Ward Against Death Part 21

"That's the thing. I've been looking at this for years now and I still can't see anything. It doesn't make any sense." She flipped through the pages, pulled a few out from the middle, and placed them on top of the pile. "His original work was on the wall carvings found in the Holy City of Veknormai. He was"-she scanned the first page-"looking at text and imagery."

"That's awfully vague. What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Although I don't think he knew, either."

Ward pulled out a book at random. It was bound in brown leather and the edges of the cover were worn down to the thin wood beneath.

"In his notes he claims he wanted to catalog all imagery and pertaining texts. Which, given the size of Veknormai, was likely intended to be his life's work."

Ward flipped open the cover. The History of Brawenal.

"But he seems to get sidetracked on a particular wall carving. Are you listening to me?"

Ward closed the book and put it back. "Yes."

"The rest of his notes are on this carving."

"So what does he say?"

Celia rubbed her face with her hands. "I don't know. It's as if he goes crazy or something-which could very well be why an a.s.signment was purchased." She pushed the pages across the desk toward Ward.

He picked up the pile and sat again in his chair, glancing over sketches of unrecognizable images with notes scrawled all around, written at every angle.

"Take a look at the sixth or seventh page," Celia said. "He mentions some kind of map to the Tomb of Souls, and beside that is some kind of list, but I don't recognize any of the items."

Ward flipped through the pages until he came to one divided in half with a jagged line. On the left were notes about a map and a tomb, and on the right script in what looked like Ulstaas, one of the oldest written languages, but he didn't recognize some of the characters. Below that was a broken translation with three words underlined: ta.s.seseris, ibria, and mortical. It seemed much shorter than the original, and Ward suspected it was incomplete. He recognized all three underlined words, and it didn't surprise him that Celia didn't. They were herbs used only by necromancers, and they were very rare. In all the time he'd studied with his grandfather, Ward had never witnessed their use or seen the plants. They were dangerous, even for a necromancer. His only introduction had been from a book he'd sneaked from Grandfather's library.

"Those three words are herbs."

"Do you know what they do?" Celia asked.

"Something about the soul, but all I can remember is they're dangerous."

Ward turned back to the page. Below the translation, Nicco had written a list of speculations: healing, strength, long life, astral projection, reading thoughts, magic. They were all things the Ancients were rumored to do. Astral projection was circled. Ward supposed if the body and soul were separated, as in death or a reverse wake, and something was done to prevent the soul from returning to the body or crossing through the veil once it had lost its connection with its corporeal form, astral projection could be possible. Certainly, generations after the Ancients had died, man had developed many of the skills listed. The Brothers of Light could control the energy that radiated from all things, and the Inquisitor division of the Quayestri could project people's memories and sense emotions.

"There are also more notes on that tomb and something called the Nectar of Veknormai. It's the page with the joined circles on it."

Ward thumbed through the pages to the uneven sketch of four circles overlapping in the center.

"I'm not sure what it is. According to the books I've read, Veknormai translates to 'the dead.' Hence, the Holy City of the Dead."

"Which would make sense, given that Veknormai is a cemetery." What he wouldn't give to examine a body from that cemetery. He chuckled, and Celia glared at him. "Sorry. Nectar of the dead just seems odd. It's nothing I've ever heard about. Although this list could be what he's referring to."

"I suppose." She sighed. "I just don't know why they aren't together in his notes."

Ward flipped to the three pages in between. There were more odd sketches that looked like stick people and a few more of those joined circles. Around these pictures were more of the Ancients' strange language and a few phrases in Brawenal's modern script.

Does 'shadow walker' mean Dark Son?

What are the 'first blossoms' and the 'Nectar of Veknormai'?

"Shadow walker means Dark Son?"

"It looks like a t.i.tle for the Dark Son. But I haven't found anything about it in any of my books."

"I suppose it's proof that the Ancients made reference to the G.o.ddess and Her two Sons. That by itself is an outstanding achievement."

Celia nodded. "I agree. There's been speculation, but no proof the Ancients wors.h.i.+ped the G.o.ddess."

"Do you think that would be enough to kill someone?"

"I'm not a member of the academic world."

Ward set the pages on the desk. "Then we should probably go talk to one."

"Grysmore?"

"Just the person I was thinking of."

"But I had already planned on talking to Grysmore," Celia said with a slight smile. "You can't just announce the idea as if it had suddenly occurred to you."

"Of course not."

"If we're going to the Collegiate of the Quayestri, then there are a few things we should work on first," she said.

"Like this veiling-of-one's-thoughts thing?"

She gave him a wicked grin. It reminded Ward of her expression in the records room, when the arrows were flying past their heads.

TWENTY-FOUR.

Ward rubbed his face, leaned back in the obsidian chair in Celia's study, and stretched his legs out. His arm hurt, and now his head hurt as well. The concept of veiling his thoughts wasn't as difficult as he'd first imagined. There was no magic, no spell, no meditation-well, maybe it was a meditation. Keep your thoughts focused on your goal, or something mundane, or both. Still, he had no idea how successfully he'd learned the skill.

And he really hoped he'd learned it. The Collegiate was filled with apprentice Inquisitors who were even more dangerous than regular ones. Their untrained ability could latch onto a person's mind without conscious thought from the Inquisitor and rip away everything a person was, putting it on public display. However, without an Inquisitor to try it against, he had no way to determine if it would work.

He did have an Inquisitor he could practice with, however, and he was due for a house call. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, but he was more than knee-deep in the situation now. He'd cut a hole in the man. Right in front of a Tracker. There was nothing he could do now and he couldn't leave town. He'd sworn the Oath and was obligated to continue treatment until the man's good health was determined.

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. He supposed he should get the visit over with, practice veiling his thoughts, and get back before Celia noticed he was gone.

Maybe the Inquisitor would be unconscious, but that would mean the Tracker would be in a bad mood since unconsciousness would indicate a turn for the worse.

He headed down the hall to his bedchamber, pa.s.sing Celia's, and glanced in. She lay on her side, her back to him, with one arm tucked under her head and a thin wool blanket covering her torso, leaving her bare feet exposed.

She seemed so peaceful. He didn't think it was possible for her to be so still, not bristling with her usual undercurrent of anger.

He leaned against the archway, careful of his arm, and watched the steady rise and fall of her body as she breathed. She would have been an indomitable Dominus' wife, albeit with her ambition the marriage wouldn't last. She'd more likely demand the reins of the Gentilica and ensure her husband was her puppet or, better yet, dead. Even knowing that, knowing he was but a necromancer and she a n.o.bleman's daughter, and that she was dead, he could still feel a yearning, an attraction.

It was just her appearance, her lithe body, black hair against pale skin, and icy eyes. He didn't want Celia, only someone who looked like her.

No, that wasn't true.

He couldn't wrap his mind around it. She was dead-as much as she didn't look it-and she wouldn't think twice about killing him, but he still hadn't run away. He wanted to help her solve her murder even more than before. He wanted...

He shoved away from the archway and stepped toward her. He was in love with the puzzle. That was all. Her murder, Solartti's murder, Nicco's a.s.sa.s.sination. He took the blanket, and pulled it over her feet.

She stirred, and Ward froze, holding his breath. If she woke he'd be caught, and he might not be able to sneak out. Thankfully, she sighed and rolled over, her eyes still closed.

"Sweet dreams. I'll see you in the morning." But he didn't know if he would. He didn't know what the Tracker was going to do when Ward checked in on his partner.

"He's complaining of pain," the Tracker said.

Ward shouldered his way into the room, sending a spike of fire through his arm, reminding him he should have put it in a sling, immobilizing it, or gone to bed for a week to let it heal. Trying to put on the last clean s.h.i.+rt he'd taken from his apartment had been excruciating. He had no idea how he was going to keep up with Celia if something so simple left him gasping.

It gave him a pretty good idea how the Inquisitor felt. "Of course he is. I cut a hole in him."

The Tracker frowned, and Ward focused on his patient, crossing the room and setting his bag down.

"Did you check the incision and wash it?" He didn't turn to see if the Tracker responded. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the Inquisitor. A good doctor could learn a lot from observation, and Ward prided himself on his diagnostic accuracy. The man's color was good, returning to a healthier hue, and there appeared to be no perspiration-a sign his fever had broken.

Ward placed the back of his hand on the man's forehead. Not too hot. Not too cold. Good.

The man groaned and opened his eyes.

Consciousness. Another good sign.

"How are you feeling?" Ward asked.

"Like I've been run through with a dull blade."

"I can a.s.sure you, the blade was anything but dull." Ward pulled the blanket back and looked at the bandages. The wrapping wasn't great, but it did indicate that the Tracker had checked it. Ward untied them. "We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Edward, your physician. And you are...?"

"Pietro."

The wound looked good. Some redness and swelling, as he expected, but no abnormal coloration and no sign of pus. As much as some of his professors were adamant that pus was a natural stage of healing, Ward couldn't bring himself to agree. He'd never known a paper cut to pus before healing; why would something bigger be any different?

He looked at the Tracker. "The wine and oil?"

The man nodded and left.

"Well," Ward said, turning back to Pietro, "I'm going to wash this again, but it looks like you'll live." He ran his fingers gingerly along the edge of the swelling.

Pietro grabbed his hand. "You're in trouble."

A myriad of thoughts flashed through Ward's mind: the operation, Celia, stealing from the Keeper, taking bodies from cemeteries and the necropsies afterward.

He clamped down on them, trying to remember Celia's instructions on how to veil his thoughts. Of course, veiling his thought didn't matter. He'd already given the Inquisitor proof of his guilt by performing the surgery. "Not if your brother keeps his word."

"My...? No." Pietro furrowed his brow. "I mean this is trouble, but Nazarius wouldn't... There's something else. You're in over your head, and it scares you."

"Now, don't you worry." Ward pried his hand free, his heart pounding. He needed to focus on the operation. Concentrate. "My rent is just a little difficult to pay, and my landlord is a very big man."

Pietro shook his head. "No. There's something else. It's bigger than you. I can sense it. You can find help with the Quayestri."

Ward snorted then coughed to hide his reaction.

Nazarius entered with two jugs and clean rags and set them on the bed table beside Ward.

"I can-"

"You just lie there and heal." Ward poured the wine into a rag and washed the st.i.tches and surrounding flesh. Pietro hissed from the bite of the alcohol. "You need to keep still for at least a week."

Ward couldn't afford to get caught now. "Go to an herbalist and get powdered henbane. It will ease his pain and help him sleep. Place two to five grains in watered wine and give it to him as needs be, but do not exceed twenty grains in one day. He'll heal faster if he sleeps, but remember not to miss any meals. Start with broths and softened bread."

He washed the wound with the oiled rag, sealing it from rot, and rebound it. He'd been foolish to think he could continue treatment on an Inquisitor without incident. "Check the incision every day and wash it with wine and oil for the rest of the week. If the swelling doesn't go down or pus forms contact..." He thought about which physician in town would be the best to go to with a wound that looked suspiciously like a surgical incision, but there wasn't anyone he knew well enough to trust. "Whoever you go to, don't believe them if they say pus is natural. It means the wound has gone bad."

Ward sucked in a deep breath. "I wish you and your"-he tried to keep his voice even-"brother, well. You will not see me again."

"What does that mean?" Nazarius asked. "You can't just cut him open and leave."

"Life can get complicated."

"Complicated? You've taken the Oath. You have to continue treatment until you can say for certain he's better."

Ward opened his mouth for a retort about how plans change, but closed it. If he didn't live by that d.a.m.ned Oath, could he still call himself a physician or even a surgeon? It was the foundation of the Healer's philosophy and no matter how uncomfortable Pietro made him, he had an obligation. An obligation that put him in direct conflict with his situation with Celia. Pietro was right. He was in over his head. If Celia caught him sneaking out, he was sure she'd kill him. And if he kept making visits, it was only a matter of time before she caught him.

He glanced at Pietro, who looked back at him, silent and knowing. Why hadn't he said something? He must've known-he was an Inquisitor.

Regardless of whether Pietro would tell his secret, or Celia caught him, he was obligated.

d.a.m.n.

"I'll return tomorrow night."

TWENTY-FIVE.