enough to hear. “I can’t stay.” Slowly, slowly, she opened her eyes, lashes rising to reveal irises that gleamed silver. Their eyes met. “ Find me ,” Shai said, and was gone.
Xhea braced as the tether snapped back against her chest. The free end swung as it sought the suddenly absent ghost, and—though thin—it was still tangible enough to handle. Xhea sighted off the tether’s length; wherever Shai was being kept, it was on a higher floor than this. Magic stirred in the pit of her stomach—slow, but curious.
“ Not now ,” she hissed.
She ran to a door in the far wall, but it was closed tight and sealed. No handle, only the blinking panel of a touchplate. She waved her hand before the plate and poked it a few times with her tingling fingers, wishing that enough bright magic remained from Shai’s touch to garner a response. To come this close, and be stopped by a door . . .
In response to her frustration, Xhea’s magic built like a storm beneath her breastbone and spread through her body, reaching after the ghost. It rose, curling smoke-like around her fingers and the touchplate.
“I said, not . . . oh.” For at the brush of her magic, the spell controlling the door panel sputtered and died. She thought of the dead food chits, the inert payment from Brend—all kept in jacket pockets as her magic had run rampant that very first time.
“Oh,” she said again.
With the latch spell gone, the pressure differential was just enough to open the door a crack. Putting her shoulder against the door and pushing, Xhea forced her way inside.
The curving hall that led from the landing bay was all but silent, only distant murmurs audible over the hiss of air from unseen vents. The overhead lights were cracked and flickering, and the air smelled like a room long closed. The floor was soft beneath her feet—not carpet, Xhea saw, but something growing and slightly damp that reminded her more of mold than moss.
Xhea wondered what she thought she’d find in an impoverished Tower. She could only think: Not this . If anything, this Tower seemed like the Lower City—a once-great place clothed only in the tatters of its former glory.
Her magic pulled toward the ghost, and the broken tether pointed, both saying: Here. Close. Xhea struggled to follow, hurrying down shadowed passages with dusty corners and failing light panels, all overgrown with moss. At last the tether pointed to a door, no different than countless others she had passed, and her stomach clenched in fear. This is Shai , she reminded herself. It was Shai who pulled her, Shai on the end of that line, Shai who had to struggle alone for every moment that Xhea delayed.
Even so, she paused just long enough to slip her silver knife from her pocket and open its blade.
Knife in hand, she knocked on the door.
The door opened.
What had she been about to shout? You can’t do this to her. Maybe, I’m here to stop you. Words she hadn’t known she was readying until they died in her mouth unspoken.
Shai’s father leaned heavily against the doorframe. His eyes moved from her face to the small blade in her hand and back again, no surprise in his expression. No anger. At least , she thought, staring back, no new anger . For beneath his evident exhaustion, she could see rage—an anger so constant it was ingrained in his every movement and breath, etched into the pinched lines of his face.
Xhea blinked, and clutched her knife.
What had she expected? Memory showed her: casters ringed around Shai’s body, the air bright and buzzing with magic. Machinery, maybe; wires and storage coils. She’d expected shouting, and anger; she’d expected a crowd of powerful people, even here, on the City’s farthest fringes.
She’d expected to fail. Strange, how easily she knew it now, how clearly the images came to her: being restrained and screaming, but fighting, always fighting, to free Shai. She hadn’t expected a man who seemed not to have slept or shaved or eaten
Xhea braced as the tether snapped back against her chest. The free end swung as it sought the suddenly absent ghost, and—though thin—it was still tangible enough to handle. Xhea sighted off the tether’s length; wherever Shai was being kept, it was on a higher floor than this. Magic stirred in the pit of her stomach—slow, but curious.
“ Not now ,” she hissed.
She ran to a door in the far wall, but it was closed tight and sealed. No handle, only the blinking panel of a touchplate. She waved her hand before the plate and poked it a few times with her tingling fingers, wishing that enough bright magic remained from Shai’s touch to garner a response. To come this close, and be stopped by a door . . .
In response to her frustration, Xhea’s magic built like a storm beneath her breastbone and spread through her body, reaching after the ghost. It rose, curling smoke-like around her fingers and the touchplate.
“I said, not . . . oh.” For at the brush of her magic, the spell controlling the door panel sputtered and died. She thought of the dead food chits, the inert payment from Brend—all kept in jacket pockets as her magic had run rampant that very first time.
“Oh,” she said again.
With the latch spell gone, the pressure differential was just enough to open the door a crack. Putting her shoulder against the door and pushing, Xhea forced her way inside.
The curving hall that led from the landing bay was all but silent, only distant murmurs audible over the hiss of air from unseen vents. The overhead lights were cracked and flickering, and the air smelled like a room long closed. The floor was soft beneath her feet—not carpet, Xhea saw, but something growing and slightly damp that reminded her more of mold than moss.
Xhea wondered what she thought she’d find in an impoverished Tower. She could only think: Not this . If anything, this Tower seemed like the Lower City—a once-great place clothed only in the tatters of its former glory.
Her magic pulled toward the ghost, and the broken tether pointed, both saying: Here. Close. Xhea struggled to follow, hurrying down shadowed passages with dusty corners and failing light panels, all overgrown with moss. At last the tether pointed to a door, no different than countless others she had passed, and her stomach clenched in fear. This is Shai , she reminded herself. It was Shai who pulled her, Shai on the end of that line, Shai who had to struggle alone for every moment that Xhea delayed.
Even so, she paused just long enough to slip her silver knife from her pocket and open its blade.
Knife in hand, she knocked on the door.
The door opened.
What had she been about to shout? You can’t do this to her. Maybe, I’m here to stop you. Words she hadn’t known she was readying until they died in her mouth unspoken.
Shai’s father leaned heavily against the doorframe. His eyes moved from her face to the small blade in her hand and back again, no surprise in his expression. No anger. At least , she thought, staring back, no new anger . For beneath his evident exhaustion, she could see rage—an anger so constant it was ingrained in his every movement and breath, etched into the pinched lines of his face.
Xhea blinked, and clutched her knife.
What had she expected? Memory showed her: casters ringed around Shai’s body, the air bright and buzzing with magic. Machinery, maybe; wires and storage coils. She’d expected shouting, and anger; she’d expected a crowd of powerful people, even here, on the City’s farthest fringes.
She’d expected to fail. Strange, how easily she knew it now, how clearly the images came to her: being restrained and screaming, but fighting, always fighting, to free Shai. She hadn’t expected a man who seemed not to have slept or shaved or eaten
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