by Melanie Card
Jotham took a few steps down a passage beside them, then a few more back the way they’d come. “He’s supposed to be here.”
“Because he said he’d be here or because you foresaw it?” Nazarius asked.
Jotham scowled. “Stay here.” He headed back the way they’d come, the light from his witch-stone bobbing on the books as he passed, then disappearing with him around a corner.
Nazarius leaned toward Ward. “Tell me you know what you’re doing.”
Ward snorted. “Do I ever?”
Celia clenched her hands, resisting the compulsion to shove Nazarius back. He wasn’t a danger…not yet, and given the Tracker had some kind of a relationship with the Seer of Dulthyne, he had his uses. But the moment his usefulness was done or he endangered Ward, she’d put an end to him.
He glanced at her, his expression dark. He knew all right, but he didn’t fear her the way he should. Quayestri arrogance, or perhaps he feared someone else more.
Jotham’s footsteps returned, along with another pair. The second set was noisier, as if the feet slid more than stepped. Someone unable to walk properly, injured or elderly. Given that they were in the depths of Dulthyne’s library, she guessed elderly. Weren’t all learned men old?
Ward flipped a page in a book lying open on the desk. He glanced at the parchment for no more than a heartbeat then looked away. Not all learned men were old. And Ward’s disinterest in the book only proved there was something wrong with him. Really, there could be myriad reasons for him not caring about the book, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.
Light bobbed at the end of the passage, and Jotham and a hunched old man rounded the corner. Voluminous brown robes enveloped the scholar, giving him a billowing presence. His face was gray and lined like old parchment, and wisps of hair floated around his head in a white nimbus.
“Florino is the Master Scholar here in Dulthyne,” Jotham said.
Nazarius held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Florino blinked. His watery gaze traveled over Nazarius’s hand, up his arm, slowly as if to take in every miniscule detail, to the Tracker’s face.
“My lord scholar,” Nazarius said.
Jotham placed a hand on Florino’s arm. “We’re here to look at your books.”
“I have lots of books,” Florino said.
Ward flipped another page of the book on the desk.
“That one’s my favorite,” Florino said.
Ward ran a finger over the page. “A history of Susahda.”
“Susainian philosophy written in Ala’Vys. Not as sparkly as Vys, but the written language still holds power,” Florino said.
Celia straightened. Vys was the language Macerio’s spell book was written in.
“Do you have the necromantic texts of Rillard the Fourth’s inquest?” Ward asked.
“All thirty books. Plus one thousand more on the dark art.” Florino squinted at Ward. “You look like someone I’ve met before.”
Ward tapped the page. “I get that a lot.”
“I bought some of those dark art books from him.”
“About those books,” Jotham said.
“Dorn… Darby… Darth… No, de… de’More—”
Jotham cleared his throat. “The books.”
“Oh, yes.” Florino shuffled out of the alcove. “De’Ant…de… I’m sure it begins with a de.”
They headed away from the passage leading to the exit, going deeper into the library.
“De’Vanger…”
Celia eased closer to Ward. “Are you going to put him out of his misery?”
“Actually, I’m waiting to see who gives in first. Him, Nazarius, or you.” A hint of a smile pulled at Ward’s lips.
“I’ve been a bad influence on you, haven’t I?”
His smile blossomed in full. There was the Ward she loved—er, liked. Happy, almost healthy. In that moment his troubles—their troubles—didn’t weigh him down. He opened his mouth, and the weight poured back in. He snapped his mouth shut, and his smile vanished.
“De’Ath! I’m sure of it. You look like Edward de’Ath. A fine necromancer with fabulous books. Sold them to me for a steal, although I think the Seer of Dulthyne at the time had something to do with that.”
“That would have been my grandfather,” Ward said. “The necromancer, not the Seer.”
Florino led them down a short flight of narrow stairs and around a corner to yet another long, narrow passage lined with shelves. A few feet down, the scholar stopped at a plain door recessed between the shelves. He pulled out an iron ring heavy with keys from somewhere within the folds of his robe and flicked through them.
Celia glanced down the passage. At the end stood a wrought-iron gate and beyond lay some sort of empty room. From this distance it was difficult to make out any specific details other than hints of smooth wall and a glimmer of light.
Metal clinked against metal, pulling Celia’s attention back to Florino and the door. He fussed with the heavy key ring and keys on his belt, and then fumbled with the knot. The leather wouldn’t untie and he leaned up on tiptoes, slid a key in the lock, and opened the door. Inside looked like outside, a shelf-lined passage poorly illuminated with witch-stone veins in the floor and ceiling.
Florino gestured to the books on the shelves as he shuffled inside. “These are the texts on the dark art.”
“It’s not really that dark,” Ward said.
“Speak for yourself,” Nazarius said, his voice low.
Florino chuckled. “You must be a necromancer like your grandfather.”
“Among other things,” Ward mumbled.
“Well, these are the books you asked about, the ones from the inquest.” Florino pointed to the books beside him. “There’s a study alcove there” —he pointed down the hall— “if you’ll excuse me. I have a text in Ulstaas to translate.”
Florino shuffled away. When he’d left through the door—leaving it open—Jotham turned to Ward. “You’ve got everything you need?”
Ward nodded.
“Good. You’ve got one day before Talbot will begin asking questions…if we’re lucky. I suggest you work fast.”
“I hadn’t planned on dawdling,” Ward said.
Jotham raised his chin, glaring down his thin nose at Ward. “Don’t forget who you owe your allegiance to, apprentice Inquisitor. Both your arts might fall under the Dark Son purview, but they are quite different.”
“Yes,” Celia said. “He takes his oaths seriously.”
Ward crossed his arms and winced. He must have brushed that cut across his chest.
“We should let him work.” She jerked her thumb to the passage and the way out. Ward’s search could take a while, but if they wanted to return to hunting Allette as soon as the rith was banished she and Nazarius needed to deal with the cult leaders. “About this cult.”
Twelve
Hours later, Ward stared at the scrawling script on the page before him, hope and guilt washing through him in radiating waves of hot and cold. This was the real essence-seeking spell, and it was so much more powerful and dangerous than what he’d been attempting. With this, he was sure to find Allette.
Except, he was supposed to be looking for the way to capture a rith, and he probably shouldn’t be doing any more magic than necessary. Besides, what made him think any spell, even a more powerful one, would work for him?
But a part of him screamed this was necessary and it had to work, while another part said it was too dangerous. Allette might have tricked him into magically freeing her from her Innecroestri master, making her a vesperitti without anyone controlling her blood lust, and she might have infused him with magic to do it, but that didn’t explain how he’d then saved Celia’s friend Val, who’d also been one of Macerio’s vesperitti.
When Macerio died, the magic sustaining Val’s unlife also ended. Ward had closed his eyes, prayed, and put all his will into doing the impossible. Somehow he’d succeeded.
&
nbsp; Goddess. He ran his hands through his hair. On a good day, it would be bad for him to attempt this essence-seeking spell—it linked the caster with the person he was looking for. Done wrong, the caster could lose all sense of self and all sense of reality. But if done right, it would last longer and make a stronger connection to Allette. He’d only need to do it once.
He glanced over his shoulder expecting someone to suddenly appear and discover him with the spell. The passage behind him remained empty. Florino was still somewhere within the maze of knowledge—he’d probably forgotten Ward was even in the library.
But, first things first. The essence-seeking spell would still be there once he’d banished the rith. And the rith was technically easier to deal with. Banishing it was like helping any other spirit cross the veil into the heart of the Goddess. He just needed to figure out a way to pull the spirit from whatever was anchoring it here and shove it through the veil.
He flipped the page in the book, skimmed it, and another and another. So far it had mostly been research about the safety of performing the few spells within its pages, focusing on how to maintain the balance between life and death, along with a partial journal of the inquest. The necromancers had done a thorough search of Dulthyne and had found nothing. Any residual magic from the evil blood magi Diestro, who’d controlled Dulthyne and performed thousands of blood sacrifices within the city’s walls, had faded in the hundreds of years since the War of the Great Magi.
A few more pages. More theory about balance and how great the imbalance must have been when Diestro was using those human sacrifices to power his magic.
Ward snapped the book shut. This was getting him nowhere. He pushed it to the side of the desk and picked the next book off the top of the pile sitting on the floor by the desk leg. He flipped opened the first page, read the first paragraph, and sat forward.
This one was on residual spiritual energy, also known as riths. Finally something that might be useful.
Reading as fast as he could, Ward skimmed over paragraphs, page after page, until there, three quarters of the way through the text, were the words he was looking for.
A piece of the deceased’s body, or a cherished item, could be used to anchor a spirit in place in order to force it across the veil. While this wouldn’t prevent it from manifesting its strength, it would prevent exceptionally strong spirits from possessing someone—because if it was in someone, it was rooted in this world and couldn’t be made to cross the veil.
Well, now he knew why his first attempt to get it to cross the veil hadn’t worked.
All Ward needed was a part of the rith’s corpse, and he could get back to the matter of dealing with Allette.
His gaze jumped to the grimoire with the essence-seeking spell in it. Just a little longer and he would be back on track.
A woman cleared her throat behind him and he jumped, guilt twisting his insides. He stood and spun around, trying to hide the grimoire with the essence-seeking spell. Ingrith, holding a tray of food, stood in the mouth of the alcove. Her eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite recognize, but it made his insides twist even more.
“I thought you might be hungry.” Steam curled from the covered bowl on the tray as if to accentuate her words.
“I’m fine.” He didn’t have time to eat. He needed to get a piece of the executed man and banish his spirit.
“It’s after midnight, and the kitchen assures me you haven’t eaten anything since your arrival.”
“Midnight?” He’d only been researching for a few hours, but the oil level in the lamp on the desk indicated it had been longer than that. Celia had said she’d return by midnight. His heart skipped a beat. Something had happened to her. Nazarius had betrayed them and—
No, Celia was fine. She could handle herself—she could certainly handle someone like Nazarius.
But could she handle Nazarius if he was possessed by the rith?
Focus. He had to get a hold of himself. The rith could only possess a person sympathetic to its cause. Nazarius was a stranger and didn’t care one way or the other about Talbot…at least Ward hoped so—there was still an unexplained relationship between him and the Seer of Dulthyne.
“You must be hungry,” Ingrith said.
Ward yanked his attention back to her. Talbot didn’t treat his daughter very well. She could be susceptible to possession. He strained to see if her eyes were black or if her pupils were consuming her irises or anything else that might indicate she was possessed.
A hint of red colored her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to the tray, then shot back up. That something he didn’t recognize grew heated in blatant desire. She didn’t have the sophistication of Celia—maybe in three or so years when she was Celia’s age she would—but her want was clear. So was her determination to get it and that it was Ward.
She drew in a breath, as if to draw courage, and strode toward him, each step exaggerating the sway of her hips.
He inched back. The desk dug into the back of his thighs. The alcove wasn’t big enough for the two of them, not with that look on her face. “I probably shouldn’t eat around the books.”
“Florino won’t mind. He won’t remember you by the morning.”
Only the tray separated them.
“He probably doesn’t remember you now.”
“Still.”
“You’re a guest in my house. I won’t let you go hungry.” She pressed the tray against his torso. Instinct kicked in, and he grabbed the edges, taking hold of it.
She slid hot, slick hands over his, capturing him. Goddess, she was so forthright. He had to put a stop to this. She was too young, not to mention the duke’s daughter. Quayestri or not, her father would have Ward’s head if he thought anything had happened.
“Aren’t you afraid of me because I’m an Inquisitor?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“No. I admire you.”
“Admire?” Why couldn’t she be terrified of Inquisitors like everyone else?
“The Goddess has gifted you with a wonderful ability. You deserve respect.” Her index finger drew a circle on the back of his hand, and she shifted closer, digging the tray into his gut.
He needed to do something before the situation got completely out of hand—if it wasn’t already. “I’m also a necromancer.”
The heat in her eyes stilled. She blinked and the heat returned. “The Goddess has doubly blessed you.”
Shit. How had that not worked?
“I really should get back to…” He nodded at the desk.
“Yes, dinner.” She slid the tray from his hands and set it on the table. Now there was nothing between them. She leaned close, running her hands across his chest, drawing a spike of pain from his cut.
“Listen, I—” Goddess, what did he say?
“No one comes down here, you know.”
Even worse. He couldn’t expect a rescue from a passing scholar.
Her fingers traveled over the buttons on his shirt. “Someone should probably look at the cut you got earlier today.”
“You know, I should—”
She flicked the first button open.
Panic shot through him, and he grabbed her hands. “I forgot something in the Quayestri suite I need to continue my work. This is important. Thank you for dinner.”
He squeezed past her out of the alcove and rushed down the passage, past the texts on necromancy. His heart raced. Please don’t let her father hear about any of this. Please let her retire to her chambers and leave him alone. The last thing he needed was a complication with a nobleman’s daughter. Not that she wasn’t pretty, and while by the Union’s standards she was of acceptable marrying age, she seemed far too young. Particularly when placed beside Celia.
Except, Celia would never make such an advance toward him. She’d proven that when she’d turned her back to him and taken her shirt off. She understood the rules to their relationship—as much as he prayed to the Goddess that there were no rules.
He turned down another passag
e. At the end stood the wrought-iron gate looking onto a strange courtyard. Light flickered against the books, like sunlight on water. He drew closer, searching for the source. There, on the other side, sat a small reflection pool. Light filtering from holes in the ceiling shone on its liquid surface, reminding him of the reflection pool at the bottom of the Ancients’ cavern in Brawenal City, where he and Celia had first hidden from her father.
He’d been so naive then—he was pretty sure he was still naive—and hadn’t realized what he’d really wanted with his life. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted, but now he knew who he wanted.
He hit the latch on the gate but it was locked. No comfort from the reflection pool for him. He pressed his face against the bars and stared at the courtyard beyond, letting the chill from the wrought iron seep into his skin.
A breeze swept in from somewhere, rippling the water in the pool, making the light on the books beside him twist and whirl. A hint of light cut into one of the passages beyond, revealing, for a second, a figure standing still. It looked like another statue of Brother Remy LeRoux. The man had single-handedly saved the city from Diestro’s curse, so it wouldn’t be surprising to find statues of him everywhere. It just seemed strange to have one down here, at the mouth of a passage.
The breeze swept over the pool, and again shadow and light danced together. Ward peered into the passage, but couldn’t see the statue. It had to have been his imagination. Too much time staring at books…something he needed to get back to.
Except he didn’t want to go back to his desk for fear Ingrith was still there. He didn’t know what to say to her—not that it seemed she wanted words. He couldn’t fathom what she found attractive in him—
No, actually, she’d perked up the moment she realized he was an Inquisitor. And she hadn’t been put off by his necromancer ability. Most people were repulsed by either magical gift.
