The air nipped Hiresha’s feet as she put on the skates. They were close to the right size, and she realized they were the pair her student had made for her. While adjusting the straps, she kept half an eye on the Bright Palms as they rushed forward to attack.
The trio included a man with a scimitar, the woman with a wealth of moles—who now wore a helmet—and the Bright Palm with the fish-shaped mouth and fast fists. When they rushed over the suspicious white tile, two of them flipped backward in the air. They began to fall, to Hiresha’s diamond-studded delight.
“See?” Tethiel said. “Your fears are wise.”
“I prefer to call it intuition,” Hiresha said.
The man with the small mouth had crossed the treacherous stretch of tile, and he lowered himself against the pillar and hugged it. Even so, when the weight of the other two Bright Palms pulled on his ropes, he slid downward. He crossed over the white tile again, and this time he too fell.
Hiresha fluttered her fists above her shoulders in happiness. The small-mouthed man had slowed the fall of the other two enough for the one with the scimitar to reconnect with the column’s enchantment, and none of them dropped far enough to break more than a leg. They could attempt the ascent again in minutes, which would be a longer stretch of peace than Hiresha had possessed in days.
The enchantress considered if she should rest now. In her dream laboratory, she could replenish the jasper sword from a near distance since she had a connection to the enchantment. Curing Tethiel’s wound would require pulling him into the laboratory, which would necessitate an indelicate amount of skin contact. She decided she had already run naked through the frigid air enough for one year, and she had less inclination to expose herself again with Fos watching. Using what time remained to gain more of a lead seemed best, at least as far as her fatigue would allow her to think.
The ice creaked under Tethiel’s skates. “I hope this isn’t more than passably dangerous. One might accuse me of being irresponsible if I died in a frozen lake in the sky.”
“The ice can’t be thick enough to hold me,” Fos said. In spite of his words, he jumped from the pillar over the frozen lake. “But I’ll Lighten myself and—”
The spellsword drifted down to land on the ice like a feather, but then Hiresha felt the Lightening expire. As deathly water slurped around Fos’s feet, he threw himself to the side.
Hiresha expected the dream power in his greaves had exhausted itself over the last few days, and her hands slapped over her sashes in search of a jewel that would Lighten him. Her skates slipped forward and back on the ice.
More ice cracked, but Fos rolled until he came to a rest with arms and legs splayed over the frozen lake. His jasper sword had tumbled from its holster, and it lay beside a fissure of water.
“You have the right idea,” Hiresha said. “Disperse your weight evenly and—Mind your sword!”
Ice crumbled under the hilted slab of red stone, and the sword tipped into the water. The thought of seeing the blade she had crafted for Fos dropping to the center of the lake made Hiresha feel as cold as if she were diving herself wearing only chains. Gooseflesh raced down her back in rippling tingles. She scooted forward, skidding on her knees to reach for the weapon.
Hiresha’s fingers closed over the jasper hilt. Fos’s hand engulfed her own with a crushing warmth, and his heat seeped up her wrist as he lifted the sword. Ice flakes slid down the blade, their white the same color as veins of lighter stone within the jasper’s redness and clusters of black crystal.
The enchantress looked up and met Fos’s eye. Tendrils of inflamed skin crossed over the bridge of his nose from under the bandage. His wound has contaminated. Hiresha resolved she would not only cure him and eventually regenerate the eye, but she would also make his vision better. Perfect sight, he deserves no less. He had risked everything to return to the plateau, to save Hiresha, his sister, and the Academy they loved. I’d need to replace both eyes anyway for an assured color match.
Her hand strayed to the side of his face, feeling the roughness of the bandage and the pulsing heat beneath. Her fingers moved down to the breadth of his chin, his stubble rough against her skin.
He shifted his hand on the hilt of the sword. “As if I’d let anything of yours fall.”
“Then do take care of yourself as well. By that I mean—What I want is for all of us to live through this.” Embarrassment caused half her neck muscles to twinge, but she decided she should not worry overmuch. The feeling of his warmth had spread through her, and for the first time she felt confident the interlopers would be driven from the Academy.
I should like to see them try to match Fos, once I’ve empowered his sword. Sheamab took him by surprise, him and his eye. I’ll ensure she has no such opportunity again.
“Don’t have to worry about me.” Fos pressed her hand once more before letting go. “I’m the one fated to wrestle lions to the ground and topple jungle trees with my bare hands. Can’t you tell?”
Grinning, he scooted on his side over the ice. His feet cut back and forth in a way that seem incapable of propelling him forward, but he skidded over the lake as if he had practiced this ridiculous motion before. Setting the tip of his sword on the ice, he slithered around it in a circle then continued in his sidestroke.
Hiresha called after him. “You are a most deft sleigh. Now head for the ice bridge.”
“And surely he’s the most intelligent of sleighs,” Tethiel said. He straightened himself on his skates and offered Hiresha his good arm.
“Most unfair.” She wrapped her arm around his.
This proved to be a mistake. Hiresha had never prided herself on her sense of balance, and her fatigue compounded that deficiency. Neither did Tethiel’s blood loss seem to help him, and when either the enchantress or the Lord of the Feast tipped, the other was dragged onto the ice. Hiresha spent more time on her knees and her hands, wrists stinging from catching her falls. She still smiled.
After one incident where Tethiel’s skate shot forward and the ice creaked under his weight, Hiresha said, “Indeed, you must take better care of yourself. Where would your children be without you?”
“More to the point, where would the Lands of Loam be with my children?” His skates scratched forward and back on the ice as he rose to his feet.
She had meant to jest with him, but he had reminded her of Minna, locked in the Crystal Ballroom with the enchantresses. Hiresha hated to think of the Lord of the Feast dying, but should it happen then Minna might turn her mirror of disfigurement on any woman. And Feasters could break into homes across the lands and whisper nightmares so frightful that sleepers’ hearts stop.
Tethiel said, “I would feel most uncomfortable dying, before I could be confident in my successor.”
“Do you have someone already in mind?” Hiresha remembered the time she had seen him at an inn, guarded by Feaster knights, lepers with hands missing but still deadly at night. Women had been there also, their bodies wasted away from Feasting magic.
“I’m preparing someone,” Tethiel said, “but she’s not ready yet.”
After a few more falls, they reached the ice bridge. Hiresha removed the skates—hopping from one cold foot to another before putting her boots back on—and threw the bladed shoes into the air, happy to be rid of them. They changed direction after a few feet, gravity finding them at last and pulling them downward.
“They do make better weapons.” Tethiel tucked his skates back into his belt. He inclined his head to Fos. “I admit to being outmanned by a sleigh.”
“Well, Hiresha ought to cross the ice bridge first. Just in case it shatters to sleet under me or something.” Fos stared at where she held Tethiel’s arm. He opened his mouth again but shut it, not saying anything more.
Hiresha stepped onto an arch of transparent frost. Two gilt chains suspended water between them, which had frozen in a clear sheet. Seen through the ice bridge, the RecurveTower bulged and shimmered. Hiresha rather thought of herself as walking with
Tethiel over solidified air, a far more pleasant experience than being Lightened and lost in the wind.
Tethiel was shivering, his wounded arm exposed to the winter air. The thought occurred to Hiresha that if either of them fell on this narrow bridge it would be less than amusing. She set each foot down with care. Even so, a layer of ice was melting in the sun, and the slickness left a sheen on the bridge. When Hiresha’s foot slipped to the side, her heart lurched upward, and she pulled on Tethiel’s arm. His own feet washed forward and back on the ice, but his balance held.
With his arm for support, Hiresha regained her own footing. They reached the end of the bridge. A throne had been carved into the tower, a seat to honor those who had braved the ice in winter or pulled themselves along the stream’s chains in summer. The back of the throne glistened as a window of dusky glass, to allow those in the bathhouse to see whoever had triumphed that day. As this was often a spellsword, the crystal was tinted to preserve the dignity of the women bathing inside.
“I believe I’d sense the light of any Bright Palms on the inside,” Hiresha said. “Can you, ah, smell if the jewel-duper is looking out?”
“Who exactly?”
“A thief and poisoner. Inannis. He was pretending to be a priest during our stay in OasisCity.”
“Ah, yes. His is an odor of honeyed desperation for meaning.” Tethiel moistened his upper lip with his tongue. “He isn’t close. Neither is the lady hound who goes with him.”
“You can’t mean Bright Palm Sheamab.” Hiresha tossed another jewel like she had used to shatter the Grindstone window and escape. The flickering of the gem increased in tempo as it achieved resonance with the tower’s enchanted quartz.
“She colluded with the Bright Palms in tracking my children. Her name is Eme of the Sea.”
“Novice Emesea? She did try to argue with me recently with a bladed club.”
The window frothed with cracks, and Hiresha covered her face with her arm as the crystal burst. She wasted no time in brushing aside the shards and crawling through, Tethiel following. They looked back to see Fos propping himself on the throne, and past him the three Bright Palms they had left behind were dashing up the ice bridge.
Fos grunted as he swung his jasper sword overhead. He brought it down on the frozen arch with a booming crack. A shockwave ran down its length, turning it from transparent to white. The ice ripped apart into fang-shaped chunks that spun about the golden chains then came to rest back into the shape of a bridge. A jagged, fractured bridge.
The Bright Palms were left hanging, one by rope, two by their arms clawing at the icy-slick chains. Hiresha nodded in approval as Fos squeezed through the window.
The bathhouse usually had two pools. The cold water was on the ceiling above the hot pool, and a woman of strength could kick her way far enough out of the water and cross through the air to the other. An enchantment would pull her upward into the opposite temperature.
The water Hiresha’s boots splashed through was most decidedly cold. The room had flooded, and the upper pool had fallen and left a dry pit above them. Hiresha bent down to drink. The water bit at her hand and stung her lip. The Lord of the Feast also bowed without preamble to the water, his nose and chin grazing the surface, and the spellsword dipped his waterskin.
Before the imperative of thirst, all men are equals, Hiresha thought. She had never expected the Provost of Applied Enchantment would find herself drinking from a pool, but neither would she slow her slurping. After the hardships of the last days, she was taking in a chilling liquid joy.
Dabbing her lips with the sleeve of her coat, she stood and glanced again at the empty pool above them. “I consider the Bright Palms to be no better than vandals.”
Tethiel gripped her arm, fingers digging into her coat’s white fur. “And I consider them to be coming at us from both sides.”
Ripples spread from Hiresha’s boots as she turned one way then the other. Wisps of nearing light turned into Bright Palms, speeding out of both the dressing room and the sunning room.
32
Hall of Cleansing
Water exploded from Sheamab’s sandaled feet as she neared, and behind her came Mister Jewel Pox. On the other side, the young man with gentle features led with the curved blade of his polearm. Hiresha found herself trapped between them and the only way out blocked by the deep pool.
Sheamab did not wait for us on the other side of the window, but close enough for an ambush. The enchantress would not call herself surprised. She preferred to think of it as an unexpected opportunity to put her jewels to use.
Gone was the dry-retching terror of running barefoot on the outside of the tower. Her nerves only jangled, and her fingers held steady as she searched her sashes for the perfect gems.
“This way.” She threw a malachite into the pool, and it floated on the surface, tinting the water green.
Hiresha ran over the pool. The water stretched and bounced under her feet as if it were canvas. The surface did not break or even splash, and the enchantress, Feaster, and spellsword crossed to the other side.
The black staff knocked against the wall, and Sheamab propelled herself halfway across the pool. The water trembled beneath her. The other Bright Palms followed with blade and bronze nails. The pool lost its green sheen, and the gemstone made a plopping noise. Both it and the Bright Palms plunged to the bottom.
“That enchantment only lasts seconds.” Hiresha tossed a tiger’s eye gem into the pool. “This one, far longer. And if I may say, I’m particularly pleased with the enchantment design. It gives water the viscosity of quicksand.”
Sheamab burst out of the pool, pushing herself upward with her staff. She flipped in the air and landed in the dry pit above. The other two Bright Palms did not escape in time, and their paddling slowed as the water tightened around their arms and legs. The liquid sealed them in.
The jewels Hiresha threw at Sheamab all were dodged, and the Bright Palm leader sprang out the far side of the empty pool. She dropped down to the floor and spoke with a tone of voice as if she avoided water traps and gem bombardment on a daily basis.
“Spellsword Fosapam Chandur, your sister is most talented. Her future is alight with promise.”
A stricken look crossed over Fos’s face. “I’m not a spellsword anymore so you don’t have to—That is I may be carrying fifty pounds of enchanted sword but—”
“Fos, you shouldn’t listen to women who throw you off cliffs.” Hiresha pulled on his arm, guiding him to the door out. “We’re leaving.”
As they ran down the hall, Sheamab called after them.
“Alyla would think better of you if you killed the Lord of the Feast.”
Hiresha hoped Sheamab would try to follow them and end up on her backside, pulled by the amethyst collar she still wore. The enchantment would drag her into the quicksand water and down to the matching bracelet on the arm of Mister Jewel Pox.
After the third glance behind, Hiresha had to believe she would not have her wish. Of course not. Sheamab is too brilliant to make such a mistake. Any mistake. Ever. A blistering sensation of pain crossed over Hiresha’s back, and she worried how she could ever hope to defeat a Bright Palm so agile in both body and mind.
The enchantress’s hand remained on Fos’s arm. In a firm voice, she said, “Next time, you can cut her in half. First, the rector’s vault.”
On their journey up, around, and down the tower, Hiresha had to stop them twice on the wallways. The feeling of nearing disaster had returned, and she led them around the troubling spots, once using the Expediency Tubes to reach the next level.
Fos’s chin stayed tense, his lips a white gash across his face. Hiresha did not care for the looks he threw at Tethiel.
In the Hall of Records, two stone giants crossed their tree-trunk-sized swords over a wall. Between the statues of spellswords, a carving of a door stood massive and imposing. The marble was worked into the pattern of wood grain, and braces of metal appeared to bind together the door’s stone pl
anks.
“This is the personal vault of the Rector of Rarified Armament.” Hiresha opened her pocket then reached under a statue’s sword to fit the dagger into the keyhole.
“Delightful,” Tethiel said, “a dagger that is not a dagger unlocks a door that is not a door.”
“I do not pretend to understand art.” Hiresha tried to turn the dagger left, then right. It would not budge.
“Simple,” Tethiel said, “there’s nothing more inviting than a door that can’t be opened. But is your jewel carving not art?”
“No. It is mathematics made solid.”
Hiresha frowned at the keyhole. She worried more Bright Palms might catch up to them soon, and Fos’s eye was still trying to bore a hole in Tethiel.
Both hands on the dagger hilt, she turned it side to side. Nothing. She noticed the weapon key was snug from side to side but loose in the vertical direction. The hilt refused to be pushed upward, but when she tried down Hiresha felt the blade slide upward in the keyhole and align its serrated side into grooves.
The wall carving of the door began sliding behind a statue. Light spilled out from the opening with the golden hue of promise.
“Perfection.” Hiresha stepped back with the dagger, knowing the statues’ swords would also have to move and not wishing to be underneath.
Distant to the smooth sound of moving stone, she heard something like a bird’s wing beat. Every muscle in her body tensed. A flash of brown zipped by where she had just stood.
“Get down.” Tethiel crouched, one finger over his lips.
Fos spun, rolling his greatsword off his back. He ran down the hall, yelling. Following his direction, Hiresha saw the blind archer. He was lifting another arrow to his bow.
33
Rector’s Armory
Fos was charging straight for the archer, blocking Hiresha from the Bright Palm’s line of fire. But Fos’s protective enchantments are exhausted. Each moment Hiresha endured the skin-tearing worry that she would see the spellsword’s head jerk back, an arrow through his forehead. The archer would hear where to aim from all Fos’s shouting.
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