Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ward strained against the sangsal. It tore at him outside and in. He’d managed to pull what little magic remained in the surrounding stones, grass, and trees and wrap it up with his own, pulsing magic. He’d woven it around a dozen sangsal threads and knotted it around the demon, but it wasn’t enough to drag the monster back into the Abyss.

More sangsal spewed from its mouth every time it roared. The force of evil, thick and powerful, crushed Ward. Ice froze his veins, making his teeth chatter. He fought to cling to himself, his essence, and his goal. The warmth from Celia and the soul chain flickered, a pinprick fading against the freezing onslaught.

He needed more strength, more magic, more something. He could barely make half the sangsal roaring in the vortex head toward the fissure, and he couldn’t budge the black miasma within him. He had to force all of it and the monster back inside.

The demon roared and swatted at Ward. He wrenched more sangsal bands around its arm. Its claws raked through the air in front of him.

Between this heartbeat and the next he might be holding his own, but it wouldn’t last. Panic swept through him, and his gaze leapt to Celia. She rushed toward dozens of pirates scrambling up the rise. The Master still had the grimoires. He yelled three words of summoning in Vys, and more sangsal swept from the pirates into the grimoire.

There wasn’t time to figure out if the Master was helping or just trying to gather more power. Ward had to focus on the mission: capture the sangsal, put it back into the Abyss, and closed the damned Gate.

To do that, he needed more power. Life magic was in everything. It lay in every tree and rock, every stream of moonlight, every flicker of torchlight. He’d felt it, seen it, used it before he’d even known the truth. It had always been a part of him, calling him to medicine, to doing the Goddess’s will on this side of the veil.

The sense of magic surrounded him. It lay beyond the rise in all directions—he just needed to call it to him. He drew in a cold breath. The pinprick of heat in his heart flickered on the verge of being consumed. He needed to work faster.

He pulled at the magic beyond the rise, drawing a trickle. It eased into him with agonizing slowness.

The demon writhed against its sangsal bonds. Ward jerked his attention back to it, and the trickle of magic vanished.

The demon heaved itself up, digging a clawed foot into the edge of the fissure. With a howl, it snapped Ward’s sangsal ropes.

Ice crackled over his chest. Celia screamed. A pirate yanked his blade back, dark and sparkling with the magic in Celia’s blood. He was losing, this battle, his life, and her.

He yelled for the life magic to come to him, calling with his mind and inner magic.

Another trickle. A flicker. It wasn’t enough.

Celia screamed again, through the soul chain and in his head.

Now. It needed to come now. Goddess, please.

He strained with everything he had, the very essence of his being. He was already dead, he knew he wasn’t supposed to survive this—no matter what Celia wanted. But everyone else could live. He couldn’t let this evil free. Goddess, Light Son, Dark Son, anyone who might be listening. Please.

Life and light exploded around and through him. It stole his breath and burned him with searing heat, devouring the ice of the sangsal. He could sense it all, the magic from the trees around the edge of the island, from the rocks and grass and bushes. It came from the insects, birds, and small animals. He pulled it from the pirates attacking Celia, and from Maura still in the temple’s basement. He reached as far as he could, sweeping into the lake, capturing magic from the waves, the fish, the moonlight, and even the mountains.

More magic, strong, bright, and bloody magic, raced along the path. For a moment time slowed and Ward’s essence spun into the sky. He could see it all. Celia fighting the pirates. The Master pulling sangsal from them into the grimoire. The vortex of wind and evil rushing around the demon. And the half dozen necromancer elders stumbling to a stop at the sight of it all.

Grandfather yelled something, and bloody magic leapt from the pirates Celia had killed and swept at the others. But it wasn’t enough. Ward had already absorbed what he could from the fallen and the living and everything else. If this was going to end, Ward had to end it.

With the life force of everything around him, he swept it through the sangsal vortex and wove a net around it. The net sputtered then burned yellow with his power. The sangsal within him writhed, shooting ice across his chest. He rammed it into the demon.

The monster howled. It clawed at Ward’s magic, jerked its foot back on top of the fissure’s edge and swiped at Ward.

“Look out.” The Master tackled Ward out of the way. They tumbled to the ground, and Ward smashed his elbow on the hard marble. Pain sliced up his arm, and his grip on the sangsal vortex wavered.

The demon clawed the marble. The Master rolled to his feet and tossed the grimoire billowing with captured sangsal into the crevasse. The man had picked his side, and it was good, not evil. Sangsal exploded around the demon and whooshed back in the fissure.

Ward scrambled to his feet, tightened his magic around the vortex, and slammed it into the demon again. It swiped for the other grimoires in the satchel lying a few feet away.

“Toss the grimoires into the fissure,” Ward yelled. More ice shot across his chest. His knees buckled. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”

“I’m trying,” the Master growled.

More ice. It stole all thought, and the vortex screamed around him. The demon swiped again. Ward wrenched his magic around the sangsal again and shoved the demon. It skidded a fraction down. “Try harder.”

A sangsal-infected pirate grabbed the satchel. The Master rushed at him, knocking him back with a series of fast kicks.

The demon howled. Sangsal poured from its mouth. Ward swept it up with the rest and slammed it into the demon again. The monster teetered.

With a yell, the Master kicked the pirate, still clutching the satchel, into the fissure. More sangsal exploded, shattering the edge of the fissure under the demon’s claws. Ward pounded the vortex into the demon again.

It teetered back. Another blow, and another. With an earth-shaking roar, it fell. Ward slammed the sangsal vortex in after it. Black mist exploded then whooshed into the Gate.

But the Gate didn’t close. The sangsal was gone from the octagon, but it still writhed within him.

A claw scraped the edge of the fissure. The demon was not yet defeated. So long as the Gate remained open, it would still be able to get out. Ward had to close the Gate, but he didn’t know how—

No, he did. Maura had already told him. He needed to shove all the sangsal back into the Abyss. And to do that, he needed to sever the spell keeping his soul in his body. Goddess, there had to be another way.

He ripped at the ice within him, but it shattered at his magical touch and seeped back into him, deeper, stronger, and stickier.

Fight it, Ward. Celia sounded so far away. The heat in his chest was so weak, the soul chain so thin. Fight it.

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” the Master said, throwing Ward’s words back at him.

Ward ripped at the sangsal within him. It shattered into more pieces. He grasped faster and faster but couldn’t get it, couldn’t force it out of himself. He had no choice. He had to sever the false resurrection on his soul or throw himself into the Abyss.

The demon’s claws dug into the edge of the crevasse.

“It’s coming out again.” The Master grabbed Ward’s shoulder.

Ward glanced back at Celia, his gaze drawn to her. She knelt, gasping and bleeding, surrounded by the bodies of pirates littering the rubble-filled ground. His grandfather and the other necromancers held the other pirates at bay, but Ward only had eyes for Celia. Beyond all reason, she was the woman he loved. Theirs was a love that shouldn’t have happened. They came from different worlds and would never have met if she hadn’t been dead. He’d learned so much from being with her, found a confidence he’d never known he had.

“I love you.” He willed all his love and respect for her through the soul chain.

He squared his shoulders. Throwing himself in would be easier than concentrating against Celia’s will and severing the spell. Except he couldn’t make his legs move him forward.

Panic flashed over the soul chain. She’d realized what he was trying to do. “Don’t!”

He grabbed the Master’s arm. “Throw me.”

“Are you mad?”

“No!” Celia screamed.

“It’s the only way. I have the last of the sangsal. The Gate will close once it’s all back in.”

“There has to be another way,” the Master said.

The demon’s horns started to rise again from the Abyss.

“The Gate has to close. Please.” Ward fought to move closer to the crevasse, but ice froze his legs.

“Ward, please!” Desperation bled through the soul chain. Celia scrambled to her feet, clutching her side, blood oozing between her fingers. His grandfather rushed to her, and she shoved him back.

Gold rippled across the Master’s eyes. “There is a way.”

“No, there—” Realization flashed through Ward as he remembered Maura’s words. She’d told him the sangsal had easy entry into his soul because of the spell keeping his soul in his body. He couldn’t force out the sangsal because he was dead.

His gaze jumped to Celia. She’d been dead, and he’d cast a true resurrection. There wasn’t a spell unnaturally keeping her soul in her body. If he were alive, the sangsal wouldn’t be able to cling to his soul.

He snorted. “Of course. Don’t be dead.” So simple and so very difficult. He was a vivimancer, able to cast a true resurrection spell. He had to pray he could cast it on himself.

The demon’s snout rose over the crack, and its other claw dug into the edge of the crevasse.

Ward closed his eyes and prayed. He pulled on all the magic he had left, every little scrap he could find, calling on magic as far as he could reach. His essence rushed over the lake, drawing in power. He swept over the village and into the cliff, finding the villagers huddled in caves. He didn’t have a spell—but then, he hadn’t had a spell when he’d brought Celia back—and he didn’t know if he could resurrect himself, but it was all he had.

He focused on the magic binding his soul to his body and let his magic seep into the essence of the spell. It absorbed his power, glowing bright to his mystic sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the light still burned, brighter and brighter.

Focus and will. That’s how all magic was cast. Every necromancer and every Brother of Light was taught that. Surely a vivimancer was no different. The sangsal ice within him cracked, and the false resurrection Celia had cast seared like an inferno.

It was burning him up, turning him and his soul to cinder. He was losing himself, his essence. A whirlwind of power and light and heat roared through and around him. The sangsal howling through the air rushed toward the fissure, and the demon screamed.

Ward clutched to his soul, but it was swept out of his mental fingers, taking the sangsal with him, sweeping to the Gate of the Dark Son’s Abyss. He was lost, and there was nothing left he could do.

The heat exploded, and his knees gave out.

Blackness enveloped him. His heart pounded. Everything hurt, but he couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold or both.

White light appeared far in the distance, a sliver in the darkness. Heartbeat by heartbeat it drew closer. He’d failed the resurrection spell. The Goddess had come to take him home. Finally. She’d tested him. Her Dark Son had tested him, too. He’d been forced to do horrible things to protect the balance between life and death. He’d killed people—some who deserved it, some who didn’t. He’d never thought, with all the stains on his soul, he’d be worthy to find peace wrapped in her love.

“You promised you wouldn’t do that again,” Celia said. Not the Goddess.

Sensation flooded him, gently, not like the painful sharpness of his vesperitti senses, but normal, human sense. The cool marble ground, people talking in hushed voices, a warm breeze, the scent of pine trees.

“Celia?” Her face swam into focus.

How in the Goddess’s name was he still alive?

“You promised you wouldn’t do that,” she said again, her voice husky.

He snorted. “Sorry. Last time, I promise.” However he was still alive, he wasn’t going to question it. Perhaps this was the Goddess’s gift for doing her bidding and maintaining the balance.

Celia slid a cool, delicate finger over his temple into his hair, just like she’d done in Brawenal after they’d fought their first Innecroestri. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“But I really want to keep this promise.”

“I know.” She drew closer, the light from her aura growing brighter. Her lips brushed his, sending tingling warmth racing through him. But not his chest. The soul chain was gone, and something else, something that wrapped around his soul, had taken its place. “Let’s at least take a couple of days off first.”

“Deal.”