Death Marked (Death Sworn #2)(42)

Four streets later, Ileni’s knees hurt, and the stairways had grown noticeably rougher, with cracks and loose stones that forced her to pay close attention to her footing. Halfway down the fifth flight of stairs, a large crate leaned against a wall, cutting the width of the steps in half. An old man huddled against the crate, wrapped in a bundle of foul-smelling rags. He watched them pass with pus-filled eyes.

How much longer? would sound like an admission of weakness. But maybe Is this where we’re going . . . yes, she could say that. Ileni cleared her throat, but just then Bazel stopped short. He gestured at a narrow brown door in the stone building on their right.

“Side entrance,” he explained.

Well, that cleared everything right up. Still determined to show no hesitation, Ileni placed the flat of one hand on the door and pushed. The door didn’t budge.

She reached for magic, then stopped herself. This far from the Academy, there were no lodestones she could use to replenish her power. Impressing Bazel was not worth the risk of being left defenseless.

“After you,” she said.

Bazel reached under his tunic and pulled out a thin metal wire. After a few seconds of swift, silent work, the door swung open, revealing yet more stairs, narrow and dim.

“Not that I haven’t enjoyed all the mystery and drama,” Ileni said, “but I’m not following you down there until you tell me where we’re going.”

“Death’s Door,” Bazel said.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t blame me; that’s what they call it. It is over-dramatic, I agree.” He stepped through the door. “It’s a sickhouse.”

“Then why—”

But he was already halfway down the stairs, moving without making a sound.

Ileni hesitated. The wise move would be to turn around and make her way back to the upper part of the city. She had followed Bazel through unknown passageways before, and that had not ended well.

She started down the stairs.

He was waiting for her at the bottom. By then her eyes had adjusted to the near darkness, so she saw at once he had been telling the truth: this was a sickhouse. A large square room stretched in front of her, lined with cots and filled with a thick, sour smell. Most of the figures in the cots were unmoving, lumps under blankets, but a few tossed and turned, and enough of them were moaning to make the air quaver discordantly.

Ileni’s stomach twisted, shaming her. She had never been drawn to healing, the most important magic of all. Sick people made her feel slightly ill herself. And she had never seen this many sick people in one place before.

She glanced sideways at Bazel, and caught his expression a moment before it slid off his face—a faint grimace that matched her own unease. Bazel, too, was uncomfortable around this much illness. This much weakness.

She squared her shoulders. “What’s important about—”

Bazel put a finger to her lips. Ileni jerked away from his touch and rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth. Bazel smirked.

Somehow, that smirk—its assurance, its superiority—was the last straw. He was acting like she was still powerless, like she was someone to be toyed with. He didn’t know what she had learned over the past two weeks.

Ileni coiled her power within her, flicking her fingers in the beginning patterns of a spell—a combat spell. One that would take only a minimal amount of power, but would hurt nonetheless. Bazel’s smirk faltered and vanished.

Then a familiar, high-pitched voice cut through the room: “He said it was urgent. He’s usually right.”

Ileni almost let go of the spell—but Karyn would have felt the magic being released. Instead, she pulled it tight within herself as Bazel grabbed her hand and yanked her beneath the stairs. The empty space under the staircase was filled with boxes, but the two of them squeezed in.

Footsteps clattered down the wooden steps above them. Ileni’s head hurt. Holding magic in was a basic Renegai exercise, once practiced daily. But that had been months ago, and the combat spell she was holding was sharper and more slippery than any spell she had held as a Renegai, like gripping a tangle of fragmented glass shards.

Somewhere in the room, a blanket rustled, and a quavering voice said, “Leave me alone.”

“I don’t think that’s what you want,” Karyn said.

Ileni leaned out, just far enough to see the room. Karyn was sitting on a low stool beside one of the beds. In the bed, a bald man lay propped up on pillows.

Behind Karyn, arms crossed over her chest, stood Lis.

Karyn took the old man’s hands in hers—he allowed it without looking at her—and spoke to him in low, earnest tones. Ileni could make out a word or two—“Empire,” “right time,” “sacrifice”—but most of what Karyn said was too low to hear. When the old man responded, his voice weak and faltering, Ileni couldn’t make out even a few words.

Karyn’s tone turned sharp, which made it more audible. “It is very selfish of you. It is not a worthy end to your life.”

The old man shook his head.

“Lis,” Karyn said.

Lis’s still face went even stiller.

“Lis,” Karyn snapped.

Lis walked forward and put one hand on the old man’s forehead. His whole body twitched, a long shudder.

He screamed.

Lis stepped back abruptly, releasing the spell. It rushed away from the old man’s body, tight and ugly.