Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  He sighed. There was nothing he could do about his appearance, so he focused on what lay within the pool. Two white fish darted in and out of the pale, stringy roots, their scales catching the sunlight. Below, dark and glassy, was the smooth bottom of the pond. It seemed so familiar.

  He ran his index finger along the edge of the basin. It was smooth like the carved railings in the cavern, sliding, without flaw, beneath his fingertips. He traced a slow line deeper, watching the water engulf his first knuckle, second knuckle, thumb, and whole hand.

  The fish raced away and sunlight flashed in his face, bright pinpoints against a purple and bruised background. It reminded him of something, and he groped after the thought. Was it something Celia had said? Or had he read it in her notes? Her father’s journal?

  The light, like that of the sun, will show the way to the Tomb of Souls.

  With a splash, he reached in and pressed his palm against the bottom. The fish darted about, creating a frenzy of reflected light. Points that flickered in his face, on the lily pads, and around his hand. Of course. The reflection pool in the cavern. Spots of light shone against the uneven bottom. Many different colors, red, green, and yellow, the color of the sun.

  He stood. It wasn’t a reflection pool at the bottom of the cavern—it was a map. Which meant Celia had lied. Again. He pushed that thought away.

  Now, he just had to figure out how to read the map and find Celia.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The latch to the cavern door was warm and slimy. Ward ran his hand over it but didn’t release the catch. It was logical that the cavern was empty. Carlyle would want to be near the Tomb of Souls to avoid complications, and Karysa—with her creature—would be with him to complete the spell. And if the Master really wanted Ward to stop the creation of the shadow walker, he’d have sent the palace soldiers, and any Trackers involved, on a wild chase across town.

  Still, there was always a chance—a good chance—Ward was wrong. That the Master was toying with him, or that Carlyle now used the cavern as his base of operations.

  Ward squeezed the hilt of the dagger with sweaty fingers but didn’t draw it. Instead, he pressed his back to the sewer wall beside the door, eased the latch down, and pushed the door. It creaked open. His heart pounded as he waited for an assault.

  Nothing.

  He peered through the opening. The obsidian walkway was empty, so he stepped in and closed the door, straining to hear anything.

  The cavern was as quiet as he remembered. No footsteps, clanks, or rustles. No sounds of life. Just an eerie stillness, as if the rats and bugs and lizards in the sewers were repelled by something no human could sense.

  Which was completely ridiculous. Time was short. He didn’t have the luxury to indulge his superstitious fears. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated to find an alley he was familiar with and now there were only a few hours left until the Contraluxis.

  He’d kept, as best he could, to backstreets, servants’ ways, and alleys, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passed, and still, everyone he’d seen seemed a soldier or Tracker in disguise. Even the bright chatter of two maids gossiping as they hung laundry twisted his nerves.

  He’d wanted to run, race all the way to the cavern and then to Celia. But that would have drawn attention and he was sure he drew enough attention already with his filthy clothing and battered face. All he could do was keep his eyes downcast and hope anyone he encountered thought him a servant with an angry master. The ploy had worked. Goddess only knew how.

  And now he could run, satisfying the compulsion for haste. He rushed along the first level of the gallery to the stairs and took them two at a time, his left hand skimming the railing in case he tripped. Not that his injured arm would hold his weight if he did.

  The reflection pool was as he remembered it. A lot had happened, and he feared his memory had played a trick on him. That the pool wasn’t the solution to his problem. And yet, when he stared at the still water with the lights shining through to the uneven surface below, he couldn’t recognize anything.

  He circled the pool to gain a different perspective and find a landmark he recognized, but the bumps and ridges remained a random scattering of uneven shapes. The floor and walls also didn’t offer a symbol or mark that might help him gain his bearings.

  Time weighed on him, marked by every breath, every beat of his heart, inexorably moving toward the Contraluxis. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself see the map. He held his breath and released it, slowly circling the pool.

  Nothing.

  Every moment wasted here meant he might not reach the Tomb in time, might not reach Celia.

  He circled the pool again then squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them. It was still the same dark water, dotted with beams of light from the witch-stone ceiling. No magic map. No instant solution. No divine assistance. Goddess. Light Son. Heck, if the Dark Son was listening, he’d take the help, even if it might mean his demise later. Please, oh, please.

  But he couldn’t make his mind work, couldn’t think of what the key might be. He’d never felt so useless. Even after spending days stumbling after Celia, only getting half-answers or none at all, he’d still felt competent—more or less. He needed that map and he’d been so sure the reflection pool was it. It had made so much sense in the garden and now... now he didn’t know what to think. The pool was a pool. Nothing more. He had no way to find the Tomb of Souls and Celia would be trapped forever as the shadow walker, never able to find rest across the veil in the heart of the Goddess.

  He was a failure. A failure as a physician and a surgeon, certainly a failure as a necromancer. And now he was a failure as a friend.

  His throat tightened and he knew it was true. Celia was a friend. They hadn’t always gotten along, and he didn’t entirely trust her, but she was still a friend. He had to do something. So he didn’t have the map. There was still time to do something.

  He raced to the stairs and took the first four steps in two long strides, but stopped.

  What he needed was a plan.

  He sagged onto the step and stared at the pool. A few moments of planning could save precious time later. If he could just clear his head, ignore the need to take action and the growing urgency.

  The back of his head started to throb, or maybe it had always been throbbing and he’d only noticed it now. He had hit it during the fall. At the thought of Solartti tossing him over the railing, the rest of his aches flared back to life. Great.

  He ran a finger along the smooth step, over and over again, all the while staring at the pool, praying his mind would clear and he’d know what to do. There was not enough time for this. The moon would rise and soon after, the lunar eclipse would begin. If only the dog stars and the Goddess star weren’t in alignment, but that would mean this whole mess wouldn’t be happening.

  Maybe he should go back to the prince’s palace and find the Master. The man obviously knew about the shadow walker, or at least something. Surely the Goddess would have sent him a vision about the Tomb of Souls. Of course, if that was the case, and he had actually wanted to help, he would have told Ward more, wouldn’t he?

  No. It was too risky. Besides, there was no way to tell if the Master was still at the palace. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He was wasting enough as it was.

  He chewed on his bottom lip. He had to let the pain in his body go, had to let everything go. Grandfather always told him meditation was important for necromancers and Ward should practice more. If he survived, he’d work on that. He let his vision blur, not really focusing on any one thing, just trying to clear his thoughts.

  The shapes at the bottom of the pool shimmered and jumped into focus.

  He gasped. He could see it all. On the left side of the bowl, which he’d thought was smooth, was the hint of gentle waves. There lay the Bay of Veknormai as if it were drawn on a parchment, along with each tomb and monument and, on the right, against the edge, the peaks of the mountai
n.

  Keeping the map in focus, he scrambled down the stairs to get a closer look. He found the area he and Celia had searched yesterday, and there, just beyond, lay the yellow beam of light, pointing at the Tomb of Souls and Celia.

  THIRTY-SIX

  After an extensive and fruitless search of the shelves for anything she could use as a weapon, Celia sat against the wall by the entrance. She didn’t like the idea of fighting for her freedom empty-handed. Particularly against her father. But she was not going to go down without a fight, not this time. Even Ward had gone down fighting, not that it had done him much good.

  She ground her teeth, not permitting herself to wallow. She’d have time to mourn Ward’s death later, once she’d avenged it. And once the stone slab in the door was moved, there would only be her father, Solartti, and that woman in the way.

  Her father and Solartti she was familiar with, and her best bet was to flee and plan a surprise assault later. The woman, however, was still a mystery, and from what Celia had seen, she was dangerous. She’d just have to deal with it when they came for her.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on listening, not letting any other thoughts slip to the forefront and distract her. They could come for her at any time, and she needed to be ready. Fortunately, when her father had left, his feet had crunched on gravel, likely the gravel that lined the major pathways in Veknormai. Which meant if she listened, she’d hear them coming.

  Who’d have thought that the house of Bralmoore’s strange tradition of laying a hundred bags of sandstone chips every Festival of the Mind would prove so useful?

  She considered where in the cemetery she could be. Obviously not off the beaten path, which only meant she could rule out the eastern side, where the cemetery’s slope drew steep near the edge of the Black Cliffs, and the extreme north and south ends of the Holy City.

  That was fortunate. If they came for her after dark, she could be running blind. She didn’t have a lot of familiarity with Veknormai, and it would take time to get her bearings. At least wherever she was, she wouldn’t risk falling over the cliffs or being trapped against the northern part of the mountain.

  Again, things she couldn’t control and therefore shouldn’t worry about. She strained to hear beyond the doorway. If there was one thing she wished she had cultivated better within herself during her apprenticeship as an assassin, it was patience.

  She sat like that, her breathing slow and silent, the hot dusty air in the tomb pressing around her, making her eyes and nose itch while thoughts of Ward danced at the edges of her consciousness. She willed those distractions as far back in her mind as she could and banished any thoughts of time—and how slowly it moved—with them.

  It made her feel suspended, floating in a bubble on a vast sea of swirling thoughts that couldn’t touch her. There was a peace in the nothingness, but it was a false sensation. Her father would return, Ward would still be dead, and she—

  Heavy footsteps crunched on gravel, and her pulse quickened. The imperative to live—even after she was already dead—still controlled her. She opened her eyes, and stretched with silent movements, flexing muscles tightened from inactivity. More time than expected had passed. The light outlining the stone in the doorway was still bright compared to the darkness in the tomb, but the slanting ray of sunlight that had lit a small line to the back wall was gone.

  Stone ground against stone, and the crack on the far side of the entrance grew. A hand appeared, pressed against the slab, and the crack widened. Beyond, the light seemed too bright and she could only discern an enormous figure leaning into the slab, pushing it away from the entrance. Between heartbeats, she contemplated her most immediate options: wait for them to come in, or rush out. She preferred the idea of surprise and leapt past the figure.

  Someone yelled. The pitch was too high for her father. It had to be the woman. She must have stood about five feet away and hopefully wasn’t close enough to be a threat.

  A grip, like iron, clamped around Celia’s forearm. She staggered to keep her feet under her and twisted to break her assailant’s grip, but his hand was too big, locked tight on her arm, and the maneuver didn’t work. She spun on her heel to face him. Usually men of his size didn’t expect a direct assault from a woman of hers.

  It was Solartti. Who else would be so big? She knew he was moving about, she’d seen him throw Ward into the cavern. But he was dead. So dead Ward hadn’t been able to wake him, and yet—

  Her instincts overrode her shock. She stepped toward him to gain leverage to throw him over her shoulder, while striking the nerve in his elbow so it would bend. His arm remained straight. That should have hurt.

  He grabbed her neck in his other hand and lifted until she stood on tiptoe, nose to nose with his gray, mottled flesh. She clawed at his fingers with her free hand and kneed him in the groin. He didn’t even blink, just raised his hand higher. Her toes skimmed the ground and she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

  “Your body doesn’t need to be whole for the spell to work,” the woman said as she stepped into sight. She leaned in close and ran a cold finger along Celia’s cheek. “Just your spirit.”

  The edges of Celia’s vision darkened, and she gazed in Solartti’s eyes, praying she’d find the man she once knew. They were glassy and empty, all signs of the witty, adventurous man gone.

  “And really, why would you want to run? You’ll be unique. Perfect. Forever.”

  Her chest burned and she struggled to fill her lungs. From the corner of her eye, she could see her father. Behind him, a bloody sunset stained the sky.

  “Are you done playing?” he asked. He watched without emotion, back to his usual cold self. All the anger she’d heard in his voice earlier was again hidden.

  The woman stepped back and Solartti released his hold on Celia’s neck, dropping her hard on the ground. His grip on her forearm remained. She sucked in air, but before she could get her breath back, he shambled forward and yanked her around to follow.

  §

  It was dusk when Ward stumbled past the obelisk marking the south entrance of Veknormai. His stomach churned and his muscles trembled, but he forced his aching legs to carry him up a steep rise on the path before leaning against a tombstone to rest. The cuca was wearing off and soon all he’d have to rely on was his will. If only he could sit and rest, close his eyes for a moment...

  He pushed away from the tomb and staggered down the path. If he stopped, even for a moment, he’d never get up—at least not until it was all over. And while his odds of actually stopping Carlyle and Karysa were slim, he still had to try.

  Lightning lit the sky, reflecting off the marble tombs. Thunder cracked and rolled over him like a great wave. His skin tingled with the heat, moisture, and energy captured in the storm, and his pulse quickened. He was going to his death. The night couldn’t be any more fitting.

  Another bolt of lightning and crash of thunder shook him, and he stumbled. He grasped the edge of a monument and clung to it to keep his balance. Thunderheads gathered around the mountain’s jagged top, while dark shreds of clouds, torn free by the wind, raced across an otherwise perfect evening sky, complete with sparks of stars and an almost full moon.

  The Contraluxis would begin soon. He wished he hadn’t taken the herb when the Master had given it to him, or that he was already dead. He wished he’d never come to Brawenal City or met Celia Carlyle, and yet...

  There were so many things he wished for, and so many of them contradicted each other. Most of all he wished he wasn’t himself, or that Celia wasn’t Celia, or both. But that wasn’t the way things were or would ever be.

  He’d spent too long living with his thoughts focused only on the future. Now there was no future, or at least only a slim possibility of one, and this was the here and now the Goddess had given him.

  Lightning flashed, and for a moment the marble tombstones and mausoleums were luminescent, as if they glowed with some internal light, some kind of strange magic.

  He
glanced back up at the sky. Was the moon smaller? It seemed smaller. But his eyes could be playing tricks on him. The eclipse couldn’t have started already. He wasn’t at the Tomb of Souls yet. He forced his aching body forward, pushing to place one foot in front of the other faster and faster―staggering, then walking, then trotting, then finally, painfully, running.

  The path twisted and turned, first sloping down then up, curling around monuments and tombs, big and small. He climbed a steep slope and rounded another obelisk gleaming in the moonlight. He skidded on the gravel covering that part of the path, caught his balance, and raced on.

  Always, he checked his course by the mountain and the moon. Below, running parallel to the path he followed, was the way that led to the tomb he and Celia had found yesterday, but he gave it little note, only to use it to confirm he ran in the right direction. Above, the light part of the moon was being shaved away, the shadow of the eclipse creeping across its surface.

  Lightning flashed and thunder cracked and rolled. He pumped his arms, drawing more speed from his weary legs. The path turned and stopped suddenly at a mausoleum.

  Ward swung his arms to break his momentum, twisting at the last moment. His hip slammed into the marble, and he stumbled.

  Not waiting for the pain to pass, he staggered around the mausoleum, hoping to find another path, but instead found himself at the edge of a recessed circle lined with marble.

  Three steps led down to a wide area. The floor was polished white marble save for the outline of an octagon, an inch thick, made of obsidian. At each point of the octagon, fitted into slots carved into the marble, stood wooden poles. Lanterns hung from each, casting a warm glow that the marble reflected back. In the very center sat a pedestal covered in ivy. The wide, dark leaves concealed the waist-high structure, but Ward guessed that it, like the rest of the Holy City of Veknormai, was made from white marble.