Ward Against Destruction

by Melanie Card

  “My journey wasn’t so long that I can’t prove I’m the stronger Innecroestri,” Lauro said.

  “Well, then, this calls for a toast.” Celia grabbed the decanter on the table and pulled off the stopper. It slipped from her fingers, bounced off the table, and rolled into the pillows beside Ward.

  “Be careful with that,” Stasik growled, reaching for the stopper.

  “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

  A burst of fear raced through the soul chain. Ward glanced up. Between one heartbeat and the next, while Stasik and Lauro were looking at the stopper, Celia dumped the bottle of liquid mortical into the wine.

  Ward jerked his attention back to the stopper, praying no one else had noticed. “I have it.”

  “Let me fill your glasses.” Celia poured the wine into the glasses on the table.

  She raised hers, and the urge to pick up his glass—but not drink—flooded Ward. She didn’t know that he’d seen her poison the wine and was using the soul chain to make him play along.

  He picked up the glass. “May the stronger Innecroestri win.”

  “To the stronger Innecroestri.” Lauro took a long swig.

  Stasik raised his glass. “The strongest—”

  Thanos stepped into the doorway. “The first mate says all of our guest’s men are situated in the camp.”

  Stasik lowered the glass. He hadn’t taken a drink. “Good.”

  The man had to drink. “The toast, my lord.” Ward raised his glass. His hand froze just before it reached his lips. The command not to drink trembled through the soul chain.

  “May the stronger Inn—”

  Lauro coughed.

  “You’re supposed to drink the wine, not breathe it,” Stasik said with a laugh. “If this is an example of your prowess, I’ve already won.”

  “I didn’t—” Lauro coughed again and choked trying to draw breath. His face turned red. He tugged at the collar of his robe.

  Celia laughed. “Seems we’ve already proven who the stronger Innecroestri is. That’s worth a drink.”

  Stasik raised his glass again. It brushed his lips.

  Yes. Take a drink.

  Lauro dragged in another ragged breath. He grabbed his glass as if to drink and clear his throat, but stared at it.

  Stasik lowered his hand. “What?”

  “The wine.” Lauro’s face bled from red to white tinged with blue. His aura burned and flared. He knew what was happening. The cup fell from his hands, and he gasped. “Poison.”

  “Poison?” Stasik jumped up.

  Celia threw her glass at Stasik. It smashed into his face. He dropped his glass, and she leapt at him, drawing her dagger.

  Ward scrambled out of the way.

  Thanos roared, and a whip of black smoke shot from his hand. It snapped around Celia’s wrist, wrenched her back, and she crashed onto the table. The decanter smashed on the floor.

  Lauro sagged to his knees, gasping, his face more blue than white. Magic snapped in his aura, desperate and furious.

  Thanos jerked the whip and dragged Celia off the table. Stasik straightened, his aura flaring with rage. He was going to cast something. He had to be stopped. Ward snatched Celia’s dagger and rushed at Stasik.

  The Innecroestri threw himself to the side and dropped to the floor. He grabbed a shard of crystal, cutting himself, and blood magic flared around his hand.

  Ward lunged. Stasik held up his hand, blood dripping from his palm, and searing agony seized Ward’s chest. His knees buckled, and he dropped at Stasik’s feet.

  Celia screamed. Thanos’s whip wrapped around her neck, and he yanked her up. She clawed at the smoke, gasping, her toes skimming the floor.

  “Kill them,” Lauro growled.

  Stasik twisted his wrist. More pain roared through Ward.

  “I said, kill them.” Lauro straightened, his natural color returning to his face. The poison hadn’t killed him, and he was healing as they spoke.

  “He’s my apprentice, I’ll decide what I do with him.” Stasik dropped the crystal shard and placed his bloody palm against Ward’s cheek.

  The inferno flared in a torment Ward hadn’t thought was possible. He struggled to breathe, to focus, but couldn’t think past the agony.

  “He tried to kill me.” Magic crackled around Lauro. “He tried to murder us.”

  “And death would be too easy.”

  Light burst across Ward’s vision. Black flooded in behind, but the pain didn’t end.

  “Thanos, have them chained to the altar.” Stasik grabbed Ward’s face, digging his fingers into Ward’s cheeks, forcing him to look up. “Let’s see how long it takes you to go crazy and tear apart your master. Inside the octagon and so close to the fissure, I’d place my bet on an hour, maybe two.”

  Ward panted, every breath shot with lightning.

  “Care to make a bet, Lauro?”

  “Will he actually eat her? If she’s strong enough, she can control him. She’s his master.”

  “Strength only lasts for so long, and the fissure warps the soul chain. In the end, the fact she’s his master won’t mean anything.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nazarius dragged the rowboat onto the island’s bank, leaving it mostly hidden in the boughs of a pine tree. The horizon had lightened, and true dawn was just minutes away. He didn’t have much time to work his way to the temple and steal that damned hair for Severin, but disobeying wasn’t an option.

  He headed through the trees, keeping his steps silent and scanning for trouble. What he really needed was to get Ward and Celia off this island. There was no way to stop the creature that pirate had been turned into, and his friends were in danger. Yes, the word “friends” felt right. It was right. Ward didn’t deserve the mess that had become his life, and Celia—for all her illegal faults—didn’t deserve it, either. Ward had already paid for his honor with his life. What more did Severin want?

  But there was more, and it involved this stupid hair. Nazarius should ignore the Seer’s demand. He should get Ward and Celia and—

  And what? Become a fugitive himself? It also wouldn’t just be him becoming a fugitive. The Seer would put out a writ of judgment for Nazarius’s partner, Pietro, and Severin had just made it clear not even Nazarius’s family was safe.

  Nazarius bit back a growl. Goddess be damned. He’d done some undesirable things as a Quayestri, but he’d always known they were for the good of the Union, the Goddess’s will. But now he wasn’t so sure. Severin wasn’t just a Seer—he was the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild. If the Goddess had granted someone like that the ability to foresee the future, what did that mean for Nazarius’s service to Her? Sure, the Dark Son was the patron god of the Quayestri, but Nazarius had always thought that what he did was for good, the Goddess’s will. But now…

  Now he had no idea. A man like Severin couldn’t be good. He couldn’t believe in justice, and Nazarius belonged to him. There was nothing he could do, not without risking the lives of everyone he knew.

  Something snapped close by. Nazarius froze, listening. Another snap. There, to his left. He scanned the predawn gray. A pirate stood a few feet off the path, facing a tree. The wind shifted, and the reek of urine wafted over Nazarius. The pirate pulled at his pants then crunched back to the path.

  Ahead and to Nazarius’s right, torchlight flickered at the entrance to the temple. Severin had said he could get into the temple at dawn from a second-story balcony. At the thought, Nazarius’s insides twisted. This was not why he’d taken the Quayestri Oath.

  He eased to the edge of the underbrush and checked the path. He was near the steps to the rise. Clear up top as well as the path below. Keeping his footsteps light, he crossed the path back into the foliage. He slipped through the thick undergrowth to the side of the temple and followed the wall around to the back. Carved obsidian swirled in an intricate vine pattern over the granite wall and twisted up the side to a second-story balcony. The translucent black stone curled around the balcony’
s closest post, then around the railing. There it split, one branch going up to a third-floor balcony, the other crossing a wide expanse to another second-floor balcony.

  At the edge of the first balcony stood a massive oak, its branches stretching above the balcony. As promised, one tree.

  If the rest of what Severin had commanded was true, Nazarius wouldn’t be stopped if he went now.

  Get the hair, then find Ward and Celia and get them out of there. Severin hadn’t said anything about not taking any detours on the way back to the rowboat. Surely he would have foreseen that Nazarius would go after Ward and Celia and would have warned him not to if that got in the way of stealing the hair.

  Nazarius climbed the tree and hopped onto the balcony. Beyond the carved archway lay an empty chamber heavy with the smell of dust. He drew his long dagger—more out of habit than anything else—and crept to the archway leading into the temple. Also quiet. He made it down the hall, took the first left, and found the second room on the left.

  The chamber was filled with opulent Olotheal rugs and pillows and a large sleeping pallet covered with crumpled blankets. A low table sat to the right with a crystal decanter and a dozen glasses, all catching the pale glow of the witch-stone from the hall. To the left stood a narrow shelf filled with jars and little boxes and books.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall, and Nazarius rushed into the room and pressed his back to the wall beside the archway. Severin hadn’t warned him against spending too much time in the room, so if Nazarius didn’t say anything he shouldn’t be caught.

  “This way,” a rough voice said. It wasn’t too close, so the speaker couldn’t be right outside the door.

  Nazarius peeked out.

  Three doors down stood two pirates and a man in thick gold robes. The man in the robes started into the room. “Where are my bags? Haven’t they been brought up yet?”

  The pirate standing behind the man in the robes rolled his eyes. “I’m sure your men will bring them up soon.”

  “I don’t have time to wait. Poisoned and challenged. Your master walks a dangerous path,” the man in the robes said.

  “He’s not our master,” Eye Roller said.

  “Sure. You keep thinking that.”

  More footsteps came down the hall. Quick. Nazarius inched back from the archway.

  “Stasik wants to know what’s keeping him. Is he going to attack the village or not?”

  “Such a hurry to prove he’s second best.”

  Footsteps rushed away down the hall, and no one else said a thing. They had to be gone. Nazarius slipped over to the pallet and searched the pillows for a hair. There, near the wall, a short silver strand. He shoved it into the pouch Severin had given him. A chill shivered over Nazarius’s hands as he drew the pouch closed. Great, more magic.

  He glanced back into the hall. Empty. Whoever the man in the golden robes had been, he was in contention with Stasik, but Nazarius didn’t know if that was good or bad. All he knew for certain was that everyone in the village was in danger.

  Ward snapped awake.

  “Thank the Goddess,” Celia said. She was nearby, but he couldn’t focus past the blinding sunlight to see her.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body throbbed and not just a muscle-deep ache. This was an agony seared into his soul, starting around his heart, where the soul chain bound him to Celia and captured his spirit to her will. He lay on his side against cool stone, a metal cuff around his right hand holding it above him.

  “Ward, don’t pass out on me again.”

  Something shot through the raw soul chain. He couldn’t tell what it was, save that it hurt. Goddess above, it hurt. “Please. Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Trying to force your will on me.”

  “If it gets you up.” Another burst exploded through his chest.

  He gasped. “I’m up. I’m up.” Light burned between his lashes, and he squeezed his eyes tighter. “How long was I out?”

  “Not long. A few minutes. Dawn has broken.”

  So it wasn’t as bright as it felt. Wonderful. He tugged at his wrist. Metal clanked against stone. Chained. Using the shackle around his wrist, he pulled himself into a sitting position, took a shallow breath, and tried squinting past the light. Everything was so bright, like he sat in the center of the sun. Red, gold, yellow, green, sparkling, burning, blinding.

  Then he felt it. Behind him. Dark, heavy, evil. It crawled up his back and made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He was chained to one of the two altars at the edge of the fissure, and the Abyss called to him.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the evil, a thick black miasma—what little he could see by squinting—swarmed around him, curling around his legs and climbing up his chest.

  He staggered to his feet, but the darkness clung to him, sticky with evil intent. “We have to get out of here.”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

  He turned toward her voice and was hit with her brilliant white aura. He staggered back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “So. Damned. Bright.”

  Another emotion seeped down the soul chain, but all it did was burn. “I don’t have anything on me to pick this lock. Even the tip of a dagger might do. What have you got?”

  “To pick a lock?” The darkness from the Abyss seeped higher, trying to find purchase within him. He had to stop it, but he didn’t know how and couldn’t escape.

  Frustration burned through the soul chain. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t you see it? Sense it?” He shook his arm, but the darkness clung to him. Goddess!

  “Sense what?”

  It curled higher, up his chest to his neck. He clawed at it, desperate to get it off. The sangsal would drive him crazy, turn him fully into a vicious monster. “The sangsal.”

  Frustration exploded into fear and determination. His knees buckled at the force of her emotions. He staggered and clutched the altar to keep standing.

  “Fight it, Ward. You’ve got to fight it. Focus on me.”

  His head jerked toward her, not of his volition, but hers. The raw soul chain was on fire. She was so bright. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the strength of her soul seared his senses.

  “What have you got on you that I can use to pick a lock?”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Check.”

  She made his free hand check his pockets. His dagger was gone. His hand brushed something hard. The smoky quartz spectacles. But would they help pick a lock? He hurt so much. He couldn’t focus, could barely breathe.

  “Celia. Please, stop.” He panted, trying to draw air past the power of Celia’s will.

  The darkness swarmed across his face and poured down his throat. He gasped, choked. His stomach heaved, fighting the sangsal. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t performed the spell to infuse the sangsal into someone, but he couldn’t deny it was clawing inside him.

  “You have to stay with me. Don’t give in to it.” She rushed close, the chain binding her to the altar scraping stone. Loud, so loud. The magic in her soul pulsed stronger. Sure and tempting. Her sudden closeness swelled within him. He could sense her pulse and feel her emotions. “I’m at the end of my shackle. Come around your altar and meet me.”

  Yes. Meet her. Her fear was a lover’s caress. Her determination an alluring challenge.

  His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since before dying in Dulthyne. He was starving, and Celia’s soul promised to provide everything he needed. More darkness poured into him. If he had her soul magic, he’d be able to get free of the sangsal. Yes. That was the only way to get free.

  No. He couldn’t take anyone’s soul magic, certainly not Celia’s. He had no control. He’d rip whoever it was apart. He had to get as far away from her as possible, but he didn’t move. His legs wouldn’t obey his command. His will wasn’t strong enough to fight both the sangsal and Celia.

  “Ward.”

  His bo
dy lurched a step toward her. Yes. Just a little farther and he could tear into that too-pale flesh. “No. Make me go away. Force me away.”

  “Ward.”

  “Make me go away!” Goddess, he was not going to give in, but he was so damned hungry, and she was so tempting. It didn’t matter she was his master, that she controlled his soul. It was a twofold gift. Her soul would satisfy the agony burning his gut, and her death would release him.

  He took another step toward her. Stasik had been wrong. It wouldn’t take him an hour to go crazy, it was taking mere minutes. The sangsal filled him, forcing his will into a small, screaming voice at the back of his mind. He took another step and another. With a growl he leapt at her.

  “Back!” she yelled.

  Panic roared through the soul chain. He wrenched around and hurled himself as far from her as he could, her will giving him just enough strength to defy the sangsal. His wrist caught, chained to the altar. He heaved at it. Crack. The bones in his wrist broke. Pain shot up his arm then faded as he healed. He kept heaving. Pain didn’t mean anything, only getting as far away as possible before the sangsal fully took hold.

  A snap boomed around them. Not his wrist. The pressure disappeared. He tripped, flailed his arms to keep his balance, and staggered forward.

  Then he hit a blinding wall of power and fell through it. It ripped the sangsal from him, and he dropped to his knees. Panting, he pressed his forehead to the cool marble ground. Behind him, just past his toes, lay the obsidian line marking the octagon. The sangsal couldn’t cross the octagon. Thank the Goddess.

  Black veins wormed over Ward’s hands and melted into his skin. The octagon hadn’t stripped all of the sangsal from him, and he could feel it telling him to cross over and let it back into his soul.

  “Ward?” Celia’s emotions were hot but no longer searing.

  He turned to her, squinting through the now visible wall of power and the morning’s sunlight at her aura, then gave up and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Looks like you snapped the chain and have come into some of your vesperitti strength,” she said.

  “Yeah, about fifty years earlier than I’m supposed to. It would be useful if I could cross back across the octagon, but—”