Ward Against Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

acrid scent of blood from the knacker yards next door clinging in his nostrils?
    With one long pull, he finished the small jug and shook his head to clear it. The room didn’t look any better. It was as long as the narrow cot pressed against the wall, and its width was only marginally better. He’d have sat on the lumpy pallet, but he couldn’t recognize half the stains on it and instead changed his mind and sat beside Celia’s body on the floor.
    He checked the incision he had made in his left forearm to ensure he was still bleeding. It stung, but the ale making him bleed faster also numbed some of the pain.
    The bowl collecting his blood was a quarter full. It would do. If he mixed it with water from the pitcher on the small, lopsided table, he’d have enough to paint the octagon and goddess-eyes on the floor. Necromancy was such dark work, particularly if he wanted to attempt anything more complicated than a wake. Since he couldn’t sense the magical energies in his spell components, his best bet to guarantee success was to put more energy into the spell than necessary and pray he could somehow blindly focus it. And there was nothing more powerful than human blood.
    Using the strip of cloth he’d cut from the front of his shirt, he bound his wound. Somehow, he’d remembered the components for this spell, despite having only looked at it a few times. Due to lack of time and funds, he’d been forced to make substitutions, although everything was related, more or less, to what it should be.
    When he started studying necromancy, Grandfather had assured him it wasn’t really the components that made the spell. They were merely a way to focus the correct energies to form the desired effect.
    Ward wasn’t sure he believed that.
    And what was the desired effect? To wake Celia long enough to prove her own murder? He should just run. It would be the smartest option. He could hide, change his name, try going north, and become a physician at one of the Great Northern Outposts.
    No. He didn’t particularly like the cold, most people thought he was too young to be a real physician, and eventually he would run out of principalities to hide in. Besides, he’d already bled for her and he had that damned, damned Oath to consider.
    He brought the ale jug to his lips. Empty. Now was as good a time as any to start, so he reached for the pitcher of water. The room lurched and darkened. He paused until his head cleared. Too much ale, too little blood.
    He mixed the water with the blood and, crawling on hands and knees, drew an octagon around Celia’s body. At her head, he made a closed goddess-eye, at her feet, an open one. At every point, alternating, he placed pieces of obsidian—that were supposed to be hematite—and pine, in place of white oak. He lit the prickle-berry leaves—at least he’d managed to find that —and knelt within the octagon beside Celia.
    He sucked in a slow breath. Grandfather would frown at using human blood, and would lecture Ward about the spell itself. Ward was meddling with the veil and that, according to some ancient necromancer code, was bad. Wakes were acceptable. They were only for a few minutes, and couldn’t upset the balance between life and death. But any spell that lasted longer, without the proper research, risked throwing everything out of balance.
    Still, Ward wasn’t powerful enough to cast a spell that would cause a plague or famine. Maybe a thunderstorm. It was more likely the room would feel a little ominous for a week and then the sensation would pass. The obligation Grandfather insisted every necromancer had—to uphold the balance—didn’t apply here.
    He placed his left hand on Celia’s heart and right hand on her head. It was just like the wake spell, only longer, and required more concentration. He closed his eyes and focused. Power was supposed to emanate from the blood, wood, crystal—or in this case, glass—and herb, but he could only imagine their presence.
    Pounding