A Touch of Death

Chapter 15

There was a light on in the watchtower.

Aoife's back and neck ached from a week's worth of hard morning training, strange shapes swam before her eyes from afternoons spent in the library, and she absolutely could not sleep. Her energy was too high and too low all at once, thoughts a muddle, and eventually she'd given up on any kind of rest for the time being. Instead, she sat at the window with a candle, attempting to embroider white roses on a square of deep crimson fabric, salvaged from hemming her inherited red robes to fit her height instead of the Enchanter's. The low lighting was bad for her eyes, but she didn't know what else to do to pass the time.

Plunging the needle into the petal of one of the flowers, Aoife winced as she felt a stabbing pain in her thumb. She pulled her hand free from the underside of the stitchwork with a sigh, watching as blood welled up from the pad. There would be no more stitching tonight— pricking herself was an indication that she was far too tired and the light was just not enough. Aoife reluctantly put the embroidery aside, blew out the candle, and popped her thumb into her mouth to suck on the stinging injury. She walked to the window to close the shutters, but paused before swinging them shut.

The highest point of the castle was just visible from the side of her window, and despite the late hour, a faint glow emitted from the high window in the tower room. Aoife stretched a little, giving a slight yawn, before shuffling her way out from under the duvet and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. If the Enchanter could be up, then she could, too.

Candle in hand and robe tied tightly over her nightgown, Aoife crept through the darkened hallways. She told herself that she didn't have a goal in mind, only to wander for a little while in hopes it might calm her might enough to sleep... though that was an utter lie. The light in the tallest tower was like a beacon, and she found herself wandering in the direction that she thought the stairs would be. The floor was like ice against her bare feet, and for a moment she regretted not putting on shoes before leaving the room, but it was too late to turn back now.

The hallways on the upper floors weren't quite as maze-like as the lower levels, but she found herself at the staircase leading to the foyer when she certainly did not intend to go there. Perhaps the upper floors were a labyrinth of their own making, and she needed to find the right twists and turns to go anywhere other than her own room. With a sigh, she turned back around, only to be confronted with the picture of a bloody battle hanging on the wall. Aoife jumped, leaning against the wall as she took a deep breath. Something about the tapestry looked even more sinister in the dark, as if the moonlight held secrets in the shadows it cast across the stitches.

After seeing the tapestries downstairs, Aoife thought it might be a good idea to take a closer look at the battle scene, no matter how much it disturbed her. Now would be the best time, too, when there was no one around to disturb her and before she could talk herself out of it. It took her two tries to get a look at it without gagging, but she did manage to look. The image was woven almost entirely in shades of red—red blood, red corpses, torn to shreds by what appeared to be shards of... something? Glass? Metal? Wood? Rock? She couldn't tell, for the weaving was not quite that accurate. In the center of the portrait, a handsome blonde man lay impaled upon a metal spear driven into his chest by a figure in white robes, a broken crown lying on the ground beside them. It was possible this was some kind of dethroned king, features contorted with agony. However, the figure that held the spear had no face. It was hidden under a hood. The only things visible of it were its hands—skeletal hands made of bones as black as onyx. It reminded her of death itself, come to claim a victim too soon.

Aoife squinted in the lamplight, stepping closer to the tapestry. Something about it was uncanny, almost lifelike. She reached out hesitantly with one hand to drag her bare fingertips over the delicately woven threads, half-sleeping mind struggling to latch onto the figures and the space, trying to identify a tale or a song it might depict.

"What are you doing?"

Aoife shrieked, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a cannon shot. She hadn't even heard the Enchanter's steps, but he was there behind her, his looming form standing over her almost as threateningly as the skeleton in the weaving.

"I s— saw a light in the t— t— tower." Aoife tucked her hands into the pockets of her robe to keep them from shaking.

"Are you cold?" the Enchanter asked, tilting his head to the side. The lamplight flickered off his face as he looked her up and down, taking in her appearance.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"You should be in bed."

"So should you," Aoife countered. "What are you doing in that tower, anyways? You keep saying that you want my help, but you won't let me up there."

"You're not ready. Go to bed."

"Then teach me!" Aoife cried, voice echoing off the cold stone corridor. "You told me you wanted me to learn magic, but you haven't taught me a single thing about how to use my magic since I came here. I'm not a child—"

"Then stop acting like one," he snapped. "For someone who has been shattered, you're still sheltered, and you are the only thing standing in the way because you refuse to use the power you've been given."

"The power I've been given is evil! I don't want it— nothing good comes from it!" she said petulantly, turning her back to him as she began to walk away.

"The world is not made of black and white or good and evil. People aren't made that way— you are not made that way. Do you remember what I said about the cycle of life and death? Did you take anything away from that, anything at all?"

Aoife pursed her lips, eyes locked on the pattern of stones on the floor, but stopped walking.

She remembered. The conversation had gone on and on again in her mind over days, but never reached a resolution. If all her power did was leech the life from things, then how could she ever hope to do anything good with it? What could the Enchanter do with it? The only conclusion that she ever could come to was the same: nothing good. The anxiety possessed her day and night, out in the courtyard or while sitting across from him at dinner. It was like an itch that wouldn't scratch or a pinprick at the back of her mind, unshakeable and unavoidable.

"I'm death. That's all," she said softly, hollowly, mechanically.

The Enchanter gave an exasperated sigh.

"Your power belongs to a class of higher magic. Most people have powers that can be found in other Touched or other Fae— weather magic, elemental magic, transformation magic— but a very few have powers that are above and beyond the realm of most Touched or Fae. Your power belongs in that category."

"Why me?"

"The power doesn't pass from one person to the next at random. Magic chooses the soul most fit to wield it, though it does typically pass between members of the same bloodline."

"It thought I was fit to kill things?" she asked bitterly, arms crossed over her chest.

"Aoife," the Enchanter said softly, his tone so gentle that she turned to look at him. "Listen carefully, because I will only say this once: If I had to choose a soul to wield the power in your fingertips, I wouldn't choose someone who wanted it. I would pick the kindest, wisest, most compassionate bleeding heart that I could find, because that's the kind of person who would understand the impact their power could have. Think about that."

Aoife didn't move. She stayed stock still until she heard him start to walk away, eyes trained on the bare stone wall in front of her.

When her bare feet were sofrozen she could no longer feel them, a chill had set into her bones, and thelamp burned so low that she was uncertain she could get back to her room beforethe light went out, she finally moved to walk back to her room and lost herselfin sleep.