Blood of Innocents (Book Two of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (53 page)

“Someone told me you were here,” he continued. “Normally, I’d be suspicious of such unlooked-for fortune, but I was… able to confirm your location.”

“Ah,” she whispered. “You can’t trust anyone these days.”

Another cough wracked her frame, and Savine gave her a concerned look.

“Kelhak was amused by your escape, which I found… irritating. But I’m sure there won’t be a repeat this time. I’ll make sure you’re kept on a short leash.”

Savine glanced around, inspecting the alley. “There’s no one with you.” It wasn’t a question.

Felice shook her head. “You’ve killed everyone I could rely on. There’s nothing left for me here. I tried my best and came up short.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You couldn’t have hoped to win against me, or Kelhak, for that matter.”

“Are you going to chop my feet off, too?”

Savine laughed. “Oh goodness, no. That was a demonstration of our intent, and a warning. But I see you didn’t heed it, and for that there must be consequences.”

Felice thought she detected sadness in his words. Why would talk of consequences disturb him so? She steeled her resolve. No matter.

She stood and rubbed the back of her neck.

Above Savine, atop the building on that side of the alley, Izak and the heavies moved. Shadows plummeted toward the ground.

Felice threw herself backward into the deep doorway, curling into a ball.

A wave of pressure and heat rolled over her. Thunder cracked in the narrow alley, shaking the buildings. As with their trebuchet shots, the alchemical mixture reacted with virulent force.

Felice grinned as the heat dissipated. The stench of her own singed hair filled the air, but that didn’t bother her. A gust of cold wind wafted over her, and she uncurled. The alchemical reaction was violent but short-lived, and the immense heat generated dispersed in moments.

Smoke stung her eyes, burning her lungs as she lurched down the steps.

Blackened, soot-stained walls greeted her. Savine lay on the ground against the wall opposite, unmoving. Strangely, his clothes didn’t look burnt, though he was obviously injured. He’d been standing in the middle of the alley when she ducked into the doorway and was now ten paces away. It looked like he’d been thrown into the wall with great force. Good.

Felice raced for the rope tied to the horse. A smile stretched her face as her heart thudded in her chest. She needed to be quick, before Savine came to; there wasn’t even time to remove his
crafting
s. Izak and the heavies would be on their way, but she didn’t think it wise to delay. Besides, she hated waiting.

She skidded to a halt and grasped the rope, cursing the necessity that meant the horse had to be so far away in order not to alert Savine.

A dozen heartbeats later, she was beside the unconscious sorcerer, rope noose looped around his feet. She pulled it tight. Savine groaned and stirred.

“Pignuts,” Felice cursed. “Izak! Get on that horse.”

Savine turned to her. She punched him in the face with all her might.

She coughed, doubling over.

Savine’s hand locked onto her arm. His eyes opened, and he grinned at her with bloody teeth. “Oh, you’re going to regret this.”

“Izak!” she screamed, prying at the fingers fastened on her.

Felice grabbed her knife and struck at Savine. A hazy sorcerous shield surrounded him like a second skin, just in time to turn her blade from his stomach.

Agony exploded inside her head. White hot needles poked into her mind. She convulsed and fell to the ground. She screamed again, this time in pain. After a few moments, the agony subsided, and she whimpered with relief. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she blinked her sight clear.

Savine sat up and stared at her. “That was just the start. You’re going to wish you’d never been born.”

Beside her, the rope jerked, and she threw herself at Savine, striking blindly with her knife in an attempt to distract him. If he was dealing with her and didn’t realize what was happening, they might still have a chance.

Astride the sorcerer, she thrust at his shield while he laughed. Violet motes erupted from the shield with each of her strikes. The tip of her blade felt like it was sliding across steel. Savine might as well have been wearing full armor, for all the good she was doing.

With a jerk, Savine began moving toward the purified land.

“What…?” he uttered, surprised, the word muffled by his shield.

Felice clamped her legs onto his torso, riding him like a horse. She wrapped an arm around his head in an effort to blind him and struck at his neck. The alley went by in a blur as they sped up, and his shield turned red and violet, so great were the motes discharging from contact with the ground.

They broke from the mouth of the alley.

She screamed and dropped her knife, clamping her body against his as he flailed against her. Sparks struck from the cobbles as they were dragged behind the horse. Wind whistled in her ears, and her hair blew around her face, obscuring her sight.

Come on. Please.

Walls flashed past on either side. Cobblestones changed to dirt. Behind them, they left a trail of dust and a line of uncovered, blackened rock.

The purified land.

Savine’s shield vanished with a popping sound. He howled with such pain and anguish Felice almost forgot to stab him—then she thrust her blade into his side. A sudden spurt of hot blood covered her hand.

Savine twisted, and she was thrown onto her back. Cloth tore from her, and her skin scraped over the ground. Tiny knives sliced into her flesh as she was dragged along.

Ignoring the pain, she thrust again, only to be blocked by Savine’s arm. He grabbed her hair and pounded her head against the rock of the purified land. She tried to wriggle from under him, but he was too strong.

They skidded to a stop. Izak must have cut the rope, she thought weakly.

Savine was on top of her, with a feral grin and eyes filled with such hate and murder she’d never seen before. His fist slammed into her face, and her head rocked back. Felice’s vision exploded into a white mist. She felt the knife fall from her hand.

No.

She shook her head, and the mist evaporated.

Savine held her knife in his hand and leaned over her.

But there was something wrong. He wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was fixed in front of him. Slowly, he raised both arms, staring at the back of his trembling hands.

“No,” he whispered, voice overflowing with dread.

Felice gasped as the hand clutching her knife stuck at his own neck. Savine’s other hand was barely able to stop the thrust in time.

She scrabbled backward as Savine rolled around on the ground, to all appearances involved in a life and death struggle to stop him killing himself.

What was happening?

His face twisted, also at war with itself. His eyes fixed on Felice, filled with horror.

“He has taken me,” Savine rasped. “Kill me. Please.”

Then—“Nooooooo!” he wailed.

Felice sat still, numb with pain and bewilderment.

Breathing harshly, Savine lumbered to his feet and staggered away from her.

“Please,” Savine pleaded, though his pace increased. “You must kill me.”

A glow began to surround Savine, though it wasn’t a shield. A soft white light emanated from his skin, concentrated around his head.

He lurched away, heading for the gap in the wall surrounding the purified land.

Felice struggled to stand, but her legs wobbled from under her. She managed to get to her knees and began crawling painfully toward Savine. Drops of blood dripped from her tattered back onto the ground.

Izak flashed past her, running toward Savine. He brandished a thin dagger.

Something was very wrong. She could feel it in her bones.

Savine was trying to kill himself. And asking her to kill him. While running away. Almost as if he were two different people. Like Kelhak.

Her hands clawed at the purified land in an effort to push herself to her feet. Her thoughts swirled. Kelhak. Not Kelhak. Savine. Not Savine.

The purified land, dead to sorcery.

“Izak no!”

Savine faltered, then stopped a few yards from the edge of the purified land. He lurched forward a step, dragging a paralyzed leg behind him. The glow around him had intensified. Individual motes flew free, breaking into smaller particles before dissipating.

With a screech, Izak threw himself at Savine. They both tumbled over, and out of the purified land into the street. One of the heavies ran to Izak’s aid and grabbed Savine by the arm, twisting it behind his back. He stomped on the arm and bones broke with a loud crack. Savine howled a wordless cry of agony.

Felice closed her eyes, heart clenching in her chest. Long moments passed until she had the strength to will herself to action, but before she could, footsteps pounded close to her. She opened her eyes to see one of the heavies.

“My lady, I’ve got you.”

“Izak,” she whispered. “Savine… the target. What’s happening?”

The man wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her in his arms. “The sorcerer’s dead. Your friend Izak did for him. Knifed him in the chest, and he bled out onto the street. But…”

The heavy hesitated. She could sense there was more.

“What else?”

He strode toward Savine and Izak. She twisted her head to see Savine’s body on the cobbles with Izak standing next to it. His hands were covered in scarlet, and his knife lay on the ground, discarded. Looking on was the heavy who’d broken Savine’s arm.

The heavy carrying her grunted. “The sorcerer’s body, it… changed. You’ll see.”

They passed out of the purified land and entered the street. She looked down at Savine. His body seemed smaller than before, lesser somehow. And his skin was dry and tight, as if drained of moisture.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I killed him,” replied Izak. “And this happened. I think whatever sorcery he was using did this to him when he died.”

She met Izak’s eyes. He was calm. Far more calm than she thought he should be after what had happened. She nodded. The three other heavies joined them.

“What do you want to do with the body?” one asked.

Felice winced as the heavy carrying her shifted her weight to a more comfortable position. She could feel her blood soaking his cloak.

“Use one of the wagons and dump it in the river.”

“We should keep his
crafting
s,” added Izak. “They might be… useful.”

Felice regarded him evenly. “Yes. Good idea. I’ll collect them.”

“My lady,” said the heavy holding her. “You need a physiker. I know one close by. Then we need to report to Rebecci.”

Felice watched Izak closely. He’d been close to Savine when the man had died. And if what she suspected was correct there was a chance he could be… compromised. While she examined him he kept his eyes on Savine’s withered body.

“Yes,” she said. “We can see her later. Right now, I need help. Just place me down next to the body, and none of you come near. He’s a sorcerer, and his
crafting
s might be dangerous.” A convenient lie, but the best she could come up with in her condition. If she could keep the
craftings
to herself perhaps the sorcerer couldn’t access them. “I’ll take them all and keep them safe.”

Lying on the cold stone street, she rummaged through the corpse’s pockets, removing whatever items she found. With a final pat down, she indicated to the leader of the heavies she was ready. “Dispose of the body. The river’s close. Then meet us back here. You.” She pointed to the heavy who’d helped Izak kill Savine. “Stay here; we might need protection.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Two of the heavies dragged Savine’s corpse and flung it into one of the wagons, where it landed with a thump. Felice flinched at the sound and allowed herself the ghost of a smile.

“There are always complications,” she muttered to herself. When Savine died she thought it would be over, but the condition of his corpse and what she had found out about Kelhak made her suspicious.

“Pardon?” said Izak.

“Nothing. We’ll get moving as soon as the heavies return.”

Izak met her eye. “It’s been an interesting day,” he said. “It’ll be good to see Rebecci again.”

Careful,
thought Felice. If she was right then she walked a very thin line indeed. One as sharp as a razor.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Caldan flicked through both books, Bells’ coercive sorcery
crafting
in hand. Too fearful to try anything on Miranda, he nevertheless practiced a few techniques and exercises explained in the basic text. To his disquiet, there was a beauty to coercive sorcery, a complex symmetry he’d been hard-pressed to explain until he likened it to Dominion. Unlike normal
crafting
, with its intricate rules and structures, coercive sorcery was more complicated. What worked for one person wouldn’t necessarily work for another, and a coercive sorcery
crafting
had to be able to deal with multiple scenarios, almost as if it could make decisions itself, or fall into a predetermined pattern once something triggered a change. In this, it was very much like Dominion: an elaborate game, where the outcome was to overwhelm your opponent. And structures had to be left in place to deal with changes.

He’d enjoyed learning all he could about coercive sorcery. And yet… stealing the books had been a betrayal of the trust Simmon had placed in him. A betrayal of the Protectors and all they stood for.

Caldan felt the weight of the books in his hand and clenched his jaw. It was for Miranda, he reminded himself. If Joachim had told him the truth, he was sure she’d be healed by now.

Justifications for the path he’d decided to tread on his own, he realized.

•

His third defeated opponent handed over a cloth purse filled with ducats. Caldan took the proffered coins and inclined his head in thanks. She batted her eyelashes at him and made sure her fingers caressed his. A youngish noble from one of the families in Riversedge, she’d approached him at the end of his second Dominion game, when he’d easily defeated the bragging, overconfident son of a merchant.