The Tower of the Forgotten

by Sara M. Harvey

  Portia pressed higher into the sky, feeling the draw of the dark magic below pulling on her with ferocious energy.

  "Saint Christopher, Saint Christopher," she murmured.

  Imogen laid her head against Portia’s chest and softly chanted. Slowly, Portia felt her strength build, then double, although Imogen grew heavy in her arms. They tumbled onto the rocky ledge in a tangle of limbs.

  In one blinding flash from below, the sundered souls went shrieking into the obelisk at the center of the circle and vanished.

  The hunched figures waiting at the perimeter howled in a hungry fashion, turning toward the tower with the afterglow of the spell still smoldering eerily in their eyes.

  It was quiet and still after that. The ceaseless waves even paused in their barrage of the shore, and not a single dog or night bird stirred. Looking down over the edge of their perch, Portia and Imogen saw nothing but a field of ashes where the Circus Avernus had once been, and the tower rising, ominous and glowing, from the spit of land across the water.

  They caught their breath, arms and legs leaden with exhaustion.

  The light flickered beneath the waves, steady in time to the thrum of the great engine below.

  Portia marshaled the last of her strength. "We’ve got to find Radinka. Come on."

  Imogen nodded and stood. This time, Portia arranged her and the axe more carefully, which made carrying her far easier than it had been. She dove from the cliff, spreading her wings wide to catch the sea wind and glide for as long as it would hold her.

  They swung out over the road, looking for any sign of the girl. From behind them, the glow grew brighter, and from beneath the calm grey sea, a low and too-familiar rumble disturbed the silence.

  —5—

  A LOW WOODEN SIGN by the road announced that they were entering the Village of Soquel, situated in the foothills above the seaside town. Beyond the small, thatched-roof houses and the shuttered marketplace, the road wound up higher into the hills. A thick stand of trees separated the outskirts of the village from the immense estate that opened up before them.

  A mansion sat perched at the intersection of two large and impeccably manicured gardens, surrounded by a low wall of fitted stone. Portia and Imogen had taken to the road nearly a mile hence, and footsore and weary to the bone, they paused outside the wall. In the grey pre-dawn chill, the house looked inviting with light shining through the pair of tall oak doors carved with dramatic scrollwork and set with leaded glass windows.

  Imogen looked at the estate. "Who lives here? It smells like magic."

  "Lord Alaric Regalii, unless I miss my guess."

  "Oh, him. Can we trust him?"

  "I don’t know, honestly. But we have no other allies, and I wouldn’t turn aside any Regalii support."

  Imogen nodded. "Not a bad idea. Even if he isn’t completely trustworthy, he shall have to swear an oath of hospitality; it’s custom. We can get some rest and hopefully find out about Radinka."

  Portia rubbed her temples. "So, I suppose we should stroll on up to the front door and knock, then?"

  "I suppose we should."

  Fine. Let’s."

  They climbed over the wall and headed straight for the elaborate front doors. Portia yanked on the bell pull. To her surprise, Alaric came to the door himself.

  He looked as if he had been in his study; a long gentleman’s dressing gown hung open over his shirt and trousers. He gazed at them with an expression that was half irritation, half amusement.

  "You have diverged from our agreement, my dear," he said.

  "Circumstances changed. May we beg hospitality from you, Lord Regalii?"

  "We?" He made a great show of looking around Portia.

  "Yes, myself and the Mistress Imogen Gyony." She hardly needed to point Imogen out to him. Even in the misty dawn, her fiery red hair shone and she stood nearly half a head taller than Portia.

  "Our intelligence clearly stated that Imogen Gyony had been killed…years ago."

  "Your intelligence was obviously flawed," Imogen told him tartly.

  Portia laid a hand on her beloved’s forearm, tasting the lie in Alaric’s words. "Does that matter? From the feel of this place you have no problem consorting with the dead."

  "Are you Aldias, now, hmm?"

  "Are you going to let us in?"

  He looked them over, appraising them, his eyes resting on Portia’s eyes and hair, on Imogen’s face, and almost hungrily on the golden axe.

  Of course, of course. Excuse me." He stepped back, throwing both doors open wide. "Welcome, ladies, to my home. I offer you my household’s hospitality."

  The main foyer arched high above, chandeliers shining with fragrant beeswax candles. Inlaid in cunningly wrought marble and bronze, an elaborately detailed family crest decorated the floor. Imogen sucked in a breath at the sight of it and stepped carefully around it.

  Alaric reached out and tugged on a velvet bell-pull. "I’ll have the servants roused to draw you ladies a bath and have some more suitable clothes sent up."

  A plump maid appeared, bobbing her head in such a deep curtsey that it made her round cheeks quiver and her auburn curls bounce.

  "Ah, Matilda, excellent. Can you see these ladies to their rooms in the guest wing and see that they aren’t disturbed until they’ve slept enough to rise refreshed? Goodnight, Mistresses Gyony, or should I say, good morning? Either way, sleep well. We have much to discuss later."

  Matilda seemed the motherly type, even though she was quite young. She clucked and fussed the entire way up the stairs, fretful over finding something that Portia could wear with those wings of hers. She also studiously ignored the axe that flickered and gleamed in Portia’s hand.

  She brought them to a suite of rooms that opened onto a central sitting room and held two small bedrooms and a well-sized bathroom with a curved enameled copper tub. She disappeared down the hall and returned with an armful of white cloth.

  "This one is the largest, has a drawstring neckline, too. You should be able to make it do until Favrielle gets through with you." She tossed one gown in particular to Portia and handed another to Imogen. She pointed out the bell pulls in each of the rooms and curtsied dramatically once more before disappearing from the room.

  "What shall we do now?" Portia tossed her nightgown onto the bed in the first bedroom.

  A fierce blush had risen in Imogen’s face. "I don’t like it here."

  "It’ll be all right—I won’t let anything happen to you."

  "It isn’t me I’m worried about."

  Portia draped her arms around Imogen’s shoulders. "I’m not about to call you a liar, but there is more bothering you than Radinka’s well-being."

  Imogen looked away. "I don’t want to stay here."

  "It isn’t ideal, I know. But we’ll be safe enough until we can get what we need and get out."

  "No, it isn’t just…. It’s him."

  "Who? Alaric?"

  She nodded. "I dare not speak it aloud."

  "Whisper it to me." Portia touched her forehead. "You can do it."

  Imogen nodded again and sat down on the bed, tucking her long legs beneath her. Portia sat, settling her hip against Imogen’s like they had always done when sharing secrets.

  Imogen sat a long moment, composing herself and prodding gently at the edges of Portia’s thoughts.

  Finally, in a quivering, soft voice she began.

  "The night I died, the thing we fought was not a normal demon. Not in the least. It has been so long since I have been able to speak about this, I find I don’t have the right words. After all these years that I have been waiting to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  "When I said it wasn’t your fault, Portia, I meant it. It was all I could tell you, but it was the truth, the absolute truth. You didn’t fail in your duty to me."

  "Imogen—"

  "No, let me finish or else I fear if I stop speaking I will never be able to say another word so long as a live." She reached out and touc
hed Portia’s hair. "Events are not always as we remember, or as we perceive. This had nothing to do with the fiend at all. Maybe it brought it on faster than what was natural, but you were meant to have silver hair from the moment you were born. You were born more angel than the rest of us. The good sisters wanted to find you, wanted to keep you from this destiny."

  "No one can keep anyone from their destiny, but I am happy they thought to try for me."

  Imogen looked around, nervous as a feral cat, and Portia wrapped her wings around them both, sheltering them.

  "It is the same with the demon we fought that night. It was sent with all the strength and spells to overcome us. Its duty was to kill me."

  "What? Why? How can you possibly know that?"

  "It silenced me with a particular spell. The words that would have alerted you dissolved on my tongue. But since I have come back, those blocks are gone. I have been frantic to tell you for so long. And now, when we finally have a moment, the very proof falls onto my lap!"

  "I don’t understand."

  "That foul creature’s aura was all but covered in sigils and glyphs giving it every protection against you. You didn’t destroy it that night, Portia, only banished it for a time. It lives, still, and I can smell it in this house."

  "What?" Adrenaline and anger filled Portia, and she jumped to her feet. "Where? There is no spell that can save that bastard from me now."

  "It’s not so easy, please, please, sit down, my love. I haven’t even told you the worst. It’s Alaric. He’s part of this. The coat of arms in the main hall. That was the key."

  Portia nodded. "You seemed distressed to see it."

  "It took me a moment to recognize it, to put it together with what I saw that night. But it was one of the sigils on that demon. Sort of. It’s difficult to explain, but imagine a constellation—an image drawn only point to point—and if you squint and tilt your head then maybe it’s a bear or a dragon or a warrior. There was a glyph on the beast like that. I had never seen its like and I had been trained, like the others of the convent, to read glyphs and to use them. Not like the Aldias do, to control spirits, but more like the Vedma used to, to heal and make things grow, and channel the forces of nature and magic in specific paths.

  "So on that night, the demon spoke to my mind and soul and it said ‘mouna,’ silence. As soon as it made that contact with me, I could see into it. Because a door that is open may be passed through in either direction, you know. And I looked at the things written upon its soul, and there were so many sigils etched into it. But one, one caught my eye because it was unique, it wasn’t the Nephilim magic I knew. It was different. And if I were to draw the crest of Alaric Regalii like a constellation, it would look exactly like that."

  "Alaric’s a member of the Primacy, you know. And I bet he was one then, as well."

  "Are you certain?"

  "No. But I’d be willing to put a wager on it and be sure I’d win."

  "Do you think he is working alone, or does the entire Primacy want me dead?"

  "I think you were a convenient pawn, just like I have been." Portia’s golden gaze flickered westward, toward the town at the coast and the gleaming tower rising out of the surf.

  "Nigel?"

  "Not just Nigel. Something tells me that this goes deeper and back farther than either of us can imagine."

  "What do we do, Portia?"

  "We have nothing but half-truths and speculation to work with. But there is still an enemy we know, and that is Nigel in that damned tower. He is going to complete Belial’s plan to tear a hole between our world and theirs."

  Imogen nodded. "And Radinka. We have to get her back to Penemue where she will be safe. Emile and Cadmus are the only ones we can trust. I wonder how many more he’s taken and where they are? Why didn’t Emile stop him?"

  "Perhaps he couldn’t. The Primacy is used to getting what they want. They are used to ruling us like a monarchy would. They speak; we bow, then obey." Portia sighed. "I wish I could get a message to the Captain. He’s been so worried."

  "He has faith in you, Portia. And who wouldn’t? You’re the greatest Gyony in a generation, if not ever."

  "Don’t forget that you’re Gyony, too, beloved. You went through the training, same as me. And even if they fudged your trials to make sure we’d end up together, you have never brought dishonor to the family."

  Imogen laid her head on Portia’s shoulder. "I will be strong so long as you’re with me."

  Portia kissed the top of her head. "You’re strong all on your own. How many times have you died, now? Even I can’t claim that. I think you must have nine lives."

  "I suppose I am down to seven now, though."

  They laughed and it felt good. Portia could imagine that they were back in Penemue, safe in their room with nothing to fear except being caught up chatting after curfew.

  "Do you think we ought to try and sleep?" Imogen said, aloud.

  Portia nodded and wrapped her arms and her wings around her, burying her face in Imogen’s hair. She could not fight back the tears that spilled over her lids and trickled down her beloved’s neck.

  "I know you don’t need to hear this because you know what you mean to me. But I want to tell you just the same. I love you, Imogen. With my entire soul, the one that’s mine and the one that isn’t. I will never be without you. If I have to go to the underworld again to get you back, so help me, I will. And if I can’t, then I will join you there, do you understand? Nothing will keep me from you. Nothing."

  "Despite all the trouble you’ve caused me, I still think I am the luckiest girl in the world," Imogen said, lifting her chin for a kiss while her body trembled with delight. "Thank you, Portia. For everything. The pain and terror of death is nothing compared with the strength of love. And I don’t fancy ever leaving your side again." She looked wistful a moment. "There are nicer places there in the land of the dead, besides Salus and the shadow-side. I have seen them. I think I might know how to get back there. If we ever need that knowledge, which I hope we won’t."

  "They say all knowledge is worth having. Just don’t forget it, my love. I’ll be relying on you to lead us there."

  They changed into the fresh nightclothes. Portia had no intention of sleeping, but the soft linen felt so much better on her skin than the soiled and tattered satin gown.

  Lying side by side in the wide bed seemed a dream. In all their years together, their nighttime companionship had been a rare treat and always crammed into a dormitory bed or, most recently, a narrow cot. But yet, even with the luxurious amount of mattress available to them, they lay with limbs entwined and curled up in a space not much larger than their beds at Penemue.

  Portia waited until Imogen had fallen completely asleep. By then it was fully day, with rosy light spilling in through the windows. She left the axe tucked under Imogen’s arm and stepped out into the hall. Although she felt silly wandering about in a too-large nightgown draped almost indecently low under her wings, she had nothing at all else to wear.

  The hum of a well-run house filled the place. Breakfast smells wafted up from the kitchens, bread and sausage cooking. Once, it would have made her mouth water, but now it only made her ache with nostalgia, missing the Penemue of her youth and Lady Hester’s stern affection.

  She watched from the railing at the top of the stairs as servants came and went below: there was sweeping, there was shouting, there was laughter. On the surface it all looked like a perfectly normal manor.

  Underneath that façade something much darker lurked. She left the servants to their morning routine and walked back toward her room. The bustle of morning had not yet reached upstairs, so she took a moment to explore the other wing. At the far end, a grand door spanned the width of the corridor. From the formidable lock on it, Portia guessed it to be Alaric’s suite.

  Behind her, another door opened. Portia spun but only found a shocked young man staring wide-eyed back at her.

  "I know you," she said to him. "Kendrick, isn’t it?"
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  He nodded. "And you’re Portia Gyony. What are you doing here?"

  She bit back her wariness, not wanting to frighten him—not yet. "I was about to ask you the same question."

  He shut the door with care, then pointed to another a few yards down the hall.

  "Please," Kendrick whispered. "I dare not speak here in the hall."

  Portia sounded him, applying her aura against his and feeling his fear and his utter sincerity. He knew her; his memories of the flight from the convent were clear, and in them, Portia saw herself a hero in his eyes, blazing and saintly. She nodded. They stepped inside, and only when the door had shut did he release a deep breath.

  "That was Radinka’s room." He pointed in the direction of the other room. "She was having trouble sleeping."

  "She is here? Is she well? Imogen’s terribly worried about her. And will be about you, too, once she finds out you’re here."

  "Imogen?" His eyes lit up. "She’s come along as well?"

  "Yes. She is also resting. How many more of the convent children are there here?"

  "Just Radinka and myself." He tugged on a lock of hair, grown long and curling at the bottom.

  How like a prince he looked with his gleaming green eyes and tawny skin. Such a contrast to Radinka’s stark beauty of pale and dark. He carried himself like he thought a hero might, Portia saw. And he was more than a little in love with Radinka.

  "What has he done with you two? Lessons? Anything like that?"

  The boy shrugged. "He pays more attention to her. She has the magic. He says he is saving me for something different."

  "Saving you? What, like a postage stamp?"

  Kendrick shrugged. "Don’t know. But he’s going to burn her out if he isn’t careful. And I can’t let that happen. I just don’t know how to stop him yet."