[Skell]
"Y-you're… a skeleton!?" asked the indigo-haired woman.
Oliver rose right as I did, untouched by the magic. "Stop! Please don't hurt him!"
"Hurt him?" Cynthine eyed Oliver strangely, lowering her shoulders. "And why would I do such a thing?"
"Y-you blasted me with wind!" I hastily slipped behind the couch. "Don't act so confused!"
Cynthine scoffed. "Gust is a harmless art, cast solely to reveal the face you so desperately wanted to mask. And," she studied me, "what a face it is…"
This is the worst way she could've found out. Revealing my undeath should've come after she was on board, not before! But… she's not mad? Or scared?
"You're… calmer than we expected," I watched her carefully, still on my toes.
She adjusted her hooped earrings. "What, believe I'd start slinging light beams and such at you?" She glanced down at her emerald gown. "Last I checked, I wasn't dressed in Templar regalia."
"But everyone hates undead," I argued. "Not just the Order."
"Hm," Cynthine thought a moment. "I suppose most do. Most Lumeritans, who have reason to. I'm not Lumeritan. In fact, you could say I'm from quite far away, and compared to what I've seen between there and here, a talking skeleton is merely middling on the peculiarity scale."
Just middling!?
"T-that's good to hear…" I think.
"Don't mistake me," she continued. "I've not once been shackled by chains or locked in a cell, and I'd rather not be privileged with the experience. Your presence is a problem. If we are so much as seen together and your identity as undead is discovered, fingers will point to me as well. That can't happen. You must leave."
I froze. "But-"
She shook her head. "Now, skeleton."
My next move eluded me. Cynthine was almost certainly the glamour mage, but persuasion seemed out of the question. If glamour magic was illegal, finding another practitioner would be an aimless search, and that assumed I wouldn't slip up and get exposed in the process.
Cynthine's face turned grave, though it carried a tinge of reluctance. "If you won't leave, I'm afraid I must force you out." With one braceleted wrist crossing the other, she entered an ominous stance. Whatever art came next, it'd be far from harmless.
"Miss Cynthine!" Oliver called. "Grandpa will be very upset with you!"
Her eyes darted to his. "Oh? And who might that be?"
Oliver? I almost forget he was here!
"…Ansel," he said.
Without even touching his bow, Oliver seemed to strike at Cynthine's heart. Her stance dropped. "Ansel? Then, you're… you're Oliver. His youngest grandchild."
Cynthine looked dazed. She found the couch's armrest and let it support her weight, staring at Oliver as if with a new set of eyes. "I never thought I'd meet you."
"You know me?" Oliver asked. "Until the other day, grandpa never mentioned you. Um, but I reckon he had a really good reason!"
The glamour mage smiled. "Dear, there's no need to stand at Ansel's defense; I've long been accustomed to his… behavior. But yes, the old man's visited me once a year, every year, for many years. We'd catch up, though his side of matters tended to consist of hunting trips and the humdrum of the woods. Although, that paled in comparison to how breathlessly he spoke of his grandchildren."
Shock danced across Oliver's face. "Wait! So every time grandpa says he's traveling to see an old friend… it's…"
Newfound familiarity sparked in their eyes. I suddenly felt an awful lot like a third wheel.
"How long have you known him?" Oliver sat back down.
She did the same, tapping extended fingers. "Three, four… about sixty years."
"Sixty!?" said Oliver. "That's like, forever!"
I crossed arms. "You don't even look half that ol-" A realization cut me off. "Wait… I know you're the glamour mage, and with that kinda magic, your appearance-"
"Isn't entirely false, mind you," Cynthine interrupted. "Indeed, I practice glamour magic - no point trying to hide that from you amateur sleuths any longer. However, this appearance is my own - of forty-four years past. I simply replicated it, adding a few small tweaks here and there."
Knowing the truth put Cynthine's appearance in an entirely new light, and not just because she suddenly became more than a silhouette. She was almost bizarrely beautiful: waves of indigo hair, striking blue eyes, peachy skin, even a mole that felt a little too perfectly-placed. Somehow, I wasn't convinced the woman only added a couple tweaks.
"I thought you said glamour magic was illegal?" Oliver clearly struggled to swallow Cynthine's true age.
She sighed. "I've practiced glamour magic since I was a young lady. If anything is to erase that part of me, it's death, as it will erase everything else. Not some silly law."
Oliver scratched his hair. "But why was it made illegal at all? It doesn't seem so bad."
"I can think of a few reasons," I rested hands on the couch's backrest, noticing the room had taken on a calmer air. "Crime would be a cinch if you could shift into a new skin to avoid trouble. Or impersonation. 'Dress' as someone you hate, stomp on a puppy or something, then switch back and leave them with the consequences. Really," I said, amused, "the schemes are endless."
"…Morbid," Cynthine eyed me, "but you aren't wrong. So much chaos could be sown by such an inherently harmless magic. A nation as rigid as Lumerit was bound to outlaw it eventually."
Cynthine stared at her table's reflection, seeing something I couldn't. "A shame. The magic bears so much potential. Those disgusted with their appearance, or who feel trapped in their bodies, could blot out their problems and alter what they wish. Or those with dark ties. They could discard any physical traces of their past, and begin a new life."
"But… shouldn't folks try to be happy with who they are?" Oliver asked.
"Indeed," said Cynthine. "That's why so many yearn for change. Change under their control."
"Hm," I grunted. "It's more complicated than I thought, glamour magic."
Cynthine stood. "As are most things. But did you really expect this visit to be simple?"
The glamour mage waved a hand. "Speaking of this visit, although you two have offered what amounts to crumbs of information, I think I've gathered the gist of why you're here." She pointed to me, "Paradoxically, you've enough of a brain to know of your own infamy. You met Ansel and his respectful grandchild, who led you to my doorstep for aid. That would explain your knowledge of my talents."
Her eyes then narrowed. "And that aid, needless to say, is to grant you an appearance antithetical to your current form: a living human."
"That's right." I said. "If… you're willing."
"You ask if I'm willing?" she laughed lightly, though a serious expression quickly took over. "Ever since I had your number, I was 'willing' to cast the glamour - it's simple work for me, and I am indebted to Ansel. But all the will in the world won't make the impossible, possible."
"Wh-what makes casting my glamour impossible?" Chills nipped at my bones. "Does it have to do with my body being dead?"
Cynthine's brows furrowed. "You… could say that. I'm fully capable of glamouring an dead - or undead - body. Be it bone or flesh, all can be veiled by a proper illusion. The problem isn't physical. It's mental. But, ah, before I continue, you do know what mana is, don't you?"
"Yeah?" I gave her a confused look. "Who doesn't?"
Oliver looked away. "I… don't."
"Truly?" The glamour mage stared at him. "But what of Ansel. Did he teach you nothing?"
"Actually, yeah…" said the hunter. "Grandpa always wanted us to find our own way; he said it would help us grow in the long run."
She sighed. "Ansel, I should've known… Well, I understand his motives, but the fundamentals are vital. Further, you won't understand my conclusion, lest you have context. Skeleto-" she stopped herself. "Skell, was it?"
I nodded, resisting the urge to snark.
"We'll postpone this discussion," Cynthine decided, "as well as another where I criticize the utter drooling idiocy that is your 'name'. For now, help me supply our dear Oliver a quick lesson about magic."
I bit down my annoyance. Say whatever you want to her… after the glamour. After!
"…All right," I sighed. "I could use a refresher, anyway."
Teaching Oliver was all well and good, but my mind was more occupied with this "conclusion" of hers looming beyond the conversation. If it concerned what I suspected, either a glamour was out of the picture forever, or…
I had an edge over the rest of my kind.
—————————————————————————————–————
"Okay. I think I have it all down pat," Oliver sat opposite of Cynthine and I on the couch. "Basically, magic's split into two halves: mind magic and power magic."
While he recited what felt like an entire seminar, I noticed an opportunity to use a sense I'd sorely missed: sight. Using it to view my previously shadowy surroundings - specifically - now lit by bewitching blue candleflames.
On my left - beside Cynthine - was a shelf littered with knickknacks and books of all kinds. Most gave the impression they weren't Lumerit-found or Lumerit-published. Along this wall rose stairs scaling to a loft, and past those, a kitchen so lavish I felt I could chef up just about anything inside it… for some reason.
At my right - and everywhere else - was a hive of cats. Now that they weren't beasts of the darkness, they were slightly less terrifying, napping on wicker towers and scarfing down food. They were almost a little adorable, tearing through the house.
Almost.
My attention returned to Oliver. He extended two hands, lifting one. "Power magic deals with weapons and your own body, like casting an art where your bow splits one arrow into a dozen, firing a rain of pain! Or an art that lets you punch someone from far away!"
"Good, you're entirely right," Cynthine stroked a cat on the armrest.
He grinned, raising his other hand. "Next is mind magic. That's the elements: wind, dark, light - all eight. And the best part, you can even combine power and mind - weapons and elements, like with my Windseeker!"
"To think," mused the glamour mage, "you know an art, and one so intricate, without awareness of the basics. If I needed further proof you were Ansel's grandson, there it is."
"Well," Oliver laughed, "I always thought it'd be easier to hunt with arrows that do the chasing for you."
"You're forgetting something," I held up a glove. "Magic doesn't just come from nowhere."
"Oh, yeah," said Oliver. "Power magic takes from your bodies' energy. Stamina, right? And mind magic, it comes from… um…"
"The mind," I answered.
"Not quite, Skell," Cynthine said. "Mana isn't produced by the mind. It comes from the brain.
"Is… there a difference?" Oliver asked.
"A substantial one." Cynthine faced me. "In fact, this concerns where our prior discussion left off. No brain means no magic. And you, Skell…" she broke eye-contact, "anyone can see the vacancy inside your skull."
"But Miss Cynthine, he can think and talk," Oliver protested. "That means he doesn't need a brain, right?"
She laid a hand on the armrest. "Skeletons are common tools for necromancers. Those lights in Skell's eyes, they keep a grain of intellect, enough for the undead to carry out simple orders. It isn't impossible that Skell is some… advanced model, perhaps," she speculated.
Cynthine shook her head. "Truth be told, undead aren't my field of expertise, but I know enough of them to say Skell unfortunately lacks mana. Thus he can't call upon mind magic. And this goes without saying, but power magic is even further out of the question. Without organs and muscles, that too is beyond him."
"I-is that true, Skell?" Oliver's face sank. "You can't cast any magic?"
I was confused. Not just at Cynthine's words, but Oliver's. Until it hit me. He hadn't seen me cast anything. And in the aftermath of Velora's siege, he probably never got to hear what happened between her and I. Not to mention, he might not have wanted to…
As for Cynthine, she spoke an obvious contradiction. I knew I had mana; I cast Hand of Decay just days ago. And it's effects couldn't have been more real.
Flashes of excruciating screams and decaying flesh invaded my mind without warning. After what I did to Velora, I tried to ignore the memories. But our conversation led me right back to that moment.
Her arm might still be there, in the grass… Cold. Dead. The nest of worms and insects. Vile and gruesome, and I caused it with my own hands. And I could do it again…
I put a glove over my face, fighting off the frightening past.
"Skell?" Oliver asked.
"Of course it's true," Cynthine answered quietly. "And glamours ask for a small, if consistent, stream of mana. Like continually feeding a flame with wood. Which leads to the harsh truth: an undead cannot wear a glamour. Without mana, it'd be an unfueled fire. Dead before it ever sparked to life."
"But that won't do!" Oliver jumped. "Skell's glamour is the whole reason we stopped here before going to Selem."
"Selem?" Cynthine asked. "The capital's security is far tighter than Belza Hill's. Without a disguise…" she took a final, pensive sip of wine. "I'm sorry, both of you. But whatever it is you plan to do, accomplishing it is impossible."
I need to tell them… tell them that I know magic. No… if I just say it… Cynthine will never believe me - she'll think I'm lying. Delusional.
Why! Why's this sickening art the only one I know!? I… can't cast it again… but I have to.
Cynthine wiped her lips. "I can't reason why Ansel pointed you here. He's a man of whims, but he should've known this would happe-"
My fist struck the table, knocking over Cynthine's empty glass and scattering her cats.
Oliver jolted. "S-Skell!?"
His words were like whispers smothered by an internal storm. Half of me craved to prove the truth, but my mind stood in it's own way.
"Skell," Cynthine addressed me firmly. "Calm yourself and speak to us."
My teeth gritted as was flung through images of necrotic skin and liquefying muscle. Piercing stares came from my side and ahead, just like before. Bubbling and boiling in my mind's sea of chaos, ascending to a crescendo of deafening thoughts, was-
Calm. An odd, liberating calm. The sensation was familiar. And it told me that my thoughts, my confliction and confusion and hesitation… was okay.
With that knowledge, I didn't fight my reluctance. I channeled it.
Then spoke.
"Hand of Decay!"
A sickly green light ignited in my palm. My glove fragmented into dust. I stood, hand raised, finding Oliver backed into the couch corner.
Cynthine remained beside me, less frightened and more intrigued. Deeply intrigued.
The spectral glow illuminated my skeletal face. "There's… no need to be afraid. I'm all right. As you can see, I know magic. And… I've got a lot to explain."
—————————————————————————————————
"…Her whole arm. Just… gone." Oliver stared blankly at the floor. "I…" he shut his eyes and took a staggered breath. "Y-you did say grandpa thinks she's still alive, didn't you?"
I nodded. "He seemed to think she was too stubborn to let herself d-" I stopped myself, "-pass."
Oliver swallowed. "Okay. If he thinks so…"
"Clearly this was harrowing for everyone," Cynthine shifted in her seat, concern in her eyes. "Tell me, how does Ansel fare?"
With the stalberries dulling his pain, you almost couldn't tell Ansel was injured when we all talked in the woods. The man was also careful not to let the blood on his tunic show to his grandson. In Oliver's mind, Ansel was probably just shaken up.
"He's well," I told them. "Could be better, but he's recovering as we speak."
Adding a second person to the charade would complicate things, I knew that. But I didn't have much choice. For the moment, I just needed to keep my guilt under lock and key.
"Wonderful news," said Cynthine. "The old coot always was a quick case. He'll likely be diving back into his usual nonsense before we know it."
Naturally, my explanation left out anything damning. Things like the worst of Ansel's injuries, his plan, and of course, his death, could unravel our secret. Besides that, I didn't mention the strange memories and words accompanying my newfound magic. Not because that was a secret too.
But because I didn't know what to make of it myself.
"In any case," Cynthine continued, "your, shall we say 'episode', now makes complete sense. You… have my sympathies."
My unmoving features masked my surprise. "Er… thanks."
She crossed her legs. "But we should attend to the current matter, now. I was mistaken; somehow, you can utilize magic. Meaning a glamour is back on the table."
"So nothing's stopping us, then!?" Excitement crept to my voice.
"Technically," she said. "However, there's one technique - quite simple, really - that I want to impart. A necessary first step to wear a glamour. Though by all means, it will benefit you both."
Are you serious!? Give me the shading glamour already!
"That's fine with me," I said calmly. "What is it?"
"A demonstration will answer you better," Cynthine glanced above. "Let's take this conversation to the loft. And, Skell? Bring a knife from the kitchen if you would. The largest on the rack."
Then, as if she'd made an ordinary, unominous request, the glamour mage hummed a tune as she left for and rose up the staircase.
"A knife?" Oliver questioned. "What do you reckon she needs that for? You… don't think it'll involve blood, do you? I've skinned animals before, but…" he looked at Cynthine's collection of precious cats, at his fleshless friend, then to himself, and gulped.
"Well, someone's gotta get dissected," I pat him on the arm. "Best of luck, buddy."
He turned pale. "Skell! That's not funny!"
In reality, I'd no clue what Cynthine had planned. But as I looked at the row of near-machetes propped alongside the wall…
I did start to think the old witch had a few screws loose.
—————————————————————————————–————
"Fetched that knife for you," I extended the tool to Cynthine handle-first, then leaned against the loft's railing.
Oliver stared at the glinting metal, then to his feet, where a number of potted plants hung desperately to life - their bodies torn by curious fangs.
Cynthine didn't move to take it. "Keep it." She extended her own open palm. "You'll need it, since you're to stab me."
I felt the side of my head. "Yep, still don't have any ears. So that's probably why I misheard you."
"Unlike you, I'm not jesting," she proved with a blasé frown. "Stab me. In the palm. As hard as possible."
"M-miss Cynthine, what are you saying?" Oliver asked. "If Skell sticks you with that knife - even if it's just your hand…"
Cynthine rested a finger against her cheek. "Dear, were I feeling threatened, that knife would never come close to my skin."
Oliver wasn't fully convinced, but he seemed to realize his protests wouldn't change her mind.
I was a little more stubborn. "Cynthine… I'd rather not hurt you."
"Wonderful," she clapped. "Conversely, I prefer not to be hurt. Now stab me, before I tire of repeating myself."
Glancing at my still hand, the glamour mage sighed. "Do this, and you get your glamour. It's that simple."
I clenched my other fist. "F-fine! But when healers ask what happened, don't say a skeleton did it!"
Ignoring my mind's blaring objections, I raised the knife up high. I took one last reluctant look at Oliver's face, before gritting my teeth and thrusting the blade into Cynthine's palm.
Blood… was nowhere to be seen.
No cuts either. Not even a bruise.
The second the blade touched skin, it stopped completely. Like trying to pierce stone with a quill.
"This is technique number two," she casually explained as the knife balanced between my hands and hers. "A 'Shroud', as it is commonly known. Today, you two will tap into your own."