The Obsidian Tower

by Melissa Caruso

  “A serious illness right as your powers were manifesting—yes, that might do it.” Bastian’s hands fluttered as if he shaped the idea with his fingers. “You see, magical energy is just that—energy. And the right circumstances can transform one kind of energy to another, like how a fire breaks down the life energy stored in wood and turns it to heat, or an artificer creates a device that transforms the volcanic energy stored in obsidian into binding magic—somewhat like a magnetic field—to seal a door.”

  “You’re saying I don’t just destroy life.” I forced the words out through a tight throat. “I destroy everything.”

  “Not everything,” he said, seeming eager to reassure me. “And not really destroy—it’s dreadfully hard to truly destroy anything. More perhaps unravel, or disrupt. Or maybe—”

  “Focus, Bastian,” Foxglove said dryly.

  Bastian jumped. “Right! Yes. Normally a mage can only manipulate energy in one way. An artificer directs energy through patterns, an alchemist transforms and reshapes magical energy through combining various substances, and a vivomancer directly manipulates the already complex energy of life. They’re all imposing new order on a particular type of energy through a specific method, and one step in creating that new order is often to unravel the old one.”

  “But all I can do is unravel,” I said, feeling sick.

  “Yes.” Bastian gave me a tentative sort of smile, as if he believed this might be good news but wasn’t sure how I’d take it. “Your illness must have cut off the development of your magic before it could become refined and controlled, and so you simply disrupt the energy of everything you touch, breaking down its order, sometimes to the point of dissolution.” He made a sort of dispersing motion that was disturbingly similar to the warding sign, fingers flicking outward. “And you draw some of that energy into yourself. Life is just a very complex, fragile structure, so it breaks down most easily.”

  “Lovely.” I pushed loose tendrils of hair back from my face as an excuse to rub my eyes. I knew the man was a scholar, but why did he have to look so pleased about this? “The list of things I shouldn’t touch is longer than I realized.”

  “The list of things your power is useful for may also be longer than you realized,” Foxglove put in, his dark amber eyes gleaming.

  “Oh?” I arched an eyebrow. “Like draining the power from ancient seals and unleashing Graces know what upon us all?”

  “Well, we do think that’s what happened in the Black Tower, yes,” Bastian agreed with an apologetic grimace.

  Foxglove ignored him, keeping his attention locked on me. “Like neutralizing dangerous enchantments. Taking down traps and wards. Disarming magical weapons.” He paused, and I hardly breathed, pinned by his glittering gaze. “Saving lives.”

  “I would love to save lives, instead of ending them.” I couldn’t look away from Foxglove’s face. I knew full well he was selling me something; he was too intent, too charismatic, too Raverran. It was hard to care.

  He spread his hands wide. “Consider what the Rookery does. A great deal of our job is dealing with the relics of old wars. You’ve grown up in the borderlands; you must have some idea how many of those odd lumps and hummocks farmers plow around are buried artifice weapons that could wipe out a village, or jars full of alchemical poison that could get into the drinking water, or tombs built to contain sleeping war chimeras until their masters need them again.”

  I could see where he was going with this, hum along to the song he was playing. By all Nine Hells, it was too cruel.

  For almost my entire life, Gloamingard had been my world. I almost never left the castle grounds, and I’d dedicated myself wholly to my duty as its Warden. Every time a restless longing had risen in me to see my mother’s country, or to visit other domains—even to travel to other parts of Morgrain, the land bound to my very blood—I’d ruthlessly yanked it out, like pulling up a weed. Every time I yearned to make friends, to be part of a group, I’d throttled those feelings, too. But like weeds, they kept coming back, day after day, year after year. Foxglove was pouring water and sunlight on them, bringing them to full, aching bloom.

  “I do know this,” I said carefully, trying not to show how my heart had quickened at his words. “And yes, I can see where being able to simply drain the magical energy out of such things could prove helpful.”

  “Incredibly helpful,” Kessa put in, with a firm nod. “On half the missions we’ve done, your power could have spared us anything from severe burns to blister pox, and I can think of at least one or two cases where it would have saved lives. Our job would be much less dangerous if we had you along.”

  “Less dangerous? With someone whose slightest touch could kill you?” I snorted. “You’re not thinking this through. I can’t travel, go to cities, so much as step into a crowded tavern—Hells, I’m a hazard even in Gloamingard, where everyone knows to stay away from me.”

  “That’s why we’d give you a jess,” Foxglove agreed, a shrewd spark in his eye.

  A jess. I gripped the armrests of my chair, doing everything I could to keep my face neutral. No matter how tempting the bait was, a jess was still a trap. I couldn’t hand over control of my magic to the Serene Empire.

  “You could at least give us a try,” Bastian said, with a hopeful smile. “Maybe as a temporary auxiliary member? It’s only a job, not a holy order; it’s not as if you’d be signing your life away.”

  Part of me yearned to jump at their offer, like a child grabbing at a proffered sweet for fear it would be taken away. It was everything I wanted: a way to use my magic to help instead of wrecking everything. People who valued me, or at least valued what I could do. Most of all, an end to the constant fear of accidental murder—and the ability to feel life beneath my fingertips without it ending. To never have to stand over a body again, flooded with guilt and terror, wondering if this time I’d killed them or just stopped their heart for a moment.

  To ride a horse, go into town, pet a dog, travel the world. Everything I’d never dared to think I could do, for fear it would hurt too much when I couldn’t.

  Hug my mother. Touch a friend. Kiss a lover.

  I thought of the sweet curve of Rillim’s lips, and the warmth of her hand in mine. A flush crept up my neck, and I became all too aware of Kessa’s eyes on me.

  But it wasn’t that simple.

  “I have other duties.” I forced the words out. “I’m the Warden of Gloamingard, and an atheling of Morgrain.”

  Kessa stepped halfway across the room and crouched down to stare me in the eyes; I shrank back instinctively, trying to keep more distance between us. Ashe hovered behind her, clearly ready to snatch her back out of reach if needed, but Kessa seemed not to notice.

  “Ryx,” she said, her warm brown eyes gone soft. “I’m a vivomancer, like your family. A minor Greenwitch, not strong enough for the mage mark.”

  I blinked in surprise. Magical bloodlines were rare. Even without the mark, if she lived in Morgrain, she would be Warden of a village or town, protecting and sustaining it with her magic.

  “I know Vaskandar,” Kessa continued. “I may not be an atheling, but I know the duties of a Vaskandran mage. And forgive me—I’m sure this is painful—but you must know you can’t perform them.”

  Her gentle words struck me like a punch to the stomach, hitting all the harder because they were true. I couldn’t ensure a bountiful harvest or make crops grow out of season. I couldn’t grant livestock healthy, long lives or make them understand complex commands. I couldn’t rouse the land to defend my people from enemies. All the normal duties of a Warden were impossible for me. I couldn’t even seal a marriage alliance with another mage family, like athelings born without magic traditionally did.

  I tore my eyes away from hers and busied myself with pulling my gloves back on.

  “Maybe not,” I said, my voice rough. “But I’m not only a Vaskandran mage; I’m also Raverran. And Raverrans know you don’t need working magic to help rule a country.”
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  Ashe made an appreciative grunt—a Hey, maybe you’re less stupid than I thought sort of noise. I found it far more gratifying than it had any right to be.

  “Of course.” Foxglove tipped his head in a gracious nod, almost a bow. “No one doubts your capability, or denies that you’re needed here.”

  That only twisted the knife Kessa’s words had stuck between my ribs. Most of my family would doubt and deny both of these things. If I were being completely honest, I wasn’t so sure of them myself.

  “I’m certain you could join us for a few days on certain field missions without abandoning your role as Warden,” Foxglove continued. I stirred, and he raised a hand. “You don’t have to answer us now, of course. Just think about it.”

  Oh, I’d think about it. I’d think about it every time I flattened myself against the wall, heart racing, to give a servant room to pass me with averted eyes and flicking fingers. I’d think about it when I woke from nightmares of Lamiel’s dying eyes, or that stable boy lying cold and pale in bed, or the tutor I’d never seen again after we accidentally grabbed the same book when I was nine years old. My grandmother had never told me whether she survived, and I’d been afraid to ask.

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised. You have no idea.

  I slept restlessly that night, sure that I’d wake up any minute to find my grandmother had returned. In my dreams, she came to me with a wry smile and a cup of lavender tea, like she did when I couldn’t sleep. Her presence enfolded me like an owl’s wings, warm and powerful.

  But when morning arrived gritty-eyed and pale to peer in my window, my grandmother was still gone. I dragged myself out of bed, filled the hollow in my stomach with strong black tea, and got to work.

  First I tried to catch up on all the messages pertaining to my more regular duties as Warden, shoved aside for the negotiations and the series of emergencies we’d faced: approving Odan’s leave to take Kip to visit his grandmother in a few weeks (assuming we weren’t at war), selecting a location for the upcoming harvest festival (assuming we weren’t at war), settling a dispute over grazing rights (not that it would matter if war broke out). I replied to a few messages from family, reassuring my father that I was all right and promising one of Aunt Karrigan’s children that I’d keep her informed (because her mother never told her anything). Uncle Tarn hadn’t bothered to reply to my letter about the situation with the Door, which wasn’t a surprise. He generally preferred to pretend I didn’t exist.

  Hell of Despair, but my morning business was more depressing than usual. I rose, restless, and headed for the Aspen Hall to check on preparations for the diplomatic reception that afternoon.

  A diplomatic reception meant very different things in Vaskandar and Raverra. Vaskandrans couched their diplomacy in ceremony and ritual; Raverrans dressed it up in festivity, preferring to keep the wine flowing and the food coming. I’d decided to merge the two, combining Vaskandran opening ceremonies with a Raverran-style ball. The Gloamingard staff had never hosted the latter before, and I’d helped plan it for weeks, picking out wines and consulting with the chef about Raverran dishes. I’d arranged for musicians from Loreice, the imperial client state across the border, who promised me they knew all the music most fashionable in the Serene City that year.

  All of it knowing I couldn’t go, because a room full of people mingling and dancing and drinking would be far too dangerous. With the Lady of Owls gone, it would be up to Karrigan to play host—never mind that while my aunt was terrifyingly good at many things, diplomacy wasn’t one of them.

  An aching anger built beneath my ribs. Whatever my grandmother was doing must be important, but she should be here. We were supposed to be doing this together.

  As I ducked beneath an archway that dripped strands of trumpet-shaped white flowers, Aurelio came striding toward me down an intersecting hall.

  “Ryx!” he called, sounding genuinely delighted to see me. “Ah, there you are!”

  “Aurelio.” I instinctively stepped back through the archway to give him space as he approached. My shoulder brushed a hanging tendril of flowers; it withered almost at once, petals falling brown and crisp at my feet. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course.” He stopped out of arm’s reach, offering me a hesitant smile through the frame of dangling flowers. “Is it true that you’re thinking of getting a jess?”

  I froze. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Foxglove. He asked me if I had one with me. I do; it’s standard for officers in the Falconers, in case of a magical emergency.” He rose up onto his toes, barely restraining his eagerness. “So? Are you going to do it?”

  I’d been trying not to think about Foxglove’s offer. It was far too tempting, and I had too much to do: I had the reception this afternoon to prepare for, a second round in the Black Tower with the Rookery after that, and then meetings with the envoys this evening.

  All of which would be safer and easier to accomplish with a jess, curse it.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s a difficult decision.”

  His auburn brows flew up. “Difficult? I thought you’d jump at the chance! I remember when you told me how lonely you are, not being able to get close to people.”

  My face burned. When had I told him that? It must have been after my grandmother sent Rillim away. Old shame flooded me, seeping into familiar cracks and corners. “My family wouldn’t be pleased. They consider the jesses a tool for the oppression of mages in the Empire.”

  “The oppression of mages?” Aurelio snorted. “Is that what they call it when mages have anything less than absolute power in a society?”

  “Yes, well, their perspective may be a bit skewed.” I couldn’t help remembering my mother’s response when my father had likened a jess to a dog collar.

  Without the jesses, the Serene Empire wouldn’t be a republic, she’d said, as if that settled the matter. We’d be ruled by mages, like you are here in Vaskandar.

  Would that be so bad? my father had asked.

  My mother had condensed volumes of warning into one word: Yes. And my father had been smart enough to drop the subject.

  Aurelio must have read something in my face. His expression softened into uncertainty, and he leaned a shoulder against the wall, hands stuffed in his uniform pockets. “You have to understand what it’s like,” he said quietly. “Knowing someone has this unanswerable power over you, and you have no defense against it. No recourse if you’re wronged. You can’t have true justice if there’s a power imbalance that profound between the rulers and the people.”

  I wished I could tell him he was wrong. But I’d seen it too many times in the way some mage-marked guests treated my mother and my staff, after glancing once in their eyes—the dismissive condescension, the casual certainty that nothing they could contribute would matter, and that no abuse the mages cared to heap on them would have consequences. I could tell myself it was different in Morgrain, and point to people like Odan in high positions despite their lack of magic—but the very fact that I was still here, free and unpunished and in a position of power, after the deaths and harm I’d caused throughout my life proved Aurelio’s point.

  “I suppose you’re right.” I spread my hands, feeling helpless. “The Witch Lord system isn’t something we can put down and step away from easily, though. Any domain temporarily without a Witch Lord gets gobbled up at once by its neighbors. When this power exists, you have to be able to defend against it—so you need it, too.”

  I expected Aurelio to argue, but to my surprise, he nodded vigorously. “Yes! You do understand. That’s the entire principle behind the Falcons; they exist so that we can have that defense without letting mages rule us. This is why we’re so afraid of Vaskandar in the Serene Empire, Ryx. Because it always seeks to expand, raising up new Witch Lords as it seizes land to create new domains—and once it claims land, we can’t ever get it back. Before the War of Ashes, we had to fight off a major invasion every generation or two, and we know it’s only
a matter of time before that begins again. It’s why we can’t let the Windhome Island incident slide.” He reached out a hand toward me; I stepped back, flowery tendrils swaying between us. “That’s the wonderful thing about taking a jess. No one has to be afraid anymore. Not you, and not the people around you.”

  “I sometimes wish I’d been born on the Raverran side of the border,” I admitted, dropping my voice almost to a whisper as if my Vaskandran family could somehow hear me. “Then I could have a jess without all this political baggage attached.” I would have grown up with one—able to play with friends, cuddle animals, go to fairs and dances and marketplaces. I’d probably be courting some bright-eyed Raverran girl, attending balls in the evening and holding hands in a long-prowed boat as an oarsman rowed us through the twisting canals. My empty hand tingled within its glove at the thought, as if something precious had slipped from my fingers.

  To my surprise, Aurelio grinned. “Well. The idea that birth doesn’t control our fates happens to be very important to me. After all, my father and I were both born in the slums, living in poverty, and plenty of people told us that was all we’d ever be. My father saved enough to get some schooling, though, and Lord Urso noticed him—and now my father is his secretary, and I’m an officer in the Falconers, and we’re doing very well for ourselves.” He dropped his hand, but not in defeat—more as if he’d caught what he was reaching for, and now he put it safely in his pocket. “You’re Raverran, too. If my father and I can be as rich and well connected as minor gentry, surely you can get a jess and live a normal life.”

  A normal life. The words resonated through me like the tone of a great bell. I laughed, startled into it. “I don’t even know what that would look like.”

  “Well,” Aurelio said, “maybe you should find out.”