Image -- Rough approximation of Sir Kendrick. Minus the gigantic sword, of course.

******

The training passes by with a nary a mishap nor an unfortunate incident. Gilbert and I mastered horseback fighting fairly quickly. Not a surprise. What is a surprise though, are Sir Kendrick's mannerisms while teaching us. His responses were slow, and his words unclear. In fact, he left me and Gilbert to figure out the basics all by ourselves. I think back on the way he was looking at us throughout the session—resentment painted all over his expression. He looked like a humanised form of a toad.

So, as Gilbert and I are brushing down the horses' coats, I jump slightly when the Bane calls for us.

"Falkner, Rutherland, leave the grooming to the stable boys! I've something to tell both of you," he yells. We look at each other hesitantly, before dropping the brushes and rushing into the sunlight. The warmth hits my face like a dose of hot water; I hiss at the sudden change in temperature.

Gilbert and I gingerly make our way towards our trainer, who is leaning against a wooden post. He attempts to look relaxed, but something about his posture seem off—his fingers latch onto his tunic a little too tightly, there is an odd rigidity to the set of his spine, and his eyes are darting about as though looking out for an invisible foe. I frown, puzzled by his behaviour.

"I..." A false start from Sir Kendrick; it makes all of my senses tingle. Something's wrong—very wrong. My eyes slide towards Gilbert—his countenance seems to be normal. However, I see a tinge of fear betrayed in his eyes.

All of the sudden, the Bane starts choking. His face purples; his tongue lops out in a grotesque version of Pst. Viramir's criticizing one. He jerks forward, losing control of his muscles. Gilbert looks at me, searching for direction from the supposedly cooler and calmer persona of our duo. Truth be told, I'm near panicking myself as I see this powerful, experienced warrior collapse before my eyes. Only Gilbert's pleading gaze snaps me to attention. I steel my nerves.

I drop onto one knee, feeling for the Bane's pulse. It's strong—too strong, thrumming along at an alarming rate. The spasms are dying down, but Sir Kendrick is barely clinging on to the last remnants of his consciousness. "Gilbert, get a Galennus. Now!" I pour in as much command into my voice as I can. He immediately shoots off with a speed that even I would have difficulty matching.

"No," Sir Kendrick croaks weakly. I quickly prop him up, supporting his weight with one leg. "Get him to come back. Before he attracts the attention of the knights on the other side."

Only half of me is actually aware of his command. The other half—the conscious half—is too numb to react to anything. Fortunately, the unconscious half is sufficient for me to carry out his orders. "Gilbert!" I yell. "Come back!"

He only continues to sprint away. In desperation, while screaming his name once more, I bellow for him in my mind.

I suddenly go weak.

My strength has suddenly been siphoned out from my body, leaving me with a mere husk of myself. Sir Kendrick's weight against my thigh is almost unbearable; a wave of fatigue slams into me. Fortunately, Gilbert slows into a jogging pace, apparently hearing my cry, and turns back. Scattered eyes from the other side of the training field begin to focus on us; I grind my teeth. Please ignore us, I think. Just, please.

My limbs feel like the heavy branches of an ancient yew tree. Thank Pst. Ailith, Gilbert is here to take Sir Kendrick's weight away. At least the knights have stopped paying attention to us. I've a feeling that they'll tax the Bane for the answers themselves once the training is over. I tumble onto the ground, unsure of what just happened, only knowing that I need to rest.

"Constantine?" Gilbert says with a frown. "You look pale."

Despite myself, I manage to give a sour chuckle. "I think you should be more worried about Sir Kendrick."

"I'm still awake, you two," interjects the Bane, giving a weak smile. That smile soon fades away, replaced by a worried expression. "Listen very carefully, while I still have some measure of control over my consciousness."

Gilbert and I lock eyes, sharing a thought that runs along the lines of 'he's mad'. "Sir," says my fellow squire, "what—"

"Not enough time," wheezes Sir Kendrick. "Diomedes is here. Somewhere within the walls of Castle Larstand, and he's taken control over m—" A violent cough racks his body; his eyes squeeze shut with agony. When he opens his eyes, a gurgle of shock climbs up the back of my throat. Gilbert doesn't emit a single sound, possibly too confused and frightened by our trainer.

His eyes are blank, unseeing. All the warmth and sharpness that were there—even if it was false—are gone.

All gone.

"Squire Falkner, Squire Rutherland," he says sharply, abruptly regaining strength in his muscles. "What in the name of the Seven Heavens are you two doing?"

"Sir, you were saying something?" I say dumbly.

"Nonsense." He scowls at us. "You two are delusional. Now let me up and move on to your respective sessions."

I want to press him for more answers, about his sudden change of manner and intended words. Something in his tone stops me short though. Perhaps it would be best if I let this slide—for now. Gilbert on the other hand, doesn't have a moment of hesitation, helping Sir Kendrick up. The Bane seems to tower over him although they're about the same height.

"Rutherland, get your sorry behind off the ground," snaps Sir Kendrick. The heaviness hasn't quite left my limbs, but I manage to haul myself up.

"Squires, dismissed." Gilbert and I salute at him, before walking off the field. It's music lessons with Sir Isaac next for me, and what I assume to be a philosophy lesson by Sir Evan for Gilbert.

"What was that all about?" muses Gilbert. His expression is light, barely veiling his fear. I shrug in response; better to not speculate about such happenings. "Then what do you think was the word he didn't complete before he cut himself off?"

My steps slow. I give him a long, hard look. His eyes confirms what I already know—he has already completed Sir Kendrick's incomplete sentence.

'He's taken control over me'. Diomedes—he had managed to secure Sir Kendrick as his puppet.

******

I light a candle with unnecessary precision. After placing it in a candle-holder, I set it onto my table, careful to not let it topple over and make anything catch fire. I then seat myself on the stool, taking out a pair of shears from the table drawer. I reposition the tiny mirror so that my face is fully reflected on the surface. A white length of cloth is already draped about my shoulders. Tugging on a stray lock of hair, I begin the rather messy process of cropping it short; the shears chop off the strands savagely, a merciless executioner performing his duty. As I cut, I start to think back on today's events.

In all honesty, I cannot exactly recall the day's activities anymore, for all of them were overshadowed by the sudden revelation of Diomedes' presence. The only memory of slight interest was the odd looks that Allura cast upon me during the researching session; no doubt she was thinking of my encounter with her yesterday.

Sir Kendrick...if Diomedes has indeed taken over his body, then we are in far more danger than we could've imagined. Although Gilbert and I are said to be the only Champions who can stop the necromancer, we're just not ready for him. And then again, no one is ever truly ready when war approaches his doorstep. Besides, we may be able to command armies with our birth right, but what are the words of two lowly squires compared to the power and respect a Bane commands?

My fingers tremble at the idea of Diomedes residing side by side along with all of us, watching our every move, waiting for the right moment to strike. In fact, the cryptic words I had found carved into this table about a week ago is a hint that he's watching me at this very moment. I'd quickly looked for a cloth to cover up the message then, too afraid to tell anyone about it. I clench my teeth, trying to figure a way out of this mess.

Diomedes must have had an opportunity to get close to Sir Kendrick. I'm still unfamiliar with necromancy; I wouldn't know how they possess people. Perhaps via the spirits that they had summoned? I have to know how, in order to reverse the act.

And why didn't Diomedes choose Allura instead, if her curse is indeed his handiwork? Theoretically, it should be easier to possess someone who has been marked by your own magic, since that person should already be tainted...

Of course, Sir Kendrick is in a position of a much larger influence; gaining him as a henchman would be a huge advantage. My fingers work faster; my hair slowly transforms into short, choppy locks, the symmetry that had once been there now gone.

I suppose could try the scrinaius again to seek the answers I want. But after what had happened the last time I've been down there, I'm not too keen on the idea. Plus, there are the reports that say that the scrinaius has disappeared.

Everything that I've researched so far are frustratingly slow when it comes to revealing actual information, since most of the passages are cryptic messages and riddles that, when solved, are actually of no particular use. Despite my naturally enhanced ability to siphon through books without much difficulty, I won't have much time if—when Diomedes decides to strike.

The shears move faster. So the scrinaius can't be used, the texts are useless. What I really need is the most reliable source of information available—a person. A live human being who remembers the days before the Purge, the mass-hunt where all necromancers were tracked down and executed.

I abruptly spring to my feet in excitement, accidentally slicing my scalp with the shears. A torrent of curses flow from my mouth. I grab a rag on the table—giving no thought to the ink stains—to apply pressure onto my wound. The pain quickly subsides; a smile creeps onto my face. Why didn't I think of it before?

Abner.

I still do not know who—or what he is. Only one thing's for sure, if someone has the answers, it has to be him. He seems as ancient as the Dreyachian Mountains themselves, and talks in a voice that has seen many wars and much bloodshed. A sign of quiet, powerful wisdom.

I place the bloodied shears onto my table, my heart pounding with excitement. Gilbert and I had theorized that the visions could probably be controlled when we enter it on our own accord. It seems like it's time to put that theory to the test.

Pulling off my boots, I catch my knife before it can clatter to the floor; I'm determined to have some sort of weapon on me in case something goes horribly wrong. I then arrange the sheets on my bed so that they spread more comfortably, before plopping myself onto it, lying face-up with my fingers closed around my knife. My blood from the wound is seeping onto my bedroll. I can feel that as I close my eyes and take in deep breaths.

Envision a door, I tell myself, imitating the process for exiting a vision. Open it. Allow yourself to enter the darkness. Do not fear it—it's your ally.

Silence. I slowly open my eyes into darkness. Lighted darkness. The yellow glow of candlelight dances across the ceiling.

I grind my teeth with impatience. My conscience, my being, is still within the trappings of my room. My grip on Miraterciel tightens; I resist the urge to smash it into the wall. I calm my thoughts: smashing a wall would do me no good. Rather, it might attract unwanted attention, and I might end up with a tight reprimand, a destroyed bedchamber, and a damaged weapon.

Breathe. You didn't get it at first either when Abner showed you how to exit a vision.

Eventually, I feel my head beginning to clear. I close my eyes once more, gathering all of my concentration, imagining a door set before me. My hand reaches out to twist the knob, then tugs it open...

"You've done well." Abner's voice echoes as a greeting, proof of my success.

Elation flows throughout me in ripples. My eyelids slowly open. This time, my vision is filled by a vortex of pure darkness. Right in front of me, is Abner's misty figure. "Greetings, Abner," I say.

"And to you," he says, bowing with a flourish. I return it cordially. "Now, what is the purpose of your visit?"

"I'd like to know more about necromancy," I blurt out before I can hold my tongue.

I think that if he could raise a brow, he would. "I certainly didn't expect you to be so forthcoming with your intentions."

Feeling a wave of heat rising in my cheeks, I reply defensively, "You wanted to know the purpose of my 'visit'!"

"Peace, child," Abner grunts. "I never said that it was wrong." I take in deep breaths, checking my temper. "Now, what exactly would you like to know about necromancy? Mind you, I can't tell you all of the details, as some secrets are meant to be kept a secret."

He pauses for a while, obviously expecting me to make some sort of promise. "I won't tell," I whisper.

He nods briskly. Words begin to pour out, although I don't see any moving lips: "Necromancy, while seen as a dark art, is really a simple means of those with the Blood to express their souls."

A frown creases my forehead; I wasn't expecting Abner to be singing the praises of necromancy. He notices my confusion, and starts to explain, "Before the Dark Days, necromancy was a celebrated art. The few who had the power developed different ways to showcase their abilities, and it was less malevolent in its use than it is today.

"Naturally, that all changed when Diomedes summoned his legion of ghosts in attempt to raze the world to the ground. But I expect that you know that already?" I nod. "Now I will explain the basic concept of necromancy."

I lean forward eagerly, heart leaping both in joy and terror. I'm about to learn of a long lost power—of something only spoken in hushed tones, condemned in folk tales and legends. "You must understand that there are two basic layers within the world: the layer of the living, and the layer of the dead. The layer of the dead is further divided into several different layers—those who had done good will go up, and those who had committed evil during their lifetime will go down."

Abner pauses for a bit, waiting to see if I can follow. "Go on," I say.

"There are seven layers each for the good and evil spirits, which makes fourteen layers in all. The 'good' layers are where your term 'Seven Heavens' come from. The 'evil' layers, the reverse—Seven Hells. For a necromancer to successfully draw a spirit out, he or she must first venture into the spirit realm located in parallel to the physical world—the Interrealm. From there on, the necromancer will enter one of those layers and lure a suitable spirit out. They have to do it fast, for staying too long in the realm of the dead has dire consequences.

"Now this is where it gets tricky. There are two essential tools for a necromancer—an enchanted rope, and a knife to cut through the layers, also known as an athame. Entering the Interrealm is the simple part. Whereas in order for the necromancer to enter the right layer onward, whether up or down, they slice through the air by using the athame. Their strength has to be precise. If the cut is too strong, or too weak, they might end up with disastrous results, or with something far less than desirable. How far they can cut through depends on the necromancer's ability; the more powerful the necromancer, the further the layers they can cut through.

"Once they've entered their chosen layer via the athame, they will take the enchanted rope and use it to bind the spirit they have chosen. This is a dangerous task too. Necromancers spend weeks, months—or even years studying the history of a certain location, in order to know what kind of spirits may be present. The way people die represents which layer they might be in. Once they've done their research, only can they take the risk to actually summon the spirit. However, these are all assumptions and rough estimations, hence they might end up with something...unexpected."

Abner says no more. A thrill of an eagle taking flight soars through me. I'm the only person in approximately twenty years who has thorough information about necromancy. "Precise and logical," I comment in awe. "An art."

My companion nods in agreement.

"That's it?" There has to be more, something that will give me a clue on how to defeat Diomedes.

"That was only the basics. I will explain more to you in due time."

I huff in frustration, but I know that Abner is right. If I receive information that I'm not able to understand right now, it wouldn't help me in any way. And it might have a reverse effect, making me even more confused instead. "So be it," I say. "Thank you." Inhaling deeply, I prepare to exit the vision.

"Wait! There might be...something else that you want to know."

"What?" Puzzlement furrows my brows together.

"There is only one bloodline who may have the power to stop Diomedes, one that is descended from Pst. Zorah herself, one that you might be familiar with," Abner says slowly, watching me closely for a reaction. What is he implying? I start to think hard.

My windpipe tightens. It can't be...

"The Lorelay bloodline, Constantine, the family that has been condemned as charlatans and fools for ages. Your family. No matter your protests, you're heir to their power."

His words start to sink in; Miraterciel is a sudden weight in my boot.

"You've been told this before, but I will tell you again: you're a necromancer, Constantine."

******

A/N: Oh my, so Sir Kendrick has been revealed to be under the possession of Diomedes! And Constantine is forced to confront her necromantic side! Do tell me what you think about all these events, and don't forget to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to Gingyx for being such an amazing supporter, voter and commenter!

Pst. Viramir -- Patron of all those who smite, gossip and sin with their tongue; or more specifically, the Pietist who keeps all above mentioned people in check.