Ward Against Death (28 page)

THIRTY-ONE

It all happened so fast. Solartti tossed Ward over the edge and her heart skipped a beat. She clutched the rail, the glass slippery under her sweaty palms, the muscles in her legs tense. Someone grabbed her shoulder and threw her against the cavern wall. The air burst from her lungs. She tried to drag her thoughts back to the present, but couldn’t get them to focus. Her father, Bakmeire, that woman. Ward. How had they found her? She couldn’t wrap her mind around how they’d gotten in. A part of her knew they’d found one of the other entrances and had come from there.

She scrambled to her feet. Ward was dead. There was nothing to be done about it. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She didn’t want to. Regardless, she had to keep her head and escape. The door to the sewers lay a few feet away and Bakmeire was even farther. From the way he still hobbled, he wouldn’t be able to catch her. All she had to worry about was her father behind her, although her chances had decreased when he’d disarmed her in his initial attack.

She lunged for the door, twisting at the last minute, hoping he’d grab for her and not strike with his dagger. His fingers brushed her shoulder.

It was closer than she liked. There wouldn’t be enough time to pull the door open before he was in reach.

From the corner of her eye light flashed on metal. She sidestepped and the dagger nicked her sleeve. His hand came into sight. She grabbed it and twisted, yanking him around and down. He landed in front of her with a grunt. She stomped on his hand, forcing the dagger free, and kicked it over the edge. To follow Ward. She pushed that thought away. There’d be time to mourn Ward later.

Now her father lay between her and the door, and she wasn’t fool enough to chance getting past him. She turned on her heel and raced for the stairs. A sudden shiver wracked her body and she stumbled, grabbing for the wall to catch her balance. Darkness tugged at her consciousness. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. She gasped for breath. No. Not now. Not with Ward...

A third shiver doubled her over, but not even the warmth of the floor could heat away the cold within her.

§

“Is he dead?” The voice was young, high-pitched. Owned either by a girl or a boy before puberty.

“Check his breath, silly.” This voice also seemed young, but it definitely belonged to a boy, just past puberty and still with an unstable pitch.

If he was dead, Ward couldn’t figure out why children were debating the issue. It also didn’t explain why he was in such anguish.

“Are you going to stand there?” Ward recognized that voice. It belonged to the Tracker, Nazarius. “Or are you going to report?”

Two sets of booted feet scurried away. Where was he? The cavern? The floor under his cheek and hands were warm like the cavern, but only he and Celia knew the cavern existed. He corrected himself. Carlyle, Bakmeire, and Karysa knew—why not Nazarius?

A burst of panic sent his heart pumping. Carlyle had Celia. He had to get up and do... something, but just the thought of sitting up made his body burn. He groaned instead and opened his eyes. The obsidian floor and a small portion of wall blurred, slipping in and out of focus. He couldn’t tell if he had double vision.

A pair of boots came into view, worn at the toes, with mud splashed up the sides. Celia wouldn’t like someone wearing dirty boots in her cavern. A hand pressed against the obsidian floor between the boots. It had a wide palm and stubby fingers covered in calluses, the sign of someone who worked for a living. It looked too weathered to belong to either of the children, so it could only be Nazarius’s. The boots and hand blurred, multiplied, then shifted back into focus.

“I see you’ve found my luxury hotel,” Ward said, his voice a weak croak. He coughed and the salty tang of blood rolled over his tongue. He couldn’t remember hitting his face in the fall, but it had happened so fast, he supposed anything was possible.

“What happened? Are you all right?” Nazarius lowered his voice, and his cool breath fluttered against the inflamed skin on Ward’s cheek.

“Depends if you’re here to arrest me.”

“And if I am?”

“Then I’m dead and you’ve disposed of my body as befitting a criminal of my diabolical nature.” Besides, if he was alive and Nazarius was here to arrest him for performing an illegal surgery, or even for stealing Celia’s body, he might be better off dead.

“You know I can’t do that. Word came down from the top. You’re to be taken to the prince.”

Ward snorted, sending a spike of pain through his head. If told a week ago that the Prince of Brawenal requested his presence, he would have been overjoyed. Now... “I think I’ll pass on the invitation.”

“Let’s get a look at you before the apprentices return.” Nazarius grabbed Ward’s shoulder and hip and rolled him over. His body screamed in protest. He tried to take stock of where and how he was injured, but the pain was all-encompassing.

Nazarius sat back on his heels and clicked his tongue. “Well, you don’t look too bad.” He helped Ward sit up and lean against the wall. The effort left Ward shaking. He felt as if he’d broken every bone in his body. His heart pounded, blood rushed in his ears, and his stomach roiled. The cavern wheeled and blurred, and he prayed he’d pass out before he threw up.

“Trust me, I feel worse.” Although, from Nazarius’s reaction, it didn’t appear as if there’d be any noticeable scars, at least until the prince got ahold of him. “You’re sure you can’t say I overpowered you, or something?”

“Edward de’Ath the Fourth,” a new voice
said.

Ward glanced over Nazarius’s shoulder at a stocky man with a sizable girth. He wore utilitarian brown, but Ward was sure if he could get his eyes to focus properly, he’d see a Tracker’s pin at his collar. Behind the man stood a handful of apprentices, as few as six, as many as two dozen. Since they all wore the same uniform and all appeared to be twelve or thirteen years old, Ward couldn’t tell which were real and which were a result of his blurry vision.

“By order of Prince Kalodin, of the House of Bralmoore, Sovereign Ruler of the Principality of Brawenal, you are to be taken into custody to be extradited to the Principality of Olotheal to face pending charges of desecration of the dead.”

“Just Olotheal?”

A thick line formed between the man’s brows. He motioned to two of his apprentices and marched away. The two youths grabbed Ward by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Fiery agony engulfed him. His knees buckled, and he prayed the Goddess would grant him the gift of unconsciousness.

He wasn’t so lucky.

The apprentices dragged him up four flights of stairs without any consideration of his injured state. Before him, the wide back of their headmaster jumped in and out of focus. Somewhere behind him trailed the other apprentices and Nazarius. Had Nazarius betrayed him? That didn’t make sense. He’d seemed too concerned about Ward’s well-being—but Ward’s thoughts were as fuzzy as his vision. Celia was in trouble and he had to stop her father from turning her into the shadow walker. He had no idea how he was going to do that. He was just a nobody necromancer who wasn’t even good at necromancy.

And now he was in the custody of the Quayestri.

THIRTY-TWO

Celia woke with a start. Two people nearby hissed angry words at each other, and for a moment, one of them sounded like her father. No, it couldn’t be him. He’d never let his emotions come through his voice in such an obvious way.

More hissed words, the man’s voice rising, becoming clearer.

It was her father. She stilled her breathing and took a quick stock of her condition. Her arms and legs weren’t bound, but her dagger was missing.

“You said the boy wouldn’t be a problem,” her father said.

“And he isn’t.”

It was that woman, the one from the cavern, the one who had killed the boy from the inn with a kiss.

“Doesn’t look like it to me.”

“His spell will fade with his death. Even if I have to cast my own spell, which I doubt since the timing couldn’t be more perfect, there is nothing standing in my way.”

“You said that the last time,” Carlyle said.

“If you’d done what I instructed you to do, we wouldn’t have to worry about the boy.”

“If you had come when I called—”

“Brew the potion, have the girl woken, and make her drink it. How hard is that? This is destiny we’re talking about. Ours and the Union’s.”

Now she’d done it. No one talked to her father like that. His temper was famous among the Gentilica. She’d seen her father punish better men—and women, for that matter—for lesser offenses.

“You’ll just have to deal with it,” her father said. The edge that crept into his voice when he was furious was absent, as if the argument had suddenly drained out of him. She wanted to scream at him, tell him the woman and Bakmeire were planning on killing him, but she didn’t know if he’d listen. Heavy footsteps crunched away from her in the gravel, followed by a soft harrumph and the rustle of fabric. No one approached her prison.

She opened one eye just enough to see through her lashes and scanned the area. A crack to her right allowed in a feeble band of light, but otherwise the room was dark. She listened for any indication that someone watched her: breathing, the rustle of clothing, the scrape of metal or leather against stone or wood. Nothing. She couldn’t even hear anything beyond the room that would indicate where she was in the city.

Well, she wouldn’t be able to escape just sitting there with one eye half open. She had to get back to the cavern and—

And what? Ward was dead. She’d seen him fall. No one could survive that, not even Ward, who had more lives than a cat. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. All that time she’d planned to kill him, and now that he was dead, she wanted to take it back. They had talked about Ward as if he was some unwitting fool in their plans, and now she knew, too late, he really was hem, and no the gentle scholar he appeared to be.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. Action was better than tears. And while Ward would probably have understood tears, action was what she knew best.

But for what? There was no one to go back to, not her father and not Ward. If asked a few days ago, she would have said the solitary life was for her. She could fall back on her original plan and sail to the Misty Isles, but that held no appeal.

She pulled her loose, disheveled braid apart and retied it tightly, ready for business.

A part of her still couldn’t believe her father had been a part of it. In retrospect, the evidence was overwhelming and shouldn’t surprise her. But he was her
father
. That should mean something.

She squeezed her eyes shut and a single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek and dropped from her jaw onto her arm. She brushed the tear away and sniffed. Family had a different meaning in the Gentilica, and all were slaves to the whim of the Dominus.

Well, she’d be a slave no more. She sat up and scanned the room. Across from her stood a door outlined by thin lines of light. They didn’t flicker, so she could rule out torch or candlelight. Which meant the chances were good she was above ground and the door led outside. Depending on where she was, this could be very good or very bad.

She ran her hands over the floor beside her. Her father had made a mistake by not binding her. While he was aware she could escape from most bonds, she was sure he knew a few knots she wouldn’t be able to slip. Was he going soft? Could she use that to convince him to stop what he planned? And he had to have something planned or she would have been killed—again.

It didn’t matter. An advantage was an advantage and she should maximize it to the best of her ability.

The floor and wall beside her were smooth, like the floors and walls in the cavern, which didn’t fit with the light beyond. Admittedly, she hadn’t taken the time to explore the entire cavern but no part of it was exposed to the daylight. Someone—likely many someones—would know about the Ancients’ cavern if it could be seen from above ground.

To her right sat a wide, squat object—possibly a table—which ran from the back wall almost to the door. To her left, a series of shelves, crammed with oddly shaped objects. She tried to match any of her family’s holdings to her present location, but couldn’t make one fit.

She stood and crept to the door, listening for anyone nearby. Nothing. It was as safe as it was going to get. She ran her hands over the warm, polished surface, feeling for a latch or groove, but it was smooth. Perhaps it moved on a track? She pressed her palms against it and pushed. It didn’t move. She pushed in the other direction. Nothing. She leaned her weight against it, using all her strength, but it didn’t budge.

A sudden burst of panic sent her heart racing, and she forced it calm with long, even breaths. So she was trapped. She could handle this.

She took another moment to consider where she was. From the looks of it, along with the stone in the doorway, she had the growing suspicion she was in a tomb in Veknormai.

Regardless, she’d been in tougher situations. She
was
already dead. She would bide her time and wait for them to come for her. They
were
going to come for her. They had to. What else was the game of cat and mouse that had taken place over the last few days? Her father and that woman needed her alive—more or less—for something. All she had to do was wait.

She wished Ward was with her. He’d try to devise some idiotic plan to move the rock or ambush her father or something. He hadn’t deserved to die.