Ward Against Disaster

by Melanie Card

  Celia bit back a growl. Now she really wanted to run into Allette just so she could justifiably kill someone and feel like herself again.

  Ahead, the mouth of Florino’s study alcove broke the steady line of shelves. Light from his lantern flickered, dancing on the scrolls and books on the shelf opposite it and shimmering in the pool of blood around Florino’s body and decapitated head. His lifeless eyes stared heavenward and his mouth hung slack.

  She glanced into the alcove. Empty. So, too, was the desk.

  Shit.

  All the parchments, on the desk and the floor, were gone. Only a thick smear of ink remained. Any notes Florino might have taken from Macerio’s spell book were gone and so was even the slim chance that they offered answers to what she was. Allette must have come back and finished the job.

  Just great. Celia punched the shelf beside her. A witch-stone marble fell off the ledge, hit the stool’s leg, and stopped against the uneven wall behind the desk. The marble reflected a flicker of lantern light from the crack between the desk and wall, catching against something pale behind the back leg.

  A piece of parchment. It must have fallen behind the desk. It had to have been on Florino’s desk at some point, but there was no way of knowing if that had been recently or not.

  She knelt and grabbed it. There, at the top, was the spell she’d asked Florino to look into. Below it was the translation. Florino had jotted a note at the bottom, that there was no indication what kind of creature it made, only that it wasn’t like the other vesperitti spells he’d seen in the dark art books. Human blood, ibria—with a notation questioning what that was—witch-stone, steel, and meditation, lots of meditation to focus the caster’s will and magic.

  Everything within her stilled. This could be what Ward had cast on her. Her father had poisoned her with ibria, a rare necromantic herb, and Ward could have painted the octagon he’d used to bring her back in human blood—likely his own.

  Something boomed. It sounded far away, in the depths of the library, but she couldn’t be sure. She folded up the parchment and stuffed it into her pocket. She’d get a better look at it from the safety and privacy of her room.

  Thank the Goddess. She might actually have some answers now.

  Twenty - Four

  It was early evening when the door to the Quayestri suite opened. Ward grabbed his dagger and pain raced up his leg, but not nearly as much as there had been even an hour ago. Jotham stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other on the hilt of the dagger at his hip. His eyes were normal, and Ward eased back.

  “Have you found anything?” The Seer shut the door and leaned against the wall beside it, his arms crossed.

  Ward glanced at the book open in his lap. He’d read the history of the curse twice and was halfway through the Inquest Master’s journal section. “Nothing yet. The curse is the residual dark energy from all of Diestro’s blood sacrifices.”

  “An imbalance between life and death.” Jotham looked exhausted. As exhausted as Ward felt. “Something necromancers strive to maintain.”

  “My family has done it for generations.” And if Ward couldn’t come up with a solution to deal with the curse, he’d fail at his duty…or make the curse worse.

  “Eight generations ago”—funny enough, during the lifetime of the first de’Ath gifted by the Goddess with necromancy—“the Grewdian Council foresaw that Diestro’s curse would spill beyond Dulthyne’s walls.”

  “And Remy LeRoux, a Brother of Light of the highest order, with so many magical gifts he was almost a magi, traveled here to the then-abandoned city to destroy it. Tell me something I don’t know,” Jotham said.

  Ward smoothed the page before him, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’m not sure there is anything new. With his magic, LeRoux crafted a Fortia Vas, a dagger imbued with enormous magical power, and used it to shatter Diestro’s seal, where the dark magic had rooted its unnatural connection to this side of the veil. In the process, LeRoux had to sacrifice himself to ensure the curse was gone and the balance returned. But obviously that didn’t happen, since the curse is back.”

  “The dagger held by the statue guarding the grand staircase is a representation of this Fortia Vas?” Jotham asked.

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Which leaves us with what?”

  “I have no idea.” Ward flipped the page. A sketch of LeRoux’s Fortia Vas filled one side, with scrawling text on the other. “If we had the dagger it might be a start.”

  “But to do what? If destroying the seal, the source of Diestro’s power, didn’t do anything, what will?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps…” There was something, a clue, an idea at the back of Ward’s mind. If he could just grab a hold of it. “The curse is the residual soul magic from Diestro’s blood spells.”

  “You already said that.”

  “A rith is the spirit of a man unwilling to cross the veil because its death angered it, held it here by the residual magic in its soul. All those people Diestro murdered…”

  Jotham straightened. “That’s a lot of angry spirits.”

  “Yes, it is. Which means the curse is really just the energy from all those spirits. One big furious rith.” All those spirits, any spirit actually, explained why the curse had sentience—it didn’t explain why the curse hadn’t had sentience before, but maybe the execution of the foreman had set something off.

  “If the curse is one big rith, perhaps it has the same weakness. If we can find what treasured thing is anchoring it on this side of the veil, we might be able to buy time for the Necromancer Council of Elders to arrive. If we had the dagger we might even be able to—” He wasn’t going to say destroy it. A Brother of Light hadn’t even been able to do that, unless he couldn’t do anything because his magic had focused on the wrong thing: light, not death. Brother Remy wasn’t a necromancer, so he wouldn’t have been able to open the veil and usher the curse through. “We need to find whatever is keeping it here.”

  “But that could be anything. Diestro’s favorite cup or ring or a saved baby tooth for all we know,” Jotham said.

  “That, and we have no idea where the dagger is. I know your gift is unpredictable, but if we’re even going to have any kind of a chance of doing anything, you have to find the dagger and whatever it is keeping the curse here.”

  Jotham pursed his lips. His green gaze held Ward’s for a heartbeat then dropped to the floor. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “You have to try.” It was their only hope. “You did it for the foreman’s rith.”

  “But I didn’t, did I? What I saw wasn’t true.” Jotham shifted, his gaze still on the floor. “My visions haven’t been true for months.”

  The ice in Ward’s chest pulsed. The curse was taunting him, reminding him it had a hold within him. Even if it was just a sliver, that was enough.

  Ward struggled to ignore it. There had to be a way to figure this out. Regardless, they needed the Elders to finish it. “Perhaps you saw something a while ago. Before the curse reawakened. Do you keep a vision journal?”

  “I do but—”

  “I don’t see any other option.” Ward stood and set the Inquest journal on the desk. “And we have to convince Talbot to send for the Elders.”

  “That’s another problem. Talbot has locked himself in his suite and refuses to see anyone, even me. I can’t get him to send a messenger, and I can’t convince the sergeant of the guard to disobey Talbot’s command.”

  “If we can’t convince him, we’re going to have to find a way around him and the sergeant. The sooner we call for help, the sooner it can arrive.”

  The door to the suite opened. Celia’s gaze jumped from Jotham to Ward, her hand slipping to her dagger.

  “Just in time.” Ward pressed a hand to the locket hidden in his pocket. “I’ve found our slim chance at holding off the curse until help arrives.”

  Celia raised a sculpted eyebrow. “And that would be?”

  “A magical dagger crea
ted by Brother LeRoux.” Even as he said it, it sounded ridiculous.

  “Of course. Let me guess, we don’t know where this dagger is.”

  “That’s what the Seer of Dulthyne is for.” Ward hobbled past Jotham to Celia. “But first, we’re off to see the duke to encourage him to send for the Elders. I suspect we’ll require your expertise at encouraging.”

  They marched through the shimmering white halls to Talbot’s suite, Ward’s thigh burning with each step. He was dying to ask Celia where she’d been and where Nazarius was, but their main priority was sending for help. There’d be more than enough time to ask questions once they were holding off the curse and waiting for the Elders to arrive.

  Jotham slowed, straightened his robe, and pulled his goddess-eye medallion out. “Just around this corner.”

  Here went, probably, a whole lot of nothing. But they had to at least try before going behind Talbot’s back.

  Someone screamed, and Jotham scrambled around the corner, all decorum lost. Ward bolted after him with Celia at his side. Halfway down a long hall, a door stood open, and they raced toward it.

  “No, please,” a feminine voice said, her tone desperate. It sounded like Ingrith.

  “My lord—” And that like Rhia.

  Another scream.

  Goddess, no. Ward rushed into the room.

  Talbot lunged at Ingrith, his sword drawn and swinging. She scrambled to Rhia, putting a low-backed couch between her and her father.

  “Talbot?” Jotham asked.

  Talbot glanced back at them. Black smoke bled from his eyes. “The sacrifice must be made. It’s the only way to stop the cult.”

  Jotham stepped forward, hands open as if he hadn’t seen the smoke. “What are you talking about?”

  Celia inched closer to Ward. “Is he?” she asked, her voice low.

  Ward couldn’t drag his gaze away from Talbot. Was the curse only revealing itself to Ward again? “Can’t you see?”

  “No.”

  The duke blinked and the smoke disappeared, but nothing else about him changed. He still had to be possessed. “It’s the only way.” He shoved the couch aside, its feet squealing against the floor, and he swung his sword at Ingrith.

  Rhia grabbed the girl’s arm and jerked her away. Celia shoved past Ward, drawing her own dagger, and lunged at the duke.

  “No.” Jotham reached for her, but she dashed past.

  Talbot parried Celia’s dagger, stepped inside her guard, and clamped a hand down on Celia’s. “The sacrifice must be made.”

  “I don’t think so,” Celia said.

  He jabbed at her with his sword, but she twisted out of the way.

  “My lord, please,” Jotham said.

  Ward darted around Celia and Talbot to Ingrith, who scrambled back. Rhia dashed in to help her.

  With a growl, Talbot wrenched the dagger from Celia’s hand and threw it. It skittered across the floor under a chair. He slashed at her arm with his sword, the movement awkward with them locked hand in hand. She twisted. The sword cut air. He jabbed again. She yanked at her hand, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “I’ll get help.” Jotham ran out of the room.

  Ingrith clutched Ward, tears streaming down her cheeks. He pulled her around the couch, praying Rhia would follow, and that he somehow could get the girls out of there.

  Talbot swung at Celia’s head. She ducked the wild strike and bit his hand. He roared and let go. With a wild ferocity, he whipped his blade at her. She lunged out of the way and dove for her dagger.

  Ingrith bumped into a chair, and Talbot whirled around, his sword flying toward them. Ward shoved Ingrith out of the way and ducked the blow. It slammed into the wall. Chips of wood panel flew into the air, stinging his face and neck.

  Talbot seized Ward’s doublet and tossed him back. The couch edge bit into his side, and he tumbled to the floor. He scrambled to his feet as Talbot thrust his blade at Ingrith.

  Rhia seized her arm and yanked.

  The blade slid past Ingrith’s side, and both women screamed. Talbot raised his sword again. With a growl, Celia threw her dagger. It landed with a thunk in Talbot’s back near his heart.

  Time froze. The duke gasped, his arms raised to strike. Ingrith and Rhia trembled, their faces masks of horror. The dagger caught a flash of lantern light.

  Ward’s heart thudded hard. One solid, desperate beat. Then time lurched back. Talbot collapsed, his sword clattering to the floor. Rhia clutched her side and sagged to her knees, and Ingrith wailed.

  “Injuries?” Celia asked.

  “Fine.” Ward staggered to his feet and rushed to Ingrith and Rhia. He grabbed Ingrith’s hands. They were clammy and cold. She trembled so hard her teeth chattered. “Are you hurt?” Her gaze remained locked on her father. Ward grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Are you hurt.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Ward.” Celia’s tone jerked him away from Ingrith. She knelt by Rhia, her hands pressed against the woman’s side, blood oozing between her fingers.

  He dropped to his knees beside Rhia, and Celia eased her hands away. Blood gushed from the wound, staining her clothes. The cut was deep, too deep. This wasn’t a simple stitch-up, there was a chance the baby had been hurt. He pressed her clothes tight over the wound to staunch the bleeding, his mind reeling. “Ingrith, I need wine and water.”

  Ingrith sobbed but ran into an inner room of the suite.

  “You can stitch her up, right?” Celia wiped her bloody hands down her pants.

  Ward stared at the trail of blood on her thighs. He swallowed hard and turned to Rhia.

  “It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?” Rhia asked between quick gasps.

  “The cut is deep. I’m afraid the blade might have hurt your child.”

  Rhia pursed her lips and nodded. “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t.” Celia grabbed Ward’s shoulder. “Can you save them?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a procedure—” And there wasn’t time for doubts. “Rhia.” He met her dark gaze. Good, it was clear the pain hadn’t overwhelmed her yet. “There’s a chance I can save you and your baby. It’s slim, but I fear it’s the only chance you have.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s also illegal.”

  She placed a hand over his and squeezed. “Save. My. Child.”

  Ingrith rushed back, her wash jug in one hand and a decanter of red wine in the other. She dropped to her knees beside them, water sloshing over the mouth of the jug. “Illegal?”

  “Yes,” Ward said.

  Ingrith’s gaze leapt to her father, dead on the floor. “I’m Duchess of Dulthyne now…until my nephew or niece is born.”

  “And what’s your first decree?” Celia asked.

  Ward held his breath.

  Ingrith met his gaze, her expression strangely mature beyond her years. “Do it. Do whatever it takes.”

  Thank the Goddess. “I have medical supplies in my rucksack in the Quayestri suite. Get it.”

  Ingrith raced from the room, and Ward turned to Celia. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing. The best bet for both mother and child was that the child needed to be born, but there wasn’t enough time to wait for Rhia’s body to become ready for labor. There was a surgery in his book for this. He squeezed his eyes shut to focus. It had been weeks since he’d looked at the book—the surgery for Nazarius’s partner didn’t count. So much had happened in that time. So much involving necromancy.

  A shiver slid through him at the thought. His fingers were sticky with Rhia’s blood. There was power there, dark, alluring. He could cast the essence-seeking spell and find Allette. And with two souls in his magical reach, Rhia’s and the baby’s, he might be able to end the spell on Allette. He might even be able to hold the curse at bay. Already, he could see the ball of magic whirling at the edge of his imagination. The urge to draw on it, wrap it around himself, and finish Allette…

  Goddess, what was he thinking? He was contem
plating sacrificing lives, crossing that threshold and becoming what the curse wanted him to be.

  Twenty - Five

  Rhia screamed and clutched her belly. Ward’s thoughts raced, jumping back again and again to sacrificing Rhia and her baby to keep the curse at bay.

  “Ward?” Celia asked. She sounded so far away.

  The red ball of magic in his wild imagination expanded, filling his vision until it was all he could see. Just a touch of blood. That was all he needed.

  He couldn’t…wasn’t…

  No.

  He yanked his attention from the seductive allure. The magic faded, replaced with the pale, flickering white of Rhia’s aura. That’s what he needed to protect and save. That’s what he had to focus on. He might be a necromancer, but he was a physician and a surgeon as well.

  With that thought, words formed out of the light—clear, crisp text detailing the surgery he needed to do to save Rhia and her baby.

  “Put pressure on her wound,” he told Celia.

  She placed her hands over his, and he slid his free. He drew the silver knife in his dagger’s sheath that Celia had returned to him after the fight with Allette. The knife was part of his illegal set of surgical implements. He felt relieved to use the blade for what it was intended, medicine, lifesaving surgery, but it lasted only a heartbeat and the reality of the situation flooded back in. He poured water and wine over the blade. Rhia’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

  “I won’t lie,” he said. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

  Rhia’s lips twisted in a hard smile. “It isn’t pleasant now.”

  He ripped open the front of her skirts, exposing her swollen belly. Thank the Goddess she was so far along. It would increase the likelihood of the baby’s survival. He drew a steadying breath and met Celia’s icy gaze. “Hold her down.”

  She braced herself against Rhia’s chest.