Michael Scott - The Necromancer

“But you’re Scatty’s twin, and she said she was two thousand five hundred and seventeen years old. How can you be ten thousand?”

“Scathach lies,” Aoife said simply. She shook her head. “She’s a terrible liar. You wouldn’t want to believe a single word she tells you.”

“I suppose Billy told you not to mention the tail?” Kukulkan said, sitting on a curved stone stool carved with hideous grinning faces. The brightly colored feathered tail coiled around his feet, the tip beating silently against the floor.

Niccolo Machiavelli sat back into an ornate hand-carved wooden throne, rested his elbows on its arms and brought the fingertips of both hands together before his face. A sense of calm settled over him, and the fact that they had not been killed immediately gave him reason to hope. Taking a slow deep breath, he composed himself before answering.

The Italian had been in situations like this before, when all that kept him from certain death were his wits and his skill with words. He had been an ambassador to the glittering courts of France and Spain, where a single wrong word or misplaced look could get a man killed. Later still, he had survived the deathly Papal court and the even more ruthless and dangerous world of the Borgias, where assassination and poisoning were commonplace. The Elder sitting opposite him, looking human in every respect-except for the tail and the solid black eyes-might be ten thousand and more years old, but Machiavelli had discovered that just about every being he had come across either in this world or in the nearby Shadowrealms, was driven by nearly the same needs and desires. Humani’s earliest myths were full of tales that revealed just how petty the gods could be. It was said that the gods had made man in their image. If so, then the humani had inherited all the faults and frailties of those same gods.

Kukulkan’s tail twitched as he waited for an answer.

Finally, Machiavelli smiled and said, “Billy may have suggested that I avoid the subject of the tail.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the American immortal close his eyes in dismay. “Though I have to say,” he added, “it is one of the finest tails I have ever seen.”

Billy the Kid’s eyes and mouth snapped open in horror. He had been standing behind the Italian’s right shoulder, facing the Elder, but now he slowly and carefully stepped aside. He’d been in enough shoot-outs to know that it was not a good idea to stand behind a target.

“And you have seen many tails?” the small man with the white beard said. His almost lipless mouth was a horizontal slash, and his solid black eyes fixed on Machiavelli’s face.

“Many, in both this world and the Shadowrealms. I have always had a fondness for beautiful things,” the Italian added. “I collected antiques for centuries, and for years one of my most prized possessions was an Abelam Yam Mask from Papua New Guinea. It was adorned with the most magnificent bird-of-paradise plumes.”

“A beautiful bird,” Kukulkan agreed.

“Though I do believe yours is the finer plumage,” Machiavelli added.

“If I thought you were attempting to flatter me, I would strike you dead on the spot.” The old man’s face shifted subtly.

Billy took another step away.

“You want to know whether I am lying?” Machiavelli asked.

Kukulkan tilted his head to one side, listening.

“Are your feathers more beautiful than the plumage of the bird-of-paradise?” Machiavelli asked.

“Why, of course,” the Elder agreed.

“So I was merely stating a fact. I have found that the truth is usually the simplest way,” the immortal said. “Fools lie, clever men stick to the truth.”

“Your master said you were… complex,” Kukulkan said after a long pause.

“I was unaware that you knew my master,” Machiavelli said. “Though I should not be surprised; I suppose most of the Elders know one another.”

“Not all,” Kukulkan answered. “I am still occasionally shocked when someone I have not heard of in millennia reappears in this Shadowrealm.” He turned his head to look out the enormous window that took up one wall. From this angle, with his strong chin and hooked nose, he resembled the faces on the stone statues Machiavelli had seen carved into temples across South America. “Your master and I are related,” Kukulkan said softly, glancing over at the Italian, “not by blood or family, but by bonds forged in struggle and adversity. I am honored to call him brother.”

“Can I ask how you know my master?”

“In the terrible days after the sundering of Danu Talis, the survivors took to the remnants of our once-great fleet of metal boats. For many days, we floated adrift on seas boiling with lava, the air foul and stinking with brimstone while the heavens rained burning coals and boiling water. When my ship struck a newly created lava reef and sank, I was the sole survivor. Against his crew’s wishes, your master turned his boat around just to rescue me, even though I was a different clan and caste. He shared his food and water with me, and when I despaired, he regaled with me tales of the World That Was and the World to Come. He taught me that out of the destruction of Danu Talis a new world would form-a world neither better nor worse than the one which had been destroyed. Your master changed me, made me realize the potential in this new humani race. We needed them, he said, in order to survive. I believed him.” Kukulkan rose to his feet and wandered around the room, the tail rasping along on the ground behind him. “I still do.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Machiavelli could see that the huge room was filled with countless artifacts from the Aztec, Maya and Olmec cultures: stone carvings, etched squares of gold, elaborate jade masks and bejeweled black obsidian knives. Scattered among the antiques were pieces that were obviously Egyptian, some of them astonishingly similar to their Mayan counterparts.

The Elder’s fingers trailed over an Aztec sword-a length of jade inset with black volcanic glass. “I went west to the Land of Jungle and Mountain, while your master, Aten, continued on to the east and the Lands of the Middle Sea.” Kukulkan picked up a tiny carved scarab beetle and looked at it closely before returning it to its shelf. “We trained the humani, nudged them toward civilization. In time the humani came to worship us, though in different ways. And I was never happier.” Something must have shown on Machiavelli’s usually impassive face, because the Elder’s lips curved into a smile. “You are surprised that we are capable of happiness?” Kukulkan asked.

The immortal shook his head. “The Elders I have dealt with over the centuries showed rage, anger, jealousy. I never considered that they might enjoy some of the other emotions,” he admitted.

“Why?”

Machiavelli shrugged. “Because you are not human,” he suggested.

“There are some emotions that are common to all living creatures-from Elder to humani and even the beasts,” Kukulkan said. “Have you never watched a dog mourning its master, nor a herd of elephants honoring their dead? Surely you have seen the excitement a hound exhibits when its master returns?”

Machiavelli nodded.

“But it is true that as a race, the Elders are not entirely comfortable with some of the lighter emotions. Centuries of power and authority stripped us of much of our joy in life. We had everything and we wanted more. In those last years before the island sank, there was not much laughter. The Elders were cruel to their servants and to one another. We fought because we could; we waged wars for no reason other than we were bored.” Kukulkan looked quickly at Machiavelli. “I was as guilty as all the others. Aten changed that. He was the fiercest, bravest warrior I have ever encountered, and yet he was also the gentlest and kindest.” He saw the look of surprise on the Italian’s face. “You did not know this about your own master?”