners. By one of the bodies is a small table on wheels that contained trays of...tools. Caris looks away quickly.

  The Lord Warden's mouth twitches faintly. "They have a kitchen, pantry, and dining area in the basement. Too many bodies?"

  "I've seen dead bodies before, my lord," Caris says and hates the defensiveness in his tone.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "You've seen one dead body," the Lord Warden says, a lightly condescending tone in his voice. A reminder of Caris’ assassination attempt, and the Lord Warden’s apparent indestructibility. "Until now."

  "I've been present at executions," Caris says stiffly. This statement only seems to amuse the Lord Warden more. "The Calamity Archive?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

  "Then why did it look like you were going to faint?"

  "I wasn't going to faint!" Caris snaps, still feeling defensive. (He was trying not to think of the tools by the one body. There had been blades and saws and something like a chisel, and other instruments more strange.) "What's the Calamity Archive?" (It was probably a mistake to ask.)

  "A collection of every possible way to die, and descriptions of how the body is affected by those possible ways to die," the Lord Warden says. "From disease to poison, to drowning--it's an extensive collection that's helped this city's Wardens and the Wardens of other cities in the Assembly solve many deaths and prevent many more."

  ________________________________________

  Jhan thinks that His Highness might balk at the idea of living above a morgue. He certainly seems uncomfortable about the idea that he had slept the previous night above dead strangers. This was understandable.

  A family crypt on family property, a graveyard, or Ancestor's Hall is one thing, dead strangers were another. (Strangers to the prince at least. For a necromancer, they could never be strangers for long. For Jhan, they could never be strangers at all.) However, it seemed that once he recovers, he is more interested in the Calamity Archive and the duties of the Wardens. So, this is what they talk about as Jhan continues the tour through his home.

  The conversation drifts to other topics, His Highness asks questions about how the household was run and when he'd be beginning classes. "Tomorrow morning I'll introduce you to my steward," Jhan says as he walks the prince back to his quarters. "And we'll discuss what classes might be of interest to you."

  "Thank you, my lord," His Highness says.

  "We'll also talk about whether you truly want to be married to a pagan," Jhan says.

  The prince gives Jhan an irritated look. "I have said so," he says.

  "You don't want to be married to me, you want to protect your sister," Jhan points out. "Specifically, from me, and whatever you thought I might do to Lady Kelfin."

  His Highness looks away, jaw tense and hands closed into tight fists. He doesn't answer. He looks angry and uncertain, worried and unhappy.

  "Your sister has nothing to fear from me," Jhan says, though he suspects at this point His Highness still isn’t likely to believe him. "I am unhappy to learn that she was pressured to agree to this marriage. If she had told me herself, I would have done my best to change the terms of the alliance."

  The prince looks surprised, faintly disbelieving. "Would you have, really?" he asks.

  "I was reluctant myself to enter into a marriage with a pagan let's say," Jhan says. To his amusement, His Highness bristles angrily at being called a pagan. "However, your sister was intelligent and well-spoken. She seemed like someone who would be a good partner, and I thought she would work well with Seki Ajirha, my steward. I only agreed to the marriage because your father insisted on it as part of the alliance." (Though Sozha talking him into it played a larger part in his decision.)

  The conversation wanders into a brief argument about who was a pagan. The argument continues until they reach His Highness' quarters. The prince falls silent for a moment, between one point and another. "Goodnight, my lord," the prince says.

  "Goodnight, Your Highness," Jhan says in return. "We'll talk more in the morning, and I'll introduce you to the steward and my students."

  The prince's nod is almost a bow. The temper that came up during their argument fades to wariness, and Jhan thought, to curiosity. "Yes, my lord," he says and disappears into his suite with another bow.

  Jhan stands at the door for a moment. "I feel very old," he says to his house guards.

  One of the guards, Anvar, covers his mouth and attempts to disguise a laugh as a cough. He is not very successful. Mayur and Chisen seem to have a similar lung ailment. "With respect, my lord, you are very old," Anvar says.

  "Feeling old is different from being old," Jhan says over the sound of laughter from his house guards and retreats to his quarters.

  He spends a few hours working on paperwork before retreating to his sitting room. Jhan reads an adventure novel while sipping a glass of wine. When his eyes are blurry and heavy from sleep, he clumsily sets the book aside and sleeps.

  It's a purposeful sort of dream he walks into. He is walking in one of the gardens on his property. At his side is an immense black jaguar, its shoulder level with his shoulder. It is nighttime, but the only light comes from white festival lanterns hung from the trees. The festival lanterns are painted with stylized yellow eyes, even though Tsarin's festival isn't for months.

  Eventually, Jhan sits on a bench, and the immense panther, whose eyes are the same yellow as the eyes on the lanterns, sprawls out in front of him. With a great deal of daring--this being is not actually a jaguar, and even if it were, Jhan would be respectful and cautious of its boundaries--he reaches out and strokes cloud-soft fur and scratch behind an ear. He remembers that he only dares this because he remembers sleeping against this being's side. He remembers being fifteen and waking up to this being hovering over him, ears flat against its skull, demanding, "Where is the other?"

  (Jhan remembers the Holy Warrior, though he can't remember the man's name. He had been tall and proud, one of the few people not marked by the disease spread by the Plague Demon. Jhan remembers sneaking out between lessons to watch the noble train. He tries not to think about how the noble must have died. It was easier to remember that fierce tiger stare--which also made him think of his new "husband.")

  The Black Mountain Spirit asks, "What are you thinking of?"

  "When I woke up for the very first time, confused about why I was alive, and why I was being shouted at," Jhan says.

  The spirit is silent for a moment. It's a considering silence. "What else?" The spirit asks curiously.

  "The other," Jhan admits. Tsarin never refers to the noble who had been chosen to defeat the Great Plague Demon by name. No one did, though he was referred to as the Holy Warrior--by humans. The spirits referred to him as "the other," at least when communicating with Jhan, if they ever had reason to mention him. "And I think Prince Caris Kelfin, in a way."

  “What are you thinking about them?” the spirit asks.

  Jhan had only known the Holy Warrior briefly, but he had thought that the Holy Warrior had been everything you would expect of a hero. He has few memories of the Holy One. Just--kindness and a gentle sort of interest in his studies, his activities. He remembers being thanked so humbly and kindly for his sacrifice that Jhan had felt brave and fearless.

  (He remembers: “I will carry you with me, and sacrifice myself.” It is not the first time that he thinks: “He knew. He knew the priests were wrong, but he went through with it anyway.” It used to make him feel angry and confused, when he was very young, and going through the trials. Had it been overconfidence? Had it been the pressures of politics that forced him to the role the priests rather than the spirits had set? He would never get an answer.)

  “Are you sure there is outer influence?” the spirit asks. “That they did not come up with it themselves?” A pause, then a teasing tone. “Do you think so little of the agency of your spouses?”

  “The Holy One knew that the spirits had a plan other than what the priests intended. He obeyed the priests over the spirits,” Nemar Jhan says. He is not going to rise to the bait of the implication he’s somehow married to both of the twins now. One was enough, surely? Even if he wasn’t entirely sure which one it would--should?--be. “The prince’s conviction reminds me of that. I don’t know why.”

  "You and the other were meant to be closer than brothers, closer than lovers. Warrior and mage-psychopomp. The people might have died because they could not imagine you the equal of the other."

  "I was seven when they found me, starving and untaught," Jhan says. "How could I be the equal of someone five years my senior, who'd been training since he was five?" The great cat makes a huffing noise--clear disagreement--and turns its head to receive the maximum amount of ear scratches due to it. "Is there anything I should worry about, from Sewen?"

  "The king might be embarrassed, to the point of breaking off all agreements, not just this alliance," the spirit says. "Or he may disown and exile his son for the attempted murder."

  "An embarrassment," Jhan says. "What about further assassination attempts? From the king or my not-betrothed, or the hypothetic manipulators?"

  "Something to watch for. Also...keep a close eye on your husband and anyone he befriends."

  "That sounds ominous," Jhan says.

  "It was intended to."