Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Ward shoved away from the wall. He couldn’t think about Quirin—

His throat tightened. He was a failure as a surgeon, but he would not be a failure as a necromancer.

“Not even a full night left.” Celia offered a reassuring smile and nudged him into walking those final few feet toward Macerio and his midnight feast.

The tension in his jaw eased. Once he’d stolen the grimoires, he’d figure out how to atone for taking a life and practicing blood magic and learn how exactly to be a de’Ath.

Celia squeezed his arm. They stood on the threshold of the antechamber, out of sight from everyone within the great hall.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are there any other options?”

“Not really.”

“Then, yes. I’m ready.”

They stepped into the wide entrance to the great hall. Light from the chandeliers sparkled on the gold and crystal throughout the room, dazzling Ward’s eyes, while music, laughter, and conversation roared around him.

Now that he knew the truth about the guests, inconsistencies jumped out at him. Peasants and nobles mixed, as did the young and the old, flirting and socializing as if there were no difference in status or age.

Those closest to the door stopped and stared at them. A great wave of silence washed over the room, starting at the door and reaching to the back. All eyes were on Celia and him. Ward fought the urge to grimace. To these entranced people, he and Celia were welcome newcomers.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost.” Macerio’s voice boomed through the room.
Lost
echoed, bouncing off the walls. He sat in the center of a long table on a raised dais at the end of the room, leaning back as if he didn’t care what Ward and Celia did, even though his comment implied he did.

No one moved, as if, for a moment, they sensed Macerio’s menace. Ward held his breath. Everything could be over in a heartbeat. It all depended on Macerio. Beside him, Celia remained motionless, but beneath that stillness lay a coiled energy. She would fight their way to freedom against all of Macerio’s vesperitti if necessary.

The hush stretched on. A few in the crowd shifted, some murmured. Then Macerio clapped his hands, shattering the silence.

“I’m glad you’ve finally made it. Come, come,” Macerio said, his tone bright. Ward could almost believe he was sincere in his pleasure at Ward’s arrival. “Dinner is about to be served.”

The room burst into chatter, and people moved off the dance floor to the tables and benches set up before Macerio’s dais.

Celia squeezed Ward’s arm, a reminder she was by his side. He hoped she knew how much he appreciated her presence. He wouldn’t be able to get through the meal without her.

They strode the length of the hall to the dais, past the table where most of Macerio’s
family
sat, and took their places to Macerio’s left at the head table, where he indicated. Lyla sat to his right, resplendent in a gold dress with lace edging the top of her low-cut bodice.

She met Ward’s gaze and smiled, running a finger over the lace, her invitation clear.

Heat flooded his face, but he forced himself to keep eye contact. His blush would let her know she’d affected him, but he could, in the very least, demonstrate that he stood his ground.

Her lips slid into a soft pout, and her finger traced the lace again.

He continued to hold her gaze and cocked an eyebrow.

The pout vanished, and she lifted her cup in salute. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d won the war with Lyla. His ability to shake off her feminine charm, and, more importantly, her vesperitti thrall, probably made him a more enticing challenge. It was a good thing they were leaving in a handful of hours.

Allette arrived from a servants’ door and sat at the far end of the table. She gave Ward an ever so slight nod. Hopefully, that meant everything with her plan was ready.

A servant filled his glass with wine. He picked it up, the red liquid swirling in the crystal, no oily sheen indicating zephnyr oil this time. Good, because he really needed a drink. To his surprise, his hand didn’t shake.

“There’s a topic I think you should consider, Quirin.” Macerio said.

Ward sipped the wine, not even noticing the bouquet or flavor. “What’s that?”

“Obedience.”

Allette shifted, as if hearing Macerio’s words. Maybe she could.

“Obedience?” Ward prayed the topic didn’t mean anything.

“Yes.” Macerio ripped the leg from the guinea hen on a platter. “Whoever I select as my apprentice must understand obedience. Just like a pet must understand it has a master.”

Ward took another gulp of wine. “I agree.”

Macerio smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And I told Rodas to find you, not get lost himself.”

“I believe he’s just arrived…again,” Lyla said.

Macerio’s attention rose to the back of the room, but he continued to frown.

Rodas rushed down the center aisle, his wig missing and his robes now red. It matched the lurid purple shade of his face. He must have run to his room, changed, and run back. Huffing, he climbed the steps to the dais and took his seat between Macerio and Lyla.

“Red suits you,” Lyla said.

Rodas glared at her then turned a pleasant, if still red-faced, expression on Macerio. “My apologies—”

Macerio waved him silent. “I’m sure you looked everywhere for Quirin.”

Ward considered defending Rodas, coming up with some polite excuse for his delay. But the man was determined to become an apprentice to an Innecroestri. Maybe the fear of the Dark Son—or, in this case, Macerio—would change his mind. Maybe he’d leave before he took that final step. Probably not, but Ward could hope.

“How about we make a salute?” Rodas said.

“An interesting prevarication.” Macerio broke the leg bone on his plate and sucked the marrow from it.

Rodas paled. “My lord—”

“Your salute?” Dark amusement sparkled in Macerio’s eyes.

Ward resisted the urge to shy away. The predator had a different mouse in its sights. Celia brushed the back of his hand with hers. The moment was quick, but reassuring. He was not alone and just had to hold on for a few more hours.

Rodas motioned for a servant to top up their glasses. “We are toasting your success.”

“My success.”

The servant picked up Ward’s glass and stepped back so as not to spill on the guests or the table.

“Yes. You’ve narrowed down your search for an apprentice to two.”

“It was two three days ago,” Lyla said.

“Yes, well…” Rodas swallowed. “Surely, it’s narrowed down to the best two.”

“Surely,” Macerio said.

Rodas cleared his throat and raised his glass a little higher.

The servant returned Ward’s drink, and he raised it with everyone else.

“To the great Macerio.”

Everyone repeated the salute, and Rodas sat. Ward took a gulp of wine. Great Goddess, would this ever be over? It had barely started, and already he was going to snap with the stress.

Lyla said something, making Rodas frown and Macerio laugh.

Ward took another swig from his glass.

“I think at dawn I’ll narrow down my hopefuls to one,” Macerio said.

“Another test. Wonderful.” Lyla raised her glass. “I’ll salute that.”

Everyone took another sip of wine.

Macerio stood and clapped his hands. “I think it’s time the dancing resumed.”

The string quartet in the corner played the opening chords to a bassadanza. Chairs screeched against the floor as half the guests stood, even though dinner had barely been served. Laughing and chattering, some clapped the rhythm of the dance as they hurried to the dance floor.

“You should dance.” Macerio offered Lyla his arm and motioned for Ward to stand. Everyone else at the table stood and followed the Innecroestri to the dance floor. The rest of the
family
interspersed with the guests, half choosing to mingle while the other half chose to dance. They took up position in the two lines, men facing women. Ward counted down the row to ensure he wouldn’t meet up with Lyla or any other vesperitti.

“Enjoy your evening while I ensure everything is ready.” Macerio stepped away from the line. He clapped again, and the quartet repeated the dance’s introduction.

Ward bowed to Celia who stood across from him. Celia curtsied. From the corner of his eye, he watched Macerio leave the great hall. The dance might even be marginally enjoyable now. In the very least, it would help distract him until the final test in less than six hours.

Celia stepped close, hand raised. Ward matched her, bringing his palm up to brush hers. A shiver swept down his arm at the too-brief contact. They stepped apart, back together again with the tantalizing kiss of flesh, made a circle then turned, the dance forcing him to move to the woman beside her, but he couldn’t stop watching Celia. Her black hair swished across her back with each step and hop. Her pale skin glowed in the shimmering light.

She walked the four-beat circle, hand almost touching hand with her partner and then moved to Val. Together, they were a picture of dangerous grace and noble beauty. When they’d run from the stables, she’d held his hand. Now, their palms pressed tight together again.

Val said something, and Celia smiled.

Ward’s throat tightened. It was a ridiculous reaction. Nothing could happen with Celia. Death and laws and all that. But those laws didn’t bind Val. He was just as dead as she was.

Light caught on metal, making Ward’s eyes water.

He blinked them clear and moved to the next woman in line, a middle-aged peasant in an ill-fitting noblewoman’s dress that was fashionable thirty years ago.

“Hello,” she said with a girlish giggle, as if she were still fourteen.

The sharp sound bit into Ward’s head.

“You’re new here.”

“Yes.” He searched for Celia as he switched partners again. This time to a noblewoman with hints of red shimmering in her blond locks. More light flashed in his eyes. He blinked to clear his vision, but the air rippled.

A swath of red swept close. “The lady asked you a question, Quirin, are you going to answer?” It was Rodas. He’d stepped out of line and wasn’t dancing anymore.

“What?”

He pointed to Ward’s partner. “Are you going to answer her?”

Ward dragged his attention back to the woman. “I’m sorry, I—”

The room twisted again, contorting his vision of her. His heart pounded, a ferocious drumbeat consuming all other sound around him.

“You’ve missed a step,” Rodas said.

Ward scrambled to catch up, moving on to a woman his age in a pale pink gown with crystal beading on the bodice. Light danced across the crystal, exploding across Ward’s vision.

The red billowed a few feet away, and Ward wrenched his attention to it. Rodas stood with a group of men chatting and watching the dance. He sneered and raised his hand to his mouth, mimicking taking a drink.

The room lurched again.

Rodas took another imaginary drink and, laughing, turned to join the conversation of the men beside him.

The drink…the salute…

Poison.

He’d been poisoned.

Ward’s dance partner reached for him, a strike of pink across his vision. “You didn’t bow.”

“What?”

“The dance. You didn’t end the dance.” Her words reverberated through his head.

He had to do something. He looked up the line. Men and woman had gathered into groups to chat. The dance was over, and he hadn’t even noticed. Celia was somewhere. But he couldn’t see her or Val or Allette or anyone.

The quartet played the introduction to the next dance. The music roared through Ward. He didn’t have time to look for anyone. He had to get to the kitchen.

Somehow, he bowed to his dance partner, excused himself, and slipped into the antechamber without drawing attention.

Kitchen. Water. He couldn’t focus. The poison was fast-acting and potent—he hadn’t had that much wine.

His stomach clenched, and lightning shot through him. He staggered to the edge of the antechamber. The glittering hall whirled around him. Kitchen. Water. He forced himself to move. One foot in front of the other.

Light stabbed, and darkness flooded him.

He wasn’t going to make it.

The door to the tiny garden where he’d talked to Celia leapt into sight. He stumbled inside, collapsing at the edge of the reflection pool. Agony shot across his chest.

Water wasn’t going to do it. The poison was too strong. He wasn’t going to be able to dilute it enough. He needed to expel as much of it as he could and pray he survived the amount he’d already absorbed. He shoved his fingers down his throat, but his hand shook too much. He couldn’t keep them in position to induce vomiting.

His stomach clenched again. He hugged his gut, panting and praying. Goddess, please. Just let him vomit. His hand brushed his money pouch at his hip. It was sad he was going to die with one quintaro and a package of Baarasena to his name—

The Baarasena. It was an emetic. If that didn’t make him vomit, nothing would.

He fumbled with the tie on his pouch and pulled out the paper envelope. With trembling fingers he opened it. The Baarasena was caked in a hard white film to the paper. It shouldn’t have lost all its potency from its dunk in the river.

White agony shot through his gut. All his muscles contracted. The world darkened around him then exploded into brilliant light. The envelope glowed, a miniature sun.

He gasped through clenched teeth and dragged a nail through the film. The Baarasena flaked, sticking to his finger, but it wasn’t much. Maybe only a few grains, not enough to make him vomit with its diminished potency.

More light erupted around him.

There wasn’t time to scrape the powder free. He shoved the envelope into his mouth and struggled to chew it. An overdose would cause hallucinations. But that, he could live with.

Another burst of pain consumed him. His stomach spasmed. His whole body contracted. The garden spun, the light from the windows in the walls stabbed his brain. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t think.

Please, let it work.

Bile burned the back of his throat. Hot and cold billowed over him. He pressed his cheek to the cool stone of the pool’s rim, but the granite dug into his cheek, burning. His breath tore through him. Still, he didn’t vomit.