Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (7 page)

Chapter Nine

Ward was starving when Allette finally ended the magic lesson and left to tend to her household duties. It was well past noon, and even if the morning’s exercises hadn’t been a complete failure, he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate past his growling stomach, the ache in his head, and the throbbing in his injured arm.

He shoved out of the chair and headed in search of the kitchen.

Allette had assured him he’d get it, he just needed more practice. Use his imagination to trick his mind into seeing the magic radiating around her.

But it didn’t matter how he concentrated, or breathed, or meditated, there was nothing but plain, magic-less reality, whether he stared at her or closed his eyes.

He couldn’t bring himself to pretend he possessed great magic. It was too heartbreaking. Only a flicker to help him cast wakes and usher the dying across the veil. And he couldn’t even sense
that
because of his mystical blindness.

He was magically weak, she was enspelled, and he had bigger problems—like stealing Macerio’s grimoire.

He was starting to sound like Celia, which left a sour taste in his mouth. But if he didn’t have a lot of magic, he couldn’t free Allette, and if she ran, Macerio would call her back or snuff out her soul.

An exilo de’U was nasty like that.

Ward could try casting a counter spell with the magic in someone else’s blood to bolster his lack of power, but he’d need lots to have any hope of overpowering Macerio. He doubted he’d find enough donors to provide all he needed, particularly without killing anyone.

On top of all of it, he still had no idea how he felt about Allette. He wanted to help her, wanted to believe her story was true, but he’d been burned by the
helpless woman
act before.

He rounded the corner to the main wing and tripped on the half-step up to the new level. By flailing, he managed to catch his balance, but the sudden movement ignited an inferno through his injured arm. Trying to ignore the pain until he had time to deal with it, he headed down the hall to the antechamber. Two large men with swords at their hips stepped through the front doors.

Ward froze. Bounty hunters. Except their clothes were finer than those he’d seen on the other thugs.

The closest man glanced up. His eyes widened, drawing Ward’s attention to the chiseled lines of his face. A nobleman. “Hey.”

Ward tensed to run, but the other man turned, revealing the black and red crest of the House of Bralmoore embroidered over his heart. They weren’t bounty hunters, they were the prince’s soldiers. Except the Prince of Brawenal didn’t employ noblemen in his guard.

“He fits the description,” the other man, with the wide forehead of a peasant, said.

“Edward de’Ath,” the nobleman said. Light flashed from a pin on his collar.

Cold recognition flashed through Ward. The prince didn’t employ noblemen, but the Quayestri did. If Ward fled, he’d reveal he wasn’t Quirin and all hope of stealing the grimoire would be lost. At least the pin said the man was a Tracker.

“Who?” Ward asked. Please don
’
t let the Tracker be partnered with an Inquisitor. He could lie to a Tracker, but there was no chance of lying to an Inquisitor—his memories would be projected into the air with seeing smoke and that would be that.

The Tracker dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword—like Nazarius always did. It had to be a Quayestri thing. “Edward de’Ath.”

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.” He fought to stay put while his mind screamed at him to run.

“Well, there’s an easy way to prove it. The criminal who escaped from the Prince of Brawenal’s dungeon has already been branded.” The Tracker stepped toward Ward, his hand gripping his sword hilt.

The prince’s soldier sneered. “It’d be more fun to drag him back to Brawenal to face an Inquisitor.”

“That’s an option, too,” the Tracker said.

Ward shifted back a step, unable to help himself. “You’d be wasting your time. I’m not this Edward you’re looking for.”

“Then show me the back of your neck,” the Tracker said.

“Yes,” a silky, feminine voice said. “Show him the back of your neck, Quirin.”

Lyla eased from the dark hall opposite the men. She wore a blood red dress with black embroidery swirling over it. Her hair was piled atop of her head, wound into complicated plaits. The style accentuated her neck and drew attention to her low-cut bodice.

The Tracker flicked a quick glance at her and returned his focus to Ward. All business. “My lady, please. This is a dangerous criminal.”

“Oh, is he?” Lyla asked, her voice breathy. She glided to the soldier’s side and traced her finger across his cheek.

He shivered, and his eyes grew glassy. She was so powerful, just a touch and the soldier was enthralled.

“I’m only trying to help.” She then drew up beside the Tracker, leaving the dazed soldier swaying ever so slightly. “How dangerous is he?”

“Show me your neck,” the Tracker demanded.

Lyla clutched the Tracker’s arm and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Yes, Quirin. Show the nice Quayestri your neck.”

The muscles in the Tracker’s jaw flexed, and he extracted himself from her grip. “My lady.”

With a growl, Lyla grabbed the front of the Tracker’s doublet and threw him against the wall. His head slammed into the pine paneling, and his eyelids fluttered. His knees buckled, but he sucked in a harsh gasp and straightened. His hand never left the hilt of his sword.

He jerked his weapon from its sheath as Lyla lunged at him. She knocked the blade away and grabbed his face. “You’ve looked. The man you want isn’t here, but you’ll stay the rest of the day and night.”

The Tracker bucked, but Lyla pinned him with one hand.

“You can’t fight it. My will is stronger than yours. The man you want isn’t here.”

“Not. Here,” the Tracker gasped.

“That’s right. He’s not here.”

The Tracker tensed. Lyla brushed her lips against his. A hint of red smoke drifted from her mouth and curled around him.

He sagged, and his eyes glazed over like the soldier’s. “I appreciate the hospitality. We’re looking for an escaped criminal.”

“Are you?” Lyla stepped back and smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress, all feminine and innocent. “I’m glad we can offer you shelter during your search.”

The Tracker glanced at Ward, but there was no recognition in his eyes. He turned to the soldier. “Find Yates, see if he’s found de’Ath. Then dinner and a night’s rest. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

The soldier nodded and lurched out the front door.

The Tracker offered a court bow to Lyla. “My lady, will I see you at dinner tonight?”

“Of course. You can tell me more about this terrible criminal.”

The Tracker bowed and followed the soldier out the front door. He left Ward alone with Lyla. This wasn’t an improvement.

“Such a pain when they resist the thrall.” The vesperitti raised an eyebrow, her lips curled back in a sneer…or was that her version of a smile? “So, are you going to show me the back of your neck?”

“I think a man should keep some mysteries to himself.” He wouldn’t stand a chance if she got ahold of him. She’d thrown that Tracker as if he’d weighed nothing.

“I thought that was women.”

“Hmmm. I should look that up.”

“Macerio is looking forward to chatting more with you.” Her gaze lingered on him. Hungry, like he was her next meal. “Edward de’Ath.”

Ice churned in Ward’s gut. “I don’t know who that is.”

“I do.”

Ward went numb. “You do?”

“A number of years ago, he tried to kill me. If I squint, I can imagine you look like him.”

“Kill you?” He’d never met Lyla and certainly had never faced a vesperitti before. His father had never mentioned an encounter with a vesperitti, either. But the magic maintaining a vesperitti’s soul in her body froze her at the age she’d died. It was hard to believe, but not impossible, that Grandfather or Great-grandfather had encountered her. Which implied Macerio was much older than he looked.

“Yes, kill me. That’s what necromancers do to vesperitti and Innecroestris. Try to kill them.” She rolled her eyes. “You really aren’t going to last long. If Macerio doesn’t eat you, someone else will.”

“I suppose so.” He wanted to say something witty, maybe cocky, but, with his luck, that would only make Lyla more interested in him, not less.

The hungry smile returned as if she could hear his thoughts, and she stalked across the antechamber to him. He staggered back and bumped into the wall.

“Shall we take care of you now? There’s not much to you,” she purred.

“And yet he did arrive with a pet,” Macerio said, striding down the hall toward them.

Lyla’s lips curled back in that smile-sneer again. “Quirin’s creativity can’t be denied.”

“Should I be jealous?” Macerio asked, his tone light yet somehow filled with menace.

Ward remained immobile, praying they weren’t discussing him as a dish for dinner.

Lyla reached to caress Ward’s cheek, and he flinched. She retreated and laughed, the sound dark and rich and filled with ice. “No, my lord. Creativity will only get him so far. He’ll have to have substance, as well.”

“Good. Now go ensure our Tracker and his soldiers are comfortable. He has a promising energy I’d like to examine later.”

“I thought you would.” Lyla blew Ward a kiss and sauntered off.

The Innecroestri turned his attention to Ward and frowned. “Did you sleep in your shirt?”

Ward ran a hand over his sleeves, brushing his sore bicep and drawing a flash of pain. He’d been so tired last night he hadn’t even thought to change. “Habit.”

“Ah yes, your trouble.”

Ward needed a logical explanation, or Macerio would suspect something. No. Macerio already suspected something—Ward was sure the man suspected everything. “It’s not an issue I like to make public.”

“We should talk about that. About acceptable and unacceptable mistakes.”

Fear churned his stomach. He opened his mouth but had no voice.

The door to the great hall opened and a couple danced out, hand in hand, saving Ward from having to come up with a response. Their gazes slid over Ward as if he weren’t there and, with conspiratorial giggles, scurried down the hall to the guest rooms.

“Tell me about making your first pet.”

Ward shrugged, hoping his gesture looked casual. “There isn’t much to say.”

“Discreet and modest. I’d say ingenuity isn’t something to be modest about.”

“I wouldn’t say I was—”

“Let’s not play that game, shall we? I know how you created your pet and while your initiator Lauro would say it’s the power within an Innecroestri that makes an Innecroestri, we know differently. Enota was a sad example of that. All the magical strength an Innecroestri could want, but no focus.”

Ward nodded as if he understood what Macerio was talking about. An Innecroestri without magical strength couldn’t make a vesperitti unless he took the power from someone’s soul—again, the assumption Ward had used human sacrifices to create Celia. It was foolish to think a man as powerful as Macerio wouldn’t notice Ward’s obvious weakness.

“I do find it interesting, however, that Lauro would recommend you in the first place.”

“I don’t question Lauro’s decisions.”

“Unless Lauro has designs on claiming the position of Lord of the Blood Council for himself. Maybe he thought he would send me a weakling, hoping I wouldn’t have any better prospects.” Macerio snorted. “He thought you’d go along with that, but there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

A woman in a red and gold gown turned to the door, but her gaze, like the two revelers before her, slipped over Ward.

“I suppose there is,” Ward said.

“How do I know you won’t betray me as well?”

Ward swallowed against the lump in his throat. He met Macerio’s hard stare and forced himself to stand his ground. “Lauro couldn’t see my potential. He thought sending me here would distract you and get rid of me. I’m serious about learning, and I think I’ve proven it.”

“You’ve certainly proven Lauro a fool.”

Misrepresenting his capabilities had apparently led Macerio to see him in a new, dangerous light. Hopefully, a light Macerio liked. If Ward looked too ambitious, Macerio would kill him rather than risk being dethroned. Ward couldn’t tell if wariness or appreciation colored Macerio’s expression.

Macerio laughed and slapped Ward on the back, jarring his sore arm. “We’ll have to see if Rodas is up for the challenge you present.”

Ward bit back a sigh of relief.

The woman in the red dress stepped into the antechamber and gave a startled squeak. “My lords, I didn’t see you there. The festivities are about to begin, come and dance.” She grabbed Macerio’s hand.

He twirled her and tugged her into his arms.

Ward held his breath. The last time Macerio touched someone, they’d rotted in a matter of heartbeats.

Macerio brushed his lips against the woman’s. “Another time, perhaps.”

She shuddered in pleasure, and her gaze grew unfocused. “Another time.”

Macerio turned the woman to face the great hall, and she wandered back inside.

“Festivities?” Ward forced out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but Celia would say the more he knew, the better.

“A peculiarity. You’ll find all my long term guests slightly…unusual.”

“Long term? Because this is a waystation? I thought all the ones on the old road were closed.”

Macerio laughed, motioned for Ward to join him, and strode out the door onto the wide front step.

Ward didn’t want to walk with this madman, but he had to stay in character and made himself follow.

A hint of a smile pulled at Macerio’s lips as if he could sense Ward’s discomfort. “The old waystations were closed, as far as the Grewdian Council knows. But this house has always been special.” Macerio nicked his palm with his nail, whispered something, and caressed a curve in an ivy tendril carved around the doorframe, leaving a bloody smear. Red light seeped up the wooden tendril to the bronze crest over the door. “My master’s trick. My master’s house, actually. I just maintain the spell.”