Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  “What have you—?”

  “We don’t have time to wait for your leg to heal. When I’m casting the spell, I need you ready to take control of the Gentilica. This will help you along.” A wisp of red smoke curled out of her lips. She leaned over him and breathed a small puff at him. It brushed his lips and he gasped. “You have a destiny to fulfill.”

  More smoke caressed his face and he shuddered.

  “I have a destiny,” he said.

  “Yes.” The woman lowered her lips to his. Smoke poured out of her mouth, filling his and spilling around their heads. Bakmeire moaned and he jerked her onto him, grinding his pelvis against hers.

  Celia inched away from the window, her heart pounding. Goddess, she’d never seen anything like that. The boy was dead from a kiss, and there was no telling what else the woman could do. It changed her mind about barging in on them and striking. If she was going to avenge Solartti’s death, she’d need to do more research. Assassins who attacked out of passion didn’t last long.

  But wasn’t that what she planned: to avenge her murder by killing everyone who could possibly be involved? She wasn’t a Tracker. She didn’t solve murders, or conduct investigations. Why was she wasting her time? She could find her vindication for herself and save her father the assassin’s way.

  She knew Ward would disapprove. That bothered her. He wasn’t so perfect, so noble, either. It was all an act. Why should she care if he approved or not? It was who she was. Just go out and do it. She knew where all but the woman could be found.

  And Ward, the Ward she wanted him to be, would hate her forever—or at least for as long as she remained alive.

  This was why assassins worked alone.

  Damn it.

  She’d let Bakmeire and that woman live, for now. Without knowing enough about Earring Lady, it was dangerous to try anything. Really. It was a sound argument. She’d go back to Ward and use him to learn as much as she could about her murder, confirm her father had nothing to do with it, and when she was done she’d dispose of him and his lies.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ward returned to the cavern and went straight to his bedchamber. He contemplated taking his shirt off, but raising his arm to drag the thing over his head and putting it on again in the morning held no appeal. In fact, it hurt even worse than before, so he decided to just lie down.

  He pulled his light cloak over him more for comfort than warmth, and the pounding in his arm began.

  He rolled to his side. No, that was worse.

  He took the cloak, bunched it up, and placed it under his head, but to no avail. His arm hurt, throbbing with each beat of his heart until it seemed his whole body ached in sympathy.

  Maybe mixing up some herbs would help him sleep, but he didn’t have the best selection and what he did have would make him vulnerable if something happened. Like the Master having followed him to the cavern and deciding to attack.

  That thought made him even more uncomfortable, twisting his stomach until he could no longer bear it and forcing him out of bed.

  What he needed was a distraction, something else to think about. He walked to Celia’s study, noticing as he passed her room that she wasn’t in bed.

  She wasn’t in her study, either.

  He considered searching for her, but decided his original plan was better and sat on the stool behind the desk. Before him was a sea of books and loose parchments, everything Celia believed to be important. But important to what? Did she have a deeper agenda she hadn’t told him about?

  He picked up an open book and scanned the pages. They were a brief history of the Pillars of Vanatoh, north of Brawenal City. If they were connected to this whole mess, Ward couldn’t fathom how. He set the book aside and picked up the journal from the Keeper’s safe.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  He jerked, heat rushing to his face, his arm burning with renewed intensity. “I, ah...”

  Celia stepped into the room and sat in the chair opposite him. “Neither could I.”

  “I thought...” He waved a hand over the desk. “Maybe I’d...”

  She remained silent, offering no indication she knew what he was stammering about, even though he was sure she did.

  “I—” He swallowed, trying to pull his thoughts together. “I thought I’d give it a look.”

  “If you like wasting your time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The journal is in another language.”

  “And I’m fluent in five.”

  “Oh.”

  Ward waited for a bigger response, something more biting, but she remained silent, as if the fact that he could speak and read multiple languages was a surprise. “I’m hoping it’s written in a language I know, or one similar.”

  “Yes. Sure.” She narrowed her eyes and stood. “If you figure something out let me know.”

  “You’ll be the first,” he said with a chuckle, trying to make light of the fact that there wasn’t anyone else to tell, but her brow furrowed even more and she pursed her lips before leaving.

  After a moment, he leaned forward, sending a flash of pain through his arm. He bit his lip, waited for the moment to pass, and flipped open the journal to the first page. Large, thin characters, written in a swirling text, covered the page from top to bottom leaving little of the parchment free of ink. He stared at it, watching the lines turn and flow until his vision blurred, and he had to blink to clear it.

  He tried to draw to memory all of the languages he knew and all the different ways of writing them that he’d seen. It looked a little like Yarbonian or maybe Bantiantin, but while the characters fit, they were strung together into nonsense words.

  He sighed and turned the journal on its side. How about old Ulstaas, which was read from top to bottom, not left to right?

  It didn’t make any more sense that way.

  He turned it back and tried to read it from right to left like Gordelian. Now some characters combined to make recognizable patterns but not enough for him to understand it.

  Maybe Celia was right. He was probably wasting his time. He should be thinking about who murdered her, and Solartti, and why Nicco was dead. That was why she hadn’t laughed at his weak attempt at humor. She was mad at him for wasting time.

  He let his gaze wander over the desk. Was the answer really in Nicco’s research? Beside the journal sat the pile of loose parchment pages Celia had been looking at. On top was the list of necromantic herbs. Aside from Grandfather, only the Elders, other necromancers, and an Innecroestri like Karysa would know what those herbs were and what they did.

  That was where he’d read about them. The Innecroestri used them to capture souls, human or otherwise, in vessels. They also tried to induce prophetic visions and resurrect the dead. Karysa would surely know what was on the list, if she’d seen it. If she even knew about it.

  He straightened the pile of parchment, and set it on the side of the desk. There were a lot of ‘ifs’ in that thought and he couldn’t draw any conclusions on ‘ifs’ alone.

  He piled the books on the other side and stood.

  He needed more time to think. In the very least, try and remember what was in that book he’d read in Grandfather’s library so very long ago.

  §

  The gates to the Collegiate of the Quayestri were open, and a young apprentice stood at his post ready to receive visitors when Ward and Celia approached.

  Just being there was like a truth serum. Even though he knew he needed to focus on their story—that they were scholars from New Calbourne—Ward couldn’t help but think about all the things he’d done. Breaking into the Keeper’s house, stealing the Keeper’s key, his escape from Veresteven in Bantianta the last time he’d been caught stealing bodies. All the way back to when he used to sneak into Grandfather’s library and read books he wasn’t supposed to.

  The prospect that some apprentice would lose control and read his mind made his insides churn.

  He smoothed down his shirtsleev
es, wishing his doublet covered them as well, aware of every wrinkle he’d put in the shirt when he’d chosen not to take it off last night. All an attempt to save his arm, which still throbbed, magnifying every twitch and jolt into an inferno.

  Hoping to pull his attention from himself to his surroundings, he looked beyond the youth standing at the gate into the complex. Across a small courtyard sat a long, squat, two-story building of mixed architecture.

  The center appeared to be from the period of Prince Givan the Second, constructed of massive granite blocks with two round columns framing a giant front door. Ivy clung to the crevices between the blocks, digging into the old mortar and curling around the wooden shutters at the many small windows.

  On either side were additions made from smaller bricks with larger windows. Ornamental brickwork along the eaves and around the windows, and at the division between the first and second story, indicated architecture from the era of Prince Erist the Fourth or maybe the Fifth.

  He ran his good hand down his shirtsleeve again.

  One of the two front doors opened and a girl scurried across the courtyard.

  Ward moved to smooth his already smoothed sleeve and Celia grabbed his hand. Her lips were pushed back in a smile but it didn’t reach her eyes deep within the shadows of her outrageous hat.

  “Hopefully Professor Grysmore will have insight into Professor Nicco’s work, and we won’t have traveled all this way for nothing,” she said, reminding Ward of their story.

  She crushed his hand in hers, releasing it as the girl, dressed in the tan and auburn uniform of an apprentice Tracker, approached. Oh, how times had changed. Until a generation ago women only visited the Collegiate—they didn’t attend. Rumor had it until the reign of Prince Rillard the First, women weren’t even allowed beyond the front gate. If Celia had been born into a different family, she would have made an excellent Tracker, apprehending criminals instead of being one.

  They crossed the courtyard, stepped into the cool granite halls of the Collegiate, and marched along worn floorboards, the wood polished to the color of dark honey by thousands upon thousands of scurrying feet. Their route took them to the left, along the main hall into the addition, down a small side hall, and out into a massive courtyard with more buildings of mixed architecture. Groups of men and boys, along with a few girls—most in the tan and auburn of Tracker apprentices and a few in the tan and navy of Inquisitor apprentices—stepped through their exercises on a lawn edged by large topiaries, towering oaks, and marble benches. Most of them had fine features and fair hair, since many noble families kept the tradition of enrolling their third-born son in the Quayestri. It always helped to have a member of the highest law around to maintain the family’s interests against the commoners. Which was great for the nobles, but not so great for anyone else.

  The child skirted the lawn and took them into the closest door of the next building, leading them to Grysmore’s office. It was small and cramped, but he was fortunate enough to be in a corner, and hence, had two thin windows no larger than arrow slits. The child cleared her throat, but didn’t wait for the professor to acknowledge her before she ran away.

  Celia stepped into the chamber, leaving enough room for Ward to stand in the doorway. Grysmore sat behind a desk with piles of books on either side that rose above his bald head. He leaned over a book so small Ward didn’t see it at first, and had to take a second look to see what the man was so intent on.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Ward. He could see the question in her eyes: should she interrupt?

  Ward shrugged. It was possible Grysmore hadn’t heard the child clear her throat. Ward could remember many times he’d been so engrossed in a document or a necropsy he didn’t notice when someone had entered the room.

  “My lord?” Celia asked.

  “I have no answers for the likes of you. Go away and learn to read.”

  Celia’s back straightened. “Excuse me?” Then her posture melted back to that of her scholar persona.

  “I said—” Grysmore looked up, peering at them with owl-eyes through thick round lenses. His expression softened and his lips stretched into a smile. It looked unnatural, as if the action was foreign to the man. “I thought you were one of those new girls. I can’t imagine what possessed the Seers on the Council to admit girls into the Collegiate.” He closed the tiny book. “They haven’t the wit to learn reading, let alone political history.” He leaned forward. “What do you want?”

  Celia frowned and Ward stepped further into the room before she could say anything they’d later regret.

  “We’re from New Calbourne to talk to Professor Allyan Nicco concerning his astounding research on the Ancients.”

  “I am not Nicco.” He chuckled. “I’m too alive to be Nicco.”

  “Yes. We heard that the professor died,” Celia said.

  Grysmore kept his gaze on Ward, who sensed Celia’s rising anger. So far, Grysmore hadn’t noticed the subtle tensing of her shoulders, back, and neck, but Ward had no idea how long that would last.

  Ward inched further into the room. “Nicco’s widow said you might be able to help us.”

  “If you want to look at his research, you’re about four years too late. It went missing. It’s just as mysterious as his death.” He chuckled again. “Well, not the manner of his death—a wide smile across the neck is a sure sign of death. But I mean why was his throat slit?”

  “Slit?” Celia asked in breathy exclamation.

  Grysmore tilted his head and his gaze traveled from her face, down to the hem of her dress, then back up to her bust. “I realize scholars don’t face the same kind of excitement as Trackers, but research can still be dangerous.”

  “I see,” Celia said. “And you think Professor Nicco was murdered?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “A man doesn’t usually slit his own throat. If it’s a death of his choosing, it’s a fall from a high place, or, if a blade... a strike to the heart.” He squinted. “Have I upset you?”

  Ward suppressed a snort. Not likely. Celia probably knew slower and more gruesome ways to kill a man.

  Celia fanned her face with her hand. “I’m just a little surprised. Nicco’s widow didn’t say anything about murder.”

  “Yes, well,” Grysmore said, and he turned his attention to Ward. “It looked like a professional job. Very smooth. No one heard or saw anything. Nothing. The next day his wife found him dead and his desk empty.”

  “What was he researching that would cause so much trouble?” Celia asked, her eyes wide with feigned fright. “Wasn’t it just the Ancients?”

  “The Ancients took many secrets to their graves, hence the Age of Darkness.” Grysmore sounded as if he were talking to a small child. It reminded Ward of how Celia had first talked to him. “A few scholars believe they possessed magic that far surpassed even the most powerful of the Brothers of Light.”

  “But that’s just myth,” Ward said.

  “That’s what Nicco thought”—Grysmore glanced about his tiny office—“until he came across some obscure texts in the prince’s library.”

  “What texts?” Celia asked.

  “Unfortunately they were all destroyed in the fire last year.” Grysmore leaned forward. “Before Nicco died, he called a meeting of the Society for Historical Scholars. He was so excited about what he’d found. He said he needed to confirm his information against the original wall carvings. At the time we didn’t think much of it. He’d made some illogical connection between a bizarre list of made-up words, and a repeated phrase—the Nectar of Veknormai—that appeared in a number of those books.”

  “So what changed your mind?” Ward asked.

  “The man is dead. And even if he’d been working on a number of projects—which I knew for a fact he wasn’t—his research on the Nectar and the list was missing.” Grysmore sat back, a self-assured grin lighting his face. “If poor Nicco was killed over it, I suggest you forget your visit here and go home.”

  “Yes, we should go
home,” Celia said.

  Ward nodded. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

  Celia turned to go, but looked back at Grysmore. “One question. If Professor Nicco was murdered because of his research, who do you think killed him?”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it. No one knows for sure, but the impression I received from our last meeting was that we were the first to learn of Nicco’s theoretical connection to this Nectar of Veknormai. That would mean it was someone in the Society. Which is completely ridiculous. Nicco was the only one with any interest in the Ancients.”

  “Who’s in this society?” Ward asked.

  “We’re no longer together. Nicco’s death put an end to it. But it was I, Nicco, Vordin Tarsh—he studies ancient languages and specializes in Yarbonian poetry—and Hal Ogden, a Bantiantin historian. Hal went to teach down in Bantianta for some Duke who has a small army of children and is working on his third wife.”

  “Have you seen Tarsh or Ogden lately?”

  “Tarsh works here at the Collegiate, trying to teach manners to the low-borns accepted for apprenticeships. Ogden...” He shook his head. “I guess he’s still in Bantianta. I haven’t seen him since Nicco’s death. It really shook us.”

  “I can imagine,” Ward said. “Thank you.”

  Celia adjusted her hat and left.

  “You should forget about Nicco’s research,” Grysmore said as Ward turned to follow Celia. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a thick finger. “Take that beautiful girl home. She has no business tramping around the principalities doing research. She doesn’t have the mind for it. She should be making babies and tending your house like an honest woman.”

  Ward forced a smile and nodded, grateful Celia hadn’t heard that or they’d be faced with another dead scholar. Making babies and tending house. He couldn’t imagine Celia doing anything so domestic. Ward was surprised she’d stitched him up and bandaged his wound. She struck him as having more important things to do than the hired help’s work. Like learning a new, quieter way to stab a man in the heart.