Ward Against Destruction

by Melanie Card

  No, he did. Maura had already told him. He needed to shove all the sangsal back into the Abyss. And to do that, he needed to sever the spell keeping his soul in his body. Goddess, there had to be another way.

  He ripped at the ice within him, but it shattered at his magical touch and seeped back into him, deeper, stronger, and stickier.

  Fight it, Ward. Celia sounded so far away. The heat in his chest was so weak, the soul chain so thin. Fight it.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder,” the Master said, throwing Ward’s words back at him.

  Ward ripped at the sangsal within him. It shattered into more pieces. He grasped faster and faster but couldn’t get it, couldn’t force it out of himself. He had no choice. He had to sever the false resurrection on his soul or throw himself into the Abyss.

  The demon’s claws dug into the edge of the crevasse.

  “It’s coming out again.” The Master grabbed Ward’s shoulder.

  Ward glanced back at Celia, his gaze drawn to her. She knelt, gasping and bleeding, surrounded by the bodies of pirates littering the rubble-filled ground. His grandfather and the other necromancers held the other pirates at bay, but Ward only had eyes for Celia. Beyond all reason, she was the woman he loved. Theirs was a love that shouldn’t have happened. They came from different worlds and would never have met if she hadn’t been dead. He’d learned so much from being with her, found a confidence he’d never known he had.

  “I love you.” He willed all his love and respect for her through the soul chain.

  He squared his shoulders. Throwing himself in would be easier than concentrating against Celia’s will and severing the spell. Except he couldn’t make his legs move him forward.

  Panic flashed over the soul chain. She’d realized what he was trying to do. “Don’t!”

  He grabbed the Master’s arm. “Throw me.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “No!” Celia screamed.

  “It’s the only way. I have the last of the sangsal. The Gate will close once it’s all back in.”

  “There has to be another way,” the Master said.

  The demon’s horns started to rise again from the Abyss.

  “The Gate has to close. Please.” Ward fought to move closer to the crevasse, but ice froze his legs.

  “Ward, please!” Desperation bled through the soul chain. Celia scrambled to her feet, clutching her side, blood oozing between her fingers. His grandfather rushed to her, and she shoved him back.

  Gold rippled across the Master’s eyes. “There is a way.”

  “No, there—” Realization flashed through Ward as he remembered Maura’s words. She’d told him the sangsal had easy entry into his soul because of the spell keeping his soul in his body. He couldn’t force out the sangsal because he was dead.

  His gaze jumped to Celia. She’d been dead, and he’d cast a true resurrection. There wasn’t a spell unnaturally keeping her soul in her body. If he were alive, the sangsal wouldn’t be able to cling to his soul.

  He snorted. “Of course. Don’t be dead.” So simple and so very difficult. He was a vivimancer, able to cast a true resurrection spell. He had to pray he could cast it on himself.

  The demon’s snout rose over the crack, and its other claw dug into the edge of the crevasse.

  Ward closed his eyes and prayed. He pulled on all the magic he had left, every little scrap he could find, calling on magic as far as he could reach. His essence rushed over the lake, drawing in power. He swept over the village and into the cliff, finding the villagers huddled in caves. He didn’t have a spell—but then, he hadn’t had a spell when he’d brought Celia back—and he didn’t know if he could resurrect himself, but it was all he had.

  He focused on the magic binding his soul to his body and let his magic seep into the essence of the spell. It absorbed his power, glowing bright to his mystic sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the light still burned, brighter and brighter.

  Focus and will. That’s how all magic was cast. Every necromancer and every Brother of Light was taught that. Surely a vivimancer was no different. The sangsal ice within him cracked, and the false resurrection Celia had cast seared like an inferno.

  It was burning him up, turning him and his soul to cinder. He was losing himself, his essence. A whirlwind of power and light and heat roared through and around him. The sangsal howling through the air rushed toward the fissure, and the demon screamed.

  Ward clutched to his soul, but it was swept out of his mental fingers, taking the sangsal with him, sweeping to the Gate of the Dark Son’s Abyss. He was lost, and there was nothing left he could do.

  The heat exploded, and his knees gave out.

  Blackness enveloped him. His heart pounded. Everything hurt, but he couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold or both.

  White light appeared far in the distance, a sliver in the darkness. Heartbeat by heartbeat it drew closer. He’d failed the resurrection spell. The Goddess had come to take him home. Finally. She’d tested him. Her Dark Son had tested him, too. He’d been forced to do horrible things to protect the balance between life and death. He’d killed people—some who deserved it, some who didn’t. He’d never thought, with all the stains on his soul, he’d be worthy to find peace wrapped in her love.

  “You promised you wouldn’t do that again,” Celia said. Not the Goddess.

  Sensation flooded him, gently, not like the painful sharpness of his vesperitti senses, but normal, human sense. The cool marble ground, people talking in hushed voices, a warm breeze, the scent of pine trees.

  “Celia?” Her face swam into focus.

  How in the Goddess’s name was he still alive?

  “You promised you wouldn’t do that,” she said again, her voice husky.

  He snorted. “Sorry. Last time, I promise.” However he was still alive, he wasn’t going to question it. Perhaps this was the Goddess’s gift for doing her bidding and maintaining the balance.

  Celia slid a cool, delicate finger over his temple into his hair, just like she’d done in Brawenal after they’d fought their first Innecroestri. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “But I really want to keep this promise.”

  “I know.” She drew closer, the light from her aura growing brighter. Her lips brushed his, sending tingling warmth racing through him. But not his chest. The soul chain was gone, and something else, something that wrapped around his soul, had taken its place. “Let’s at least take a couple of days off first.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Celia stood at the edge of the path leading down to the island’s bank, her hand pressed to her side just under her broken ribs. Ward had wrapped her chest in a torn—clean—shirt Maura had found in the temple. The pirates who’d survived had fled, and both longboats were gone. Ward’s grandfather and the other necromancers had arrived in two smaller boats, but there was enough room for Ward, Celia, and Maura—if Ward’s grandfather was willing to let them sail back to the village with them.

  Celia still wasn’t sure about that. Ward had collapsed after his whole body burned blindingly bright. The demon had fallen back within the fissure, the ground had shaken, and it had sealed tight. She’d never been so terrified in her life. Not since meeting Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer and first-generation vivimancer. Boy, that was going to take some getting used to, and from the scowl on Ward’s grandfather’s face, it would be an adjustment for him, too.

  The two had stared at each other over the remains of the Gate for what had felt like an eternity, then Ward had flooded her with enough magic to stop her bleeding—but not all the pain—and had gone looking for Maura.

  Now the necromancers stood on the bank, looking at their boats as if they didn’t know what to do and the events they’d witnessed hadn’t yet sunk in. She couldn’t blame them. She was having trouble believing everything, too.

  A shadow shifted in the trees beside her. She tensed and reach
ed for the dagger once again at her hip but didn’t draw it.

  The Master eased from the darkness. She didn’t release the dagger’s hilt, although it didn’t really matter if she was armed or not. The man was a better fighter than she—as much as she hated to admit it. For now, all sense of his danger was hidden, disguised with a bland, unmemorable appearance and demeanor. It was perfect for an assassin. He was average in every way—height, hair color, eye color, skin color, even his build was hidden in a loose shirt and pants. Nothing about him said assassin or even Seer.

  “So that’s how you do it. Look average and blend in with everything.”

  A hint of a smile pulled at his lips, and a sense of danger flickered in his eyes. “You’d have to dye your hair and wear spectacles to accomplish it. There’s nothing average about you, Celia Carlyle.”

  “I think it’s safe to say I’m no longer Celia Carlyle. My father is dead, his criminal empire taken over by his right-hand man.”

  “You still have brothers.”

  “I doubt any of them have risen to take their rightful place as Dominus of Brawenal’s Gentilica.” They hadn’t been as invested in her father’s business as she’d been. Perhaps that was a good thing. Her father’s right-hand man wouldn’t see them as a threat to his leadership of Brawenal’s criminal underworld.

  A stick snapped behind her, followed by a warmth across her chest. Ward.

  He’d assured her the soul chain was gone—he’d actually been shocked about that, as if he hadn’t really believed he was a vivimancer and had resurrected himself—but the sense of him was even stronger within her than before. Whatever he’d done to bring his soul back fully to his body had changed the soul chain into a bond that neither of them could explain.

  “Will you be sailing with my grandfather and the others?” Ward asked the Seer, his tone wary.

  The Master cocked a dark eyebrow, and a hint of danger swept over his features. “I’ve made other travel plans.”

  “I still don’t trust you,” Ward said.

  “You need to work on not saying whatever truth you think, Dr. Death. Secrets are important.”

  “Only you would think that, and it’s de’Ath, two syllables,” Ward said.

  Celia shifted closer to Ward. “Actually I’d agree with the Master on this one. You’ve gotten really good at lying to men with evil intentions. I wouldn’t stop now.”

  Ward pressed a hand against the small of her back, the action natural and unconscious. “You’re assuming the Master and Seer here is evil.”

  “I haven’t decided he isn’t,” she said.

  The Master raised his hands, palms up, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think he was helpless. “I helped you close the Gate.”

  “You also threatened and manipulated us. Really, you should have just told us what you needed us to do,” she said.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done. Edward de’Ath the vivimancer needed to be born, and the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss needed to be sealed for good. Once Ward died in Dulthyne, the Goddess showed me there was only one path for him to become a full vivimancer. He needed to cast a true resurrection on himself, and to do that he needed an octagon powered with his own blood, like the octagon he used to bring you back.” The Master captured Celia’s gaze with his.

  “But that opened the Gate,” Ward said.

  “Part calculated risk, part necessity. While you could have strengthened the magic, there would always be the risk another Innecroestri like Stasik would come along and weaken it again. No, the only way to truly close the Gate was to rip off the spell keeping it partially closed.” The Master shrugged and slid his attention to Ward. “And to do all that I had to manipulate you.”

  “So when you told me to take Celia from Brawenal and keep the locket and kill Stasik, all of that was a manipulation because you knew I wouldn’t listen to you?” Ward asked.

  “Taking Celia from Brawenal, no. If you’d done what I asked, Stasik would have been killed in a fight with another Innecroestri before he found Vekalmeer.” The Master sighed. “And if you’d kept the locket, I wouldn’t have needed to activate the octagon at the fissure and force you to resurrect yourself. But you’re a vivimancer in full, and the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss is permanently closed, so I think it all worked out.”

  “It all worked out?” Celia squeezed the hilt of her dagger.

  “Yes.” The Master flashed a wicked smile.

  Ward crossed his arms and glared at him. “But so many people died. You could have saved all those people in the village, you could have saved those people in Dulthyne, you could have told Nazarius—” Panic flashed across his face. “Where is Nazarius? He was supposed to come with Grandfather and the other necromancers, but I haven’t seen him.”

  The Master’s expression darkened and filled with danger. “His services were no longer required.”

  Ward gasped. “You killed him.”

  “He was alive when I left him.” The Master shrugged, eased back into the underbrush and low-hanging branches, and disappeared into the shadows.

  “We have to find Nazarius.” Ward rushed down the path. Celia ran after him.

  Ward’s grandfather stiffened at his approach.

  “We’re heading to the village. Now.” Ward raced to the closest boat. “I can take three or four others.”

  “We need to talk first.” Ward’s grandfather crossed his arms, as if that would stop Ward.

  “When I know everyone is safe, then we can talk.” Ward met his grandfather’s gaze. “You might not like what I am—”

  “I have no idea what you are. Last time I saw you, I knew with certainty you were a vesperitti. The magic chaining your soul to hers was clear and now it’s gone.”

  “And my aura’s all strange. Yes. I know. Do you think Celia is alive?”

  Grandfather huffed. “I know she’s alive.”

  “Well, she was dead a fortnight ago.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “And I was dead. It was clear in my aura, and now my aura says I’m alive.”

  “And he closed the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss,” Celia added—she couldn’t resist. “You can be afraid of Ward after we get to shore.”

  Ward’s grandfather raised his hand, and a ripple of magic snapped across Celia’s skin. Ward sighed, flicked a finger, and the magic vanished.

  The other necromancers gasped.

  “Yeah, I couldn’t do that before, either. Listen. I’m not dead, I’m not a necromancer, and I don’t have any explanation for it.”

  Maura huffed from her perch on a rock by the boats. “He’s a vivimancer, he’s just being coy about it.”

  “A vivimancer hasn’t been seen in generations,” one of the other necromancers said. He wasn’t as tall as Ward but had the long, narrow face Ward and his grandfather had.

  “Then the Union is due to have one,” Maura said. “Now get me in a boat and take me home. I’m done with Vekalmeer.”

  “This conversation isn’t finished,” Ward’s grandfather said.

  Ward ran a hand over his face. In that moment he looked exhausted. “We can have it once I know my friends are safe. You can ask me all the questions you want, but I make no promises I can answer them.”

  “That’s because he’s missing important parts of his education,” Maura said.

  “I taught him just fine,” Grandfather grumbled.

  One of the other necromancers snickered.

  Ward grabbed the hull of one of the boats with one hand and held his other out for Maura.

  She took his hand and climbed in then turned to Ward’s grandfather. “Let me guess, you thought Vekalmeer was myth before now?”

  “You didn’t?” Ward’s grandfather asked.

  “I wish I did. My duty now has been fulfilled.”

  Celia joined her in the boat, and Ward climbed in after. Ward’s grandfather motioned to one of the other necromancers, and they climbed in. A middle-aged man with a stocky build like Jared�
�s picked up the oars.

  “Thank you,” Ward said.

  “You look tired, and Jared vouched for you before we saw you close the Gate.” The necromancer rowed them into the lake, heading toward the village.

  “Thanks, Uncle Isaac.”

  “Is everyone who showed up here related to you?” Celia asked.

  Ward slid his hand around hers. Behind him the sky was lightening. They’d survived another crazy adventure, and a new day was starting. She didn’t know what they’d done to deserve such a blessing from the Goddess or her Light Son—or the curse from the Dark Son—but she was so grateful for both. Without the curse she’d never have met Ward, and he’d never have realized the truth about himself.

  “The blond man and woman aren’t,” Ward said. “Everyone else is…or was, if they still consider me family.”

  Ward’s grandfather sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  Celia laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Ward says that all the time.”

  “Isn’t it true?” Ward’s grandfather asked.

  Maura harrumphed. “It’s not complicated. He’s a vivimancer. She’s a revivesca and he’s a revivescor. Why do necromancers have to make everything so difficult?”

  “Madam, sometimes it is difficult,” Ward’s grandfather said.

  Isaac snickered again.

  The boat skimmed through the water. Ward’s thumb rubbed the back of Celia’s hand in that familiar, unconscious movement. The action got faster and stronger with every passing second.

  “We’ll get there.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Nazarius was fine. The Master was the best-trained assassin in the principality of Brawenal. If he wanted Nazarius dead, the Tracker was dead and had been dead long before they’d closed the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss.

  Before Isaac had even pulled up to the dock in the village, Ward had grabbed the edge of the walkway and jumped out. Celia rushed after him. His body trembled as if he wanted to run but didn’t know where to go. And where did they go? They didn’t know where Nazarius was.

  “Use your gift,” Maura said. “If he’s alive, you should be able to sense his life essence.”