45. Hawthorn Decides to Leave Frin Behind

45. Hawthorn Decides to Leave Frin Behind

The Wasp's Eye was dominated by a statue of the Red Lady. She stood at the window, her eyeless face gazing out over the palace toward Grey, each of her four arms holding a sword, her three legs posed as if dancing or charging forward. The detail of the carving was so complete that you could almost see individual hairs in the pelt she wore over her armor.

The rest of the room was red as well: walls, ceiling, floor, even the chairs. It was a bit like standing in an open mouth. Hawthorn found it exhilarating regardless. She had never seen so much color in one place before, even if it was quite dusty and a little ragged.

Going to stand beside the statue, she had a good view of the palace below. A great deal of smoke seemed to be rising from Black, much more than you'd expect even for a cold noon. Before she could think, there was a flash, and a moment or two later, a rumble. More dark smoke billowed up from one of the courts where an entire building had fallen. From the fumes emerged a huge shape: the palanquin of the Obsidian Lady. Swarming around her, nearly invisible, were hundreds of her guards. Archers on the walls above began shooting. The palanquin barreled on unharmed, carried on the shoulders of many people armored like beetles, but the guards fell by the dozen.

I must get to the Beast, Hawthorn thought. She will need it.

The next moment she remembered the Ebony Lady, and the cool touch of Rook's hand. I am Hawthorn. I kill the Beast. I do not use it, and I do not help another to use it.

Who was fighting? That was none of her business at the moment. Ebony, perhaps, had been stirred up by Obsidian's interference, but in the end, it did not matter who ruled Black Tower. As she and Frin had seen, no edicts or commands ever left its walls. It was a head without a body.

She watched the battle for a few minutes, as if it were a chess game between Old Hawthorn and Mother Yarrow. Then the position of the sun told her that too much time had passed. Frin should have been there by now.

Hawthorn leaned out the window and searched the sheer face of the pier. No Frin was to be seen. Either he had fallen, or he had gotten lost inside. Her fingers gripped the sill.

Another tremor ran through the tower. The statue beside her wobbled. It had been jarred loose during a previous earthquake and would likely fall soon. She moved into the center of the room.

Dear Frin. It wasn't until he was gone that she realized how much he meant. Not only because he was loyal and funny, but because in her whole life she had never had anyone whom she considered a friend. The girls in grey were too aloof, the women even worse. Her apprenticeship distanced her from the children of the cloisters. Even Old Hawthorn was more of a mother than a friend. Only Frin counted. They had traveled together, suffered together, kept each other warm during the long trek up the tower. She was faced with the choice of waiting to see if he would work some sort of wonder and appear, or going on without him. And beyond a doubt, she knew she could not stay.

Grey Tower demanded her duty. Hawthorn had to go back, get the steel, and wait for the Beast to surface. Nothing else mattered, for if she failed, there would be nothing else. It's not fair, she thought. I shouldn't have to. A sob burst from her lips before she even knew it was there. Her hand went to her neck and found no amulet.

The tower shook again. The statue of the Red Lady teetered and came off its pedestal with a smash. Fragments flew, and Hawthorn leapt back. Amid the creakings of the tower were the sounds of the battle, louder now, coming closer. It was time to go, if she did not want to fight her way out.

Bending on her way to pick up a long red spar that had lately been a sword, Hawthorn left the Wasp's Eye.

The staircase rocked, and from the joins between stones fell a haze of dust. Hawthorn sneezed, and her eyes stung and watered. With the spar as a walking stick, she felt her way along, covering her mouth with a sleeve. The only light came from occasional shafts running to the outer walls, or from open doors of empty rooms. Even after the dust settled, it should not have been very bright. Yet Hawthorn had little trouble seeing her way. That brought her up short, and a little thread of apprehension curled down her spine.

Sure enough, when she was still, the wavering gleam of lantern light was apparent. A thin streak of it was smeared along the staircase wall. As a guide it was probably useless, since the stairs did not seem to branch, only opening onto rooms or short corridors. But seeing it there, in a part of the tower so clearly disused, was uncanny.

She continued. So did the light. The sound of the battle grew louder: the twang of bows, the thud of arrows, the clang of swords. Then above it rose a voice, as familiar as her own overrobe. She spoke no words; she did not need to: the sound of the Obsidian Lady shouting was enough. The tower resonated like a great tuning fork, and Hawthorn clapped her hands over her ears. There was an answering shout. She knew that voice too. The Ebony Lady's cry vibrated in her very bones.

Running into a nearby chamber (full of lumber, which she nearly tripped over), she looked out and saw the two Ladies. Ebony stood at the head of Last Lily. At the foot stood Obsidian's palanquin, her yellow bird perched on its high finial. Ebony was only a little taller than Hawthorn, and was barely visible at that distance. But nobody could ever mistake her, and her smallness made her look defiant before Obsidian's great palanquin.

Before anything could happen, there was an answering call from Black Tower, and its main gate opened. The Willow Lady emerged, her litter borne on the shoulders of forty Sparrows. Hawthorn could not hear what she said, but she addressed the other two in authoritative tones.

While they parleyed, Hawthorn could sneak out unnoticed. As she left the room, she noticed some yarn knotted around a piece of lumber within. The yarn led down the stairs for several turns, then bent into a room packed with tall porcelain vases. Frin stood there clutching a book, watching the Ladies outside.

"Frin!" said Hawthorn, running toward him. He turned, and his face glowed brighter than a lantern.

Alas, their reunion was interrupted. As they drew close, the Obsidian Lady issued from her palanquin. She lifted one hand. Her bird swooped down from the finial and picked up the Willow Lady in its talons. Up and up it flew, beyond the view afforded by the windows, but a moment later a cloud of ash fell down and blew away in the winter winds. As the Sparrows scattered, Obsidian and Ebony turned their attention to each other once more.