But she was the Witch Lord, and an emergency was no time to argue. I nodded reluctantly. “All right. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” She paused, as if a thought struck her. “One more thing—don’t tell anyone what really happened to Lamiel. So far as anyone else is concerned, she tampered with things she shouldn’t have and the wards killed her. Do you understand?”
“But what about—”
“Tell no one. I’m going to have enough trouble placating the Shrike Lord as it is. Our chances of keeping this between Alevar and Morgrain are much better if he can’t call in allies with a cry of murder.”
“It wasn’t murder!” The protest tore from me before I could stop it. “She grabbed me. After attacking me with a knife, no less.”
“I know. But if it comes out that your magic killed her, they’ll cry Skinwitch, and we’ll have Nine Hells of a time convincing anyone otherwise.” She planted one swift, forceful kiss on the top of my head; it left a spot of warmth on my scalp. “Go now, and move quickly. Speed is crucial. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words bunched in my throat.
“Go. Run.” My grandmother faced the black Door, her expression grim. “I’ve got my own work to do.”
Her power began unfolding invisibly around her, swelling vast as a mountain’s shadow at sunset. I didn’t stay to find out if the pressure of it fully unleashed would crush the breath from my lungs. She’d given me a task, and by all Nine Graces, I’d do it.
I ran through Gloamingard’s twisting halls and out into the wild night.
My feet ached from the pebbly road, and the chill of the early autumn night had worked its way through my vestcoat. The bandage I’d improvised for my wounded arm had stopped the bleeding but didn’t keep it from throbbing with sharp insistence. I forced myself to keep going at as brisk a pace as I could manage, pushing pain and weariness down deep inside with the fear and the guilt and everything else I couldn’t afford to give in to right now. Until I knew everyone in Gloamingard was safe from whatever I’d unleashed in the Black Tower, there could be no rest.
I needed to figure out some solution for the diplomatic disaster, too. Holy Graces, this was bad. I couldn’t see a path that led to peace. The wheels of my mind were stuck, too shocked to turn, and I couldn’t think.
It was the time of night my mother called the demon’s hour, when all the world lay asleep. No lights shone through the shuttered windows in the huddled gray villages I passed through, though the scents of livestock and woodsmoke thickened the night air. As an atheling of Morgrain, if I knocked on any door, the inhabitants would rouse and give me whatever aid I asked for: food, a horse cart, anything, their fingers flicking out from their chests and their eyes averted.
Outside of Gloamingard, however, no one was practiced in staying away from me; to interact with the townsfolk would be to put them in danger. All it would take was one unexpected movement, one misjudged reach or stumble. A hobbyhorse leaned by one weathered cottage door, its mane carefully crafted from horsetail clippings; a child’s enthusiastically messy brushstrokes had painted flowers on another. These were my people, secure in their beds with the knowledge that my family watched over them. I wouldn’t risk their lives for my comfort or convenience.
The stars gleamed hard as chips of broken glass in the sky above, watching, judging. Fields of silvery windswept grass and leaning lichen-scarred rune stones gave way to a black patchwork of forest shadows. Reaching pines swallowed the sky, leaving only a ragged ribbon of stars above the road for me to follow.
I was safe enough from any perils others might fear in the wild inky night; this was my grandmother’s domain, and every living thing here knew me and would defend me from harm. But it was too easy for my mind to fill the darkness with blazing red lines of light and a single vertical slash of terrible white radiance, and Lamiel’s eyes going dull and flat.
The Shrike Lord would know she was dead by now. She was part of his domain, and he’d have felt her die. He wasn’t the sort of man to let such a terrible grievance pass unanswered; the question was what form his retribution would take. I could only hope we wouldn’t be at war by the time the imperial envoy arrived tomorrow morning.
I wasn’t looking forward to explaining that the ambassador they’d come to negotiate with was dead.
Hell of Discord. Everything I’d worked for, everything I wanted to preserve, was falling apart around me. No, not falling—I’d smashed it to pieces with my own hands. I had to get back to Gloamingard with the Rookery as soon as possible.
Finally, the warm light of a campfire flickered between the trees in distant glimpses, promising a normal sort of warmth and comfort. A traveler’s shelter, like my grandmother had said. Hope pricked up its tired ears within me. Graces, please let this be the Rookery’s fire.
I picked my way along the narrow side path that led to the shelter, straining toward the cheery light. The campfire ruined my night vision and robbed the forest around me of depth, turning the tree trunks into flat black bands of shadow and making the darkness around me impenetrable. Even with the blood connection to my grandmother’s land that gave me an instinctive feel for the terrain, it took concentration not to trip over rocks and roots with every other step.
Chapter Five
Kathe’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I’ve never courted a Raverran woman before. What comes next?”
I’d never courted anyone before, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I waved a vague hand, glad he couldn’t see my legs trembling beneath my skirts. “At a ball like this, I believe dancing is customary.”
“Ah.” He considered that a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Raverran dances. You could teach me, I suppose.”
I laughed despairingly. “I’m not much of a dancer myself. Certainly not good enough to teach anyone. I always thought it was a bit silly, and never learned half the steps.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not dancing, then.”
The humor in his tone calmed my nerves somewhat. It was commonly held that the Witch Lords were mad, and the majority of them cruel monsters; but if a man could laugh at himself, he couldn’t be all bad. “What do you do in Vaskandar?”
He tapped his chin. “Well, when you begin courting, it’s traditional to go on a long walk and have a conversation, to get to know each other better.”
“I can walk and talk perfectly well,” I said.
“I see you’re quite accomplished.” He proffered a hand, grinning. “Shall we?”
I hesitated, my skin prickling as I recalled how dangerous it would be to accept such an offer from Prince Ruven. But Ruven was a Skinwitch, whose powers worked best on human flesh and bone; it was highly unlikely that Kathe shared that rare and unsettling specialty.
I took his hand, cautiously as if it were a live spider. It was slim but surprisingly rough, at least compared to the baby-soft skin of Raverran courtiers; these hands spent time outdoors, doing things and making things. Or breaking them.
He tucked my arm through his. The feathers on his cloak brushed my bare shoulder. I could feel a humming energy in him, even through his sleeve, of magic or some inner tension. Like Zaira.