The Tower of the Forgotten

by Sara M. Harvey

  "I can help there, I think."

  "If anyone in the world can, it’s you, Mistress Gyony."

  "Oh, please, call me Portia. Titles are ridiculous." She smiled but could not banish the worry from her eyes.

  "You should go back to your room," Kendrick whispered. "One of the maids will be up soon to bring your breakfast, and she’ll report everything back to Lord Alaric. And our governess will be here to fetch us for lessons soon."

  "Governess?"

  "Lady Gelender Edulica. Not at all like Lord Emile. She’s loathsome, we hate her."

  "I’m so sorry, my dear, you’ve gone from one cage into another. I never thought it would be so."

  "At least I’m awake."

  Portia patted his shoulder. "A silver lining."

  "I swear I won’t tell anyone you spoke to me, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t find out anyway."

  "That’s all right. Thank you."

  Back in the hallway, the household sounds had doubled. Portia hurried back to her room, where Imogen still lay sleeping with the axe tucked under her arm. Portia hopped into bed as someone rapped loudly on the door before swinging it open.

  The woman who entered was not Matilda, but a formidable strawberry blonde with a sewing basket in one hand and bundled fabric in the other.

  "I don’t sew for slatterns!" Her announcement jolted Imogen awake straightaway.

  "His lordship ordered something suitable for you two." She flung the bundle at the foot of the bed.

  Matilda curtsied. "This is Favrielle. She’s from the City of the Holy Cross. A very famous clothier."

  "The famous clothier. Atelier, if you will." She crossed her arms. "Now get your lazy bones out of bed and put this on. I came all the way here for one thing and one thing only, to alter these to make you presentable."

  Portia stepped out of bed and stretched, her wings spreading wide. Favrielle did not so much as blink at them.

  "He said you were both tall. All of you angel-folk are tall. Lucky thing I planned for that."

  Lord Alaric was obviously a man concerned with image, even though he lived quite secluded from society. Soon, Portia stood before Favrielle’s scrutinizing gaze in her wide-legged trousers and mandarin-collared tunic over a close-fitting chemise that had the shoulders cut away in what the atelier called a racer-back style. The loose tunic covered her wings almost entirely but had deep pleats falling from the shoulders gave her room to spread them wide without disturbing the garment. Three-quarter-length sleeves allowed her to handle her axe without much encumbrance. She could not have designed a better ensemble for herself if she had tried. Although she thought the crisp, garnet silk was a bit elaborate, she liked the way it moved and felt. The color bothered her some. Red felt like a target…or a sacrifice.

  Imogen came away with a similar set of trousers that looked much like a divided skirt in a similar weight of sage green silk, and an ivory shirtwaist that looked like the sturdy yet feminine garments she had loved in life. Alaric’s canny assessment of their individual styles made Portia nervous. It was all just another card in his deck of tricks. She wondered to what end he intended to play his hand.

  Alaric came to their door and smiled appraisingly. "Excellent. Now, please join me for breakfast. I am eager to introduce you to my wards."

  He led them down the stairs and into the dining room, where Radinka and Kendrick sat, eyes downcast. Between them sat a slender, stern-faced woman in a severe woolen gown that buttoned up to her jawline, her once-dark hair swept up into a greying bouffant.

  "This is my governess, Lady Gelender Edulica." Alaric introduced her as she stood to bow.

  "And I believe you know Radinka and Kendrick."

  The children stood, looking hopefully at Portia and Imogen. They buffeted Portia with their mental prodding. They were powerful, whether by nature or by Analise’s machinations, Portia did not know.

  Alaric rang for breakfast and sat, motioning everyone else to follow suit. Servants brought in an array of covered dishes, setting them in front of each guest. Beneath each dome waited a gold-rimmed plate with puddings and delicately poached eggs quivering on toast near a crystal bowl of caviar.

  Alaric smiled broadly at his wards and caught Portia’s gaze. "Just like one big, happy family, don’t you think?"

  "I wouldn’t know." Portia crossed her arms. "Neither would any one else here, I’d wager."

  "Come now, you had a family once. You weren’t hatched, Mistress Gyony."

  "Indeed not. But you are correct, I suppose. I did have what I might call a family, once. And still do—at least I still have most of them."

  "You speak of Lady Hester Edulica."

  Portia nodded. Imogen looked up from her untouched plate.

  Alaric dipped a crust of bread into an egg and chewed it loudly. "Did you know," he pointed the bread at them, dripping vibrant golden yolk onto the tablecloth, "did you know that she was born a Regalii?" He registered their surprise and continued. "And she married a mortal, can you believe it? Mrs. Hester Sloane, Lady Regalii." He shook his head. "Her sister was a particular favorite companion of mine in the days of our shared youth. Pity about Hester, though. But she learned the hard way and paid dearly for it."

  He said no more. And although Portia burned with curiosity, she did not dare ask him for more information. He leaned on his elbows and smiled invitingly at her as the eggs began to seize up.

  "Was Lady Hester the one that died?" Radinka spoke up, breaking the tense silence. "That wasn’t the price she paid, though, was it?" Her sea-glass eyes glittered, and Portia once more felt the radiant edges of the power Radinka kept under impressive control.

  "No, not all." Alaric conceded to tell them the rest of the story. "She lost her husband and her child. For the best, really. What kind of life would they have had?"

  Portia barked with laughter. "A happy one?" Unexpected tears pricked her eyelids as she imagined a joyful child growing up in the halls of the Penemue chapter house, a delicately featured daughter that favored her mother’s golden looks and would outlive her mortal father by at least a hundred years. Portia suddenly understood the shadows that had danced in Hester’s smile as she had raised a generation of Nephilim children, training them in the ways of the Grigori.

  In each of us, she saw her own child.

  From beside her, Portia saw Imogen nod knowingly. Across the table, Radinka and Kendrick sighed for an experience they would never have.

  "Enough of this sentimental chatter." Alaric stood and dropped his napkin over his half-finished breakfast. "Radinka, Kendrick, be sweet and give Imogen a tour of the gardens. I wish a word with Mistress Portia in private."

  Imogen tensed, but Portia shook her head. "Go on, Imogen, you can get caught up with your siblings. I’ll be along directly."

  Alaric smiled blandly until he had shut the door to his sitting room, which gleamed with polished brass and well-oiled leather. A gentleman’s study, to be certain, painted in a rich sage green with plush, figured carpets thrown across the gleaming hardwood floors; it radiated privilege. A slender table that held a cut crystal decanter and snifters stood in the center of the room, within easy reach of the three armchairs situated in a conversational semi-circle. A warmly crackling fire gave the room a cozy atmosphere. Still, Portia’s flesh crawled.

  "Portia, I cannot have you speaking out of turn and riling up the little ones. The Regalii take their lineage seriously, and it is not considered seemly to disrupt the order of these things. I would hate to influence the young ones in an unfortunate manner, if you catch my meaning. Hester was an outcast the moment she took her wedding vows, and I would not like to see Radinka and Kendrick make the same mistake."

  "Are they Regalii, now?"

  Alaric winked. "No one knows what they are. That’s the beauty of it. Fostered in my home, they might as well be Regalii. And it would please me, and therefore the Primacy, if that were the case. We need powerful leadership in these trying times."

  Portia overcame t
he desire to roll her eyes. There were many reasons she had been chosen as a Gyony, among whom a general distaste for the fops that thought of themselves as great men while sending others to fight and die was considered a highly sought-after trait. She desperately wished that Captain Cadmus were there with her; he had much more experience dealing with politics than she did. And he was handy to have at her side in a fight. She did not relish a battle with the Lord Regalii, but she could not deny that she was keeping a running catalog of his possible weaknesses, just in case.

  "Why am I here, my Lord?" She could not keep the contempt out of the honorific.

  Ignoring her tone, he nodded toward the axe. "Do you keep that with you always? Or are you at unease here?"

  "I always have it."

  "At every meal and every moment, Mistress Portia?"

  "Indeed."

  The hairs rose on the back of Portia’s neck as she felt the presence of something unseen in the room with them. No, not in the room, at least not in the same space they occupied. She meandered toward the window, glancing at the built-in bookcases along the walls as she did so, trying to pinpoint the location of the sensation of menace that refused to leave her be.

  "…and you should be grateful! The Primacy cares a great deal about you." Alaric continued to chatter as if she had been listening the entire time. "They always have. I want you to know that."

  She glanced back over her shoulder. He had tipped his hand, not by much, but enough for her to catch the barest glimpse of his cards. "The Primacy? Cares about me? A Gyony?" She hoped she sounded at least a little star-struck. "I find that difficult to believe. After all, I have always lived in Nigel’s shadow."

  A fleeting tension flickered around his eyes at the mention of her foster-brother’s name. Portia noted that as well.

  "Portia, dear, you have no idea." He laughed and opened his arms as if she might fall into his fatherly embrace. When she did not, he clapped his hands together and interlaced his fingers. "The Primacy has many eyes and ears, all attuned to different things. Yes, Nigel was a prodigy; there is no doubt of that. But so were you, of a different sort. And now, of a wholly unique sort, indeed."

  She ran her fingers along the spines of leather-bound books that appeared never to have been read as she wandered the perimeter of the room. The thrill of being watched spiked as she neared the servants’ entrance, but faded as she passed the door.

  "So, what do you intend, then, sir? You cannot deny the very clear danger posed by the tower in the bay. Something must be done about it. And someone must be about doing it."

  "Do you volunteer?"

  Portia faced him, her shoulders square. "In fact, I do."

  "Delightful!" He clapped his hands once more and looked her up and down, appraisingly. "But I’m afraid that’s impossible. You are far too valuable for that sort of foolhardy campaign. The Lady Analise worked hard to make you what you are and I have no intention of letting her labor go to waste. Not to mention a certain angel’s soul that you currently possess, do you not? No, Mistress Gyony, you’ll not be risking any of those things."

  Portia stared at him while she processed his words, laying them alongside Imogen’s account of the night she’d died. Alaric had played a part in that night. Alaric still kept the demon that had slain her beloved in this very house, and Portia could feel it watching her through vellum and leather and wood. It was taking her measure.

  And without a doubt, she knew that Alaric had a hand in Hester’s tragic death.

  She turned her back on the menacing presence behind the bookshelf and put her hands on her hips. "What do you plan to do about Nigel and the tower?"

  "Nigel, did you say? Nigel’s dead."

  "Don’t play stupid with me."

  "And don’t you be coy, you mouthy little tart. Gyony have no manners, and you are no exception. And if you think for a moment that I have no power to wield over you, then you are sorely mistaken, Fereshte."

  Hearing the name spoken aloud with such contempt sent an icy shiver through her. And she knew then, with utter certainty, what she has suspected all along: the battle that awaited her was going to be neither easy nor fair.

  —6—

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON FOUND them all pretending at being good houseguests. They played cards while they surreptitiously planned and plotted, half in whispers, half in thoughts.

  A minute tremor ran through the building. Portia reached for her axe, letting her cards drop face-up onto the table. Imogen, Radinka, and Kendrick were already on alert, and she could feel their senses sharpen and cast about the property.

  The sitting room door opened abruptly, and Gelender strode in. "Get up," she said sternly to Radinka and Kendrick. "You are both being confined to your rooms, immediately."

  "What’s going on?" Kendrick stepped protectively in front of Radinka.

  "Little fools, you’re in danger. What other reason could there be?" She grabbed them each by the sleeve and turned from the table.

  Portia intercepted her. "Where’s Lord Alaric?"

  Gelender looked her up and down. "You were poorly raised."

  "That, my lady, is irrelevant. Where is Lord Alaric?"

  "Gone," she answered, her mouth puckering with distaste. "And I don’t know where he’s gone or why. I don’t ask impertinent and inappropriate questions. Especially for someone who is a guest in his house."

  "You don’t intimidate me."

  "I am not trying to intimidate you. Not everything in life is a challenge, Mistress Gyony; you’d do well to remember that. And to recall that you are not a fully recognized member of your house, nor have you achieved your age of majority. You have no right to question me or Lord Alaric. Yours is to humbly submit to our will as a lord and lady of the Grigori."

  Another tremor rattled the antiques in the curio cabinet. This one was larger. Portia knew what they meant, or at least where they came from. The tower.

  "That’s it. I’m finished with this polite nonsense." Portia brandished the axe, and Gelender stepped back, letting go of the two wards.

  "You wouldn’t kill me!"

  "Of course not. Who the hell do you think I am?" She swung the hammer end up toward Gelender’s head.

  Panicked, the governess tried to bolt and ran straight into Imogen.

  Imogen held her by the shoulders and gazed directly into the woman’s eyes. "Sleep," she said in a voice that was not quite her own.

  Gelender crumpled to the floor.

  "Are you ready?" Portia looked at Radinka, whose ivory complexion had paled several more shades.

  The girl nodded and reached out for Imogen’s hand. "You must stay strong there. It will be the hardest for you," Imogen said. "I will be right beside you, and so will Portia and Kendrick." Leaning into the girl’s ear, she whispered, "He wants nothing more than to be a Gyony."

  "Enough. Let’s go. Radinka, show us the way."

  Radinka quailed a moment before straightening her spine and nodding. She led them across the foyer and into Alaric’s sitting room. She opened the bookcase expertly, and Portia knew she had done this before. It pained her. Although Radinka was far older than she looked, she was still considered a child by Nephilim standards and should not have been anywhere near her training to join a House of the Grigori. She should have been still home with her family, or playing in the halls of a chapter house somewhere. But that childhood had ended long ago in the halls of Our Lady of Precious Hope convent, and at the hands of those who had been sworn to protect her.

  The small room within surprised Portia, looking more like an oversized closet than any kind of sinister secret passage.

  "What is this place?" She could feel, however, that it was not as innocent as it seemed.

  Radinka pointed to the shelves built into the walls, each one crowded with all sorts of strange keepsakes and knickknacks, from jewelry to photographs to silverware and more.

  They are the mementos of a hundred people, or so. Anchors, he calls them, bindings. Each one of these little thin
gs meant the world to someone. And he knows it and he uses it to his advantage." She picked up a large monkey wrench. "This belonged to an Insinori girl, one of the youngest ever to be elevated to full house standing. Her name was Kitty. He uses her the most. And this, you might recognize this."

  Radinka stood up on tiptoes, reaching toward the back of the shelf where the wrench had sat.

  "What do you mean, he uses her?" Portia asked.

  "Uses. To do his bidding. On the other side. Although he does have a few living people in thrall, mostly, these folks are dead. But he can control them with their things. I can show you where he keeps them."

  Portia did not understand at all what Radinka could mean.

  "Here." Radinka put something in Portia’s hand. "I think this will mean the most to you."

  She knew the hairpin at once, but the context twisted her memories. There was no way this could be here, but there it rested in her hand, the long twining ivory shaft with the garnet cabochon on the end, as big as a robin’s egg. She became aware of the tears in her eyes and that she was staring, open-mouthed, at the trinket.

  "Does this mean that he uses her, too?"

  Radinka nodded. "It does."

  "Do you know what for?"

  "No, not her. I have never been out with him when he had her with him. Only Kitty."

  "Portia, what is it?" Curious, Imogen turned Portia’s wrist to see what had so upset her. She gasped and blessed herself. "Oh, heaven help poor Lady Hester, she’s been through so much already!"

  "Can these ties, these ‘bindings,’ be broken?" Portia’s hand closed protectively around the hairpin.

  "I’m sure they can. I’ve just not quite worked out how. I mean, how to sever them and leave the poor spirit intact. It goes badly if it is done wrong. He showed me once, to scare me, I think."

  "Does he have you bound, too?" Imogen’s voice creaked just a little with worry.

  Radinka could not answer, she only looked away. Imogen sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, Radinka…"