Bastian frowned. By the deep hollows under his and Foxglove’s eyes, I suspected they’d been up most of the night—Graces knew I had been. “We’ve confirmed that it’s a gate of some sort,” he said. “And what came through it was raw magical energy. None of my research has turned up anything else it could open onto, though that begs the question of what exactly the Hells are.”
“It’s difficult to accept.” Foxglove’s voice went softer than I’d yet heard him speak. Stubble shadowed his cheeks this morning, with a few speckles of silver in it. “There are woodcuts of the Nine Hells in a book in the Temple of Wisdom library I went to as a child. One of the shrinekeepers used to show them to me to try to convince me to stay out of trouble.” He shook his head, whether at the shrinekeeper’s folly or at the horror of the Hells made real. “They were all fire and shadows and terrible phantoms, with the grinning faces of demons shaped from the smoke. I had nightmares about them, but I got into trouble anyway.”
“Well, that’s what life is, isn’t it?” Bastian let out a nervous sort of laugh. “You learn that the world isn’t what you thought it was. That your greatest truths are only stories, and the nightmares you thought were lies are truth.”
That was darker than I’d expected from Bastian. He’d seemed so full of cheerful enthusiasm. My eyebrows climbed up my forehead.
Foxglove apparently felt the same way. “I’m surprised to hear such cynicism from you.”
“I don’t mean it cynically.” He bit his lip, seeming to think about it; an odd, purplish flush crept up his neck, then receded. “Ryx, you may not know that I had a mentor who paid for my education at the University of Raverra. A sponsor who recognized my talent when he found me selling simple potions in the village fair.”
“Aphrodisiacs,” Foxglove murmured, his mouth quirking at the corner. “It’s always aphrodisiacs.” I struggled to smother a laugh.
“Well, that’s where the money is,” Bastian said, without so much as a blush. “The point is, there was a time when he… he betrayed me.” He stumbled on the word, and looked down at his boots, clasping his notebook to his chest. “I thought the world was a benevolent place that worked a particular way. I thought I could rely on certain things to always be true, and certain people to be trustworthy. I was wrong. I learned the world was a very different place, and I… I was a very different person, too, than I’d thought.”
Foxglove laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Bastian shivered, but clasped his hand in apparent gratitude. A pale echo of his grief opened in sympathy in my chest, and I wondered what had happened to scar him this way.
“Anyway,” Bastian said, his voice steady again as he lifted eyes full of a surprising quiet strength to meet mine, “this is like that. Nothing is safe anymore. Things we took for granted aren’t reliable or even real. I suppose I’d rather find out the Hells are real than that my friends are false.”
I couldn’t help an odd twist of envy. I’d never had enough friends to discover them false, true, or middling. I wondered if I should reach out to him—there was something open and aching in his expression—but I still had only begun to learn all the subtle rules of human touch.
A murmur of voices approached from one of the several corridors leading into the Bone Atrium. We straightened and moved slightly apart, as if we’d been doing something improper rather than simply having a meaningful conversation.
Lady Celia and Severin strolled into the room together, speaking in what appeared to be a cordial fashion, with Voreth and Aurelio staring daggers at each other behind them. Hope leaped in my chest; if they were talking, that was a good start. We might get this Windhome agreement signed by noon. Before the truth could escape our careful guard.
Suddenly Odan burst into the room from the direction of the Birch Gate. He paused inside the doorway, taking a second to gather his dignity and his breath. My heart plummeted. Blood and ashes, we didn’t need another emergency now.
“Exalted Warden,” he addressed me with a bow, barely keeping his fingers from flicking out in the warding sign while our guests watched. “Your cousin has just arrived at the castle gate.”
All right, that might not be an emergency, but it was certainly an unwelcome complication. “Which cousin?”
“Exalted Vikal.” Odan didn’t quite smother a grimace. I struggled to keep my own face blank. Vikal was seventeen, flamboyant, and unlikely to bring a level head and mature perspective to this delicate situation. “I know you’re busy, Exalted Warden, but he insists on bringing his weasel into the castle, and I don’t have the authority to tell him no.”
Usually our Furwitch guests were welcome to bring their animal companions into the castle, so long as they took responsibility for their behavior. Vikal was a gifted creator of chimeras with a flair for the dramatic, however, so Odan could be using the term weasel loosely.
“We’re about to begin a meeting,” I said. “Perhaps my aunt—”
I broke off as a tremendous racket sounded in the corridor behind Odan. And the chaos that was Vikal exploded into the room.
It was bad enough that he was riding a giant weasel, vividly striped in black and white, which bounded to the exact center of the room, scattering yelping Raverrans and annoyed Vaskandrans alike. Of course he also trailed a cloud of iridescent purple butterflies from his shoulders like a living cape. As a crowning touch, their wings emitted a high chiming sound, so that music followed him wherever he went.
“Ryxander!” Vikal cried, sliding down his weasel’s shoulder when it had barely scrabbled to a halt. “I have a grievance to settle with you!”
I stood my ground as he strode up to me, trailing butterflies. He’d dyed his hair the same purple as their wings and outlined his eyes with the black paint currently fashionable with young mages; his mage mark stood out in a lighter shade of violet, almost lavender. Seventeen years old and the Warden of six villages, he was the perfect picture of an atheling poised to someday become a Witch Lord in his own right.
For once, with my Raverran guests gaping at him and his oversized weasel chimera in shock, embarrassment burned my cheeks instead of envy. Seasons spare us, he had power over life itself, and he used it to show off and make himself a nuisance.
“Hello, Vikal,” I said, my tone pointedly polite in the hopes he’d take the hint. “It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Gloamingard.”
“You call this a welcome?” He flung an arm wide, scattering butterflies. “Lancer and I rode for hours to get here, since I got the message. She’s exhausted. And I’m told she’s not welcome in my own family’s castle?”
The weasel in question was sniffing the air, eyes bright and fierce, claws tearing up the Bone Atrium floor. Lady Celia had withdrawn to the far side of the room behind Aurelio, who had his hand on his pistol; Bastian had turned practically green. The Vaskandrans, more used to such displays, waited with resigned patience for the show to be over—except for Ardith, who must have come in during Vikal’s rather distracting arrival. They grinned, hands thrust in their pockets, enjoying the spectacle.
“We don’t have anywhere to put her in the castle,” I said reasonably. “She won’t fit, and she’ll damage the place. Please tell her to let Odan and the stablehands put her in one of the special stalls, and—”
“In a barn? My Lancer?” Vikal threw a possessive arm over the weasel’s shoulders; she bumped him with her whiskered nose.
I infused my voice with steel. “I have guests here from Alevar and the Serene Empire for a delicate diplomatic negotiation, Vikal. For now, at least, the barn will suffice.”
Vikal tossed his purple hair. “Fine, then. Lancer, go with Odan.”
Odan, his back rigid, offered a hand for Lancer to sniff, which she did with great enthusiasm. She followed him as he led the way with what dignity he could muster from the Bone Atrium.
The place felt bigger and infinitely quieter without a huge carnivore taking up the center of it. The butterflies mostly settled on Vikal’s shoulders, forming a shifting mantle.
Lady Celia hesitantly started back toward us, a wry Well, that was exciting smile tugging at her lips.
“Hello, Vikal,” said Ardith. “Nice weasel.”
Vikal lifted his chin proudly. “Honored Ardith. Of course she is.”
I let out a long breath. “Now, Vikal, please be welcome. I have to attend to my guests, but your usual room—”
“This can’t wait!” Vikal spun from Ardith, ignoring the others as if we were alone in the Bone Atrium. I could only assume he hadn’t noticed Severin’s mage mark, since even Vikal wouldn’t completely neglect the courtesy due his peer; Severin, to his credit, raised no more fuss than a single eyebrow, though Voreth looked ready to explode with indignation. “What about the message I received? What do you have to say about that?”
“I have no idea what message you’re talking about. Vikal—”
“The message!” Butterflies lifted from Vikal’s shoulders in a singing cloud again as he spread his arms in agitation. “You can’t just send something like that and pretend it doesn’t exist!”
“I didn’t send you any message.” Foreboding began to unfold within me like a dark flower. “If it’s family business, we can discuss it later.”
“I have it right here.” Vikal produced a slip of paper from his vestcoat pocket with a flourish and proceeded to read it in tones that shook echoes from the bones around us. “Come at once. We’ve discovered that the Black Tower—”
“Vikal, later,” I snapped, grabbing at the message in alarm.
He never listened to me, though. None of my cousins did. He dodged my lunge, holding the paper higher, his voice only cresting louder, determined not to let me spoil his dramatic moment.
“—holds a portal to the Nine Hells.”
Sweet Grace of Mercy.
A terrible silence fell over the Bone Atrium.
Foxglove whispered a curse, so softly I doubted anyone else heard it.
All at once, everyone’s face turned toward me. Lady Celia’s normally bronze complexion went waxy pale; Ardith’s expression hovered uncertainly at the edge of a smile, as if this might be a joke. Severin’s eyes widened, as if Lamiel’s ghost had just appeared to him.
The silence shattered into chaos, as everyone started yelling at once.
I couldn’t pull any sense from the words and phrases scattered like shards of broken glass, but half of them seemed to be profanity. Vikal stood in the center of it all, hands on his hips, drinking in the scene he’d made.
Pox and ashes. I could laugh at him, denying the truth and dismissing his message as foolishness, and at least half the room would believe me—but I’d have lied to them, and when Foxglove made his report, they’d know it. Which he’d have to do soon now that the rumor was irretrievably out. Curse my cousin for a self-absorbed fool.
For a moment, all I could do was stare back at the distraught faces around me, just as horrified as they were. Half of me wanted to flee, and the other half wanted to strangle Vikal.
Instead, I raised my hands, and to my great surprise, the room fell silent. Whether I liked it or not, I had everyone’s attention.
“First of all,” I said, “Vikal, I didn’t send you that note. I would very much like to know who did. It seems like a cruel trick.” That much was all true, at least.
Vikal shrugged, his butterfly-covered shoulders chiming. “I assumed it was you. If not, then I don’t know.”
“Not me,” Ardith said, lifting their hands. “I like a good joke. This one is terrible.”
“Who cares who sent it?” It was Lady Celia, all her polite polish gone. “My lady, tell us! Is there any truth to this?”
I struggled to think of a way to buy us more time without openly lying to them. “We’re still investigating the artifact. We don’t know its nature yet.”
“That’s not a no.” Lady Celia pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “Graces preserve us.”
Voreth banged his staff against the floor. “How dare you keep knowledge of such a dangerous power from your neighbors? Do you mean to tell me Alevar has been standing on the brink of the Hells themselves for who knows how long, and you never saw fit to mention it to us?!”
“Of course they didn’t mention it,” Severin said, shaking his head. “It sounds utterly mad. It is utter madness.”
“I assure you, it sounds mad to me, too.” I tried a skeptical sort of smile, as if to imply that of course it couldn’t be true, but I suspected I was showing too much strain. “This notion is as shocking to me as it is to you.”
“If you’ll permit me to interject,” Foxglove said, his voice smooth and commanding, “this remains an untested theory. The Rookery has a duty to report the truth, but we still don’t know what the truth is, so please contain any urges you may have to panic.” Cautious relief showed on some faces. “We’re investigating, but we haven’t yet drawn any definite conclusions. We don’t want to cause undue upset over one theory among many that may not prove to be true.” He spoke slowly and with emphasis, catching the eyes of each person in the room in turn, radiating calm.
“I knew it,” Vikal breathed. “I always knew we were guarding the greatest power and the greatest mystery the world has ever seen.”
Oh, I definitely needed to strangle him.
Lady Celia whirled on Foxglove. “You take this seriously, though? It’s a real possibility?”
Foxglove hesitated, exchanging glances with Bastian. Hells, they probably had rules forbidding them to outright lie to government agents about this sort of thing. “It’s far too early to venture a guess about that,” he said. “We have to investigate every theory, but we can’t yet be certain it’s false, my lady.”
“How does one become certain?” Ardith asked, with morbid fascination. “Send someone in and see if they come out possessed?”
“We can’t take the chance,” Lady Celia declared, an edge of fear in her voice. “We’re talking about a gate to the Hells. When I tell the doge and the Council, they’re going to mobilize every Falcon in the Empire to destroy it, even if we have to scour this place down to the bedrock.”
“Try it and see what happens,” growled a voice like thunder.
Oh, Hells, no. My stomach seemed to drop down a well.
Aunt Karrigan strode into the room, fur mantle bristling on her shoulders, mage mark blazing bloodred. She ignored everyone else and stormed straight up to Lady Celia; Aurelio stepped up to put himself half between them.
I started toward them. “Aunt Karrigan—”
“Try it,” she repeated, soft as the first warning flakes of a blizzard. “Then we can all find out what happens when you unleash the Nine Hells. Because I’ll do that before I let Morgrain fall.”
Well, pox. She could have spit in the envoys’ faces and it’d be less likely to start a war.
Lady Celia drew in a sharp breath; Voreth looked as if smoke might start pouring from his mouth.
“Enough!” I barked.
It worked. They all turned to look at me. “I know everyone is upset, and with good reason. But now is not the time for rash action. We have to think about this rationally, rather than reacting from blind fear.”
Lady Celia nodded slowly; she began to gather her usual calm poise back around her like a cloak. My aunt looked as if she might say something, but visibly swallowed it.
“But running about screaming and waving your arms in the air is so satisfying at a time like this,” Ardith protested.
I ignored them. “We don’t know that this is a gate to the Hells,” I continued. Never mind that I was pretty cursed sure; I couldn’t prove it, and that was good enough if it helped de-escalate the situation. “Regardless, it’s currently inactive and sealed away behind some staggeringly impressive wards. It hasn’t done any harm in four thousand years.” I wished I were certain that was true.
“Fair enough,” Severin said, “but you can’t ask us to forget about this and pretend we never heard it. The chimera is out of the cage.”
Bastian winced at that. Severin
was right. There was no going back to the way things had been.
“All I ask is that we hold off on taking any action until the Rookery can analyze the information and present you with conclusions.” I glanced hopefully at Foxglove.
“I don’t know how this unconfirmed theory got leaked to Exalted Vikal,” Foxglove said, stepping forward, “but I believe I can have a report ready for you tomorrow. I’ll contact my superiors with our initial information today, to prevent the further spread of rumors”—he threw a dagger of a glance at Vikal—“and I suggest you do the same. We can discuss the matter more tomorrow, armed with a calm outlook and better information.”
“Very well,” Lady Celia said, and offered us a clipped bow. “Tomorrow.”
“So long as no one triggers an apocalypse before then,” Severin added, a touch of strain underlying the irony in his voice.
The Bone Atrium emptied all too quickly, the envoys and the Rookery rushing to send messages to their governments. Nobody questioned that the negotiation session we’d been gathering for was canceled. My chance at nailing down a peace agreement before anyone found out about the gate slipped away forever. I didn’t even try to keep them; I could gather them back together after the panic wore off and they could think again.
Ardith lingered last; their habitual grin remained in place like a shield, but no humor reached their eyes.
“This is one of those times when I may have to do something you don’t like,” they said. “Sorry, Ryx.”
That could mean anything, but given our previous conversation, I had a decent guess. “Don’t let them call a Conclave.” Apprehension squeezed my lungs. “It’ll be the end of Morgrain if they do.”
Ardith tilted their head. “So it’s real? Seasons spare us—I was holding out hope your cousin was a bit mad, and you and Foxglove didn’t want to tell him so to his face.”
Pox. I’d as much as admitted it was real with my reaction. I tried to work my tongue around a denial, but Ardith was no fool.
“Guess I’m glad you weren’t willing to open it for a box of sweets.” They shook their head. “I can’t look the other way on this. I like you, I like Morgrain, I like Gloamingard—but this is serious. I can’t go back to my father and the others and tell them ‘Oh, it’s all right, it’s just the Nine Hells, Ryx has got it under control.’”
The Obsidian Tower Page 19