Shadows of Asphodel (2 page)

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said a medic-in-training, a reedy woman with suspicious eyes.

Ardis wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered by the “ma’am,” so she put on a face that she hoped seemed friendly. “I’m here to see a man.”

“A man?” The woman thinned her lips. “Who?”

Ardis opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She hadn’t told them his name. Would it be a giveaway? Necromancers
were
rare. Very rare.

“He’s… he’s pale,” Ardis said. “Long black hair. Green eyes.”

The woman shook her head and riffled pompously through papers on a clipboard. “I’m sorry, we don’t keep lists of physical attributes.”

Ardis sighed. “I’m going in to look for him.”

“I’m afraid you can’t—”

“I
brought
him here.” Ardis sidestepped past her and entered the tent.

Inside, faint light filtered through the canvas of the tent, supplemented by kerosene lamps. She wrinkled her nose at the stink of sickness and disinfectant. The wounded lay on makeshift cots, wrapped in bloody bandages, many of them lost in an opium haze that dulled their pain. A patient near her shrank back, whispering a fearful prayer, and she knew he must be a rebel. As if she would murder him in a place of healing.

There were only about a dozen cots in the tent, not all of them full. Ardis circled the tent, looking for the necromancer’s face.

He wasn’t here.

Ardis’s throat tightened, and she took a steadying breath. She should never have left him. Maybe he had died from so much blood loss after all, and they had taken his body away already. But they didn’t know he was a necromancer. How soon would he rise from the dead and come looking for her? Or… had he escaped?

Yes, he could have slipped from the tent. Maybe he was stronger than he looked.

She strode out, a sour taste in her mouth, and flagged down the reedy medic-in-training.

“Did any patients leave in the past two hours?” Ardis said.

The woman stared at her. “I really don’t see why I should tell—”

Ardis shook her head and brushed past the medic-in-training. She would have to look for Wendel herself. She marched toward the perimeter of the camp, where the talismans twirled in the wind, and looked for footprints, blood, anything. Her tracking skills weren’t her strongest suit, but she would be damned if she lost the necromancer.

The sky above her darkened, and the wind died to a deceptive calm.

Ardis circled the camp twice before she saw a scrap of black in the whiteness. She cut across a snowy field, pushed past the whippy branches of willows, and came upon an ice-choked river. There, on the bank, was Wendel.

He had his back to her, and she crept closer to him, her hand on Chun Yi’s hilt.

What was Wendel doing? He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and she saw the pale skin of his back, and the bandage wrapped around him. He knelt at the riverside, reaching into the water, his shoulders flexing as he moved. She sidestepped through the willows to get a better look. He dipped his hands into the river and scrubbed them together, meticulously, shook the water from his fingers, and then did it all again.

She stepped forward, her boots crunching the snow. “Wendel.”

He glanced at her, apparently not startled, and clenched his hands. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Washing my hands.”

Ardis frowned. “That water must be freezing. And you lost a lot of blood.”

“Concerned?” He held his hands up to inspect them. “Should I be touched?”

She sneered at him. “I didn’t drag your lifeless body all the way back to camp just so you could die of hypothermia.”

Wendel stood, drying his hands on his trousers. “I can’t stay here.”

“You’re my prisoner.”

He picked at a bandage in the crook of his arm, where they must have given him a blood transfusion. A clay amulet hung around his neck—for Aceso, the Greek goddess of healing—and he tugged it over his head and tossed it into the snow.

“I saw the slash on your ribs,” Ardis said. “You still need that amulet.”

Wendel shrugged. “I don’t believe in that brand of magic.”

Ardis clenched her jaw. “Just necromancy?”

He looked at her, his strange eyes catching the light of the fading sun.

“Yes,” he said.

Silence stretched between them. Ardis ran her thumb over the tassel on the pommel of Chun Yi, the familiar feeling a comfort. Wendel stood watching her, his face inscrutable, his raven-dark hair stirring in the wind.

Wendel took a slow breath, twisted his mouth, then got down on one knee.

“You saved my life,” he said. “I swear fealty to you until the debt is repaid.”

Ardis’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. The necromancer’s words sounded formal, like he had memorized them from a book. She stared at him until she found his eyes unnerving, and she glanced away to the snow.

“Fealty?” she said. “To me?”

She had never been promised life-or-death loyalty before. By anyone.

Wendel nodded, and his jaw tightened.

“No.” She backed away from him. “Don’t do that.”

He stayed kneeling. “I already did.”

“No!” Ardis growled the word. “You’re a necromancer.”

Wendel sighed, and she saw him bite his tongue. “And?”

“You can’t come with me. I—I have work to do.”

“Right.” He all but rolled his eyes. “Back to business killing for the highest bidder. I can help, you know. I’m good at killing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A corner of his mouth curved. “Out of curiosity, why did you save me?”

Because she was afraid to let him die, but he didn’t need to know the truth.

“To ransom you,” she said. “You must come from a rich family.”

“Ah.” He curled his lip. “Sorry to disappoint, but there will be no ransom.”

She was afraid of that, and afraid her face betrayed her intentions.

“They haven’t seen me since I was eleven years old,” he said, “and they certainly wouldn’t pay for me to come home.”

“But you have superiors, don’t you?” she said. “They must want you back.”

All the emotion went from Wendel’s face.

“They do,” he said.

“Then they will pay your ransom.”

Wendel’s face remained cold. “You don’t know, do you? About them?”

Ardis shook her head. There was no use lying.

“I see,” he said, and he looked away. “They won’t pay you. Kill you, yes.”

She squared her shoulders. “Enlighten me.”

“You may have heard of them as the Order of the Asphodel.”

“I haven’t. Who do they fight for?”

“Themselves.” Wendel’s mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “They come from Constantinople, though they claim to be older than the Ottoman Empire itself, and will likely outlast it at this rate.”

“Constantinople,” she repeated. She had never been there.

“Yes.” He met her gaze again, his eyes glinting. “You’re a mercenary? A sellsword?”

She assumed it was obvious, since she wore no uniform. “What do you think?”

“Who do
you
fight for?”

Ardis straightened her jacket’s lapel and showed him a golden flower pin—an edelweiss, the mountain blossom of the Alps.

“Oh, the archmages of Vienna?” Wendel arched an eyebrow. “My compliments on the Hex. Really keeps these rebels in line. Though the Transylvanians have a knack with scythes.” He gestured at his wound.

She winced. “I’m not an archmage. I’m here as a peacekeeper.”

“A peacekeeper?” He loaded the word with scorn. “Is that what they call it now?”

She shrugged, not taking the bait. “Just doing my job.”

“The last time I checked, the Ottoman Empire and Austria-Hungary were allies. Which means, conveniently, we’re allies.”

Ardis narrowed her eyes. “Right.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Her smile was frosty. “As my prisoner.”

Wendel returned her smile, and his was even icier. “Fine,” he said, “so long as you don’t waste your time trying to ransom me.”

She scoffed. “Prisoners don’t give orders.”

He stared at her, his jaw taut, and his fingers curled into fists. He was angry. Good. She knew angry. She could work with that.

“If I tell you to kill someone,” she said, “will you do it?”

He nodded.

“Anyone?”

He nodded again, and his mouth twitched. “Though I prefer to work with the dead.”

She made a neutral noise in the back of her throat. “Then get up. We’re going.”

Wendel winced as he climbed to his feet, and for a half-second Ardis offered her hand to help him stand. But her disgust got the better of her and she crossed her arms. He pressed his hand over his ribs, then swore under his breath.

“I told you to keep that amulet,” Ardis said.

“I’m all right,” he said, “it just hurts like a bitch.”

Ardis turned her back on him, to prove she wasn’t afraid, and started walking. “Keep up, or I’ll leave you behind.”

“Why the hurry?” he said, following her. “The battle is over.”

“The rebellion isn’t. Transylvania is still crawling with peasants armed with pitchforks.” She glanced sideways at him. “And scythes.”

“Almost makes me miss guns.” Wendel sighed. “I was a good shot, you know.”

She snorted at his bravado and kept walking.

He hurried to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“I’m done here. I need to return to Vienna.”

“Vienna,” he said. “That sounds good to me.”

“You don’t get an opinion.”

That provoked a hint of a smile out of him. “Do I get your name?”

“Ardis,” she said, and for some reason she found it hard to meet his eyes.

They crossed the field together. A bitter wind stung Ardis’s skin and flung her hair into her eyes. She stopped, frowning, and braided her hair over her shoulder. Wendel studied her face, and her fingers felt clumsy under his gaze.

“Where are you from?” he said.

Ardis stared at her braid. She never thought her hair was very remarkable, though it was probably the contrast that made him curious. She had tawny lion-colored hair, unmistakably Chinese eyes, and skin a shade or two darker than his.

“I’m from America,” she said. “I’d rather not get into long and boring genealogy.”

Wendel arched his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure your genealogy isn’t boring.”

“If you think that’s flattering, it’s not. And you’re wasting your time trying to flatter
me
.” She gave him a look. “Prisoner.”

He laughed, then doubled over, his hair in his face.

Ardis sighed. “Are you sure you can walk? You’re half dead.”

He gave her a pained smile. “Not half dead. Only a quarter dead.” He gingerly rubbed his side. “That bastard must have cracked my ribs.”

She shook her head. “That would hurt much more. You wouldn’t be laughing at all.”

“I take it you have experienced cracked ribs before?”

“You shouldn’t be travelling,” she said. “You should stay with the medics.”

Wendel’s face went emotionless again. “No, thank you.”

Ardis continued walking. Her feet ached, and she could do with a drink before hitting the road. The necromancer matched her stride. Ardis was tall, but Wendel was at least a few inches taller than her. She studied the lean muscles in his torso and the length of his limbs. He would likely have the advantage of reach in a fight, if nothing else.

“You need a shirt,” she said. “And a coat.”

“Ah, well, I ruined mine.” He glanced sideways at her. “Were you staring?”

Her cheeks warmed. “You’re very pale.”

“Blood loss will do that to a man,” he said. “That, and an inability to tan.”

Ardis bit back a smile.

Wendel stopped halfway across the field and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“I lost my dagger out there,” he muttered.

He hurried toward the edge of the battlefield, or hurried as well as he could, limping and holding his side. Ardis sighed and followed him. She supposed it was a good idea to let the necromancer have his weapon back. It wasn’t like she could stop him from raising the dead. That was touch magic, skin-to-skin.

Wendel stopped next to a Transylvanian soldier in a bloodstained blue uniform. The man had died fairly recently, from the looks of it, but the snow had already begun to bury his body. Beside him lay a scythe with a wicked blade.

“I don’t see any dagger,” Ardis said.

Wendel’s eyes sharpened. He crouched beside the man and studied his face.

“He would know,” he said.

“What?” she said.

Wendel was ignoring her. He laid his hand on the soldier’s neck, then blew out his breath. All the muscles in Wendel’s shoulder and arm tensed.

The soldier blinked his unseeing eyes, and sat upright.

Ardis unsheathed Chun Yi, her nausea peaking. “What are you doing?”

Wendel didn’t let go of the man, and his face was etched with concentration, or pain.

“Where is my dagger?” he said.

The soldier’s blue lips moved, and a gurgling noise came from his throat. He wasn’t breathing; or perhaps the air moving through his lungs was as cold as the winter sky. He stared at Wendel with clouded eyes.

“You remember,” Wendel whispered, “I know you do. You tried to kill me.”

Ardis’s hand clenched tight around Chun Yi.