//------------------------------// // 4 - Insert Tab Necromancy Into Slot Death // Story: Urban Wilds // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// If you knew the right ponies, the Royal Guard was one of the most easily accessible organizations in Equestria. If. Fortunately, in Bitterroot’s case, that condition evaluated to “true”. Knowing the right ponies to talk to in order to find somepony else was an important skill to have, whether you were looking for a runaway in a dive bar or a warrant officer in a barracks. Bitterroot strode through the grounds of Canterlot Castle with the unthinking confidence of somepony who knew exactly where she was going. Amanita, on the other hoof… Amanita kept looking around like she expected somepony to jump out and stab her. She’d walk a few steps, then whip around to look behind her. She tried to look casual, but her motions were jittery, her eyes kept darting around, and she was holding her head low to make herself smaller. Bitterroot was surprised she couldn’t hear her heartbeat. “You okay?” Bitterroot asked. At least Amanita didn’t explode in shock. “Fine,” she muttered in a high-pitched voice. “Nervous. Habit. Paranoid. I’m a necromancer walking into a military base, what’d you expect? I, I, I’ll get over it.” Swallow. “In time.” Uh-huh. Sure. When Amanita started strategically walking so Bitterroot would shield her from the gaze of somepony who looked important, Bitterroot flapped to get in front of her and brought them both to a halt. “You’re moving like everypony in this place hates you and wants to kill you. That’s… Are you sure you want to do this?” “No, but I want to try. I’m never going to not know necromancy, so I might as well own it, right?” Amanita smiled weakly. “Maybe it’ll give me something to remember besides the lowest point in my life.” “But… seriously, like this?” “It’s, I don’t think this’ll change.” Amanita’s head shakes were short and quick. “I’ll always panic around guards unless I can confront it head-on, and-” “Amanita,” Bitterroot said softly. It wasn’t a tone she was used to using, but she managed. “Are you okay? Be honest. Please.” “I…” Amanita’s voice trailed off. She wasn’t that much shorter than Bitterroot, but she looked small. Not unassuming-small; vulnerable-small. Just the way she held herself looked like a nervous foal expanded to an adult’s body, no one thing clearly marking her as nervous. To an outsider, it was a miracle that she was standing in a rough wind, let alone here at all. Yet she still managed to look Bitterroot in the eyes when she said, “Can… Can you please just trust me? It’s… I don’t know if I can describe it, sorry. Just, with everything going on, I, I need to head in here, now.” For a brief moment, Bitterroot entertained the idea of demanding Amanita try to describe it, just so they could be on the same level. Then she kicked that idea out, because: “Of course I trust you. I let you kill me.” (Amanita flinched, but nopony else seemed to notice.) “Come on, then.” She turned around and continued walking. “And if you change your mind and want to get out, the safe word is ‘kumquat’.” Amanita snorted. Things calmed down a little once they got inside the castle; less enlisted ponies in armor, more officers in service uniform. It didn’t change what they were, but it definitely made them look less threatening, and when Bitterroot glanced over her shoulder, Amanita’s stride was a little looser. Good. The pegasus clerk at the desk glanced up when she heard them approach and gave them the casual nod of familiarity. “Hey, Bitterroot.” Bitterroot nodded back. Whenever she worked with the Guard, she ran into this particular pony a lot. “Hey, Graphite. I-” “Still looking for the Mearhwolf? You weren’t in here yesterday — first time we actually got some new evidence, believe it or not, hang on.” Graphite pulled open a drawer and began rummaging through it. “Had instructions to give it to any bounty hunters who came in, so of course that’s when the trickle stopped… Aha.” She pulled out a sheet of paper with an arcanocopied picture of a bar token on it and passed it over to Bitterroot. “Found that at the crime scene, near the victim’s body. Pretty sure the Guard’s already gone over it with a fine-toothed comb, but…” She shrugged. Bitterroot grabbed the paper and stuffed it in her saddlebags without looking at it. “Thanks, but I’m actually here for something else.” “Mmhmm.” Graphite leaned to one side. “Your friend? Never seen her before.” “First time in Canterlot,” said Amanita. She coughed and stepped forward; Bitterroot scooched aside. “Hi. Um. I’m Amanita, and I’d… I’d like to offer my… services in catching the Mearhwolf.” “You and everypony else,” muttered Graphite. A sigh, and she slipped into the specific enunciations of memorization and repetition. “Look, ma’am, it’s not that the Guard doesn’t want the help, but we’ll need more than just ‘I’ll keep an eye out’ or ‘I know a thing or two about this neighborhood’. We have good ponies working on this and a glut of offers that, to be honest, don’t really provide much help. Thank you, but-” Amanita spoke up. “A-actually-” (Graphite twitched, like she hadn’t been prepared for an interruption.) “-I have… Um. I have… skills that nopony else has.” “Uh-huh. And what are those?” Bitterroot felt her wings tense up as Amanita continued. “Well, it’s, just, I…” Swallow. “I’m a necromancer.” Graphite grinned. “Heh. Cool. For real, though, what skills?” Amanita’s ears twitched. “This isn’t a joke.” Her voice had grown a little firmer. “I’m a necromancer. I can call up the Mearhwolf’s victims, ask them questions, give their family some peace of mind, maybe even bring some back.” “Eh-heh.” Graphite’s laugh had a cynical edge. “So, what, you picked up an illegal branch of magic to help ponies, is that it?” “Well-” Ear flick. “Not, not originally, no. But I’ve served my time for it and I want to-” “Look, we’re busy-” (Bitterroot looked behind them; no line.) “-so cool it with your game and-” Bitterroot stepped forward and nudged Amanita aside. “Look,” she said. “Graphite. You know me. And remember Circe?” “Oh, sure, that lich.” Graphite nodded. “You brought her in… three years ago, right?” “Two. And do you remember what else?” “Sure. There was another necromancer who-” Graphite suddenly sat up straight, staring at Amanita. She stared at Bitterroot. At Amanita again. At Bitterroot again. She pointed at Amanita and opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “Yeah. That’s her,” Bitterroot said. “She was released yesterday.” “Re- Really.” Graphite sounded like she didn’t know whether to be skeptical or terrified. “She’s a necromancer.” She pointed at Amanita, who forced out a grin and waved halfheartedly. “She is. She killed me and brought me back. Or did you think that this scar suddenly just appeared one day?” Bitterroot held her chin up and traced the crescent on her throat. Graphite looked at Bitterroot’s scar with new eyes. She looked briefly at Amanita and her throat tightened. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “Um, o… kay,” she said, “I’ll, um, h-have to… get you… a-approved. Why don’t, why don’t you… uh, take a seat?” She motioned towards a set of chairs and quickly scurried into the offices. Bitterroot was about to take a seat to wait when Amanita coughed. “Um, listen,” she said, “thank you for the, uh, for the help, but, but you don’t need to stay here. I can do this and you gave me that spare key of yours. You… go off bounty hunting, following that lead, and… stuff.” “You’re sure?” Bitterroot asked. “You seem-” “I’m fine,” Amanita said, a bit too quickly. “I, I need to do this on my own. Just to… get on my feet, you know?” Bitterroot raised an eyebrow. “Do you need to do it alone?” Amanita didn’t have an answer for that. Sigh. “But if you really think so…” Bitterroot stepped away. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” “Yeah. Um.” Amanita nodded. “Thanks for… getting me this far, at least.” She smiled a little, then slumped into one of the nearby chairs to wait. Bitterroot inched out of the castle, keeping her eyes on Amanita. But Amanita never got up. She probably ought to press the issue, she knew, but Bitterroot had never been a ponies pony. She couldn’t bring herself to and she wouldn’t know how to do it anyway. What she was, though, was a bounty hunter. Bitterroot pulled the evidence sheet from her saddlebags and examined the picture. A bar token, shiny and new, but with little flecks of dirt on it. A typed note at the bottom said it’d been found on the ground near the victim, possibly dropped by the Mearhwolf. Bitterroot wasn’t so sure — anyone could happen to drop a bar token on the street — but it was still possible. On one side, a pony hoof, a griffon claw, and a dragon claw clinked frothing mugs together. On the other, the token was clearly marked as a two-bit one (ha ha). Not a lot of beers there, but useful for change. Then Bitterroot noticed the bar name emblazoned around the border of the denominational side: Hangnail. Huh. The Hangnail. Who would’ve thought? Even if Bitterroot hadn’t been starved for evidence, this would’ve been interesting. Nopony who lived in that part of Canterlot would be found dead in the Hangnail, partly because they didn’t know where it was, assuming they’d even heard of it. Yes, this was actually something, finally. Bitterroot stuffed the paper back into her saddlebags and took flight. Time to head to the Roost. Everyone was either staring at her or going out of their way to not stare at her and Amanita wasn’t sure which was worse. Starers: Well, ponies were staring at you. Nopony liked that. These particular ponies were like paparazzi chasing a shamed celebrity, freely and openly taking in someone else’s misfortune. Except Amanita didn’t have any misfortune, just a history. Staring at her like they would a convicted felon, then. Which… fair. Ish. She’d changed, but when was the last time a necromancer had changed? The assurance that she was totally one in a million wasn’t that great with the weight of the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine against it. Not-starers: So they weren’t looking at you. A good start. But they were so conspicuous about it, you knew they were thinking about you. They’d decided to stop by a gruesome train accident, only to chicken out and not look at the last moment, but hadn’t chickened out enough to walk away. Or maybe they’d already formed their own conceptions about her and thought she was worse than a sleeping dragon, then, a beast that might lash out and kill anyone nearby at the slightest nudge. For Celestia’s sake, no. If she was that violent, why would she walk into the one place in Canterlot where most of the staff were, effectively, trained killers? Any one of the ponies here could probably take her down on their own, let alone all of them at once. And if she just up and walked away, ponies would talk. They’d know she was a necromancer, but she wouldn’t have done anything to give them a reason to think she wasn’t the usual necromancer. She would’ve come here for nothing. She’d have given up at the first sign of difficulty. No, she had to sit and both get stared at and get definitely-not stared at until someone came to talk to her. Deep breath. She could do this. Graphite returned, looking shaken but less so than when she’d left. “Um.” Cough. “There’s a… meeting between… the right officials to see… um, to see… if…” “To see if they can trust a necromancer?” Amanita asked. “Ehm. Yes.” Graphite looked embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “When they make a decision, they’ll come for you. But that… might take a while. I don’t know how long.” Sigh. “Alright. Thanks.” Graphite nodded stiffly, hesitated, and returned to her desk. Amanita settled in to wait. And wait she did. She waited and waited and waited for what felt like hours — and when she looked at the clock, actually was nearly three hours. Big discussion, then, but what else had she expected? Everyone was either still looking at her or still resolutely looking away. It got her used to ponies knowing she was a necromancer, but still. With a sigh, she glanced down the hallway. Then she sat up straight as her attention was drawn to a pair of ponies walking in her direction: a big, fully-armored unicorn guardstallion with the stocky build of an earth pony and a bespectacled, uniformed earth mare half a head shorter than Amanita herself. Ponies were stepping out of the way for them and the guard was talking animatedly to the mare. “-really need to think this through, ma’am,” he said. Then he added, “With all due respect.” “The committee already has,” she replied without looking at him. “…And you’re still going through with this? Even though she’s a necromancer?” “Yes.” “You don’t find it suspicious that we’re dealing with a spree killer and then a necromancer just happens to show up, claiming to want to help?” “Given the details? No.” “You’re-” The guard rubbed his head. “I want to find the Mearhwolf as much as you do, but this is going too far. She’s a necromancer, she has to be up to something.” “No, she doesn’t. We’ve made our decision and I’ve made mine.” “YOU CAN’T TRUST HER!” roared the guard. “WHO KNOWS WHAT SHE’LL-” The mare looked him dead in the eye. “You do not yell at me.” She didn’t raise her voice, but everyone stopped and looked in her direction. “Yes’m,” the guard said, promptly snapping into a position of attention and looking straight ahead. “Apologies, ma’am. Won’t happen again.” His ears were folded back and his tail was close against his body. The mare eyed him for several long moments. Then she turned away and said, “Dismissed.” The guard was gone in seconds and business chugged back to life again. The mare didn’t follow him, but instead walked on up to Amanita. Although the mare was a bit short, she was short in the “ten pounds of business in a five pound bag” sort of way. Her pace was quick but confident, like she knew where she was going and wasn’t about to wait for anypony or let anypony wait for her. She was thin, not small around the trunk, but in the sense that her entire left-right distance looked smaller than it should have been. Between that, her glasses, and some wrinkles from age, she had a bad case of resting bureaucrat face if you didn’t notice the tiny scar on her lower lip. Her coat was a bright, glossy red, clearly well-shampooed, and her close-cropped mane was dark orange. Not brown, for whatever reason; it was the right shade, technically speaking, but Amanita somehow couldn’t look at it and claim it was brown. Her uniform had several ribbons pinned to it and an insignia Amanita didn’t recognize, and a sword was sheathed at her side. “You’re the necromancer, yes?” the mare asked in a voice of detached professionalism. It was impossible to tell her feelings, one way or the other. “Uh…” Amanita got the distinct feeling she should stand at attention. She got up, brought her hooves together, and stood like she’d just been shocked beneath the tail. “Y-yes, ma’am,” she said. Should she continue or add something? But the mare had only asked if she was a necromancer; probably not yet. “Hmm. Come on.” The mare clicked her tongue and nodded down the hall. “We need some privacy.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and began walking. Amanita scurried after her. Ponies parted for them as they walked and the mare didn’t slow her stride. It wasn’t long before the mare led them into an office, pulling them through before Amanita could read the plaque on the door. The office was a bit small, just barely large enough to tell Amanita that this mare was a very important pony in an unimportant department. Two walls were lined with huge overstuffed bookshelves, and there was a good-sized window on another, but other than that, the only noteworthy thing was a glass jar of candy on the desk. They each took seats on their respective sides of the desk. From this angle, the mare felt considerably bigger than she was. She cleared her throat and said, “Before we get to the introductions, I must apologize for the length of your wait. I hope you understand, but the possibilities of what you can do are immense. In both moral directions.” (Amanita nodded jerkily. She knew. And they were taking both sides of her seriously.) “We debated the risks of allowing any necromancer in at all, but decided it was acceptable, so long as you were supervised by the proper authority figure. Hence: myself.” “And, and what if,” Amanita heard herself say, “what if I just overpower you and-” Her words came to a halt as the mare looked over the top of her glasses and pursed her lips. “If you think it’s that easy,” she said in a voice that sounded oddly relieved, “you are definitely harmless.” Amanita twitched, forced a smile, and squeaked out a laugh. “Heh…” “Now, I am Doctor Restricted Code, High Ritualist of the Royal Guard. And you are?” “A-Amanita, ma’am.” Amanita felt like she was a naughty foal brought to the principal’s office for some unknowable reason. Combined with the fact that she was really doing this, little shakes broke out all over her body. “I’m- I used to-” Swallow. “Like I said, I, I know necromancy. I’ve- served my time for it. And, and I was wondering if… you’d be open to… me using it… to save the Mearhwolf’s victims or… let them… say their goodbyes.” The words tumbled out haphazardly, in chunks at a time. Amanita swapped between having nothing to say and having too much to say. She wasn’t sure what was weirder; casually going “I’m a necromancer” to an officer of the Royal Guard, or that officer not immediately wrestling her to the ground and slapping a suppression ring on her horn. Both of them went against everything Circe had taught her. The fact that Circe was wrong didn’t mean those lessons weren’t ingrained in her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body but she had nowhere to go. Code’s ear twitched, but she otherwise didn’t react. “When you say ‘save’…” she prompted. It took Amanita a few moments to realize what Code was actually asking. “A-actual, real resurrection,” she said quickly. “Not, no enthrallment. I don’t- I didn’t know what I was doing when I did that and I wouldn’t’ve done it if I had.” It seemed right to mention that. Code could beat a statue with that poker face. “Mmhmm. And what made you seek out a shunned branch of magic, only to walk into a military base and offer your services?” And there it was, the million-bit question. Amanita had suspected it’d come up and had been thinking about it for a while. Walking into the base was easy. Learning necromancy to begin with? That was something else. Amanita had regained consciousness in that alley when an earth pony roughly turned her over. “ ’Least ye weren’t on yer back,” she said gruffly. “Ye’d drown in yer own puke.” “Sorry,” Amanita mumbled. “First time drinking.” Retch. Wretch. “Firs’ time? What ’appened?” After the apathy from her family, Amanita would cling to any shoulder to cry on. The alcohol hadn’t helped. Without thinking, she’d told that stranger everything about Zinnia, there in that cold, wet, stinking alley, bile and half-digested food clinging to her coat, tears and snot running down her muzzle. She couldn’t remember, but she’d probably sounded like the epitome of the angsty teen, thinking they’d found true love after three weeks. And yet that pony, calling herself Circe, had listened. Before Amanita left, Circe had offered to be at the same bar the next night. And when the time came, there she was, nice and friendly, picking up the tab. She kept Amanita at just the right BAC, near-incoherent with no filters or inhibitions without blacking out entirely. She listened, nodding sagely, as Amanita spilled her heart out. “…and I-” Amanita coughed. Her throat was burning. She pawed at Zinnia’s locket, so cold. “I wasn’t ready, I didn’t get to really say goodbye, I’ll never be able to-” “Y’sure ’bout that?” Circe asked with a grin. If she were sober, Amanita might’ve noticed how fake the smile was. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. She gawked at Circe, the obvious question refusing to leave her lips. “C’mon. Lemme show ya.” In a deserted lot, with nopony else around, Circe did things. Amanita couldn’t remember much besides a circle of chalk, the locket, and Zinnia’s spirit. She’d been so happy to see Amanita again. So spirited. So perfect. So agreeable. Just as Amanita had wanted, not as Zinnia had been. A warning sign unnoticed, for they were together. Eventually, the circle was smudged and Zinnia was gone. Amanita was sad, but she didn’t despair. Some more time would have been nice, though. It was like Circe knew what she was thinking. “Lissen, I gotta get goin’. Sorry, but ain’t got time t’teach ya the ritual. ’Less y’wanna come with, o’course.” Amanita didn’t think twice. She had never been so invested in anything in all her life. Later, she wanted to say that Circe had slipped drugs into her drinks to make her more pliant. Maybe so. Maybe no. Either way, it didn’t justify what she would go on to do. They left on a train within the hour. Amanita didn’t say anything to her family, didn’t even return home. They didn’t care for her; why should she care for them? She was off, off to a new life, away from the pain she was feeling, away from her grief. She’d hit rock bottom. Things could only get better from here. It was in an empty, drafty passenger carriage rattling through the night that Circe first used the word “necromancy”. In all honesty? The reasons she’d learned necromancy were the same reasons she was here. She’d just been… less aware the first time around. More tunnel-visioned. More wilfully ignorant. And now, she wasn’t doing it for herself. Although Code probably didn’t want to sit through her entire past. Amanita swallowed. “It’s- It’s complicated. The short version is, when I learned necromancy, I was in a bad place. I wasn’t thinking straight and there were… ponies I’d do anything to have back. A-and I mean anything. When I came to my senses, I realized just how terrible all the things I’d done were and I turned myself in. Now, I- I still don’t like my past, but it’s there and I still know necromancy, one way or another. If I can use some of the less awful branches of it to- save just one pony who died before their time, I’ll feel like I can turn my life around.” That finally got a nod from Code. “That’s what Shining thought would happen. He-” “Wait, Shining?” Amanita nearly toppled forward as she pushed herself upright. “Shining Armor?” “Yes. You gave him Circe’s phylactery, did you not?” “You know about-” Amanita forced her mouth shut and herself back into her chair. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “And yes. I’m- just surprised.” Code shrugged. “Much of necromancy involves rituals. I am the High Ritualist of Equestria. I am kept as up-to-date as possible on known necromancy around Equestria in case I am needed. It’s not common, but Shining notified me of you and Circe. After seeing your behavior in prison, he suspected you might come here. In fact, his testimony was a large factor in why you were accepted at all. I asked you because I’d much rather hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.” “Well. Um.” Gulp. “Alright then.” “So. Resurrection.” Code pulled out a pen and a stack of papers from a drawer. “Would you mind describing whatever spell or ritual you plan on using? Step-by-step, please.” Easy. Probably the easiest part of the day yet. Amanita knew her resurrection rituals and they didn’t have much potential for misuse. Confidence made her sit up straighter. “It’s a ritual. First, you draw a magic circle-” “What kind of circle?” Code immediately asked. “What?” The suddenness of the question threw Amanita off like nothing else. Literally the first step, the first part of the first step, before anything had been written down, and something needed clarifying? “The kind of circle,” Code repeated patiently. “Is it a Haymiltonian circle, a Foucolt circle, a generic circle, what?” “Uh.” At the unfamiliar terms, Amanita willed herself deeper into her seat; she felt like she’d been pushed out to give a speech with no rehearsal. Or notification that she was giving a speech in the first place. “I wasn’t taught the names of the specifics of my rituals, just what they did. It’s- Does a buckball player need to know the projectile equation to kick the ball?” The corner of Code’s mouth twitched and, heaving a sigh, she pushed her glasses up to rub her face. “Why is it,” she murmured to herself, “that no hedge mage ever takes the time to learn the jargon of elementary thaumatics? It was formalized for a reason.” She straightened back up. “Sorry. Does the orientation of the creation of the circle matter?” “Okay. Um. I was just about to get to that. You use chalk and you start by facing north…” And so they went for quite a while, Amanita explaining the steps of the ritual, Code writing those steps down. Code kept asking for clarification on this or that aspect of the ritual, but if she was frustrated, she never showed it. As she wrote down the ritual on one set of papers, she took her own notes on another set, constantly switching between them so quickly Amanita gave up trying to follow it. It couldn’t’ve taken more than half an hour, Code’s digressions taking up most of that, but describing a ritual meant for necromancy to a guard was so strange that it felt like it went on for hours. But, finally, Amanita was saying, “…and if you leave them be for long enough, eventually, their body will be as fixed as the spell can make it and it’ll kickstart their heart, and they’ll be alive again. And… that’s it.” “Hmm. Interesting.” Code remained an ideal of stoicism as she looked over the papers. “It’s certainly an unusual ritual.” “I wouldn’t know. Um, all my rituals have been… necromantic.” “Mmhmm.” Code was silent for several long moments as she thought, then she turned one paper back towards Amanita and circled a large chunk of instructions. “What does this do?” “It, uh, rebuilds the body,” said Amanita. She squirmed in place. “Heals wounds, loosens muscles from rigor mortis, decoagulates blood, that sort of thing. Otherwise the person would just die again the second they were brought to life. It needs to be done within three days after death, though, before putrefaction really sets in.” “I thought so, but it works slowly and over half the ingredients can be replaced with a few tufts of phoenix down.” “Phoenix down is hard to get when you’re hiding off the map in the Frozen North.” Amanita winced slightly as the words came out more snippily than she intended. But Code seemed understanding, or at least thick-skinned. “Of course it is,” she said, mostly to herself. She tilted her head to examine the paper more closely. “Yes, limited resources explains a lot… For an evil capital-B witch, your master knew her stuff.” “Um. She… didn’t make that. I did.” Code’s gaze flicked up. When she locked stares with Amanita, her eyes were just a little bit bigger. “Did you,” she said. She was trying to keep her voice bland, but Amanita could hear interest attempting to break through. “I, I did. Sort of.” Amanita swallowed and sat up a little straighter, just so she wasn’t looking up at Code as much. “Circe, she, she didn’t give two whits if the body was fully healed. Or the person had their free will. She was just interested in thralls and- Do you want to see the ritual she used for that?” Although Code’s face stayed neutral, her ears immediately pivoted forward and Amanita caught the swish of a tail getting flicked. “Yes,” she said, her voice a register higher. “I would.” Amanita grabbed a pen and some sheets of paper and scribbled the instructions out. It was a process she’d hoped to never see again; it was all hidden behind ingredients and instructions, but this was a way to enslave someone’s soul after they died. If anything, the scientific, dispassionate nature of it just made it worse. The pony who’d made this didn’t, couldn’t, care about others. They could cut up people just as easily as they could an apple. She wanted to say that she’d never use it again, but she’d used it just fine before knowing what it truly did. Still, Code needed to know it. Once she had the instructions out, Amanita passed the papers back to Code. Code took one look at it and grimaced. “Yulgh. If that’s not necromancy, I don’t know what is.” She opened up the candy jar and popped a peppermint into her mouth like she was downing a shot or a painkiller. She turned it around in her mouth as she looked over the ritual more deeply, her eyes flicking back and forth. More than once, Amanita thought she saw her twitch in a suppressed retch. “And this is what she taught you? Nothing from the first ritual?” “No. Erm, ye- Right. The first one I made on my own, based on the second.” “Hmm.” Code took up a red pen in her mouth, placed the two rituals side-by-side to compare them, and nudged the jar in Amanita’s direction. Amanita swiped a peanut butter cup and a mint; if taking two was wrong, Code was too deeply invested in the directions to either notice or care. She kept jotting things down, crossing other things out, drawing arrows to move things around. At one point, she just pulled up a spare sheet of paper and wrote out several whole paragraphs herself. All the while, Amanita just watched, letting the peanut butter cup melt in her mouth. When it was gone, she tried to say something, only to be stopped by Code holding up a hoof the second she opened her mouth. She swallowed her question and let the mint rest on her tongue. She was doing this. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, in good conscience, back out now. Not after dropping a resurrection ritual on the Guard’s desk. And it was being looked over by somepony with the title “High Ritualist”. Amanita felt like her skin was crawling, that at any moment, it’d be pronounced that she was trying to trick the Guard and she’d be cut down where she sat. But she’d always known that was a risk. Why would it matter now? So she kept her breathing level and tried not to sweat as her necromancy was scrutinized. Code still was unreadable. After what felt like hours, Code spat out her pen and asked, “Would you prefer the good news or bad news?” Amanita nearly choked as she swallowed what remained of the mint in shock. “Erm.” When it came to rituals like that, “bad” could mean terrible, terrible things for the pony being resurrected. She didn’t even know what, but you didn’t want to think too much about misapplied resurrection magic unless you wanted nightmares for the next week. And she’d used that spell on Bitterroot, so if there was something wrong with it… She forced herself to say, “Bad.” “Your lack of formal education is… painfully obvious. This-” Code tapped Amanita’s ritual. “-is messy, inefficient, roundabout, and bloated. You’re throwing away your quill and buying a new one every time it runs dry.” “But it-” Amanita swallowed. “It works, right?” “Oh, certainly. Which ties into the good news.” Code tapped one of the sheets she’d gotten out. “This one does the same thing far more quickly, assuming my calculations are correct. I simplified it rather dramatically. I could probably go even further if I knew more about necromancy. Could you tell me what you think?” Amanita snatched up the paper and scanned it intently. While Code had been exaggerating a little, the ritual was definitely easier, assuming you had all the ingredients. The bits Circe had said were important for bringing the dead back were still there, while the bits for binding them to your will (and, in Amanita’s ritual, re-un-binding them so they still had their free will) were gone. The symbolism of their replacements was esoteric, but it felt right, and esoterica that felt right was generally a good sign in a ritual. Getting a true toadstone would be tricky, and the three tufts of phoenix down it needed were pretty much out of the question, but if you got them… Amanita cleared her throat. “I might need some explanation for your replacements but I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work.” “Could it work if a body’s been autopsied?” With a full-body twitch, Amanita jerked her head up and stared at Code. Code stared back, barely blinking. After a moment, Amanita stammered out, “W-well, I mean, yes, if it was done soon enough, but if you were going to bring them back anyway, why would you-” She jerked her mouth shut as the answer hit her. Her train of thought tried to go a dozen different tracks at once and ripped itself to pieces. Just before she looked foolish, Code spoke up. “Because we didn’t know we could bring them back.” Code leaned forward. It was probably the most dramatic movement she’d made in this conversation. “Amanita. Two nights ago, a pony was killed by the Mearhwolf. Following protocol, we autopsied her to see if there was any evidence of foul play beyond the expected. Today, you came in. She is still within your three-day ritual period. If you are willing, the Court would like you to resurrect her. I apologize for being so sudden, but Canterlot-” Her voice abruptly stopped; she blinked a few times as she collapsed back into her chair. She was quiet when she spoke again. “Canterlot could use some good news.” It was like Amanita had nearly been hit by a train. Of course she’d known it was probably coming; she’d just never imagined it could be this soon or straightforward. A brief talk, an exchange of paperwork, and bam: she’d be in the morgue in an hour. It probably had something to do with Code; she seemed pragmatic enough to not care about whatever Amanita’s past might have been. Still, doing it now was… fast. Part of her wanted to say, “I’ll think about it”, go back to Bitterroot’s house, and curl up with a nice, big bottle of club soda for six hours, just so she could have time to unwind and think (and thinking required a lack of alcohol). “I understand that this is rather abrupt,” Code continued. “If you want some time to think it over, you can have it. The ritual needs to be done by tomorrow evening, correct? So I simply need your answer before then, before it’s made for us. I have already been authorized to ensure that you have the legal space necessary to work.” And suddenly, once waiting became an option, it also became less appealing. Because Amanita knew what her answer would be. It was the only right answer in this situation. And this was what she’d hoped for, wasn’t it? Being overseen as she did necromancy so she’d stay on the straight and narrow. Might as well dive in. “Alright,” Amanita said. It felt like she was in a dream, like she hadn’t consciously willed those words to be said even though she wanted them said. The environment suddenly felt hazy. “I, I’ll need the ingredients, but, um, yeah. I’ll do it. A-as soon as possible.” Code nodded and stood up. “Very well. Let’s get your materials. Consider yourself deputized.”