by Melanie Card
A shushing caught her attention. It sounded like unsteady footsteps, boots sliding against stone. She could be at her weapons in a heartbeat…maybe; she had yet to really determine how bad her injuries were. She ached all over. That could be stiff muscles or it could be something worse. Lunging for the door might not be wise, but it was the only option she had.
She dove from the cot, rolled to her feet beside her weapons, and grabbed the sword, staying crouched and ready to pounce.
The footsteps stopped. “I’m not going to hurt you.” The voice was soft. She couldn’t determine anything from it, not the age or gender of whoever it was.
“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.” She peered into the dark hall but couldn’t see anything.
“How about a show of good faith.” Light flared, blindingly bright, then softened, revealing a hunched old man holding a lantern. His threadbare robes hung from his skeletally thin frame, and everything about him was gray: his clothing, his skin, and his long hair and beard. Even his eyes were gray, as if he was becoming a part of the tunnel around him, turning into stone.
“Who are you?” Celia squeezed the sword’s hilt and flexed her bandaged arm. It was sore and stiff, but would suffice if she needed to fight.
“I’m Brother LeRoux.” He straightened and, in that moment, looked like the statue-come-to-life she’d hallucinated in the passage.
“Excuse me?”
“Remy LeRoux.”
“Really? The Remy LeRoux?” He might not seem capable of hurting her, but he certainly wasn’t right in the head.
“Really,” he said, hunching over again as if standing straight was exhausting.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
He cocked his head to the side. “And so are you.”
So he could see whatever it was the vesperitti and Macerio had seen in her, that something in her aura indicating she was undead. Which meant the man had a magical inclination of some kind and could see auras. “Looks like we might have something in common.”
The man, Remy, chuckled. “No, we’re completely different, you and I. I haven’t seen the likes of you in a very long time.”
“The likes of me?”
“A revivesca.”
“What’s that?”
“Something very rare. You were dead and now you’re not.”
Celia fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m aware of that. But what kind of undead monster is a revivesca?”
“It’s not.” Remy turned back the way he’d come and started shuffling away. “You must be hungry.”
Celia eased to his side. “What do you mean by it’s not?”
“I mean a revivesca is neither undead nor a monster.” He led her into a small chamber with a narrow stream of water that ran down the back wall into a shallow pool—the source of the gurgling water she’d heard before. Beside it sat a small basket covered with a white cloth. Remy knelt by the basket and drew back the cloth, revealing apples and bread and a cloth-wrapped block that was probably cheese. “Sit and eat.”
“I don’t want to sit and eat. I want answers.” Why couldn’t this man give a straight answer?
Because he was crazy. He thought he was a long dead Brother of Light.
“Can’t you eat and get answers at the same time?”
A new, horrible thought struck her. “How long was I unconscious?” Ward could be dead and the curse could have taken over.
“Not long. Less than an hour. Now sit and eat. Your friends are almost here, and after that, we won’t have a lot of time.”
Goddess above! “What in the Dark Son’s name are you talking about?”
“The Dark Son indeed. Diestro’s curse is awakened.” Remy ripped off a hunk of bread and held it out to her.
“I’m aware of that.”
“But you have no idea what’s happened to you?”
“No,” she growled.
“Which means your friend doesn’t know.” He popped a piece of bread into his mouth.
Celia pointed her sword at Remy. “Answers would be lovely.”
“Another name for a revivesca—or revivescor, if you were a man—is resurrected one.”
“As in a true resurrection?” That didn’t make any sense. The Union’s first Innecroestri, Habil, had spent his entire unnatural lifetime trying to discover the true resurrection spell only to find and master the false one that made vesperitti. And yet, she wasn’t a vesperitti. But— “That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not. Which of the Brothers is strong enough? Resurrection is very rare. Who brought you back?”
“It wasn’t a Brother of Light.” She couldn’t make her mind work. It was impossible. It couldn’t be real and yet if it was it meant… “How can I prove this? There has to be a way to prove it.”
“I can see it with my own eyes,” Remy said.
She pursed her lips.
“You think I’m unreliable?” he asked.
“I know nothing about you.” She didn’t even know if he was a real Brother. All she knew was he could see something had been done to her.
“Give me your hand.” He reached for her, palm up in invitation.
She narrowed her eyes and adjusted her grip on the sword.
“If I wanted to hurt you I would have done it while you were unconscious.” He flexed his fingers. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“About that—” There were too many questions, like where she was, and what was this man doing in the heart of the mountain?
“Just take my hand. You’ll have all your answers,” he said as if he could read her thoughts.
“Fine.” She inched closer, her fingers brushing his palm.
Magic shot like lightning across her skin. Not warm and sensual like Ward’s but fast and sharp. She flinched, and he seized her hand. More magic raced up her arm, sweeping into her head, whirling through her thoughts. The chamber flickered in and out of focus, and she struggled to catch her breath. She tugged against Remy’s grip, but he held tight and really, she didn’t want him to let go—
The thought leapt into her head.
No. He didn’t want her to let—
Just a moment, that was all he needed.
Conflicting thoughts and emotion flooded her. She was old, tired, dying. No, he was.
She met his gaze. Gray like the rock surrounding them.
“These are just my memories,” he said. “A way to convince you I am who I say I am.”
But she didn’t know what that meant.
“My strongest magical gift is…was sharing thoughts.”
“Does this mean I have magic now?” If she could help Ward with more than just fighting, maybe they could get out of Dulthyne alive.
“No. Just my memories and knowledge about magic.” The words were half spoken out loud and half in her head. “Now, who is Ward?”
The image of him rushed into her mind’s eye, tall and lanky with short hair sticking up in all directions. It was the first time she’d really looked at him back in Brawenal City. Then she’d thought him weak and pathetic. Now, she knew different.
“He’s your friend, you—” The memory jumped to when she lay in the makeshift bed beside him, praying the poison he’d been given didn’t kill him. “He’s your lover?”
“No. He’s a friend.” Although if what this man, Remy, said—and yes, indeed, he was the Brother Remy LeRoux, she knew it was truth soul deep—then she wasn’t undead, and there was nothing stopping Ward and her from having a relationship.
“This Ward is the one who brought you back.” Remy frowned, and his grip on her wrist tightened. “He’s a necromancer?”
Thoughts and images flooded her, whipping too fast for her to recognize what they were, other than they weren’t hers. She was drowning in Remy’s thoughts, in his essence, and in his curiosity about Ward. For a frozen, panicked moment, she didn’t know where she ended and he began. He was powerful, immensely powerful. But then he was Remy LeRoux, the most powerful Brother of Light the Union h
ad ever seen. He’d been almost as powerful as a true magi.
And this was his second chance.
The truth of it slammed into her, stealing her breath. She knew what had gone wrong with the curse. Remy had realized at the last minute, as he struck the blow to Diestro’s seal, that there was a fragment remaining somewhere else and the curse clung to it. He’d known he wouldn’t be able to destroy the curse, and with the last of his magical strength, he’d changed the spell to imprison it. To capture something is easier than to destroy or fundamentally change it.
“A fundamental law of magic,” she said with numb lips. That was why the false resurrections that created vesperitti were easier than true one. False resurrections didn’t change the nature of the soul, only caged it in its unnatural state on this side of the veil.
“Yes. No necromancer has the ability to cast a true resurrection. Because a true resurrection isn’t about magical dominion over the soul but over life itself.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Aren’t the soul and life the same thing?”
“Soul is smaller, limited to creatures with blood. That’s the domain of the necromancer. But life is more. It’s in everything, this stone, that water.” He gestured to the chamber around them. “Only a rare few can harness that power. Only a few can even see it. To change death to life requires more than just mastery over the soul, it requires mastery over the very essence that binds everything together. But there isn’t time for a full lesson on magical theory.”
Remy’s mind snapped free from her. Celia stumbled back, her heart racing, her mind spinning. She knew too much and could barely comprehend any of it. This man was Remy LeRoux, he was running out of strength to hold the curse back, and Ward had resurrected her.
“Ward isn’t a necromancer, is he?” she asked. The answer tickled at the back of her mind, there but out of reach now that Remy had pulled his consciousness back.
“I suspect he isn’t, but I’ll know better when I see him.”
But she didn’t believe Remy. She’d shared his thoughts—he thought Ward was something else. She just couldn’t bring to mind what that was. “Why can I still feel you in my head?”
Remy rubbed his temples and sat back looking grayer and more tired. “I don’t have the same control as I used to have. The sensation is a residue of the magic. It’s not permanent and will fade soon enough. But right now, it might still be useful.” He ripped off another hunk of bread and popped it in his mouth.
“What do you mean by that?” She straightened and ground her teeth against the spinning and surging shadow memories in her head. She’d gotten off topic and let him distract her. “Never mind. If I’ve only been unconscious an hour, then the curse is still out there and Ward still plans to hold it at bay.”
“I suggest stopping it.”
“Brilliant. It worked so well the first time you tried. How do you propose we stop it this time?” The image of the dagger, the one from the statue and the Inquest journal, jumped into her mind. “Stop doing that!”
“Wasn’t me. That was all you, using my residual memories.”
“Are you sure it will fade?” She couldn’t afford to have a strange memory flash into her mind in the middle of a fight.
“It’ll fade. I’m guessing you saw a memory of the Fortia Vas?”
“Good guess. Yes, it would be lovely to have, but we don’t know where it is.”
“Actually, it’s coming this way.”
Footsteps pounded down the hall.
“And now it’s here.”
“Slow down,” said a dark tenor. It sounded like Nazarius.
“But she’s—” Ward staggered to a stop in the archway and stared into the chamber, his chest heaving for breath. Sweat and blood and dust covered him. His hair stuck out in all directions, just like the memory Remy had drawn from her, but instead of looking clueless he appeared fierce. There was a wildness about him, a danger trembling around him with a sense of dark, enormous power.
“This is your necromancer?” Remy asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.
“Yes.” And once this was done, he could be hers and he would be hers. Because she wasn’t really dead.
Thirty - Three
Ward couldn’t stop looking at Celia. He’d found her only a few minutes ago, and the pull from the essence-seeking spell tugged at his heart, drawing his gaze to her. It also burned at the back of his eyes and tinged everything red—although the red could also be from the ice sitting heavy in his chest—but he still couldn’t stop looking. He didn’t know how it was possible for him to feel and see the essence-seeking spell because of his mystic blindness. But even people without a magical ability—and therefore unable to sense magic—could use blood magic spells without problem…all right, there was the problem of going insane, but the magic itself worked just fine.
The strangest expression flashed across Celia’s face and disappeared. If he hadn’t seen it when he’d first entered the chamber, he’d swear he’d been mistaken. It had looked like hope, something they were in dire need of given the circumstances.
Perhaps it was hope.
Through the mysteries of magic, Brother Remy LeRoux was still alive, or rather freed from the cage he’d imprisoned himself and the curse in when he realized he didn’t have all of Diestro’s seal destroyed. It hadn’t been a statue of him Ward had glimpsed in that passage to the underground reflection pool. It had been the real man.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Nazarius rubbed his temples.
“When Talbot did his first animal sacrifice to try and figure out who was responsible for the deaths of his men, he shattered the cage and awakened the curse,” Remy said.
Celia shook her head. “I can’t believe he’d risk anything so dangerous in Dulthyne of all places.”
“His soldiers were being slaughtered by bandits. He was desperate to find the traitor. That, and a hint of the curse, just a whiff of its dark magic, had seeped out of the cage, back into Dulthyne, and had influenced him. I don’t know how it managed to slip out, but I sensed a great imbalance between life and death start not too long ago.”
Ward shot a glance at Celia. That imbalance could have been him bringing her back from the dead. All of this could be his fault.
“And no,” Remy said as if reading Ward’s thought—and perhaps the Brother of Light could. “It wasn’t your spell on Celia.”
“Which,” Celia said, sitting forward, “we’ll discuss when the curse is taken care of.”
Remy frowned. “Yes.”
“So Talbot was being influenced by the curse. That would explain why Jotham sensed he couldn’t be trusted,” Nazarius said.
Remy bobbed his head. “Exactly. He couldn’t be.”
The curse’s cold billowed within Ward, and he fought to ignore it. Soon the curse would be banished, he’d spend a week or two meditating, and everything would be back to normal. He just had to hold out a little longer. “So when you say awakened, you really mean brought to life. That one sacrifice was enough to make the curse fully sentient.”
“That, along with the foreman’s execution.” Remy ran a hand over the hilt of the Fortia Vas. “It was enough to break our prison. It’s taken all of my diminished power to keep the curse in check and the Fortia Vas magically invisible in the Dulthyne crypt.”
“You call this being in check?” Nazarius asked.
“If we don’t destroy the remaining shard of Diestro’s seal, you’ll learn how foolish that question is.” Remy caught Celia’s gaze. Something passed between them, some unspoken understanding, but Ward couldn’t figure out what that was, either.
“The shard is being guarded in the old bath chamber,” Remy said.
“Of course it is. Guess that explains all the missing people Jotham mentioned.” Nazarius blew out a long breath. He looked a little better now, but even with the locket’s magic and the necromantic patch, he had to still be in pain. Celia appeared worse for wear, as well. Once Ward saw past the strange expression and the
urge from the essence-seeking spell to shift even closer to her, the signs of the earlier battle were noticeable. Sweat pasted gray dust to her face, and her hands and arms were nicked with cuts.
“Your advantage is that the curse thinks the Fortia Vas was destroyed in our first battle,” Remy said.
Nazarius sighed. “I suppose any advantage is better than none.”
“Our best bet is to sneak in as far as we can,” Celia said.
“Once the shard has been broken with the Fortia Vas, the curse’s anchor on this side of the veil will be destroyed, and I’ll be able to force it across the veil.” Remy’s hand stilled, pressed against the flat of the dagger’s blade.
Nazarius leaned forward. “I thought only necromancers could open the veil.”
Ward met Remy’s gaze. He was thin, not just in body but in soul, but that’s what happened when someone lived past his natural time. “He’s not going to open it. He’s going to use magic to bind himself to the curse and take it through with him when I open the veil.”
Celia pursed her lips. She, too, knew he was going to die and take the curse with him.
“My magic isn’t supposed to be used to sustain an unnatural existence. I have a connection with the curse, but I’m growing weaker and the curse is growing stronger,” Remy said. “It’s not a matter of days anymore, it’s a matter of hours.”
“But that doesn’t deal with how we’re going to get to the shard in the first place.” Nazarius rubbed his face. “You said it’s in the bathing chamber, and it’s guarded.”
“Yes. I can weaken the curse’s hold on the people it’s possessed but not free them. That’s the best I can do. I suggest working fast, once you get to the bath chamber.” Remy handed Celia the Fortia Vas.
Nazarius rolled his eyes. “Sure. No problem.”
