by Melanie Card
Jotham yanked free from Nazarius’s grip and glared at the Tracker. Somehow, the smaller Seer became bigger, radiated power. He was, without a doubt, a Seer in full. “I have a city on the verge of chaos, people going missing, and a martyred uprising leader that the duke executed for conspiracy and murder. I need a small army, but it looks like the Goddess sent you. You’ll just have to do.”
“Now you have a monster roaming your streets, too,” Ward said.
The Seer leveled his glare at Ward. The look sent a chill racing over Celia, but Ward didn’t even flinch. Guess his growing immunity to her stares translated to others as well—either that or Ward was so determined to stop Allette he didn’t care anymore about things like upsetting Seers, no matter how powerful they were.
“There’s more than one monster roaming my streets and I fear” —Jotham glanced at the open entranceway— “I fear I have the beginnings of a monster ruling my city.”
“The duke?” Nazarius asked, his voice low.
Jotham nodded.
Nazarius shifted closer to the Seer. “You’ve foreseen this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, I’m sure about our murderer,” Ward said. “Your situation will only get worse when people start getting slaughtered.”
“Know your place, apprentice,” the Seer said, his tone dark. “I have the right to redirect any Quayestri for any reason. I answer to the Council and the Goddess herself. No one else. I might be new to the Seer’s mantle, but I’m no fool. If the duke needs to be judged, the only person in this city who can do it is you.”
“Perhaps we can avoid so drastic a move,” Nazarius said. “Let’s get to the Quayestri suite and you can explain our new assignment while we get cleaned up.”
Ward shifted and tugged at his collar. His boots rasped against the floor, but he didn’t argue, thank the Goddess.
Jotham pursed his lips then sighed. “Yes. This is better discussed in private anyway.”
He led them out of the dark passage into a small, bright courtyard. A tree in a large granite pot sat in the center, offering shade to a pair of stone benches and a reflection pool—the source of the birdsong.
They crossed the courtyard to a narrow wood door and stepped into the cool, white halls of the citadel. Rock crystal and witch-stone shimmered in the polished walls, floor, and ceiling. Even the stairwell was polished and white and shimmering.
After two quick turns, they reached a foyer guarded by an enormous statue of a middle-aged man in long robes, the meditation beads of a Brother of Light around his wrist—presumably Brother Remy LeRoux, the most powerful Brother the Union of Principalities had ever seen and the man whose magic had banished a terrible curse from Dulthyne generations ago. In one hand, the statue held a thick book, in the other, a dagger. The book for wisdom, the dagger—the Fortia Vas—magically imbued to defeat the curse.
Jotham traced an open goddess-eye symbol in the air before the statue in blessing and headed up a grand staircase opposite the statue. The staircase spiraled up and up and up, farther than Celia could see, and she prayed the Quayestri suite wasn’t at the top in one of the many spires jutting from the building. She wasn’t looking forward to that kind of climb and it made escape, like climbing out a window, much more dangerous at that height.
Thankfully, Jotham took them to the third floor to a heavy, plain door at the end of the hall. He ushered them in, closed the door behind them, and pressed his back against it.
Inside lay a simple sitting room with a matching chair and couch that didn’t look comfortable at all and a small writing desk and stool. Against the left wall were two doors, most likely the bedrooms and directly across from her were a set of double doors inlaid with clear diamond-shaped glass, leading out to a balcony.
“So you have an uprising and possibly a cult.” Nazarius strode across the sitting room to one of the doors. It was, indeed, a bedroom.
“I don’t know what I have. Duke Talbot didn’t give me any time to figure it out. Things have been happening…”
Celia headed to the other bedroom, opened the door, and confirmed it was empty.
“What kind of things?” Nazarius asked.
She dropped her rucksack on the bed, turned back to the sitting room, and leaned against the doorframe, looking at ease, but ready for trouble. Not that she expected trouble from the Seer. No, that was more likely to come from Nazarius.
She slid her attention over those in the room. Ward, the muscles in his jaw tense, strode to the glass doors and stared out. From his expression, he had to be thinking, had to be trying to figure out a way to get out of their current predicament, but he was smart enough to know there wasn’t one. If they wanted to stay in Dulthyne to catch Allette, they had to keep pretending they were Quayestri, which meant obeying the Seer.
“What kind of things?” Nazarius asked again, his tone stronger. He stepped into the doorway of the bedroom, his blood-splattered shirt in one hand and his uncorked water flask in the other. Thick muscle covered his torso and arms, proving how strong and dangerous a warrior he was.
The Seer stared at him, his expression blank, as if he wasn’t really looking at Nazarius.
“Jotham, what kind of things?”
Jotham blinked, bringing himself back from Celia-had-no-idea-where. Had he just had a vision? She didn’t like the idea that someone else could know her moves before she did and had things figured out already. She’d always tried to avoid Seers for that very reason. Fate couldn’t be inevitable. What would be the point to life if it was?
“The ore caravans were being attacked more and more frequently, and Talbot discovered one of the mine foremen was selling caravan information to a group of bandits outside of Dulthyne. Details like when caravans were leaving and which roads they were going to take. The law is clear, although Talbot didn’t need my direction to execute the man.” Jotham pursed his lips. His gaze slid to Ward. If he thought Ward was an Inquisitor, then Ward would be the person most able to sympathize with killing someone. That was all part of an Inquisitor’s job: use their magical seeking smoke to see into a person’s memories—some said into a person’s soul—determine guilt, and deliver punishment.
“How does this relate to a potential cult and what’s going on?” Ward asked. He didn’t move, just kept staring out the glass doors.
“When the foreman was brought to the square for public execution, he started yelling dire warnings about death and rising evil.”
“That doesn’t mean a cult.” Nazarius splashed water onto a clean section of his old shirt. He turned to the looking glass inside the bedroom and started washing the blood from his face.
“It does when people in the crowd take up the warnings.” Jotham straightened, as if remembering he was the Seer of Dulthyne. “Talbot rushed the execution. The attacks on the caravans have stopped, but riots have broken out in the market, slaughtered cats and dogs are found in public fountains, and there are warnings painted in blood on the city walls every night. People are being reported as missing; random, meaningless fights keep breaking out; and the duke is— I’ve seen—”
The Seer hadn’t exaggerated. His city was in trouble. But they didn’t have the skills to deal with an uprising of any kind, and Ward was right. The situation would only get worse if Allette started killing people and leaving mutilated corpses in public places.
“I’m not sure what I’ve seen about the duke—”
A sharp knock on the door sounded. Jotham opened it, revealing a page boy standing in the hall. “The Duke of Dulthyne demands the presence of the Seer of Dulthyne and his servants at the tomb of his ancestors.”
“Thank you.”
The boy scurried away, and Jotham squared his shoulders again. “The duke cannot be trusted.”
Six
Jotham’s words rang through Ward’s head: the duke couldn’t be trusted. He followed the Seer, Celia, and Nazarius out of the Quayestri suite. The goddess-eye brand on the back of his neck, meant to announce that he
was a criminal though thankfully hidden by his collar, was itching. He’d gotten the brand when he’d been caught digging up graves to practice necropsies and learn more about illegal surgery. And there were still outstanding warrants for his arrest in a number of principalities. Pretending to be Quayestri was a terrible idea, but there didn’t seem to be any better option.
They headed down to the main floor and along more wide, bright halls to a heavy wood door. Outside, the duke stood on a patio behind the citadel, watching men on scaffolds work on sculpting the stone around a wide, black entrance into the mountain. Behind him, a thick stone railing stood in the way of a long drop into the valley and cut through the center of a gorgeous sunset.
The duke straightened when he saw them and crossed well-muscled arms over a thick chest. He wasn’t as tall as Ward, but he was wider than Nazarius—which was saying a lot—and not in a soft-fat-lord kind of way.
Everything about the duke proclaimed him an old soldier, from his girth, to his shaved head, to the puckered, uneven scar running down the right side of his face, drawing emphasis to his hard dark eyes.
Jotham nodded at the man, a slight movement of his head, just enough to acknowledge Talbot and his position as ruler of Dulthyne, but not enough to show subservience.
The Seers’ relationship with nobility was complicated. They guided the rulers and relayed the word of the Goddess, but they didn’t take positions of ruling themselves. With Jotham being only a few years older than Ward, he therefore had to be new to his position as a Seer, and the relationship between the duke and the Seer was likely even more complicated—and the current state of the city could only strain things even more.
“I’m sure you were eventually going to mention Quayestri were in my city and living under my roof.” Talbot’s deep voice rumbled, soft but steely.
Nazarius bowed. “My lord, we’ve barely had a chance to clean up—”
“But certainly there was enough time to send a page, my lord Seer,” Talbot said.
“Why waste a page’s time when the sergeant has demonstrated he’s more than adequate at relaying messages,” Jotham said.
“My soldiers are not your servants,” Talbot growled.
“And yet, it would seem that isn’t the case.” Jotham laced his fingers before him, his expression calm.
Nazarius’s hands twitched at his sides, and Ward couldn’t begin to imagine the strength of will required to not take his usual position: hands on the hilts of his matched sword and long dagger at his hips.
The clatter of mallets and chisels rattled through the silence stretching between Jotham and Talbot. The valley tossed the sound back at them, swirling it around and around.
The duke couldn’t be trusted. Ward didn’t want to know what that meant. He didn’t want to get involved and he didn’t have the skills to get involved. Nazarius did and probably should. But Ward needed to stay focused on catching Allette. He’d made an oath to himself, and his oath was his bond.
Jotham dropped his gaze to the floor, conceding the staring contest to Talbot. “Regardless of their unusual arrival, Tracker de’Serra and his apprentices are owed the hospitality due to them during their investigation.”
“Apprentices mean field training.” Talbot’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, my lord,” Nazarius said.
“Come back later.”
“Excuse me?” Nazarius’s hand slipped to his sword hilt.
“Find another city for training some girl and an Inquisitor and come back later.”
Nazarius jerked his hand from his weapon. “My lord—”
Jotham grabbed his arm, and Nazarius snapped his mouth shut. “The hospitality is not elective,” the Seer said.
The door to the keep opened, and the red-haired girl from the market bounded out, followed by the pregnant woman, Rhia.
“Father, are there really Quayestri here?” Her gaze landed on Ward, then slid over the rest of the group before jumping to Talbot. She clasped her hands before her and threw her attention to the ground, her shoulders hunching with the movement. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to interrupt.”
“I know, Ingrith.” The muscles in the duke’s jaw flexed. “The Quayestri are here for a short time. See they’re given the hospitality due to their station.”
Ingrith, the red-haired girl, curtsied. “Yes, Father.”
“Do you understand, Rhia?”
A flush raced across Ingrith’s cheeks.
Rhia matched Ingrith’s curtsy. “As my lord wishes.” She grabbed Ingrith’s arm and tugged her around to leave.
“Ingrith. Stay. We have a matter of a jaunt into the market to discuss.”
Ward had heard that tone before. The headmaster at the physicians’ school, where Ward had studied medicine, had used that tone just before he’d expelled Ward for performing necropsies.
The color drained from Ingrith’s face, making the freckles across her cheeks stand out in sharp contrast to her pale skin. “Yes, Father.”
Even Rhia paled. “Come, my lords…and lady. I’ll get you settled into the Quayestri suite.”
Jotham held up a hand, stopping her. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I think it’s absolutely necessary,” Talbot said, his tone dark. “I wouldn’t have the Council think I wasn’t performing my sacred duties.”
Jotham met the duke’s stare. If will was a visible energy, it would have filled the patio. Tension crackled in the air and with it, standing between the two men, Ingrith trembled. Rhia shifted closer to the girl and grabbed her fingers with a shaking hand. Nazarius widened his stance, his hands inches from the hilts of his weapons. Only Celia radiated calm, but the sharpness of her eyes belied her ease.
Silence stretched between Jotham and Talbot. This time a true silence, as if the world held its breath waiting to see which man would prevail. Not even a click or scritch from the workmen whispered from the mountainside.
Something within Ward shifted. He had no idea what it was or even how to explain it other than something was different. The tension between the men hardened, darkened and the silence grew suffocating and unnatural. There wasn’t a hint of wind or chirp of birdcall. The world felt, in that heartbeat when everything shifted, cold like death—despite the oppressive summer heat.
Movement flickered at the edge of Ward’s sight, and he pulled his attention from Talbot to the patio. A workman raced toward them, his chisel raised like a weapon. Another man leapt from the scaffolding, hammer in hand.
Life and time snapped back to normal. Sound poured in, sharp with the workmen’s screams. Between one blink and the next, Celia, Nazarius, and Talbot drew weapons.
The man with the chisel lunged at Rhia. Celia swept in, slicing the man’s torso. He screamed and staggered forward, one hand clutching his gut. More workmen rushed at them, more than Ward had noticed on the scaffold.
A man swung his chisel at Ingrith. Ward seized her arm and yanked her back.
The chisel cut the air before her face. She screamed.
Ward shoved her behind him as the workman attacked again. Ward leapt back and bumped into Ingrith. She clutched his right arm and shoulder and pulled him off balance. They staggered back and hit the railing.
The workman swung again. The chisel sliced through the front of Ward’s shirt, drawing a stinging line across his chest. Ingrith’s grip on his arm tightened, restricting his movement and reminding him that behind him stood the too-low railing and a long fall.
With a bellow, their attacker lunged. All thoughts flew from Ward’s head. From one heartbeat to the next he had no idea what to do.
Then something kicked in, some instinct he didn’t know he had.
He wrenched free of Ingrith’s grip and—much to his surprise—dipped under the workman’s arm. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s chest and plowed him over. The man crashed to the ground. The chisel flew from his hand and skittered across the smooth patio stones.
“What, no magic, little necromancer?” the man asked, laughin
g.
Ward stumbled but caught his balance. “What?”
“You have blood, maybe even enough for someone like you to power something.” The workman stood and gestured to the chaos on the patio. One workman lay on the patio in a pool of blood, while five more fought against Nazarius and Talbot, all hurt and bleeding. A few feet away, Celia fought two more men while protecting Rhia.
The man lurched at Ward, seized the front of his ruined shirt, and yanked him close. His pupils pulsed in time with Ward’s racing heart.
Ward blinked. That was impossible.
But the man’s eyes were becoming darker by the second, his pupils growing until the irises were devoured. “Or should I call you an Innecroestri. You’ve already touched the darkness.” The blackness bled over the whites of his eyes, until an abyss stared back at Ward.
Ward clawed at the man’s hand. Ice surged across his chest where the workman held him.
The man leaned close, his cheek brushing Ward’s. More ice swept over him. “You can fight. In fact, please do. It makes everything more interesting. But know this. I will have your assassin and your Tracker, and even that Seer. I will have them all and the flowing river of their blood will mark my freedom.”
Goddess above. He had to escape, had to do something. A reverse wake.
The workman’s sneer deepened. “Won’t work.”
More ice swept into Ward and his teeth chattered. That man had seemed to read his mind.
“And I will have you, but I won’t kill you. You’ve tasted the power in blood. I can feel it gnawing at you. How long do you think you’ll last before you come to worship me with the full bloodlust of a Blood Magi, not just as an Innecroestri?”
“Never. I will never embrace the blood magic lure.”
The workman threw his head back and laughed. Black smoke swirled from his eyes. “You already have. Your vesperitti might not have survived for long, but you did make one. That’s the first step, the one you can’t undo. The stain on your soul has already started.”
Someone yelled, and Ward forced his attention over the man’s shoulder. Celia had defeated her two men. Her gaze was locked on Ward. Something flashed across her expression for a heartbeat. It looked like fear. Then it hardened, and she rushed toward him.
