Ward Against Death

by Melanie Card

  She shook her head, drawing his focus to her blue-black hair. She had been dead for thirty-eight hours and yet her hair gleamed as if alive.

  Strange.

  “Any carvings? Artwork?”

  “No. There’s nothing but some furniture made from obsidian, like the railing. There are no books, though there are shelves, no sculptures, carvings, murals, or weaponry.”

  “Oh.” How disappointing. Grandfather would still love to see the cavern, but it wasn’t as significant as Ward had first hoped.

  “I haven’t been to all of the levels, though. It’s like a maze. It looks like every level has at least ten corridors off the main gallery and there are more corridors off those. I’ve only had time to map the first three levels.”

  Had her voice softened? She wasn’t really opening up to him, but maybe she’d realized how rude she’d been.

  “I sure would be interested to see the rest.”

  “You’re welcome to roam. Just don’t get lost.” Her voiced hardened again. “I don’t want to waste time searching for you.”

  So much for opening up to him.

  She continued past the second level to the third and took the first corridor that branched off. The light was dimmer here, only a hint of pale blue along the ceiling. On either side were small rooms, little more than alcoves, each with a wide obsidian bench against one wall and a basin and shelf on the other.

  “Anything appeal to you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “These are sleeping chambers. Which one do you want?”

  He didn’t want any. He wanted a warm, soft bed and the chance to sleep all day, but he suspected he wouldn’t get either for a while. At least not until this mess with Celia was sorted out. “How about one with a seaside view.”

  “Then I suggest you take that one.” She pointed to her left but didn’t stop. “All the rooms have witch-stone on the back wall. You can activate it by holding your hand against it for a few minutes. It’s not very bright and will only last a quarter of an hour.”

  They turned a corner. Brighter light illuminated the end of the corridor; it came from a large, well-lit room with shelves, a wide desk, and two chairs—all made from obsidian. It looked as if a library had exploded. Papers covered the floor, the desk, the chairs, and the shelves. There wasn’t enough floor to walk on without disturbing anything, so Ward stood in the doorway. Celia picked her way to a chair, gathered the papers from it, and placed them on the desk. Without inviting Ward to sit, she plopped down in the chair and dropped her rucksack at her feet.

  “I thought you said there weren’t any books.”

  She didn’t look at him. “They’re mine.”

  “I see.”

  She closed her eyes and stretched out. In this light, her flesh held a hint of rose and the reddish-purple mottling along the back of her neck was gone.

  Ward suppressed a shiver. Even though a wake spell reactivated the body’s normal functions, he’d never heard of livor mortis fading, let alone disappearing.

  His gaze dropped to his hands, drawing his attention to the filth-encrusted bandage around his wrist. He really should change it. If he asked, would she admit she had medical supplies? Probably not. He’d have to make do. He grabbed the edge of his shirt and tried to rip off a piece for a new bandage. The fabric didn’t budge.

  “What are you doing?”

  He glanced up. She stared at him, her pale gaze making him colder.

  “I need a clean bandage so this doesn’t get infected.” He held up his wrist.

  Her brow furrowed as if he’d spoken a foreign language. Maybe he should try that next; he was fluent in five others. But showing her would probably be faster. He worked the knot free and revealed the gash in his wrist. A trickle of blood crept down his forearm, and he clamped his other hand against the wound.

  “Oh.” She continued to stare.

  “Do you have bandages?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She rummaged through her rucksack, pulled out a bundle of clean linen strips, and motioned Ward to her side. He tiptoed through the mess of papers and placed his wrist on the arm of the chair.

  He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was thinking. Did she realize he’d slit his wrist to bring her back from across the veil? Did that change her opinion of him? He doubted it. He was still awkward Ward, the bookworm.

  She bound his wrist and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Their interaction was over. He bit his lip, fighting his frustration. He wanted to demand answers, find out what they were going to do next, but he wouldn’t get a straight answer. She’d say something flip or not say anything at all. She probably just needed time to think. Figure her emotions out. He certainly would if he’d woken up dead, thinking someone had murdered him—if that was, in fact, her situation.

  He sighed. He should find a room and try to sleep, so he could think of his own plan.

  “We should visit Solartti.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He couldn’t decide if he should agree to go now, or ask if he could get some sleep first. “What or who is Solartti?”

  “He’s a friend.” She shifted her position, pulling one leg up under the other. “He’ll know what’s going on.”

  Good. Someone who knew what was going on. “And can we trust him?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She laughed and picked up a parchment. “We can trust him as much as we can trust anyone.”

  Ward wasn’t certain what that meant, but it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  SEVEN

  From her makeshift common room, Celia grabbed a rucksack that held a few small loaves of flatbread. She added some apples and a generous handful of dried meat, and slung it over her shoulder. Running a hand through her hair, she freed her dark locks from the braid she usually kept it in and let it fall loose down her back. She snagged one of her three jugs of ale and headed to Ward’s room. His seduction was about to begin.

  After a restless sleep, she’d left the cavern late that afternoon. Without thought, she’d wandered back to the Bay of Veknormai and watched the waves wash over the black sand until the setting sun painted everything red. Her mind flitted from problem to problem, never settling on one thing long enough for it to register. What she did decide was something needed to be done about Ward.

  She took the stairs to the third level and headed down the hall toward her study, peeking in each sleeping room and looking for Ward. She found him a few doorways down. He sat in the center of the floor in the dark, his legs crossed, back straight, shirt off, eyes closed. She’d heard that necromancers meditated a lot. Guess it was true. With the soft light from the hall, she could see the hint of wiry muscle along his arms and chest. Given time to grow into his body, she could imagine him as a striking, noble figure. He’d never be as broad as Bakmeire, but Ward could match him in height. Now all he needed were lessons in grace and—

  What was she thinking? He was a mark, not a suitor.

  “Rise and shine,” she said before she had any more ridiculous thoughts.

  His eyes flew open, and he scrambled to the bed and snatched his shirt, clutching it to his chest.

  “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

  “It’s not like there’s a door.” This was not going as planned. How had he managed to put her on the defensive so fast?

  “Which is why respecting someone’s privacy is so important.”

  Celia took the four steps to the back of the room and pressed her palm to the witch-stone, bringing it to life. “I could take my shirt off as well, if you’d like.”

  “No... ah... No.” He flushed, turned his back to her, and dragged his top over his head. “That would be—”

  “I brought food,” she said, saving him from overtaxing his brain by trying to create a complete sentence. Well, his stammering response proved he found her attractive—or perhaps just forthright. But she didn’t know how to overcome his shyness. Most men threw themselves at her, begging for her attention, a kiss, or even
a glance. This was new.

  She set the rucksack and jug on the bed and sat beside it, nodding for Ward to join her. He glanced from her to the food and back.

  “I only bite if you ask.”

  His eyes widened.

  Damn, too strong.

  “Listen, it’s night and we have a lot of work to do before the sun rises.” She handed him a loaf of bread, picked up one for herself, broke off a chunk, and popped it in her mouth. It was dry and tasted like dust. Was it really that bad or was lack of taste a side-effect of Ward’s spell? This particular bag had been sitting in the cavern for a while, the first of her emergency store she’d hoped never to use.

  He sat on the other side of the rucksack. “How do you know the time?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The time. How do you know?” He reached for a piece of dried meat and she snaked her hand out, aiming for the same piece to initiate a touch, but he jerked back at the last minute.

  “Did the Ancients leave some way to tell the time down here?”

  She picked up the meat and offered it to him. He didn’t notice.

  “Ward.” She extended her arm, making the offer clear.

  “No, thank you. Do the witch-stones turn on and off depending on the time?”

  She didn’t want to talk about the Ancients, witch-stone, or the time. How could she seduce him if he was so oblivious?

  “Ale?”

  He jumped from the bed as if bitten. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he looked green.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m fine, fine. You said we should go, let’s go, we’re burning daylight. Or moonlight. Or whatever.” He fled the room as if the Dark Son Himself were at his heels. She would have fallen over laughing if it wasn’t the opposite reaction she’d hoped for.

  So much for trying to be nice.

  §

  The night in the fourth ring was quiet, unaware of the disaster that was now Celia’s life, or unlife. She couldn’t figure out which. And now, enveloped in the shadows of an alley with the remnants of the late day’s heat seeping into her limbs and drawing her toward sleep, all the thoughts she’d avoided examining earlier flooded her mind, each vying for attention.

  Ward had said last night he’d had to improvise. Was it just with a hiding place? Or had he meant the Jam de’U as well? Blood magic felt evil—even to someone who killed for a living—and there was always a price. How long before she fell over dead? An hour? A day? She needed to know more, but didn’t want to ask Ward. Although perhaps showing some weakness might help open him up.

  No, not that kind of weakness. It would have to be something she could better control. She’d find another necromancer, someone with more experience who didn’t stammer as soon as she looked at him.

  She reached out of the shadows with tentative fingers and dipped them into the stream of moonlight. What kind of a creature was she now? Had Ward’s spell made her more—or less—than human? The scary stories her brothers used to tell her about walking skeletons and decaying zombies drifted forward, but she wasn’t anywhere near that. Was she?

  She shrugged off her momentary lethargy—the spell obviously did nothing to stave off the exhaustion from no sleep the night before—and checked to make sure Ward was still behind her. He leaned against the alley wall, gazing at the stars. He had such thin features, a long face and nose, and a small chin. There had to be some nobility in his blood. In this light, his eyes were huge, brown, unfocused pools. What was he doing? Thinking? She had never met anyone so out of touch with the real world. In her world, being out of touch got one killed.

  At what point had she lost touch?

  No. She hadn’t lost touch; it had been a conspiracy. Which didn’t justify anything, but did place the blame on someone else.

  However, all the blame lay with her over how problematic Ward’s seduction had become. He’d seen her temper and some of her martial abilities, and it showed. He hadn’t reacted the way she’d expected to her attempts at flirtation and friendship. She wanted to scream, give him a good shake, and tell him the game was up. No one was that naïve.

  But yelling at him wouldn’t win his confidence. She needed to lull him into a sense of security, thinking her unaware. Then she could seduce his secrets from him without him noticing.

  “We’ve been standing here forever,” Ward said.

  They hadn’t been, and really, how could he have noticed the passage of time wandering around in his thoughts like that?

  “Let’s talk to this friend of yours and get it over with.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Sure, if you want to get yourself killed.”

  “I thought you said we could trust this man.”

  They could, as far as trusting another assassin went. And Solartti was the person most likely to have sent her the note, warning her of the assignment on her life. What she hadn’t told Ward was Solartti was also the person most likely to have been given the assignment. Still, he was the most trustworthy assassin she knew and she needed information. So to Solartti she must go.

  Peeking out of the alley across the empty street, she studied her goal: a narrow, three-story house. Unlike its solid one- and two-story stone neighbors, the building was of an old design, constructed of wood with delicate, carved detailing around the windows and eaves. Over the years, with the harsh sea air sweeping up from the docks and the periodic shudders from the sleeping volcano beneath the city, the house had warped and bent like an old man. If Solartti hadn’t purchased and renovated it three years ago, it would have been torn down and replaced with another boring stone dwelling.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face and stepped out of the alley. If she was going to be walking about the streets, she might as well put her talents to use. She changed her gait, leading with her gut instead of her hips, hunched her shoulders, and clasped her hands before her. She strolled across the street into the alley beside Solartti’s house, keeping an eye on Ward as he followed her. He looked suspicious, radiating nervousness, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. Telling him to relax would probably start an argument. They faced the potential of a long night if Solartti didn’t have the assignment on her life, and she didn’t want to waste precious shadows quarreling in an alley. Better to keep her mouth shut.

  Solartti’s bedroom sat on the third floor at the back. If not for Ward, she would have scaled to the window and climbed in. However, since he was here, he should participate. She led the way down the alley to the back of the house and slipped the thin case containing her picks from her belt. It was a basic collection, since she was an assassin and not a thief, but the six slim, bent wires covered most situations.

  She picked her least favorite. Thicker than the others, it possessed less flexibility but would withstand a finger-guillotine better. Likely an unnecessary precaution. Assassins didn’t bother much with complicated locks, at least on their houses. They knew anything could be picked or blown-up, so there was no point wasting money on an expensive lock. Probably, only a few wards protected the bolt.

  Ward blew out a loud breath.

  She glanced back at him. Ward was still warding; she just couldn’t figure out what. Which really didn’t matter. Like the obstructions built into the lock, she’d circumvent his precautions and figure him out.

  She slipped the pick into the keyhole and wiggled it past one... two... three wards, and no traps. A mediocre lock, just difficult enough to keep out the amateurs. Which meant the first ward was probably false. She could always go back to it later. With the pick between the second and third wards, she slid the bolt open, pushed down the door latch, and let them in.

  The kitchen was dark and smelled of salted fish. A kettle sat over the banked embers of the day’s fire. Good. That meant Solartti’s day-maid had left and he had gone to bed. Behind her the door clicked shut, and she smiled. Ward had enough common sense to close the door and be quiet about it. Perhaps there was hope for him.

/>   “I was wondering when you’d come.” Solartti’s voice rumbled through her.

  She eased her hand to the dagger at her waist but didn’t draw it, and scanned the room instead. There, in the back corner of the kitchen. A large shadow. “Well, since you’re here and I’m here, why don’t we shed some light so my wayward necromancer can see?”

  Solartti chuckled, which probably sounded like a growl to the unfamiliar. “I thought necromancers could see in the dark.”

  Ward harrumphed but didn’t say anything.

  Flint struck steel with a snap. A spark caught a wick and a tiny yellow flame danced on the end of a stubby candle.

  Solartti smiled and sat forward, candle in hand. “Care to build up the fire?”

  Celia glanced to the hearth then back to Solartti. He looked even larger than she remembered, his massive shoulders bulging under his shirt. She pulled out a chair from his kitchen table and sat. “No thanks.”

  Solartti shrugged and sauntered across his kitchen to the hearth. Without a word, he tossed in some kindling. It caught, flaring to life, and the kitchen flooded with light.

  It was a small kitchen, clean and bare. Not a knife in sight—an uncommon habit for anyone but an assassin. Hanging above the hearth were a few pots and pans, which she wouldn’t be able to reach unless Solartti moved. Likewise for the wood and kindling in the box against the wall. Her primary means of escape were the door behind her or the window to her left. Another option was through the parlor to the front door, but that would mean passing Solartti, and Ward wouldn’t be fast enough to get by.

  Solartti crossed his arms and leaned against the side of his hearth, one eyebrow raised. His dark hair fell loosely around his square face, hints of gold strands catching the firelight. A wry smile pulled at his lips, made even more roguish by the day’s worth of stubble dusting his cheek.

  It was her turn to talk, and he wasn’t going to make this easy. Yet for some strange reason, she still considered this man a friend.

  “I suppose I should thank you first for the letter.”

  Solartti barked a quick laugh. “You don’t have me to thank for it. I only just heard you knew about the Dark Son’s minion.”