The Obsidian Tower Read online

  I scrambled away on the floor, crabwise, my heart still thundering in my chest. “Don’t!” I cried. “Stay back!”

  She stood, hand still half-extended, meat pies scattered amid shards of pottery at her feet. “Are you all right?”

  I lurched upright, stepping away to open more distance between us. A stray chunk of earthenware crunched under my heel. All I could think of was how close I’d come to killing her.

  “Didn’t anyone warn you? Why were you on the wrong side?” Her brow creased; I wasn’t making any sense, every nerve still jangling. The fear that should have harrowed her face was missing. How could she not know about me?

  Unless…“You’re not from Morgrain.”

  That was why I hadn’t sensed her before I saw her. My inherited link to the land let me feel the presence of Morgrain-born lives close by, but I had no magical connection to outsiders. And while she looked Vaskandran, the wide bands of colorfully embroidered trim on her crimson vestcoat, along with her golden-brown skin and thick black hair, suggested the lowland domains rather than the gray, pale hill folk of Morgrain.

  I’d relied too much on my magical perceptions, allowed myself to get distracted and lazy, and almost killed someone. Again.

  My legs trembled beneath me, threatening to dump me on the floor.

  The woman smoothed the confusion from her face and dipped a quick bow. “Yes. I’m Kessa, with the troupe of traveling players who arrived this morning. The Foxglove Theater Company; finest in Vaskandar, if I do say so myself. I was trying to bring these from the kitchens for the other players”—she made a grand, tragic gesture toward the fallen meat pies—“and, well, it’s easy to get lost in this place.”

  “I’m so sorry I almost ran into you,” I said, which seemed like an appalling understatement given what had nearly happened. “You should stick close to the vines with the purple flowers when you’re walking around Gloamingard.”

  “Yes, someone mentioned that. They were terribly dramatic about it, in fact, but I thought—” Her bright brown eyes came into sharper focus on mine then, and she broke off. I knew what she was seeing: lightning-blue rings around my pupils. Realization broke over her face like a cold wave. Who knew what rumors she’d heard—and if she miraculously hadn’t heard any, the staff would have been eager to warn her the moment she crossed the threshold.

  Whatever you do, don’t go near the Warden. If you touch her, you’ll die.

  She killed a man when she was four years old. They say she’s cursed.

  Just last summer a stable boy bumped into her, and his heart stopped for half a minute. He didn’t wake up for days, and he may never be the same.

  “Oh!” Kessa’s eyes widened. I braced myself for the inevitable flick of fingers out from her chest in the warding sign.

  But it didn’t come. Instead, she dropped to her knees in one fluid movement, head bowed. “Forgive me, Exalted Atheling. I didn’t notice your mage mark.”

  My fingertips flew up self-consciously toward my eyes. “You don’t need to kneel. We don’t do that here.”

  Kessa rose, dusting her skirts off, and flashed me a smile. “Better safe than sorry, Exalted. We travel all over Vaskandar, and every domain is different. We just came from Alevar, and if I didn’t kneel to a marked mage there, they might have decorated a tree with my head.”

  “This isn’t Alevar.” Now that I knew she was safe, I was eager for her to get out of my path so I could head to the Birch Gate. “Please be careful. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but my magic is flawed. If I touch you, you’ll die.”

  Her eyebrows flew up. “I heard that, but I thought they were exaggerating,” she admitted. “That’s got to be awkward. And the gloves don’t help?” She nodded toward my hands.

  Sympathetic curiosity wasn’t the response I was used to. The only other people outside my family who’d reacted to my power without fear or aversion were a Raverran boy I knew and Rillim, the girl I’d once had mad dreams of courting. A flush crept up my cheeks, and I found myself inexplicably staring at the way dark strands of Kessa’s hair lay against her neck as she tilted her head, waiting.

  I couldn’t get distracted; I had too much to do.

  “Through the gloves, a quick touch might not kill you outright,” I said. “Skin to skin, it’s instant. Now, if you’ll excuse me… Wait a minute.” A few things fitted belatedly together in my mind, and I frowned. “We’re not anywhere near the kitchens or the Old Great Hall where the players are rehearsing. You’re more than a little lost.”

  She let out a rich, warm laugh, but something flickered in her eyes. “More lost than I thought, apparently, and I ruined the meat pies. My friends will never let me hear the end of it.”

  “There’s nothing in this part of Gloamingard but the old stone keep.” And the Door, with all its compelling mystery and power. “You said you came from Alevar. Did you have any dealings with the Shrike Lord, perchance?”

  “No, Exalted.” She gave a convincing little shudder. “I’ve heard he doesn’t have much of a sense of humor—a rather grave character failing, and one often coupled with a lack of appreciation for theater.”

  I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my mouth. I wanted to like her—she had lovely sparkling eyes to match her wit, and an easy grin that welcomed me in on the joke. But she’d been too quick with her explanation for being here, as if she’d prepared it in advance. Not to mention that much as I appreciated her relaxed and friendly manner, it didn’t fit for a commoner used to domains where you had to kneel to avoid a mage’s ire.

  If she’d been poking around near the Black Tower, it didn’t matter whether I liked her. The Gloaming Lore was quite clear on our duty: Guard the tower, ward the stone. The magical protections on the Door were powerful, but that only made tampering with it all the more dangerous.

  “Did you see anything interesting, while you were wandering lost?” I asked, deliberately casual.

  Kessa hesitated only a fraction of a second. “With respect, Exalted, every inch of this place ranges from interesting to outright bizarre.”

  A new voice spoke, low and rough as the rumble of an approaching avalanche:

  “She’s asking because she thinks you’re a spy.”

  My grandmother rounded the corner, her power gathered palpably around her like a cloak of thunder.

  It was always her eyes that caught me first. Blazing orange rings circled each pupil, her mage mark standing out fierce and wild from her dark irises. Everything else fell into place around them: her white crest of hair, her strong jaw and hollow cheeks, the dagger-thin length of her body honed sharp as a weapon. A pale mantle of rust-barred owl feathers cascaded in layers from her shoulders, coming to a point at the small of her back like folded wings. She was ageless and ancient, a hundred and seventy years not so much weighing on her lightly as burned to fuel some secret inner fire. The sheer force of her power made the air around her tremble.

  Kessa paled and stepped back, nearly slipping on a meat pie.

  “Ryx,” my grandmother greeted me, “I must commend you. Your instinct for finding trouble remains flawless.”

  “Better to find it by spotting it than by stepping in it.” I didn’t add For a change, but it hung unspoken between us nonetheless. “Grandmother, this is Kessa. She claims she’s one of the traveling players visiting the castle.”

  “Is she, now.” My grandmother paced toward Kessa with the deadly prowl of a predator, the sheer force of her presence oppressive in the narrow corridor. “You were clever, slipping into my castle while I was distracted by another visitor. But nothing escapes an owl’s notice.”

  She swept past me like a cold winter wind. Kessa held her ground, still and silent—though by the strain in her eyes and the trembling in the hands she laced together behind her back, she knew very well the danger she was in.

  My grandmother stopped in front of her, her voice nonetheless powerful as she dropped it to a whisper. “Nothing. Not even a rook.”

  The f
ull implication of what she’d said sank in. “You’re not spying for Alevar,” I breathed. “You’re spying for the Rookery.”

  I didn’t know much about the Rookery, only a tangle of stories and rumors probably no more accurate than the ones about me. A mysterious group with the backing of both Vaskandar and the Serene Empire, they dealt with strange and dangerous magic when it became a problem others couldn’t handle. Which was all well and good, but our strange and dangerous magic was private.

  Kessa rallied enough for a you-caught-me grimace and a graceful bow. “I’m sorry for the deception.” The regret in her voice seemed genuine, her brown eyes shadowed as they met mine. She turned to my grandmother. “We weren’t certain you’d receive us if we announced ourselves properly, Most Exalted.”

  “For good reason,” my grandmother growled. “I keep my secrets close, rook. I don’t allow others to come poking around in them.”

  “It is our job to investigate and deal with magical threats.” Kessa ducked her head in respect, her tone calm, reasonable, soothing. “We have a responsibility to the Conclave of Witch Lords to look into rumors of dangerous artifacts, and we heard that you might have one here in Gloamingard. All we wanted to do was determine whether it poses any kind of—”

  “It does not,” my grandmother cut her off, sharp as a knife slash. “Your investigation is over. You and your friends may go. Pack up your things and leave Gloamingard at once.”

  “Most Exalted—”

  “You may go, little rook. Do not tempt me to rescind that permission.”

  My grandmother’s words cracked like a whip. She wasn’t angry—I’d never seen her truly angry, and I never wanted to. I didn’t have nearly such good control, myself; my hands still trembled from my near miss, and it felt like a personal betrayal that the one stranger who’d been warm and friendly to me despite knowing who I was turned out to be a spy.

  Kessa was apparently smart enough not to want to see my grandmother angry, either. She bowed again, so deeply the tips of her shining black hair swept the ground. “Yes, Most Exalted.”

  She didn’t wait to be dismissed again, but she managed to not quite flee, either. She cast me one last glance, a sort of shrug and grimace mixed with a roguish smile—the kind of look that might mean Sorry, we’ll have to finish our talk later.

  I doubted I’d have much more to say to a spy. I caught half a smile on my face and twisted it into a frown at once.

  My grandmother turned to me, the lines of her face softening, the aura of power around her dampening.

  “Ryx,” she said, her voice rich and deep, full of layered meaning as if she could comprise everything I was in that one syllable. “I actually came here to find you. Something’s come up.”

  My stomach tightened instinctively, bracing for a blow. Enough had gone wrong with these negotiations already, and the envoy hadn’t even arrived. “What is it?”

  She raked a hand through the bristling white crest of her hair in a rare frustrated gesture. “A rogue chimera has crossed into Morgrain from the Alevaran border, too powerful for the local Warden to deal with. He can barely keep it at bay. I’ll need to dispose of it personally.”

  “From Alevar? Hells, I thought the Shrike Lord would at least wait until his envoy arrived to start a war.”

  “I’ve received a message claiming the chimera isn’t his and he has no control over it.” Enough irony edged my grandmother’s voice to forge a sword. “I’m afraid it gets worse. Care to venture a guess as to who his envoy is?”

  At this point, I had to assume it would be the absolute worst possible person—and there was no doubt who that would be. “Please don’t say Exalted Lamiel.”

  My grandmother’s chuckle held no more humor than teeth grinding on bone. “He is, apparently, exactly that audacious.”

  The Shrike Lord’s betrothed, who had set off the very incident with the Serene Empire that we were trying to mediate. Lamiel had ambitions of becoming a Witch Lord—in which her betrothed encouraged her, presumably so that she could gain the immortality he already enjoyed. But making a Witch Lord required a domain; it was from the land, and all the countless living things populating it, that Witch Lords drew their near-limitless power. This need had driven endless petty wars in Vaskandar.

  Lamiel had taken the unconventional approach of attempting to covertly lay a magical claim on Windhome Island, an imperial territory off the Alevaran coast. The Serene Empire had caught her in the act and been upset enough to dispatch a fleet of warships. Only Morgrain’s intervention—my intervention—had stopped the situation from escalating into bloodshed.

  This was who the Shrike Lord sent to represent him.

  “She’s not even a diplomat. The only reason to send her is to give deliberate insult to the Empire.” I yanked at my braid in frustration. “Why is he sending an envoy at all if he’s bent on sabotaging the negotiations?”

  “Love is making the Shrike Lord reckless.” My grandmother’s lips twisted in contempt. “He needs to accept that he’ll have to watch his loved ones age and die. The rest of us have.”

  I shook my head. “Reckless doesn’t cover it. He’s got to know he can’t win a fight with the Serene Empire.” They were too vast, and wielded devastating magic of their own.

  “Not without allies,” my grandmother agreed.

  Oh. I let out a soft curse. “That’s it. He’s trying to provoke either Morgrain or the Empire into attacking first, so he can call on allied domains for help and paint us as the villain to the Conclave.”

  My grandmother snorted. “All we have to do is not start the fight, then, and I can collect a powerful list of grievances from him.” Her eyes darkened to unfathomable pools, grave and deep. “Still, I don’t like the timing. The Rookery must have heard something that prompted their investigation; clearly some kind of rumor about Gloamingard is making the rounds. And now Lamiel is drawing me conveniently out of the castle.”

  “You think they’re after the Door, too.” I kicked at a meat pie. “Should you leave the chimera to the local Wardens?”

  “It’s old and powerful, and it’s holed up in a rocky cave where their magic has nothing to work with.” She shook her head. “I’ll deal with it as quickly as I can. You’ll have to welcome the envoy and host Lamiel yourself tonight, but you’re well capable of that. I’ll be back before dawn.”

  It was awkward to play host from across the room, but I’d done it before when my grandmother was absent from Gloamingard. Never when the stakes were this high, but I’d spent the past week intensively preparing for these negotiations. I nodded. “I’ll handle Lamiel in the meantime, and keep a watch on her to make sure she doesn’t go near the Door.”

  “Thank you.” My grandmother clapped me affectionately on the shoulder.

  My heart lurched with the sheer, starving joy of a dog receiving a pat from its master. I tried not to show it on my face. She was one of the very few people who could touch me safely, and I’d sooner swallow a hot coal than let her know how much it meant to me. Better to keep things natural between us, without weighing down every interaction with a heavy burden of need and longing.

  “Guard the tower, ward the stone,” she said softly.

  “Find your answers writ in bone,” I finished. “Keep your trust through wits or war: nothing must unseal the Door. I won’t take my eyes off her, Grandmother.”

  Nutty wood paneling sheathed the Round Room’s walls, reaching up to a ceiling of living branches twenty feet overhead. Golden afternoon sunlight sifted down through the leaves, and a bird called sweetly from above. It was a warm and private room, perfect for welcoming an envoy; it encouraged confidences. You can speak freely here, it seemed to say. This place is safe.

  It didn’t feel safe now. Even sitting at the far end of a long table from Lamiel, she felt about as harmless as a shard of broken glass.

  “The mysterious Exalted Ryxander.” Lamiel’s lips curled into a smile above her teacup; she cradled it in both hands, drinking in the almond-s
cented steam. “I’m honored and frankly a bit surprised to meet you in the flesh. I half thought you were a myth.”

  Shining pale hair fell loose about her like a mantle, and the mage mark stood out bright silver from her hungry eyes. She wore a gray vestcoat of the softest leather, cut in the close-fitting, almost military style popular in Alevar but trimmed with an asymmetric trail of dark leaves and delicate white flowers rather than mere embroidery. A subtle note of polished condescension in her tone set my teeth on edge.

  “As you can see,” I said, “I’m entirely real.”

  “One hears so many strange things, though.” She sipped her tea. “That you’re a ghost. That you’re a crazed murderer stalking the halls of Gloamingard.” She paused, gauging the impact of her words, cheeks dimpled with amusement.

  “You can’t believe everything you hear.” I returned her smile through my teeth.

  Her lashes dipped, half veiling her eyes. “Why, I’ve even heard that you’re a Skinwitch.”

  The teacup in my hand cracked, a hairline fracture spiking down from the rim. I set it down on its saucer, struggling with limited success to keep the anger from my face.

  “This is my house, Exalted Lamiel,” I said, biting off each word. “I am your host. Will you truly insult me at my own table?”

  Her laugh rang out like little bells. “Oh, I don’t believe those rumors. How could they be true? After all, no Skinwitch in line to inherit a domain may be allowed to live, by order of the Conclave. To be able to use life magic on humans you have to be a soulless monster with no sense of kinship to humanity.” She gestured to me with one elegant hand, a motion like twisting a knife. “Given that you’re an atheling and you’re alive, well, you surely can’t be a Skinwitch.”

  I couldn’t tell whether she truly believed I was lying or if this was simply another attempt to provoke me. Either way, this boiling rage that strove to burst out of me in scalding words would do me no good.

  “Is there some point you’re trying to make?” I asked, my tone frosty.