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-scented 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.
Lamiel shrugged. “It’s curious, that’s all,” she said. “I’d heard that you killed a man with a touch when you were four years old. Only a Skinwitch can do that.”
Those cursed rumors again. No matter how hard I tried to patiently correct people, to spread the truth, someone would always do their own mental addition and start whispering Skinwitch. I could hardly blame them; it made sense.
“I’m no more a Skinwitch than you are,” I said. Keep smiling. “My magic is flawed.”
“If you say so.” Lamiel winked, as if we shared a secret.
I curled my hand into a fist under the table, tight enough the leather of my glove creaked. “It’s the truth.”
“I suppose your father should have expected something to go wrong, marrying a woman without any magic in her bloodline.” She lifted her lip in genteel disdain. “It was quite the scandal, as I recall. The Lady of Owls’ own middle son, an Exalted Atheling in the direct line of succession, marrying some utterly powerless Raverran diplomat! Such a waste.”
I pushed my chair back from the table and stood. “I can see what you’re trying to do,” I said, forcing my voice to be viciously pleasant. “I’m sorry to inform you that I’m not so easy to provoke. If I were, I’d leave a wake of corpses behind me.” I gestured toward the door, precise and polite. “Now, I’m sure you’re weary from the road. Why don’t I call my steward to show you to your guest rooms for some much needed rest?”
Lamiel stared at me a long moment, her face guarded and calculating. Then she slapped the table and burst out into a merry peal of laughter. “I like you, Ryx! May I call you Ryx?”
“No.”
“The Lady of Owls has been hiding a gem all this time. We’ll be great friends, you and I.” She flashed me a too-brilliant smile.
I gave her a level stare and didn’t bother trying to hide my loathing.
“I rather doubt it.”
I warned Odan and the housekeeper, Gaven, that Lamiel might be up to trouble, and that we had to keep her away from the Black Tower in particular. Odan frowned at this news, his bristling gray brows descending like thunderclouds over his deep-set, intelligent eyes.
Gaven, twenty years younger and far more prone to whimsy, broke out in an eager grin. “Ooh, so you want us to spy on her, Exalted Warden?”
He bobbed into half a bow on his toes, his fingers flicking out almost absently from his chest in the casting-off motion of the warding sign. Avert misfortune. For the staff who’d lived in the castle for years, it had become almost a friendly greeting, like a wave; it was a rote gesture worn smooth with use, with no real fear in it anymore. When I was small it had bothered me that they did that, but now I barely noticed.
“Not spy,” I corrected him, glancing around. We stood ten feet apart beneath the cavernous timbers of the Old Great Hall, and lowering our voices wasn’t an option. “The Alevaran delegation are our guests. Just keep an eye out in case they try anything foolish, that’s all.”
“You realize,” Odan said gravely, “that if Exalted Lamiel does try to approach the Black Tower, none of the rest of us have the authority to stop her. You’re the only mage-marked in the castle, with the lady gone.”
“That’s true.” I twisted the end of my braid, considering the implications. If Lamiel’s goal was to provoke a grievance between Alevar and Morgrain, she might be looking for a chance to take issue with the castle staff. “Tell everyone to see to her needs, but to keep out of her sight as much as possible. If any problems arise, alert me, and I’ll come at once.”
“We should still spy on her, yes?” Gaven sounded so hopeful.
“From a distance,” I conceded. “But Odan’s right. If she tries anything dangerous, you won’t be able to stop her. I’ll have to watch her myself.”
It was easy enough at first. No one knew the secret corners and hidden passageways of Gloamingard like I did. Lamiel played the part of a guest weary from the road, withdrawing to her rooms; I watched from the ivy-masked windows of an old turret as messenger birds came and went from her balcony all afternoon, alighting on her pale hand. After dark I moved to an empty guest chamber across the hall from hers, the better to intercept her if she tried to sneak around at night once the castle went to bed.
Which was all well and good, except for the part where I needed sleep, myself.
Midnight came and went, and still Lamiel showed no sign of stirring. I didn’t dare abandon my post, but as the hours of peering beneath my door to watch hers wore on, the floor became far too comfortable.
It didn’t help that every time I came close to dozing off, vivid bits of unpleasant memory rose like bubbles from the depths of a murky swamp, stirred up by Lamiel’s prodding.
Scarlet peach juice running down a boy’s chin as he stood with eyes closed in forbidden delight, the snow-white stolen fruit trembling in his hand. Rage blazing on a bearded face, and the horrible thud of a fist against breaking bone.