The Tower of Owls stands where Zangier’s merchant district gives way to poorer and less salubrious parts, a tall square pile of weathered granite blocks. A small balcony protrudes from each side at the very top but there are no windows for the first two-thirds of height, and then few and tiny. It stands alone, skirted by a modest strip of cobbles, with a single dark doorway giving straight on to the encircling street, a doorway without a door and so always open. What it began as no-one now knows: the strong place of a noble mansion, a beacon in the last age of kings, the high place of some forgotten cult? All that gives a clue is the frieze in low relief of birdlike creatures that runs just above the doorway. From their rounded staring eyes the tower gained its name. For as long as can be remembered it has been an abode of dark sorcery.
Anyone can enter the tower. Those who come out again report an endless maze, far larger than the dimensions of the tower allow, where they wandered through stone passages that changed behind them. Many do not come out, and very few women. The menfolk of Zangier dispose of unwanted wives or daughters by thrusting them through the door, and none of these ever emerge.
On this night the full moon shone bright on two faces of the tower, its rays split and streaming past as water is cleaved by a swift vessel. The other two faces were cast in deep shadow. High on the darkest corner steely fingers found a crack where wind-driven sand and time had worn away the mortar. A heave, a reach, a thrust of stiff sandal soles against a weathered edge and more height was gained. The word on the street was that the Tower of Owls was unclimbable, but what would these folk of a desert city know? Vigir had been born among northern mountains and tested himself from early youth on their cliffs. His hands found purchases in each course of the massive blocks, his feet stayed firm on tiny ledges and he moved steadily upwards. At last he reached the overhang of a balcony. One hand clasped a stone bracket, a flex of a thick bicep lifted him dangling over the void while the other snaked up to thrust between the ornate balusters. That hold established, it was but a reach to get a hand on the top rail, a steady pull and he was up and over. All done in near silence, for his breathing remained controlled and even after exertions that would have left most men gasping.
Vigir warily took in his surrounds. From below came the night sounds of Zangier: discordant music, the cries of hucksters, the shouts of revellers, all punctuated by occasional screams. At least the stench did not rise to this level. Although the moon had climbed higher the balcony remained in shadow. The low domes and flat roofs of the city spread out below, ending at the walls. Beyond them the moon illumined flat fields and the gleaming threads of irrigation ditches. A pair of fretted doors would give entrance to the tower. They showed a dim light. He eased the sword from his back, where it had hung out of the way, to lie at his side, ready against any sorcerous threat. Vigir did not draw but listened, then drew a deep breath through his nose. There was no sound and but a faint scent of sandalwood and poppies. He listened again, then gently pushed. The door swung open and he glided in, as silent as a stalking leopard for all his bulk.
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The room was quiet, unnaturally so. Despite the open door no sound came from below. The dim light had no apparent source. A sweep of the eyes around showed no threat, only a recumbent figure on a low couch. Every sense alert, Vigir moved with the same silent grace until he could look more closely. A woman lay there, apparently in a trance. Her eyes were closed, her face still, and she might have been dead but for the slight rise and fall of her chest. Was this the feared sorcerer? Should he pin her to the couch with a single thrust, and then search for riches? He peered more closely. The woman was comely enough, if past the bloom of youth. She wore only a light shift, and her dark hair was unbound. No, this was probably the sorcerer’s plaything, kept in enchanted sleep until he desired her. He would seek below, slay the enchanter and then return. She would no doubt welcome a real man after serving some dark-gods-besotted dotard.
* * * *
Lirriane’s mind floated beyond the world, sifting through the skeins of possibility until she found the strand of her desire. It was thin and delicate, a mere wisp; she lent it strength, followed it until it thickened and branched, laid out her need and willed that it aid her. A shoot curled off, bent into a circle and followed her back along the ways between the worlds. Here was her tower, her stronghold, her place of shelter for those in need. She opened this door not for herself but for others; the ring would find them.
Vigir bit back a startled oath as a ring of glowing blue light materialised above the woman. Was this some emanation from the dark planes, sent to devour her soul in payment for the sorcerer’s powers? The ring tilted, lifted, suddenly swept towards him. His sword came out, cut, met no resistance and then he was enveloped, simultaneously compressed and dispersed. His arrival elsewhere was both instant and endless, as his being was taken outside any condition it could comprehend. When his senses resumed function they told him he was falling, that branches whipped against his skin, that the air was warm and humid, not the dry heat of Zangier. A hand reflexively went out, grabbed, slipped on leaves yet swung him in, both hands slapped a bough with tendon-straining force, a second lower branch held and he was brought to a halt that nearly wrenched his shoulders from their sockets. He was disoriented but enough in command to swing closer to the trunk, and let his feet find a place on another branch. He leaned against the rough bark, shuddering. If the wizard’s trick that had cast him here had meant to kill him, it had failed. He had his strength and his wits and, as so many times before, they would be enough.
* * * *
Lirriane let her mind come back to this reality, her senses again relate to the couch, the warm air, the light breeze. After a time she extended her senses further, to sweep through the ancient stones. A frown creased her brow. The ring always took, yet there were still two people below. Well, she could not call it again this night. A word, a gesture, a pattern traced on the air and, far below, two weeping women huddled despairing against a wall found a door opening beside them, a door to warmth, light, food and safety. Tonight and tomorrow they would be secure, and the night after gone from this world of men.