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.