by Melanie Card
Nazarius pressed his lips tight. His arms trembled, and he still didn’t move.
“It’s over.” She didn’t know what else to say. They couldn’t stay like this forever. They needed to get the dagger and get out of there.
“Now who’s stating the obvious?” A weak smile pulled at his lips.
“Come on.”
“Yeah.” He winced and inched back, giving her room to slip out.
She eased past him onto the landing halfway up the stairs to the altar. Blood peppered the back of his shirt, and the stains were growing. “You’re hurt.”
“I noticed that.”
But there wasn’t anything they could do about it at the moment. She knew it. Nazarius knew it. Even Ward would have known it, without needing to go into physician mode. “Let’s get this dagger and get you to Ward,” she said.
“It’s not that bad.”
“I recall having this conversation before with someone else.” Back in the sewers in Brawenal City after Ward and she had broken into the Keeper’s house to steal her father’s journal, she’d smashed into a collection of crystal glassware and had shards of glass imbedded in her skin. At least if they couldn’t get to Ward in time, Nazarius’s ass wouldn’t reflect light. “Come on.”
Nazarius grunted and shoved out of the alcove. He pressed his left arm to his side, as if it hurt to breathe. They climbed through the rubble littering the remaining five steps to the top of the altar.
Before them, more rubble filled the chamber. Three of the pillars had collapsed, chunks had fallen from the ceiling, and more than half of the passages lining the walls were blocked.
Nazarius leaned against the altar, his breath short and quick. He didn’t look good at all. Jotham had said the dagger would be on the altar, but it was empty. Even clear of debris.
She ran her hand over the surface. Smooth, glossy. At the four corners, holes had been drilled into the stone leading down into a broken reflection pool at the base of the altar.
Except it wasn’t a reflection pool and the altar wasn’t made of black stone. It was varnished with the blood of the thousands Diestro had murdered.
“Do you think it got knocked off?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t look like the altar has been touched by anything. Not even the falling ceiling. There isn’t even any dust on it.”
Nazarius ran a finger over the stone. “Well the dagger has got to be somewhere. Jotham said it was here.”
A roar boomed from the nearest archway on the right. Celia grabbed the altar for balance but the ground didn’t shake. Men—a mix of townspeople, miners, and soldiers, judging by their clothing—poured from the passage, screaming, with swords, daggers, pickaxes, and improvised cudgels drawn. They raced toward the altar. Yells reverberated through the chamber. More men swarmed from other passages. Black smoke billowed around them, and above it all, feminine and sharp against their deep voices, came Allette’s manic laughter.
Twenty - Nine
Ward rushed down the narrow passage through sticky cobwebs and over debris. A few minutes ago the world had heaved, showering him with dust and pebbles. He’d hugged the wall and struggled to stay calm. He was trapped in the mountain with no easy escape. All he could do was pray the passage was stable enough and wouldn’t collapse. When he’d opened his eyes, the light from the witch-stone illuminated air heavy with gray dust. Silence pressed against his senses. Even his heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears was muted.
He’d shoved off from the wall and kept running. Ingrith had said if he took the stairs down, followed the passage to the end, and turned right he’d reach the altar chamber.
He was in the last passage, and it was supposed to end in another hidden door.
Light from his witch-stone marble bobbed with each step, cutting through a haze of dust. His pulse pounded. He didn’t want to be buried alive, he didn’t want Ingrith to be right about the dagger, he wanted Celia to be safe, wanted…
Goddess above he wanted Celia.
He could deny it all he wanted, but that was the truth. It had always been the truth, and he was willing to give up anything for her. His life, his beliefs, and if the laws were right, his very soul.
None of which would matter if he didn’t warn her that she and Nazarius were walking into a trap.
He sped up, slipped on some loose rock, and scraped his arm against the rough wall when he caught his balance. The pale witch-stone light hit solid rock ahead: the end of the passage. He rushed to the wall and found the latch to release the hidden door. It clicked and the door cracked open.
Something roared on the other side. It sounded like voices yelling, crying, screaming—
It sounded like the chaos in the market when they’d first arrived in Dulthyne.
Ward yanked the door open. Before him sat a large dark altar varnished in blood. Imaginary red sparks of magic danced across its surface. The ice in his chest snapped, and fire crackled over his hands in response. Below it was chaos, with Celia and Nazarius in the center. Dozens of people surrounded them, swinging weapons or fists, or throwing rocks. Bodies littered the floor, blood pooling among the debris, and black smoke surged around it all.
More magic flickered from the pools, calling Ward, drawing him to them. So much power. There for the taking. With the residual magic left on Diestro’s altar anything was possible. Even defeating the curse.
As if just thinking about that called it up, feminine laughter cut through the roar of voices.
Ward dragged his attention from the blood. There, on the far side on a slab of granite, Allette lounged in a white dress, belying how unpure she really was.
“Glad you could finally join us,” she said, waving at him.
Celia glanced toward him, freezing him body and soul. Blood smeared dark along one cheek like the ceremonial face paint of a Worben warrior. Her hair had come lose from its braid, and the black locks hung wild about her head. She was breathtaking, beautiful, and dead. And it didn’t matter. His heart had made its decision. He was becoming Habil, the greatest of all Innecroestri. Ward was losing his soul to an impossible dead love, and he didn’t care.
A stone whizzed past Celia’s head, and a man behind her jabbed his sword at her. She twisted and brought her own sword down—one she’d likely acquired from one of her assailants.
Another man swung at her, and another. Her blade whirled around her but there were too many. Another fist-sized stone shot out of the crowd. It hit Nazarius in the shoulder. He staggered, and the cursed men swarmed him.
Footsteps pounded behind Ward, and he spun around. A blade swiped toward him. He stumbled back. The sword whooshed over his head and the cursed man—heavyset with two day’s growth of salt and pepper stubble—swung again. Two more men lunged for Ward. They bumped the strike of the first man, and his sword slammed into the altar.
Ward scrambled down the stairs that curled around the altar. The men raced after him.
“What are you going to do, little necromancer?” Allette called in a singsong voice.
Ward drew his dagger, and Allette laughed.
“We both know you don’t know how to use that, but of course, you don’t have any innate magic, either.”
The first man, with the stubble, swung again.
Ward dodged under his swing and jabbed his dagger in the man’s direction but didn’t hit flesh.
“You could use what’s been provided.” Allette stood. Somehow her dress had been doused in blood. Blood covered her hands and forearms and dripped from her elbow.
Ice burned across Ward’s chest. All that blood. All that power. Just a little, that was all he needed.
Light flashed against metal.
He staggered back and the tip of the stubbled man’s sword ripped open Ward’s sleeve. Another man beside him sneered, revealing chipped and blackened teeth. He lunged in. Ward jumped back again. His calf hit stone, and he toppled backward. He slammed into uneven rocks, his hand hitting a sharp corner and knocking the dagger from hi
s fingers. More blades pierced the air where he’d been. Men from the chaos around Celia and Nazarius had broken free and lunged toward Ward.
“You can feel it, can’t you? Calling to you?” Allette raised her bloody hands and threw her head back. “Oh right, you can’t. You’re blind, deaf, and completely dumb.”
Ward scrambled to his feet. The stubbled man swung at him again, and he twisted. Another man grabbed Ward’s arm and threw him back toward the stairs. Someone roared, and the crowd around Celia and Nazarius staggered back.
The stubbled man raised his sword to impale Ward. He kicked at the man. His sword stabbed wide, skidding across the stairs into the wall, but before Ward could move, the other man punched him in the face, exploding pain across his nose and cheeks.
The man raised his fist again. Over his shoulder, between one heartbeat and the next, Celia drew a dagger and threw it into his neck. Blood spurted over Ward, burning across his face, neck, and chest. It stung his eyes and the metallic tang of it hit his tongue. The man collapsed, pinning Ward. The stubbled man sneered and raised his blade. “Use it or die.”
Red swarmed Ward’s sight and bit at his face and neck. “No.”
“You don’t have to be weak, necromancer. You can be powerful. Strong beyond all imagination.”
“No.”
“Then die.” The stubbled man drew the weapon higher, ready to plunge it down.
Nazarius vaulted into sight, grabbed the man, and tossed him into the crowd.
“Not sure this is your kind of party,” Nazarius said. Blood and grime coated him, pasted to his flesh by sweat, but even beyond that, he looked pale. He was hurt, but there wasn’t time to figure out how badly.
Celia snorted. “It’s not my kind of party, either. I think it’s time to leave.”
“Door behind the altar or the one over there?” Nazarius jerked his chin to a passage opposite them against the wall, about ten feet away.
“Altar. I’m assuming Ward knows the way out,” Celia said.
“I do.”
The cursed men surged, those closest attacking. More men stormed around the altar from the stairs on the other side. The fresh blood burned across Ward’s skin. The red haze in his vision swelled. Blades and fists and bodies writhed around him, a mesmerizing dance with the curse’s black smoke and the magic’s red haze. He could end it all, just take what was freely flowing.
“They will bleed,” hissed a man.
Celia slashed at him. He didn’t even move to defend himself. Her blade sliced across his neck, spraying more blood, more magic. He dropped, and more men surged to fill his place.
Nazarius grabbed Ward’s arm and shoved him up two more stairs. Ward blinked, struggling to clear his eyes. They were almost at the top again, but the number of assailants seemed endless. Their only hope was to get to the altar door and destroy the latch so they couldn’t be followed.
A rock flew out of the chaos, smashing into the wall above Ward’s head. Then another and another.
Nazarius pushed Ward up another step. A rock hit Celia in the head. She staggered and the man behind her seized her shirt and yanked her down a step. Ward jerked against Nazarius’s grip, but the Tracker held tight. More rocks flew in the space where Celia had been. She swung at the man holding her shirt. He fell but another took his place, dragging her off the stairs.
“We have to do something.” Ward wrenched against Nazarius’s grip.
Nazarius impaled the man before him and turned toward Celia.
Her icy gaze met Ward’s then jumped to Nazarius. “Get him out of here.”
“We’re not leaving you.” Goddess, they were not abandoning her.
The men encircled her. Light caught steel, and two more men dropped. She was even farther away than before.
“Nazarius,” Ward said. The Tracker had to help.
“Get him out of here!” Celia yelled. She sliced at another man and dropped him. “Now!”
Goddess, no. This wasn’t happening. Ward had to do something, but Nazarius shoved Ward back, up another step.
“We are not leaving! We’re not!”
“I’ll meet you back at the suite.” Celia turned, slashed a man across the face, and leapt through the crowd toward the closest passage.
Nazarius hacked down another man and thrust Ward at the door. “Get it open.”
“But, Celia—”
“She’ll make it.”
“You’re too entertaining,” Allette said, laughing.
The red haze ate into Ward’s vision again. He fought it, focusing on Celia. She broke through the circle surrounding her, heading toward the passage opposite him. She was going to make it. Goddess above, she was glorious.
A man leapt for her. She dodged his tackle and took down another man in one fluid motion. Only a few more feet. A rock hurtled toward her. She ducked. Another man lunged for her. She twisted, but he snagged her ankle, tripping her. She hit the wall beside the arch and slashed at the man on the ground. Something groaned, deep and angry. Pebbles skittered down the wall, and gray dust shuddered around them.
Another man rushed to fill the space. She spun aside. He crashed into the wall beside her and, with a snap that boomed through the chamber, the ceiling collapsed. Dust exploded around her.
“No!” Red burned across Ward’s vision, brilliant, glowing, powerful. It erupted, a blaze within his chest, building and building, for one heartbeat…two— With a scream, it exploded from him. The force shot through the chamber.
Granite groaned and cracked. The floor shook. Allette clung to her perch, and the two dozen cursed men surrounding Ward and Nazarius collapsed.
Ice ripped through him. The power built again. Red snapped and danced. He could do it. End it. Save Celia. But, he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anything but the red haze.
A thick-muscled arm wrapped around his waist. It snatched him back through the door behind the altar.
Away from Celia.
No. He couldn’t leave her. He could save her.
He thrashed against the arm. Nazarius. Goddess, no. They couldn’t leave.
“Ward.” Nazarius tossed him into the passage and slammed the secret door shut.
Ward scrambled up and threw himself at the door. Nazarius blocked his way.
“Ward, we have to get to safety.”
“I’m not leaving Celia.” A weight squeezed his chest. Tight, so tight. They had to go back. Had to save her.
“We have no choice.”
“No, I have no choice. I can’t— I can’t—” He couldn’t breathe. Magic snapped around him. He was cold, so cold. He had to do something.
Nazarius pulled out a witch-stone marble, illuminating his face and the walls around him. “She’s fine. I promise.”
“You don’t know.” He shoved Nazarius in the chest. The Tracker gasped and sagged against the door. “You don’t know.”
“Through the dust, I saw her get into the passage before it collapsed.” Nazarius didn’t sound good either.
“You couldn’t have seen her.”
“I did. She’s all right.”
“But she’s never left me behind. I can’t—”
“Ward, please. She can’t be dead because the Seer of the House of Bralmoore has foreseen there’s more she needs to do.”
“Oh, and Seers never lie?”
“Not this one. Not about this.”
Goddess, stop talking. Do something! He wrenched at Nazarius. Move, damn it. “You don’t know. He’ll say anything to keep you in line.” The blood on Ward’s face and neck and chest burned like Rhia’s blood had…still did. Goddess, so much blood. Even after casting whatever it was he’d cast, he still had magic, enough magic to save Celia. “Move!”
“The Seer wouldn’t lie. He’s a Seer.” Nazarius shoved him back.
“He’s the Goddess-damned Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild.”
Nazarius lurched forward and punched at Ward. Pain exploded across his face. His head jerked from the impact, dragging
him off balance. The haze whirled around and around. Nazarius had hit him. The red filling his vision rippled between brighter and darker. Goddess above, Nazarius had hit him. His knees gave out, and the world went black.
Thirty
The earthquake and rockslide ended, and Celia scrambled over rubble barely visible in the single, thin vein of witch-stone light. She had no idea if any of the cursed men had been caught on this side of the collapsing passageway but, weaponless and injured, she wasn’t going to wait for an attack.
Her chest burned with every breath, and heat radiated from her left thigh and across her right shoulder. She needed a physician… She needed Ward. And in so many more ways than just to patch her up.
Please let Nazarius have gotten him out of there. It was all she could think about. Ward in danger. He’d walked right into it. How in the name of the Goddess had he gotten out of Talbot’s dungeon? How had he found them? The only person who knew where they were going was Jotham—
And Ingrith. They’d told her where they were going back in her suite.
One of them had sent them into a trap. A trap she’d barely managed to escape. And Ward—
Goddess, it hurt to breathe. She leaned against the rough wall. She hadn’t wanted to abandon him, but there’d been too many men between them and they’d all seemed determined to separate her from Ward. Probably Allette’s doing. That bitch was going to get what she deserved. Just as soon as Celia got out of there and got patched up.
Hugging the wall to keep upright, she staggered down the passage. She had to keep moving, had to find a way back to Ward. Just let him be safe. The thought of never seeing him again made her ache so deeply she knew she could never outrun it, never forget it, and never ignore it.
Her knees buckled, and she clutched the wall. She would keep standing, had to keep moving.
Light flickered ahead. A way out? Or the Goddess finally coming to take her?
