Ethan jumped up and grabbed for his knife, knocking Janna’s books and at least one of the pouches to the floor. He didn’t care.
Nate Ramsey stood in his room, arms crossed, a smug smile on his face.
“Easy, Ethan,” he said. “If it was really me, you’d be dead already.”
Ethan didn’t answer, nor did he relax his grip on his blade. But he eyed the figure before him more closely.
It was, he realized, an illusion, created with a conjuring. Ramsey looked just as he had the first time Ethan met him-tall, lean, with a long face and a dark, unruly beard. His eyes were palest blue, and his teeth, bared in a feral grin, were yellow and crooked. He wore a silk shirt, tan breeches, and a bloodred coat.
Ethan knew that this couldn’t be what Ramsey looked like now, for he was unmarked, unscarred. And that was impossible. Ramsey was a powerful conjurer-perhaps the most powerful Ethan had encountered in all his years-but during their final battle the previous summer, he had been trapped in a deadly fire, buried beneath flaming rubble. Such an inferno would have killed most men, and there had been times in the intervening months when Ethan had thought-hoped-that the captain must be dead. Even the most skilled conjurer would emerge from such an ordeal with some scars.
“How do I look?” Ramsey’s illusion asked, in a voice that was thinner than Ethan remembered, but only a little.
“I was thinking that you look well.”
“I did that for your benefit. Thanks to you I’m actually not as handsome as I used to be.”
“You started the fire, Ramsey, not I.”
The figure shook its head. “Arguing with me already. And here I came to see you and to offer you a gift.”
“What gift could you offer to me?”
“The lives of people you love, of course. Think, Kaille. This is going to be a terribly boring conversation if you can’t follow along.”
“Where are you, Ramsey? This isn’t like you-cowering somewhere in hiding, attacking me from afar. Tell me where I can find you and I’ll come now. We can settle this today, without anyone else getting hurt.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve had a long time to think about our next encounter. I have it all planned. Letting you find me too soon would ruin everything.” The figure looked down at the books and the herbs. “I am impressed, though. You must be learning quite a lot.”
“Then at least you can tell me where you learned to do borrowed spells?”
A smile split the illusion’s face. “I was most proud when I mastered those conjurings. I’d been hearing about them since I was a child, but never knew how they worked until now. Imagine how differently our past battles might have gone had I known then how to cast them.”
Ethan suppressed a shudder. “Where, Ramsey?”
The illusion’s expression turned stony. “I’m not going to tell you that. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”
“Thanks to you, a boy is dead. He was all of eleven years old, and in your desperate attempt to avenge yourself on me, you killed him. You might not have pulled the trigger, but his blood is on your hands.”
“Let’s talk about my gifts for you,” the illusion said, as if it hadn’t heard.
“Because you don’t wish to speak of Christopher Seider?”
“Because I choose what we will discuss!” Ramsey’s voice echoed in the small room. “Because if I wanted to I could kill them all, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me! Because I’m giving you…” The figure faltered, and when next it spoke, it was in a calmer, softer tone. “A gift.”
“Fine, Ramsey. What ‘gift’ are you offering?”
The smile returned. “A hint, so that you can be prepared when the time comes.”
“Prepared for what?”
“Your choice.”
“What?”
Ramsey’s image merely grinned at him, his pale eyes wide, like those of a child desperate to share a secret.
“You’re mad,” Ethan said.
“You know better. You understand how dangerous it would be to dismiss me as nothing more than a lunatic.”
Ethan had no desire to engage in this pointless battle of words, but he hoped that if he kept Ramsey talking long enough the captain might reveal something of his whereabouts or his intentions.
“Have you used a concealment spell on your ship? Is that why I can’t find it?”
“You can’t find it-can’t find me-because I am not yet ready to be found. You don’t seem to understand, Ethan: I control everything. I control you, your magic, your friends. Think of what I’ve accomplished thus far. You’re afraid to go to that tavern your woman owns. You’re afraid to walk through the city. You’re afraid to do the job you were hired to do. You think I’m mad, and yet here you sit, alone in this small, shabby room, reading books and trying to teach yourself wardings that are destined to fail.” The illusion leaned forward. “You can call me mad,” it said in a confidential tone, “but I’m winning. Again.”
“Perhaps it’s time I summoned the spirit of your father, as I did the last time we confronted each other in this room. It angered you then. How would you feel about it now?”
“By all means, make the attempt. Do you honestly believe I failed to anticipate the threat?”
Ethan tried to conceal his disappointment, but knew that he hadn’t succeeded. The illusion laughed.
“Was that the only weapon you had? I thought it might be.”
The image of Ramsey looked gleeful. If Ethan could have killed him in that moment, he would have done so gladly.
“I think I’ll be leaving now. I have much to do and I’m afraid you need to spend a good deal more time with those books of yours. So far, they don’t seem to be doing you much good. Remember. Make your choice.”
Ethan had no chance to answer. A conjuring rumbled in the wood and a sudden wind whipped through his room, rattling the door and the shutters on his window, and extinguishing the candles, so that an instant later, when the image of Ramsey vanished, the room was plunged into darkness.
The only light came from Uncle Reg, who glowed like a low-hanging moon, the dismay on his face a mirror for Ethan’s emotions.
“That spell came from me, didn’t it?” Ethan said.
To which the ghost could do naught but nod. Ethan’s wardings had failed once more.
Chapter Seventeen
He had cast not one warding but two, using the herbs from Janna and the wording he had worked out from reading through her books. And still Ramsey had mastered his power as easily as if it were his own.
Ethan lit the candles again and picked up the books off his floor, but though he opened one, he didn’t bother to read. He had no idea what to look for in its pages. Muttering a curse, he tossed it aside.
He removed several leaves of mullein from a pouch and, on the off chance that Ramsey had lied to him, tried to summon the spirit of Ramsey’s father, Nathaniel Ramsey, whom Nate had tried to bring back from the dead during the summer. The spell thrummed, but the ghost did not answer the summons. Ramsey had told him the truth.
He reached for A Collection of Spells and Conjurings and read once more all the pages that mentioned borrowed spells, thinking-hoping-that perhaps he had missed some vital clue that would tell him how Ramsey was using his power. But he learned no more this time than he had all the others. At last, frustrated and weary, he blew out the candles and climbed into bed.
While it took him little time to fall asleep, he awoke at every creak of the building, every whistle of cold wind outside his room. When morning came, he felt no more rested than he had when he went to bed. He sensed that time was running short. Ramsey would not have come to him, even as an illusion, unless he was sure that he could prevail in a battle, and unless he was prepared for their final confrontation.
And yet Ethan had no idea what he ought to do. He hated the thought of “cowering in hiding,” as he had so brashly accused Ramsey of doing. But neither did it make sense for him to leave the safety of his room merely for the sake of doing something.