Ward Against Disaster (Entangled Teen) (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  “We could spend days looking for something like that,” Nazarius said.

  Ward met his gaze. The anger was gone. All that remained was resignation and exhaustion. “We don’t have days. Allette’s already murdered someone. More will follow.”

  “And there’s no other way to force this rith across the veil?” Nazarius asked.

  Ward shook his head. “Not without a body or that something personal keeping him here.”

  Jotham pressed a palm over his goddess-eye pendant. “I need to pray on this.”

  “Prayer won’t catch a killer,” Ward said.

  “You’d be surprised.” Jotham stood. “In the very least, all three of you need rest. I’ll check to see if a second room has been made ready, since there are two beds here and three of you. Perhaps the Goddess will take pity on us and offer guidance by morning.”

  Celia could pray to that, but with their luck, she doubted it would be so simple.

  …

  Nazarius lay on the bed in a room down the hall and around the corner from the Quayestri suite. It was a relief to be away from Ward and Celia, even if it was just for a short night. Celia had never trusted him and now that she knew he was a Quayestri, her distrust practically radiated from her, and he didn’t blame her. He was lying to both of them.

  Goddess, why wouldn’t his conscience shut up? It was louder now than ever. He had a bad feeling about this rith, like it was somehow connected to the darkness the Seer of the House of Bralmoore, Severin, had foreseen for Ward.

  He wished Pietro, his partner, were here. That it was he and Pietro in the Quayestri suite helping Jotham. Pietro would know what to say and do. But his Inquisitor half was still in Brawenal City healing from Ward’s lifesaving—and completely illegal—surgery.

  A yawn overwhelmed him. He was so very heavy, all of him, his eyes, his face, his whole body, but sleep wouldn’t take him. His mind couldn’t stop whirling.

  What would Pietro say? He’d say, Trust the Seer.

  Except Nazarius didn’t trust Severin.

  But then…there was more than one Seer around.

  Perhaps Jotham could foresee a way out of Ward’s future. A way to avoid the suffering Severin claimed was inevitable.

  Nazarius sat up. It seemed too convenient they’d ended up where Nazarius’s only Seer-gifted cousin was.

  But coincidence or not, he couldn’t let the opportunity go. Nazarius shoved out of bed and headed down the hall to Jotham’s suite. From their earlier conversation that day, Nazarius knew it lay in the next wing over with the ruling family’s suites. If the Seer didn’t have Initiates—those newly gifted by the Goddess with foresight—his rooms were often with the ruling family’s, since the Seer was not only the head of religious guidance in a town, but also chief councillor to the city’s lord.

  He rounded a corner to the grand staircase illuminated by shimmering veins of witch-stone in the walls. The keep—no, the whole city—made his skin crawl. There was too much magic here, left over from dark years before the Union of Principalities was even born. It didn’t matter that the city was built with good, pure magic by one of the last magi. The blood staining the walls because of its next occupant, the blood magi Diestro, couldn’t be washed away—no matter how much the walls sparkled.

  He took the stairs down to the main floor, where the statue of Brother Remy LeRoux stood guard, a symbol of the city’s safety…or of the darkness that had once possessed it.

  Two more turns, and he was in the wing of the main residence. Light at the end of the hall drew Nazarius’s attention, and he slowed. Someone was still up at this hour.

  The light emanated from a partially open door, casting dancing shadows on the floor, compelling him closer. A low voice rumbled something, the words just on the edge of his hearing.

  He inched closer, instinctively softening his steps into silent movements and sending his hands to the paired hilts at his hips.

  “I can handle the situation.” That sounded like the sergeant of the duke’s guard.

  “You’re handling almost murdered my unborn heir.” And that was definitely Talbot.

  “My lord, I had those men thoroughly investigated.”

  “Not thoroughly enough. I want you to question everyone in this keep. Everyone.”

  Nazarius shifted to get a better look through the door. The sergeant stood a few feet inside while Talbot paced in furious, jerky steps beyond.

  “Every maid, every soldier, even the Seer and his damned Quayestri.”

  “I can’t go questioning the Seer or his Quayestri.”

  Talbot drew the dagger at his hip and pointed it at the sergeant. “Are you questioning me?”

  The sergeant stumbled back a step. “No, my lord. It’s just— Questioning everyone won’t get to the heart of the matter. It won’t reveal those controlling the cult.”

  “It will keep my heir safe,” Talbot roared, his face red, his body trembling.

  The sergeant bobbed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Something that ridiculous child in his Seer’s mantle isn’t doing. For all I know, he’s the snake behind the cult.”

  “Surely you don’t think—”

  Talbot slammed the dagger into the chair back beside the sergeant. “I don’t pay you to question my decisions, I pay you to keep my family safe.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll start right away.” The sergeant bowed and turned to leave.

  Nazarius leapt for the closest door—thank the Goddess it was unlocked—slipped inside, and eased the door shut behind him. The sergeant’s footsteps clacked against the floor as he marched away.

  “Usually I prefer a knock before someone enters. It is considered polite, even from family.” Jotham stood on the other side of his office by the sideboard, a crystal decanter in one hand, a glass in the other.

  “The duke doesn’t have a lot of respect for you,” Nazarius said. “To put it mildly.”

  Jotham poured the red wine in the decanter into the glass. “Something I’m already aware of.”

  “He’s suspicious, and I think he’s planning something, but I’m not sure what.”

  Jotham poured another glass of wine and held it out to Nazarius. “Now you know everything I know.”

  “Really? That’s all the Goddess has shown you?”

  Jotham’s expression darkened, and he took a long sip from his glass. Gaining the Seer’s mantle had not been kind to his cousin. In the light of the single lantern sitting on the desk, the man looked thin, as if the next terrible thing might tear him in half. Kind of like how Ward looked, except Ward had been tossed off a balcony and had battled two Innecroestri, a handful of vesperitti, and now a rith. What troubles had Jotham seen in the few years since he’d become the Seer of Dulthyne?

  Jotham sighed and leaned against the sideboard. “Why are you here, Nazarius?”

  Nazarius rolled the words around in his head. Why was he here? To catch a killer? To obey the Seer of the House of Bralmoore? Did he want to use his cousin’s gift in hopes of saving Ward? Or maybe he just missed something normal. Nothing had been normal since Severin had claimed Pietro and him as his servants.

  Jotham pursed his lips. “I didn’t think it was that difficult a question.”

  “It isn’t, really.” Nazarius sagged onto a chair beside Jotham’s desk. “Ward said it wasn’t complicated, but it is.”

  “You have an apprentice who’s gifted with power over the dead. I’d say it’s very complicated, and the only people who can’t see that are necromancers.”

  “Bloody necromancers,” Nazarius chuckled.

  A smile pulled at Jotham’s lips. “Literally.”

  Nazarius rolled his eyes. “No fair making light of the situation.”

  “There’s nothing else we can do. The city has furious townspeople fueled by the rage of a rith, the only necromancer in town is really an Inquisitor, and I’m pretty sure I can’t trust Talbot.” Jotham took a long swig of wine. “And the Goddess hasn’t shown me anything in days
that would help. She didn’t even show me your arrival.”

  “Well, we didn’t even know we were coming to Dulthyne until yesterday.” But Nazarius knew the Goddess’s visions didn’t work that way. Seers could foresee events days, weeks, sometimes even years into the future.

  “I keep getting flashes, but I have no idea what they’re about or what they might mean.”

  “Have you—?” Nazarius took a sip of wine. He wanted to ask if Jotham had tried praying for a vision, but if he had and failed, asking would be cruel.

  “Foreseen what item is keeping the rith here?” Jotham rolled his shoulders. “I’ve tried twice already tonight. I was hoping a little wine and some more meditation would help.”

  “If that doesn’t work, I suggest a hot bath and a good night’s rest.”

  “Don’t mock me. You can’t force Her to send a vision.”

  “I wasn’t. You look exhausted.” Nazarius was one of the few Quayestri who knew the truth: the harder a Seer struggled to force a vision the less the gift came to him. The Seers wouldn’t admit it, but the good ones battled every day to find their inner peace and fight the desperate need burning within them to stop the worst predators in the Union.

  “There isn’t time for sleep. There isn’t time for anything but banishing this rith. Goddess, more walls have been bloodied and the guards at the keep’s gate said people have been claiming to see the ghost of Brother Remy roaming the streets. Next it’ll be dead relatives and the Dark Son Himself.”

  “And the more you fight it, the harder it will be.”

  “But—” Jotham growled. “Goddess be damned. I just want to save lives.”

  “I know.” Nazarius stood and reached for the decanter to top up Jotham’s glass. There wasn’t anything else he could do. The mouth of the decanter clinked against the lip of Jotham’s glass.

  “I just—” Gold light flashed from Jotham’s eyes, and he tensed. “I just—”

  Nazarius froze.

  Jotham clutched his glass, the wine inside trembling, the crystal chirping against the crystal decanter. A line formed between his brows, and the gold light intensified.

  A vision. Jotham was having a vision. Right now. Nazarius fought the urge to reach for him. Touching him might influence the vision, turn his foresight on Nazarius’s future. There was no guarantee the Seer would foresee anything useful but, please Goddess, Ward needed a break. They all did.

  Jotham’s hand twitched, banging the glass against the decanter. Nazarius jerked the decanter away. Wine sloshed over the lip of the glass and dribbled over Jotham’s fingers. The liquid wound down the stem and dripped to the floor. Plop…plop.

  Nothing else moved. Not Jotham, not even the flame in the frosted-glass lantern. Nazarius was sure even his heart had stopped—he’d certainly stopped breathing—as he waited, hoping his cousin would see something.

  Another bead of wine fell from the glass.

  Plop.

  Jotham drew in a sharp gasp. The flame in the lantern flickered, and the stillness that had enveloped them pulsed again with miniscule signs of life.

  “Goddess.” Jotham turned, his still-glowing gaze on Nazarius. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Did you see the item Ward needs to banish the rith?” He didn’t want to answer Jotham’s question. He hardly knew himself what he’d gotten into.

  Jotham blinked. The gold light in his eyes remained instead of dissipating as expected. “There’s more to him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your apprentice Inquisitor.” He frowned, and his gaze grew unfocused again. “Such darkness…”

  Hope and fear swirled through Nazarius. “What did you see?” Severin had never revealed the truth, only that the path would be terrible, and Ward couldn’t avoid his fate. “Is there a way to stop it?”

  Jotham blinked again, and the light vanished. His green gaze focused on Nazarius, and his frown deepened.

  “Is there a way to stop it?” There had to be a way to both save Ward and keep the Union safe. Ward didn’t deserve what had already happened to him, and he certainly didn’t deserve whatever Severin said was coming for him.

  Jotham downed his wine in one gulp. “I don’t know. I’d need to meditate on what the Goddess revealed about your apprentice.”

  Nazarius sagged back into the chair, the decanter still in his hand. Exhaustion pulled at him, weighing him down. “So nothing?”

  Jotham offered a weak smile. “Only in regards to Ward. I’m sorry.”

  Jotham’s words whirled through Nazarius’s head, the meaning sliding from grasp. There was something else there.

  “But I think She’s finally taken pity on me. I believe the rith’s anchor is in a chest. It looked like the workmen’s lockers in the mines.”

  Nazarius sat forward. “Really? Anything else? Do you know what the item is?”

  “I’m just happy I saw anything at all.”

  “True.” He was going to have to be satisfied with that.

  “As for everything else…” Jotham took the decanter from Nazarius and refilled his wine glass. “I don’t know what I saw, but I know how it felt.”

  Nazarius didn’t want to ask. “How did it feel?”

  “Dark. Very, very dark.”

  Fifteen

  Celia eased open her bedroom door and glanced out. As expected, the sitting room was empty. She strained to hear Ward’s soft, steady breathing, indicating he slept. It was even odds whether fatigue had finally made him give in to sleep or if their current worries kept him up.

  She suppressed a snort. With Ward, the odds weren’t even at all. It was more likely he wasn’t in his room and had snuck back to the library to do more research. Which would be bad, since that’s where she was headed.

  Ward sighed and cloth rustled against cloth. It sounded like the Goddess was finally being kind, and he was actually getting much needed sleep.

  Good. He deserved it.

  If he went for much longer wearing himself down, she was going to be forced to drug him into unconsciousness, and the last time she’d tried to force him into anything it hadn’t turned out well for her. He’d knocked her out with necromancy, casting a reverse wake he hadn’t known he’d been able to cast, temporarily shoving her soul out of her body and knocking her out.

  She crept through the sitting room and into the hall, making sure the latch to the suite didn’t click when she shut the door. The idea of sneaking around behind his back twisted that thing in her chest, and she shifted her rucksack at her hip containing Macerio’s spell book. This was the only way to find out if there were answers to what she was. Maybe figure out what Ward had done to her and what, if anything, could be between them.

  Again, more ridiculous hope. She was undead. There couldn’t be anything between them no matter what had been done to her. All this would tell her was if her feelings for Ward were her own or a part of the spell he’d cast on her, and if there was magic linking them together like that between a vesperitti and her master.

  She rushed past Nazarius’s room and down the wide, white stairwell to the main floor, the book banging against her hip with each hurried step. Ward would say it had to be destroyed—he already thought it was—and she’d do that, she really would, just as soon as she learned if it held an answer for her.

  Goddess above, she had to know why she couldn’t get Ward from her mind. She should. That was the assassin’s way. But she wasn’t really an assassin anymore. Which was the whole point of figuring everything out.

  She confirmed with a bleary-eyed servant that Florino did indeed keep a cot in the library—if Ward had permanent access to a library like the one in Dulthyne he’d keep a cot among the scrolls and books, too. That, and from Florino’s struggle to walk and his unkempt state, he probably didn’t climb all those stairs out of the library on a regular basis.

  She wound her way down the ever-narrowing staircase, through the main entrance to the library, and down the narrow, cluttered passages to Florino’s desk.<
br />
  Again, she couldn’t suppress her unease at the weight of knowledge and granite pressing around her. The weight from Macerio’s spell book pulled at the strap over her shoulder and the sense of dread she always felt when she carried it caressed her skin, adding to her unease.

  Except this time her emotions were edged with hope, pale and uncertain like the light from the marble in her hand. She had no idea what new information would do for her, but she hoped it would offer clarity to her life…unlife.

  Florino wasn’t at his desk, but she didn’t really expect him to be there at this hour. The lantern was out and, because of the lack of heat from it, the witch-stone marbles clustered around its base were dark, too.

  The servant had said the cot was in an alcove around the corner. She headed back to the previous intersection and glanced up and down the passages.

  There, about thirty feet down, a hint of light. It turned out to be a lantern, well shuttered, sitting on a stool beside Florino’s cot. The old scholar lay on his side with a thin blanket pulled up to his waist and a thick pillow under his head.

  He stirred. His eyes opened, and his uneven gaze settled on her. “Have I slept past breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “You’re the young lady with the Seer and the Tracker.” Florino pushed his blanket back, struggling to sit.

  Celia knelt beside him and helped him up. “I’m an apprentice. We’re helping the Seer.”

  “Ah yes, the rith.”

  “How—?”

  Florino chuckled. “The lady Ingrith keeps me up to date on everything that’s going on. She usually brings me my meals and likes to talk. I like to listen.”

  Celia wasn’t going to ask how Ingrith knew about the rith. If Dulthyne was like any other city, Ingrith, in the very least, would have heard rumors.

  The real problem, however, was getting Florino to translate the book and convincing him to keep it a secret, all the while avoiding raising his suspicion. The only other person who could translate it was Ward and asking him was not an option.