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

by Melanie Card

  “It won’t take us long. Once we get the dagger, we can free Ward.”

  “The sergeant isn’t listening to me.”

  Celia offered a wry smile. “You’re duchess now. Make him.”

  Twenty - Seven

  Ward sat against the back of the cell, trembling and hugging his knees to his chest with his blood-encrusted hands. Rhia’s blood. He’d cut her open and saved her life and the life of her son, and yet all he could think about was the magic woven into her life essence.

  His wild imagination could still feel it pulsing around his hands, calling him, tempting him. He could do anything with blood, lots and lots of blood.

  With that power he could do so much right. He could save lives, thousands of lives. One soul for another. It could work. Quayestri executed criminals all the time. Those lives didn’t have to go to waste.

  But that was even more fantasy than thinking he could be strong enough to avoid the insanity caused by embracing blood magic. Necromancers couldn’t heal, they could only manipulate souls, and once the spell on the soul was over, the healing would revert back to the injury. A few Brothers of Light were rumored to be able to use their divine magic to heal, but any others who were thought to have the ability were long dead or a fairy tale: the Ancients or the Great Magi.

  Goddess, why couldn’t he stop shaking? Even just enough to stop his teeth from chattering.

  Blood, blood, blood. It poured through his mind’s eye, staining his sight red and billowing cold across his chest. His fingers were sticky with it, his shirt stiff.

  He clenched his jaw.

  The blood magic lure would not control him. Celia and Nazarius would come for him. They wouldn’t be able to free him through legal channels since it was obvious he’d performed a surgery on Rhia. Regardless, Celia at this very moment was concocting some ridiculous plan to break him from Talbot’s dungeon.

  Red bled across his vision, blurring the bars on the small window in the door.

  Why wait? He could use the blood on his hands to compel the soldier at the end of the hall to free him, then use that man’s blood to take control of his body and bend it to Ward’s will.

  No. He was not a blood magi. He would not become what the curse wanted.

  Someone said something from outside the cell.

  Ward strained to hear. Celia and Nazarius wouldn’t be so noisy, and there’d been no screaming, nothing to indicate an attack on the soldiers at the end of the hall.

  “Yes, my lord Seer,” a masculine voice said.

  Jotham. Not who Ward expected, but if the Seer could get him out with the power of the Grewdian Council, Ward wasn’t going to argue.

  The Seer’s footsteps drew closer. A single set, indicating a soldier hadn’t come with him. There was something significant about that, but Ward couldn’t figure out what that was.

  Jotham stepped up to the barred window in the door.

  The red magic wavered then flooded stronger than ever. Ward’s muscles trembled, threatening to shake him apart. His chest froze with an all-consuming want. Pinpricks plucked at his fingers, miniscule jabs of pain dancing around each knuckle.

  “Talbot is dead.”

  “Yes.” Ward sucked in a long breath. “Do you know how Rhia and the baby are doing?”

  “Fine. I have eyes on her.”

  “Good.” The stinging exploded into a freezing blast. Goddess, make it stop.

  “The charges against you are serious. I’m not sure even I, with the new duchess, can help you,” Jotham said.

  Ward squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in another desperate breath. Focus on steady breathing, do some meditation—but there wasn’t time. He had to get out of there and stop the curse. “That isn’t important right now.”

  “I’m not sure you realize the seriousness of your situation.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Have you seen where the Fortia Vas is?” The ice snapped within him. He should have listened closer to Grandfather’s instructions on advanced meditation, but he hadn’t believed he’d ever need anything but basic techniques. He couldn’t sense magic. What was happening was impossible.

  “You’re not listening to me, Ward.”

  “What?” Ward jerked his attention back to Jotham.

  “You’re not listening. No one can help you.”

  “I don’t care about me.” Ward struggled to his feet and staggered to the door. “We have to stop the curse.”

  “I’m not sure stop is the right word.”

  “What are you talking about?” The stinging in his hands swept up his arms to his elbows. Goddess above, just stop. He gripped the bars. “Have you seen the dagger?”

  “Are you still fighting it?” Jotham traced a finger over Ward’s knuckle.

  Ice shot up Ward’s hand. He lurched back. “Oh, Goddess.”

  Jotham sneered and blinked. Smoke bled from his eyes, caressing his cheeks and curling around the bars. “Nope, wrong divine power.”

  “You’re not a divine power.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  The ice hardened, weighing heavy in Ward’s chest. The magic snapped at him. If he just took it, used it…

  “Yes. Take it. You’re a blood magi, don’t deny your true self.”

  “No.”

  “I gave you the perfect gift, two souls to sacrifice. But you didn’t take it.”

  “And I never will.”

  Jotham chuckled. “You will. You just need better motivation.”

  “I won’t.”

  “They all say that.” Jotham turned and strolled away. “And they’re always wrong. I will have you, blood magi, and you will feed me sacrificed souls. Together we will be more powerful than the Goddess herself.”

  Ward’s legs trembled. He grabbed the bars, struggling to keep standing. He had to get out of there, had to—

  Goddess above, he had no idea what. The only hope of finding LeRoux’s Fortia Vas had been Jotham’s foresight, and now the curse possessed him. There was nothing else Ward could do.

  Red swarmed his vision, and the pain in his hands raced up his arms to his shoulders. The blood whispered his name, laughing, cajoling.

  Soft footsteps scurried down the hall, and Ward blinked the red haze from his vision. The footsteps paused, then scurried a few more steps and paused again.

  Closer. They were definitely closer. But something was wrong with their sound. They were too light for a soldier and coming from the wrong direction. The door and the stairs out of the dungeon was to Ward’s left. These steps came from the right.

  Celia? Or…

  He flexed his blood-encrusted hands, igniting another bout of pain, and strained to see farther into the hall beyond the flickering torchlight.

  The steps drew closer, and the sighing of a soft material against stone followed.

  Another few steps. They sounded right outside the cell. “Psst.”

  He gasped, every muscle in his body twitching.

  “Ward?”

  One side of a pale face peered at him through the barred window. The torchlight flickered, momentarily bright. Ingrith blinked, and her gaze locked on his. Ward’s heart fell. Celia hadn’t come for him.

  “Did they…” Ingrith pursed her lips. “Did they hurt you?” She sounded so concerned, so mature. Not the girl who’d been throwing herself at him from the moment she’d learned he was a Quayestri.

  “Surprisingly, they haven’t.” He strained to see any hint of smoke in her eyes.

  “But all that blood—”

  “It’s Rhia’s.” Her eyes looked fine, for now.

  Her mouth formed a small “oh.”

  “Is she…? Do you know if she and the baby are all right?” Please let some good come out of this mess.

  “Yes. You saved both of them. They look healthy and well, even Rhia. I don’t know how you did it.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on them.” Red slipped across his vision, and he blinked it back. “Now you have to get me out of here.”

  “I…I know you don
’t like me.”

  Goddess above, now was not the time for this conversation. “Open the door.”

  “I need to say this first.”

  “Ingrith, please.” He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t do anything from inside the cell.

  She pursed her lips.

  He ground his teeth. “I’m sorry I can’t return your affection, but I’m not the man for you.” Even if she were a few years older, he wouldn’t be the man for her. Beyond all logic, he’d already found the woman he was the man for.

  “I know. I just—” The torchlight flared bright again and that mature woman, the one who’d realized she was now Duchess of Dulthyne, reappeared. “A husband is—was my only way out of Dulthyne. I’m a nobleman’s daughter. I’m my father’s property until he marries me off and then I’m my husband’s. My only worth is in the value of the union my marriage can make. Father isn’t—wasn’t even looking and the only noblemen who come to Dulthyne are—”

  “Quayestri. You saw the cut of my jaw and knew your father couldn’t deny a petition of marriage from an Inquisitor of noble birth.” It was disgusting but true. If her father wasn’t interested in a marriage, Ingrith was trapped.

  “I’m past the age of marriage. Father hasn’t promised me to anyone. He wouldn’t be able to refuse you. And even if he did, you could go to the Grewdian Council, and Father would have to agree or be publicly shamed.”

  Ward didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t an Inquisitor—although it wouldn’t surprise him if she’d already figure that out. Her marriage plan had certainly been thought out. But she wouldn’t have any way out of Dulthyne, marriage or otherwise, if he didn’t figure out what to do about the curse. “You know I can’t marry you.”

  “I know. You love her.”

  Oh yeah, without a doubt she was smart enough to have figured out he wasn’t an Inquisitor. “It’s complicated.”

  “Someday I’ll be complicated.” A hint of flirtation colored her voice.

  “Ingrith, you already are.”

  That made her smile, but it only lasted a moment, and the expression slid back to grim seriousness. “They’re going after the Fortia Vas.”

  “They’re what? How do they know where it is?”

  “Lord Nazarius said the Seer told them the dagger was in the altar chamber, in the heart of the mountain, and that the curse was closing in on it. But if it’s the dagger pictured in the book, it’s not in the old chambers. I saw it yesterday in the mausoleum. It’s still with Grandfather’s armor.”

  Everything within Ward froze. Jotham had said. Goddess, Jotham was possessed. “You have to let me out.” He had to get to them before they got to the altar chamber. They were walking into a trap.

  Red snapped across his vision. He blinked it back and the rest of Ingrith’s words sunk in. She’d seen the dagger. There might actually be hope. “You’re sure the dagger is in the mausoleum?”

  “I would bet my life it’s with the armor standing over my grandfather’s sarcophagus.”

  “It’s not just your life you’re betting.”

  “I know. Is the curse really back?”

  “Yes.”

  She swallowed hard. Something rasped against the door. Ingrith stepped back, out of sight, and the door swung open. “Can you stop it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to try.” He brushed a hand along her elbow and stared at her eyes. Still no black smoke. “You can’t tell anyone what you’ve just told me. It’s too dangerous.”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now how do we get out of here?”

  She grabbed his hand, her fingers warm. “This way.”

  They rushed down the hall, away from the door and the stairwell leading up into the keep. The hall ended in an alcove with a pocked stone wall. Ingrith placed her hands at chest level in the corner, measured three hands over, and stuck a finger in a hole. Something clicked and a dark slit appeared in the middle of the wall. A secret passage. Ward pushed the door open and peered inside. Save for the weak light coming from the torches behind him, everything else was complete black.

  Ingrith reached into her shoe and pulled out a small witch-stone marble. She stepped into the secret passage and Ward followed, closing the door behind them.

  Cobwebs clung to the rough walls and ceiling, and dirt and debris littered the floor. Ingrith picked up a square of folded parchments on the floor by the door and unfolded them, revealing dark lines joining squares and circles. They were maps. “You’ll need these.”

  Twenty - Eight

  It had been less than an hour since Celia and Nazarius had met Jotham at the library and gotten the map to the altar chamber. They’d rushed through ever-narrowing passages deep into the mountain, and now Celia lay at the top of a smooth stone staircase. She peered down into a vast chamber littered with rubble from where parts of the walls and ceiling had fallen in.

  Giant pillars carved with strange symbols and glowing with witch-stone held up what was left of the vaulted ceiling. More witch-stone shimmered on the floor, matching the symbols in the pillars, and around the frames of the two dozen archways along the walls. Those archways were a potential means of escape, but the magical illumination didn’t extend beyond a foot into each passage. Anyone could be lying in wait for them there.

  At the far end stood an enormous altar made from smoky obsidian. Stairs curved around either side of it, disappearing behind the slab to what she could only guess was a platform. This was Diestro’s altar chamber where he worked his darkest magic and threatened to tear apart the veil between life and death before the Great Magi defeated him. Just the thought of all that evil made her skin crawl.

  Nazarius shifted beside her. “Looks like we got here first.”

  “Do you trust that?” It did appear they were there first, but she had a bad feeling about the cavern. Goddess, she wished Ward were with her because worrying about him made her worry less about everything else.

  “I trust Jotham.”

  And the Seer had foreseen that if they hurried, they’d get to the dagger before the curse.

  It still didn’t make her feel at ease, but if she and Nazarius didn’t try, Ward’s time in the dungeon would be spent in vain—and the sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could get back to breaking Ward out.

  “Fine. Do you want lead or rear?” See, she could be nice to the Tracker. Ward would be so proud of her.

  “By all means, ladies first,” Nazarius said.

  She stood, brushed dirt from her hands, and drew her daggers. Keeping her steps as quiet as possible through the debris littering the stairs, she eased to the chamber floor. To his credit, Nazarius didn’t make much of a sound, either. All she could hear was the odd rasp of his boots on the stone, and her breath. She strained to hear the sounds indicating someone lay hiding down the closest passages.

  Nothing. Quiet as death.

  The saying couldn’t be any more ironic, given that she was dead and hardly quiet unless required. She glanced back at Nazarius, who gave her a tight nod. He hadn’t noticed anything, either.

  Except she couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.

  Something clicked.

  Her heart leapt into her throat, and she spun toward the sound. Nazarius jumped as well, his matching sword and long dagger held ready. They were almost to the altar. The wall to the left had caved in. An uneven pile of stone rose to the ceiling, blocking a passage and threatening another. The rockslide had poured out to the first pillar and left a giant slab of granite leaning precariously against it. Cracks wound through the pillar, breaking through the witch-stone, creating uneven bands of light.

  The click came again. A loose pebble danced from the slab.

  Then another and another. Click, click, click.

  A low rumble curled through the ground into the soles of Celia’s feet. It vibrated up her legs into her chest. More pebbles clicked free of the old landslide and skittered across the floor. The air in the chamber t
hrummed with it, growing louder until it tore through her and the granite surrounding them. The ground trembled, once, twice, then jerked under her feet.

  She threw her hands out to keep her balance. Stone cracked and groaned. Larger pebbles danced along the ground and the floor lurched again.

  “Earthquake,” Nazarius said over the roar of living rock.

  “You think?”

  A snap boomed through the chamber, bright against the dark rumble. Gray hurtled toward them from above. The floor wrenched under her feet. Nazarius leapt at her. His body slammed into hers, throwing her back as a chunk of ceiling smashed into the floor. Dust billowed and pieces of rock shot around them. Heat bit her cheek. A cut.

  Another piece of ceiling crashed to the ground. More dust and flying shards filled the chamber. Nazarius stood. “I suggest we get moving.”

  “You’re really good at stating the obvious.” She jumped to her feet and sheathed her daggers.

  “And Ward finds you charming,” he said, but he looked as if he was having fun. He raced toward the altar. Celia followed, close at his heels.

  The world shook. Stone and dust roared around them. A crack roared through the deep rumble. A chunk slid from the pillar beside them. More stone from the ceiling exploded against the ground to their right. Another burst of heat bit across her arm. The pillar buckled. They had to hurry. Get to the altar. Not that it was likely to be safer there than anywhere else in the chamber, but they had to get the dagger.

  The pillar toppled. She slid across a slab of stone and scrambled over a pile of rubble. Through the dust, the altar loomed above her. Nazarius hurdled over a chunk of ceiling onto the first step that curled around to the back of the altar. Celia followed. Her foot hit loose stone. She twisted, caught her balance, and leapt up the next two steps. There, a hint of darkness, an alcove under the altar. It wasn’t great cover, but at least it was cover.

  She grabbed Nazarius’s wrist and yanked him into the crevasse.

  More stone burst around them. Nazarius shoved himself between her and the opening, his back exposed to the onslaught.

  Another great boom, and a blast of dust engulfed them.