Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (52 page)

Caldan’s stomach roiled, and he felt ill. Steeling his will, he tried to settle the feeling with a drink of water. He had to help Miranda, that was his priority. It was all his fault: her injuries, Elpidia’s death.

He slipped out of the Protectors’ headquarters and made his way to the Guild of Scribes and Bookmakers. His ducats were running low, and he’d not thought about how to obtain more. Buying supplies when they were on the run, combined with
crafting
materials here in Riversedge, had drained his purse drastically, and with the coming expense, he’d be lucky to be left with any gold ducats at all. He’d have to find a way to earn some coin, whether by selling
crafting
s, or by other means.

At the Guild of Scribes and Bookmakers, he inquired about their charges and grimaced at their steep prices. After being escorted to a side room, he met with a blind copier, a young man who could actually see but couldn’t read. He’d be able to copy the books without knowing what they said. Though he didn’t have much choice, Caldan handed over the coins and the two books he’d borrowed. A blind copier was expensive, and the guild staked its reputation on being able to keep secrets, but he was apprehensive about leaving the forbidden books with strangers. Knowing the less time the books were gone the better, Caldan handed the copier all his ducats, except for a few silvers. Yes, the young man wasn’t the only blind copier, and yes, another one could work on the second book at the same time.

Caldan breathed a sigh of relief. His copies would be ready in a few days, both being relatively thin, no more than the thickness of his thumb and written on heavy parchment of an older make. If all went according to plan, then in a few nights he’d return the books, with the masters none the wiser. He’d be able to study coercive sorcery whenever he had a chance, with Miranda as a subject. He didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t have much choice.

Chapter Thirty-One

Felice woke to the sound of Izak snoring and a foul taste in her mouth. She rolled over. The movement caused her to break out into a hacking cough, and she brought up a wad of phlegm. Across the room, Izak remained asleep, and from the empty bottle next to his bed, she guessed he’d remain that way well into the day.

Now she remembered. Her hand ached. Her knuckles were bruised and cut from where she’d punched the wall. After Izak and Rebecci had calmed her down, they’d plied her with drink to dull the pain she felt, both from her hand and mentally.

She threw off a thin blanket and bent over to retrieve her own empty bottle, spitting her phlegm inside before returning it to the floor. She’d been a bit of a mess last night. With Anasoma locked up tight, there was no way she could get a message to the emperor or anyone around him. But what information did she have anyway? A feeling?

She shook her head and winced. Whatever the Indryallans threw at the emperor, she was confident he’d survive, but it was those around him that concerned her. The Indryallans wouldn’t go to all this trouble and risk unless they were sure of success. And she was confident their blow against the empire would be measured in the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands.

Next to her bed was a neatly folded pile of clothes, along with a pair of boots—a present from Rebecci and her company. She needed to find out what they were up to as well but couldn’t shake the feeling she had to do more to warn the emperor. But… how could she possibly send a warning?

The answer was, she couldn’t. But whatever plans Kelhak had in motion, he’d made Anasoma his base of operations, and that she could disrupt. Her attempts to harass the Indryallans before now seemed insignificant to her. What were a few minor disruptions in the scheme of things? Hardly a wrinkle in their plans, she would wager. She needed to think bigger. Much bigger. Her plan to destroy the ship using the trebuchet had been a start, though it hadn’t worked as they’d planned. Kelhak’s sorcery had seen to his and the ship’s survival. Which meant she needed to be wary and come up with something their powerful sorcery couldn’t counter, or saw too late to avoid.

She looked at Izak snoring softly, removed her dirty clothes, and dressed in the shirt and skirt Rebecci had provided. She’d prefer pants, but the skirt would have to do. Tugging on the boots, she laced them up and left Izak in the room. She needed to think, to plan. And some breakfast.

•

Hours later, Felice was still sitting in the eatery, where she’d wolfed down a breakfast of honeyed eggs and sausages with toasted bread. In front of her was a teapot, half-full, the second she’d gone through as she stared out an open window into the busy street. She was in Dockside, close to the High Road, but not close enough that she risked being seen by Indryallan soldiers. They mostly kept to the main streets, not daring, or not caring, to patrol the smaller roads and alleys. She was confident she’d be safe from them here, but she knew no where was safe from Savine.

She ran fingers through her hair and rubbed at the pockmarks on her cheeks—an old habit she’d once wanted to break, until she’d realized it was a reminder of her beginnings and how far she’d come on guts and merit, along with hard work.

For a moment her thoughts wandered to the day her master had tried to take credit for her work in front of the warlocks and she’d spoken up. To her horror, he’d ended up imprisoned by the end of the day. Not because of her outburst, but that had led them to uncovering crimes her master had committed. All because she’d spoken a few words in anger. From that day, she’d realized words and information were power and had set her course. And the result was… here she sat in Anasoma, a city neatly excised from the empire, bladder almost full from too much tea, wondering what she could do to prevent what she feared would cripple the realm. But with no proof to back her feeling.

Kelhak was the key, she was sure of it. Her hand moved to touch the leather folder containing the sketches and records from the Autumn Festival. Proof, of a sort, that Kelhak had lived for hundreds of years. And yet she knew he couldn’t be who he claimed. But where did that information lead? What power did it have?

Felice watched the citizens of Anasoma walk past her window, busy with their lives, unconcerned that their city had been invaded. To them, nothing much had changed. Everything had returned to normal.

Normal… What made the Indryallans and Kelhak out of the ordinary was their sorcery: the flames on the walls; the shield Kelhak had been able to craft, strong enough to protect a whole ship from the trebuchet shot and their alchemical surprise.

But a sorcerer was only as strong as his
crafting
s and
trinket
s. Was there a way to destroy them somehow? No, it was impossible. But there was one place in Anasoma the sorcerers avoided, a place devoid of sorcery, where their wells couldn’t be accessed. A circle of devastation left over from the Shattering. A patch of purified land, as such places had come to be known. If she recalled correctly, it was to the west, somewhere in the Parkside district.

She scratched the cuts on her arms through the material of her shirt. They itched badly, and her cough hadn’t disappeared yet. She wasn’t in the best shape, but at least now she had Izak, and possibly Rebecci, to help. Rebecci was a conundrum, though. She knew things… but was reluctant to reveal too much. Felice had seen the behavior in both those who had plenty to hide but also people who were scared. Judging from the sorcerer’s display when she’d accosted her and Avigdor, Felice didn’t think she was scared.

Her chest clenched at the thought of Avigdor lying motionless on the cold floor of the prison, his blood pooling around his legs. Felice wiped her eyes and drew a breath.

Kelhak was the cause of this mess, but that other sorcerer, Savine, had been the one to murder Avigdor. And he had to pay for his crime.

She poured the remainder of the tea into her cup and drained it. Catching the waiter’s eye, she ordered more. She had plans to consider, and this was as good a place as any to do it.

Savine, she thought. What is he up to? He was different in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. More independent, somehow, as if he were following Kelhak for his own reasons, rather than because he worshiped the God-Emperor. That was the feel she had of him, and her assessments of people were rarely wrong.

Felice shook her head. When she was younger and beginning to get caught up in the emperor’s court and the politics that went with it, she’d vowed never to use violence as a means to an end. But… she’d been young and naïve, and it hadn’t taken long before a faction of the emperor’s court had taken a disliking to her and tried to have her removed, using knives to get the job done. She’d survived that, barely, and took a different vow: to survive by any means necessary and protect those loyal to her.

Savine killed Avigdor. He had to die. What the sorcerer’s relationship was with Kelhak didn’t concern her; his motives were dust in the wind. And he’d been able to find her after the trebuchet attack when she’d thought she was safe. That could work to her advantage.

Another pot of tea was placed in front of her. She smiled at the waiter, a young girl, and nodded her thanks. With a hot cup warming her hands, she began to plan her revenge. For the emperor, of course, may he live forever.

•

Featureless and black, the purified land stretched out in front of her. Felice shivered. Whatever sorcery had produced this place, she was glad the knowledge had been lost in the Shattering.

Smooth, was how she’d describe it. Except it was covered in dust and dirt, along with dead leaves blown onto the surface from the trees in Parkside. It felt… dead. As if some immense force had sucked the life from the ground and left a pool of molten rock, which had cooled and solidified. Under the dirt and dust, she knew there was a glass circle. Nothing had grown on it since it had been formed. Even weeds couldn’t survive. And the size of it! Years ago, surveyors had confirmed it was almost a perfect circle hundreds of yards across.

She studied the low stone wall built around the purified land. It stretched out of sight to her left and right. In front of her was an opening, one of only a few in the wall. People still came to see it; mothers and fathers brought their children; foreigners came to see a remnant of the wars that had almost destroyed the world thousands of years ago. There weren’t many purified lands in the empire, and Anasoma’s was one of the largest, a veritable tourist attraction.

Felice had spent a few hours studying different sections of the circle, until she decided on this location. She’d even questioned a few people who made their living showing others around the site, offering ill-informed speculations as to what had happened here. Most involved hundreds of sorcerers dying, but she wasn’t interested in their fantastical stories. She wanted to know the layout around the edge. She needed to find a location that would best suit her design.

She pulled her gaze from the deadness of the purified land and nodded to Izak. He was waiting nervously in the alley behind her, pacing along the cobbles and furtively glancing around like he expected Savine to appear out of thin air at any time.

Which he could, she admitted to herself. But he was far more likely to appear when she wanted him to. The message she’d sent should be delivered by now, and she was sure the sorcerer wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to recapture her and deliver her to Kelhak like a trussed-up pig ready for slaughter.

“Do it now,” she said to the burly man leaning against a wall.

He nodded to her then gestured to his three colleagues. Rebecci had not asked what she was up to but had been willing to loan her four heavies for the day, and Felice had made good use of them.

They moved four wagons to block the street to either side of the gap in the wall surrounding the purified land, far enough away not to be seen by anyone coming down the alley behind her. When the wagons were in place, they lifted a few crates and barrels from them, blocking any access to the area. The street wasn’t usually busy, but she wanted no complications, and people wandering past her and through her trap would only be an impediment. Plus she didn’t want innocent bystanders getting hurt. Whatever happened here, there would be blood spilled. Hers or Savine’s.

Izak approached, leading a horse. The animal was nothing special, but she didn’t need it to be. Its role would be short but crucial.

She took the reins from him and led it to the gap in the wall, where she’d left a pile of hay. Dropping the reins, she left it to its own devices. The hay was to make sure it didn’t stray. She took a rope from one of the wagons and tied it to the saddle. Leaving the remainder looped on the ground, she tied a crude noose in the other end.

Felice looked around. Izak had disappeared, along with two of the heavies. Good. It irritated her when people required constant directions when they’d already been told what to do and what to expect.

She strode into the alley and sat on some steps leading to a deep doorway. She’d always hated waiting, though she’d cultivated the appearance of patience. There was always so much to do. How could people sit still and do nothing?

Felice coughed into her hand and scratched her scab-covered cuts. That’d be a story for her grandchildren, if she ever had time to marry. Let me tell you about the time your grandma threw herself through a glass window and fell five stories into a river. She snorted. It was unlikely that would ever happen; her work consumed her.

Alone with her thoughts, she waited. Arguments could be heard as passersby protested about the street blockage, but she left it to the heavies to deal with them. Shadows lengthened as the sun dipped toward the horizon. She shifted her weight to ease numb buttocks. Patience, she told herself. Savine will come; how could he not?

A scuffling sound down the alley alerted her. There was a flicker of movement.

Dark alleys were the unscrupulous person’s friend, and she’d wagered he’d come this way. And here he was.

“Lady Felicienne,” said Savine as he approached, stopping a good ten paces from her.

He really is quite good looking, she acknowledged. Such a shame.