Spire of Shadows

by Sarah Hawke

  She forced herself to watch every kiss, every nibble, every thrust. Her horror quickly transformed into white-hot rage before she finally saw the Chol attack. She watched as Rohen cut them down and tried to save the king…and then she watched as the Whitefeather girl froze the monsters solid.

  “Sorceress,” Jessara breathed. “That bitch is a sorceress…and you knew! You knew all along!”

  She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. But it was all right there in his mind, taunting her. Rohen had betrayed her—Rohen had betrayed everyone.

  “You dare accuse my father of treason while you were fucking the queen?” Jessara seethed. “You dare slander Darenthi’s greatest hero while you are protecting the daughter of the Winter Witch?”

  “Jess, it’s not what you—”

  “Enough!” she screamed so loudly her voice shuddered through the entire Spire. The light in her palm flared even brighter than before, and a wave of force crashed into him and hurled him against the wall. He crumped into an unmoving heap on the floor, and she scowled down at him as she flung the door back open.

  Foundry Master Gabron was already on his way back, and the man snapped to attention when he she shot him a withering glare.

  “Inquisitrix?”

  “I have a new mission for you, Keeper,” she snarled. The searing rage in her veins was already turning bitter cold. “There are two renegade sorceresses in a cabin at the edge of the Deadwood.”

  Gabron blinked. “What?”

  “I don’t care how many of your men you need to send, but I want you to find them and bring them back here. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, Inquisitrix.”

  “When the High Artificer’s wounds have been bound, you can inform him that he’s a lucky man. I won’t be using his knowledge to forge a Faceless shell for his precious comrades after all.”

  Jessara turned to glare at Rohen’s unconscious body again. “I will be forging one for a queen instead.”

  6

  Hand of the Queen

  Delaryn held her breath and swallowed as gently as she could. The blade on her throat was so cold it could have been an icicle, and her assailant’s arm had a vise-like grip around her stomach. Just a few feet away, Sehris was convulsing on the cabin floor, completely incapacitated by the Brand.

  “This would be easier if your Tel Bator fanatics had marked you as well,” their mysterious assailant said, her voice laced with contempt. “Not that they would have bothered. The daughter of the Winter Witch never would have been shown the ‘mercy’ of a collar and a glorified prison cell in Gûl Ostaraad.”

  Delaryn closed her eyes and tried to force herself to stay calm and think. Her attacker had an unmistakably Elvish accent, which didn’t make a damn bit of sense. Why in the bloody void would a highborn from Nelu’Thalas be here in the Deadwood? And how had she slipped past Sehris’s wards?

  Panicking won’t help, Delaryn scolded herself. I just need to keep things under control until Sehris recovers…

  “What do you want?” she demanded in the most imperious voice she could muster.

  “I’ll be asking questions here, Your Majesty,” the elven woman sneered. “Tell me: what is the High Queen of Darenthi doing in a cabin in the Deadwood? I’ll let you explain the naked drow next.”

  Delaryn swallowed again, keenly aware of how effortlessly her assailant could kill her. The highborn’s sinewy left arm seemed to possess the strength of an ogre. The Aether was all around them, of course, but Delaryn didn’t want to risk trying to channel its power. She might just get her and Sehris killed.

  Besides, this woman triggered Sehris’s Brand—something only a Keeper should be able to do. Watcher knows what other abilities she might possess.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Delaryn insisted. “We’re travelers heading east to—”

  “Don’t be a fool, rethir,” the highborn growled. “I know exactly who you are. My people have kept a close eye on the daughter of the Winter Witch.”

  “R-release…her…” Sehris demanded as she tried to pull herself up into a crouch.

  The highborn snorted. “I don’t take orders from drow guuta. Now, sit there on your knees like a good spider-whore or I’ll tug on your leash again.”

  Clenching her teeth defiantly, Sehris leaned up and summoned magic to her hand—

  And then screamed as the Flensing seared through her body again. She collapsed face-first onto the floor, sobbing and snarling all at once. Delaryn’s fear quickly turned into fury at the sight of her friend in pain.

  “Curious,” the highborn murmured into Delaryn’s ear. “Normally, I find the methods of your Tel Bator zealots cruel and barbaric, but branding a drow like cattle almost seems…right.”

  Delaryn growled, “If you hurt her, I swear to the gods I’ll—”

  “Ah-ah,” the highborn scolded, pushing the blade harder. “There’s no need to get feisty, Your Majesty. But I do appreciate that you have a spine. I’d heard you were little more than King Thedric’s docile little pet.”

  Delaryn closed her eyes for a second and tried to let the flash of rage drain out of her. This elf bitch could have killed us if she wanted to. Don’t overreact, and don’t panic.

  “That’s better,” the highborn said with a smug chuckle that tickled the back of Delaryn’s neck. “Now, answer my question: what are you doing here in the Deadwood?”

  Delaryn’s rage returned the instant her eyes reopened to the sight of Sehris still writhing on the floor, her vatari tattoos blazing. “Hiding,” she bit out. “Hiding from the Chol.”

  “Is that so? Were you also ‘hiding’ from them when you led them to your family’s castle?”

  Delaryn frowned, her anger momentarily shifting to confusion. “What?”

  “I’ll admit, it’s definitely a unique way to annul one of your silly marriages,” the highborn said. “Most Darenthi noblewomen settle for poisoning their oafish husbands.”

  “I didn’t lead the Chol anywhere!”

  “That’s not what the rest of your people believe. Every rethir in Tor’s Crossing seems convinced that the Usurper King’s daughter summoned the horde like a beacon.”

  “They’re wrong,” Delaryn said. “We’ve been running from the horde for days!”

  “Yes, you and this pretty drow guuta who was naked in your bed. You’ll forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but you don’t look like a woman in mourning over the loss of her husband.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Delaryn said, scrambling to think of a way to describe what had happened that didn’t sound completely insane. Could she even chance telling this woman the truth?

  “I know enough,” the highborn said coldly. “I got a good look at the carnage the morning after—there wasn’t a single soul left alive. The monsters barely even gnawed at the bodies before they moved on. And yet here the two of you are, unscathed and having a little fun together while your family’s homeland burns to ashes behind you. Where were you planning to run, hmm? Galvia? Crell?”

  Delaryn set her jaw in stone. “We aren’t running anywhere. We’re waiting for our companion to return from the Galespire. He’s a Templar of the Guardian—he’ll tell you we had nothing to do with—”

  “I know what he is,” the highborn said. Her entire body tensed at the mere mention of Rohen, and her blade drifted from Delaryn’s throat. “Why is he here with you?”

  “He…he’s the only reason we escaped,” Delaryn said, struggling to understand her assailant’s strange reaction. “Without him, we never would have been able to fight our way through the horde.”

  The highborn remained silent for a second as she seemed to pondered her captive’s words. Delaryn was tempted to try and exploit the momentary opening with a quick elbow to the gut, but the risk was still too great, especially since Sehris was only now starting to recover…

  The elf eventually clucked her tongue and returned her blade to Delaryn’s skin. “If Rohen
was protecting you, why would he approach Gûl Ostaraad yet leave the two of you here?”

  Delaryn froze. This woman knows Rohen by name? How is that even possible? He’s never been to Nelu’Thalas; his elven mother gave him to the orphanage in Silver Falls just months after my father took control of the city. Rohen was only a toddler at the time…

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Delaryn said defiantly. “Not unless—”

  “Why is he at the tower?” the highborn snarled.

  Delaryn winced as the blade finally pricked her flesh ever so slightly. “He’s warning the Lord Vigilant about what happened at Rimewreath.”

  “Your king’s army is gathered there. They are waiting to confront the horde, yes?”

  “They were, but not anymore,” Sehris bit out between labored breaths as she propped herself up on an elbow. “Rimewreath was destroyed just like Whitefeather Hold. The Chol are on the loose…I would have thought that a Ven’Tira ranger from Nelu’Thalas would wish to stop them at any cost.”

  Delaryn’s eyes widened. Her father had told her all about the Ven’Tira rangers, the elite operatives of the Waxing Throne. They were spies and warriors and guardians all at once. The fact that this woman had slipped through the cabin’s defenses suddenly made a lot more sense…

  “Ven’Tira,” Delaryn breathed. “My father always respected your kind. He often invited them to secret meetings in the Hold away from the other dukes and tharns.”

  The highborn snorted. “Yes, well, your father is dead, and the fool who replaced him didn’t seem the least bit interested in standing up to the zealots who actually rule your lands.” She hissed softly through her teeth. “Not that it matters now. You have no idea what horrors are coming for us.”

  Sehris slowly brought herself up onto her knees. “You mean another Culling?”

  “Not a Culling—the Culling,” the highborn said. “The one that will wipe out every kingdom in the north if it isn’t stopped soon.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Delaryn asked.

  “Exactly what it sounds like. Your people are still divided after your civil war, and now your king is dead. The Chol will bathe this land in blood while your dukes bicker over who gets to rule the bones.”

  “Darenthi already has a rightful ruler,” Sehris said. “And you will show her the respect she deserves!”

  The dark elf thrust out her hands. Aetheric energy buzzed at her fingertips, and a wave of telekinetic force rippled across the cabin. Delaryn winced when a burst of air struck her face as if she were standing outside in a windstorm, but the highborn took the brunt of the blow. The invisible blast struck her in the right shoulder, knocking aside her arm and the dagger it was holding before spinning her completely off her feet.

  “Argh!” Sehris cried out as the wrath of the Flensing paralyzed her again. Her Brand glowed even more angrily than before, but her pain bought Delaryn the time she needed.

  Whirling around, she reached out to the Aether and froze a cloud of vapor into a huge, hand-shaped block of ice. The highborn elf was already bouncing back to her feet after skidding halfway across the cabin, and she moved with unearthly grace as she retrieved a bow from off the floor.

  But the tables had finally been turned, and Delaryn had the advantage. She hurled the block of ice at her assailant, and despite the highborn’s attempt to roll out of the way, the disembodied hand slammed into the elf’s body and flattened her against the wall. The ice nearly shattered on impact, but Delaryn held enough of the block together enough to pin her opponent in a frozen, web-like prison.

  She stepped forward and studied their assailant for the first time. The woman was clad in supple brown leather armor that hugged her lithe body as tightly as a glove. The hood of her cloak had been knocked off, revealing red hair styled into a lace-braid ponytail and a pair of green elven eyes that sparkled as brightly as Rohen’s. The only identifying marker on her person was a silver brooch shaped like a leaf cradling a half-moon—the symbol of the Ven’Tira.

  “I will be asking the questions now,” Delaryn said, brushing her fingers across the small scratch on her throat. “And for your sake, you had better hope I like the answers.”

  ***

  “I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Yria grunted as she struggled against her icy bonds. The intense cold was already cutting through her armor and chilling her to the bone, and she could barely move her arms or legs. “Your mother’s blood really does flow through your veins.”

  The human queen gave her “prisoner” a long, fierce look. She appeared exactly like she had been described: slender and undeniably beautiful, with brilliant icy blue eyes and long platinum-blond hair. After a few moments, she turned and helped her drow accomplice back to her feet. The faintly glowing tattoos branded into the woman’s gray flesh were starting to fade, but a latticework of dark, angry veins had taken their place. The Flensing would incapacitate her for some time yet—it was a miracle she had been able to muster enough power to cast a spell.

  “You’re more powerful than I thought,” Yria added, focusing her gaze on the drow. “The Ven’Tira insisted you were just another Spire artificer.”

  The drow’s violet eyes narrowed into slits. “They were wrong.”

  “What is your name, elf?” the Whitefeather girl, Delaryn, demanded with an imperious scowl.

  Yria struggled against her restraints one last time before she relented and fell still. “Does it matter?”

  “That depends. Would you rather I call you basarn-melaen guuta?”

  “Not bad,” Yria said with a snort and then a chuckle. Under normal circumstances, she would have eagerly slit the throat of anyone who dared call her an orc-loving cunt, but she couldn’t help but appreciate the human’s gall. “I guess you’re smarter than my superiors thought, too.”

  “They don’t seem very well informed,” Delaryn said, crossing her arms haughtily. The gesture might have been intimidating if she weren’t stark naked. When she belatedly remembered her state of dress a moment later, her pale cheeks flushed red as she reached down to retrieve the blanket she had been wearing over her shoulders.

  Yria chuckled. “My name is Yria.”

  Delaryn tried to put an authoritative scowl back on her face, but it didn’t really help. “All right, Yria,” she said, “it’s time for you to answer some questions.”

  “You can ask whatever you want,” the ranger replied mildly. “Just don’t be disappointed if I ignore you.”

  The queen’s hand crackled with magical energy again, and the icy prison squeezed Yria’s limbs even harder than before. “If I were you, I would be a lot more concerned about my current situation.”

  Yria chuckled again despite the cold and the pressure. “But you’re not me, and that’s the point, rethir. You’re not really a queen, and you’re definitely not a killer.”

  Delaryn’s eyes narrowed angrily. “You just put a blade to my throat and triggered her Brand! You’re lucky I don’t freeze and shatter every bone in your body!”

  Yria scoffed. “You’re not the type.”

  “How do you know? You’ve been wrong about everything else!”

  “Perhaps, but not about this,” Yria replied, unfazed. “You’ve been the delicate flower on the king’s arm for too long. Even with Valayar flowing through your veins, you are not very imposing.”

  Delaryn opened her right palm, and the air crackled with magic as she slowly shaped a dagger of ice in the air. She took a step forward and directed the blade to hover ominously toward Yria’s throat.

  She really is bold, isn’t she? She’s nothing at all like the meek child Inaril described. What else were he and the others wrong about?

  “I’ve no doubt you could bring yourself to slaughter mindless Chol, but you’re not a killer,” Yria said. “That drow, on the other hand…violence and death run thick in her blood. Make certain you never turn your back on her.”

  For a moment, the Whitefeather girl almost looked like she might snap. Her blue e
yes narrowed, and her icy dagger pressed against Yria’s throat. Perhaps she had some Roskarim fire in her after all.

  “You’re right, I’m not a killer,” Delaryn said, closing her hand. The dagger fell to the floor and shattered like a shard of glass. “But we could leave you here for the Keepers.”

  “You could, but you won’t,” Yria replied. Her arms and legs were actually starting to hurt from the cold now, but she made certain to keep the discomfort off her face. “I believe what you told me before: Rohen is the only reason you escaped the massacre at your family’s keep. That’s also how I know you aren’t a monster—he wouldn’t have protected you if you were.”

  The drow woman shook her head as she finally retrieved her own blanket and slung it over her shoulders. Yria found herself oddly disappointed, which didn’t make a damn bit of sense. The woman was pretty, yes, but she was also a fucking drow.

  “How do you even know Rohen?” the dark elf demanded.

  “I don’t,” Yria admitted. “We’ve never met.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Queen Malareth is interested in him. That’s all that matters to me.”

  Delaryn and the drow shared a long, confused look. Yria had no intention of telling them the truth—or, at least, not the whole truth—but she did need to bait the hook well enough for them to cooperate. Queen Malareth and her Vin Aetheri allies would be interested in getting their hands on the last Whitefeather, too, albeit for completely different reasons than why they sought Rohen. They would probably want the drow as well, unfortunately.

  “I don’t understand,” Delaryn said, shaking her head. “Your people have never shown an interest in Rohen before—or any half-blood elves, for that matter.”

  “That isn’t always true,” Yria replied, suppressing a wince.

  “It’s true enough! I’ve heard the stories. Half-bloods are treated horribly here, but your people don’t exactly open the gates of the Moonweald for them, either.”

  “Yet she is one,” the drow whispered.

  Delaryn blinked. “What?”