Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) Read Online Free

and tugged self-consciously at the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. They, like the pants, were too short as well as being a little too big across the chest and too wide in the waist.
    He smoothed the moneypouch hanging from his muddy and tattered belt, pressing the quintaro inside into his hip. A reminder, like the soggy envelope of Baarasena in the pouch, of the heist Celia and he had committed in Brawenal. Now that had been a nerve-racking situation. This wasn’t nearly as scary as that heist. He was just pretending to be someone he wasn’t for one evening. That was all.
    It was sad that lying to gain someone’s hospitality was his new normal. He supposed when he met the master of the waystation, this Macerio Lyla had mentioned, Ward could tell the truth.
    Yes. That’s what he’d do. He’d apologize for the misunderstanding and… And what? Explain that an untold number—all right, four—bounty hunters were going to pound on the door at any minute? Well, it was better than lying.
    A knock interrupted his thoughts. How was it that he was nervous about telling the truth? This was ridiculous. He sucked in a breath that didn’t calm his rising nerves, made sure to flip his collar up to hide the Quayestri brand at the back of his neck, and opened the door.
    Allette stood in the entranceway with Celia a few feet behind her in the hall. They were light and darkness. Tiny, blond Allette watched him with dark wide-set eyes in her broad forehead and square jaw—the features of a peasant. Her shadow, Celia, with the refined, sleek look of nobility, wore an elegant black gown. It accentuated the blue-black sheen of her hair and her icy eyes. The trained assassin was on the job, calculating options and probably praying Ward wouldn’t mess up whatever it was she planned.
    “Are you ready, Quirin?” Celia asked, a not-so-subtle reminder of who he was supposed to be impersonating.
    So much for telling the truth. Fine. He could pretend to be someone else just for a night. It would be easier than facing Celia’s wrath. “Yes.”
    The door to the stairway opened, and Lyla glided into the hall. “Good, you’re ready. Macerio is impatient to see if you’re everything Lauro Allard says you are.”
    “He brought proof,” Allette said, her voice soft.
    “So it would seem.” Lyla stepped back into the stairwell, her gown swirling around her.
    Allette bit her bottom lip, her hands trembling. She was nervous. But because of Lyla, or because she was lying about Ward’s identity? If he went along with the fallacy and left tomorrow, would Allette get into trouble? He couldn’t be responsible for that. He wasn’t the one who’d started the lie.
    They followed Lyla through halls that didn’t match one another. Wide passages, narrow ones, some brightly lit, some dark, up a few steps, down a ramp, twisting and turning until they reached a place where the hall widened into a strange sitting room.
    The area was twice as wide as the hall, decorated in the opulent style of Taloren the Eighth. Heavy curtains around the windows were pulled closed despite the cool night’s reprieve. In the center sat a dark red, low-backed couch and matching chair, creating a conversation area.
    Behind the couch, directly across from them, a heavy engraved door stood partially open, but the crack between door and frame wasn’t wide enough for Ward to see inside. Strange shapes swirled over the wood, and the heavy brass latch was unlike any Ward had ever seen. The keyhole was a star instead of the usual rectangle, and the front of the lock was worked in a delicate filigree, swirled to match the carvings on the door.
    Lyla opened the door farther, revealing a long hall stretching into darkness. The only light came from an open door on the left that led into an opulent parlor. Close to two dozen people lounged in the room, wearing elegant clothes of nobility at a prince’s court. At least Ward assumed they were nobility, but in the dim lighting it was