All who study Western magic learn something of the spirits their incantations invoke. All who study spirits know that contact with the ones called things like "The Tyrant of Flame" or "The Queen of Eternity" is a Very Bad Idea, if you can even succeed. All who study heroes understand that sometimes a Very Bad Idea turns out to be the best option available.

There are, of course, obstacles legendary in scope to meeting with the Lords of the Dead, beginning with finding their court in the first place. These obstacles are not particularly important in the grand scheme of things. They're merely a way of saying "You must be this exceptional to enter." The Thousand Teacher and the Doll Mistress had been exceptional since they were the age they usually looked. They were barely slowed down.

What is important in the grand scheme of things is what one does after winning access to the Lords of the Dead. Cajoling them into restoring one of the souls in their keeping to life is a far harder task than simply reaching them alive. Music that can melt a fury's heart, the mourning of an entire world, and a successful wrestling match against one of the Lords are all considered reasonable prices for a single life.

The Thousand Teacher did not bargain for a single life. He bargained for every life lost when the school was destroyed. He bargained for four hundred and ninety-six lives.

At this point the Visitation of Woe, who had journeyed ignorant of her student's plans, started laughing in a manner the incautious might describe as "hysterical."

In exchange for this unprecedented bounty, the Thousand Teacher offered the Lords of the Dead a prize beyond measure: a soul they would never otherwise possess. He noted that with his immortality, unparalleled combat ability, and familiarity with time travel technology, he could quite easily outlive the universe barring a compelling reason to do otherwise. A compelling reason such as, to pick an example at random, the chance to revive four hundred and ninety-six people cut down in their youth. Hypothetically.

The Disciple of Dark Tones declared a recess in the negotiations to have a little chat with her apprentice on the subject of what in the name of, well, that guy sitting right over there he thought he was doing. He noted that it was hard, so very hard to keep outliving people. It had been bad enough when the previous generations aged and died in the fullness of time, but now that it was beginning to happen to his students he didn't know if he could bear it. His heart lacked the lightness of his father's, that so easily superseded grief with hope, and the calluses of his master's, with its hard-won indifference. His whole life had been spent in heroism, he could claim with less exaggeration than most, and he thought that he'd earned the right to choose when and how he ended it.

The High Daylight Walker bowed her head. It was clear that her cherished one's mind was set. She could but bear witness to the awful and glorious transaction, and return to bear tidings of what had transpired. The last thing she saw before she set out on her homeward odyssey was the satisfaction on the old man's young face.