The Obsidian Tower

by Melissa Caruso

“Naturally.” Ardith flashed their teeth at him, their entire demeanor changing. “Who else here is fun enough to conspire against?”

  “See, there’s the problem with diplomatic gatherings like this. Insufficient fun.” Severin spread his hands. “Perhaps you’d prefer it if we resolved our disputes with dice or cards? Everyone for themselves, and winner takes the gate?”

  “That would hardly be appropriate, Exalted Atheling,” Voreth objected from his place at Severin’s shoulder.

  Severin sighed, closing his eyes as if Voreth’s words pained him. “I am allowed, upon occasion, to make a joke.”

  Voreth stiffened, his hands tightening on his bone staff. “You might perhaps consider the gravity of your position, and the trust your brother has placed in you by sending you here in his stead, Exalted Atheling.”

  Severin exchanged a meaningful look with Ardith. “Ah, I see. I’m not allowed to make a joke. Very well.” He turned to me. “We remain unimpressed with the amount of effort you’re putting into investigating Exalted Lamiel’s death. It’s almost as if you have something to hide.”

  “Well, now we have another murder to investigate.” I gave him and Voreth my coldest look; Alevar was high on my list of suspects. “Given its importance to all of Eruvia, it’s true that we’ve been focusing on the gate first.”

  “Then surely you can share more information with us,” Voreth said, his eyes lighting avidly. “The Rookery has spent so much time analyzing it, but told us so little.”

  He’d certainly been willing to pivot to the gate quickly. I didn’t like the eagerness in his face. “Your lord’s interest in the Black Tower seems excessive for a man who claims to want nothing more than justice,” I observed.

  “Justice is most easily executed by those with power,” Severin said.

  “Power more easily twists justice to tyranny,” I countered.

  He grinned. “Tyrant is merely a name history’s losers call its winners.”

  “Ah, but history’s villains are those who misuse power.” Hells, I was enjoying this too much.

  “It seems we’ve come full circle, and are back at the beginning.” Severin’s dark eyes sparkled with suppressed humor. He looked cursed good when he smiled like that.

  Voreth twisted his staff in his hands as if he imagined driving it into someone’s heart. “My lord is interested in the gate because it remains inextricably tied to the murder of his betrothed,” he declared. Severin threw him a glance like a poisoned dagger for the interruption, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I, myself, am skeptical that this artifact is truly a gate to the Nine Hells. How are we to know this isn’t just a rumor you’ve spread to attempt to obfuscate the true nature of Morgrain’s secret source of power?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ryx seemed pretty upset that someone sent that message to her weasel-riding cousin,” Ardith observed, their hands jammed in their vestcoat pockets. “And claiming it was a gate to the Hells would be a phenomenally stupid way to try to draw less attention to it.”

  “Well, your secret is out now.” Severin flashed a sharp smile. “And you’ve seen the reaction. All of Eruvia will turn on you like a pack of starving rats. Morgrain will need allies.”

  “Against you,” I retorted, before I could think better of it.

  Something flickered across Severin’s face—something he quickly repressed as Voreth scowled over his shoulder. “If necessary,” he agreed. “You have two easy ways to keep Alevar on your side, Exalted Ryxander: give us the murderer or give us control of the gate. I suggest your family wastes no time in settling on one of them.”

  “There is no murderer and you’re not getting the gate,” I said firmly. Best not to allow any doubt on either of those points.

  Severin let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, that is unfortunate. You’re part Raverran, aren’t you? What is it they say in the Empire?” He clasped my hand between both of his in a mockery of benediction, his touch sending a jolt along my nerves. “Grace of Luck go with you.”

  I started to snatch my hand back in outrage, but something scratchy tickled my palm. A piece of paper, folded tightly into a tiny square. I curled my fist around it and glared at him. “You’re the one who’s stretching his luck, Exalted Atheling.”

  He laughed. “I try, my lady. I do try.”

  And with that, Severin bowed mockingly and moved off. Voreth trailed behind him, shooting me an unreadable glance over his shoulder.

  I waited until everyone had trickled out of the Round Room at last and I was completely alone before unfolding the slip of paper. It looked like a corner torn off of something else; the handwriting was hurried and inelegant, but legible enough.

  Meet me at midnight in the stable yard. Tell no one. We have much to discuss.

  Well, that was almost laughably suspicious.

  I refolded the paper and stuffed it into my vestcoat pocket, next to the gloves I still carried there just in case. It was probably a trap; I shouldn’t go.

  But by the Graces, whatever he was up to, I wanted to find out.

  It was hard to force myself to listen to Bastian discuss the murder scene without letting my thoughts slide into an awful black hole of memory. I strove to cling to his words as if they were precious shards of something sharp but fragile.

  “… She must have died mere moments before we arrived. She may still have been alive when Ryx’s chimera came to get us.”

  Hells have mercy. I squeezed my eyes shut, but waiting behind my lids was the image of my aunt lying pale and empty on the floor, arrow fletchings hovering over her bloody wounds like flies.

  Are you all right? Kessa mouthed from the far side of the fresh sprawl of notes and papers cluttering the Rookery sitting room.

  I nodded. I wasn’t, of course. But I had to be.

  “Plus,” Bastian was saying, “it seems there was a paralytic poison on the arrowheads. An alchemical one, strong enough to work on a powerful vivomancer despite their natural resistance.”

  She’d been awake up until the end, in terrible pain, knowing she was going to die. Oh, Aunt Karrigan.

  “Interesting that they used a bow,” Kessa mused. “I believe they consider them archaic in the Serene Empire, but mages use bows instead of guns sometimes in Vaskandar because a vivomancer can enhance wood but not metal.”

  Foxglove shook his head. “Bows are quieter. Imperial assassins still use them sometimes.”

  “If I wanted to pin a murder on a mage, I’d use a bow,” Ashe said.

  Bastian lifted a hand as if he were in a classroom. “An alchemical poison like that wouldn’t be easy to get in Vaskandar,” he said. “It certainly isn’t something a Vaskandran would randomly carry around with them, while I could see the Raverran delegation bringing a kit of assorted alchemical supplies. If it was a Vaskandran, I’d think they brought the poison here with the express intent of killing a mage.”

  “All the more reason to think it was the same person who murdered Lamiel,” Foxglove said.

  I stirred, unease coiling in my belly. “No. It wasn’t the same person.”

  “What do you mean?” Foxglove asked.

  This had gone far enough. I met his eyes squarely. “I killed Lamiel.”

  Everyone gaped at me. Even Ashe’s eyebrows went up.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I added, my chest constricting at the looks on their faces. “She grabbed me when I was trying to block her from getting to the gate. I was actually trying very hard not to kill her. Regardless, I sure as Hells didn’t kill my aunt.”

  My heart galloped erratically as a three-legged colt. Now they knew. They could take my jess and turn me in to Alevar—but that wasn’t what I feared most. They were some of the only friends I had, and the thought of losing them was more terrifying than the gate waiting with all its sinister potential in the Black Tower.

  Ashe let out a low whistle.

  “That explains some things,” Foxglove murmured. The look he gave me was strange, soft and sad around the edges—almost one of recogni
tion.

  “Are you going to turn me in?” I asked, my shoulders rigid with tension.

  Ashe snorted. “Why would we do that?”

  “Well…” I hated to remind them if they’d forgotten. I gestured reluctantly to Foxglove. “You did promise Severin to help find Lamiel’s killer.”

  He nodded. “So I did. And I have.”

  Every muscle in my abdomen knotted tight as a fist.

  Kessa half rose from her seat, wagging a finger at Foxglove. “You’d better not be thinking of some clever scheme involving turning Ryx over to the Shrike Lord. Sometimes your schemes go wrong, and I won’t forgive you if you get her killed.”

  “Of course not!” Foxglove appeared genuinely scandalized. “I promised to investigate. I didn’t say I’d tell him the results of my investigation. It was her aunt who promised to hand over the killer; I’m not bound by her word. I do think of these things, you know.”

  Kessa visibly relaxed. “Oh, good. I thought you’d lost your senses for a moment.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ashe muttered.

  My shoulders sagged with relief. Merciful Graces, they didn’t hate me. “I can’t deny I’m glad to hear it,” I admitted. “More importantly, now you won’t have bad information in your investigation. Our investigation.” I straightened, my determination returning. “But I don’t want any of this to distract us from dealing with the gate. Even my aunt’s murder isn’t as important as making sure that thing is sealed or destroyed.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Foxglove said, “but I rather suspect the matters are interconnected. Exalted Karrigan threatened to use it, and now she’s dead.”

  “Right after she threatened the Serene Empire,” Bastian noted. “Raverra is fond of making dramatic examples of its enemies.”

  “Are we taking bets?” Kessa asked. “My money’s on the Shrike Lord. He wants the gate, and he wants vengeance; either way, he has no love for your family, Ryx.”

  Foxglove stroked his chin. “It’s too early to throw around guesses. We need to gather more information.”

  I suddenly remembered Severin’s invitation. “I may have a chance to find out more about the Shrike Lord’s plans. His brother wants to meet with me in private.”

  Foxglove raised an eyebrow. “It could be a trap. Did he pick the place and time?”

  “Yes.” I thought of his note: Tell no one. To Hells with that. “Midnight tonight, in the stable yard.”

  Ashe grunted. “Sounds like a setup to me.”

  “I thought so, myself.” I chewed my lip. The fact that Severin didn’t seem to agree perfectly with the Shrike Lord didn’t mean I could trust him. The enemy of my enemy wasn’t automatically my friend—no matter how pretty his hair was. Not to mention that his hints that he didn’t get along with his brother could themselves be an act.

  If it was a trap, and I sprung it, we’d certainly learn something. And if it wasn’t, well, then I’d learn something, too.

  “I want to do it,” I said. “Do you think you could keep me safe?”

  “Hells, yes.” Ashe stretched, grinning. “I’ll get there first, check it out, and lurk in wait. If he tries anything, I’ll cut him in half.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Foxglove offered. “Give us a half an hour head start, and don’t look for us. He’ll notice if you’re glancing around too much. Just trust that we’re there.”

  It helped immensely to know that they would be watching over me, ready to swoop down like the Grace of Victory if this turned out to be a trap. “Thank you.”

  Of course, if it was a trap, I’d still be walking right into it.

  As I made my way through Gloamingard’s night-dark halls, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d prowled them alone at night, following Lamiel to the Black Tower. Graces keep me from making another terrible mistake. But this time I had my jess, and Foxglove and Ashe would be watching over me in the stable yard.

  Besides, I’d take any opportunity I could get to find out what was going on in the mind of Severin of Alevar.

  Most likely this was a trick, and he would try to coax information out of me or gain some inside access to the gate. Still, he’d dropped hints that he might not be entirely on his brother’s side. I didn’t want to get pulled into some Alevaran intrigue, but if Severin represented a wedge in the door to peace, well, I’d be a fool not to lean on that as hard as I could.

  Some idiot fluttering part of me wondered if there might be another reason he wanted to meet alone—the same foolish piece that warmed my belly when I remembered how little space we’d held between us when we danced. Or that longed to run my fingers through all that silky hair.

  The bitterest irony was that if the situation were different, that fancy might not have been entirely irrational. I had a jess now; courtship wasn’t entirely out of the question. Severin and I held nearly equal rank, and an alliance with the heir to our most aggressive neighboring domain would be good for Morgrain. Both of us came from powerful magical bloodlines. My family would approve.

  Except for the small fact that he’d publicly demanded my death. And his brother seemed bent on going to war with us. And I had little reason to believe he wasn’t precisely the vicious sneering bastard he pretended to be.

  Nothing about this was going to have the grace to be simple, curse it.

  I was almost to the Birch Gate now, passing through the Bone Atrium, where the moonlight fell in scissored pieces through a latticework of bone. A cold draft brushed across my skin.

  A backlit figure stood in the far door, waiting for me. Holding something. I froze, trying to pull more details out of the darkness. It could be Foxglove, come to warn me off, or Severin, taking the same route to our meeting place—but greeting them by either name could alert anyone else in the area to a presence best kept secret.

  “Hello?” I called.

  Beneath my own voice I heard a soft sound, a thrum and hiss.

  And then a sickening thwack as a sharp impact struck my thigh.

  I staggered and dropped to a knee, gasping with pain and shock. The world reeled, the moment shattered.

  Something had pierced cloth and skin and muscle, and it was still there, lodged where it shouldn’t be, a great broken shard of pain embedded deep in my leg. Obscenities tumbled in an incoherent mess from my mouth. I grabbed at the spot instinctively, and my fingers met wet warmth and smooth wood.

  An arrow. Grace of Mercy, that was an arrow shaft sticking out of me. I stared at the white unforgiving line of it in the moonlight, the hard-edged flecks of feathers hovering at the end, and the black sheen of blood spreading around it.

  The soft searing sound of parting air came again.

  I threw myself to the side, my heart exploding with panic; the second arrow skidded off my collarbone, spinning across the floor. There was more blood and more pain, but I barely noticed it in the wild surge of fear and outrage that burst through me, fierce and unreasoning.

  Someone was trying to kill me, to actually cursed kill me, and I was not going to cooperate.

  I rolled and flung myself behind a bone-sculpted column, ignoring the agonizing jab from the arrow still in my leg, and managed a strangled squawk for help. Something was wrong—something worse even than the shaft sticking out of my thigh.

  My limbs didn’t want to move. I landed in an untidy tangle, my injured leg sticking out from behind the column. I tried to pull it back, but it barely twitched.

  I couldn’t lift my head. Could hardly force myself to breathe.

  I stared at the arrow quivering in my leg, at the patterns of shadow across the bone-stitched ceiling, my heart pounding with a frenzy as if its only hope to keep on beating was to escape my chest.

  Poison. Sweet Hell of Death—I was paralyzed.

  This was how Aunt Karrigan had died.

  Footsteps sounded on the floor, coming closer, slow and cautious. Giving the poison time to work.

  Coming to cut my throat.

  I silently cursed the cold wei
ght of the jess on my wrist. The one time in my entire life that I could have used my broken magic, and it was denied to me.

  Fear sent energy blazing down my limbs, enough to outrun a deer or toss a boulder—but I couldn’t move. Rage pounded in my veins until I could have ripped this murderer’s heart out with my fingernails, but I couldn’t even claw my hands.

  Get up, Ryx. Get up. They’re coming to kill you. Maybe a dozen more footsteps, and you’re going to die.

  I strove with all my will, every furious and terrified ounce of my being, to move one finger. To make a sound. To overpower the jess and rip my magic free.

  Nothing happened. All I could do was lie here bleeding.

  Wait. Blood. Maybe there was something I could try after all.

  I turned my fear, my pain, my panicky thwarted energy inward, at the profound and indelible connection binding my blood to the land.

  And to my grandmother.

  Come on, Grandmother, wherever you are. Notice that I’m hurt. I need you.

  The footsteps sounded closer and closer on the bone-inlaid floor. I strained to move, but my body wouldn’t respond. A knife scraped from its sheath.

  I couldn’t even scream to let out all the fear burning in my lungs. Grandmother! Please!

  The lacy patterns of moonlight on the floor began to shift and swarm, like a cloud of butterflies made of light.

  The footsteps stopped. On the far side of the pillar, my attacker sucked in a sharp gasp.

  I couldn’t see what happened next, but a vast crashing and splintering of bone echoed through the atrium, mixed with a muffled scream of terror and the panicked patter of fleeing steps.

  My vision blurred, and a wave of bittersweet relief and love and grief washed over me. Grandmother. She hadn’t abandoned me. Through the pain, and the pure horrible frustration of paralysis, and the alarming creeping lassitude that stole through me as blood kept leaking from my leg and shoulder, that was what mattered.

  A shadow fell over me as a silent shape blocked out the moonlight.

  Twin orange circles blazed from a face pale with anger and distant as the stars. She was here. My heart leaped high enough to touch the distant bone ceiling.