Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(28)

Ash spread the cloth out on his washstand, thinking it might be a map or something. It was a handkerchief, made of white We’enhaven cotton, but stained brown with old blood. It was the plain, utilitarian style used at Oden’s Ford. In fact, the school’s laundry mark was faintly visible in one corner.

Ash looked from the handkerchief in his one hand to the pinkish scar that ran across the meat of his thumb on the other. He’d cut himself badly, chopping betony herb, a month before. He’d stopped the bleeding with a handkerchief just like this one.

It was not a random attack, then. But why had they come after him? Could Ardenine spies have discovered what he’d been doing with his school vacations? Or, worse, had they somehow figured out his true identity?

Lila was back, slipping in through the door like a wraith, her sword in her hand. She locked the door behind her, then pulled the window shutters closed and latched them.

“There were three more in the hall,” she said, turning toward Ash. Her hands were covered with blood. Her face was splattered with it as well, like a dark rash, and perhaps the whole front of her, although it was hard to tell with her back to the lamp.

“Three more?” Ash stared at her. “What did you—?”

“I killed them,” she said, rubbing her neck. “What a mess. It’s so hard to find that sweet spot between the . . . anyway. Sorry. So let’s hope this one has something to say.” She nudged the man on the floor with her boot. He groaned.

“I thought you went to get the dorm masters and provosts.”

“The dorm masters are dead,” Lila said wearily. “Here at Stokes, anyway. They must’ve killed them on their way in. Two provosts as well.”

The news was like a punch in the gut. After four years, it was hard to let go of the notion that this was a place of safety, with rules, and people to enforce them. He’d become accustomed to being the predator, not the prey.

Taking in his reaction, Lila said, “Look, the provosts are used to dealing with drunken students and domestic squabbles. Not professional killers.”

Ash was learning things about Lila Barrowhill that he had never known before, things he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. His hard-drinking dorm mate had just dispatched multiple armed men without making a sound.

Ash had his secrets, and so, apparently, did she.

“By the way, thanks for saving my life,” Ash said. “Good that you came home early.”

Lila snorted. “Don’t thank me just yet.”

Ash extended the handkerchief toward her. “He was carrying this in his bag.”

Lila took it, examined it under the lamp, and handed it back. “I don’t get it,” she said.

“I think they follow a blood scent,” Ash said, wadding the cloth in his fist. “This is my blood. Somebody here at school must have given it to them.” He stopped then, realizing that he had nothing to say about why they might do that.

“Yeah,” Lila said, scowling. “Somebody must have.” Her expression suggested she had a candidate in mind. She leaned against the wall, where she could watch both the man on the floor and the door. “Well? What are you waiting for? Interrogate him.”

“Me?” Ash’s brain wasn’t working as well as it usually did.

“No, one of the other mages in the room.” She pointed her chin at the assassin on the floor. “Time is wasting. We’ve got to get out of here.”

His subject was as pallid and gaunt as the dead man on the bed. Ash gripped his amulet with one hand and pressed the other into the assassin’s chest. Then he concentrated and forced the assassin into consciousness, using the direct magical pressure called persuasion. Being a flatlander, the man would likely have little knowledge of or defense against wizard interrogation techniques.

The priest opened his eyes and fixed them on Ash. His hands scrabbled on the floor like claws trying to gain purchase. Ash flinched backward, then took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Who are you?” Ash asked in Common, his voice cold and hard. “What is your name?”

The man squirmed, as if to avoid the wizard mind pressing down on him, but there was no place to hide. “My name is Usepia,” he said hoarsely, in Ardenine-accented Common. “I am of the Darian Guild.”

“Darian Guild,” Ash repeated. “What’s that?”

“Redeemers of mages,” Usepia replied. He had stopped squirming and was staring at Ash, his eyes shining with desire. “We are the Blades of Malthus, who cleanse the world of sorcery.”

“There are lots of mages here. How did you choose me?”

“We smelled your blood. We tasted it when we were given the kill.”

“Somebody gave you the kill? Who told you to kill me?”

“A mage,” Usepia said, eyes slitted against the wizard light, as if it hurt his eyes.

“A mage? What mage?” Ash leaned closer. “What was his name?”

Usepia shrugged, as if mages were mages. “He said there were many mages here, but you were the one to be redeemed.”

“You heard him say that?” Ash pressed. “You spoke with him?”

The Darian shook his head. “The mage spoke to our master, and our master spoke to us. It seems that this mage is a man of faith.”

“What faith?”