“We call this the Birth Canal,” said Ren. “I swear it gets narrower with each passage. In the Old World, the Teeth were known to shift when the gods became angry. That is how this passage was formed, they say.”
The path weaved through the mountainside for half a league, then spread wide into a hidden valley, surrounded on all sides by towering peaks. At the far end of the valley, carved into the side of the mountain, was the Watchtower. Three narrow spires rose over a hundred feet from a vast granite fortress. The towers were coated in a thin layer of snow that left Tori marveling at their sheer magnificence. The snow-covered Teeth towered above, as though the castle were being devoured by the gaping jaws of a Rulaq.
Ren spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the last refuge of the Watchers.”
12
The Watchtower appeared to have been carved straight from the mountainside and looked just as ageless—just as Tori might have imagined a fortress of the Ancient Men might look. The stonework blended in with the mountain, as though the two had always coexisted. Tori guessed it would be near impossible to spot from the air, if a Morph ever were to fly over the Teeth. Majestic though it was, the fortress appeared empty and felt dead. There was no sound but the clopping of their horses’ hooves resounding off the face of the mountains. Tori felt uneasy as they approached.
Kale led the way across the clearing, and as they neared, the iron gates spread wide, seemingly on their own. Tori realized it was Ren’s gift bidding them open. Once they entered, the aura of the place transformed, as though a lever had been triggered. The air in Tori’s lungs seemed to grow lighter. The three towers basked in warm light. Sounds of life filled her ears in a jarring instant: people bustling in a wide square, a pair of young girls hovering several feet off the ground, holding one another’s hands for balance, giggling. It was strange to hear something so light and frivolous, as though the world were some bright, happy place. Have I ever giggled like that?
Yes, she had, but it was long ago, when she and her mum lived on the Steppe among the Yan Avii, when the world had been bright and simple, a child’s world.
A short, muscular woman with olive skin and bushy obsidian hair greeted them, along with a lanky man with deep brown skin and thick dreadlocks that fell to his shoulders. The man took hold of their reins as they dismounted. Ren took Tori’s hand and helped her down. Her legs felt clumsy on the ground; she had gotten used to riding over the past five days. The aches had subsided on the third day, and now, as she moved, it felt like there was still the ghost of mount blankets and muscle beneath her.
“Dajha,” Ren addressed the lanky man, “why don’t you show our new recruit to the stables? I’ve a few things to discuss with Sahra.” He gestured at the woman, dismounted, and handed his reins over to the man.
Dajha handed a pair of reins to Tori and ushered her to follow him. The stables were around the corner, and inside, a lone bay horse nibbled at the floor of straw. “Where are the others?” Tori asked.
“Yeh brought ’em.” Dajha grinned. “We don’t ’ave much need fer horses round ’ere.” His voice floated on the air with the lilting accent of the Parjhan seafarers. “Seeing as we all fly?”
Tori chuckled. “I suppose not.”
“Meself, I ’ope we keep these two round, though. Poor Rothbert ’as to pull our sleigh on ’is lonesome anytime we make for the village. I don’t reckon ’e’d mind the assistance.”
Dajha removed the mount blankets and led the horses to a stall, then heaved mounds of hay after them. “Yeh’re the one they been talking about. The one who blew up the bloody gallows.”
“That’s me.”
“Gods, what a way to find out yeh’re magic, ey?”
A pang of guilt tugged at Tori. She felt sick, but pushed the notion away.
“Me, I tripped on a bit o’ rigging. There was these giant ’ooks all set out on deck. I would’ve landed straight on ’em and skewered meself.”
“What’s your gift?”
“Mum called it being shifty. But round ’ere, they call it Enduro. I can be ruddy quick when I need to be. Managed to skid away from them ’ooks with only a few scratches. One time, I lifted the purse off a Morgathian admiral when they boarded Mum’s ship, wagering we was pirates.”
“Your mum was a pirate.” Ren stood in the door and laughed.
“She was a bloody privateer! Gods save ’er! Aha!”
Ren shook his head, still chuckling. “Daj, tend to our gear, will you? I’m going to show Tori around.”
“Yeh’re the cap’n,” Dajha said. Though, Tori noticed his jolly expression turn slightly at the request. “Pleasure to meet yeh, Gallows Girl,” he said, recovering himself.
“Just Tori.”
“There is no just Tori anymore,” said Ren, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “You are Astoria Burodai. The Gallows Girl. Come, let’s get you cleaned up. A year in bondage, a journey through sewers, battles with Metamorphi, two weeks on the run, and it’s nearly dinnertime.”
Tori laughed. She was quickly finding that Ren had a way of triggering laughter. Kale stayed back with Dajha in the stables, and Ren led Tori across an open courtyard to the three central spires of the fortress. Within, there was a great wide hall leading to extravagant rooms—a ballroom with a crystal ceiling that made the light dance around the walls, a vast dining hall with tables that could have served a hundred people, a library filled with ancient scrolls.
“Where did all this come from?” Tori asked as he led her toward the three winding staircases to the spires.
“Much of this was here when we arrived. This place went untouched for hundreds of years. The scrolls were collected by my family, our secret library of the Old World.” Ren took her by the arm and led her up the central tower. They stopped outside a room halfway up.
“These will be your quarters. I trust they’ll suit you.” Ren pushed open the door.
As they entered, there was a shriek. A young woman with bronzed skin and dark curly hair spun from a vanity, a hand mirror crashing to the floor. She clutched at her bathing robe. And then she cried out again, this time staring at her bare feet. There was blood.
“Arayeva!” The girl swore by the sun goddess of the Yan Avii. She lifted her foot and a piece of glass worked its way out, and the skin closed over—a healer. “Captain Andovier! I did not realize you would be visiting my bedroom the moment you arrived.” The girl’s cheeks had turned crimson.
Ren smiled. “My apologies, I should have announced myself. Thank the gods—and the Sol—you are a Regenero. Vashti Burodai, this is Astoria. Though, you know her as the Gallows Girl. Tori will be taking the third bed in here with you and Mischa. If we find many more Watchers, we’ll have to build more towers.”
“I, er, yes, of course, Captain. As you wish.” Vashti bowed again, then stooped and gathered the shards of her mirror.
“Excellent,” said Ren. “Astoria, I am afraid I must discard these dreary traveling clothes before dinner. I will see you shortly.” He took her hand. His skin was warm and her fingers tingled at the sudden touch. “I am glad you’re with us.”
Tori smiled. “Me too. Thank you for everything… Captain,” she added.
Ren opened the door, then glanced back. “Vashti, give her something to wear for dinner, will you? Terasi!” He thanked her in Yan Avii and whisked away, apparently oblivious to the look of death on her face.
Vashti muttered curses in her native tongue, looking herself up and down, standing in her robe, still blushing. She turned back to the vanity and returned to powdering her cheeks. The room was silent but for the dabbing of cosmetic brushes.
The bedroom was much larger and more ornate than the room Tori had shared in Scelero’s estate. The walls were decorated with fine tapestries, the bedsheets made of exquisite linen. There were hand-carved cabinets beside each bed, and a full-body washbasin steamed with soapy water beside the vanity. Tori couldn’t wait to wash.
In silence, Vashti finished her cosmetics and donned br
ightly colored silks.
“I’m, er, sorry I embarrassed you,” said Tori, taking a seat on the bed.
Vashti had begun braiding her hair in the intricate star design of the soltaya. Tori remembered it from her childhood. The women in the chief’s family all wore it. This girl had been Yan Avii royalty once, and she certainly acted the part. She scowled in the mirror, but did not turn to respond. “Embarrassed?” said Vashti eventually. “Do not insult me.”
“You’re a Burodai.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. “I was.”
“Daughter of the soltayne.”
“What do you know?”
“I was a Burodai too,” said Tori. “My mother ran away with a tribesman. I spent my first seven years on the Steppe. We might have seen each other long ago.”
“How touching.” Vashti got up to leave.
“Vashti? You told Ren I could borrow some clothes?”
Vashti huffed, eyeing Tori up and down. “You are oblivious, aren’t you? Here’s some garb.” Vashti tossed Tori her damp bathing robe.
The door flew open just as Vashti was about to exit. A spritely girl with short black hair and olive skin rushed in, smiling. “New roommate, have we? Is that what smells?”
There was an awkward pause. The girl smiled up at Vashti, who did not seem sure how to respond. The girl glanced over at Tori, still smiling. Vashti left, shaking her head and muttering in Yan Avii. It had been long since Tori had spoken the language, but she remembered the curses well enough.
“Gods, what’s her problem?” Tori muttered after Vashti had gone.
“Vashti and the captain were… involved. She hates your guts. But don’t take it personal. She hated you long before she met you. And now you’re sharing our room. Should be loads of fun, eh? I’m Mischa, by the way.”
“Tori.”
“I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. Astoria Burodai. We’ve been waiting for you. Ever since we got news you were alive, the captain hasn’t been able to shut up about bringing you here.”
“I’m sick of hearing that. It was nothing, really. I just happened to discover my gifts in front of the chancellor.”
“Nothing, ha!” Mischa crossed the room and began sorting through her wardrobe. She wore breeches and a white blouse, with a strange pair of stone bracelets around her wrists, which was apparently not dining attire. “What you did that day—no one reveals their power like that. That’d be tough for a Conjuri with three years’ training. The captain has never gone after a recruit like that. Always sends his brother. He thinks you’re special. Gods, even the Crooked folk have been whispering about what you did.”
Mischa picked out an elaborate turquoise evening gown, the sort the highborn ladies of Maro’El would have clamored to wear. She stripped out of her clothes where she stood, and Tori glanced away.
“The people think it’s the start of a new age,” Mischa went on, lacing herself up. Mischa sat at the vanity and touched up her face. Her odd stone bracelets remained. “You should get ready, you know. Dinner will be in an hour, and I’m sure the captain will be making a big thing about your arrival. So wear something nice, and, er, wash up.”
“I don’t have any clothes!” said Tori. “Except Vashti’s damn bathrobe!”
Mischa laughed. She bent over and clutched at her stomach. “Sorry, but you must see the irony of him asking her to lend you clothes. Not to mention, you smell like shenzah. Take a bath, Tori. I’ll find you something to wear, don’t worry.”
The basin was in the middle of the room. Tori eyed it, contemplating for a moment.
Mischa laughed again. “Don’t be shy. Get out of that filth and wash up.”
Tori peeled off her clothes. The smell had been less potent during the days on the road, but in the warmth of the bedroom, the stench was seeping back out.
“Here.” Mischa held up a rough-spun sack. Tori pitched her clothes in. “I’ll send them to be burned. Gods, the smell’s getting worse, I think.” Mischa tied the sack tight and disappeared down the hallway.
Tori slipped into the tub. The luxury of a bath had never felt so wondrous. She wished she could lie in the warm water for hours, but dinner was approaching. She scrubbed herself vigorously. And then, a second time, and a third. Slowly, months of grime slipped away. By the time she was done, Mischa had selected a violet evening gown and draped it on Tori’s bed. It fit a little loosely. Tori had never been so skinny in all her life.
“How does the bath stay warm?” said Tori. “There’s no coals.”
Mischa smiled. “Look closer, underneath.”
Tori stooped and peered at the underside of the basin. Tiny flames hovered in midair, licking at the ceramics.
“I’m a Fieri.” Mischa flicked her stone bracelets together, triggering a spark, and then it transformed into a ball of flame that hovered above her skin. She tossed the flame in the air, and it vanished. “Just a little trick I came up with. Coals are so finicky. It’s either cold or scalding. Don’t tell the captain. He’d fret at the thought of marring this Old World basin. Gods, he’s funny.”
Tori smiled. Perhaps her living arrangement wouldn’t be so bad. “I think it’s brilliant.”
Mischa waved her hand and the flames disappeared. “Please, you turned a gallows into splinters and sent all the hardware through the guards’ chests. Or is that only hearsay?”
Tori shuddered, remembering the ghosts from the Forest of Ghen. She took a seat at the vanity, reaching for the powder Vashti had been using. “No, not hearsay.”
“Whoa! Hold on there.”
Tori put down the powder. “What?”
Mischa grinned. “Yan Avii princesses may pull that off, but your skin is too light.”
“I’m half Yan Avii.”
“Really? Well, I suppose you have been living underground for a year. Let me help you—use this to dab your lashes—we’ll deal with those bushy eyebrows some other time—and for your cheeks, a little blush is all we want. You know, in Melanesia, fairer skin is a sign of royalty. Means you don’t work in the hot sun. The highborns wear nothing to cover up their fair skin.”
Tori had no desire to look highborn. “Were you royalty?”
Mischa laughed. “Gods, no! My father was a merchant. I was no peasant, but hardly royalty.”
In a few minutes, the cosmetics were complete, and Tori’s wavy black hair had been tied back in a braid. It was longer than it had been since she was a girl, nearly reaching her shoulders. Tori barely recognized herself in the mirror. Not just because of the gown and the cosmetics. She felt different all over. So much had changed. It seemed like a lifetime ago she had been in Scelero’s household with Darien and Ol’ Merri. Would they even recognize me if they saw me now?
“Let’s eat! I’m starving,” said Mischa. Then she looked Tori’s rail-thin body up and down. “Sorry, no I’m not. Don’t worry, Tori, you will not stay skinny long around these halls.”
Part V
The Assassin’s Den
We are the dark cast away by the light,
The night that comes before dawn.
The Sol shines not upon us, but within.
Her secret bidding.
Her whispered will.
Her last true seekers.
Take solace in our watching eyes,
O, people of the Red City,
But look upon us and despair.
—found scrawled on the sandstone walls of Vlyanii
(a message of the Ilya, assassins of the Red City)
13
When Astoria Burodai entered the hall, every eye fell upon her, every eye but Kale Andovier’s. Kale watched his brother’s eyes, watched them widen and focus on the slave girl, watched him rush from the head of the table to greet her, watched him fawn and dote before his followers.
Tori cleaned up well for someone who, three hours ago, had looked like she’d been raised in a pig stable. Her tussle of black hair glistened in the lamplight. Her light brown skin, paled from months in the citadel,
had been touched with hints of cosmetic that made it radiate. Dressed in her violet satin gown, she was captivating. All eyes followed her about the room. This quality was exactly what Ren wanted, and it was exactly what made Kale feel uneasy. Things were moving forward for the Shadow Watch, and though Kale should have been pleased, he was not.
Ren introduced Tori to the host of Watchers, his hand on her bare shoulder all the while. He made a rousing speech about their coming glory—the rise of the Shadow Watch—how they would return to power and the world would be made new again. Tori smiled at all the right moments, and when Ren took her by the hand to lead her to the head table, Kale noticed her flush. What was it about his brother’s charisma that made Kale feel this way?
It was not jealousy. Well, not exactly.
Kale did not fancy Tori. But it was always Ren the gentlemen and ladies gravitated towards, and Tori was the latest example of this truth. Kale was a mere shadow, cast into notice at the whims of his brother, and left in the corner when it did not suit him. It had always been this way.
Usually Kale did not mind living in the shadows. He was not one to long for thrones and great halls; he did not seek the doting of lords and ladies, nor the following of an army of Watchers. In truth, he already longed to return to the road. He had much more pressing matters, even than the Gallows Girl.
Tori took her seat between Kale and Ren. “You look nice,” Kale managed. He was not one for speeches either.
Ren laughed. “She looks gorgeous! Stunning!”
Tori smiled. “Yes, yes. Thank you. Now, I know this isn’t ladylike, but this is the first real meal I’ve had in a year, and right now, I want nothing more than to eat.” And Tori dove into the feast before them: roasted alkine, stewed vegetables, potatoes, and steaming bread. Tori ate voraciously. She’d proven so strong on the journey, Kale had nearly forgotten she’d spent a year starving and bleeding out in the White Citadel, that she’d lived her entire life in poverty and slavery. This, too, for some reason, worried him about her. He sensed a buried rage, shrouded by guilt and insecurity. The combination left a bad taste in his mouth.
The Shadow Watch Page 12