The Obsidian Tower

by Melissa Caruso

  I tried to ignore that she’d said far more than that about me. “Have you heard from the rest of the family?”

  “I wrote my husbands and children and told them to stay away from Gloamingard, act like nothing was wrong, and tend to their own lands. They’ll follow my orders. And your father’s staying out of it and keeping his head down, as usual.” She scowled. “Tarn, on the other hand, is making noise about whether I can handle this. I’m sure he sent Vikal here to keep an eye on me.”

  “Vikal?” I asked incredulously. “He’s not fit to keep an eye on a sleeping dog.” Never mind that most of the family would trust Vikal with more responsibility than me. He was a child in a way I’d never had the luxury to be.

  Karrigan snorted. “He was what Tarn had available in the area.”

  I picked up my cup just to have something to turn in my nervous fingers. “The last thing we need is the whole family flocking here. That’ll send a signal that something’s wrong. We have to look as if Grandmother is still in control.” It was the one thing that might make Alevar and the Empire hesitate before invading us.

  “Then tell your father to back me,” Karrigan urged. “If he does, Tarn will have to follow. Let me be the face of Morgrain while Mother is gone.”

  So that was why she’d poured me honey wine and gone to such trouble to assure me she didn’t hate me. She wanted something from me.

  I swished the golden liquid in my cup, staring at the patterns of light and shadow swirling in it. The damnable truth was that I was the one who should be the face of Morgrain at Gloamingard right now. I was the Warden, I was the one who could diplomatically handle our guests, and I was the one working with the Rookery to handle the gate.

  But Karrigan was a real mage, respected by the rest of our family and our Witch Lord neighbors. Her presence here would reassure them in a way mine never could.

  “You can be the face of Morgrain,” I said slowly, “so long as that face is a mask I’m wearing.”

  Karrigan stiffened. “I’m not anyone’s puppet.”

  “No,” I agreed, “but you don’t know what’s happening politically in the Serene Empire and the domains beyond Morgrain right now. And forgive me, but you’re making mistakes. You need me to guide you.”

  “Then guide me,” she snapped.

  I let out a slow breath. “Alevar is probably a lost cause, though we should do what we can to mollify them. Under no circumstances can we afford to set off the Empire.”

  My aunt took a long drink. “You’re telling me not to threaten them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And to shut up about using the gate.”

  “That above all else.” I would have loved to launch into a tirade about the damage she’d done, but Karrigan was far too comfortable in a shouting match. I needed her to listen to me. “Raverrans aren’t Witch Lords. If they decide to bring their warlocks against us, they won’t give us a second warning—they’ll strike hard and fast and entirely by surprise, and we’ll wake up to find half our coastline gone.”

  Karrigan sighed. “I’ll be honest, Ryx. Vaskandran politics are easy. You say what you mean, you make a show of strength, and everyone is sensible enough to back off and not attack you in your own domain. Pay your grievances fairly, use your favors wisely, and you can’t go wrong.” She took one last sip and set her empty cup down on a nearby table with a bang. “With these Raverrans, it’s different. They like to dance around the truth and hide their strength. I’ve got no patience for it.”

  “I’d noticed,” I said dryly.

  She stepped closer and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was a weighty but surprisingly gentle touch, with her bear-claw gloves off. “Fine. I’ll be your mask. You handle them. I’ll step back out of your way. They’re your mother’s people. I hate to admit it, but you know what you’re doing.”

  An odd warmth grew beneath my breastbone. She was using me, and I knew it—if she bungled relations with the Empire too badly, she’d be out of the succession for sure, and she was essentially agreeing to let me clean up her mess while she took the credit—but the compliment was genuine. If she was using me, that meant she acknowledged I had a use.

  And after all, I was using her, too. Maybe for the two of us, that was what family meant.

  “I’ll try not to let you down,” I said.

  I spoke to Lady Celia and Severin next, sounding them out on whether we might try to proceed with the Windhome negotiations that afternoon; I thought I managed to at least convince them that settling the dispute still mattered. After that I dug around in my grandmother’s desk, looking for any kind of notes or clues about the Black Tower, but she’d never been the type to write things down. Odan found me and warned me that many of the staff already had an idea that something was wrong, and were on edge; I told him to distribute a cask of my grandmother’s enchanted springwine reserve as thanks for their fortitude in this trying time. Gaven came to complain that Vikal’s weasel had tried to bite a stable boy. Jannah let me know that messages were starting to come in from Wardens across the domain who’d heard rumors of my grandmother’s disappearance, seeking information and reassurance.

  Everything was coming apart in my hands like an old garment washed one time too many. Graces help me, but I had no idea how to salvage this.

  I was on my way to check in with the Rookery, passing one of the massive tree towers that stood before the main entrance to the old stone keep, when a terrible groaning shudder ran through its bark. High above, its branches thrashed with distress. A pair of chamber servants ran from its arched doorway, shrieking, barely pausing to flick their fingers in the warding sign before running past me.

  “What in the Nine Hells,” I said aloud. A chill struck me as I realized that wasn’t necessarily just a figure of speech around here anymore.

  I sprinted through the tower, ducking beneath artfully draped curtains of moss and dodging more fleeing inhabitants, grateful that my jess let me move at full speed. I burst out of the far side to find a tangle of branches choking what had once been an airy hall between the tower and the gates of the old keep.

  Violet butterflies filled the air, but the tortured creaks of protesting wood drowned out their soft chiming. Vikal stood at the center of the snarl, one hand laid against the trunk of the great ancient tree, growing spindly new branches out of its side. They twisted together with no semblance of order, jutting in every direction; Vikal scowled with concentration, the pink tip of his tongue held carefully between his teeth.

  “Vikal! What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “Sealing the Door,” he said, lifting his chin, “as the Gloaming Lore commands us.”

  Graces grant me patience. This was what happened when you raised someone with power to believe they were accountable to no one. I imagined Ashe giving me a cynical, knowing look. Mages.

  “Vikal,” I said through my teeth, “you’re not sealing the Door. You’re making a mess of my castle, and you need to stop.”

  Vikal sniffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, since your magic is such a useless mockery that you gave it to the Empire.” He cast a betrayed glance at the delicate golden braid of the jess encircling my wrist.

  A muscle in my temple twitched. I had to restrain myself at all times, learning exquisite control at an age when most children were still running amok and throwing tantrums; and here Vikal stood in the midst of a mad, living manifestation of his emotions, making a mess of everything, without a second’s thought for how it would impact everyone around him.

  “You’re a Furwitch,” I said through my teeth. “And you’re certainly not an architect. You don’t have any idea what you’re doing.” The great tree trembled, and my alarm spiked sharply. “You could undermine the whole castle. Stop this at once!”

  “Better that than undermine our purpose.” Vikal’s face twisted in contempt. “Don’t presume to command me, you murderous freak.”

  That did it. I stepped forward, reveling in the newfound freedom of the jess on my wr
ist, and slapped him across the face.

  It was a gentle slap, because my instincts rebelled against touching him. Vikal’s hand still flew up to his cheek, black-rimmed eyes widening in shock.

  “Vikal.” I wrestled my voice down to something soft and calm, feeling bad about the slap already. “I’ll command you all I want, because in this castle I have the authority to do so. I am the Warden of Gloamingard, appointed by the Lady of Owls herself. Put that tree back exactly the way it was, right now.”

  I’d meant my quiet voice to be soothing, but apparently it had the opposite effect; Vikal’s eyes widened further, and he stepped back in apparent alarm. “Fine! Fine. I’ll fix it. I was only trying to help.”

  I rubbed my forehead, suddenly weary. It wasn’t his fault he’d been so spoiled. “You’re young, Vikal. But you should know by now not to interfere with another Warden’s territory without permission.”

  Vikal let out a gusty sigh. The butterflies settled back on his shoulders, and the branches began to slowly, carefully retract back into the massive trunk from which he’d grown them.

  “It makes no sense,” he complained. “Why did Grandmother trust you to be Warden of something as important as Gloamingard? All I have are six tiny villages.”

  I blinked at him. He couldn’t be serious—but he was. Beneath his arrogance, vulnerability lurked in the too-tight corners of his mouth, in the bright sheen on his eyes.

  Blood of the Eldest. He was jealous of me.

  I’d always assumed my grandmother had done it to throw me a meaningless, empty title to maintain the pretense I was a real atheling. Gloamingard didn’t technically need a Warden, since the Lady of Owls resided here herself. But I wasn’t about to tell Vikal that—not now, when I needed him to accept that I was in charge.

  “Maybe because she knows you’re not ready,” I said, which was probably true. Our grandmother was no fool. “Being a Warden isn’t about having the power to rearrange the scenery or turn the wildlife into chimeras, Vikal. It’s about being a good steward of the land and a protector of the people. It’s only by service to the domain that we can earn our rulership of it.”

  Vikal sniffed his disdain of me, but too much uncertainty showed in his face for it to be convincing. “What would you know about the duties of a mage?”

  “More than you, apparently.” Six villages, by the Eldest. “Grandmother already has a thorn barrier sealing the old keep, and the Rookery has to be able to get in and out. If you truly want to guard the Black Tower and follow the Gloaming Lore, you can…” He seemed to be listening urgently. I supposed he was as desperate for a way to help as I was. “You can set small animals to watch the passages here, to warn us if someone tries to sneak into the old stone keep without permission,” I decided. “The wards will keep intruders out of the tower, but if they get close enough, they might be able to communicate with the demons, and that would be bad. Can you post lookouts for me?”

  Vikal nodded, his shoulders swelling. “Of course. No one will get past my guardians.”

  All he wanted was to feel useful and needed. I supposed I could understand that. “Good. I knew I could rely on you, Vikal.”

  “And I know you can’t do it yourself, because your magic is broken and useless,” he added.

  For one fleeting moment there, I’d almost liked him. “Thanks,” I said.

  He flashed me a grin as sharp-toothed as one his own weasel might give and turned to focus on cleaning up his mess.

  “I’m not sure we can have a plan for the gate that will satisfy the Serene Empire by tomorrow,” Bastian said in a low, worried voice, as we walked together to the Old Great Hall for dinner. The rest of the Rookery had gone on ahead; I maintained distance between Bastian and me, out of habit. “It’s such an old, complicated, powerful enchantment, and there are pieces of it I don’t understand. I need to study it more.”

  That was worrisome. After talking to Ardith and Aurelio, I wasn’t sure how much time we had. “We have to give them something,” I objected. “And Foxglove seemed confident enough.”

  “Yes, well.” Bastian cleared his throat. “Something you must understand about Foxglove is that his philosophy is to do whatever it takes to accomplish the mission. I fear that a bit of exaggeration is well within the range of methods he condones.”

  “You don’t sound like you entirely approve,” I observed.

  Bastian gave me a sideways glance from his warm, liquid brown eyes. “I confess I’ve never subscribed to the idea that the ends justify the means,” he admitted, his voice roughening. “That philosophy is what led me to, ah, part ways with the mentor who sponsored me at the university.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That sounds unpleasant.”

  “It was.” Bastian shivered. “Fortunately, Foxglove is different. You can usually rely on him to listen when you tell him he’s going too far, and he won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Though sometimes you do have to stand up for yourself and tell him that.”

  He seemed anxious—whether to clarify the difference or to warn me, I wasn’t entirely sure. “Sounds like your mentor put you in a difficult spot,” I said.

  Bastian’s olive skin paled to a sickly greenish shade at the memory. “I was a fool to ever trust him,” he said. “Suffice to say I’ve learned now that when someone makes your dreams come true, there’s always a price.”

  “What…” I hesitated, reluctant to pry into something so painful, but desperately curious. “What did he…”

  “Ryx,” a familiar voice hissed from behind me, wild and urgent as I’d never heard it before.

  I spun to find Whisper crouched in the hallway, hackles up, ears back. Bastian gave me a startled look; I’d never been certain exactly how Whisper talked, or whether everyone could hear him.

  “Whisper! What’s wrong?”

  “Come quickly! Before she notices!” He spun without waiting for my reply and bounded off down the corridor.

  I stared after him for a second, frozen.

  “Ryx?” Bastian asked, sounding puzzled. “Is everything all right?”

  The only other time I’d seen Whisper that worked up was over the gate opening.

  “No,” I said, and broke into a run after him. Bastian followed at my heels, almost audibly swallowing questions.

  We chased Whisper down a short corridor; he dodged around the first corner we came to, barely a stone’s throw from the Old Great Hall. We rounded it after him and almost crashed into each other as we stumbled to a sudden halt.

  Bastian let out a cry of alarm and dismay. My mind went stark and empty as a field of winter snow, smothering and final. I clutched the wall in my desperate attempts to avoid stepping in the blood.

  There was a lot of blood.

  Aunt Karrigan lay sprawled on the floor before us, her fur mantle dark and stiff with it, her iron-gold braids half down and drinking it up. Several arrows stuck from her chest, and her throat was a wet crimson ruin. Her eyes gazed up at nothing, her mage mark gone dull and flat.

  I should have sensed the life in her, from this close; she was a part of Morgrain, like me. I should have felt the furious aura of her power. But there was nothing. The floor might as well have been empty.

  She was dead.

  I couldn’t move. Not as Bastian called for help, his voice strained with panic. Not as Whisper fled bounding from the commotion, his tail bristling, task done. A sound built and built in the back of my throat, a silent high-pitched cry, but I couldn’t release it. The terrible, bloody ruin of my aunt’s body paralyzed me completely.

  This couldn’t be right. There had to be some mistake. Aunt Karrigan was too powerful and permanent a fixture in my life; she couldn’t be dead. And she most certainly couldn’t be murdered—not here, in Gloamingard Castle itself, the safest place for one of our family in all Eruvia.

  Vikal burst into the corridor and dropped to his knees with an inarticulate cry, clawing at his hair. For once, there was no deliberate drama in the gesture—the unc
omprehending fear and grief in his eyes were genuine, and made him look twelve years old. The tear inside my chest ripped wider.

  A rumbling shook the floor. From down the stone corridor, past my aunt’s body, a great groaning sounded.

  Before she notices. Dread unfolded like a dark flower inside me.

  Whisper had meant my grandmother.

  Screams rose up in the distance, raw with terror. Gloamingard Castle was alive, and all of Morgrain was waking in fury. Someone had killed my grandmother’s child, and her domain howled for vengeance.

  That howl echoed inside my own rib cage, full of crushing loss and a rage that could level mountains.

  “Holy Hells,” I gasped, swaying on my feet in the force of it. “Bastian, she’s going to kill them all.”

  He stared at me in uncomprehending horror.

  A rush of people came pelting up the hallway, some shrieking in fear—castle staff, our diplomatic guests, the rest of the Rookery—all fleeing the Old Great Hall behind us for their lives. Vines slithered after them like snakes, climbing the walls, leaves shaking with rage.

  This corridor was stone, which was probably why the murderer had ambushed my aunt here—there was no life for her vivomancy to use to defend herself—but it was far from safe. Beyond my aunt’s blood-soaked body, branches clawed down the hallway like reaching fingers, growing from the massive tree tower that housed my aunt’s room.

  “Grandmother, no!” I called, grief roughening my voice.

  Severin and Ardith stood side by side at the rear of the crowd, attempting to push back the encroaching vines with their magic. A Witch Lord’s control over her domain was absolute, however, and the ivy reached for them with strangling curls.

  One tendril wrapped around Odan’s throat, and I cried out in anguish as he choked after air. I grabbed at it in desperation, trying to help him, but it remained slick and whippy and quite alive in my hands. Hells take it, I didn’t know how to kill something when it took more than a touch.

  Severin seized the vine, his hands beside mine, and it relaxed its hold for just a second—enough for Odan to throw it off and fall to his knees, gasping. Gray-ringed eyes met mine for one brief instant, inscrutable, before he turned back to the fight.