Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (6 page)

Severin was true to his word. His entrance into the mansion wouldn’t be challenged.

Nazarius pulled a witch-stone globe, which fit easily in his palm, from his pocket. The heat from his skin brought the stone to life, casting a pale glow into the dark passage before him. Now, if only the Seer had been more specific about where this key was hidden.

Chapter Seven

Daylight streamed through the bedroom window. Ward hadn’t slept well. He’d worried about Macerio and Nazarius, and the possible infection in his throbbing arm. Now it was morning, and he had a job to do. The sooner he got Nazarius’s locket, the sooner he could get the grimoire, and the sooner he could get out of this madhouse…and back to the bounty hunters.

One problem at a time.

He could do this.

Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d eventually believe it.

For goodness sake.

With a quick breath, he opened the door, and rushed into the hall.

No one in sight. The Master had spoken true. He hurried up the stairs, unable to believe he was doing this. It was ridiculous he’d be nervous about stealing the locket when he planned to steal Macerio’s grimoire, but logic never dictated emotions, and he couldn’t help himself. Macerio may or may not notice when the locket went missing, but without a doubt, he’d notice when his grimoire disappeared.

Ward cracked open the third floor door and peered into another empty hall. He squeezed the quintaro and envelope of Baarasena in his moneypouch, focusing on the fact that he’d already stolen from someone before, though that thought did little to calm his racing heart. That theft had gone smoothly. But would this one? Stealing the locket was practice for stealing the book. The Master, whether he knew it or not—and he probably did—was giving Ward an opportunity to test his nerve before it really mattered.

All he needed was to figure out how Celia would go about stealing the locket. The first thing would be to stop acting suspicious, like loitering in the stairwell.

That’s what he should do. He’d open the door and walk down the corridor. Celia would do that, and she’d look completely normal doing it.

Fine.

He squared his shoulders, stepped into the hall, and headed for the room three doors down.

See, easy. And there was no one around to see him, anyway. There was nothing to worry about.

Until he grabbed the door latch and froze. What if someone was inside? Ward didn’t know what he’d do or say if caught. What would Celia do? Not get caught.

Nazarius had said the Master had foreseen the way would be clear. Goddess above, he hated Seers. He gritted his teeth and opened the door.

Empty.

Blowing out the breath he’d been holding, he eased the door shut behind him. He’d entered a lady’s sitting room with a large loom taking up one side. Heavy drapes pulled partially closed threw the room into a semi-twilight. A writing desk sat by the window, and above it hung the portrait of a breathtaking woman.

She was everything Celia wasn’t, her skin shimmering honey, her hair strands of sunshine, and her eyes warm golden brown. She couldn’t be more than a few years older than Ward, but something about the way the artist had painted her eyes suggested wisdom and compassion beyond her years. She wore a white dress from an era long past and an oval pendant—the same shape as the pendant Ward planned to
acquire
. The artist had painted the necklace with a hint of radiance, as if it glowed with magic.

And there, on the desk, lay an oval, gold locket with a small dark stone.

Light Son’s blessing! He grabbed the locket, shoved it in his pocket, and rushed out of the room. He returned to his bedchamber, nudged the door shut, and pressed his back against the wood. His heart pounded.

He’d done it. Just like that. It had been so easy. The Master had told the truth, no one had stopped him. He was not going to question whatever good luck had suddenly befallen him.

Ward slipped the locket in the case with his illegal surgical implements, stuffed it in the bottom of his rucksack, and slid the bag under the bed, still stunned at how easily he’d stolen it.

One theft down, one to go
, repeated through his mind. He could do it. He was already doing it, and the sooner he finished, the sooner he and Celia could get out of here. Next mission: Allette.

He threw open his door, framing Allette in the doorway.

Ward jumped. How did she know he wanted to talk to her?

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Ah…yes.” About where Macerio kept his grimoire and, more importantly, why she’d lied about his identity. He glanced back at his room. He didn’t like the idea of inviting her in, but their conversation definitely required privacy. “Come in?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s not proper for a lady to enter a man’s bedchamber.”

“No one will know, and I’d rather not talk in the hall.”

“I was thinking Macerio’s public library. It’s just down the hall, and no one goes in it.”

“You’re sure we won’t be interrupted?”

“It would be just as bad for me if we were. It’s safe and then no one can catch me coming out of your room.”

“All right.”

Allette led him to a large room filled with books. More windows, with heavy drapes partially pulled open, lined the back wall. Save for a hearth against the left wall, the rest of the walls held floor-to-ceiling shelves.

Allette gestured to the room. “Macerio’s public library.”

And most likely not where Macerio kept his grimoire, but this could be Ward’s opening. “So he has a private library as well?”

“Yes. In the east wing. Where he keeps his darkest, most powerful books.” She perched on the edge of a red couch in the center of the room. It made up one half of a conversation area consisting of a high-backed chair and a dark wood table. Her blond curls, artfully free from the intricately braided pile atop her head, accentuated her wide face, as if she purposely drew attention to her peasant heritage. She picked at the skirt of her light pink day-dress, her wide eyes downcast. “He’ll only let those he’s accepted into his household see them. Servant, pet, or apprentice-hopeful.”

“I thought he already had accepted me.” Just what he wanted to know. Today was a good luck day all around. Now all he needed was to find the private library in the east wing and learn why Allette had lied.

He sat in the chair and chewed on the inside of his cheek. Birds fluttered and chattered in the bushes and ivy outside the open windows. If he closed his eyes, everything would seem normal. But he didn’t bother. Once he opened them again, he’d be back in this nightmare.

It was a nightmare of his own choosing, but that didn’t make it any less of a nightmare. He could have ignored his family responsibility and carried on with Celia to Gyja, but if there was only one thing he knew about himself, it was that he couldn’t turn his back on his responsibilities. Which meant he needed to get down to business, and there was only one way to ask what he needed to know. “Why did you lie?”

“I saw something in you that I needed. I’m sorry, I really am, but I need your help.”

“You could have asked.”

Determination hardened her eyes. “Would you have accepted?”

Two weeks ago…without a doubt. Now? “I’m not sure.”

While his heart wanted to help her, her plea was too similar to Celia’s the night he’d woken her from the dead, and unless she called on his Physician’s Oath like Celia had, she wasn’t his responsibility. Stopping Macerio was.

“An honest answer, at least. I’m sorry you have no choice,” Allette said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Macerio is aware of you now. He knows you’re a powerful Innecroestri and won’t let you leave until you swear fealty to him.”

Ward snorted. “Me? Powerful?”

“Your vesperitti is proof of your strength, even if the spell is unusual and your aura is faint. If you’re not powerful enough on your own to have created her, then you’re resourceful. Macerio likes that.”

“And by resourceful you mean…?”

“Blood sacrifice.”

Oh, Goddess. She thought he’d used a human sacrifice, bleeding a person to death to power his spell. That ritual destroyed the soul and left nothing to cross the veil. “It wasn’t like that. I’m just lucky, that’s all.”

“You’re not lucky. And you’re not weak. No matter what your aura suggests. I know you didn’t use blood sacrifices. You had a moment of clarity where you somehow became unblocked.”

“Excuse me?” He’d never heard that explanation before. How could an ability be blocked? A necromancer could either channel the magic in blood or he couldn’t—and an Innecroestri embraced that blood magic fully, not caring about maintaining the balance between life and death.

“You’re blocked. I’ve only seen it twice before. In another necromancer and in a Brother of Light. The Brother managed to free his gift. There isn’t much difference between a Brother and a necromancer. I don’t see why what he did won’t work for you.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference between the two.” A Brother’s innate ability to channel magic was focused through strict regulation of devout worship and celibacy. They weren’t sullied by using blood magic and only drew on the power within them granted by the Goddess.

Red seeped up Allette’s neck and across her cheeks and forehead. “The block is similar. Not the magic used. There was a small temple in the village where…” She swallowed and the blush seeped away. “Where Macerio found me. A Brother there had lost his divine connection, but I could see the power in his aura. Faint and only visible from the corner of my eye.”

“And you think I’m blocked?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“But if you saw the block in him and presumably in me, why hasn’t Macerio seen it?”

“Macerio never saw the Brother when he was blocked. I think if you haven’t seen it before you don’t know what you’re really looking at. Macerio couldn’t see it in the other necromancer either. No one could. But I’m guessing your symptoms are the same.”

“What symptoms?”

“You can’t sense magical energy, can you? You’re blind to it, but that doesn’t mean you’re not gifted. It means something is in your way. If you didn’t have the gift, there wouldn’t be anything in your aura.”

There was truth in what Allette said. The question was, how much? The Necromantic Council of Elders had tested him and found him weak, but still a necromancer. No one but Grandfather—and now Celia and Allette—knew about his mystical blindness.

“Blind men can still move about in the world. It doesn’t mean they’re weak, just different. If we unblock you, you can reach your full potential and free me.”

“Free you from what?” Here was the catch, the reason for her lie, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Macerio has cast an exilo de’U on me.”

Ward sat forward. “Excuse me?” But he didn’t doubt what he’d heard. An exilo de’U was a terrible spell, binding the soul of the victim to the Innecroestri who’d cast it. It was like a vesperitti’s enthrallment, except the victim was completely aware that her body no longer belonged to her and lasted a lifetime.

“I’m trapped.”

“I can’t break an exilo de’U.” Only a really powerful necromancer—or an equally powerful Brother of Light—could break that spell. “I’m not strong enough.”

“Ward, please.” She reached for him but stopped before making contact, her fingers trembling.

He wrapped his hands around hers. Her skin was cold, a sign of her fear—and something hard to fake. His throat tightened. “Even if I’m blocked, and I figure out how to access my potential, the odds aren’t good I’ll be able to break Macerio’s spell.”

“Yes, you can. You only need a part of your potential.”

“It takes a great deal of power to break any spell. Macerio has what? Fifteen vesperitti?”

“Only a dozen, actually.”

“Oh, only.”

“There’s a counter spell. You don’t have to force your will against his, you just have to be strong enough to sever the bindings.” She glanced over his shoulder at the door, then turned back to him. “It’s in his grimoire.”

Everything within Ward stilled. Allette needed the grimoire. He could use her to help him steal it. Celia would be so proud of him; he was using
resources
, though the thought disgusted him. But what was worse? Using someone, or letting Macerio keep the spell book. “I don’t have access to his grimoire.”

“I do. I can get it. I just need someone to cast the spell.”

His soul was going straight to the Dark Son’s Abyss. “How do I unblock my power?”

She smiled a beautiful, hopeful smile.

It made his stomach churn just looking at it.

Chapter Eight

Celia opened the wardrobe in search of appropriate clothing. To her relief, two day-dresses hung inside, one green, one blue. Traipsing around this place in the heavy black gown held no appeal—not that they would be here long.

Which meant she needed to figure out how to steal Macerio’s spell book and get Ward away from this madhouse before he and his ridiculous honor got them killed. Even if it was that ridiculous honor that appealed to her so much.

She changed into the simple pale blue dress, but not the matching slippers—if she needed to run cross country, she preferred her boots. Then she set out to find her former-suitor Val and learn everything she could about vesperitti, Macerio, and his spell book. Hopefully, she’d also discover if she was a vesperitti and how to deal with the bounty hunters tracking them.

Swell. Only three things on the to do list. They’d be out of there by midnight.

It was nice to dream.

Funny how just a few weeks ago the prospect of eluding killers and stealing from powerful men would have excited her. The challenge of manipulating Val to reveal secrets, devising a plan to grab the book, even the thrill of a fight with the bounty hunters still made her pulse race. But the weight of keeping Ward alive was like a dunk in the Bay of Tranaquai during winter. That their entire plan revolved around him playing games and manipulating people made her insides churn even more.

She shoved her thoughts to the back of her mind. A good assassin ignored unnecessary distractions.

In the hall, a serving boy of about thirteen leaned against the wall by the stairwell. He straightened when he saw her, dropped his gaze to the floor, and mumbled something about breakfast.

“Yes, thank you.” Perhaps Val would be in the kitchen, or great hall, or wherever the boy was going to take her. It was a place to start.

The boy led her through the maze of hallways to a parlor filled with delicately carved furniture from a different era. She bet if she asked Ward, he’d be able to identify the principality and time period. Along the far wall stood a bank of floor to ceiling windows, the glass in the palm-sized diamond panes ever-so-slightly foggy, filtering the sunlight beyond into soft, glade-like shadows. In the center, blending in with the windows, was a glass door open to a shaded patio and the gardens beyond.

A few guests sat at tables and couches by the windows, and a few more were on the patio eating breakfast. None of them had been in the room when Macerio had killed Enota—and were therefore not
family members—
and none looked dangerous. Save for a few eating daggers, no one carried a weapon. The place was safe, relatively speaking.

Fruits, pastries, and cured meats were spread on a long table, and the room smelled of freshly baked bread mixed with the bittersweet aroma of jahalva—a black beverage preferred for breakfast in the southern principalities. Her stomach rumbled. It had been too long since she’d had a proper meal, but she didn’t know if vesperitti ate normal food as well as their mythical diet of souls.

The boy left her under the watchful eye of another servant—a middle-aged woman—who stood by the breakfast table presumably to serve the repast. It seemed there wasn’t any place she could go without being monitored. This would make finding Val challenging. She was going to be spending more time than she liked climbing out her bedchamber window and dodging thorny rose bushes.

She had the servant put food on a plate—she didn’t care what—and sat at a table that gave her full view of the room and both doors. A woman near the patio laughed, her head thrown back, exposing the tanned length of her neck. The man across from her chuckled as well. They seemed an odd pair. She with streaks of white in her dark hair and he barely more than Celia’s age.

The woman fanned her face with her hand, a genteel motion that accentuated her lack of genteel features. Her face was too broad for true nobility and her clothes—the cloth and cut—suggested a working woman. The man, on the other hand, had the long narrow features of a nobleman with honey-blond, shoulder-length hair.

A striking figure darkened the hall doorway, and Celia slid her attention to the new arrival. Val. He stood on the threshold of the parlor. His dark gaze landed on her, and his pale brows pinched together.

Not the expression she’d hoped for.

She’d hoped for even a hint of the flirtation they’d shared at the Prince of Brawenal’s court a year ago. But something about her troubled him—maybe because he thought she was a vesperitti. But did that mean he figured she was competition for souls, or was he upset she was undead?

He strode to her table with all the confidence she remembered, but without the cockiness. This wasn’t the carefree man she used to flirt with in the palace. For a heartbeat, she feared her plan to reignite the attraction between them and seduce information from him wouldn’t work.

“Celia Carlyle. Not the person I ever expected to see at the House of de Cortia. Looks like we’re destined to be together after all.”

“So it would seem, although I don’t take much stock in destiny.”

Val flashed his heart-melting smile. “How can you refute it now? You’re here. I’m here. It doesn’t look like you’re leaving anytime soon. I’m sure your father would have given me your hand in marriage eventually.”

“Oh, eventually. Without a doubt.” She filled her tone with playful sarcasm.

“I know he has his eye on the Estwinshire estate in southern Brawenal. I’m sure if I’d put that in my next offer he would have taken it.”

“You would’ve paid a bride price?” That defied all Brawenal custom. Usually the bride’s family set a dowry to attract husbands. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about me.”

He leaned forward, capturing her hands against the tabletop. “There’s something special about you, Celia. Every man in court could see it. And now we find ourselves here and everything—”

“Everything has changed.”

“It doesn’t have to be so different. Our…condition has made our old life impossible, but the Goddess has seen fit to bring us back together. Things don’t have to be so difficult anymore.”

“Yes.” She wanted to ask what he meant by difficult, but had no idea if that would reveal her lack of knowledge about vesperitti.

The patio door opened, and a blond girl in a yellow day-dress twirled into the room, followed by a tall, dark-haired man. She wasn’t that old, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, and looked familiar. Celia had seen her around court, in fact…

“Isn’t that your sister Brina?”

The muscle in Val’s jaw ticked.

“But she went missing—”

“Two years ago. Yes.”

The man took Brina’s hand. She threw her head back and giggled. Just like the woman sitting a few seats over had done. The man, easily twice her age, laughed with her as he escorted her to a table on the other side of the parlor. She glanced around the room, saw Celia, and her eyes widened. Her smile blossomed, and she excused herself from her companion and crossed the parlor. “Celia Carlyle. I didn’t know you knew Lord de Cortia.”

Val shifted in his chair.

“I’m surprised you remember me.” They’d only met once years ago at court.

“I don’t think I could forget you. My brother talks about you all the time. Every time we’re at the Prince of Brawenal’s court, he points you out. I think he fancies you.”

“The Prince of Brawenal fancies me? I’d say he’s a little too old and a little too married for me,” Celia said, knowing full well she meant Val. It seemed strange Brina would talk about him as if he wasn’t right there.

“No, my brother.” Brina giggled and turned to Val. “Excuse me, I’ve been rude. I’m Brina Rous.” She held out a delicate hand.

Val took it and brushed his lips across the back. “Val.”

“That’s the same name as my brother.”

“Isn’t that funny.” Val’s tone remained light, but Celia could hear the strain.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you. I hope we have more time to talk at the festivities tonight.” Brina curtsied and skipped back to her companion.

“Oh Goddess, Val. What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t know who you are.”

“She’s entranced. It’s like our enthrallment except more powerful. Macerio has cast it on everyone who isn’t a vesperitti. None of them realize where they are, exactly.”

“But she knows she’s in Macerio’s house.”

“Yes, but she thinks it’s in the southern county and that it’s still the same day of the Festival of Souls when she went missing two years ago. That’s the strength of Macerio’s power.”