The serving girl came over and Donn did the talking, ordering the bucket of ale and sorting out their coins to pay for their drinks. Wil tried to catch the girl’s eye, but she managed to ignore him.
“At this rate, I’m never going to get married,” Wil lamented as she left without a glance in his direction.
“Mate, at this rate, you’re not even going to get a roll in the hay before you’re an old man,” Donn laughed. “Let’s go.” It took both Rigan and Donn to get Wil out of the tavern without him making another attempt to get the poor girl’s attention, and he had sloshed part of the ale from the bucket before they even reached the door.
“We’ll drop you off on our way back,” Donn said, steering Wil in the right direction once they got to the street.
Rigan heard the tower bells chime and cringed; he had been out much longer than Corran expected. Still, letting Wil loose on his own in this condition was a really bad idea. “Let’s move. I need to get back.”
Halfway to Wil’s house, Wil stopped and leaned against a wall. “I don’t feel too good,” he said in a woozy voice.
Rigan looked both ways, keeping an eye out for the guards, while Donn guided Wil into the nearest alley. They barely made it around the corner before Wil retched, and dropped his bucket of ale in the bargain.
“Dear gods, watch your boots!” Donn hurried out of the way as Wil emptied his stomach.
Footsteps from the street made Donn and Rigan turn. “What’s the problem?” Three of the Lord Mayor’s guards blocked the mouth of the alley.
“Our friend just got a little sick, sir,” Donn said, managing a pleasant grin. “We’re seeing him home.”
“Is it the bloody guards again?” Wil said, staggering as he stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Piss off. We’re not doing any harm.”
Rigan grabbed Wil’s arm. “We need to get him home. He’s not feeling well.”
Wil took a swing at Rigan, who ducked, and the blow nearly struck the guard behind him. The guard hooked a fist at Wil, who dodged out of the way and returned a punch of his own, this one catching the guard on the chin. Wil stared in stunned silence, finally realizing what he had done, before taking off running. Donn and Rigan sprinted after him with the guards in close pursuit.
“Split up!” Donn shouted as they came to an intersection. Wil moved remarkably fast considering his condition, though fear seemed to have tempered the alcohol. Donn went one way, Wil another, while Rigan veered to the right.
One pair of boots pounded behind him. It seemed the guards had separated to follow the three young men. Rigan knew the alleys and ginnels of Ravenwood better, he hoped, than the guard. A wooden fence blocked the end of an alley and he ran up to it at full speed, jumped and caught hold of the top, then rolled over it, landing in a crouch before starting to run again.
Footsteps behind him told Rigan the guard had followed him over the fence. “Shit.” Rigan dodged piles of garbage and pools of chamber pot refuse as he wound through the back alleys of Wrighton.
“Stop, in the name of the Lord Mayor!”
He paid no heed, running as fast as he could to lose his pursuer in the maze of darkened alleys.
Rigan managed to get half a block ahead of the guard, but then he turned the corner to a long, straight stretch with no crossings, and despaired of getting away. A battered wooden door stood ajar in a filthy doorway, and for lack of other options, Rigan darted inside and carefully closed the door after him.
The dark, dank building smelled like rats and squatters. Rigan edged several steps back from the door, keeping against one of the walls, hoping the guard would give up the chase.
A minute passed without discovery, and Rigan let out a long breath of relief. Then the door jerked open and the guard dodged inside, grabbing Rigan by his collar before he had a chance to move.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, boy.” The guard threw Rigan back against the wall, knocking his head hard against the bricks.
“We were just trying to get home,” Rigan said, forcing himself not to fight back, fearful of making the situation worse.
“I ought to drag your ass to jail. It would serve you right for causing trouble.”
“Please, we meant no harm,” Rigan protested. “I won’t cause you any problems.”
“No, you won’t. Because I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.” The guard’s fist lashed out, catching Rigan hard on the jaw and sending him stumbling.
The guard was older and stronger, while Rigan had little experience fighting beyond wrestling with his brothers.
“Please—” Rigan started, but a fist to his gut doubled him over and another blow to the side of his head made his vision swim.
We’re completely alone here. No one would know if he killed me. He could get away with murder. Corran might not even find my body.
Rigan stumbled away and the guard came after him with a growl. His punch went wide, and the guard seized him by the shoulders, throwing him against a wall, hard enough that dust fell in a fine powder onto Rigan’s face and hair.
“Good-for-nothing troublemakers.” The guard closed one of his big hands around Rigan’s throat. Rigan gasped as the guard’s fist tightened.
I’m going to die.
He punched the guard’s arm in vain, trying to loosen the man’s grip, while his right hand pressed against the man’s ribs, attempting to push him away. The guard’s hold grew tighter, and Rigan’s vision narrowed as he struggled for breath. Fear flooded through him as he thought of never seeing Corran and Kell again, and as the fingers dug into his throat, a desperate energy welled up inside, rising from the core of his being, making his heart pound. A jolt like lightning ran down his outstretched arm and through his palm, then blasted into the guard’s chest.
The guard’s grip faltered and his hand fell away from Rigan’s throat as he clutched at his own chest, eyes bulging. His breath gurgled as he tried to speak. The soldier sank to his knees, staring at Rigan in disbelief and fear, then toppled forward and lay still.
Rigan collapsed against the wall. His heart pounded so hard he could barely breathe. The guard did not get up.
Oh, gods! Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit! What did I do? Is he dead? Mortal fear turned into stunned horror as he realized that he had somehow killed the guard. He squeezed his eyes shut. I’m going to hang. Oh, gods. I killed a guard. People don’t just fall over dead like that. Sweet Oj and Ren, take my soul! I don’t know how I did what I did, but they’ll hang me anyhow.
Rigan’s hitching breath broke the silence as he tried to regain control. He felt weak and dizzy, as if whatever happened had bled him dry. His skin prickled as the temperature dropped, and when Rigan opened his eyes, he saw a translucent figure watching from the shadows.
I’m really not up to banishing anything right now. Please just go away.
Hear my confession.
This is really not a good time. Rigan had never denied a spirit confession before, but right now, alone and dying, Rigan barely had the energy to fight for consciousness.
My time has run out.
Duty won out over desire, even though he did not know how much time he had left himself. What do you need to confess?
My name was Rocard. I hunted the monsters. I bested them—all but one. One mistake was all it took for me to end up a ghost in this deserted building. Rigan felt something shift painfully inside him and knew that the guard had done real damage.
Sounds like you were a hero, Rigan told the ghost.
I’m not ashamed of what I did , Rocard’s spirit replied. But I went to my grave knowing something that must be shared.
Rigan hated this part of the process the most—when the departed shifted the weight of whatever guilt held them to this world onto his shoulders. Presumably, the dead moved on, unburdened. Rigan could wash the taint of a corpse off his skin, but he’d never found a way to remove the stain of the confessed betrayals and harm done from his memories. And who’s going to hear my confession when I
pass? It won’t be long now. I’m fading.
Someone is controlling the monsters, the spirit said.
Who?
I never found out. But I’m certain they’re being controlled, and I think that’s also why there are more vengeful ghosts than usual. I believe that someone suspected I knew—and had me murdered to keep me silent.
I finally get a valuable bit of information, and I’m probably not going to make it out of here to tell anyone, Rigan thought, feeling his consciousness slipping away. To the ghost, he said, Go in peace.
Rocard’s spirit dissipated like smoke in the wind and Rigan closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and waited to die.
“You’ve got to get away from here.”
He barely registered the voice, overwhelmed by pain and terror. It slowly dawned on him that a living stranger stood before him now.
“Who are you?”
“Do you want to hang, or do you want to live long enough to find out what you did to the guard and how you can control it?” Shadows obscured the stranger’s face, but Rigan made out the silhouette of a tall, thin man. “I can get you to safety. But you’ve got to come with me, now. Can you walk?”
“Of course—” Rigan tried and failed to get to his feet. His head swam, and he felt as if he might pass out.
“I didn’t think so,” the stranger said, reaching out a hand.
Too stunned and scared to argue, Rigan accepted the hand up and struggled to stand, leaning heavily on his rescuer, who put one shoulder under Rigan’s arm to hold him up. “What about—him?” he asked, with a nod toward the motionless guard.
“Leave him for the rats. Follow me.”
A dim light glowed, and Rigan realized the man had opened the shutters on a small lantern. It enabled him to get a good look at his rescuer—a man probably ten years his senior, with sharp features and flint-gray eyes.
Terror filled Rigan. What does he want with me?
The man led him through the rubble of the ruined building, picking his way with confidence, as if he had done this many times. They passed through a door into another, equally decrepit building, then down a flight of stone steps into a cellar that extended farther than the lantern could illuminate.
From there, Rigan and the stranger went through an old brick tunnel, then down an ancient flight of worn stone steps and through another passage before emerging at the edge of a huge underground room. Lanterns and torches lit the cavernous area, which bustled with people. Merchants hawked their wares from tables and stalls, musicians played and the babble of conversation echoed from the rock walls.
“Where are we?” Rigan asked, awed by what lay before him.
“Below.”
Out of the cauldron, into the fire.
Most residents of Ravenwood had never been Below, though stories about the underground city abounded, each more terrifying than the last.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” the stranger said, noting the fear on Rigan’s face. “It’s just a place, like any other place.”
Rigan doubted that. ‘Below’ spanned a subterranean warren of tunnels, old cellars, and built-over streets long-forgotten by those who dwelled on top. In Ravenwood’s long history, fires, floods, and other calamities had destroyed parts of the city many times. Rebuilding often meant covering over entire streets, along with the shops and homes, and erecting new buildings and roads above them as if the old structures had never existed. Most people forgot the old city, but for those who needed a hiding place, Below provided a sanctuary.
“Please, I don’t have any coin on me,” Rigan said, realizing he was still carrying the bag of items from his errand, clutched in a death grip. “I’m not worth robbing, and there’s no money to pay a ransom. Just let me go.”
The stranger chuckled. “In your current state? How far do you think you’d get? You have no idea how you killed that guard, do you?”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what made the guard fall down, but it wasn’t me. I couldn’t have—”
“You could and you did. And if you know nothing about your abilities, then you’re a danger, and we need to fix that.”
“Fix?” Oh, gods, he’s a madman.
Any thought of escape died when Rigan attempted to stand on his own. Whatever had happened with the guard, it had sapped his energy, leaving him as weak as if he had just risen from a long illness. Light-headed and sick to his stomach, Rigan would collapse before he got ten steps away from the stranger.
If he meant to kill me, why didn’t he do it in the cellars, with no one around to see? He could have easily picked my pockets and left my body, or thrown me down a hole. Why bring me here, with so many people?
Rigan tried to remember what he had heard about the people who lived Below. Criminals and outcasts made the tunnels their homes, along with all manner of shady dealers and those on the run. And people with magic, Rigan thought.
The stranger led Rigan away from the more crowded areas. They say witches live down here. Is that what he is? By Ardevan and Eshtamon! Maybe he means to sacrifice me.
“I’m not going to rob you or kill you,” the man said quietly. “You’re hurt worse than you know, and if I don’t get you to a healer, you just might die. Quit fighting me; you don’t have the energy to waste.”
Die? Rigan’s jaw throbbed and his throat ached from the guard’s assault, and his gut hurt from the punch he had taken. Would I know if the punch had opened something inside me? As an undertaker, he knew well enough that a hard punch in the wrong place could set a man bleeding to death without breaking the skin. Is this how it feels? Am I dying?
“How did you know where to find me?” Rigan asked.
“When you killed that guard, your magic flared as bright as a beacon. You’re just lucky I got to you before anyone else did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s part of the problem.”
Somewhere along the way, Rigan lost consciousness.
When he woke, he lay on a comfortable cot, covered with a blanket. He recognized the sharp smell of liniment mixed from medicinal plants, and realized that both his neck and jaw had been bandaged. A lantern hung from a bracket on the ceiling, giving enough light to let him get his bearings. A kindness, he thought, since they could have left me in the dark. But what do they want with me? And why would they care who found me?
“How do you feel?” the stranger said from the doorway.
“Not dead,” Rigan croaked. His throat hurt on the inside as much as his bruises did on the outside, and a dry mouth made swallowing painful.
“Drink this,” the man said, handing Rigan a tankard. “We didn’t want to risk drowning you by trying to pour it down your throat when you were unconscious.”
Rigan hesitated before deciding that poisoning was the least of his worries, and drank thirstily; it tasted of ginger and honey, and soothed his raw throat. “Thank you.”
The stranger pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. “You can call me Damian.”
“I’m Rigan.” Given the situation, Rigan had little to lose by giving his real name. “What are you going to do to me?”
Damian chuckled. His deep voice and gentle manner were reassuring, though his eyes were guarded. “Heal you, if all goes well. Warn you, since you have no idea what happened back there. And if you’ll agree to it, train you, so you have a better chance of surviving.”
“Are you Wanderers?” Rumor had it that the nomadic clans of tinkers, peddlers, and fortune-tellers could do forbidden magic. That, along with an unfortunate reputation for theft, made the Wanderers unwelcome throughout the League. Even so, they found their way into the cities. Rigan knew for a fact that the rumors about their magic were true: his mother had Wanderer blood, and it was from her Rigan had inherited his ability to confess the dead.
“Witches, yes. Wanderers, no,” Damian replied, amused.
Rigan digested that for a moment. “Maybe that guard cut off my breath longer than I thought, but I don�
�t understand.” He reached for the tankard and took another sip, buying himself time to think.
“What do you think happened, with the guard?”
Rigan lay back down, spent by the effort of raising himself up. “He attacked me, pushed me into the wall, choked me. I couldn’t get loose. He was too strong. I put my hand out, to push him away.”
He paused, straining to remember. Something had happened. “I was scared and angry. He meant to kill me. And then... it felt like lightning flowed through my body, and the next thing I knew, the guard grabbed at his chest and fell over.” Rigan sighed. “I think I passed out.”
“You stopped the guard’s heart,” Damian said. “Your magic protected you.”
“I’m an undertaker, I help ghosts cross over and dispel restless spirits. I can’t kill people.”
“Do you have another explanation?”
“I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Has anyone ever tried to kill you before?” Damian asked with a faint smile.
“No. I’d never even been in a real fight before tonight.”
“Your magic tried to protect you,” Damian said. “Unfortunately, magic of that sort is against the law in Ravenwood—at least, for people like us.”
“You said I was dying.”
Damian leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I know this is strange for you, but hear me out. Your magic rose up, unrestrained and unfocused, to fight off an attacker. Because of your lack of training, it drew from your own life energy to do that, and it nearly drained you dry.”
“What would have happened, if you hadn’t found me?” Rigan asked.
“You’d have been caught by the guards, I expect; you weren’t in any shape to outrun them. But assuming you made it home, you would have probably been dead by morning.”
Despite the room’s warmth, Rigan felt a chill. “How long have I been out?”
“The healer sat with you all night, helping you regain your life energy,” Damian replied. “Then you slept quite a while. It’s been nearly a day since I found you.”
“A day? Corran will have my hide!” Rigan tried to rise from the cot, only to fall back, too light headed to stand up.
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