Radiant: Towers Trilogy Book One

by Karina Sumner-Smith

Easier said than done. Her progress was slower and more painful than she imagined, each hopping step jarring her swollen knee even within its protective brace. Xhea was soaked with sweat before she’d traveled more than ten feet, and the hall stretched out before her. She heard the whisper of the woman’s slippers pacing slowly behind her, the security guards’ heavy treads, and envied them their ease of movement.

  They can’t just let me walk out of here, Xhea thought. There was something she was missing.

  The answer, when it came, was so soft she almost missed it: a slight clink like metal on metal. Xhea hesitated, mere steps from where the hall turned toward the left and led to the skyscraper’s front lobby. Something about the sound . . .

  The jangle of keys, she realized. She leaned on her pipe, not needing to feign fatigue, and looked carefully ahead. There: a shadow shifted across the threadbare carpet. She wasn’t being escorted; they were leading her into an ambush.

  Xhea let the pipe and wall hold her weight, and slapped her free hand flat against the drywall beside her. Flecks of paint fell in a whispering rain. Her awareness followed her magic through the wall to the workings beneath. As in Edren, great bundles of wires ran through the walls—a physical structure to shape and hold the spells that ran the skyscraper. She mapped their paths in a second, then her eyes flew open and she stared down the woman and the guards at her sides.

  “I will not,” Xhea said, speaking slowly and forcefully for all that her voice trembled, “let you hold me here any longer.”

  “Child, I wasn’t . . .”

  “The guards around the corner. Tell them to stand down.”

  A lift of that perfect eyebrow. “Or?”

  “Tell me,” Xhea said. “What spells do you have running within these walls? Security, lighting, communications, information flow . . . ? Let me walk out of here unhindered, or they’re all gone.”

  “Xhea, do you really think that—”

  “Do you really think I’m bluffing? It took me seconds to destroy the elevator—if that. I could unravel in an instant what it’s taken Orren decades to build, you know I could. And I’d enjoy it.”

  The woman’s mouth thinned into a hard, flat line.

  “Let me go,” Xhea said, forcing her voice to be soft. Let her think it a plea. “Just let me go.”

  The moment stretched, aching. “As you wish,” the woman said. “For now.”

  At her nod, the guards stepped back. Others moved too, and only then did Xhea realize how many witnesses had gathered. She took a firmer grip on her pipe and forced herself forward again, step by agonizing step. As she went, doors opened behind her. No fancy rooms these, not in a service hall of the skyscraper’s ground level, yet they were occupied nonetheless. Light streamed from opened doors, and people began to peek out, curious, cautious. In the way.

  There was a whisper of silken fabric as the woman gestured the witnesses back. Xhea could feel their eyes on her, heard their motion as she passed—footsteps, more footsteps, whispers and murmured questions, all following behind.

  Sweetness save me, she thought. I’m leading a parade.

  Down the hall and through the doors into the skyscraper’s battered front vestibule, chipped faux marble and stained mirror glass. The gap where a revolving door had once stood had been boarded over, only a soft breath of night air slipping in through the nail holes. The doors to either side had been bolted and barred, chains wrapped around the handles.

  Almost there. The lie was so bold it was laughable.

  A babble rose behind her when Xhea gestured for the doors to be unbarred.

  “It’s dark, she can’t—”

  “Surely she doesn’t mean—”

  “She’ll be killed!”

  Somehow the thought of again facing the night walkers held little fear. She stood stoically, face as blank as she could manage, while one of the security men fumbled at his belt for the correct keys.

  “Xhea,” a voice said. Lin. For him alone she turned.

  He stood just a step from the small crowd, hands raised, palms out and empty. He stared, his jutting Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he swallowed. “The brace,” he said. “If you turn the adjustment screws on the side, you can keep it from bending.”

  Xhea nodded. It took a moment to do as he said, fumbling for the screws through the fabric of her pants. At last she felt the brace harden: not magic, but a stiffening of the material itself, the kind of mechanical genius that marked the inventions of the before-times. Tentatively, she shifted her weight onto her injured leg. It hurt—oh sweetness and blight, did it hurt—but it held.

  Lin almost smiled at the sight, something like pride warring with the fear in his expression. Xhea wanted to speak, but the simple words died on her lips. Thank you. Instead she nodded as she turned away.

  Outside the air was cool enough to make her shiver, but it was a chill that spoke of early mornings and dawning light, the swirl of air through the Lower City’s crumbling structures. She stepped away from Orren—stumbled, staggered. It took a few hurting steps, near-falling, before she found her stride. Then the rhythm of her makeshift cane striking the asphalt reverberated with a sound like a bell, singing in perfect time to her breathing.

  “I’m coming,” Xhea whispered. She clung to the tether like a lifeline, face streaked with pained tears. “Hang in there Shai, I’m coming.”

  She walked without turning back, cloud-tattered darkness swirling all around her.

  “One,” Xhea panted. She dragged herself forward a single step, hopped to regain her precarious balance, and leaned heavily on her length of pipe. A breath and then she swung the pipe forward, shifted her weight, and pushed forward again.

  “Two.”

  Only three more steps until she could pause for breath. Then five more steps. Then five more.

  Edren was only a few blocks from Orren, and little had troubled her path but cracks and stones, yet that short walk had already taken an hour or more. Her legs hurt, and her knee; she had expected no less. It was the pain in her bruised shoulder and hands that took her aback, the muscles exhausted and trembling from use of her makeshift cane; that, and the sharp ache in her palms, unused to bearing so much of her weight. The rust stains on her hands were a deep enough gray that she almost mistook them for blood.

  “Three,” she said, and dragged herself forward. “Four.”

  On the next swing her pipe struck a curb and Xhea looked up in slow surprise. Edren stood before her, the bulk of the antique hotel dominating the block. She leaned on the pipe, and watched the long shadows shift across Edren’s decorative façade as dawn broke on the far horizon.

  No back-alley entrance, this; she’d come to the former hotel’s front doors. Four thick pillars supported an overhang that was easily two stories overhead, and decorative lions stood guard beside massive doors with handles of upswept brass. At least she thought they’d once been lions. The creatures’ faces were pitted and smashed away, as were their claws, leaving only hulking pale shapes with edges smoothed by the touch of countless hands. Neither had Edren escaped time’s ravages: the pillars were cracked and stained, the windows were boarded or bricked, and those elegant brass handles were tarnished black. Yet in that soft light, Xhea could almost imagine it as it must have once been, a thick carpet unfurled down its wide front steps, uniformed doormen waiting to usher guests inside.

  Forget them, Xhea thought, carpet and doormen both—she’d settle for a sentry coming to see what she wanted. The curb and shallow flight of stairs between her and those doors felt like a barricade, complete with armed guards. It would be better if she went around back, as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. Yet her legs shook, and her arms; she did not know that she could make it so far. Did not know if Shai had the time left for her to make the effort.

  The only other option seemed to be to lower herself to the ground and drag herself to the door, step by uncomfortable step. Except—no. She knew that Edren set watchers, human and spelled alike; knew that she had to be
watched, even now. What attention would knocking earn her that she didn’t already have, emerging as she had from the pre-dawn darkness to stand unmoving in the road before the skyscraper? No, they knew she was here. What she needed was to provoke a reaction.

  Xhea took a deep breath to steady herself. Help, she wanted to cry, please help—and could let nothing of that weakness to show. Stand up, she told herself. She shifted her weight to her good leg and relaxed her aching arm, moving her grip to hold the pipe as if it were a weapon rather than a cane. She pushed her shoulders back and shook out her hair, letting the charms chime freely.

  She was not exhausted; she was not hurt or desperate or afraid; she was not moments from collapsing. Believe the lie, she thought, and smiled.

  “Edren!” Xhea’s voice was loud and steady, and the echoes circled like a flock of birds. “I’ve come to speak to Lorn Edren. We have business to discuss.”

  There was no response, not that she’d expected any. No, all she wanted was for the on-guard duty to watch her—and know who to run and tell when things became interesting.

  And interesting was most definitely her goal.

  She drew a long, deep breath and held it, focusing. When she exhaled, it was as if releasing a long drag on a cigarette—and her breath stained the air black. More, she thought to it, urging it on, and the magic surged forth, rushing out of her hard and fast. She felt a chill as the power left her, but gripped her makeshift cane all the harder and maintained the flow. She held on until it seemed the magic was a dark presence above her: no raincloud, this; no puff like smoke; but a deep ache of black, a spreading patch of night.

  Black enough that it had to have entered the visual spectrum, even for the most magic-poor watcher. No point in hiding—not when Orren already knew this little secret of hers.

  Now for the hard part, Xhea thought. As if the cloud of magic was her hand, an extension of herself, she willed the magic to move. Shai had shown her how to do this, but in miniature: dark little flows of power caught between her palms made to turn slow circles or form a shape. And as Shai had always said, it was one thing to work magic when caught in a rush of emotion; another thing entirely to use it with thought and precision and control. It was much, much harder. But Shai was there, her tether an anchor, the memory of her voice a guide. Desperation, it seemed, was the best motivation of all.

  Xhea willed the magic to form a wide ring and spin, and though she struggled with the power she could feel it moving faster and faster, until it spun dizzily above her head. Then she broke the ring into a spiral and sent it curling inward and down, and tipped her head back to meet it. Opening her mouth, she inhaled sharply.

  Sweetness save me, she thought as the magic rushed back into her, hot and cold and like a shock of sugar to the blood. Oh sweetness, don’t choke.

  Her hand shook where she gripped her pipe, and she shuddered—but made herself stare straight at Edren. She waited.

  A minute passed, and another. A nervous sheen of sweat broke out across her skin. In the distance she could hear movement: people leaving their houses, vendors beginning to set up outside the market walls. If they didn’t answer soon there would be witnesses, something she wanted as little as Lorn would want their arrangement publicly known.

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late to go around the back doors—but no, of course it was. It was two days too late, Shai in her enemies’ hands all the while.

  Still Xhea waited.

  There was one other thing she could try, though it meant breaking a sworn promise. There was a story she could tell, a secret, and she already knew how the telling would begin: Once upon a time there were two brothers who both lay dying: one from a terrible wound, and one from an illness with no known cause . . .

  With every word she would make an enemy of Lorn. He would honor the favor he owed her, but no more, and his enmity would turn all of Edren against her. She knew it—and yet still she drew breath to speak the words.

  The door cracked open. A young man slipped out, tall like a light-starved tree, a lock and chain still held in his hands. He jumped and scrambled out of the way as the door opened again and Lorn stepped through, still buttoning his shirt. In all the tattoos that patterned his dark chest, it was the one above his heart that held her attention: a single name in bold cursive writing, Addis.

  Xhea fought the urge to swallow.

  Lorn came down the steps, his expression blank, his feet bare. His limp was more pronounced than she remembered; his leg stiffened, perhaps, from sleep. “Xhea,” he said, looking down at her. His rough voice was perfectly calm, perfectly polite, and it chilled her to the core. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

  Xhea glanced down at her boots, wishing it was only fatigue that made her turn away. “You owe me a favor, and I’ve come to collect. I need—I’d like to ask of you two things.”

  “I owe you only one favor.” The hard, naked simplicity of the words told her just how angry he was.

  “Both are small,” she hastened to add. “First, I’d like to send a message to the City. Paper and pen is fine, any method of delivery so long as it’s fast.” An easy task. Lorn took a slow breath, as if to steady himself—as if to keep his large hands from curling into fists. At last he nodded, and Xhea continued. “Second, I’d like you to call me an elevator and provide the fare to take me to a central Tower.” A moment’s work, and a few renai. Surely he would not refuse.

  Yet Lorn just watched her, expression stiff, a faint crease between his dark brows.

  “Look,” Xhea said. “There’s no catch. Just deliver a message, call me a lift, and all debts between us are clear.”

  Some of the anger went out of him, at that. He shook his head, frustrated. “Why this, Xhea? Why now?”

  “I need . . . it’s just . . .” Xhea fumbled over her words. “I don’t know how to explain.”

  “Try.”

  Again she looked to her feet, their ragged nails and cold, discolored flesh. Favor or no, she realized that Lorn was as likely to send her away as to help. She swayed slightly; she was so tired. She had to trust him, she realized, trust him as he had trusted her.

  “They stole someone,” she said at last. “A Tower. They stole someone—a friend—that they had no right to take. I’m the only one who can help her.”

  “A . . . ghost?”

  Xhea nodded and met his eyes. “A bright ghost,” she said, gambling. “A ghost that shone.”

  A change came into Lorn’s face, though she couldn’t read the expression that swept across his features as fast and fierce as a storm wind—and was as quickly gone.

  “And what you did before?” Lorn moved his hand in a circle above his head, mimicking her ring of darkness. “What am I to think of that?”

  Xhea shrugged, uncomfortable. “I needed to get your

  attention.”

  “So you threatened me?”

  “What? No! I—” Xhea clamped her jaw shut. He knew something about her power, she realized—as had the woman in Orren—and she needed that knowledge. Wished she knew the right questions, or had the time in which to ask them. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she whispered.

  Lorn studied her. “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t understand what you did.”

  Xhea shook her head, the slightest fraction of movements.

  “A blade to my throat,” he said quietly. “A bomb. Those might have been lesser threats.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll help you save your friend. But when you return, we should have a talk, you and I.”

  She met his gaze, those dark eyes so steady.

  “Yes,” Xhea said softly. “I think I’d like that.”

  To the voice that still whispered, all alone, she thought: I might be alone, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have help.

  Her message was a simple thing, no more than a few lines, and Xhea knew that she should have agonized over each one, tested the weight of each word
. No time. Instead she strove for clarity in wording and penmanship both, and trusted the rest to fate.

  After her message was whisked away, Xhea ran through her breathing exercises, resisting the urge to rush. Even a stray wisp of magic might disrupt the elevator, and she shuddered to think of the fall. She visualized in time to her breath: a door swinging shut; a hand curling into a fist; a flower, petals closing. With her emotions running high, her magic was slow to contract. She struggled, at last feeling the power clot beneath her breastbone into a weight like stone.

  When the elevator that Lorn had called arrived, whirring quietly, Xhea opened her eyes. “I’m ready,” she said.

  Lorn flicked a small sphere of renai toward her—just enough magic to get her to Eridian. Xhea expected a shock, expected pain, and braced herself for both. It wasn’t enough. She cried out as the magic struck her, and cringed so violently that she lost her balance. She fell hard, barely avoiding landing on her injured knee, and the iron pipe clanged to the ground beside her. The bright magic burned, running through her veins like fire. All she could hear was her heart, pounding too hard, too fast, its rhythm frantic.

  Xhea struggled to draw breath, gasping as her muscles twitched and shuddered. Keep control, she told herself—but where was the control in this? She struggled to see, trying to focus on her hands splayed on the dirty pavement. She struggled to rise. Lorn called to her, but she couldn’t understand him, nor could she shape a reply. Color came in brief, harsh flashes, each a knife’s point to her eyes. She saw her new pants, not black but muddy green—the brown of Lorn’s skin, the amber flecks in his eyes—the pipe’s rust and its residue on her hands, orange like a sunset, orange and brown and a strange flaking red, and it hurt, oh sweetness save her, it hurt.

  Lorn had already paid the elevator and now, hovering above her, it opened like a flower. Its spell-strands fell around her, glowing liquid gold—gray—gold. Again she tried to push herself off the ground, but her head was spinning, spinning. Xhea grabbed for her pipe, thinking, I’ll stand when I get there.

  Yet as the elevator strands closed around her, one fell across her bad leg. It sizzled as it touched her, then flickered and died, gold burning to ash. No, she thought, and looked up. Another strand fell across her leg instead of trying to hold her, as if her leg was a lifeless thing, undetectable.