Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (2 page)

She glanced back to where the two men lay hidden in the grass. “It looks like we found the two missing bounty hunters. They must have been told to cross the river in case we evaded the others. So that leaves… I killed three in the forest, there were five back on the cliff—although one of them probably won’t be walking anytime soon. That leaves four.”

“If there aren’t more sneaking around.”

“Not yet, at least.” Her gaze traveled up the hill to the house. A wry smile pulled at her lips. “You know what? I’m hungry.”

“Excuse me? We can’t just barge in on whoever lives there, with who knows how many bounty hunters after us.”

“There are only four, and we’ll only visit long enough to get food. Once we have supplies, I can deal with the hunters, and then we’ll have a head start on any others. You got a better idea?”

He wished he did, but he couldn’t argue with Celia’s plan. As if to punctuate her words, his stomach growled. “Fine.”

Keeping low in the grass, she made for the house. Ward followed, his head pounding with each step.

At the top of the hill, the house hunched like a misshapen monster, all sharp edges and shadow, dotted with spots of light from behind smoky-glass windows. They skirted around the long arm of a three-story wing and eased out of sight of the river and anyone combing the bank for them.

Before them lay a gravel courtyard with a fountain in the center. The statue of a woman draped in voluminous folds of stone cloth poured water from a jug into the fountain’s bowl. Beyond stood a massive front door painted dark red with a bronze crest above it, flush with the bricks. The crest looked familiar, but Ward couldn’t place it. Massive wrought-iron lanterns hung from hooks in the wall on either side, casting a bright pool of light on the door, and the three wide steps leading up to it.

His toe caught on a stone hidden in the grass, and he stumbled. Celia grabbed his hand, steadying him, her touch personal, comfortable, and all wrong.

He pulled his hand from hers. He was the only one attracted in their non-relationship. And, besides, she was dead. The attraction couldn’t go in
any
way. Except, the reasons the living and the dead couldn’t have a relationship grew weaker the longer he spent with her. Every day, it became more difficult to remember that her soul had crossed the veil and he’d dragged it back and returned it to her body.

Celia pursed her lips. Was that hurt in her eyes? But the usual hardness in her expression returned, and she was back to the deadly assassin. The people in the mansion had no idea who or what was about to creep inside.

“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll look for a safe place to enter.”

Before he could answer, she slipped around the end of the wing, the only sound of her passing a momentary silence among the crickets.

He pressed his forehead to the bricks, but they weren’t particularly cool and did little to ease the pounding in his head. He didn’t know why he worried about her. This was what she did best. She crept around in the night and faced dangerous men. Yet he couldn’t seem to keep from fretting and didn’t know why.

Even being chased by bounty hunters couldn’t distract him from thinking of her. He wanted to be near her, wanted to be within the radius of her confidence and determination, and have it wear off of him. Wanted the Goddess’s law to be wrong. Wanted—

Things he wasn’t supposed to want.

He forced his attention to the crest above the door. He could work out how he felt once they were safe on the road to Gyja. Until then, he’d distract himself with the intellectual puzzle of the crest.

The swirls and creases of bronze formed an open goddess-eye, the staff of the Eternal Wanderer, and the cup of knowledge…cup of knowledge and staff…

Of course! This was a waystation on the pilgrims’ old road to Gyja.

Ward had thought all the waystations on the old road had been closed when the Grewdian Council established the new, safer road, through the mountains a few generations ago. Without the pilgrims, there was little money for food and upkeep, but this station appeared in excellent condition—save for its horrible mismatched architecture.

They were already on a road to Gyja. Things were already looking up. Now, all he had to deal with were four bounty hunters, and then his fate would involve fewer crossbow bolts and swords.

Something clicked, and he jerked around. A girl who looked to be a couple years younger than he rose from the far side of the fountain. He’d been so distracted by the crest he hadn’t noticed her. Blond tendrils escaping the pile of curls atop her head framed a wide forehead and square jaw. Her pink gown—far too formal for a waystation in the middle of nowhere—shimmered with pinpricks of light.

“We don’t tend to get pilgrims at this hour.” She stared at him with dark, wide-set eyes and reached a delicate hand toward him.

His feet, of their own volition, stepped off the grass onto the gravel courtyard, moving him out of the shadow into the light. “I’m not a pilgrim.”

She shifted. More light shimmered from tiny beads sewn in an intricate pattern swirling from her hem up the right side of the gown and over her bodice. “You’re hurt.”

He brushed his temple. “It looks worse than it is.” Although, he really had no idea how bad it looked.

“Still, you should come in and have me look at it.”

“Ah, no… It’s all right.” He inched back a step. He shouldn’t have left the shadow of the building in the first place. Celia would have jumped at the invitation, but he didn’t want to get anyone else involved in his mess. He should give some kind of excuse to make the woman think he was leaving, then return to his hiding spot and wait for Celia.

“At least come in and get cleaned up.” She offered a shy smile. “I’m Allette.”

“Ward.” Goddess, how he wanted to say yes. But it was too dangerous. “I’m sorry, I— I’m waiting for someone.”

“Your friend is welcome, too. This is the Goddess’s house. All who travel on Her path are welcome.”

He had no idea how to refuse. Her offer was so attractive, the promise of relaxing salvation, and a simple ‘no’ hadn’t satisfied her. “I can’t pay.”

“I’m sure we can find a chore for you and your friend in return for the hospitality.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I really should…” He took another step back. If he didn’t put distance between himself and the girl, his willpower would crumble.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him, and he spun around.

Celia strode down the driveway toward him. Her expression revealed neither anger or relief, but that didn’t mean anything. She was a consummate actress, and very little escaped her control. “I see you’ve found someone.”

“Yes, but we really should be going.” He struggled to keep his tone light while willing Celia to accept his plea to not bring trouble to this house.

“No, please. Stay.” Allette grabbed Ward’s forearm.

Celia tensed, and light flickered on something by her thigh. It was the sword she’d acquired from the last bounty hunter she’d killed, hidden by her leg. “One night would be lovely,” she said.

“I’m not sure that fits our plans,” Ward said. Celia had just said they were only staying long enough to get food, certainly not stay the rest of the night.

“Plans are meant to be broken,” Celia said. “We accept your generous offer.”

“Wonderful.” Allette squeezed Ward’s injured arm, sending pain shooting through it.

The front door opened, pouring more light down the steps and into the courtyard. The rumble of voices and the swell of music drowned out the chirp of crickets. A tall woman about eighteen, his age, stood framed in the entranceway. She was probably only an inch or two shorter than Ward, which was unusual for most women. She, too, wore a ball gown—hers was gold—and while she didn’t have Allette’s complicated hairstyle, her loose dark blond locks didn’t lessen her air of sophistication and sensuality. It was an air Ward didn’t often see in women his age—Celia being the exception. Not that he had a lot of experience with women, his age or otherwise, but he’d observed enough to make some basic conclusions.

Celia shifted beside him. All right, maybe any conclusion, basic or otherwise, was a stretch. He could observe her for an entire lifetime and still not figure anything out about women.

The woman in the doorway slid her gaze over Ward, and from the curl of her lip, she wasn’t impressed with what she saw. She turned to Celia. Her eyes flashed wide, then narrowed, and her attention jumped back to Ward. “Well, the promised Quirin Dagenhart from Yarbon has finally arrived.”

“South Yarbon,” Allette said, releasing Ward and staring at her feet.

“We expected you days ago.”

Ward opened his mouth to correct the mistaken identity, but Celia stepped close and nudged him with her arm. “We ran into a bit of trouble on the way here.”

The woman pursed full lips. Danger emanated from her like the kind of menace Celia radiated when she revealed her assassin-self. “I can see that. Let’s get you cleaned up. You should be presentable when you meet Macerio.”

“Of course.” Goddess, it kept getting worse. Not only were they spending the night, but Celia wanted him to pretend he was this Quirin Dagenhart.

“Allette, run ahead and have wash water and clean clothes sent up to Quirin’s room, and have the one beside his made ready as well.”

“Yes, Lyla.” Allette rushed into the house.

Lyla brushed a lock of hair away from her face. Her gaze lingered on Ward, and he shivered, feeling exposed. A narrow line creased her forehead, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she saw. He got that a lot.

Celia cleared her throat. “Are we going to wait on the doorstep?”

Lyla’s eyes narrowed even more. “No.” She stepped back, motioning for them to enter.

Celia gave Ward an encouraging smile. It didn’t make him feel better, but he couldn’t very well disagree in front of Lyla. That would ruin whatever Celia planned—and she had to have a plan; she always did.

They entered a gleaming white and gold antechamber with halls leading left and right. White and black marble tiles created an octagon and an open goddess-eye in the center of the floor. This was definitely a waystation.

Before them stood two massive doors, opening into a great hall. About a hundred people, dressed in court finest, danced and talked and ate. Light radiated from massive chandeliers, sparkling on gold and silver and jewels on the tables and the people.

“This way.” Lyla turned down the hall to the right, heading into the wing Ward and Celia had skirted outside. The marble floor and pale-paneled walls switched to dark wood, leaving the passage gloomy in contrast to the brilliance behind them.

They followed Lyla to a narrow stairway that curled up to the second and third floors. She took them to the second floor, stopped halfway down the hall, and gestured to two open doors, both leading to large bedchambers.

“The wash water and your change of clothes should arrive soon. Macerio Sanz de Cortia will be eager to meet you.”

Nazarius eased up from his hiding spot. There was movement by the mansion’s front door. It was the second night since the Seer’s carriage had left him in the middle of nowhere, and true to the word of the Seer of the House of Bralmoore, someone had arrived.

Across the dimly lit courtyard, one man and two women had stood on the front steps. They’d entered the house, and the heavy front door had thudded shut with the finality of a jail gate.

Nazarius had seen the dark blond woman in the gold dress since his arrival. She only walked the grounds at night, and moved with a grace that set off every Tracker instinct he had, screaming that she was dangerous. If he hadn’t been there for another reason, and under strict orders to stay out of the way, he’d have donned his pin as an officer of the highest law in the Union of Principalities and paid a house call. All right, maybe he wouldn’t have donned his Quayestri pin—not without any kind of backup—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

Regardless, he was there for the other woman and the man. The blue-black sheen of hair and her own deadly grace gave Celia Carlyle away. Although, he didn’t need Celia to pick out Edward de’Ath the fourth—necromancer, physician, criminal, and now a reluctant servant of the Seer. His tall, lanky frame was hard to miss. The Seer had a job for Ward, and Nazarius was there to ensure it happened.

As the Seer foretold, Ward and Celia had entered the mansion, and, if the events a week ago hadn’t irrevocably changed Ward’s life, what he needed to do in that house would.

Chapter Two

Ward paced his bedchamber, waiting for Celia. Bed to hearth and back again. The hole in his arm burned, and the flesh around the ragged scab was red and warm to the touch.

Not a good sign. There was still a chance now that he was in dry clothes, cleaned up, and out of the rain, it would heal, and infection wouldn’t set in. Not likely, but not impossible. All he could do at the moment was ignore it and hope for the best, since all his bandages were soaked from his dunk in the river.

Reaching the bed, he turned back to the hearth and tugged self-consciously at the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. They, like the pants, were too short as well as being a little too big across the chest and too wide in the waist.

He smoothed the moneypouch hanging from his muddy and tattered belt, pressing the quintaro inside into his hip. A reminder, like the soggy envelope of Baarasena in the pouch, of the heist Celia and he had committed in Brawenal. Now that had been a nerve-racking situation. This wasn’t nearly as scary as that heist. He was just pretending to be someone he wasn’t for one evening. That was all.

It was sad that lying to gain someone’s hospitality was his new normal. He supposed when he met the master of the waystation, this Macerio Lyla had mentioned, Ward could tell the truth.

Yes. That’s what he’d do. He’d apologize for the misunderstanding and… And what? Explain that an untold number—all right, four—bounty hunters were going to pound on the door at any minute? Well, it was better than lying.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. How was it that he was nervous about telling the truth? This was ridiculous. He sucked in a breath that didn’t calm his rising nerves, made sure to flip his collar up to hide the Quayestri brand at the back of his neck, and opened the door.

Allette stood in the entranceway with Celia a few feet behind her in the hall. They were light and darkness. Tiny, blond Allette watched him with dark wide-set eyes in her broad forehead and square jaw—the features of a peasant. Her shadow, Celia, with the refined, sleek look of nobility, wore an elegant black gown. It accentuated the blue-black sheen of her hair and her icy eyes. The trained assassin was on the job, calculating options and probably praying Ward wouldn’t mess up whatever it was she planned.

“Are you ready, Quirin?” Celia asked, a not-so-subtle reminder of who he was supposed to be impersonating.

So much for telling the truth. Fine. He could pretend to be someone else just for a night. It would be easier than facing Celia’s wrath. “Yes.”

The door to the stairway opened, and Lyla glided into the hall. “Good, you’re ready. Macerio is impatient to see if you’re everything Lauro Allard says you are.”

“He brought proof,” Allette said, her voice soft.

“So it would seem.” Lyla stepped back into the stairwell, her gown swirling around her.

Allette bit her bottom lip, her hands trembling. She was nervous. But because of Lyla, or because she was lying about Ward’s identity? If he went along with the fallacy and left tomorrow, would Allette get into trouble? He couldn’t be responsible for that. He wasn’t the one who’d started the lie.

They followed Lyla through halls that didn’t match one another. Wide passages, narrow ones, some brightly lit, some dark, up a few steps, down a ramp, twisting and turning until they reached a place where the hall widened into a strange sitting room.

The area was twice as wide as the hall, decorated in the opulent style of Taloren the Eighth. Heavy curtains around the windows were pulled closed despite the cool night’s reprieve. In the center sat a dark red, low-backed couch and matching chair, creating a conversation area.

Behind the couch, directly across from them, a heavy engraved door stood partially open, but the crack between door and frame wasn’t wide enough for Ward to see inside. Strange shapes swirled over the wood, and the heavy brass latch was unlike any Ward had ever seen. The keyhole was a star instead of the usual rectangle, and the front of the lock was worked in a delicate filigree, swirled to match the carvings on the door.

Lyla opened the door farther, revealing a long hall stretching into darkness. The only light came from an open door on the left that led into an opulent parlor. Close to two dozen people lounged in the room, wearing elegant clothes of nobility at a prince’s court. At least Ward assumed they were nobility, but in the dim lighting it was difficult to see the distinctive fine features.

He squinted. To his right, a man and a woman squeezed onto a tall-backed chair were wrapped in an intimate embrace. So was the couple…no, trio…a few feet from them, lounging on a pile of cushions on the floor.

Oh my!
He jerked his attention to the ceiling. It seemed inappropriate to be staring, even if they were in a public room. Or, rather, a slightly public room. He had no idea what this place was and wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Lyla wove her way through the people and furniture to a raised section at the back. A man, who could have been the Dark Son himself, sat on a low ornate chair surrounded by cushions and backed by packed bookshelves. Only a few years older than Ward, his sculpted features and fair skin proved his nobility even if he didn’t have the typical fair hair. Like Celia, he was breathtakingly beautiful, and his shoulder-length hair was so black it shimmered with a hint of blue, but unlike Celia, his eyes were dark, depthless pools. Midnight without stars or moon.

The man smiled. It was pleasant enough, welcoming, but a chill still swept over Ward. Something about this man screamed danger—more danger than Celia, her family, and the Assassins’ Guild, combined. This had to be the master of the house Macerio.

The thought of lying to this man made Ward’s insides twist. The thought of staying made them twist even more.

“You’ve brought guests, Lyla.” The man’s tone was dark, and Ward sensed that an incorrect answer meant bad things would happen. The man’s gaze landed on Celia, and he raised one sculpted eyebrow. “And interesting guests at that.”

Lyla’s lips curled into a hint of a smile. “The final apprentice-hopeful has arrived.”

Macerio turned to Ward, examining him from his toes up to his face, as if the man could see inside Ward’s soul and discover every secret. “There’s not much to you.”

Ward shifted, feeling on display. His mind whirled through all the possible types of apprentices this man could be looking for.

Allette placed a hand on Ward’s arm. “But there is something.”

“He did bring proof of his ability.” Lyla sat on the cushions beside Macerio. “That’s more than your other apprentice-hopefuls have done.”

“It is, although, a little presumptuous if you thought I’d select you over the others because of it.” Macerio patted the cushion beside him. “Still, an interesting start to the competition. And I like a good game.”

“Game?” Goddess above, the man terrified him, and he couldn’t figure out why. All he knew was that lying to this man seemed like a bad idea. A really bad idea.

“I can only have one apprentice.” Macerio patted the cushion again. “Sit, both of you.”

“It’s been a difficult journey. Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning,” Celia said.

Ward threw her a grateful smile. Ending the interview before it began. Perfect!

Macerio’s gaze flicked to Celia then back to Ward as if she were insignificant, a child speaking in the company of adults. “Some wine and a little food will ease the stress of your travels. You must tell me about the creation of your pet.”

Ward glanced at Celia for help. She grabbed his elbow, sending a shock of pain up his infected arm, and nudged him forward. Guess there wasn’t any getting out this. Wonderful.

They crossed to the cushions and sat. There, see. Not so bad. They were just sitting. They’d have some kind of pleasant conversation then go back to their rooms. He squeezed the moneypouch at his hip, the quintaro and envelope a reminder that he could do this. He’d stolen a magical key, faced off with an Innecroestri, stopped a terrible ritual, and so far managed to evade a dozen bounty hunters. This was no problem.

Macerio clapped his hands, and servants entered with food and drink.

“It would seem you’re more advanced in your studies than Lauro indicated,” he said.

“I try.” A servant handed Ward a full glass of wine. It was dark, like blood, and an oily sheen on top caught the light in a hazy rainbow. Zephnyr oil. With its hallucinogenic properties, it wasn’t something he wanted to consume.

Macerio chuckled. “So it would seem. But trying won’t be enough in the tests.”

“The tests?” Right, the man’s search for an apprentice.

“To prove which of you is the most capable and worthy.”

Ward pretended to take a sip of wine. “Of course.” Just say whatever would make this man happy so Celia and he could leave.

The door burst open, and a rotund man stormed in, his curled wig leaving a cloud of fresh powder behind him. His girth, swathed in a yellow and tan scholar’s robe, was too big and bright for the subdued lighting in the room. A middle-aged woman followed him, her hair streaked with silver. She, at least, wore a demure gray, maybe hoping to blend into the shadows.

Everyone in the room froze, and all eyes watched them rush through the maze of furniture to Macerio.

The large man, his face a brilliant shade of red, opened his mouth. Macerio narrowed his eyes, and the large man snapped his mouth shut, a small, strange beard on his chin quivering with the sudden movement.

“My lord,” the woman said, clutching bent arthritic hands to her chest. “We’ve just heard the news.”

“I’m sure you have,” Macerio said, his voice dry.

“We’re so thrilled the last apprentice-hopeful could finally make it.” Sweat broke out on the man’s round face, and he dabbed at it with the lace jutting from the sleeve of his robe.

“I’m sure,” Macerio said.

A wicked smile pulled at Lyla’s lips and lit her eyes. “A little more competition never hurt.”

“No, of course not.” The woman bowed her head.

That made Lyla’s smile even deeper. “Enota, Rodas, meet Quirin. He brought his pet as proof of his abilities.”

All eyes turned to Celia then jerked back to Ward. The man, Rodas, glared at Ward. Enota shrunk a little more in on herself.

“You’ll still get your chance to prove your worthiness.” Macerio sat forward and pushed his loose hair back, revealing a collection of gold hoops in his ear.

Ward’s stomach clenched. He was sure his eyes had gone wide at the sight of the earrings. They couldn’t be Rings of Habil. That wasn’t possible. It would mean Macerio was an Innecroestri with the power to maintain control over vesperitti—one creature for each earring. But there weren’t any Innecriestri left alive. Celia had killed the last known Innecroestri in Brawenal.

Macerio stood, towering over them. “Tomorrow night, I’ll invite one of you to join Habil’s sacred ranks. I hope you’re ready.”

Ward’s mouth went dry. This was wrong, all wrong. But all the pieces of the conversation fell into place with sickening clarity. Macerio really was an Innecroestri, he was looking for an apprentice, and he thought Ward was interested in the job.

“I won’t let you down,” Rodas said.

“I’m sure you won’t.” Macerio stepped off the raised section. “If I pick you.”

Rodas bobbed his head while Enota shifted beside him.

“Until tomorrow night, hopefuls.” He strode out of the room.

Oh no. No no no. They had to get out of there. Now.

Grandfather would say it was Ward’s duty to do something about Macerio, find his soul jars, free those he’d enslaved, and right the balance of life and death. But Macerio had over half a dozen vesperitti, and Ward hadn’t seen the man’s other ear. He’d heard vesperitti were deceased people brought back from the dead by a false resurrection spell. These monsters were stronger, faster, and harder to kill than any man. There was no way Ward could stand against one of them if even half the legends were true.

No, his duty was to get out of there and tell the Necromantic Council of Elders about Macerio.

Rodas growled and knocked the glass from Ward’s hand, spraying wine over the cushions. “You think you can just show up here with a vesperitti and take my place?”

Celia tensed but didn’t attack.

Lyla giggled. “I think he just did.”

“I didn’t—” Ward said.

“You’re right,” Enota hissed, her meek behavior gone, her back straight, and her clawed hands rigid at her sides. “You didn’t, and you won’t.”

Ward staggered off the cushions. Goddess above, he was in a madhouse. They thought he had a vesperitti, that— Oh, Goddess, they thought—

Celia. His spell on Celia. The Jam de’U he’d cast on her should have ended days ago. But then, he had no idea what he’d really done. He’d improvised on everything, the components, using human blood, even the meditation, to get her awake long enough to prove who’d murdered her.

Rodas and Enota strode out of the room.

Lyla raised her glass. “Welcome to the House of de Cortia.”