He removed several leaves of mullein from a pouch and, on the off chance that Ramsey had lied to him, tried to summon the spirit of Ramsey’s father, Nathaniel Ramsey, whom Nate had tried to bring back from the dead during the summer. The spell thrummed, but the ghost did not answer the summons. Ramsey had told him the truth.
He reached for A Collection of Spells and Conjurings and read once more all the pages that mentioned borrowed spells, thinking—hoping—that perhaps he had missed some vital clue that would tell him how Ramsey was using his power. But he learned no more this time than he had all the others. At last, frustrated and weary, he blew out the candles and climbed into bed.
While it took him little time to fall asleep, he awoke at every creak of the building, every whistle of cold wind outside his room. When morning came, he felt no more rested than he had when he went to bed. He sensed that time was running short. Ramsey would not have come to him, even as an illusion, unless he was sure that he could prevail in a battle, and unless he was prepared for their final confrontation.
And yet Ethan had no idea what he ought to do. He hated the thought of “cowering in hiding,” as he had so brashly accused Ramsey of doing. But neither did it make sense for him to leave the safety of his room merely for the sake of doing something.
Eventually, hunger drove him out-of-doors. He went to the nearest grocer and bought a small round of cheese and some bread. While he was there, he also took a copy of the week’s Boston Gazette, which bore this day’s date, 5 March 1770. He had thought he might learn more of what had happened to the soldiers and journeymen who fought at Gray’s Rope Works. But the newspaper offered no details on the confrontations, except to say, “The particulars of several encounters between the inhabitants and the soldiery the week past we are oblig’d to omit for want of room.”
Much of the paper was taken up with descriptions of Christopher Seider’s funeral, and further denunciations of Ebenezer Richardson and George Wilmot. Apparently discussions of one tragedy caused by Ramsey and by Ethan’s power had taken up so much room that the paper could say nothing more about the other victims of the captain’s scheme. Ramsey would have though it an amusing paradox.
Ethan returned to his room, ate his meal, and scoured his mind for answers. None came to him.
But late in the day, as the sky darkened and another clear winter’s night settled over the city, Nate Ramsey used a second illusion spell to appear in Ethan’s room.
“Still here, eh?” the figure asked. “Still playing with your books and your leaves.”
“What do you want, Ramsey?”
“It’s time for you to choose.”
“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“That’s because you spend too much time alone. I worry about you, Ethan. You need to get out and mingle with the people of Boston.”
“Aye, you’d enjoy that wouldn’t you?”
“My enjoyment is irrelevant. But perhaps you’ve met a friend of mine, a soldier.” The illusion watched him, avid, expectant.
“What are you playing at?”
“I’m not playing. I’m only pointing out that I don’t need for you to be in the streets to do what I have to.”
“Morrison,” Ethan said in a breathless whisper.
“His name is Daniel. He’s a fine lad and a decent conjurer. Not that he’ll have to do a thing. I can use his power—I can use anyone’s really—the same way I’ve been using yours. I won’t even have to worry about those irksome wardings you’ve been casting.”
“Then do it,” Ethan said. “Why should this bother me? As long as you’re not using my power again, I don’t care.”
Ramsey’s illusion flashed a delighted smile. “But you do! That’s what makes you such a wonderful adversary, Kaille. You do care. You care that innocent people might be killed. You care that one conflict might lead to bloodier ones. But mostly you care about your friends, including that young man who has cast his lot with Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty.”
Diver. Somehow Ethan was on his feet, a rigid finger leveled at the figure like the barrel of a musket. “If you do anything to hurt him, I swear to God, I’ll spend my last breath hunting you down.”
“It seems Adams and his rabble have something planned for this evening. I assume that your friend will be there. I know that I’ll have friends there.” Ramsey’s image began to fade. “Time to choose, Kaille.”
He still didn’t know what Ramsey meant by that last, unless he referred to the choice between remaining in his room while Diver was in peril and putting others at risk by venturing out into the streets to find his friend and protect him. But the captain had made that choice for him. If Morrison would be in the streets, thus allowing Ramsey to cast his spells, then it didn’t matter if Ethan was there, too. And he couldn’t allow Diver to be hurt or killed.
Ethan decided to go first to the Dowsing Rod. Perhaps he could find Diver before his friend ventured into the lanes to attend whatever assembly Adams had planned for this night.
He paused long enough to cast another warding, this time using more of the herbs than he had the previous night. He held out little hope that the spell could stop Ramsey, but it was worth the attempt. Then he rushed out into the night, throwing on his greatcoat as he dashed down the wooden stairway and into the street.
Ethan didn’t bother with side streets and byways on this night. Ramsey had plans for him and Ethan could do nothing to distract or dissuade him from whatever that larger purpose might be. He walked through crowds and past clusters of soldiers, and for the first night in more than a week, he did not fear the touch of a spell.
Nor did he hesitate to enter the Dowsing Rod when he reached Sudbury Street. The tavern was crowded with Kannice’s usual patrons and some whom Ethan did not recognize, but he made his way through the great room without faltering, stepping first to the bar.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” Kannice said, favoring him with a brilliant smile.
“I know. But an old friend paid me a visit today.”
She heard the catch in his voice, and her smile slipped.
“I use the word ‘friend’ loosely.”
“He came to your room?” she asked in a whisper.
“He used an illusion spell to speak with me. But there’s no doubt as to who it was.”
“And so it’s safe for you again?”
“Not really. He told me that Diver’s life is in danger. I’m not sure what twisted game he’s playing now, but I need to find Diver and warn him. Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve been so busy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”
She nodded, fear in her eyes. Ethan gave her hand a quick squeeze, and waded into the crowd, away from the bar.
He searched for Diver at the rear tables, and when he didn’t find his friend there, searched the rest of the tavern. But Diver was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Deborah.
Convinced that Diver must be abroad in the city somewhere with the rest of Samuel Adams’s followers, Ethan started back toward the tavern door. Kannice had emerged from the kitchen with Kelf, a large tureen of chowder held between them. Ethan caught her eye again and gave a small shake of his head. She frowned, but was then distracted by one of her patrons. She responded with a forced smile before looking at Ethan again. He raised a hand in farewell, and she did the same. Her brow creased once more, and Ethan sensed that she wanted to ask him something, perhaps whether he would be back later in the evening.
She never got the chance.
A powerful conjuring vibrated in the floor of the tavern. Abruptly, Reg was next to him, his eyes as bright as the flames in the tavern’s hearth. But Ethan barely noticed the ghost.
Ahead of him, two men started to grapple with each other, one of them shouting curses, the other saying nothing. This second man threw off the first, but then advanced on him again. Another patron shouted a warning. Ethan
tried to get to the men before they could hurt anyone. But by now, of course, others in the tavern were crowding around them, eager to get a clear view of the fight.
Another conjuring rumbled and the shouts from in front of him grew more strident, more urgent.
Ethan pushed at the throng, desperate to see what was happening.
Kannice yelled for the men to stop their brawling. Ethan swayed, his heart seeming to stop.
“No!” he shouted. “Kannice get away from them!”
But he had little hope that she could make out his warning above the din.
More shouts echoed in the great room: Kannice’s voice once more, and then Kelf’s thundering baritone. Ethan clawed through the crowd, pulling men out of his way, pushing between others, ignoring their protests and threats.
At last he could glimpse the combatants ahead of him, though there still were men blocking his way. The silent man remained at the center of it all, and though his first foe was nowhere to be seen, others had stepped in to take his place. Kannice still ordered the men to stop, but to no avail. And she was far too close to the fight for Ethan’s comfort.
“Kannice, get away from them!” he called to her again.
She heard him this time. Her gaze flew to his, and her eyes widened. At last it seemed to dawn on her that this was more than a simple tavern brawl.
But even as she tried to edge away toward the kitchen, silver flashed in the candlelight. A knife in the hand of the silent man—the man who had been touched by Ramsey’s spell. And Ethan’s power.
With one final herculean effort, Ethan pushed past the last of the patrons in his way. And as he did, the silent man plunged his blade into the chest of one of the men he had been fighting. This man dropped to the floor, blood gushing from the wound and spreading like flame over his shirt.
A second man already lay on the floor, unconscious, his face bruised and bloodied. But the knife-wielding stranger wasn’t done. Faster than Ethan would have thought possible, he spun away from the man he had stabbed and lunged, leading with an upward stroke of his blade.
Not at Ethan. Not even at Kelf, who had planted himself in front of the man, his huge hands fisted.
But rather at Kannice, who remained barely within his reach.
“Discuti ex cruore—”
Before Ethan could finish speaking the shatter spell, Kannice screamed. Kelf hammered a fist into the silent man’s temple, knocking him to the floor. But the man’s blade remained, jutting downward from below Kannice’s breastbone, a crimson stain blossoming around it, darkening her dress.
“Ethan?” she said, half question, half plea, her voice weak.
Ethan caught her as she started to fall. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Ethan,” she said again, breathing his name.
“I’m right here. I’ve got you. Someone call for a surgeon!” he shouted.
The commotion continued; Ethan was vaguely aware of men subduing the stranger while others crowded around the man he had stabbed. But he cared only about Kannice. He carried her back into the kitchen, dropped to his knees, and laid her down on the floor.
“Ethan!” Kelf loomed in the doorway. Kelf, who didn’t know that Ethan was a conjurer. “I’ve sent someone for a doctor. How is she?”
“Get out, Kelf.”
“What?”
“Get out. Shut the door.”
“Ethan, I’m—”
“Get out!” Ethan bellowed, tears hot on his cheeks.
Kelf glared at him, and Ethan was sure he would refuse. But his gaze dropped to Kannice, and the anger drained from his face. He stepped back from the doorway and closed the door.
Ethan looked down at her again. Her trembling pale hands had wandered to the hilt of the knife protruding from her chest. He could see that she was trying to pull it free.
“No,” he said, covering her hands with his. “You have to leave it in. Or else you’ll bleed—” The words “to death” stuck in his throat. “You’ll bleed all over your dress.”
“It hurts,” she said, tears seeping from the corners of her eyes.
The stain over her heart continued to spread—more slowly than it would have had one of them removed the blade, but inexorably. Her hands had gone cold, and her face was shading toward gray. He had no doubt that the wound would prove fatal if he didn’t use a conjuring to save her. Or at least make the attempt. He had never healed a wound as deep and dangerous as this on his own, not even the other day on Long Wharf. He didn’t know if he could.
“I know it hurts,” he said. He leaned over and touched his lips to her brow. Her skin felt clammy, despite the warmth of the cooking fire beside them. “I’m going to heal you.”
“Can you?” she said, the words like the whisper of wind over grass.
“I—I’m sure I can.”
“All right.”
But he had to remove the knife first. If the spell didn’t work fast enough, she would bleed out and die. And Ramsey had access to his power. Could the captain keep him from conjuring? Would he wait until the knife was out, and then keep Ethan from casting his spell?
“I have to pull out the knife to heal you.”
“But you said—”
“I know. I’ll heal you before … It’ll be all right. But it’s going to hurt when I remove the blade. I need you to be strong, all right?”
He took her hand and squeezed it as he had moments before in the great room. She tried to return the gesture, but the pressure was barely perceptible.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She mouthed, “Yes.”
Ethan closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, something he hadn’t done in years. Grasping the hilt of the knife, he pulled it from her chest.
Kannice let out a soft, anguished cry, her back arching. Then she sagged to the floor again. Blood pulsed from the wound, soaking her dress.
He placed his hands over the wound and said, “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood.
The spell vibrated in the floor and in the stone of the kitchen hearth, and his hand tingled with the power of his conjuring. He glanced at Reg, who knelt beside him, concern etched in his glowing features.
“The spell is working,” Ethan said. “I can feel it.”
Reg nodded. Kannice murmured something that Ethan couldn’t make out. He remained as he was for several minutes, the spell flowing through his hands into her chest, his eyes never straying from her face. But though he could feel the conjuring, he saw no improvement in her color, no strengthening of her breath.
He wore his greatcoat still, and did not dare stop to remove it. So, leaving one hand in place over her heart, he drew his knife, flipped it so that the blade landed in his palm, and wrapped his fingers around the honed edge. Then he tightened his grip on it until he felt the blade bite through his skin. Blood ran through his fingers. He dropped the knife and, placing his bloodied hand over the wound once more, spoke the healing spell a second time.
While this second conjuring still hummed in the tavern floor, the door opened again.
“How is—”
Ethan looked up. Kelf stared at him, openmouthed, murder in his eyes.
“What in the hell are you doin’ to her?”
Ethan had hoped to avoid this, but he met the man’s gaze steadily, never for an instant allowing his conjuring to slacken. “Close the door.”
“Not until you—”
“Close the door, Kelf.”
The barman kicked the door so that it shut with a loud bang. Ethan glanced at Kannice, but she did not stir.
“Now tell me what you’re doin’.”
“I’m saving her life.”
“And how in God’s name are you doin’ that?”
Ethan turned his gaze back to Kannice. “I think you know.”
“Never mind what I know an’ don’t, I want to hear it from you. How are you savin’ her?”
“It’s called a healing spell. The Latin is remedium.” He wasn’t sure why he said it—
Kelf wouldn’t care. Perhaps he thought that if he could explain what he did, the barkeep might accept it and put away his fear and his anger. He should have known better.
“Witchery.” Kelf said the word as if it were a curse.
Ethan shook his head. “Conjuring.”
Kelf didn’t answer right away. For some time he merely stood there, looming over Ethan and Kannice. Ethan feared that he might lash out with a fist, or yank him away from Kannice. But whatever his feelings about magick, he loved Kannice nearly as much as Ethan did, and he seemed to sense that to stop Ethan would be to harm her.
“This is why you told me to leave.”
“Aye,” Ethan muttered.
“Look at me, Kaille!”
Ethan flinched. Never before had Kelf called him anything but Ethan. But he forced himself to look the barman in the eye; Kelf deserved that much. “Aye! This is why I sent you away. Because I was afraid you might try to stop me, and she was dying!”
“Does she know?”
“Aye. She has for many years. Almost since the day we met.” He hoped that this would mean something to Kelf, that it would allow the barman to move beyond his own fear and disapproval.
“How do I know you’re not makin’ matters worse?”
“I love her, Kelf. You’ve seen that I love her; that’s how you know.”
“And how do I—?” Kelf straightened. “Where’s all the blood? There was blood all over her, and now it’s gone.”
“Aye. That’s how I cast the healing spell. I need the blood to make the conjuring work.”
Kelf regarded him the way he might a leper. “Stay away from me,” he said, shaking a meaty finger at Ethan. “She might choose to have you around, but I want nothin’ more to do with you.”
“I’m keeping her alive, Kelf!”
“Even so.”
He turned on his heel and yanked the door open once more.
“Kelf, wait.”
The barman halted but didn’t face him.
“Say nothing to anyone else. Please. For Kannice’s sake if not for mine.”
Kelf said nothing, made no gesture. He simply left the kitchen.
Dead Man's Reach Page 24
