Cleve Lamison

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Blood Sisters


Zara of House Kamau’s necromancy was as formidable as her face was plain.

She took a dagger from her belt sheath, its handle carved from the femur of the dead man whose spirit she now sought for counsel. Its razor-edged blade glided through her palm, dripping blood into the fire pit, hissing.

“By Kamau blood and whispered bone,
In hollow deep, you’re not alone.
From shadow’s root and candle’s breath,
I call thee now; defy your death.
Heed me, Pepo of House Kamau.”

Silence.

“Pepo of House Kamau, answer my summons!”

The gloom thickened into a man, pulling free of the wall. “I’m here, Gravedaughter. No need to shout.”

She bowed, her hair a riot of wool and chaos. “Forgiveness, Gravefather.”

“Worry not.” The shadow bent backwards, cracking his back. “Why did you summon me?”

She handed him a clay mug of his favorite baobab whiskey. He inhaled its sharp tang. “I love our communions.”

She smiled. As his apprentice, she and her uncle had built the hollow brick by bone. It was one of the few places where the dead could taste the physical world. “I’ve called upon you to share knowledge of the future. Disturbing dreams haunt me of late.”

“No,” Pepo said. “Not dreams. Visions. Your sister comes for you.”

Zara stiffened. “Nya? She hasn’t spoken to me since you cast her out.”

“She’s found a way to rise. She will lead the Caucus if she secures this hollow.”

Zara laughed. “Nya ’s talents are no deeper than her pretty face. She’s the least skilled mancer in the Kingdoms.”

“And the most devious. Which today, Gravedaughter, will mark your unmaking.”

The words rang with truth. Nya’s wickedness outshone her legendary beauty. She had lost her apprenticeship to Pepo when he discovered her stealing Zara’s original spellwork. “Tell me.”

“She comes to murder you. She bargained with five of the Caucus Seats. If she claims Shade Hollow, they’ll raise her to First.”

The Caucus of Eight set policy for every mancer in the kingdoms. Though it had grown so corrupt over the last few years, Zara had all but broken with them. That kind of power in Nya’s hands would lead to nothing but ruin. “She won’t take this hollow.” Zara said, lips pressed tight. “Not while I draw breath.”

“That’s my point, Gravedaughter.” Woe filled his voice. “Your last breath draws nigh.”

Grief weighed on Zara like fresh dirt on a coffin lid. Her breath caught. Her eyes stung. Fate would end her story before writing the last chapter.

“Damn shame,” she muttered, staring into the fire-pit. “All this craft… wasted on dying.”

But for a necromancer of her skill, death was just a speed bump, and for her, it was a door. Zara had opened it for others. Maybe it was time she walked through it herself.

And yet…

Nya’s face rose in her mind, sharp cheekbones and insincere smile. Pretty defeated talent. Zara’s was a mistake of birth. She should’ve been both.

A cruel thought bloomed. Maybe she still could be.

Steel filled her voice. “Let us prepare.”

They toiled in silence. Mentor and apprentice. Shadow and blood.

They chose an ancient dagger, curved like a wicked grin, pitted with rust and tomb rot. Pepo carved totems into its handle. Zara fed it bone dust, her own blood, and spit-laced necromagic.

The fire in the pit dwindled, and with it, Pepo’s shadowed presence. “You must be holding it when she kills you. The magic will bind your spirit to the den; the den will lend your spirit weight.”

Zara nodded. The blade hummed, faint and cruel, in her fingers. “I’ll die like a Kamau. Bold and honorable.”

A cold wind breezed into the subterranean cavern.

It stank of treachery.

The gust circled around the room, smothering the pit fire. Pepo’s shadow faded to nothing.

Nya stepped inside without knocking, an ugly smug smile across her fine-featured face, dark robes shining with stolen totems.

“Well,” Nya said. “Still playing apprentice in the dark?”

Zara stood, the dagger hidden behind her back, tight in her grip. “Come to steal from me again?”

Nya smirked. “Come to take what should’ve been mine.”

Nya’s blade flashed.

Zara grunted and folded around the knife as it sank into her ribs. She clutched her own dagger behind her back, despite the agony spilling from her chest. She wanted to rage. To scream. To plead.

But necromancers didn’t beg the inevitable.

They bargained with it.

The light faded. She dropped to the floor. Her blood seeped into totem-shaped pools. Nya savored the sight. A cat watching a dying bird. She flitted around the dusty old room, taking it all in, plotting improvements she’d cast into the walls.

Zara’s shadow rose.

Nya gasped.

Zara yanked Nya’s blade from her own chest with a wet, grinding pull and tossed it clattering across the stones. In the same motion, she whipped her own necromanced dagger from behind her back and drove it clean through her sister’s heart.

Nya shuddered, mouth open in disbelief. Her soul spilled out like vapor, pulled screaming into the totems on the dagger’s hilt.

* **

Later, wearing her sister’s body, Zara held a single candle housed in a holder of human bones. She cut a slit into the flesh of her sister’s hand and dripped blood into a low-burning fire.

“By Kamau blood and silent bone,
In hollow deep, I stand alone.
From shadow’s root and stolen breath,
I rise again, defying death.”

“Gravedaughter.” Pepo’s shadow hovered near the mirror.

Zara joined him, falling into her new reflection, her hands pressed to her face.

Nya’s pretty face.

“How does she fit?”

Zara adjusted the collar of the Caucus robes. “Like a glove made of treachery.”

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

“Gravefather, come.” She smiled at her beautiful new reflection. “We’ve work to do.”

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Banner Art:
Photo by LoggaWiggler, Pixabay, 2014