by Melanie Card
He found an access pipe and climbed the ladder to the street, no longer caring if anyone saw him. He wasn’t going back. The Goddess herself couldn’t command him to return to Celia. The fact that she hadn’t killed him, he was sure, was merely a moment of weakness. If he returned, she’d surely regain her senses.
And what of him? Had he finally returned to his right mind? He was about to check on a patient who could arrest him and just as easily kill him. He wanted to run to the far reaches of the principalities, but the little voice of reason buried deep within the recesses of his mind reminded him that even the barren northern plains were not free of the Gentilica. Even if the Tracker let him go, and his spell on Celia ended before the Contraluxis and she turned herself into the shadow walker, there would still be the Dominus and the Master. Unless Celia took that matter into her own hands.
There was the catch. Even if he ran, his life was still tied to Celia’s. If he ran he was dead. If he stayed he was dead. No matter what he did, it heralded his end.
Well, if he was meeting the Goddess, he would go down fighting. He would stop Celia, and—
A calm settled within him for the first time in days. The answer was so simple he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to figure it out. He had picked the wrong demon to make a deal with.
He would visit the Tracker to check the Inquisitor’s health and barter with his knowledge of the Gentilica. Surely the identity of the Dominus would buy his freedom for a lifesaving surgery. They’d even be grateful Ward—Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer—had, in one swoop, brought down the head of crime in Brawenal. He imagined them taking him to the prince, who would shower him with titles and riches and proclaim that surgery was for the better good of all men and not an abomination in the eyes of the Goddess. There would be a small keep with a library full of books in his future, and he would never have to fear for his life again.
But first, he had to destroy his Jam de’U and kill Celia. And he couldn’t do that from a distance. He turned around and marched back to the sewers and the cavern. He wasn’t certain how he’d destroy his spell. What he did know was that he needed to meditate to focus his concentration, then sever the magic keeping Celia from crossing the veil. And, as with any necromantic practice, he needed more blood. It was best to have physical contact to break a spell, but he’d take close proximity as another, probably safer, option.
He reached for the door, pausing to regain an outward appearance of calm, and swung it open. Someone screamed. It sounded like Celia, but she’d never struck Ward as a screamer. If trouble was bad enough to warrant screaming, she’d just pull out her dagger and kill it. Whatever it was, it had to be beyond bad.
Without considering the possibilities of what beyond bad meant, he leapt through the doorway and was jerked off his feet. Bakmeire grasped the front of Ward’s shirt with a thick hand, shook him, and tossed him against the wall.
Air burst from his lungs and he sagged to the floor. Celia barked a string of curses, and over Bakmeire’s shoulder, Ward saw her struggling against her father’s grasp. He stood behind her, his height and bulk dwarfing her.
Beside them, Karysa glanced Ward’s way, letting her bloody hand fall away from Celia’s forehead. It left a dark smear, reminding Ward of the ceremonial face paint worn by the warriors in Worben. Now that Ward finally got a good look at her he didn’t like what he saw. The rumors were true. Five gold rings in her right ear reflected the multihued light from the ceiling. The sign that she was powerful enough to have successfully created five vesperitti—creatures that were half-alive and half-dead, kept on this side of the veil by human blood.
“Two for the price of one,” she said.
“Get back to your spell,” Carlyle said, his voice the deep growl Ward remembered from their first meeting when he’d hired Ward to wake Celia.
Karysa grabbed Celia’s face in both hands and began to chant. Her voice was low. She rumbled harsh, guttural words. Pausing, she sucked in a quick breath and pressed her forehead to Celia’s, repeating the chant.
Ward wasn’t certain what was supposed to happen. He didn’t recognize the spell, and because of his mystic blindness, he couldn’t see how she manipulated the energy around her.
Karysa stopped and turned to Ward, her eyes narrowed.
“What’s wrong?” Carlyle asked.
Celia twisted, squirming in his grip, and Karysa backhanded her across the face. The impact echoed through the cavern and Celia froze, her expression dark.
“I can’t impress my will on the boy’s spell.”
“You said you could,” Carlyle said.
“Yes.”
All eyes turned to Ward.
Carlyle pursed his lips. “Well?”
“Kill him.”
“I thought you said I shouldn’t.”
The Innecroestri shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Ward scrambled to his feet. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, but it didn’t appear as if Celia was a willing sacrifice for her father’s plans. Bakmeire drew his sword and hobbled forward, blocking the entrance to the sewers.
A part of Ward’s mind screamed at him to run and save himself, but another part, a louder part, told him to rescue Celia. But she was more capable of taking care of herself than Ward, and no matter how he tried, there was nothing he could do dead. Celia would have to wait.
He turned and ran, praying Bakmeire’s injured leg would slow him down. It should. Ward hadn’t known a hamstring to heal so fast, if it healed at all. In retrospect, the man should still be bedridden. There wasn’t time to contemplate all the implications of that. All he could do was hope for a set of stairs on the other side of the gallery, or reach the set he knew of before Carlyle or Karysa.
Celia yelled something, and Ward risked a glance over his shoulder. Bakmeire had fallen behind. For once Ward’s long legs were good for something. Celia had broken free of her father and faced him, fists raised. Ward couldn’t see Karysa. He scanned the landing, trying to see into the shadowed hallways that branched away from the cavern.
“Ward.”
He turned back to Celia, who dodged a strike from her father. His heart swelled, and he picked up his pace, unsure how he could help her, but knowing he had to.
The shadow of an enormous man suddenly appeared before him and Ward slammed into him. Lights danced before his eyes, and he fell back onto his rear end. Before he could clear his vision, large hands grasped the front of his shirt and hauled him up. He couldn’t fathom how Bakmeire had gotten in front of him. He clawed at the hands, but knew it was futile.
Celia yelled his name again, and whoever held him shook him. He gasped, his breath caught in his throat, choking him, wracking his body with violent coughs.
The man—no, creature—was Solartti. Not the Solartti he remembered. That was impossible, his soul had been destroyed. It was merely the man’s flesh reanimated. Vacant eyes stared at him from a gray and mottled face as he waited for his master’s next command.
“Kill him, pet,” Karysa said. She pressed her body against Solartti’s and ran a hand along his jaw into his limp hair.
“Can’t we discuss this?” Ward asked, struggling against the zombie’s grip.
Karysa tipped her head to one side, examining him like a bird of prey. She blinked, a lazy movement of her lids, as if considering his request. With the same hand that had stroked Solartti’s dead cheek, she reached for Ward. He squirmed, leaning back to avoid her touch, but she grabbed his chin. With blood on her hands she could do anything to him, enslave his soul, destroy it altogether. Instead, she caressed his jaw, her fingers sticky with the drying blood. Then she flicked her wrist and sharp pain bit the side of his face. Warmth oozed along his jaw. She withdrew her hand, her first two fingers bright with his blood. She licked her index finger. Surprise flashed across her face before she shook her head and frowned.
“No, there isn’t much to you, is there?” She held her bloodied fingers up to Solartt
i, who sucked them clean.
“Really, I’m no threat, I—”
“You are in the way.”
Solartti twisted, crushing Ward into the obsidian railing, before throwing him over the edge. Ward clawed at the railing, but couldn’t gain a hold on it, and the first level of the gallery raced by. Above, someone screamed. For a moment he was weightless, as if the Goddess had granted him the gift of flight, then his heart thudded, once... twice... weighing him down with mortal flesh.
He flailed, trying to grasp the rungs as they raced by. His foot slammed against a railing, the impact reverberating up his leg. He swung backward and his head smashed into the landing. His vision blackened. There weren’t even any flecks this time.
His mind whirled, caught up with the pounding in his chest and the rush in his ears. Had he broken his ankle, or his skull?
His hand clipped the railing and he wrapped his numb fingers around it.
The sudden stop shot an excruciating flash of pain through his shoulder. He ground his teeth, refusing to let go, but his fingers were slick with sweat and his grip started to slip. He opened his eyes. The rungs were fuzzy, popping in and out of focus. He grasped for one with his other hand, but it vanished, a figment of his double vision.
His hold gave way and he grabbed at whatever he could with his free hand, barely catching the edge of a rung. The stitches tore from his bicep, making his eyes water. His hand spasmed and he lost his grip. He hit the railing below with his shins and fell forward onto the landing.
He struggled to stand. Celia was still up there, in danger. They might keep coming after him. He had to get up, but his body wouldn’t obey his commands. His muscles twitched, sending sharp bursts of agony through him and leaving him gasping for breath.
THIRTY-ONE
It all happened so fast. Solartti tossed Ward over the edge and her heart skipped a beat. She clutched the rail, the glass slippery under her sweaty palms, the muscles in her legs tense. Someone grabbed her shoulder and threw her against the cavern wall. The air burst from her lungs. She tried to drag her thoughts back to the present, but couldn’t get them to focus. Her father, Bakmeire, that woman. Ward. How had they found her? She couldn’t wrap her mind around how they’d gotten in. A part of her knew they’d found one of the other entrances and had come from there.
She scrambled to her feet. Ward was dead. There was nothing to be done about it. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She didn’t want to. Regardless, she had to keep her head and escape. The door to the sewers lay a few feet away and Bakmeire was even farther. From the way he still hobbled, he wouldn’t be able to catch her. All she had to worry about was her father behind her, although her chances had decreased when he’d disarmed her in his initial attack.
She lunged for the door, twisting at the last minute, hoping he’d grab for her and not strike with his dagger. His fingers brushed her shoulder.
It was closer than she liked. There wouldn’t be enough time to pull the door open before he was in reach.
From the corner of her eye light flashed on metal. She sidestepped and the dagger nicked her sleeve. His hand came into sight. She grabbed it and twisted, yanking him around and down. He landed in front of her with a grunt. She stomped on his hand, forcing the dagger free, and kicked it over the edge. To follow Ward. She pushed that thought away. There’d be time to mourn Ward later.
Now her father lay between her and the door, and she wasn’t fool enough to chance getting past him. She turned on her heel and raced for the stairs. A sudden shiver wracked her body and she stumbled, grabbing for the wall to catch her balance. Darkness tugged at her consciousness. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. She gasped for breath. No. Not now. Not with Ward...
A third shiver doubled her over, but not even the warmth of the floor could heat away the cold within her.
§
“Is he dead?” The voice was young, high-pitched. Owned either by a girl or a boy before puberty.
“Check his breath, silly.” This voice also seemed young, but it definitely belonged to a boy, just past puberty and still with an unstable pitch.
If he was dead, Ward couldn’t figure out why children were debating the issue. It also didn’t explain why he was in such anguish.
“Are you going to stand there?” Ward recognized that voice. It belonged to the Tracker, Nazarius. “Or are you going to report?”
Two sets of booted feet scurried away. Where was he? The cavern? The floor under his cheek and hands were warm like the cavern, but only he and Celia knew the cavern existed. He corrected himself. Carlyle, Bakmeire, and Karysa knew—why not Nazarius?
A burst of panic sent his heart pumping. Carlyle had Celia. He had to get up and do... something, but just the thought of sitting up made his body burn. He groaned instead and opened his eyes. The obsidian floor and a small portion of wall blurred, slipping in and out of focus. He couldn’t tell if he had double vision.
A pair of boots came into view, worn at the toes, with mud splashed up the sides. Celia wouldn’t like someone wearing dirty boots in her cavern. A hand pressed against the obsidian floor between the boots. It had a wide palm and stubby fingers covered in calluses, the sign of someone who worked for a living. It looked too weathered to belong to either of the children, so it could only be Nazarius’s. The boots and hand blurred, multiplied, then shifted back into focus.
“I see you’ve found my luxury hotel,” Ward said, his voice a weak croak. He coughed and the salty tang of blood rolled over his tongue. He couldn’t remember hitting his face in the fall, but it had happened so fast, he supposed anything was possible.
“What happened? Are you all right?” Nazarius lowered his voice, and his cool breath fluttered against the inflamed skin on Ward’s cheek.
“Depends if you’re here to arrest me.”
“And if I am?”
“Then I’m dead and you’ve disposed of my body as befitting a criminal of my diabolical nature.” Besides, if he was alive and Nazarius was here to arrest him for performing an illegal surgery, or even for stealing Celia’s body, he might be better off dead.
“You know I can’t do that. Word came down from the top. You’re to be taken to the prince.”
Ward snorted, sending a spike of pain through his head. If told a week ago that the Prince of Brawenal requested his presence, he would have been overjoyed. Now... “I think I’ll pass on the invitation.”
“Let’s get a look at you before the apprentices return.” Nazarius grabbed Ward’s shoulder and hip and rolled him over. His body screamed in protest. He tried to take stock of where and how he was injured, but the pain was all-encompassing.
Nazarius sat back on his heels and clicked his tongue. “Well, you don’t look too bad.” He helped Ward sit up and lean against the wall. The effort left Ward shaking. He felt as if he’d broken every bone in his body. His heart pounded, blood rushed in his ears, and his stomach roiled. The cavern wheeled and blurred, and he prayed he’d pass out before he threw up.
“Trust me, I feel worse.” Although, from Nazarius’s reaction, it didn’t appear as if there’d be any noticeable scars, at least until the prince got ahold of him. “You’re sure you can’t say I overpowered you, or something?”
“Edward de’Ath the Fourth,” a new voice said.
Ward glanced over Nazarius’s shoulder at a stocky man with a sizable girth. He wore utilitarian brown, but Ward was sure if he could get his eyes to focus properly, he’d see a Tracker’s pin at his collar. Behind the man stood a handful of apprentices, as few as six, as many as two dozen. Since they all wore the same uniform and all appeared to be twelve or thirteen years old, Ward couldn’t tell which were real and which were a result of his blurry vision.
“By order of Prince Kalodin, of the House of Bralmoore, Sovereign Ruler of the Principality of Brawenal, you are to be taken into custody to be extradited to the Principality of Olotheal to face pending charges of desecration of the dead.”
“Just O
lotheal?”
A thick line formed between the man’s brows. He motioned to two of his apprentices and marched away. The two youths grabbed Ward by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Fiery agony engulfed him. His knees buckled, and he prayed the Goddess would grant him the gift of unconsciousness.
He wasn’t so lucky.
The apprentices dragged him up four flights of stairs without any consideration of his injured state. Before him, the wide back of their headmaster jumped in and out of focus. Somewhere behind him trailed the other apprentices and Nazarius. Had Nazarius betrayed him? That didn’t make sense. He’d seemed too concerned about Ward’s well-being—but Ward’s thoughts were as fuzzy as his vision. Celia was in trouble and he had to stop her father from turning her into the shadow walker. He had no idea how he was going to do that. He was just a nobody necromancer who wasn’t even good at necromancy.
And now he was in the custody of the Quayestri.
THIRTY-TWO
Celia woke with a start. Two people nearby hissed angry words at each other, and for a moment, one of them sounded like her father. No, it couldn’t be him. He’d never let his emotions come through his voice in such an obvious way.
More hissed words, the man’s voice rising, becoming clearer.
It was her father. She stilled her breathing and took a quick stock of her condition. Her arms and legs weren’t bound, but her dagger was missing.
“You said the boy wouldn’t be a problem,” her father said.
“And he isn’t.”
It was that woman, the one from the cavern, the one who had killed the boy from the inn with a kiss.
