by Melanie Card
“This time?” Celia growled, swiping water from her eyes.
“I told Ward to take you from Brawenal City.” The Master glared at Ward. “You didn’t, and you let something start that now you have to finish. I also told you to keep the locket, and now you’re dead. I’ve tried playing nice—”
“This is nice?” Celia asked.
“Yes. You don’t want to see me angry.” He strode upstream after Nazarius.
“Who in the Dark Son’s name was that?” Celia asked.
“The Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild.” This was a conversation he didn’t want to have, certainly not with his head hurting so much.
Celia’s gaze hardened. “But Nazarius called him ‘Lord Seer’?”
“He’s also the Seer of the House of Bralmoore.”
She swore. There were a lot of implications to that, and none were good—like how the man who was the prince of Brawenal’s prime counsel was also in charge of selling all the assassinations in the principality. “And he wants you to kill an Innecroestri for him?”
Ward sighed. “It would seem so.”
“Well, you’re not doing it.”
The urge to agree with her whipped through him, and he struggled to think straight. “If I don’t, he’ll kill you. You saw how easy it was for him to overcome you. For all I know he’s had a vision of the future and knows what you’ll do when he comes for you, making it impossible for you to fight him.”
“Always looking at the positive, Ward.” She climbed back onto the dock.
“Do you see another option?” Sudden rage burned through him. “Do you? Any options that don’t involve breaking divine law this time?”
“I did what I had to do.” Her aura rippled as a mix of emotions flashed through him: pain, fear, fury. “What would you have done?”
He held onto the anger. “I wouldn’t have done this. Goddess, Celia. Do you have any idea what using this kind of blood magic has done to the balance between life and death? Do you have any idea the jeopardy you’ve put your soul in?”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?” His voice cracked. He had not heard that right. She couldn’t have just said that. “I’m a vesperitti! You risked your soul to make a monster. How long do you think it’ll be before the hunger for blood overwhelms me?”
“We’ll deal with that when we get there.”
“I’ll kill people.” His heart pounded in fear at the thought.
“You don’t have to kill someone or even drink blood to survive. You’ll be able to control it.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“We will make it work.” Her emotions, too mixed for him to figure out what they were, bled over his rage, leaving him confused and cold and dizzy.
“I shouldn’t be alive.” The emotion turned hard and desperate, and all Ward wanted was to hold Celia and comfort her and take her pain.
“You shouldn’t be dead, either,” she said, her voice soft. “We just need some time to get our bearings.”
“Yeah.” But the Master would come after Celia tomorrow if Ward didn’t kill someone. Time wasn’t something they had.
Chapter Two
Nazarius found the small boat upstream of the strange underground stone dock. The narrow path at the river’s edge had led through the enclosed passage and around a sharp turn in the tunnel. A numb fog filled him, and he sagged to his knees, unable to focus on anything but the boat bobbing on the water.
From the moment the ceiling had collapsed on Celia and him in Dulthyne earlier that day, he’d been running on stress. Saving Ward. Needing to abandon Celia. Finding her again, and then the fight in the bathing chamber.
A shudder slid over him, spiking agony through his body and stealing his breath. Hot and cold raced across his skin, and sweat slicked his palms.
He shouldn’t be alive. How in the name of the Goddess was he alive?
And it wasn’t the cuts crisscrossing his body and leaking blood that concerned him. Ward had been possessed by a terrible curse and had seized Nazarius’s soul. He’d twisted and sliced it and almost ripped it from his body.
Nazarius pressed his bloody hands to his chest, but it didn’t stop the ache. No, the pain was deeper than just flesh. It was soul deep. Ward had wanted to sacrifice Nazarius’s soul on the altar of the darkest, evilest magic, and yet somehow, by some miracle, Ward had fought past whatever madness had consumed him and stopped.
“He’s dead, you know.”
Nazarius jerked to his feet and drew his sword and long dagger in one fluid—if painful—motion before he fully registered who had spoken.
Severin, the Seer of the House of Bralmoore, eased out of the darkness. His usually indistinct appearance and demeanor had vanished. Everything about him now oozed danger. Ward had said Severin was the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild. At the time, Nazarius hadn’t believed him. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
“He’s not supposed to be dead.” The Seer shifted, and the danger disappeared, as if it had been the shadows and not the man creating it. “He was supposed to keep the locket.”
The magical locket currently stuffed in Nazarius’s pocket. The one keeping him from bleeding to death. If Ward had kept the locket, Nazarius would be dead instead. “You foresaw this?”
“Not this.” The danger returned. From one heartbeat to the next the Seer transformed.
Nazarius’s pulse quickened. He tightened his grip on his weapons, realizing he still held them yet knowing they wouldn’t help. The Seer really was the Master, an assassin who could see the future. Such tremendous power could destroy principalities, maybe even the entire Union.
“Now there are no other options.”
“Were there options before?” Nazarius asked, unable to help himself.
Severin scowled. “There weren’t many. Now there are none. Ward must do as he’s told.”
“Or what?”
“Make sure he does what he’s told.” A hint of gold flashed over Severin’s eyes, a sign of a true vision.
“Or what?” Nazarius pressed. Perhaps if he knew what was coming he could stop it, or help Ward get through the worst of it. Goddess, Ward didn’t deserve any of this.
Severin leapt forward, the action fast and sudden. Nazarius tensed, a moment’s hesitation to figure out if he needed to defend himself. In that heartbeat, Severin grabbed his hand holding the dagger’s hilt, wrenched him around, kicked out his knees, and pulled the dagger tight against Nazarius’s throat. Fast. So damned fast.
Nazarius’s heart pounded. His dagger dug into his throat. Pain raced over his knees where they’d slammed into the rocky ground.
“If Ward doesn’t do what I tell him, I’ll kill him.”
“You said he was already dead,” Nazarius gasped. It was the only thing he could think of.
“I’ll make it permanent.” Severin shoved Nazarius forward, keeping the dagger. “I’m the Seer of the House of Bralmoore. It isn’t your place to question me, Tracker. You’re a Quayestri, sworn to obedience to all Seers. It’s your place to obey.”
“You’re also the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild.” Pain screamed through Nazarius’s body.
“All the more reason to obey.” Severin knelt, pressing the flat of the dagger against the ground beside Nazarius’s head. “Ward’s path has been chosen. That darkness is coming. If you want him to survive this, make him do what he’s told.”
Severin leaned back, and Nazarius grabbed the dagger, but the Seer was gone. Nazarius scrambled to his knees. He scanned the shadows. The man couldn’t have gone far. It had been a heartbeat, no longer. But all that remained was his warning—make Ward do what he’d been told or he would die, again. And if Nazarius let Ward’s death happen, Celia would kill him. Wonderful.
Nazarius returned with a small, shallow boat before Ward could figure out if he should bathe, argue, or even run back to his grandfather to do the right thing. An imbalance to life and death could cause a drought, or a pl
ague, or maybe start a war. The Tracker walked—more carefully than usual for him—along the stone bank, holding a rope tied to the nose of the vessel and drawing it through the water to the dock.
Celia scanned the dock and shadows as he approached, her attention anywhere but on Ward. She wasn’t acting the way she was supposed to. For as long as he’d known her—which admittedly wasn’t that long—she’d always been in control. Except maybe she hadn’t been. Maybe she’d just been better at hiding her emotions.
He dragged his attention to the water, but it was still too bright with its flickering magic. He should clean the blood from his clothes, but he was caked in it and a dip in the stream wouldn’t get him clean. He needed new clothes—
He needed a lot more than just new clothes.
Celia wrung water from her hair as best she could with only one hand. Right. The fight in the bathing chamber. Her wrist had been broken. She stared at the boat, her mouth set in a hard line. “So we’re going to go ahead with killing another Innecroestri?”
Nazarius got into the boat. “I don’t see we have much choice.”
Celia glanced at Ward. Her gaze captured him for a heartbeat, and her aura rippled with emotion: more anger, frustration, and above all, hurt.
“In the very least, we need to put space between us and Ward’s grandfather,” Nazarius said.
Something snapped in Celia. It flashed through her aura, leaving Ward dizzy. “Right. Get in the boat.”
Ward climbed in before he could register the thought to move. Somehow he’d been standing on the dock, then he was sitting in the boat. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a steadying breath.
“So did the Master, or Seer, or whoever in the Dark Son’s name he is, tell you what he wants Ward to do next?” Celia sat beside him and held out a clean shirt.
Nazarius stiffened, the movement so subtle Ward was sure he wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t seen the action ripple through the man’s aura. “It doesn’t matter. Do what the Seer wants and maybe…”
Ward put on the clean shirt as Nazarius used a paddle to push away from the dock.
The current captured the boat and drew them downstream.
“Maybe what?” Celia asked.
The boat rocked, tipping her. She threw out her bad hand to catch herself, gasped in pain, and jerked her hand back to her chest.
The gasp, even the pain, flooded Ward as if it hurt him, too. Another effect of the soul chain.
He dragged his gaze from the shimmering chain to her and held out his hands. “Let me look at your wrist.”
“You can’t do it,” she said, her voice that soft, small voice again. It broke his heart.
“Look at your wrist? I’m pretty sure that’s the one thing I can do.” But that wasn’t what she meant. The Master had asked him to kill someone. Admittedly it was an Innecroestri, a black necromancer as evil as the vesperitti they created. But the command was still murder.
Celia held out her hand and he took it. “This Innecroestri, it’s not your responsibility. You don’t have to stop every one that’s out there.”
“No, but I have to try to stop every Innecroestri I know about. I have a responsibility.” That damned necromancer’s obligation to maintain the balance between life and death. Lately it kept getting him into trouble. But he had a responsibility to his family and the necromancer’s code—although the code said now he had to be destroyed, too. Was he still bound by any codes or oaths? Did that change with death? Whether it did or not, if he didn’t kill this Innecroestri, the Master would kill Celia.
He sighed and focused on her wrist. “I took an oath.”
“Curse your ridiculous oaths. You’ve done enough. You think those necromancers back in the bathing chamber saw you as anything but a—” She snapped her mouth shut.
“A monster.” His rage billowed. His rage, not hers. “I’m a monster.”
“You’re Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer,” she said.
“If I am, then I have an obligation.” In truth, though, no matter what he wanted, he couldn’t say he was a necromancer anymore. He’d lost that title when Macerio forced him to make a vesperitti, and then again when he’d used true blood magic—using the blood of sacrificed men and women—to end the curse and save the people of Dulthyne.
And what about Ward the physician? Could that survive his death and rebirth as a vesperitti? Could anything?
He still felt the same…mostly. Aching, heartbroken, stunned, but he was still Ward. He still worried about killing someone. But he didn’t know if he was a monster through and through, or if he had somehow maintained his humanity. And if he had, how long would it last?
He hurt at the thought of Celia’s pain, and Nazarius’s, too. The magic that had brought him back to life had healed his injuries. Celia and Nazarius were still hurt. They needed medical attention. “If I don’t do this, the Master will come after you.” He gently probed her wrist. The larger of the two arm bones was snapped close to the joint. It needed to be wrapped and immobilized.
“I can handle the Master.”
“Not with your wrist like this.”
Nazarius stiffened, but his gaze remained on the front of the boat.
“We’ll hide.” A hint of her desperation shivered over him. She jerked her hand from his and winced. “You need to stop and rest. I just got you back. I—” Her gaze dropped to the water sliding past the boat. Her aura flickered over her porcelain skin and accentuated the delicate lines of her face. Tears, like diamond flecks, shimmered in her eyes. She gripped the boat’s edge with her good hand so tight her knuckles turned white. “You can’t kill this man.”
His heart ached. He slid his fingers along the boat’s edge, inching closer to her, but stopped before making contact. He wanted to touch her, wanted it with every fiber of his being, but he also wanted to scream at her. Why couldn’t she have just let him die?
He swallowed back the boiling emotions. “Just because my soul is now damned, doesn’t mean I have to lose my honor, too.” Really, it was all he had left.
Chapter Three
Every part of Celia screamed that she should talk with Ward about…Goddess, about everything!
And yet she couldn’t.
He was Ward. Her Ward. And yet talking to him about the Master’s new forced mission had never been more difficult. What in the name of the Goddess had happened to her? She killed people. Was an assassin. Except she didn’t do that anymore…because of Ward.
He sat behind her in the stern of the boat, looking pale…like death. His chest had now completely healed. She hadn’t even seen a hint of a scar when he’d shrugged out of his torn shirt and put on the clean one she’d found in the boat. But blood still coated his pants. Blood that had given her enormous power. Ward had said anyone could cast anything with enough blood, and she’d proven that by bringing him back from the dead. That power could let her do anything, even solve their current predicament. Except she didn’t have access to the blood now, and she was forced to shove the yearning for it back.
Overhead, the sky had lightened—they had to have been traveling now for close to an hour. The early morning sun didn’t reach the depths of the narrow valley, and the summer air was still cool. Sheer rock towered on either side of them, and gnarled, twisted pines clung to uncertain purchases on the rock face or hugged the slim ledge at the river’s edge. Moss and tough little shrubs and vines darkened the stone, while hints of quartz snaked through the granite. The river, dark and sluggish, pulled the boat around a sharp corner, taking them farther away from Dulthyne and from the worst night of her life.
Sunlight cut through the center of the valley, touching the water, turning it pale. The light shimmered in the air with the rosy gold of dawn. A new day, with the promise of new light and hope.
Ward gasped and threw his hands over his eyes.
Something was wrong. She reached for him but stopped before making contact, her stomach churning. What was wrong was that she’d made him
into a monster and this was the cost—she’d made him into a vesperitti, a creature of darkness who was blinded by sunlight and hungered for blood. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing him, not after she’d learned she was really alive—that Ward had resurrected her—and nothing now prevented them from having a relationship.
The sunlight turned pale, thin, and unreal. Ward didn’t deserve to be a monster. It was against everything he believed in. And yet she couldn’t take it back, wouldn’t.
The boat rocked, dragging her attention from her mess of thoughts and emotions. Froth churned in the water, and the vessel picked up speed. They rushed around another corner and foam splashed over the side.
“We’re coming up on rapids,” Nazarius said.
“You think?” Celia clutched the side of the boat with her good hand. Water sprayed her face and soaked her still-damp clothes.
Ward tucked deeper into the crook, his eyes squeezed shut, his body rigid and one arm over his face. Sunlight bathed them in full, turning the spray into a shower of diamonds.
The boat jerked again, snatching them around. It slammed into a rock jutting from the water and whirled into a gut-wrenching spin. Ward groaned, and Nazarius cursed.
They had to stop, get out, or at the very least get control. Celia scrambled to grab the second oar at the bottom of the boat, but they careened off another outcropping, and she lost her balance.
The craft lurched to the side, hit the bank, and spun back into the river. Something cracked. Water and froth billowed around them. Ward squinted over his arm. Celia met his gaze, her heart pounding. Nazarius swore again, and Ward’s eyes widened.
“Get out. We have to get out.” He grabbed for her, but the boat lurched again.
She clung to the edge to keep her balance, but the craft twisted, turning her forward. Air and noise surrounded her. For a heartbeat, the world was suspended on a breath. Her breath. A few droplets shimmered around her, and the water fell away into a frothing basin far, far below.
