Lamiel shrugged. “It’s curious, that’s all,” she said. “I’d heard that you killed a man with a touch when you were four years old. Only a Skinwitch can do that.”
Those cursed rumors again. No matter how hard I tried to patiently correct people, to spread the truth, someone would always do their own mental addition and start whispering Skinwitch. I could hardly blame them; it made sense.
“I’m no more a Skinwitch than you are,” I said. Keep smiling. “My magic is flawed.”
“If you say so.” Lamiel winked, as if we shared a secret.
I curled my hand into a fist under the table, tight enough the leather of my glove creaked. “It’s the truth.”
“I suppose your father should have expected something to go wrong, marrying a woman without any magic in her bloodline.” She lifted her lip in genteel disdain. “It was quite the scandal, as I recall. The Lady of Owls’ own middle son, an Exalted Atheling in the direct line of succession, marrying some utterly powerless Raverran diplomat! Such a waste.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and stood. “I can see what you’re trying to do,” I said, forcing my voice to be viciously pleasant. “I’m sorry to inform you that I’m not so easy to provoke. If I were, I’d leave a wake of corpses behind me.” I gestured toward the door, precise and polite. “Now, I’m sure you’re weary from the road. Why don’t I call my steward to show you to your guest rooms for some much needed rest?”
Lamiel stared at me a long moment, her face guarded and calculating. Then she slapped the table and burst out into a merry peal of laughter. “I like you, Ryx! May I call you Ryx?”
“No.”
“The Lady of Owls has been hiding a gem all this time. We’ll be great friends, you and I.” She flashed me a too-brilliant smile.
I gave her a level stare and didn’t bother trying to hide my loathing.
“I rather doubt it.”
I warned Odan and the housekeeper, Gaven, that Lamiel might be up to trouble, and that we had to keep her away from the Black Tower in particular. Odan frowned at this news, his bristling gray brows descending like thunderclouds over his deep-set, intelligent eyes.
Gaven, twenty years younger and far more prone to whimsy, broke out in an eager grin. “Ooh, so you want us to spy on her, Exalted Warden?”
He bobbed into half a bow on his toes, his fingers flicking out almost absently from his chest in the casting-off motion of the warding sign. Avert misfortune. For the staff who’d lived in the castle for years, it had become almost a friendly greeting, like a wave; it was a rote gesture worn smooth with use, with no real fear in it anymore. When I was small it had bothered me that they did that, but now I barely noticed.
“Not spy,” I corrected him, glancing around. We stood ten feet apart beneath the cavernous timbers of the Old Great Hall, and lowering our voices wasn’t an option. “The Alevaran delegation are our guests. Just keep an eye out in case they try anything foolish, that’s all.”
“You realize,” Odan said gravely, “that if Exalted Lamiel does try to approach the Black Tower, none of the rest of us have the authority to stop her. You’re the only mage-marked in the castle, with the lady gone.”
“That’s true.” I twisted the end of my braid, considering the implications. If Lamiel’s goal was to provoke a grievance between Alevar and Morgrain, she might be looking for a chance to take issue with the castle staff. “Tell everyone to see to her needs, but to keep out of her sight as much as possible. If any problems arise, alert me, and I’ll come at once.”
“We should still spy on her, yes?” Gaven sounded so hopeful.
“From a distance,” I conceded. “But Odan’s right. If she tries anything dangerous, you won’t be able to stop her. I’ll have to watch her myself.”
It was easy enough at first. No one knew the secret corners and hidden passageways of Gloamingard like I did. Lamiel played the part of a guest weary from the road, withdrawing to her rooms; I watched from the ivy-masked windows of an old turret as messenger birds came and went from her balcony all afternoon, alighting on her pale hand. After dark I moved to an empty guest chamber across the hall from hers, the better to intercept her if she tried to sneak around at night once the castle went to bed.
Which was all well and good, except for the part where I needed sleep, myself.
Midnight came and went, and still Lamiel showed no sign of stirring. I didn’t dare abandon my post, but as the hours of peering beneath my door to watch hers wore on, the floor became far too comfortable.
It didn’t help that every time I came close to dozing off, vivid bits of unpleasant memory rose like bubbles from the depths of a murky swamp, stirred up by Lamiel’s prodding.
Scarlet peach juice running down a boy’s chin as he stood with eyes closed in forbidden delight, the snow-white stolen fruit trembling in his hand. Rage blazing on a bearded face, and the horrible thud of a fist against breaking bone.
The boy’s terrified cries for mercy. The guilty peach forgotten on the ground, smeared in blood and dirt.
I’d known what would happen when I grabbed that man’s arm to stop him from hitting my friend again—Hells, I couldn’t even remember the boy’s name. Afterward, my father told everyone that I didn’t understand; I was only four years old.
I knew. In that moment, I didn’t care. I was too angry, too desperate.
The terrible feeling of life turning to death under my hand, of flesh hardening and something precious departing. The dull glassy stare of eyes with no soul left in them. The ponderous, ground-shaking thud of his empty shell falling to the hard earth.
That was when people stopped looking at me. Instead of waving hello, they made the warding sign, fingers flicking out from their chests: avert.
My father had explained, the grass-green rings of his mage mark glistening with tears, that I’d have to go foster with my grandmother. She was a Witch Lord, stronger than the mountain, more cunning than the river, ancient as a tree. She could handle me. She would keep me safe, and keep me out of trouble.
And she had, more or less. For seventeen years, I’d barely left the castle, washing down my yearning to visit other places with a bitter draft of It’s safer for everyone this way.
After all that caution, trouble had come here to find me, wearing flowers and silver-ringed eyes.
My head jerked up from the cool wooden boards of the floor, and I blinked grit from my eyes. I had to stay awake. Lamiel hadn’t arrived here a day early just to sit in her room; it was only a matter of time until she made her move.
A voice spoke behind me, soft as silk sliding across my palm.
“It’ll be easier to kill her if you leave the door ajar.”
I barely stopped myself from leaping up and screaming. Instead I made a muffled choking noise and twisted around to face the lean, elegant creature who sat in the window, tail curled around his paws, backlit by the moon behind him.
“Hello, Whisper,” I said. “Thank you for your rather morbid advice, but I’m not currently planning on killing anyone.”
“Suit yourself.” His tone suggested that I was being foolish, but he was too polite to point it out. “How will you stop her if she tries to enter the Black Tower?”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than sneak up behind people and ask them ominous questions?”
“No.” He leaped down and prowled closer on silent paws. “And that’s not an answer.”
Whisper was a chimera, created by one of my Witch Lord ancestors long ago. He had the splendid tail and pointed face of a fox, the nimble grace and sharp hidden claws of a cat, and the sinuous lethality of a weasel. His fur was so black he seemed to vanish into two dimensions, a slip of mislaid shadow, except for the burning yellow glare of his eyes.
No one knew who had created him or what centuries-old purpose he served. He’d already been slinking about the rooftops and windowsills when my grandmother was a girl, making short work of any small, sly creatures other mages might send to spy o
n the castle. He obeyed no one’s orders, kept his motives secret, and followed his own rules. The rest of my family treated him like something between an ill-omened haunt and a household pest.
He was one of the only friends I had.
“If words aren’t enough, I don’t know how I’ll stop her,” I admitted. “Grandmother’s hunch aside, I don’t have much reason to think she’ll try to open the Door. I’m more worried about her stirring up political trouble.”
“Then your priorities are wrong.” Whisper slipped past me, his fur brushing my arm, soft as a night breeze. I flinched instinctively, despite knowing that whatever magic extended his life also fortified it enough that my touch didn’t harm him.
“Is what’s in the Black Tower so dangerous?” I asked. I had no doubt it was—I only had to walk past it to know that—but I’d take any chance to tease out more of a glimpse into Whisper’s own secret priorities.
“Dangerous enough.” Whisper’s bushy tail flicked, like a knife cut across the air. “Dangerous for you. Stay away from it, Ryx.”
“I know the Gloaming Lore.” I paused, eyeing him. “You’ve lived here longer than anyone. Do you know what’s in there?”
He settled on his haunches, fixing his gleaming yellow eyes on me for a long moment in silence.
“Something best forgotten,” he said at last, his voice soft as falling snow.
Well, that was unsettling. “Care to explain?”
“No.” He lifted his head, and his ears pricked and swiveled toward the door.
On the far side came a creak of hinges. Quiet footfalls sounded in the hallway.
“You’d better see to that,” Whisper said.
I muttered a curse and pulled on my gloves. Lamiel was on the move.
Gloamingard lay dark and empty, with nothing else awake but shadows and moonlight. Lamiel crept through the castle with guilty care; I watched her from crawl spaces and balconies, behind curtains and fantastical sculptures, trailing her or guessing her route and scampering ahead. The latter was made more difficult by Lamiel’s lack of knowledge of Gloamingard’s twisting halls; more than once she peered out a window, muttered a soft curse, and doubled back the way she came.
I’d known she was up to no good. The only question that remained to be seen was precisely what kind of mayhem she was planning.
She passed into the Green Palace, and I had to stop, watching her shining pale hair disappear behind a curtain of swaying moon-silvered fronds. It was a section of Gloamingard hollowed by magic from the hearts of massive living trees, carpeted with moss and flowers—all grown and sculpted five hundred years ago by the Sycamore Lord himself, one of the Eldest, the first Witch Lord in our family line. I’d never set foot in there; I might kill the trees and bring whole sections of the castle tumbling down.
I didn’t need to follow Lamiel to know where she was going now. On the far side of the Green Palace lay nothing but the old stone keep, the looming spire of the Black Tower, and the Door.
I hesitated for one frozen second, dozens of thoughts flashing through my mind in the space between heartbeats. I could run around the long way to meet her at the Door and confront her, or I could go get reinforcements—wake Odan or call for the battle chimeras. But if I went for help, Lamiel would get to the Door first and have at least several minutes with it completely undisturbed. The tower wards should keep her out, but they also might seriously injure her if she trifled with them, and that was the last thing I needed. Besides, only a fool believed any ward to be impenetrable.
If I were a proper mage, I could touch the tree tower and seal her inside it, or send one of the birds or mice who nested around the castle as a messenger to fetch help. All I had was my own voice and legs and hands, curse it, and I could only be in one place at a time.
I couldn’t risk it.
I swerved down a side corridor; if I hurried, I might be able to beat her there. I couldn’t quite bring myself to sprint through the Bone Palace—not after I’d almost killed Kessa earlier today—but I walked as swiftly as I dared through its stark bone-lined chambers, past friezes formed from magically twisted ribs and scapulae, and through the Hall of Chimes. I all but leaped through the window into the old stone keep, bursting into a run at last as I breathed in the musty scent of its abandoned halls.
As I approached the Black Tower at its center, magic resonated in the air, rich and deep as a bow scraping a long, shuddering note from a bass violin. I slowed, trying to quiet my breath, straining my ears for intruding footsteps.
A pale light flickered awake down the hall, illuminating a slim figure with trailing hair. Lamiel stood before the Door’s shadowed alcove, leaning forward on her toes to peer into the darkness, a light burning in her hand.
It was a luminary crystal, no doubt imported from the Serene Empire, where such things were far more common. It cast a cool white radiance across her face and sent her shadow lunging down the corridor as she slowly turned to meet me.
“Oh, hello,” she said, with false cheer. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said coldly. “It’s dangerous.”
Lamiel laughed, the sound ringing echoes from the bare stone walls. “I’m certain it is. It’s always the dangerous things that are most interesting. Why do you think I’m courting a Witch Lord?”
I stepped closer, carefully narrowing the distance between us. Power pulsed electric in my blood, a pressure in the air, a sound too deep for hearing. I could never tell whether it came from the Door itself, or from the tower beyond.
Either way, Lamiel was far too close to it.
“That’s between you and him,” I said. “But the Black Tower isn’t for you.”
“My dear, everything is for whoever reaches out and takes it.” Lamiel turned to face the alcove and lifted her light higher, until its pale radiance fell upon the Door. It caught the gleam of obsidian, the thin black shadows of lines etched into the stone.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “An artifice seal. I didn’t anticipate that.”
“It’s there to keep reckless fools with no respect for their host’s privacy from getting killed.” I made my voice stern, pulling it up from the deepest chambers of my chest. “Now go back to your rooms and stay there until morning.”
“Oh, Ryx,” she said, almost fondly. “I can hardly go back and meekly wait for the Lady of Owls now, when I worked so hard to create a diversion that would keep her away from the castle.”
My stomach dropped. So it had been a distraction.
“Morgrain will not forgive this,” I warned, forcing myself to take another step forward. Every instinct cried out that I shouldn’t approach so close, but I had to stop her somehow.
“And what will you do?” Lamiel spread her arms, the luminary crystal in her hand throwing giddy shadows against the flat black plane of the door. “Kill me? Perhaps you could, but if you murder an Exalted guest with your Skinwitch magic, every Witch Lord in Vaskandar will turn against you.”
She might well be right, even if I could convince the Conclave that I wasn’t a Skinwitch. I tried another tactic. “What do you think you can accomplish here?” I gestured to the Door. “You’re no artificer. You can’t unlock that seal with your magic, and if you try, the wards will strike you down.”
Lamiel shook her luminary to brighten its fading light, holding it to shine upon the runes on the obsidian door. “You’re right,” she muttered. “The runes of the seal dictate that the Door shall open only to the blood of the guardians.”
Her words prickled a warning in my mind. “Step away from there,” I said sharply.
“Of course.” She moved back from the alcove, bowing in mocking acquiescence.
Suddenly she spun, her hair flying in a wide circle around her, the silver rings of her mage mark blazing with intensity. She thrust the luminary at my face, and I threw up my arms to block the sudden light.
I didn’t see the knife until it slashed across my forearm.
I yelped
and staggered back, grabbing my arm, shocked at the blood blooming on my sliced sleeve, and the queasy feeling of flesh not quite matching up anymore. “Pox! You lunatic—Hells take you!”
Lamiel grinned at me as if she hadn’t just cut my arm open—as if we shared a secret, or were about to have a lovely forbidden adventure together. She held up the red-streaked knife.
“Let’s find out if your family are the guardians.” She whirled back to the Door.
“No! Stop!” I lunged toward the alcove, still clutching my bleeding arm, furious and desperate.
I was too late. Lamiel pressed the bloody knife blade flat against the center of the seal.
Glaring red light blazed from every carved rune and line, painting the corridor scarlet. A shuddering sound like the scream of a rusty metal gate dragging against granite reverberated inside my skull. A sense of terrible loss pierced me, as if something that had kept me safe and warm all my life was suddenly torn away.
Stone ground against stone, and the obsidian slab began to move. A blast of heat and a scent like the air after a storm escaped through the widening crack at its edge.
The Door was opening.
Everything I’d learned in my twenty-one years of life, every instinct, every scrap of common sense I possessed all screamed out to stop it from opening completely. But Lamiel stood between it and me, and if I tried to push past her I’d kill her.
“Looks like you’re a guardian,” Lamiel said brightly. “Congratulations.”
“Close that Door at once, or I’ll show you how I can guard it.” I trembled on the edge of grabbing her, and to the Nine Hells with the consequences.
“There are other things I’d rather find out.” With a last flash of teeth, she slipped through the widening opening into the tower beyond.
My instincts recoiled, a wild ragged fear straining to bolt and run. More red light poured through the gap, and the oppressive flood of sheer magical power forced me back a step. Dread built in my chest, along with a strange recognition, as if this were a recurring nightmare made real.
The Obsidian Tower Page 3