Rituals
“Why?” Berend asks in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”
Isabel tucks the object from the coat into a pocket of her skirt. “A spell–prepared ahead of time to make casting faster. It’s a sort of binding ritual.”
That doesn’t sound good. “For Lady Breckenridge?”
“I don’t know.”
Berend puts a hand on his sword and turns to the parlor door, but he stops himself before he goes anywhere. Nothing will be gained by revealing himself too soon, as much as he’d like to lop Geray’s head off right now, and Lady Breckenridge will never forgive him if he gets blood all over her dining room rug.
The voice of an old commander intrudes on his thoughts. Think, Horst, think.
He puts aside the plan of immediate action, at least for now. He can hear the clink of silverware and the occasional low buzz of conversation from the dining room. Nothing is amiss yet.
“We should keep an eye on them,” he says. “If they leave quietly, we can follow them.”
Isabel nods. “Catch them before they go back to the West Gate. Good.”
“Do you think Warder is in on it?”
“I suppose we’ll find out,” she replies.
Berend takes a few cautious steps across the parlor and into the front hall, so that the floor does not creak. The dining room has two doors—one here, and one in the kitchen. The men’s coats are still here, so they’ll be coming back this way. With a gesture to Isabel, he turns around and heads back to their listening post behind the parlor wall, and from there takes the servants’ hallway to the kitchen.
Breckenridge’s cook, a portly fellow with a wine-colored birthmark on his forehead, scowls at them as they enter. He’s never been friendly to Berend, and there’s no reason for him to start now.
Berend tips his hat and smiles. “I promise we’ll stay out of the way.”
“You had better,” the cook says, and returns to arranging berries on the top of a cake.
It looks delicious, and smells even better. Maybe if Berend performs a daring rescue, he can have some later.
Focus. He places himself as close to the dining room door as he dares. Isabel takes up a place beside him. He can’t see in, but he can hear a bit.
“With your help, I think we could get to the distribution stage early next year,” Warder is saying. “I just have a few more tests to run, and if all goes well, the next steps will be to source large quantities of the materials. It’s my understanding that this sort of thing is your area of expertise.”
“It is indeed,” Lady Breckenridge replies, but the rest of what she says is drowned out by a maid gathering dishes.
Berend strains his hearing, but he can’t detect anything from Geray. After spending the demonstration in sullen silence, he is apparently doing the same at dinner. It’s better than the alternative. Still, Berend hates waiting.
The next course goes out. This will be a while.
“I’ll stay here,” he whispers to Isabel under the clatter of dishes. “Take the back stairs down and wait by the front, but stay out of sight. I’ll join you as soon as they move.”
She nods and leaves the kitchen. A few moments later, the back door creaks. Berend leans against the wall and waits.
Time creeps by, and the dining room remains quiet. With the staff present, moving in and out of the room, there are too many witnesses for Geray—or Warder—to do any of the sorts of things Berend fears they will. Whose coat had the spell in it? Berend didn’t see either of them coming in, and the two men are of a similar height, so he can only guess.
He wishes he could see inside without being seen. He’d like to get a better look at Warder, to see if there’s any guilt in his face. Warder had been unfazed, cheerful even, after the encounter at the Belisia estate.
Maybe he is a murderer, too. A destroyer of souls. It would make sense that he and his research partner were in on this together.
Berend sighs. He’ll figure it out eventually, he guesses. Besides, whether or not Warder is involved, Berend still has questions about the device. Warder will have to be alive and well to answer them. Blood vengeance has to wait for its time.
At last, after what seems like an eternity, he hears chairs moving away from the table and footsteps going back into the parlor.
He goes around the back hallway and arrives at the peep-hole just in time to see Warder and Geray putting on their coats. The gray one—and therefore the spell that was in the pocket—is Geray’s.
Lady Breckenridge bids them farewell, and the doorman escorts them toward the front door. As soon as he hears it close, Berend goes into the parlor.
“Did you learn what you wanted?” Lady Breckenridge asks. Looking over Berend’s shoulder, she adds, “What happened to your friend?”
He takes her hand as he walks past and brushes her fingers against his lips. “No time to explain. Thank you for everything. If I don’t die, I’ll see you soon.”
Ignoring her indignant, confused protest, Berend runs down the stairs.
It’s completely dark, and clouds cover the sky. The street lights are dim. He can’t see Warden or Geray.
Something moves in the corner of his eye. He turns, his hand reaching for his sword.
“It’s just me,” Isabel says, stepping into what little light there is. “They went that way.”
She points up the main street, back toward the Temple District, and the opposite direction from the university. Berend has to assume they’re not planning a late-night meditation at one of the churches, and Geray is going back to the strange place by the warehouse district. And Warder is going with him—that’s interesting.
“I think we can still catch them,” Berend says. “Let’s go.”
He takes off at a run, one hand on his sword and the other on his hat, to make sure both stay with him. The street is silent and empty, and the sound of his boots echoes from the cobblestones to the walls. Geray and Warder will hear him coming.
Fine, he thinks. It’ll be as fair a fight as I can make it, in honor of the Sons of Galaser.
He catches sight of them after a couple of blocks, as they pass underneath a street lamp. Warder is gesticulating wildly with one hand, the case with the device tucked awkwardly under his other arm. Geray carries a sheaf of notes and papers. He puts his free hand in his pocket and takes it out empty.
A look of confusion is still on his face when he turns to see Berend. Quick as lightning, he drops the papers and a blade appears in his hand.
Warder’s cry of surprise is cut short as Geray yanks him by the arm and puts the blade to his throat.
“Have you gone mad?” Warder shrieks, his voice breaking with fear and surprise.
Geray ignores him. “I remember you,” he says, “and the Sentinel. Don’t come any closer.”
Berend’s boots scrape against the pavement as he skids to a halt. Would Geray really kill Warder, in the middle of the street? Berend doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out.
Warder has both arms around his case now, his knuckles white where his hands grip the corners. His panicked eyes flick between Berend and the arm around his neck, and down toward his notes, as they gently waft away like dry leaves down the street.
Berend holds his hands out. “Let him go,” he says, as though that will help. He doesn’t know if Warder was involved in any of the murders, including Mikhail’s, and that is exactly why he doesn’t want him dead. He might be the only person who understands how the device works. If it broke Mikhail’s ghost, the chances of it ever getting fixed will plummet if Warder is no more. Vengeance won’t mean much if Mikhail’s spirit isn’t at rest.
“I’m leaving, and I’m taking Warder with me,” Geray says. “Don’t follow me.” The threat against Warder’s life remains unspoken, but it is there, nonetheless.
“Taking me where?” Warder asks. His fear appears genuine. With every passing moment, Berend is more and more sure that despite his morbid fascination with ghosts, Warder must be innocent. It doesn’t make the current situation any easier.
“Be quiet,” Geray says. “Drop the device.”
Warder shakes his head—it’s more of a shiver. His hands tighten around the case.
“We don’t have time for this.” Keeping his gaze fixed on Berend and his arm clenched around Warder, Geray pulls a scrap of paper from inside the cuff of his shirt. He flicks it into the air.
It descends, pushed back and forth on the wind. Geray and Warder vanish.
Berend hears footsteps, both walking and half-dragging, and then nothing.
“Blast!” he snarls.
“He’s going back to the West Gate,” Isabel says. “We could try to head him off.”
“If we do that, he might just kill Warder.” He sighs. “Can’t you do something? Make them not invisible?”
“What’s to stop him from killing Warder if we follow them?”
“Just you and me,” says Berend.
Isabel looks around. “All right, but you’re probably not going to like it. I need a little time.”
Time is one thing they don’t have. “We’d better hope we can catch up,” Berend says. “Whatever you’re doing, do it fast.”
Warder’s papers brush against the pavement as they drift up the street. Berend picks up what he can—it’s all diagrams and symbols he can’t begin to parse. Warder said the device didn’t involve magic, but it might as well be sorcery, for what Berend can make of it. He folds the papers and tucks them inside his doublet. There are probably pages missing. He tries not to think of which important parts of the device they might pertain to.
“Ready,” Isabel says. She holds her hands out in front of her, and her fingers are covered in mud, or worse.
“What’s this?” Berend asks.
“I told you—you wouldn’t like it. Hold still.”
She reaches out to Berend and smears a line of mud up the bridge of his nose to his hairline. On either side, above his brows, she inscribes some kind of character. Her lips move in silent invocation.
“There,” she says, brushing dirt from her hands. She hasn’t done it to herself; Berend supposes one would need a mirror.
He doesn’t notice anything different. “Is that it?”
“Give it a moment. You should notice some strange colors, and a lack of depth perception.”
He raises an eyebrow—the one not obscured by his eyepatch. There’s a reason he hasn’t used a long gun since Braeden Hill.
“Right,” says Isabel. “Sorry. Anything now?”
The world has taken on an indigo hue. The buildings and street lamps are lined in shimmering silver, and they waver and bend as he turns his head. Isabel has also acquired a silvery glow, as if she were dusted with metallic powder. It collects around her sword and her book and leaves a glowing wake when she moves.
Berend takes an experimental step. The street leans slightly to the right before correcting itself. He holds out his hands for balance. This is not going to be an easy trip across town.
He can also see a trail: slivers of sickly, pale green light hanging in the air, leading from the spot where he last saw Geray, away toward the Temple District. They turn around the next corner, heading south.
“I see it,” Berend says. “Let’s go.”
Forward to Chapter Twenty-Four
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