Ward Against Death (6 page)

He let them fall into the water and ran his hands over his coat again with more of an effort to clean it, but didn’t dislodge the filth. It would take more than a dip in the sea to clean his clothes. He needed a miracle.

Celia swam to his side, as graceful in the water as she was on land. Wasn’t there anything she couldn’t do?

“Strip down.” She reached for him, but he shied away. Her expression darkened for a moment, then changed so fast he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. Now she appeared fine, if a little worried. Which, he supposed, could be expected. He certainly was worried.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” She waded out of the water and stepped into the sewer pipe.

“Sure, I’ll just run around naked. It couldn’t be any more embarrassing than the last two days.” He sank into the water until it reached his chin, reveling in the fire in his arm and the pull of his engorged clothes.

Toward shore.

Away from shore.

Toward and away and always down to the coarse black sand below.

He snorted. At least he was still alive. Bathing in a cursed bay, but still alive. He gathered his thoughts and took stock. The jacket and cloak would have to go. They were beyond hope, but his shirt might be salvageable. His breeches would have to do until he could acquire a new pair. There was no sense in getting arrested for something as silly as indecency. And while the salt water would ruin his leather shoes, they would still be able to carry him out of Brawenal and away from
her
.

Admittedly, Celia had said she’d return, but he didn’t really believe her. How could he? She’d lied to him about her father murdering her. She probably had countless people who wanted to kill her. Heck, if Ward hadn’t taken the Physician’s Oath,
he’d
probably try to kill her.

He stripped off the cloak and coat, the ruined wig still half stuffed in an inside pocket, and let the waves take them away. A physical representation of his life, completely out of his hands. Above, the moon illuminated him in all his pathetic misery. As if someone like Celia needed his help. He was such a fool, letting her seduce him with her desperate innocence.

Tears threatened to spill, burning his eyes, and he blinked them back. He’d indulged in enough self-pity. He’d started his life over once before. He could do so again.

He eased back, letting the waves carry him to shore, to the Black Cliffs of Veknormai, a gigantic frozen lava flow looming over the bay. At the top, from the edge of the cliffs to the mouth of the volcano, sat the Holy City of Veknormai, a white sandstone cemetery that glowed like a beacon when touched by sunlight, calling to whatever gods the Ancients had worshiped.

“Time’s up,” Celia said. “We’ve got to go.” She stood in the mouth of the sewer pipe with a bundle in her hands. “I thought I told you to undress.”

“If I said take your clothes off and then left, would you?” He scrubbed at the filth in his hair.

“No, I suppose not.” She smiled. Was it a genuine smile? Or was she still toying with him?

He unbuttoned his shirt, dropped it in the water, and waded ashore. “My clothes.” He held out a hand.

“Your breeches.”

“I have very little dignity left.” He didn’t want to beg, but would if it meant maintaining his modesty. He couldn’t bear it if she laughed at him right now.

She sighed, but handed the clothes over. Then she grabbed her rucksack and cloak and stepped into the shadows of the sewer pipe.

“So, what now?” Amazingly, she’d not only provided a simple linen shirt and coarse cotton pants, but a pair of leather boots that might actually fit. He dragged the new shirt over his head, making sure not to brush his bandaged wrist. The bandage was filthy and might cause an infection, but he couldn’t remove it without having a fresh one ready.

“Now, I need to think,” Celia said.

Ward wedged the boots in the crevice where Celia’s stuff had been, and wrapped the pants around his neck. Unhooking his belt, he placed that around his neck as well. “And where do you plan on thinking? Here?” He yanked off his ruined shoes and peeled away his wet breeches and hose.

“Of course not.”

He pulled on the new pants and boots, and ran his belt through the loops. “Of course.” Nothing was going to be simple with Celia Carlyle.

SIX

Ward marched after Celia through the sewers for hours, avoiding the stream of sewage as best he could. Then, for no apparent reason, she stopped and ran her hands against the slimy walls. They were in between access pipes and had just passed a worker’s alcove. There was no logical reason to stop and feel the walls.

Maybe the fumes had finally addled her mind. If he didn’t breathe fresh air soon he would surely lose his. “Are we taking a break?”

“No.”

“Well, then don’t pay any attention while I catch my breath.”

“If you wait a minute, you won’t have to catch it from the sides of your mouth.”

Sides of his mouth? So that’s how she could stand breathing air rank with urine and feces without gagging. It would have been nice if she’d mentioned something earlier, before his nose had finally given up and stopped registering the smells.

Something clicked and part of the sewer wall swung inward, revealing a bright light. “We’re here.” She stepped into the light and disappeared.

Ward grabbed the edge of the opening and peeked in, but it was too bright to see clearly. He sucked in a quick breath through the sides of his mouth.

Celia’s face appeared before his. “In or out? I don’t know where Bakmeire is, and I really don’t want my family to know about this place.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he stepped through the portal into a place with warm, sweet air. He wished the actions that seemed so simple to Celia came easier to him. Close the door behind you. Take cover. Blend in. Were they too simple for his mind to register? Or had his mind taken refuge somewhere in his skull and refused to come out? All he could focus on was how he ached with exhaustion.

The door clickedng shut behind him.

“Boots off by the door.”

“Sure.” When he could see, he’d gladly put his boots beside the door.

Two soft thumps were followed by the gentle slap of bare feet on a hardwood or stone floor as she padded away, leaving him alone, blind, and unable to move without incurring her wrath since he couldn’t see the aforementioned door. Didn’t she ever wait for anyone?

Probably just not him.

He cracked open one eye. It watered in the light at first, but finally cleared. He opened the other eye, blinked back the tears, and looked around.

Before him sat an obsidian railing shaped like tree limbs. To either side, a path circled a vast cavern carved, like the sewer pipes, from obsidian. The ghostly hint of smoke caught within the volcanic glass shimmered in the light. It was amazing. Beautiful. He’d never seen anything like it.

He pulled off his boots and placed them beside hers. Warmth from the floor seeped into his muscles, making them ache even more. He ran his fingers along the railing. Perfect, polished glass, a trademark architectural feature of the Ancients’ structures. Above him, almost within reach, was a ceiling made of witch-stone, shining streams of colored light into the cavern. Since heat made witch-stone glow, he could only guess it was either some strange magic the Ancients had possessed, or a steam vent from the volcano beneath them. Below, the cavern extended into darkness with landings ringing the edge every twelve or so feet.

“Are you coming?”

Celia stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, tapping her foot like an impatient wife. Did she have any idea how she looked? Probably not. She didn’t seem the type to notice things like that. She was more likely to notice how many daggers someone carried, even the hidden ones, or how someone walked, and whether they carried themselves with the confidence that came with martial training.

She headed to a staircase, and he rushed to catch up. As she led him down the stairs to the second level, his gaze locked on the gentle swing of her hips. Her balance shifted from one foot to the other, creating a perfect curve to her buttocks with every step. The memory of her hand on his cheek and the tears in her eyes filled hicaves fillm with yearning. If only she wasn’t dead...

There still wouldn’t be any chance to be with her. She came from a different world, a world Ward could never recreate, no matter how successful a necromancer he became. On top of that, she was dangerous—and not just a daughter-of-a-wealthy-man kind of dangerous. It had something to do with how fast she’d killed those men, or how she’d jumped from the second-story window, somersaulted, and landed on her feet beside the pile of animal parts.

His stomach clenched at the thought and he shoved it aside before he could throw up again. “So, ah... how long have you known about this place?”

“Just over a year.”

“You do know what kind of discovery this is.”

“I suppose. But I haven’t found anything really interesting yet.”

Ward gasped, choked on his saliva, and coughed until his eyes watered. “Not found anything interesting? The cavern
itself
is interesting. It’s of Ancient design. My grandfather has studied the Ancients for his entire life. He would kill for a chance to get in here.”

“Oh.”

“Have you found any texts?”

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 cavernHae the c, 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 ou gh floowalk 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 on nd motiWard 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.