Page 39 of Claiming the Tower (Council Mysteries #1)

That evening at Dinas Emrys, the Council Keep

H ereswith climbed the stairs, step by step.

She could hear the others behind her. She did not know any of the other three Challengers terribly well, though they’d all exchanged the appropriate mild pleasantries.

Hereswith was fairly certain all three considered her not worth bothering about.

She was not skilled with flashy magic like Edric or Antinous, and she didn’t have Euphremia’s broad range of skills and devoted supporters.

What Hereswith had was her wits, her knowledge of people, and her intuition.

The first and third might be a help, but she doubted the second would be tonight.

Blanch was just ahead of her, her own skirts just brushing the stairs.

They arrived, finally, after several flights, at a small landing, big enough for the men, but not quite sufficient for the women’s skirts.

Of course, it would have been designed in an era when a woman might well have a train or draping sleeves, but far less width and bulk of the petticoats.

No matter. She would not be here long, none of them would be.

She was grateful, though, that her hems were a little above brushing the ground.

The inch of clearance they’d settled on made a difference in how delicately she needed to walk.

Council Head Merriweather nodded once, turning to face them, as he stood in front of a deep brown oak door.

Hereswith couldn’t help but notice that there was a scar across the wood, a black mark like a strike from a storm.

“From here, you will each enter the chamber, one at a time, at five-minute intervals. You will come out in due course. Time passes differently within that space, you may exit in an entirely different order. One or more members of the Council will be here as you leave, and we have a range of supplies for immediate needs. A Healer is waiting downstairs in case of more substantial injuries. Once you can descend, those unsuccessful will be allowed back to their families.”

“And the successful candidate?” That was Edric Fitzroy, leaning one shoulder against the wall, a pose of studied insouciance.

“We will ask the successful candidate to wait in a private room until all have completed the Challenge and emerged. Questions?”

Hereswith had dozens, but they wouldn’t be answered, so she shook her head slightly. No one else spoke up. Council Head Merriweather nodded. “In that case, Magistra Rowan, when you are ready, enter through the door.”

Now, she wanted to do one last check of her pockets, of her jewellery, of her hair, of all the details, as if she were about to enter a gathering.

And, just like those events, she could not.

It would show. Fortunately, she was used to this feeling.

She knew, with her head, if not entirely with her heart, that she had made all her arrangements well.

Her hair would stay put, and every other facet was as she’d planned.

So she simply nodded. “Thank you, Council Head.”

Blanch nodded at her once, no further advice or comment, and so Hereswith took several steps forward, toward the last few steps up to the door.

She put her hand on the handle, expecting it to feel different.

There was only cool smooth metal under her hand, and it turned smoothly, with almost no pressure.

Once she was inside, she turned to make sure the door closed behind her fully. Then she turned back around.

The room inside looked like hundreds of rooms she’d seen over the past decade.

It was, she thought, rather smaller than the tower itself, the size of a smaller dining room or meeting room.

There was one long table with a chair at each end, three down each side.

Eight, that was an interesting number. There were cups of tea left, but no other food or drink.

No one had cleared the table, though, and that was curious.

Part of her knew this must be some magical creation.

Not illusion, not precisely, she didn’t think.

There were too many sensory details, with too much precision.

It wasn’t just the room or the decorations, the size and shape and light, but the scent of the tea was still in the air, and the lingering smell of someone’s cologne.

It was not remotely clear what she was supposed to do.

Blanch had shrugged and said they didn’t talk about their challenges, but they were different for everyone.

She’d seen people coming out in smoke and blood, at least deep scratches.

There had been people who’d looked as if the fear of the Silence had run through them unchecked.

One had come out with a shock of suddenly white hair.

Sometimes, though rarely, there were deaths or injuries that led to death, and those had signs of violence as often as not.

Nothing here seemed dangerous, but Hereswith knew better than to assume.

So she made a slight bob— not quite a bow, not quite a curtsy, but a gesture of acknowledgement, and then she circled the table.

No windows, but there were two doors at the far end.

Passing by the first, she heard what sounded like quiet voices.

Too soft for her to make out what they were saying, certainly.

The next, right beside it, looked exactly the same, but there were louder voices.

This time, she could make out a few words here and there.

It seemed to be a debate between two or three about some key action or event.

Hereswith circled the table, taking in the cups of tea.

Eight chairs, seven cups. All had a sip or two left at the bottom, two had more.

It seemed to be the same blend, but she would not stick her finger in and taste it.

That seemed foolish for several reasons.

And it was tea, not alcohol. A working discussion between people of Albion or Britain, most likely.

If there had been a mix of French or other countries, she suspected there’d be other drinks in the mix.

Or some who just had no tea cup. That eighth seat was a little askew, as if waiting, but she did not sit, either.

She did not know who ought to have a place at this table, and who ought to observe.

She did not think the table would tell her more.

Instead, she made her way over to the two doors, listening at them.

The quieter one still had that murmur. It had a sense of privacy, though, the way she talked with Bess.

Interrupting felt wrong, even though Hereswith could not have explained why.

She was drawn to listen to the louder voices.

They’d continued, still talking. Her turning up in the midst of that conversation would not be easy, but they didn’t sound angry. Rather impassioned.

Nothing would change if she stood there.

In the end, she knocked three times on the door with the louder voices, a sharp even rap that should echo to the other side.

Nothing happened. She knocked again, another three times.

And then, after counting to thirty, one more set of three.

Inside, the voices kept going, though perhaps as if they were moving away from her, into a more distant space.

Hereswith took a breath, let it out, and eased the handle open.

It turned as smoothly as the one to this room had, but what was on the other side was not remotely what she expected.

Instead of some room, some hallway, she found herself standing on the threshold of a door to a wild world.

There were meadows stretching out, perhaps a few buildings in the far distance, trees here and there.

But instead of the warm summer, everything was coated in hoarfrost. She could see a branch draping down from above the lintel, the ice feathering it perfectly, an exquisitely beautiful site.

There was no going back, only forward. Hereswith took another breath, feeling the chill in her lungs, and then she stepped forward.

Her dress had not been designed for this.

She did not have a shawl. Though she could feel the cold immediately, the brisk bite of the air, there seemed to be a limit to it.

Not enough to harm her, perhaps, at least not quickly.

She turned to look back once she’d taken ten steps.

There was no door behind her, certainly nothing like the space she’d come from.

There were stone walls, perhaps like Dinas Emrys, seen from outside the curtain wall.

She didn’t know the land around it well enough.

Though she’d been sure that Dinas Emrys had tall trees, ancient ones, and there was none of that near these walls.

Hereswith could see her footsteps in the frost, neat steps, and where her skirt had brushed against some of the taller blades of grass or some plant.

As she turned back to the landscape around her, she tried to decide which direction to go.

Forward, obviously, but now she could see a fence running down to her left, curving out of sight below the bump of the hill.

Straight ahead was a grove of trees. To the right, she saw what looked like a tower, some sort of venerable fortification.

There was nothing else in the landscape but that, and so she took the hint.

The climb up the hill was not too dire. Portions of Verdant Court’s orchards were worse, and she did that walk regularly.

It felt like the walk took no time at all and hours.

The hoarfrost continued to glitter and shimmer; the sun did not change place visibly.

But Hereswith felt as if she’d been walking for an hour, perhaps.

A moderate exertion, a noticeable one, if not particularly demanding.

Finally, though, she came to the base of the tower.