He began to see shapes in the air. They started as colors. Smoky gray and powder blue. But as Brom’s heart slowed, he saw more. The colors coalesced, transforming into smoky apparitions.
An amorphous gray spiderweb hovered right in front of him, barely a foot away. It surrounded the entire base of the tower, stretched along the wall, and only at the gate did a hole widen for passage through. If he’d charged across the short courtyard, he would have run right into that web.
And just beyond the spiderweb was a double-headed axe of misty blue. It was as tall as a house, just as ephemeral as the spider web and just as magical. The haft was suspended a foot above the ground between two archways.
A drift of snow piled against the tower moved in the slight breeze created by the axe’s descent, and Brom suddenly realized that the axe, though it looked like an apparition, was as solid as steel. The axe-head chopped in front of one archway and stopped a hair’s breadth from the ground. It rose up, swinging to the other side, and chopped down in front of the other archway like a pendulum, the haft turning on some invisible fulcrum.
That massive blue axe head could easily chop any unwary person in two if they tried to get through one of those archways. He squinted and looked down the flat side of the tower. Slowly, a half dozen other giant axes resolved in his vision. Every pair of archways had its own deadly axe pendulum. Chop...chop...chop...chop... They all continued ceaselessly, chopping down suddenly, stopping just before they hit the ground, then rising again.
The two guards at the gate were nothing but a feint. These sophisticated spells were the real protection. They would all undoubtedly summon The Four if they didn’t kill the intruder outright.
And nobody can see them but me, he thought. These spells, this tower, they are all part of my body now. One doesn’t fear one’s own body. One uses it.
A giddy confidence flowed through him. He felt invincible.
He inched forward, through the gaps in the spiderweb, careful not to touch any of the glistening gray threads. Once he was through, he moved toward the swaying axe. He stood before it until he was sure of its timing, then he ran past, through the right-hand archway.
He half-expected to feel a tingle, some indication that he’d been caught, but there was nothing but the floor beneath his feet, the air rushing into his lungs, the hard walls on either side of him. Inside, the walls were black stone, glistening like they were wet, and Brom saw another spell down the hall ahead of him.
A misty white grate blocked the hallway, iron bands crisscrossing like a loose basket weave, leaving diamond-shaped holes that could barely pass a fist. There was no way to duck under, climb above, or sneak through.
But there was a misty white door in the center.
He approached it cautiously. The door was three feet wide and seven feet tall with no handle or lever, just a giant key sticking out of a lock in the door’s center. The head of the key was a life-sized skeletal hand, fingers fanned out a handshake.
He studied it, thinking for a moment. A key in the lock, ready to turn. So obvious that it made him suspicious.
Unless, of course, the creators of the spell were the only ones who could see it. If The Four thought their spells were invisible to everyone but them, the door could indeed be that simple, an easy way to pass in and out of the tower without hindering themselves.
He reached out to touch the handle.
The deep foreboding clenched in his belly, and he stopped with his hand inches from the bony fingers.
He studied the grate again, looking for some hidden handle, some unseen hole. But there was nothing.
Still, there had to be a way for The Four to pass. Could they just walk through it, unaffected? Were they simply immune to their own spells?
No. That couldn’t be true. Why make a door at all, then? The key was meant to be used.
He looked back the way he had come. The head of the blue axe chopped down in front of the archway, nearly striking the ground, then rose and vanished from view. Three seconds later, it chopped down again like clockwork.
The axe was a light, sky blue. The web was gray. And this grate, misty white...
The colors represented the four paths of magic! Blue for Impetu. The gray of the spider web, a faded black. That was an Anima spell. And this misty grate, faded white, had to be Mentis.
He yanked his hand back like the key was a snake. Touching it would have been disastrous. A spell created by a Mentis would have to do with the mind, not the body.
He composed himself, tried not to think of how close he’d come to tripping the trap. He reached out with his mind like he was sending a thought to Oriana.
“Open,” he thought.
The skeletal hand bent, grasped itself, and turned. The gate swung open noiselessly. It happened so fast that it stunned Brom, but he was jolted to attention when the gate slowly began to close. He jumped through, careful not to touch any part of the construct—not the key, the door, or the grate itself.
The door swung shut, silent as mist, and the key turned vertical again. The bony hand unfurled, fingers splayed open.
I’m in, Brom thought as he turned around. Gods, I’m in the Tower of the Four.
He moved forward cautiously. The black hallway opened into a foyer with an enormous red-bordered mirror attached to the wall over a long red marble table, exquisitely carved. The mirror was as tall and wide as the archway Brom had entered, and he wanted to look at his reflection. He walked toward it—
The foreboding in his belly clenched so hard it felt like he’d been poisoned.
Brom gasped, doubled over and fell to his knees. He raised his head, still badly wanting to take one more step and see his reflection. He knelt that way for a long, torturous minute, fighting the pain in his belly.
He needed to see the mirror! He knew the moment he looked in it, he’d see what he most wanted to know. About himself. About Vale. About The Four. The mirror held vast secrets. He could feel it like he felt his own heart beating—
It’s the fourth trap, Brom thought, his own voice breaking through the desperate need. It seemed as though he’d been trying to tell himself that for a long time, but his desires had overwhelmed his rational mind.
He blinked, stared hard at the mirror’s border and at the edge of his shoulder in the reflection. A pink haze appeared, barely perceptible, over the mirror. Magic.
Brom backed away, and with every step the compulsion to look into the mirror diminished.
Gods... That had been close.
A black marble stairway spiraled upward to his left, opposite the mirror. The steps were at least twenty feet wide, and they swept elegantly in a curve, rising to reach the next landing. There. Up there. He had to get away from that mirror before he was tempted to look again.
The enormous spiral staircase twisted around and around into a seemingly infinite darkness above, hitting landing after landing, but always continuing upward into the dark. At each landing, it changed color. Black to blue. Blue to white. White to red. Red to black. Over and over.
Brom stared, caught between the need to get away from the insidious mirror and his slack-jawed awe at the tower. The four paths of magic dealt with altering the emotions, the body, the mind, or the spirit of a person. Nothing Brom or his Quad mates had done so far could create something concrete, something separate from another person. The magic of building this tower, those ephemeral traps, all the other miraculous things on the academy campus like the little automatons in the library, the Floating Room... This was magic so far beyond Brom’s comprehension that his heart beat faster. This was the magic of The Four.
What am I doing here? he suddenly thought. It was insanity to think I could come here without being caught.
He felt like he’d suddenly tumbled off a cliff into a freefall. He looked back at the white grate down the hallway and felt he should sprint from this place in terror and never come back.
But he couldn’t see the white grate anymore. Beyond that, there was no axe swaying in
to view over the archways at the end of the hall. All he could see was the indigo moonlight on the snow beyond the archway.
He couldn’t see the spells anymore... Gods, he’d slipped out of the Soul of the World. His heart thundered in his chest. Terror gripped him, and he froze like a rabbit, hoping not to be noticed.
Gods...gods... gods...
He tried to reach into the Soul of the World again, but it was like trying to exhale after having the wind knocked out of him. There was no air left. He couldn’t... He couldn’t reach it!
His magic was gone. He no longer part of the tower, that he belonged here, that his body was part of its body. He couldn’t feel where to step and when. He didn’t know what to do next. There was no...
A vision of Oriana came to him. Oriana, who always looked past her emotions to see what was needed. Oriana, who never panicked.
Compose yourself. He could almost hear her voice in his head.
He clamped down hard on his panic.
I’ve run out of my second Soulblock, he thought. That’s what this is. That’s why the Soul of the World is gone.
He looked back at the vanished grate. He’d known he was going to have to access his third Soulblock in this mission, but he didn’t think he’d use up his second so quickly. The compulsion to look into the mirror trap had been so strong he’d barely broken it. He wondered if it had drained his magic like a siphon.
In fact, now that he thought of it, the mirror might have those answers. It obviously contained a great many secrets. If he looked into it, he could understand what was happening here.
He turned to look into the mirror.
Brom shut his eyes.
No!
It didn’t matter why his second Soulblock was gone. He needed magic. That was the only answer. The mirror couldn’t tell him anything more than that. He had to open his third Soulblock. But he’d only use it to get back out of the tower. He’d learned a great deal. The tricks and traps were simple to evade now that he knew them. He could go back to his room and try again when he was fully rested, when he had all of his Soulblocks.
He opened his third Soulblock and drew a sudden, swift breath. The magic crackled through him, jolting his jittery limbs, filling them with power.
His heart calmed. His thoughts calmed. The misty white grate shone down the hallway, no longer misty. It looked like it was made of glowing ivory. The swaying head of the giant axe came into view, bright blue steel chopping down, then rising. Chopping into view, rising. He could even see the spiderweb beyond them, black as midnight against the snowy wall.
He didn’t look at the mirror, but he was sure the frame would be glowing dark crimson.
He took a deep breath. This was much better. His panic had vanished and it suddenly felt childish. He chided himself for his fearful thoughts, especially about his plan to leave as quickly as he could. That was utterly foolish.
Leave? He wasn’t leaving. He’d successfully passed each of the traps of The Four. He was on the edge of victory. He wasn’t about to run home with his tail tucked between his legs.
He was going to find out more about this tower than its defenses. He was going to find out why the green fire spell surrounded the school. That was why he was here, after all.
Just as he was about to set foot on the staircase, he heard a voice.
Like the darkness itself, he melted into the shadows against the wide black marble bannister.
The voice spoke again, deep and rumbling. It had come from the first landing above, just far enough away that he couldn’t make out the words.
Thinking of the Gauntlet in the practice room, Brom crept quietly up the stairs, keeping low behind the wide obsidian rail. He’d just have to make sure he weaved his way through this new gauntlet without a mistake. He was careful not to look to his right and accidentally view himself in the mirror on the way up. He kept his focus forward, one step at a time. Soon, he saw a doorway to a blue room. The floor of the second story was made of thickly-veined blue marble, just as the floor of the first story had been made of black marble.
As he crept nearer, the rumbling voice became clear enough to understand. “...should simply get rid of the entire class.” The man’s voice sounded like rocks being crushed together.
“Can you think of anything more stupid that that?” came another man’s voice, as different from the first voice as two voices could be. This new voice was smooth honey poured into the ear. His words were clearly antagonistic, but they sounded warm, like he was telling an old friend an inside joke.
The gravelly voice growled.
The room was just above Brom’s line of sight, right across from the staircase. He could see the blue ceiling, and with two more steps, he’d be able to see the room through the doorway...
...and if anyone was looking out, they’d be able to see him.
But no foreboding clenched his gut. He stepped confidently up the staircase to the landing. He saw into the room, but he couldn’t see the people who spoke. He felt an excitement about entering, so he padded quickly forward, went through the doorway and ducked behind a blue marble bar just inside the room.
The voices continued their discussion uninterrupted.
“Is it possible for the two of you to have a logical discussion without resorting to these petty squabbles?” a new voice said. It was high pitched and cultured, speaking with clearly enunciated words, much like Oriana did, but this was a man’s voice and definitely older.
Gods! No one had seen Brom enter the room. He’d just run into the room and hid, and no one had seen him.
He crouched under the bar, completely concealed from the rest of the room, and he assessed his surroundings. In front of him was the blue marble wall. To his left, the underside of the bar stretched on for twenty feet, the entire length of the room. Directly behind him and to his right was the backside of the bar. He pressed himself against those two cool walls.
Just to his left, there was a hole in the bar, as though something, a spout or a pipe, was meant to have been there, but it either hadn’t been installed or had been removed. Brom put his eye up to the hole, and saw the rest of the room.
There, standing no more than ten paces from him, were The Four.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brom
The legendary Four.... Olivaard, Arsinoe, Wulfric, and Linza stood right there in front of him!
Arsinoe, their Motus, was dressed in a stylish red courtier’s doublet and tight-fitting breeches. He lounged on a red velvet divan, which looked like it had been made expressly to display him. Somehow, this ancient man looked to be in his early twenties, with dark auburn hair that tumbled carelessly to his shoulders. Two days’ worth of stubble made his handsome face rugged and irresistible. At just a glance, Brom felt like he would never be this man’s equal in anything.
Arsinoe was relaxed and he smiled lazily, as though everything was easy for him. His face indicated that he’d be happy to show you exactly what you needed to know to conquer your petty challenges, if you liked. But his emerald gaze was as sharp as a blade, cruel and narrow. The man wasn’t looking toward Brom’s peephole, gods be thanked, but that green gaze stabbed at Brom’s confidence, deflating him, owning him. Brom’s muscles twitched with the urge to leap from concealment and kneel in obeisance, but he stopped himself.
Olivaard, their Mentis, had to be seven feet tall at least, taller even than Royal, but the man was as thin as a willow switch. Snowy white robes draped his body from his high, stiff collar all the way to the floor. His face was inhumanly stretched, oval eyes taller than they were wide, his head long and thin as though it had been squeezed in a vise. His ears were as large as a hand, the lobes dangling almost to his chin. His eyes glistened, wholly green, with no pupils or irises. Both his and Arsinoe’s eyes were the same green color as the flame Brom had seen at the top of this tower that fateful night. The same green color as the ooze that had leaked from Brom’s eyes. Olivaard’s nightmare face was pinched into a haughty expression that made B
rom feel there were only a finite number of ideas, and this man had thought of them all.
The thickly-muscled Wulfric was, surprisingly, Brom’s height, but he was literally as wide as he was tall, a boulder of a man. Everything about him was grotesquely muscular. Armor encased the Impetu’s body from his hoof-like feet—as wide as dinner plates—to the square helmet on his neck-less head. The armor had been molded to his body like a second skin, showing the swells and divots in his exaggerated physique, and the metal seemed to move when the man shifted. In places, the armor shimmered like it had been polished, but tendrils of corrosion and rust crept from the crevices between his muscles, from the shadows beneath his arms, chin, knees, chest, and groin. Patches of sallow fungus grew near the corrosion, sometimes reaching far enough to cover the shiny spots. Things moved in the shadows of those cracks, as though bugs scuttled just beneath Wulfric’s armor.
Their Anima Linza, wrapped in midnight robes, stood in front of a tall arched window with a stained-glass border. The light of the room dimmed around her as if it were falling down a dark well. Outside, the softly falling snow had turned into a blizzard, framing her in flurrying white, a forbidding figure that sucked in all hope. Brom panicked.
His connection to the Soul of the World suddenly wavered, and it seemed a pathetic shield against this woman. It was impossible to hide from Linza. Any second now, she would turn and sense him, look through the marble of the bar and straight into Brom’s soul...
He wrenched his gaze away from the hole, stifling his gasp. He expected the Four to go suddenly silent and discover him, then stride to the bar and yank him into view. But they didn’t. They were engaged in their conversation. Brom drew a quiet breath and sank back into the Soul of the World. Its calming influence washed over him, and when his heart settled, he turned his eye back to the hole. This time, he didn’t look directly at Linza.
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