Page 9

C andles drooling thick streams of wax lit the way down the narrow stairs.

Ward magic slicked over Ambrose’s shoulders as he passed, and he flinched. It should have rejected him; he wasn’t permitted here. Evidently, Emery had Morcant’s blood in that vial and had used it to grant Ambrose access. He must have been planning this infiltration for some time.

The death of his familiar, Ambrose’s resurrection, the specificity required to bypass the secrecy pact, and now ward magic. He’d been meticulous.

The passage opened into an immense stone chamber, two stories with a gallery and sarcophagi set into the walls.

The sarcophagus in the center of the room had a decorative cloth covering it, obscuring the stone face of whomever was interred there.

The domed ceiling caught all sounds, from the students’ stride to the scuttle and squeak of rodents, and amplified them.

Not Ambrose’s. He moved as silently as the ghosts of this place.

Something about the room made him itchy, like a loose strand of hair had brushed his skin, invisible to the eye but ominously tangible.

The professor stood behind the altar made of the central sarcophagus and gestured for the new recruits to gather close.

Emery and the older initiates formed a halo around him.

Ambrose kept to the edge of the room, where he was unlikely to bump anything or anyone but still had a clear view of the proceedings.

It seemed a theatrical setting for an initiation. Ambrose’s rites had taken place in far more mundane places. An alleyway, a blacksmith’s forge, a bedroom.

“Saoirse, Windsor, Iris, you three have been chosen to join our guild for your show of skill in the art of necromancy, but there is one final test before you can officially join our ranks.

“I would happily take all of you, but I’d be remiss not to first ensure that you have what it takes to perform these spells safely. Though necromancy is not the taboo danger it’s often made out to be, all magic can be perilous.

“To this end, I’ve set a test for you.”

He unrolled a fraying bolt of silk over the sarcophagus. Inside were three raw chunks of quartz and three daggers. They’d be for some dark ritual, Ambrose assumed. Blood and flesh made powerful tithes, something his body knew well. He’d given it often and willingly to fuel the witch king’s spells.

The generosity of your spirit is part of what drew me to you, Ambrose.

Ambrose flushed with the compliment, glad no one could see.

The students exchanged nervous looks, and the professor noticed. “Please, don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to spill your own blood.”

From behind the sarcophagus, he lifted a wire cage. Inside were three rats, chewing desperately at the bars and squeaking. Intelligent creatures, they sensed their days were numbered.

Holding up a chunk of quartz, the professor said, “Stones like these have been used a long time for their magical properties. With the right spell and a gifted witch to cast it, a simple chunk of quartz can become a receptacle for messages, memories, anything a creative witch can think of.

“For your test, I’d like you to turn these simple stones into powerful spell jars. Tithe the rat’s souls and use them to magically hollow out the quartz.”

The instruction was met with mixed reception.

Though Saoirse looked unfazed, the other two initiates shuffled from foot to foot.

Ambrose understood their apprehension. It had taken him time to accept that no great feats were accomplished without some blood and sacrifice now and again.

The rats would die, but if the students were decisive, it would be over quickly and painlessly.

The professor set the stones equidistant apart on the sarcophagus. “Who’d like to go first?”

Saoirse took up a dagger. “I will.”

The professor gave an approving nod. He opened a hatch on the top of the cage.

The rats surged toward it in hopes of escape.

The professor’s hand flexed, bones and knuckles straining, and the rats froze in a squealing rictus.

They shimmered with magic. The professor moved his hand, hovering it over the table, and one rat floated into place on its back, limbs pinned by whatever spell the professor wielded against it.

It looked like the sort of anatomist’s diagram Ambrose had glimpsed in the witch king’s study. The creature screeched, fighting the spell, though it was futile. Saoirse brought the dagger down sharply. The screeching stopped.

That was the easy part. Beads of sweat gleamed on her brow as she drew on her magic to tithe the body and ensnare the spirit, using it like a chisel to carve a hole in the quartz.

She held the foggy crystal in her free hand, fingers worrying at the grooves and chips in the stone like she could wear them smooth and immaterial.

It must have been a spirited rat. Her teeth clenched. Her breathing became labored.

The quartz flashed with light, obscured by her hand seizing around it. When she opened her fist, the quartz glowed in her palm like a captured star.

“Excellent,” said the professor. “Not that I had any doubt. It’s not an easy spell, but you’ve already proven yourself unusually talented, Saoirse.

” He gestured for her to place the stone back on the sarcophagus, which she did, then he took the dagger from her, wrapping it in silk.

He turned back to the other students. “Who’s next? ”

Saoirse’s performance had steeled the will of the other two. They both carried out the ritual and passed the test, although they took longer, and one of them—Windsor—shook so badly when stabbing his rat that he missed and had to do it again.

Ambrose observed Emery, trying to glean something about his temporary master from his response to the proceedings, but he simply watched dispassionately. Almost bored.

All three new initiates succeeded in creating the spell jars, which shone like a constellation on the sarcophagus. The professor’s pride shone brighter still.

“It is a privilege to be able to teach you necromancy, an art that I fear would be forgotten if not for brave hearts like yours willing to trust me with your education. Welcome Saoirse, Windsor, Iris. I won’t keep you all any later.

The ritual is tiring, and you have classes tomorrow.

We’ll meet again at the usual time and place. For now, goodnight.”

Dismissed, the new initiates and the few older ones headed for the door, Emery among them. Then the professor’s voice called over their heads.

“Emery. Hellebore. I’d like a word, please.”

Hellebore hadn’t moved, perhaps aware she’d be held back. Emery stopped. The other initiates flowed around him like a river, casting him curious looks.

Ambrose hung back in the place he’d hidden the whole time. From here, he could see the professor’s face in full, but only a sliver of Emery’s. His posture was stiff. Bracing.

Professor Van Moor clasped his hands, worrying at the knuckles. His water deer leaned against his leg. An eerie creature. It didn’t seem right for a prey animal to have fangs.

“I blame myself, you know,” the professor said.

His voice took on a different quality. Quiet.

Close. He was no longer a teacher. He spoke to Emery and Hellebore like they were family.

“I encouraged this little rivalry. You both have such talent and potential, I thought friendly competition would bring out the best in you. Not the worst.”

“I did apologize for putting nettles in his cloak,” said Hellebore. “It was just a harmless prank. Not like he doesn’t know the spell to soothe skin irritation.”

“You took my stock of olive pits to ensure knowing the spell wouldn’t matter,” Emery bit back. “No amount of dock leaves could offer relief.”

The professor held up a hand to halt their bickering.

“I’m not interested in which of you is most to blame.

Like I said, I mostly blame myself. I taught you the things you know, gave you the tools.

But I never thought—” He looked at Emery, a well of disappointment in his eyes.

“Your own familiar, Emery. It’s not the same as bugs and rats. She was a part of you.”

Emery stayed silent throughout the scolding. His head was bowed, but not in shame. Too stiff for that.

“Dare I even ask what you bought with Katzica’s soul?”

Ambrose felt exposed, the question pointing a finger at him.

Emery stayed silent. The professor sighed.

“I’ve informed the faculty, since they’ll notice her missing. I told them it was an accident. They’re offering to overlook it, given your history, but their sympathy will only extend so far. If you keep this up, they’ll expel you, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect you next time.”

Emery finally spoke, the words a dim echo of the professor’s own words. “Protect me.”

“In the interest of your success, I’m only asking you to set aside this feud. We may be mostly in the business of raising the dead, but can we not agree this conflict is best put to rest?”

“Of course, Papa,” Hellebore said. “I won’t hold a grudge. After all, we’re all family here.”

So they were related. Both the professor and Hellebore awaited Emery’s answer, but the silence stretched, and after a time, Emery gave them one.

“This is no petty grudge. I won’t rest until you’re buried here.”

He said it with all the inflections of a fatal curse.

Hellebore’s fists clenched, her temper rising, but the professor didn’t match the ire of his child at all.

He stepped around the sarcophagus, bridging the gap between him and Emery.

With a hand, he reached out as if to grasp him by the shoulder, but Emery flinched away, and the professor’s hand swung empty to his side.

His eyes pinched with grief—real or feigned, Ambrose didn’t know Van Moor well enough to tell—but from the sliver of Emery’s face that he could see, nothing but hate was mirrored back.

“Please, Emery,” said Van Moor. “You’re so close to graduation. It would pain me to see you throw that all away when you showed such promise.”