The Obsidian Tower

by Melissa Caruso

  “What would you have done if I were?” I demanded. None of them met my eyes, and the sick feeling twisted deeper in my gut. “Grace of Mercy. You would have killed me.”

  “Never,” Kessa protested, even as Ashe chuckled, “Maybe.”

  “My lady,” Foxglove said, “they would hardly give us authority to operate in every country in Eruvia if we went about murdering the local royalty.”

  That wasn’t exactly reassuring. They might not have done me in personally, but they’d have passed on information to their superiors that they knew would get me killed. The hard wagon seat became twice as uncomfortable knowing I shared it with people who’d infiltrated my home to determine whether their governments should allow me to live.

  But none of that mattered if they could keep my castle safe from whatever lay behind the Door.

  “Actually,” Bastian said in a small voice, peering out from behind his notebook, “I was wondering if you’d ever considered getting a jess.”

  A jess. I let out a long sigh. “Of course I’ve considered it.”

  They were the bracelets the Serene Empire used to seal and control the powers of the mage-marked. In Vaskandar, magic conferred the right to rule and the duty to protect, and the power of the Witch Lords was absolute; in the Empire, they’d found a way to level the field. Every mage powerful enough to bear the mark in their eyes was given a jess as soon as their magic appeared, and a linked Falconer who could seal their power at any time with a single word. The practice had started as a means to seize control of the magic in each new client state Raverra gained through treaty or conquest, but over time it had changed to become a mere preventative measure, at least in theory. A way to give those without magic recourse against mages who abused their power—or lost control of it.

  “And what did you decide?” Bastian asked curiously.

  When I’d first heard of the jesses as a child, I’d asked my mother if I could get one, with tears in my eyes. So I can hug you, I’d said.

  She’d crouched down and looked me in the eyes, her own going soft and misty. Oh, honey. You’re royalty here in Vaskandar. You can’t give control of your magic to a foreign power.

  But I’m Raverran, too! I’d protested. Like you!

  She’d pulled the scarf from her shoulders that she kept there just to gather her warmth for me. I drew it close around me in place of a hug and breathed in its scent, trying not to cry.

  If you give them your power, they will try to use you, she’d said gravely. They’ll turn you into a weapon. An assassin. She had flashed me a bright smile. And if when you grow up, you decide that’s what you want, well, we can—

  My father had given her one of his Looks, and she’d broken off with a laugh. I’d laughed, too, without knowing why. The memory put a bittersweet tang in my throat.

  “It doesn’t much matter,” I said, my voice thick. “I’m Vaskandran. I can’t get a jess.”

  “There is a precedent,” Bastian offered hesitantly, exchanging a glance with Foxglove. “As the Rookery archivist, I can tell you that there have been a few instances where special exceptions were made when the Rookery was called to deal with a Vaskandran mage whose powers were in some way dangerous or uncontrolled.” He grimaced with apparent distaste. “They even gave a jess to a Skinwitch, once, as an alternative to killing them.”

  “I’m certain the Serene Empire is all too happy for a chance to acquire control over a Vaskandran mage’s power,” I said, not bothering to hide the irony in my voice.

  Foxglove laughed, with something of a bitter edge. “I see you know my country well.”

  “My mother is a former Raverran diplomat.”

  Ashe shook her head. “Could have told you she wouldn’t be interested, Bastian. No Vaskandran mage would ever give up their power.”

  That shouldn’t have bothered me—after all, Ashe might well come from one of the domains where mages ruled as cruel tyrants—but it did. Lamiel’s death was too fresh, and my repugnance at my own magic too gut-churningly strong.

  “Of course I’d give it up if I could,” I snapped. “Do you think I like killing people?”

  An awkward silence fell, as if no one had really asked themselves how I knew that my touch was fatal. By the widening of Bastian’s eyes and the sudden guardedness in Kessa’s face, I could see them doing the math now, wondering how many times over I was an unintentional murderer.

  A trembling started in my shoulders and traveled in shuddering waves down my chest. Don’t think of her eyes. Don’t think of her dead eyes, for Graces’ sake.

  I turned to stare out at the star-scattered sky and the open moon-soaked pastures around us, pretending to admire the view to hide my face. A faint gray-golden light bathed the east, above the black rising swell of the hills.

  Dawn was coming. The light would reach the tips of Gloamingard’s towers first, then slide down the walls, warming them with golden light.

  An image sprang unbidden to my mind of my castle twisted and broken, blasted open and smoking. No. I wouldn’t let that happen, no matter how great the Shrike Lord’s wrath, no matter how terrible the consequences of opening the Door.

  I couldn’t chase the image away.

  The sun had come full up by the time Gloamingard appeared atop the emerald sweep of its hill, mismatched spires scratching at the blue sky. Relief poured through me to find it standing as it always had, its window-riddled living trees interspersed with sharp spires of bone, blocky stone and log towers standing among them like the bass line that carried a wild melody. At the center, the Black Tower reared up highest of all, windowless and ominous even in the bright daylight.

  Whether the people inside were all intact as well remained to be seen. Surely my grandmother would have sent a bird to let me know if anything terrible had happened. Most likely she’d just sealed the Door and was waiting for the Rookery while attempting to mitigate the political consequences of Lamiel’s death. I gripped the wagon’s edge to bleed off some of my white-knuckled need to be there helping her.

  The town at the base of the hill certainly didn’t seem disturbed by any signs of disaster. It was still all cheery whitewashed buildings crossed with dark log beams; wreaths of grain and late-summer flowers hung over the windows in anticipation of the upcoming equinox festival, and the first gold leaves of autumn lay scattered on the doorsteps for good fortune.

  I huddled down in my seat as we rolled into town, hoping to avoid recognition. But people were up and out about their business, and there was exactly one half-Raverran with a lightning-blue mage mark in all of Morgrain. Occasionally someone we passed would look at me a second time and bow hastily, or lower their eyes in fear. And always, their fingers flicked out from their chests. Avert.

  Bastian frowned. “What’s that they keep doing?”

  Kessa glanced at me, then warningly at Bastian. “Oh, just the warding sign. It’s to cast off ill fortune.”

  “A common superstition in Vaskandar,” Foxglove said, his voice dry with cynicism. “People make it when talking about anything from demons to bad weather. In domains with cruel rulers, they make the sign whenever they speak the Witch Lord’s name.”

  “Then why—oh.” Bastian glanced at me and grimaced an apology. “Never mind. Sorry.”

  “My grandmother isn’t cruel,” I said shortly. “They don’t do this when she passes them. Only for me.”

  Ashe, who rode ahead of the wagon, suddenly lifted her head. “Something’s coming,” she told Foxglove, dropping back.

  “What is it?” Foxglove straightened in the driver’s seat, his hand straying toward the pistol on his hip.

  “A carriage. With outriders making everyone clear a path. Some mage, probably.” Ashe grinned. “Want to start a fight over right of way?”

  “Rule Four, Ashe,” Kessa said sternly.

  “Rule Four?” I asked. She’d said something similar earlier.

  “Don’t use violence when words will suffice,” Kessa supplied, at the same time that Ashe said, “
Talking before stabbing.”

  Kessa laughed. “You get the idea. We made some rules for Ashe because she previously worked for an organization that’s less, ah, diplomatically inclined. There have been certain adjustments necessary since she joined the Rookery.”

  “Forgive me for not feeling diplomatic toward someone who thinks I should scramble out of their way just because they’ve got fancy circles in their eyes,” Ashe muttered.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. She was right, plain and simple; she shouldn’t have to. All the street traffic uphill drew to the side, people pressing up against the buildings to make room; some frowned with annoyance or shook their heads, and others moved with dull routine acceptance. It hadn’t even occurred to me before that this wasn’t simply something done for all carts and carriages, and that a merchant’s wagon wouldn’t get the same treatment—but it should have. I resolved to ask the town council to come up with new right of way rules based on practicality rather than rank.

  Foxglove sighed. “I suppose we’d better move over, too.”

  There was something odd about the sound of the approaching hooves. A suspicion settled on my chest like a pile of stones.

  Sure enough, the riders who passed us moments later coming down from the hill wore gray and black and white, their faces set and serious, escorting a carriage with a shrike emblazoned on the doors and drawn by wild-eyed stags. The guards wore twists of briars around their arms to display the suffering of mourning, and someone had draped the carriage in trailing streams of gray moss and hung a bird skull over the door.

  The Alevaran delegation was leaving. Hell of Nightmares. The negotiations I’d worked so hard to arrange—our best hope to extinguish the spark of war—had fallen apart before they began.

  Foxglove frowned. “That’s the Alevaran envoy’s carriage. I saw it when we were leaving yesterday.” He turned to me, brows lifting. “Did the envoy die?”

  I couldn’t help it; I flinched. “She… ah… yes.” They stared at me, expecting more.

  Hells. My grandmother had made it very clear that I shouldn’t tell them I’d killed her—but I had to tell them something. Lamiel’s empty shell lay in that carriage, in stiff and silent accusation, going home to her betrothed with all the solemn circumstance accorded to the dead.

  I swallowed and tried again. “She was the one who tampered with the Black Tower. The protections killed her.” It was technically true, if you counted my family among the tower’s protections, but I couldn’t quite meet their eyes. “I have to hope Alevar will send a replacement envoy to the negotiations, but… they may not.”

  Kessa let out a low whistle. Foxglove tapped his fingers on the seat beside him. “That complicates things. We’ve got a diplomatic role as well as a magical one; half our job is smoothing over disputes about magic. It’s why we’re an international organization. If we’re walking into a political midden fire, we’ve got to be ready.”

  “The Shrike Lord isn’t known for being the type of sweet, forgiving soul who’d overlook the death of his beloved for the sake of international harmony,” Kessa said, grimacing.

  I rubbed my temples, using it as an excuse to hide behind my hands. “He certainly isn’t. I’m sure my grandmother is busy sending birds back and forth, trying to avert a war.” One that was at least partially my fault, and could claim thousands of innocent lives if we couldn’t find a way to head it off.

  “Let’s get up to the castle,” Foxglove said grimly, lifting the reins once more.

  Gloamingard didn’t feel right.

  It looked the same as always, its jumble of towers looming above me and casting cool shadows across the hillside. But where I’d expected it to pulse with the bright core of the restless anger that animated the land, there was instead a brittle emptiness, like a blown-out milkweed pod. Something vital was missing, leaving a silence, as if the castle’s heart had frozen between beats.

  I leaped out of the wagon seat before the horses had clattered to a halt in front of the Birch Gate, vaulting over the side.

  “Odan!” I called. He was already hurrying toward the wagon, his face grim as old stone. “What’s happened? Is everything all right?”

  His sharp eyes raked across the Rookery, taking in their presence, before returning to my face. He offered me a perfunctory bow, fingers barely sketching the warding sign in his urgency. “Warden. Thank the seasons you’ve returned. Is there word from our lady?”

  I stared at him blankly, only dimly aware of the bustle behind me as the Rookery clambered down from the wagon. “What do you mean? Odan, is the castle safe? Is everyone well?”

  He hesitated. “You may not have heard—Exalted Lamiel—”

  “Ryxander!” A new voice roared. I froze where I stood.

  An all too familiar figure stormed through the Birch Gate with the inevitable force of an avalanche. “What in the Nine Hells is going on here, Ryx?”

  Pox. Not her, not now. I had enough to deal with already.

  My aunt Karrigan strode past Odan to meet me, a fur mantle bristling on her shoulders, bloodred mage mark blazing in her eyes. The fists she planted on her hips bore half gloves mounted with bear claws; more claws woven into the iron-and-gold braids coiled on her head formed a spikey crown. She was the youngest of my grandmother’s three children, and had terrified me when I was small. I wouldn’t swear an oath she didn’t terrify me now.

  My pulse jumped in my throat as I raised my chin to greet her. “Hello, Aunt Karrigan. I didn’t realize you were visiting. Where’s Grandmother?”

  Karrigan glared as if my words offended her. “I was about to ask you that.”

  “What?” I glanced at Odan, but he nodded, grave lines creasing his face.

  “No one’s seen her since last night, Exalted Warden,” he confirmed. “She’s disappeared.”

  I stared at my aunt, uncomprehending. Odan turned to the Rookery and, ever efficient, spoke quietly with them about lodging as stablehands swarmed around the wagon. The grass withered beneath my feet, curling in on itself, dry and brown.

  “She’s gone?” I asked, stunned.

  “I got a bird from her last night with a message saying to stay away, so of course I came at once.” Karrigan swept an arm back toward the looming jumble of Gloamingard behind her. “And what do I find? A dead Alevaran atheling, and my mother missing. You’re supposed to be the Warden of Gloamingard; explain this.”

  Witch Lords didn’t disappear. You couldn’t lose a Witch Lord under the bed, or wandering in the forest. It would be like losing a mountain, or the sky itself. It made no sense that my grandmother was gone—especially now.

  “The Door,” I said suddenly, a cold and nameless dread gripping me. “What about the Door?”

  Karrigan went still. “What about it? Blood of the Eldest, Ryx, what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” I started toward the castle gate. “We need to get to the Door.”

  My aunt stepped in front of me, stopping me with a hard hand to my shoulder. The touch shocked me more than hurt; I flinched back instinctively, even knowing she was powerful enough to resist the deadly pull of my magic.

  “You’re going nowhere until you give me a full explanation,” she said.

  I drew myself up, angry words forming on my tongue. Before I could loose them, Foxglove stepped up beside me, carefully beyond arm’s reach.

  “Exalted Atheling.” He bowed deeply to my aunt. “The Exalted Warden is right. We need to see this artifact at once. It may be unstable.”

  The idea put a cold lump of ice in my stomach. If something urgent had called my grandmother away from the Door before she could fully deal with it, and that obelisk had been leaking some unknown power into the castle the entire time… I didn’t know enough to imagine the consequences, but it twisted my heart to think I hadn’t been here. Never mind that I wasn’t sure what I could have done without functioning magic of my own; I’d have found a way, as always. Protecting the castle was my duty.

  Karriga
n turned to face Foxglove with menacing slowness. “And who,” she asked, “are you?”

  He bowed again, with fluid grace. “The leader of the Rookery eastern field team. The Lady of Owls has called on us, via the Warden, to help with a magical accident. If you’ll please step aside, my lady, we have work to do.”

  “Such arrogance,” Karrigan growled. “You expect me to believe that my mother invited you, a Raverran, to meddle in our most carefully guarded secrets?” She didn’t move, but her magical presence swelled like an eventide shadow, pressing at the senses.

  “It’s true.” I straightened, striving to project some fraction of the strength my aunt did so effortlessly. She was everything an atheling should be: wild and terrible and strange, overflowing with power. Everything I wasn’t. “We can argue about it later if you want, but we don’t have time now. We have to get to the Door.”

  Some emotion flickered in Karrigan’s eyes; it could have been anything from sympathy to contempt. She had never deigned to interact with me much on her visits to Gloamingard, and her shifting moods had always been hard to read.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “Show me what madness you’ve unleashed at the Black Tower.”

  The moment our feet stirred the dust in the corridors of the old stone keep, echoes of distant magic began crawling across my skin. We weren’t even near the Black Tower yet.

  “Oh, that’s ominous,” Kessa murmured, rubbing her arms.

  “You have no idea,” I replied, dread building in my gut.

  We rounded the corner into the hallway that ran past the Door. A wave of power hit me in the face, a sluggish pulse of energy thick as raw honey and infinitely more smothering. I gasped at the force of it. Heat filled the corridor, and a scent like lightning.

  The red light falling on the floor from its alcove and the sheer power hanging in the air left me with no doubt: the Door was open.

  “Blood of the Eldest,” my aunt whispered hoarsely. She broke into a run.