The Obsidian Tower

by Melissa Caruso

  “I trust any and all of you,” I said, my voice thickening. “I don’t know how to choose.”

  “You don’t want me,” Ashe said. “I’d forget to release you. I’ve usually got other things on my mind.”

  “Take Kessa,” Bastian suggested. “She’s the most sociable of all of us, and you want to be stuck with someone who’s a good conversationalist.”

  I laughed. “All right.”

  This time, it was Kessa who slid the golden bracelet over my hand, a smile dancing in her eyes. I held my breath as the cool metal settled on my wrist.

  The pressure of the air seemed to shift, the colors in the room to grow not duller, but more subtle. It was as if a noise I had been hearing for so long I’d learned to tune it out went silent.

  Kessa hesitated. “Is it safe now?”

  “I think so,” I said, nervous. I held out my open palm, expecting her to try a quick, brushing touch.

  She threw her arms around me, squeezing me tight. Bastian chuckled; Ashe let out an explosive breath.

  “I’m going to die young, Kessa,” she muttered. “Have mercy.”

  Kessa released me, and I grinned at the Rookery, my heart full. Ashe clapped my shoulder, and Severin reached out to squeeze my hand, sending an entirely different sort of warm tingle across my palm.

  I clung to this moment, desperate to keep it forever. Everyone’s smiling faces welcoming me, rejoicing in each other. They didn’t care that my magic was broken—no; they celebrated it. They were all broken too, in their own ways, and ultimately stronger for it.

  “We’ve got work ahead of us,” Foxglove said, his brows descending in a solemn valley over his piercing eyes. “I won’t lie to you—we’ve never had the odds stacked this deep against us. I’ll have to ask you to go into some dark and terrible places with me if we’re going to have any hope of carrying light through to the other side.”

  “Oh, stuff the doom and despair, Foxglove.” Ashe flashed sharp teeth at him. “You should know by now that I don’t care how big and nasty our enemy is. I just jump in and start stabbing.”

  “We had noticed that, yes,” Kessa said, with an air of affectionate weariness.

  “I was getting to a point,” Foxglove protested, with an injured look.

  “I’m sure you were.” Kessa patted him on the shoulder. “Alas, it’s too late now. Ashe, let Foxglove make his point next time.”

  Severin and I exchanged a glance; amusement danced in his eyes. He hadn’t taken his hand back, and I wasn’t going to let go until he did. A glowing warmth spread through me like tea with rich honey.

  Foxglove didn’t have to make his point; I knew what he’d been about to say.

  None of us had to do this alone.

  The story continues in…

  THE QUICKSILVER COURT

  Book TWO of Rooks and Ruin

  Coming in 2021!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book began as a series of excited messages back and forth with my agent, Naomi Davis, who is fantastic to brainstorm with as well as being the best champion any author could ask for. It grew and got better with feedback from my fabulous longtime beta reader, Natsuko Toyofuku, and critique partner, Deva Fagan. It flourished (after some hard work) under the insightful editorial guidance of my amazing editor, Sarah Guan, and my fantastic UK editor, Emily Byron; and it reached its final evolution with the help of my incredible new editor, Nivia Evans. This book would not have existed without all of them—or at the very least would have been a lot worse—and I am profoundly grateful.

  I couldn’t have done it without the unflagging support of my family. My husband, Jesse King, and my daughters, Maya and Kyra, encouraged me with patience and enthusiasm, taking on my chores when things got rough; Maya was my sounding board when I needed to talk through plot or character problems. My friends had my back as well, cheering me on through daily word-count updates and understanding when I had to disappear into the writing cave for a while. And I am reminded quite insistently (through vigorous headbutting) that I also received a great deal of “help” from my loyal dog, Freya, and our cats: Ninja, Star, and Tiggy.

  An astounding amount of work goes into making a finished book. Entire universes cannot contain my delight at the gorgeous cover by Lisa Marie Pompilio and Peter Bollinger, or the wonderful map by Tim Paul. My gratitude goes out to my copyeditor, Kelley Frodel, for exacting attention to detail; my production editor, Bryn A. McDonald, for taking this book to its final form; and my publicist, Ellen Wright, for preparing its way into the world. Thank you to the entire Orbit team for taking such incredibly good care of my book baby.

  Last but not least, thank you, my readers, for letting me tell you this story. As I lob these words into the void, it means everything to me that you’re there to catch them. In your hands, their journey is complete.

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  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Erin Re Anderson

  MELISSA CARUSO was born on the summer solstice and went to school in an old mansion with a secret door, but despite this auspicious beginning has yet to develop any known superpowers. Melissa has spent her whole life creating imaginary worlds, and in addition to writing is also an avid LARPer and tabletop gamer.

  She graduated with honors in creative writing from Brown University and has an MFA in fiction from the University of Massachusetts Amherst. Melissa’s first novel, The Tethered Mage, was shortlisted for a Gemmell Morningstar Award for best fantasy debut.

  Find out more about Melissa Caruso and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  THE OBSIDIAN TOWER

  look out for

  THE TETHERED MAGE

  Swords and Fire: Book One

  by

  Melissa Caruso

  Magic is scarce in the Raverran Empire, and those born with such powers are strictly controlled—taken as children and conscripted into the Falcon army, to be used as weapons in times of war.

  Zaira has lived her life on the streets to avoid this fate, hiding her mage mark and thieving to survive. But hers is a rare and dangerous magic, one that threatens the entire Empire.

  Lady Amalia Cornaro was never meant to be a Falconer. Heiress and scholar, she was born into a treacherous world of political machinations.

  But fate has bound the heir and the mage. And as war looms on the horizon, a single spark could turn their city into a pyre.

  Chapter One

  “Here, my lady? Are you sure?”

  As the narrow prow of my boat nudged the stone steps at the canal’s edge, I wished I’d walked, or at least hired a craft rather than using my own. The oarsman was bound to report to La Contessa that her daughter had disembarked at a grimy little quay in a dubious corner of the Tallows, the poorest district of the city of Raverra.

  By the time my mother heard anything, however, I’d already have the book.

  “Yes, thank you. Right here.”

  The oarsman made no comment as he steadied his craft, but his eyebrows conveyed deep skepticism.

  I’d worn a country gentleman’s coat and breeches, to avoid standing out from my seedy surroundings. I was glad not to risk skirts trailing in the murky water as I clambered out of the boat. Trash bobbed in the canal, and the tang in the air was not exclusively salt.

  “Shall I wait for you here, my lady?”

  “No, that’s all right.” The less my mother knew of my errand, the better.

  She had not precisely forbidden me to visit the pawnbroker who claimed to have a copy of Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, but she’d made her opinion of such excursions clear. And no one casually disobeyed La Contessa Lissandra Cornaro. Her word resonated with power in every walled garden and forgotten plaza in Raverra.

  Still, there was nothing casual a
bout a Muscati. Only twelve known copies of his books existed. If this was real, it would be the thirteenth.

  As I strolled alongside the canal, my mother’s warnings seemed ridiculous. Sun-warmed facades flanked the green water, and workers unloaded produce from the mainland off boats moored at the canal’s edge. A bright, peaceful afternoon like this surely could hold no dangers.

  But when my route veered away from the canal, plunging into a shadowy tunnel that burrowed straight through a building, I hesitated. It was far easier to imagine assassins or kidnappers lurking beyond that dim archway. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d faced either in my eighteen years as my mother’s heir.

  The book, I reminded myself. Think of the book.

  I passed through the throat of the tunnel, emerging into a street too narrow to ever see direct sunlight. Broken shutters and scarred brickwork closed around me. The few people I passed gave me startled, assessing glances.

  I found the pawnbroker’s shop with relief, and hurried into a dim wilderness of dusty treasures. Jewelry and blown glass glittered on the shelves; furniture cluttered the floor, and paintings leaned against the walls. The proprietor bent over a conch shell wrapped with copper wire, a frown further creasing his already lined face. A few wisps of white over his ears were the last legacy of his hair.

  I approached, glancing at the shell. “It’s broken.”

  He scowled. “Is it? I should have known. He asked too little for a working one.”

  “Half the beads are missing.” I pointed to a few orbs of colored glass still threaded on the wire. “You’d need an artificer to fix it if you wanted it to play music again.”

  The pawnbroker looked up at me, and his eyes widened. “Lady Amalia Cornaro.” He bowed as best he could in the cramped shop.

  I glanced around, but we were alone. “Please, no need for formality.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in, ah, such attire.” He peered dubiously at my breeches. “Though I suppose that’s the fashion for young ladies these days.”

  Breeches weren’t remotely in fashion for young ladies, but I didn’t bother correcting him. I was just grateful they were acceptable enough in my generation that I didn’t have to worry about causing a scandal or being mistaken for a courtesan.

  “Do you have the book?” I reminded him. “Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, your note said.”

  “Of course. I’d heard you were looking for it.” A certain gleam entered his eye with which I was all too familiar: Cornaro gold reflected back at me. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get it.”

  He shuffled through a doorway to the rear of the shop.

  I examined the shell. I knew enough from my studies of artifice to trace the patterns of wire and understand the spell that had captured the sound of a musical performance inside the shell’s rune-carved whorls. I could have fixed a broken wire, perhaps, but without the inborn talent of an artificer to infuse new beads with magical energy, the shell would stay silent.

  The pawnbroker returned with a large leather-bound book. He laid it on the table beside the conch shell. “There you are, my lady.”

  I flipped through the pages until I came to a diagram. Muscati’s combination of finicky precision in the wirework schematics and thick, blunt strokes for the runes was unmistakable. I let out a trembling breath. This was the real thing.

  The pawnbroker’s long, delicate fingers covered the page. “Is all in order, then?”

  “Yes, quite. Thank you.” I laid a gold ducat on the table. It vanished so quickly I almost doubted I’d put it there.

  “Always a pleasure,” he murmured.

  I tucked the book into my satchel and hurried out of the musty shop, almost skipping with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home, retreat to my bedroom with a glass of wine, and dive into Muscati’s timeworn pages. My friend Domenic from the University of Ardence said that to read Muscati was to open a window on a new view of the universe as a mathematical equation to be solved.

  Of course, he’d only read excerpts. The university library didn’t have an actual Muscati. I’d have to get Domenic here to visit so I could show him. Maybe I’d give the book to the university when I was done with it.

  It was hard to make myself focus on picking turns in the mazelike streets rather than dreaming about runic alphabets, geometric diagrams, and coiling wirework. At least I was headed in the right general direction. One more bridge to cross, and then I’d be in polite, patrician territory, safe and sound; and no lecture of my mother’s could change the fact that I’d completed my errand without incident.

  But a tense group of figures stood in the tiny plaza before the bridge, frozen in a standoff, every line of their bodies promising each other violence.

  Like so many things in Raverra, this had become complicated.

  Three broad-shouldered men formed a menacing arc around a scrawny young woman with sprawling dark curls. The girl stood rigidly defiant, like a stick thrust in the mud. I slowed to a halt, clutching my satchel tight against my side, Muscati’s edge digging into my ribs.

  “One last chance.” A burly man in shirtsleeves advanced on the girl, fists like cannonballs ready at his sides. “Come nice and quiet to your master, or we’ll break your legs and drag you to him in a sack.”

  “I’m my own master,” the girl retorted, her voice blunt as a boat hook. “And you can tell Orthys to take his indenture contract and stuff it up his bunghole.”

  They hadn’t noticed me yet. I could work my way around to the next bridge, and get my book safely home. I took a step back, glancing around for someone to put a stop to this: an officer of the watch, a soldier, anyone but me.

  There was no one. The street lay deserted. Everyone else in the Tallows knew enough to make themselves scarce.

  “Have it your way,” the man growled. The ruffians closed in on their prey.

  This was exactly the sort of situation in which a young lady of the august and noble house of Cornaro should not involve herself, and in which a person of any moral fortitude must.

  Maybe I could startle them, like stray dogs. “You there! Stop!”

  They turned to face me, their stares cold and flat. The air went dry in my throat.

  “This is none of your business,” one in a scuffed leather doublet warned. A scar pulled at the corner of his mouth. I doubted it came from a cooking accident.

  I had no protection besides the dagger in my belt. The name Cornaro might hold weight with these scoundrels, but they’d never believe I bore it. Not dressed like this.

  My name meant nothing. The idea sent a wild thrill into my lungs, as if the air were alive.

  The girl didn’t wait to see what I would do. She tried to bolt between two of the men. A tree branch of an arm caught her at the waist, scooping her up as if she were a child. Her feet swung in the air.

  My satchel pulled at my shoulder, but I couldn’t run off and leave her now, Muscati or no Muscati. Drawing my dagger seemed a poor idea. The men were all armed, one with a flintlock pistol.

  “Help!” I called.

  The brutes seemed unimpressed. They kept their attention on the struggling girl as they wrenched her arms behind her.

  “That’s it!” Rage swelled her voice. “This is your last warning!”

  Last warning? What an odd thing to say. Unless…

  Ice slid into my bone marrow.

  The men laughed, but she glowered furiously at them. She wasn’t afraid. I could think of only one reason she wouldn’t be.

  I flattened myself against a wall just before everything caught fire.

  Her eyes kindled first, a hungry blue spark flaring in her pupils. Then flames ran down her arms in delicate lines, leaping into the pale, lovely petals of a deadly flower.

  The men lurched back from her, swearing, but it was too late. Smoke already rose from their clothing. Before they finished sucking in their first terrified breaths, blue flames sprang up in sudden, bold glory over every inch of them, burying every scar and blemish in li
ght. For one moment, they were beautiful.

  Then they let out the screams they had gathered. I cringed, covering my own mouth. The pain in them was inhuman. The terrible, oily reek of burning human meat hit me, and I gagged.

  The men staggered for the canal, writhing in the embrace of the flames. I threw up my arm to ward my face from the heat, blocking the sight. Heavy splashes swallowed their screams.

  In the sudden silence, I lowered my arm.

  Fire leaped up past the girl’s shoulders now. A pure, cold anger graced her features. It wasn’t the look of a woman who was done.

  Oh, Hells.

  She raised her arms exultantly, and flames sprang up from the canal itself, bitter and wicked. They spread across the water as if on a layer of oil, licking at the belly of the bridge. On the far side of the canal, bystanders drawn by the commotion cried out in alarm.

  “Enough!” My voice tore out of my throat higher than usual. “You’ve won! For mercy’s sake, put it out!”

  But the girl’s eyes were fire, and flames ran down her hair. If she understood me, she made no sign of it. The blue fire gnawed at the stones around her feet. Hunger unsatisfied, it expanded as if the flagstones were grass.

  I recognized it at last: balefire. I’d read of it in Orsenne’s Fall of Celantis.

  Grace of Mercy preserve us all. That stuff would burn anything—water, metal, stone. It could light up the city like a dry corncrib. I hugged my book to my chest.

  “You have to stop this!” I pleaded.

  “She can’t,” a strained voice said. “She’s lost control.”

  I turned to find a tall, lean young man at my shoulder, staring at the burning girl with understandable apprehension. His wavy black hair brushed the collar of the uniform I wanted to see most in the world at the moment: the scarlet-and-gold doublet of the Falconers. The very company that existed to control magic so things like this wouldn’t happen.