Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Ward stood in Macerio’s public library, waiting for Allette. He stared at the books on the shelf—history upon history of the Union of Principalities, Brawenal in the reign of Kalodin the First, Yarbon before it was divided into five parts, even a narrow text on the old kingdom of Susah.

The titles on the spines wavered out of focus. Goddess, he was so tired. Whatever vitality he’d had that morning had vanished. He leaned his forehead against the shelf and closed his eyes.

Something
scritched
on the other side of the room.

He jerked opened his eyes and reached for where the dagger should have been at his hip. Nazarius leaned against the window frame, partially hidden by the curtains, as if he crouched in windows all the time. “It’s more comfortable if you sit. Besides, there will be time to sleep later.”

“I used to think that, and then I ran into Celia Carlyle.”

Nazarius raised an eyebrow, a wry smile pulling at his lips, his expression insinuating how Ward was losing sleep.

Heat burned across Ward’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean… We’re not… She’s dead!”

Nazarius barked a soft laugh. “Speaking of dead. Have you learned the location of Habil’s reliquary?”

“No.”

“Try harder.”

“Maybe the Master—”

Nazarius raised a questioning eyebrow at Ward’s slip. “Who?”

Right, Nazarius didn’t know the truth about the Master, or Seer, or whoever he was. “—ah…maybe
your
master should try harder.”

“He’s your master, too.”

Why couldn’t things be easy just once? “Don’t remind me. Look, I went back to the room, I stared at everything. I haven’t figured out yet where the reliquary is buried. And I would suggest, after tonight, you avoid this house.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Seer hasn’t foreseen it?”

“You need to be careful. What are you planning?” Nazarius’s tone filled with concern. Maybe he did care. Wouldn’t that be nice.

The frustration tightening Ward’s chest evaporated, leaving him empty and weary. “There are things I have to do in this house. That I’m obligated to do.”

“Dangerous things?”

Ward rubbed his face with his hands. He’d gotten a better night’s sleep last night than he had for almost two weeks, and yet suddenly his whole body ached. “Is anything I do these days not dangerous?”

“Before you do whatever it is you’re going to do, you need to find the reliquary.”

“I won’t get started on my other stuff until after midnight.”

The breeze ruffled the curtains around Nazarius, enveloping him and releasing him. “Then you have until midnight.”

“No problem.” He’d get right on that.

The curtains engulfed Nazarius again. When they pulled back, he was gone.

Ward sagged against the shelf, waiting for Nazarius to return and demand yet another impossible task. The curtains swayed, but the window remained empty.

Footsteps down the hall drew his attention. Allette approached with a bouquet of flowers.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Would he ever be? He shrugged.

“Good.” She placed the flowers on the table in the center of the conversation area and headed to the windows.

For a heartbeat, Ward feared she saw Nazarius, but instead, she retrieved a dead bouquet from a stand in the corner. She returned to the table and arranged the flowers: live on one side, dead on the other, with a brass lantern in the center keeping them separate. “I think this might help.”

“How?”

She sat on the low-backed couch and patted the spot beside her. They were going to try again to unblock magic he was pretty sure he didn’t possess.

He stared at the couch. It felt too close, too personal, but he couldn’t refuse her without making her suspicious.

She patted again, and he shuffled over, perching on the edge. His gut churned. He wasn’t sure why. It hadn’t last night when she’d helped him clean his wound, nor when they’d been in Ita’s room. But here, sitting beside her, he was just as uncomfortable as he’d been when Lyla groped him. Maybe
because
of last night.

Trusting her wasn’t the issue, his mixed up feelings were the problem. He’d been ready to kiss her. Allette had been kind and open, but he still wanted Celia instead.

“Trust me.”

“I’m not sure flowers will help me break the exilo de’U.”

Allette picked up a wilted stem and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. “I think they will. Flowers are alive and then they are dead. What is necromancy but controlling what is dead?”

That was the commonly held belief. For Ward, necromancy was control over life essence, calling it back, keeping it on one side or the other of the veil, and understanding the significance that essence had on maintaining the balance of magic. But then, the de’Ath family always had an unusual perspective on necromancy. To Grandfather, necromancy wasn’t a choice; it was who he was.

“So what do you want me to do?”

She held out a delicate knife, the blade no wider than a finger and as long as her palm. “Prick your finger, focus like we did yesterday, and take the life from the living flowers.”

He took the slim copper handle and focused on calming the life essence within himself, just like yesterday. He needed to concentrate it into a point or at least imagine he was concentrating it. His blood would create a connection between his life and that in the flowers. Just like how blood created a connection between his magic and the soul of the deceased on the other side of the veil when he cast a wake. He just wished he could see it.

“You can do this,” Allette whispered. But it sounded more like, ‘you have to do it.’

He pricked his finger, smeared his blood over a few firm petals, and drew an open goddess-eye on his palm for greater focus. With a slow breath, he closed his eyes. Magic filled blood. Everyone’s blood. Even those without any magical ability. It flowed through every living thing in varying degrees, with the greatest source from people. Nothing was more potent than human blood. Even a few drops could power a spell like this if the necromancer had enough ability.

Allette believed he had that ability.

He wanted to believe her, except he didn’t want to be a necromancer; he wanted to save lives, not trade one for another.

“You can do this, Ward. Just relax. Imagine the magic in your mind’s eye.”

He rolled his shoulders to get the muscles in his neck to loosen. He imagined his ability as a pale yellow light. In his mind’s eye, he made the light join with the magic in his blood—a red pulsing light—and wrapped it around the life essence in the flowers—green light. With a nudge, he made the yellowish-red light of his combined power and blood pull the flowers’ green light into him, twirling it into a tight ball. It grew tighter and tighter into a hard sphere of life.

Success. At least success in the exercise of imagination. For a moment, maybe he could imagine he actually did possess power and it was easy to cast spells. As easy as breathing. Life essence flowed through him and the flowers, and he had the gift to control it. Instead of controlling the gray shroud of death he’d been told he did, in his fantasy he commanded brilliant, shimmering life.

The sphere of the flower’s life essence grew, becoming a miniature sun, blindingly bright. It radiated pulsing heat, filling him with strength. In his fantasy, he could take this life, this magic, and weave it into the souls of the sick and dying, healing the impossible and fulfilling his purpose: to save lives.

That was only a dream. Just like the vibrant ball of magic in his imagination. Necromancy didn’t work that way. Borrowed life didn’t stay. Eventually, the magic would fade, the wound would return, and the patient would die.

Allette gasped. “You did it.” She squeezed his thigh. He threw open his eyes. Before him, both piles of flowers were withered, the petals and leaves brown and curling. He’d done it. Goddess only knew how, but he’d done it. If only Grandfather were here to see it.

“Now. Take the life and put it in the old flowers.”

“I, ah—”

“You can do it. Just imagine.”

He gathered his imagination around him, refocusing on the light. It pulsed with life, strength, and surety. He put his hand with the bloody goddess-eye on the original dead flowers and closed his eyes.

“And relax, Ward.”

He unclenched his jaw. He hadn’t realized he’d been grinding his teeth.

In his mind’s eye, the tight sphere of life bounced around, unwilling to be released, no longer joyful, shimmering magic. Every time he reached for it, it spun off in a different direction. It didn’t want to leave him. It wanted to soak into his soul and strengthen him.

Damn it. It was his imagination. He could control it.

“Remember to breathe.” Allette sounded so far away.

The ball ricocheted and whirled. He sucked in another breath. He’d taken the life, he could put it in something else—even if the way he thought about it was all wrong. He’d never been able to master soul manipulation on the most rudimentary level, much to Grandfather’s disappointment. Except this was only his imagination. He wasn’t really seeing the life essence of the flowers, and it certainly wasn’t fighting his grasp.

Which meant if this was all just his mind fighting himself, he had control of the outcome.

He lashed out at the imaginary ball of life with a great red wave of magic, engulfing it. It writhed in his grasp but he held tight.

It was his mind.

He
could
control it.

With a great thrust, he shoved the ball into the dead flowers and imagined a bolt of magic surging through it for good measure.

“Ward!”

His eyes flew open. The old flowers were alive, full of color, and growing. The stems lengthened as he watched, buds formed and burst open, and leaves unfurled. They grew over the table, swirling around the lamp, pouring over the edge and pooling on the floor.

“Great Goddess.” He couldn’t possibly have done that, and yet…

“I knew you could do it.” Allette hugged him, pressing her body against his.

On instinct, he wrapped his arms around her, but everything within him screamed he was being unfaithful to Celia. He shouldn’t be in another woman’s embrace—particularly a woman he wasn’t sure he trusted.

She kissed his cheek, a demure brushing of her lips, and withdrew from his arms. “You should get some rest before tonight. Macerio will expect us to be at his feast, but afterward, I should be able to slip away and get his grimoire.”

The flowers’ growth slowed. A final red bud opened and a last leaf unfurled. The bouquet completely covered the table and a good foot radius around it.

He wished Celia had been here to see it.

She hooked a finger under his chin, urging him to look at her. “Meet me at the old willow outside after the dinner. Free me, and we can leave.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about the flowers, the hug, and Celia. Allette’s words flitted through him.
We can leave.
Meaning Allette and him.

No. Celia and him.

“Tonight after dinner, we’re free.” She kissed his cheek again. Another tender brushing of her lips, but he barely felt it. Her smile deepened, and she rushed out of the room.

He looked back at the table. He’d done that. Great Goddess a thousand times. He’d done that.

Chapter Sixteen

Celia ducked out a window into the cover of a shrub to avoid Allette as she passed. She’d managed to elude her servant escort to search for Ward and had finally spied him through the open door in what looked like a library with his eyes closed and his hand on one of two bouquets. He had withered one with his magic and brought the other to life without an incantation or anything. It was amazing. She’d seen a hint of something powerful deep within him back in Brawenal, but she’d never had enough proof to convince him.

Allette’s footsteps receded down the hall, and Celia climbed back inside and turned to the library. Ward sat on the couch, staring at the flowers. His spell had been so powerful, they’d not only come back to life, they’d grown faster and larger than if they’d been planted in the ground.

Surely he would believe in himself and his ability now. Now he could figure out what kind of spell he’d cast on Celia and how long it would last, or cast something from Macerio’s spell book that had a guaranteed duration.

Ward raised his head. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

He passed his hand over the flowers. He opened his mouth then closed it. Everything he knew about himself was in question. She knew how that felt.

Celia sat beside him, near enough to offer comfort but not enough to imply anything else. Her chest ached with the desire to inch closer. And it ached that she had to tell Ward the truth about Allette.

“I’ve learned something.”

“That’s the most diplomatic introduction to information you’ve ever used. It must be bad.”

She fought the need to stand, squirm, move, do anything but tell him what she knew. The Dark Son had cruelly twisted his life beyond recognition, he probably thought Allette good and innocent and worthy of salvation, and she didn’t want to shatter that belief.

He cocked his head to the side. “It must be really bad.”

“Allette is one of Macerio’s vesperitti.” She threw the words out before she could stop herself.

Ward leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” That wasn’t the response she expected. It certainly wasn’t the response he would have given a week ago. “She lied to you. Played you.”

“Kind of like someone else I know.”

Ouch.
That wasn’t fair, even if it was deserved. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know if she was apologizing for getting him into this mess or for telling him about Allette. Perhaps for both…and everything else, for that matter.

“Don’t worry. I never really believed her story.”

“What?” Again. Not what she expected. Ward was full of surprises today.

“I might be naive, but I can learn.”

Another reminder of what she’d done to him. That stung, too.

“Though I suppose she didn’t really lie. The spell on a vesperitti is in essence a form of exilo de’U. Only that a vesperitti starts off dead and an exilo de’U is cast on a living person. The bindings are almost the same, just the vesperitti spell is called a soul chain.”

“You’re being awfully calm about this. All of this.” She nodded at the flowers.

“I think I’m in shock.”

He didn’t sound dazed, but he was the physician, not her.

“Everything is set for tonight, after the midnight feast,” Ward said.

“And will you free her?” She feared he’d say yes but wasn’t sure she wanted him to say no, either.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can.”

She gave a pointed look at the flowers.

He hugged himself as if uncomfortable with the evidence before him. “Maybe I can. What do you think?”

“About what? Your ability as a necromancer? I’m walking proof of what you can do.”

He offered a sad smile, reminding her they didn’t know how much longer she had left.

“I meant about Allette. She seems genuinely afraid of being here. But if I sever her soul chain, the spell keeping her soul in her body will dissolve, and she’ll die. I’d be killing her.”

“Val said she’s the weakest, and Lyla is the strongest. It doesn’t surprise me she wants freedom, even if it’s freedom through death.”

“Val?” Ward asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“He’s one of Macerio’s vesperitti. The blond one who’d brought in the bounty hunter’s corpse the other night. We’re…we
used
to be friends. He thinks I’m like him and the other vesperitti. We’ve been talking.”

“I see.” The suspicion disappeared. Now he just sounded tired, and she wondered if she’d even heard suspicion at all. “Do you trust him?”

Now, that was the question. His rage was a strong motivator, except he was a creature of darkness. She’d trusted him when they’d been friends. If she couldn’t trust him because of what he’d become, could she trust herself? “I don’t know. But I’ve convinced him to help us.”

“I don’t know about Allette, either.” He ran a hand over the petals and leaves. “But it doesn’t matter. We steal the grimoires tonight.”

“Good. I want to do a final check of the east wing. There aren’t a lot of entrances, but perhaps I missed one. Options are important.” Hopefully, they wouldn’t need options, but she hated going into someplace with only one way to escape. “Meet me at the stables just before dinner with anything you want to take with you when we leave. Getting caught in our rooms with the spell books is a bad idea. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary.”

“Neither do I.”

Ward watched Celia leave. She exuded confidence and grace—grace that could turn deadly in a heartbeat. This was her domain, stealing, sneaking, lying. The very thought of what they planned nauseated him. Deciding if he was going to free Allette’s spirit made Ward’s stomach churn even more.

If he could, by the grace of the Goddess, cast the spell and sever Allette’s soul chain, he’d free her spirit from unnatural imprisonment, remove a monster from the world, and weaken Macerio even more—that made his decision easier. As long as he didn’t think about it in terms of
killing
Allette, it was the perfect situation. Everyone won. Save that Ward
was
killing her, and he’d sworn to save lives with his Physician’s Oath.

But it wasn’t killing her if she was already dead. He just had to keep that in mind when the time came. Until then, he had to gather his belongings and figure out how to get to the stables without being noticed. There was also Habil’s reliquary. Nazarius would come looking for Ward sooner rather than later, demanding to know where the damned thing was.

Through the library windows, the sun sat near the western horizon, its light turning rich amber in prelude to sunset. Soon, it would sit on the ragged horizon’s edge, painting the sky red and purple. This side of the waystation faced away from the river, overlooking meadows rolling to the Red Mountains. A tree, backlit into shadow, towered on a hilltop beside a tall, jagged wall.

He leaned against the frame, sticking his head out the window as if that would make the tree clearer. It wasn’t the willow Allette had mentioned. It looked like an oak. There’d been an oak in Ita’s painting. The painting Habil stared at for over 175 years. In old Olotheal tradition, trees were planted as grave markers, and Habil’s principality of birth was Olotheal. That could be Ita’s grave. Habil had loved her deeply; he’d want her close. What better place to hide something cherished than with someone cherished?

That Ita was buried beside the oak was as wild an assumption as Habil burying his reliquary with her, but it was as good of a guess as anything else.

He grabbed the flowers from the table and tossed them outside, hiding them underneath a row of thick bushes. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want anyone to see the evidence of his power, not that he was convinced the profusion of greenery was his doing.

He would grab a shovel and the locket and check out the oak.

Celia double-checked to ensure no one followed her and entered the narrow servants’ halls leading to the basement. After talking with Ward, she’d wandered to the door with the strange lock leading to the east wing. It was closed, the lock shimmering ever so slightly in the dim light. She couldn’t pick a magical lock, and there weren’t any other entrances. The east wing remained even more impenetrable from the outside than it did from the inside. A solid three-story mass of granite, with no doors or windows save for a gated passage on the hillside leading to the workroom. Val had said this door had a magical ward on it that would alert Macerio when opened. Good for escape only, then.

She headed to the Light Son’s temple to ensure Val was still committed to weakening Macerio. Inside, Val had lit more candles and set them on the altar. A bottle of wine and two cups sat beside them.

“What took you so long?” he asked. He looked edgy, caged. Something had happened.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something upset Rodas, and he convinced Macerio to let him attempt the rotting spell.”

Oh, Goddess. She’d challenged Rodas and made him look like a fool in front of Macerio. “Is Brina…?”

“She’s fine, but her friend, the older one, Udele, was nearing the end of her usefulness and the idea amused Macerio, so he allowed the sacrifice. Rodas’s casting was successful but wasn’t clean. It took her a long time to die, and Brina was forced to watch.”

Her chest tightened. She was
not
going to think about that poor woman rotting to death like the bounty hunter, nor what it might mean for Ward and her. She had to focus on the plan.

Val poured wine into the two cups, handed her one, and drained the other. “Thank the Goddess and Her Sons Brina won’t remember any of it by this evening.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She sat on a stool by the altar and took a long swig.

“Now, tell me your plan is going to work.”

“The plan, yes…” She swallowed another mouthful of wine. “The Prince of Brawenal’s prison would be easier to break into.”

“And you know so much about breaking into places?”

“Let’s just say I’m not as naïve as I presented myself at court.”

“Oh?” He poured himself more wine but didn’t drink it.

“It’s complicated.” Like everything else about her life, and she didn’t want to talk about it with Val. “You were right. There are no windows or doors into the east wing save for one in the house and the warded one outside.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“No, I’m staying on topic.” She swirled the liquid in her cup. The last time she’d sat in an underground hideaway and had wine, it had been with Ward. Things had been complicated then, too. She’d kissed him, really kissed him, and for a too brief moment, he’d kissed her back. But she was dead, and according to Ward, there were laws against them being any more than friends.

“And now you’re not with me, again.”

“What?”

“What are you thinking when you get like that? You get this strange look in your eyes.”

“I’m not thinking anything.” She took a gulp of wine. When had she become the one who got lost in thought? She dragged her mind back to the problem at hand. “The only way to get to the spell book is past Macerio. And that’s the only way out as well.”

“I’d already said that.”

“You did. Flowers and the prize purse for you.”

“Don’t forget the adoring women.”

She rolled her eyes. At least he was trying to joke. It was a weak attempt, but she appreciated it. “I’ll see what I can arrange. I didn’t check the roof. Any chance there’s a way in from there?”

“The roof?”

“Dresses make it challenging to scale walls.”

He barked a laugh. “I’m sure they do. Who are you, Celia Carlyle?”

“A woman of many surprises.” She offered a small smile. It felt good, if only for a moment, to flirt with a handsome man. Too bad Val wasn’t the handsome man she wanted.

His forced mirth melted away. “So the plan is set.”

“Yes. We should get ready for the dinner…and afterward.”

“Macerio isn’t getting nearly enough of what he deserves.”

“No, he’s not.” The image of the rotting bounty hunter flashed through Celia’s mind. She couldn’t imagine the horror of an even slower death.

The best she could hope for was getting Ward out of this alive.