and much as I would have liked to distance myself from the residue of magic clinging to the necromancer beside me, I knew it was best to have him close. Just in case. Raising the dead isn't always straightforward, so best to keep him nearby, for now.
"Where did he go?" I couldn't help it, I had to ask. I know the answer, but I also don't, if that makes sense? Death is funny like that—it's a bugger to believe in when you live the life our kind does.
Dancer sighed. We'd had the conversation before, or variations on it, and I'm sure that over the years he's had similar ones with no end of people and races. "Come on, Spark, seriously?"
"Hey, it's important. There is somewhere after, right? I mean, there has to be, otherwise how could you come back?"
"Of course there is somewhere after you die, what a stupid question." I didn't think it was stupid. It's the question we have striven to find an answer to ever since we could first think, and after billions upon billions of deaths there is still no proof that life after death exists. Not like, real proof.
There is faith, belief, all of that, but only people like Dancer know. Really know. I wanted to know too, although I already do I guess—death is far from the end of it all, it's just the beginning.
"Okay, what's it like then? When you go get them, bring them back?"
"It's different every time. The afterlife is what you want it to be. Not what you wish it was when you are alive, but what you feel is your due when you strip away all the ego and the wishful thinking. It's what you deserve."
Stuff of nightmares, isn't it? How do we know what we deserve? Some of the most evil people in history thought they were doing the right thing, so what does that say about the rest of us?
Dancer was serious for a moment and smiled knowingly as I got goosebumps.
"I know, right? Scary stuff. But it's private, Spark. I'm not about to tell of other people's afterlife, that's their business. But it's there, and, well, to be honest a lot of it isn't that nice. Sometimes it's so beautiful it hurts, in a nice way, but often..."
"So the answer is?"
"Be nice, cross your fingers, give up your seat for the elderly on the bus, recycle, try not to kill too many people, don't litter, a bit of praying never hurts, never, and I mean never, kick a dog, and hope for the best."
"Great," I said, feeling more depressed than ever.
"You asked."
We were both lost in our own thoughts. I can't imagine doing what Dancer does. Life is hard enough without having to go visit people in their own private purgatory or paradise after they think it's finally all over with—what a way to earn a living. Still, he seems to enjoy it. I guess everyone has a role to play in the game we call living and dying, and it's nice to know you have skills.
Half an hour later all hell broke loose.
Police cars, ambulances, hospital bigwigs—judging by the cars they drove and the suits they wore—and five minutes after that there were more TV crew vans than I'd seen that morning at the scene of the Grandmaster's murder. Now ex-murder.
Someone had spilled the beans. Hardly surprising, as it's a small city, so somebody would always be calling up their mum and gossiping, and she'd tell the next door neighbor and before you knew it people on the other side of the world knew that you'd broken up with your girlfriend. It's like social media, only without the annoying ads.
You can't beat the Welsh gossip grapevine for spreading news far and wide faster than a photon bouncing along a fiber optic cable.
I watched as one reporter, a man I recognized—he was from the BBC so this really had made it to the majors—stood on the steps and then spoke to the camera. Oliver even moved out of the way. I guess he thought it a bad idea to be filmed, especially considering the circumstances.
I couldn't hear a word though, so flipped open my phone and connected to their website.
"...an unexpected turn of events the Grandmaster reported murdered
"Where did he go?" I couldn't help it, I had to ask. I know the answer, but I also don't, if that makes sense? Death is funny like that—it's a bugger to believe in when you live the life our kind does.
Dancer sighed. We'd had the conversation before, or variations on it, and I'm sure that over the years he's had similar ones with no end of people and races. "Come on, Spark, seriously?"
"Hey, it's important. There is somewhere after, right? I mean, there has to be, otherwise how could you come back?"
"Of course there is somewhere after you die, what a stupid question." I didn't think it was stupid. It's the question we have striven to find an answer to ever since we could first think, and after billions upon billions of deaths there is still no proof that life after death exists. Not like, real proof.
There is faith, belief, all of that, but only people like Dancer know. Really know. I wanted to know too, although I already do I guess—death is far from the end of it all, it's just the beginning.
"Okay, what's it like then? When you go get them, bring them back?"
"It's different every time. The afterlife is what you want it to be. Not what you wish it was when you are alive, but what you feel is your due when you strip away all the ego and the wishful thinking. It's what you deserve."
Stuff of nightmares, isn't it? How do we know what we deserve? Some of the most evil people in history thought they were doing the right thing, so what does that say about the rest of us?
Dancer was serious for a moment and smiled knowingly as I got goosebumps.
"I know, right? Scary stuff. But it's private, Spark. I'm not about to tell of other people's afterlife, that's their business. But it's there, and, well, to be honest a lot of it isn't that nice. Sometimes it's so beautiful it hurts, in a nice way, but often..."
"So the answer is?"
"Be nice, cross your fingers, give up your seat for the elderly on the bus, recycle, try not to kill too many people, don't litter, a bit of praying never hurts, never, and I mean never, kick a dog, and hope for the best."
"Great," I said, feeling more depressed than ever.
"You asked."
We were both lost in our own thoughts. I can't imagine doing what Dancer does. Life is hard enough without having to go visit people in their own private purgatory or paradise after they think it's finally all over with—what a way to earn a living. Still, he seems to enjoy it. I guess everyone has a role to play in the game we call living and dying, and it's nice to know you have skills.
Half an hour later all hell broke loose.
Police cars, ambulances, hospital bigwigs—judging by the cars they drove and the suits they wore—and five minutes after that there were more TV crew vans than I'd seen that morning at the scene of the Grandmaster's murder. Now ex-murder.
Someone had spilled the beans. Hardly surprising, as it's a small city, so somebody would always be calling up their mum and gossiping, and she'd tell the next door neighbor and before you knew it people on the other side of the world knew that you'd broken up with your girlfriend. It's like social media, only without the annoying ads.
You can't beat the Welsh gossip grapevine for spreading news far and wide faster than a photon bouncing along a fiber optic cable.
I watched as one reporter, a man I recognized—he was from the BBC so this really had made it to the majors—stood on the steps and then spoke to the camera. Oliver even moved out of the way. I guess he thought it a bad idea to be filmed, especially considering the circumstances.
I couldn't hear a word though, so flipped open my phone and connected to their website.
"...an unexpected turn of events the Grandmaster reported murdered
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