Ward Against Death (15 page)

He arrived at the staircase. Up lay two more levels and the exit into the sewers. Celia had already told him there was nothing for him to see up there. Down, at least, was new and unexplored. Perhaps he’d find something. He headed down, passing all the levels until he arrived at the bottom of the gallery.

In the center lay a shallow pool of water reflecting light from the ceiling far above. Seven beams: four red, two green, one yellow. He sat on the edge of the pool, dipped his hand into the water, and watched the play of light dance across the ripples. Celia had been wrong. There was art in the cavern. It just didn’t appear in a common form like painting or sculpture.

He ran his fingers through the water again, brushed something on the bottom, and leaned forward to peer past the reflected light. The bottom of the pool wasn’t a smooth bowl as expected; it was an abstract pattern of raised squares, rectangles, and pyramids of varying heights, with uneven trenches between. With his index finger, he traced the pattern, the smooth, flat surfaces in contrast to the crisp edges and points. He imagined himself a thousand years in the past, sitting at the bottom of the gallery, the hum of activity far above, gazing into the pool, letting go of his busy life as an Ancient.

But all he could feel was an eerie stillness pressing against him, as if the Ancients had imbued the cavern with magic that repelled life. The sewers teemed with rats, mice, lizards, bugs, and spiders, and yet he hadn’t noticed a single creature in the cavern. Not even a spider web. He supposed it was convenient from a homeowner’s perspective—and he could only assume the cavern had been a home of some kind—but it left him feeling uneasy, an intruder, even though the Ancients’ civilization was long dead.

With a sigh, he glanced around, looking for corridors, hoping there were more reflection pools to distract him, but only smooth obsidian walls surrounded him, heavy and smoky, weighing him down.

He might be tired enough to try sleeping again. He was sure Celia was planning something for their next move—she always was
—and he needed a clear head so he could tell her to stay in bed and heal.

The thought struck him as ridiculous. Heal, so you look healthy when you revert back to being dead.

This was such a mess. Grandfather would be ashamed of him, meddling with the veil. Waking them for fifteen to twenty minutes wouldn’t upset the balance. But he hadn’t taken anything into consideration, hadn’t researched, nothing. Even if he’d done the research, the balance could have still been disrupted. That was the very reason Innecroestris were banned. They paid no attention to the balance, tortured souls, and caused the deaths of innocents as the balance attempted to correct itself. That, and they were drunk on the power of the blood magic. Once started, the only way to end the addiction, the lure to cast dark spells again and again, was death.

If only he’d spent more time thinking before he’d attempted the Jam de’U. He didn’t seem to be good at anything, and he couldn’t seem to stay with a good thing when he found it.

He slapped the water, splashing it over the lip of the pool and onto his pants.

Being a physician had been an admirable goal, but he’d destroyed that by becoming fascinated with surgery. Now, various principalities were after him.

As for the family business, it too had mired him in trouble, and the Gentilica were even less forgiving than the unforgiving Quayestri.

§

Karysa marched through the house to Celia Carlyle’s room, ignoring the gilt and finery. It didn’t impress her and never would. This girl was proving more difficult to apprehend than she anticipated. They needed Celia. She was the chosen one. She’d taken the herbs, and the Contraluxis was only days away. Generations had prepared for this and if they missed this opportunity they’d have to wait over a hundred years for the next one.

Dark Son’s blood! Everything rested on that girl and no one could find her. If she hadn’t been an assassin—making her perfect for her new destiny as the shadow walker—she’d say the necromancer Carlyle had hired to wake her was the cause of her troubles. Except she couldn’t sense his spell on Celia, so he wasn’t even a consideration.

But with a little of Celia’s essence and some blood, the problem would be solved.

Celia’s kn"> essroom was opulent, what she would expect from a daughter of minor nobility, but Karysa wasn’t there for the decor. She eased to the bed and examined the pillow. There, dark against the white linen case, lay a strand of black hair.

Just what she needed.

It infuriated her that she had to cast an essence-seeking spell. She didn’t want to waste her previously acquired energy, but if Carlyle couldn’t find his daughter, someone had to.

Karysa pricked her finger, dragged the hair through the blood, and clenched it in her hand. Heat washed over her as she concentrated. Her skin tingled. Energy rushed through her. If the Necromancer Council of Elders knew the ecstasy of casting true blood magic, they’d stop their ridiculous meditations and weak attempts to control what they claimed was a “lure” that destroyed the soul. How little they knew. They could just trade someone else’s soul to maintain their own. Once started, she didn’t know how anyone could deny the sensation. It was better than sex.

But not this spell. It was too small for anything but getting her worked up. Maybe she should seek out Carlyle’s man, Bakmeire. He looked like fun. And a man after her own heart, willing to sacrifice his master for more power.

A small spike of pain pieced her eyes and she gasped at the pleasure. She blinked, the spell took hold, and she searched for the spirit cord that would lead her to Celia Carlyle.

Nothing.

She blinked again and squinted. Still nothing.

Something shimmered at the edge of her vision and she spun around. There, dancing about the room, little specks of red light.

The spell had failed.

Her spells never failed. She didn’t know what that boy had done, but Celia’s essence had changed from when she was alive. It was improbable, but not unheard of. Likely a result of the necromancer’s lack of ability. Nothing she couldn’t handle.

She ran a hand over her earrings and wished her pets were with her, but with all those Seers on the Grewdian Council residing in town, her vesperitti would draw too much a kaw on Pro"ttention. And if she’d learned one thing from her master, attention didn’t help an Innecroestri. Besides, there were other ways, more interesting ways, to find the girl. And to do that, someone had to die. She grinned at the thought.

§

Celia tried not to fidget as Ward checked her bandages with delicate fingers. She’d barely noticed him picking out the crystal and that surprised her. He was so awkward and clumsy with the rest of his appendages, she’d assumed his lack of dexterity included his hands. But even now, he approached her as if he’d been doing things like this all his life. A few gentle pulls, a press, and three clicks of his tongue, as if he was checking off items from a list.

“So, doctor, what’s the prognosis? Will the patient live?”

He gave her a sour look, and she remembered she was dead. A heaviness filled her and she struggled to shoved it away. There would be time to mourn later.

“Twist a little and tell me how it feels.”

Celia obliged. All her muscles ached, as if she had exercised and gone to bed without stretching, which she supposed she had. “A little stiff.”

“Sore?”

“Not really. I’m sure when I start moving it will become more noticeable.”

“Yes,” he said, but didn’t sound sure. He reached for the bandage around her waist, and she brushed his hands away before he could continue fussing. His concern was... She pondered her choice of words. It was satisfying. Getting cut up had brought out his natural empathy, as well as that strange, masculine desire to protect, taking him back into the realm of possible seduction. She couldn’t have asked for a better situation. It erased all of her negative behavior, cleaned the slate. And to top it all off, his concern for her felt real. Things were finally coming together. Now all she had to do was find out what he knew and solve her murder.

“If I meet with my physician’s approval?” She raised an eyebrow to elicit a response, and he nodded. “Then I propose we continue with our investigation.”

“And how do you propose that? You have no proof of an assignment, and everyone in the entire city—no, the entire Union of P kre r="#rincipalities—is a suspect.”

“Not everyone.”

It was Ward’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

She sighed. “I want to see if Solartti has found anything.”

A line formed between Ward’s brows. “If you recall,” he said with a calm that didn’t match his expression, “he tried to kill us.”

“That was just part of the game.” She reached for the beige dress draped over the empty basin. She’d acquired it for the key heist, but now it was all she had. She would have to steal something more appropriate when Ward wasn’t watching. Solartti would laugh his way to the Guild Hall when he saw her in a dress.

“He said he’d ask around.” She shrugged out of her shirt and he shuffled his feet. From over her shoulder, she saw that Ward had turned around. He was so funny. He was obviously a trained physician from the way he removed that crystal, yet the sight of a little flesh made him blush. Oh, how she would enjoy playing his seduction out.

“How do you know he’s asked around?”

“I just do.” She’d never known Solartti to resist a puzzle.

“And I suppose you’re also related to the Seer of Brawenal or, better yet, the prince’s own Seer.”

“Twice removed from the previous Seer of Dulthyne.” Oh, how she loved to frustrate him. He’d get this look, stutter for a bit, and turn bright red.

This time he just sighed, long and loud. “Do you think he’ll have discovered something we haven’t?”

She eased out of the ruins of her pants and pulled the dress over her head. Perhaps she did feel a little sore.

“We won’t know if we don’t ask.” She reached for the laces at her back. No, it would be better if Ward tied them. f Ward them. “Tie me in.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tie me in.”

“Didn’t you do this by yourself last time?”

“Yes, but I’m injured.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes. “And your fingers are much more deft than mine.”

Ward turned crimson and reached for the laces. Good.

“You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want.” Perhaps a little concern for his well-being would help ingratiate her to him.

“To Solartti’s?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you say that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem...” She reached out to caress his cheek but pulled back before she could finish the action. That would be too much too soon. He seemed genuinely upset that she’d want to exclude him, but she still had no idea if it was real or part of his game. If he came with her, he’d learn what Solartti had discovered. But if she left him alone... who knew what he’d do? Run straight to her father or the Master?

She wished she had proof either way about Ward. After last night, more of her wanted him to be what she saw: a young man with a certain kind of charm, stuck in a situation beyond any of his previous experiences.

What was she thinking? Regardless, he would just slow her down or blab to someone. She couldn’t have that. She would have to kill him regardless of his deft fingers. “You seem... preoccupied.”

His brows furrowed.

And yet he wasn’t completely useless. He’d helped at the Keeper’s house and patched her up afterward.