I dragged a sleeve across my eyes, nodded grimly, and picked up Lamiel’s booted ankles, ignoring the throbbing of my wounded arm. I tried to wipe my mind blank as I hauled her across the floor, her long hair trailing behind her, stained red as blood by the light of the wards. But I couldn’t stop thinking, no matter how much I wanted to.
Whatever else I had let loose here, I’d unleashed war.
I hauled Lamiel’s empty husk out into the dusty stone alcove and turned to face the lurid glow pouring from the open Door to the Black Tower, my breath coming high and fast. Whisper, who’d skittered through to safety ahead of me, backed away down the corridor with his tail puffed and his eyes glowing.
I scrabbled at the heavy stone Door, searching desperately for any kind of handle or purchase. At my touch, it began to move under my fingers, grinding slowly shut. The line down the center of the great black obelisk still blazed with terrible light; even at a glance, it stabbed into my mind like a diamond blade. I could only pray to the Graces that whatever I’d triggered would fade without doing any harm.
The Door clunked into place. The runes flared one last time and went out, plunging everything into darkness.
My breathing scraped harshly in the shadows, and my pulse surged loud and reckless in my ears. I groped for a wall and found rough, gritty stone.
Solid. Real. I could almost persuade myself this had all been a nightmare—the Door opening, the red chamber, the obelisk, Lamiel’s life pouring into me. That only this rock was real, and the comforting darkness that protected my eyes from any more awful sights, and the rest was some mad hallucination.
But my eyes slowly started pulling details out of the shadows, adjusting to the dim light: the faint red aurora that marked the outline of the massive Door, the lingering gleam that remained in Lamiel’s expended luminary. Whisper pacing with restless agitation, and Lamiel’s sprawled form twisted in empty discomfort on the hard stone floor.
And approaching down the corridor, the burning orange circles of my grandmother’s mage mark, glowing in the dark like a cat’s eyes.
“Ryxander.” Her voice fell on me like a mountain. “What have you done?”
I clutched my bleeding arm against my chest, words collapsing to dust in my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I managed, my voice a breathless rasp. “I couldn’t stop her.”
My grandmother seized my shoulders with both hands, her face blazing with intensity even in the darkness. “Are you all right? Ryx, look at me.”
“I’m fine, but Lamiel—”
She gave me a sharp shake. “Look at me.”
I was looking at her, as much as I was looking at anything, but the red lines of the Black Tower wards still burned into my vision. I swallowed and forced myself to focus on my grandmother’s face and truly meet her eyes despite the jittery pounding of my heart and the nerve-scalding energy still pouring into my limbs.
My grandmother’s gaze roved across my face, scanning it as if she could read words there.
“You’re safe,” she breathed at last, and her hands dropped from my shoulders.
“The Door.” I tried to pull the chaos of my thoughts into order. That was the most important thing—even more important than the Shrike Lord’s betrothed dead at my feet. I had no idea what that surge of energy meant, or what danger it might pose to everyone in the castle. “Lamiel used my blood to get into the Black Tower, and she… I tried to get in her way, but she wouldn’t listen, and she knocked me into the stone.” My throat burned, cracking my voice.
“Seasons have mercy.” My grandmother’s blazing eyes flicked past me, then down to settle on Whisper. “Is this your doing?”
“Hardly.” Acid infused the chimera’s tone. “If I’d wanted to open the Door, I wouldn’t have involved some visiting human fool.”
“How long was it open?” she demanded, something disturbingly like fear in her voice.
I had never, not even once, known my grandmother to be afraid.
“Only briefly,” Whisper said, his fur still bristling along his spine. “But that may have been enough.”
She turned from me to face the closed Door, the shadows on her jaw flexing in the dim light. “I have to deal with this now. It can’t wait.”
“Let me help you.” The words burst out of me on a hot surge of guilt. “This is my fault. And Gloamingard is my responsibility.”
“No,” she said harshly. “You can’t go near that thing again. I’ll handle it.”
“Wait.” I grabbed the edge of her feathery mantle in desperation. “At least tell me what’s going on. I killed someone tonight, and I want to know why.”
She closed her eyes. The dim red light seeping around the Door played across her lids.
Without warning, she spun and clasped me in a fierce, bony hug.
“Listen to me, Ryx,” she whispered, low and close to my ear. My skin prickled as my flawed magic strove to draw her life into me, but the Lady of Owls was more than powerful enough to resist that pull. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m going to go in there and find out what we’re facing. Most likely the danger is past, the only casualty is Lamiel, and the Shrike Lord’s wrath is the worst we’ll have to deal with.” She held me out at arm’s length, her eyes grave. “In case it isn’t, I need you to do something. To help protect Gloamingard and all of Morgrain.”
“Anything,” I said, trembling with the need to undo whatever unspoken damage I’d done.
My grandmother drew in a long breath. “Go get the Rookery.”
“What?” I stared at her, stunned. They might be experts at dealing with magical accidents, but bringing outsiders into this went against the Gloaming Lore.
Whisper seemed to share my skepticism. “Are you sure?”
My grandmother ignored him, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “They took the southern road toward the Serene Empire. They’re camped at a traveler’s shelter a few hours from here; you can catch up to them tonight if you hurry. Tell them we have a magical emergency and I’m requesting immediate assistance.”
My stomach dropped even further. “What magical emergency? Ashes, tell me, what did I do?”
A shadow lay within my grandmother’s eyes. “Hopefully nothing,” she said. “Just in case, I’m sending messenger birds to the rest of the family, warning them to stay away from Gloamingard. And I want you to go after the Rookery and bring them back here.”
“Then send the Rookery a bird, too,” I urged her. “I can’t leave Gloamingard now. I’m the Warden. If that artifact poses a danger to the people in the castle, I have to help neutralize it or get them out. Not to mention that the Raverran envoy arrives tomorrow morning, seasons have mercy, and I need to be here.”
“The best way you can help protect your people is to get the Rookery as quickly as possible,” my grandmother said grimly. “A bird could be misunderstood, intercepted, or ignored. I need them here immediately—no delays, detours, or refusals. I trust you to accomplish that.”
She wanted me gone. The knowledge cut deeper and more unexpected than the slash in my arm. I had no doubt everything she said was true, but I was no fool; I could think of half a dozen trustworthy staff I could send in my place. For whatever reason—to keep me from making things worse, or for my own safety—she wanted me out of Gloamingard.