by Melanie Card
Ward swore—Celia hadn’t known he knew that word—and closed his eyes. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
His eyes flashed open. “He’s weak, but alive. In the cave with Jared, Declan, and the Seer.”
Ward rushed to the cave in Declan’s hidden cove. Jared jerked to his feet, his aura rippling, but not like it had when Ward had been a vesperitti. All the magic was still there, still glowing around him, but it wasn’t blinding as it had been, and the sounds and sights and smells were normal again, not overwhelming.
Nazarius lay near the stream, his shirt pillowed under his head, a filthy strip of fabric binding another wad of fabric to his stomach, just under his ribs.
“I did the best I could. The bleeding has stopped—” Jared pursed his lips and squinted at Ward. “You’re different.”
“I am.” Ward headed to Nazarius. He didn’t know what else to say. He was a vivimancer. He’d stopped Innecroestris and vesperitti and the curse of Dulthyne and closed the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss. Once he was certain Nazarius was all right, he’d deal with it.
He snorted, and Celia raised an eyebrow at him.
“I was just promising myself that I’d deal with something afterward.”
“We’ve been doing a lot of that,” she said.
“Just one more thing to do.” He knelt beside Nazarius. A hint of magic glimmered at his hip.
Ward squinted. A thin thread of magic trailed up Nazarius’s waist and pooled around Jared’s makeshift bandage. It wasn’t strong, but it was enough to stop the bleeding. It had to be the magic from the locket.
He sucked in a steadying breath, closed his eyes, and pulled on the magic within the cave’s walls. It flooded him and melted away his exhaustion, but he didn’t hold onto it. He focused it in his hands and let it seep into Nazarius’s skin. He could sense the Tracker’s injuries: cracked ribs from the fight with the pirates, bruises and cuts from the last couple of days, and the gash in his chest that sliced almost to his heart…no, it had hit his heart and a lung. Nazarius should be dead, but the thread of magic emanating from the locket Ward had given him had knitted the wound together just enough to keep him alive.
Nazarius moaned, and Ward pressed his magic into his body, mending muscle and skin back together, manipulating the blood pooled in his chest back into his veins to replenish what he’d lost. A few more hours and the locket might not have been enough to keep Nazarius alive any longer. The Master had struck a killing blow, but he had to have foreseen the locket would keep Nazarius alive long enough for Ward to save him.
Someone gasped, and a heavy hand seized Ward’s wrist. Ward opened his eyes but didn’t wrench away. Nazarius’s gaze was wild, jumping from Ward to Celia and back again.
“Did you wake me or did you make me a…?”
“A vesperitti?” Celia asked.
Nazarius’s jaw clenched.
“Neither,” Ward said. “You weren’t dead, and I healed you.”
“Temporarily, you mean.”
“Healed, actually.” It felt good and really, really strange to say that, no matter how true.
“I thought you said magic didn’t work that way.”
Celia placed her hand over Nazarius’s still clutching Ward’s wrist. “We have new information.”
“If it wasn’t for the locket, you’d be dead.”
“Hey, I helped,” Jared said behind them.
“Yes.” Ward bit back a smile. “You helped.”
With a groan, Nazarius reached into his pocket and pulled out the locket.
“The locket belonged to another vivimancer.”
“So that’s why the Seer—the Master is so interested in you,” Nazarius said.
“Was,” Celia said. “He was interested. Now he’s gone.”
Nazarius snorted and winced in pain. “You keep believing that.”
“For now it’s true.” Ward straightened. There were still two other patients who needed tending. He drew more magic from the walls and headed to Declan. Even in the uneven lantern light, the youth’s color looked better than it had yesterday—Goddess, had the slaughter of the village only been yesterday morning?—proving Ward’s magic hadn’t been temporary.
He knelt beside Declan and sent his senses and magic into his body. The splenectomy had been a success. If Ward had known then what he knew now, he might have been able to save the organ. What Ward had thought was just a necromantic patch was actually a healing patch.
With a slow pulse of magic, Ward melted the patch into Declan’s body and healed the rest of his injuries.
“Ward?” Declan asked, his voice groggy.
“Just lie back and rest. You’re going to be all right.”
“Where’s Maura?”
“She’s back in the village. We’ll take you to her soon.” One more patient to go. Ward stood. The cavern darkened around him.
Celia grabbed his arm and steadied him. “You need to take it easy.”
“The Seer and then I’m done.”
“The Seer can wait until you’ve rested.”
“I want to rest in daylight. I want to sit in the morning sun, soak it in, and hold you in my arms.”
“We can do that.” She gave him a gentle tug toward the narrow mouth of the cave.
“First the Seer, then I’m done. Goddess, I’m done.” He pulled the rest of the magic from the cave walls. It wasn’t a lot, but with luck the Seer wouldn’t need much healing.
Celia sighed, the sound heavy, but a sense of warmth and love filled him, like they were still connected by the soul chain.
He sagged beside the Seer and pushed his magic into the man. His face was healing well, and Ward knitted the bones back together. The wires would have to come out, but Maura could remove them. He slid the reed from the Seer’s neck and healed the cut. The Seer drew breath, then another tight breath and another.
“It’s all right.” Ward met the Seer’s gaze, willing him to be calm. A thread of magic eased into the Seer, and his pulse and breath slowed—another interesting use for his magic. One he’d think about later. “You took a blow to the face. I’ve had to wire your mouth shut for the bones to heal properly. We’ll be able to take the wires out soon. Just rest.”
The thread of Ward’s magic pulsed, and the Seer’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath grew steady and deep with sleep.
“Are you done now?” Celia asked.
“Take me to sunshine.”
She steadied him as he stood and then helped him out into the cove. A band of sunlight slid through a crack at the edge of the overhang and illuminated the blanket where they’d made love. It still lay forgotten on the only soft, mossy patch of the rocky shore.
So much had happened in such a short time. He was not the same man who’d walked into the bedroom of a nobleman’s daughter to wake her from the dead.
She eased onto the blanket, giving him the spot fully in the light. “Will it hurt your eyes?”
“The magic is still there, but it’s not as bright.” He pulled the shade glasses from his pocket. “I still have these, though. I could always wear them.”
“Please don’t. You look ridiculous.”
“More ridiculous than the physician’s coat and powdered wig I was wearing when we first met?”
She chuckled, the sound so free and so sensual. “No, the wig is more ridiculous.”
“That means I can keep the shade glasses.”
“No.” She reached to grab them, but he yanked his hand back and wrapped his free hand around her waist and leaned back. She rolled on top of him, her hands pressed against his chest, the heat of her palms burning through his shirt.
She leaned closer, her breath caressing his cheek, drawing a delicious shiver. “When did you learn to be so charming, Edward de’Ath?”
“I guess I just needed to find the right woman.”
“I would hardly say there’s anything right about me.”
He raised his head, brushing his lips against hers. “There might not be a lot that’s l
awful about you, but there’s a lot that’s right.”
She leaned back, her expression suddenly serious. “I haven’t been a very good person. My past could hurt you.”
“And I haven’t been a very good necromancer.” The brand on the back of his neck itched. “I haven’t been a very lawful physician, either.”
“But you did that to save people.”
He slid the lock of hair that he loved so much—the one that always curled by her cheek—between his fingers. “You saved me. You helped save Nazarius and Declan and Maura and all those people in the village. Together, we banished the curse of Dulthyne and closed the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss. You’ve done a lot of good things.”
“Since meeting you.” Doubt and regret darkened her gaze and oozed through him.
“Celia. I would be long dead if it wasn’t for you. I need you.”
“To keep you alive?” A hint of playfulness flickered through him from their new not–soul chain connection.
“You know it. Or undead. I’m not picky.” He hugged her close and rolled over, pinning her underneath him—or rather, she let him pin her. He dipped down and kissed her with all his love and passion. When he made a decision, he fully committed, and he wanted her to know what that meant. Heat seeped through his chest. He wrapped his love around it, embracing her physically, emotionally, and magically. “We’re not a typical partnership, but we’re still partners.”
She drew in a sharp breath, grabbed his arm, hooked a leg around his, and suddenly she was on top, her body pressed against his. “I like this partnership thing.”
“I like this on top thing.”
She nipped at his bottom lip, her eyes filled with mischief. Goddess, he loved that look. “So what are we going to do tomorrow?”
“We’ll see what the Goddess sends us.”
She jerked back and playfully slapped his chest. “Don’t you dare tempt fate.”
“Together, we can face anything.” He tugged her back down and kissed her again until they were both breathless.
A fortnight later, Ward stood on the Duchess of Dulthyne’s patio, staring at the stars. White witch-stone veins shimmered in the stone railing and through the cobblestones. He’d been standing there since sunset, like he had every night since he, Celia, Nazarius, Grandfather, and the other necromancers had climbed a winding staircase from the village up to the shimmering city carved into the mountainside.
“I thought I’d find you here,” his grandfather said.
Ward kept his gaze on the stars. He didn’t need to look to know Grandfather approached. Even if he hadn’t heard the man’s footsteps, he could feel the magic in the man’s soul, warm and glimmering against Ward’s senses.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to seeing it,” Ward said.
“Sensing magic?” Grandfather asked, although he already knew it was magic. He stopped beside Ward and ran his hands over the top of the railing. Much to Ward’s surprise, he was now the same height as Grandfather. They were both tall and lanky, but Ward had always seen his grandfather as taller, bigger, more powerful than Ward could ever be.
And the man was powerful. Magical strength radiated from him, and so, too, did, a strength of spirit Ward knew was more than just Grandfather’s necromantic gift. It was that spirit, that life, which glowed in various strengths in everything—human, animal, plant, rock, sun, sea, and star—that mesmerized Ward. It drew him every sunset to this patio to marvel at it. He was awed by how the mountains glowed pink with the heat from the summer’s day and how the starlight and moonlight fell in soft, flickering beams around him.
“If you could just see what I see.”
“Do you remember when I said that to you?” Grandfather asked, his tone soft and a little sad.
“It was my twelfth or thirteenth summer. I can’t remember which. I think we were in Bantianta. You were so frustrated that I wasn’t like you or Jared or any of the others, that I couldn’t see or sense magic and couldn’t see soul magic and could barely cast anything.”
“I wasn’t frustrated.”
“Disappointed, then.”
“No—”
“Don’t tell me you weren’t disappointed. I’m your namesake, eighth-generation necromancer. I look like you did when you were my age. And I was mystically blind and wanted to help people before death got involved.” Ward slid his gaze to Grandfather, who sighed.
“You were a de’Ath. No de’Ath had ever been mystically blind or had so little of a necromantic gift.”
“Because I wasn’t a necromancer.”
“It never occurred to any of us you weren’t a necromancer.”
And that explained why Ward had spent most of his life thinking he was a failure and subconsciously blocking his real magical gift.
“It never occurred for anyone to think you might be a vivimancer.” Grandfather shook his head. “I’ve seen proof of your abilities time and again over the fortnight with that Tracker and the Seer from the village, and now others here in Dulthyne, but I still can’t really believe it.”
Ward didn’t know what to say to that. He was having trouble believing it as well, but no one could deny he could magically heal people or that he’d cast true resurrection spells. “Celia says you’ll come around eventually.”
“Your young lady is probably right.” Grandfather chuckled. “She challenges you.”
Ward snorted. “You have no idea.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, it is.” The warmth in Ward’s chest, where the soul chain had been, flickered. Celia’s essence. The feeling of her, where the chain had joined them, hadn’t faded with time like he’d thought, and he hoped it never would. This connection to her felt right, like he’d been missing something and hadn’t realized it was her until now.
Grandfather squared his shoulders. He was no longer talking as Ward’s grandfather but as a necromancer elder. Ward had seen the change in demeanor before and knew this was business—it might be the family business, but that didn’t mean Grandfather would be lenient. “You’ve done a lot in the last month.”
“Yes.” There were still pieces Grandfather didn’t know about—like how the Seer of the House of Bralmoore was also the Master of Brawenal’s Assassins’ Guild—but he knew most of it, including the parts where Ward had been forced to break the necromancer oath and cast blood magic. A part of him had wanted to hide his shame, but just like when he’d been a child and Grandfather had asked about what had happened, the whole story had come out.
Grandfather leaned forward, his expression serious. “You had to deal with some very difficult situations.”
“Yes.” Here it was. Grandfather had finally figured out the punishment the Necromancer Council of Elders was going to give him for breaking his oath.
He leaned closer, wrapped his arms around Ward, and hugged him. “I’m so proud of you.”
“But my oath,” Ward said into Grandfather’s shoulder. Even though he would do it all again if he were put in the same situation, he deserved to be brought to justice.
“Your punishment would have been service to the council to right the balance between life and death. You destroyed the curse of Dulthyne and defeated a plot to open the Gate to the Dark Son’s Abyss. You’ve done more, a lot more, than anyone would have demanded of you. Necromancer or vivimancer, you upheld your oath. I’m proud you have my name and I’m proud of the man you’ve become.” Grandfather squeezed harder, and Ward squeezed back.
A tightness in his chest that he hadn’t realized had been there eased. The balance between life and death was restored and so, too, was the balance he’d feared he’d upset in his family.
Nazarius stepped onto the patio, the magic from his soul familiar from the healing sessions Ward had given him over the last fortnight. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Grandfather gave Ward one last squeeze. “I’ll let you two talk.” He headed back inside and gave Nazarius a tight nod as he passed.
“Not sur
e your grandfather likes me,” Nazarius said, sauntering toward Ward with his hands resting on the hilts of his—new, from Dulthyne’s quartermaster—paired sword and long dagger in his typical pose.
“I may have mentioned you forced me to perform an illegal surgery on your Inquisitor partner back in Brawenal City. I think he feels protective of me.”
“I’m not sure which is worse—having the Union’s most powerful necromancer angry at you or having Celia Carlyle angry at you.”
“I’d fear Celia more,” Ward said.
Nazarius barked a quick laugh. “That’s only because you’re sharing a room with her and she could kill you while you sleep.” He took Grandfather’s spot beside Ward at the railing and stared at the dark valley below. “I’m not sorry I made you save Pietro.”
“I’m not sorry, either.” Ward slid his hands along the railing like Grandfather had, feeling the polished stone and magic within it glide beneath and through his fingers.
“I am sorry the Seer—the Master made me lie to you.” He blew out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“You did what you had to do.” Ward didn’t know what he would have done if he’d been in Nazarius’s position—
No, he did know. He’d been in tough spots in the last month and had done what had to be done. It’s what Nazarius had done in the last month, as well.
“Just because it was what I had to do, doesn’t make it right. If I could have stopped it— If I…”
A woman inside laughed, the sound carrying bright and cheerful across the dimly lit patio. Inside lay a world, a people, who had no idea how close they’d come to destruction, first with the curse and then with the Dark Son’s Abyss.
“If you’d done anything different, the curse could still be possessing people here and demons could be flooding out of the Gate of the Dark Son’s Abyss.”
“Stasik wouldn’t have been able to open the Gate without Habil’s grimoire,” Nazarius said.
“I have no doubt he would have found another way. He would have infected more of Thanos’s pirates with sangsal and killed more people.” Ward gripped the railing, letting the magic in the stone seep into his hands but resisting the urge to use it to ease Nazarius’s guilt. There was a line between using his magic to help and using it to manipulate. “You may have been working toward the Master’s agenda, but you still helped. You saved lives.”
