A Touch of Darkness

  A Touch of Darkness

  Towers of the Earth Book THree

  Nita Round

  Edited by

  Eanna Webb

  Cover design

  May Dawney

  Readers everywhere.

  Thank you for choosing to read, A Touch of Darkness, I hope you enjoy this story and read on into the rest of the Towers of the Earth world.

  If you haven’t already read the prequels,

  A Pinch of Salt

  A Hint of Hope,

  Take a look. They are available free to subscribers.

  https://www.nitaround.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Nita Round. All rights reserved.

  Author’s Note:

  This work was originally part of the Touch of Truth series and entitled, Raven, Storm, and Shadows. As part of Pink Tea Books, it was necessary to rethink all of the existing Nita Round novels and consider how best to take them forward. As a result, it was decided to rename, rebrand and republish. There are too many stories for any of them to be left unsaid.

  And so, Raven, Storm and shadows has been rebadged as A Touch of Darkness, and given a shiny new cover that fits the style of the others.

  This is A Touch of Darkness and it is book three of the Towers of the Earth series.

  Let’s see where the journey leads for the Trinity of Truth.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  The back bit

  Copyright notice

  The Towers of The Earth

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Captain Magda Stoner stood atop the palace wall, stared over the city of Port Ruth, and out across the bay. The sun, low on the horizon, bathed the whole city in a red-gold shimmer, but she hardly noticed. Her thoughts remained conflicted and uncertain in this time of grief. It had been five years since her wife had been killed, yet it had taken until now to bring home the remains for the funeral she deserved.

  Three others stood with her for this, the first night of mourning. Lucinda Ravensburgh, the Raven of Raven Tower, and Ascara, the Fire to her Ice. They would always be with her, no matter what. They were as one, and she took strength from their nearness.

  With them stood Prince Mogharan Ruth, ruler of all Rabia, and brother to Olivia. They’d been friends once, but time and events had rendered their friendship moot. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Upon his shoulders, grief sat like a heavy cloak. He’d lost his sister in such a terrible way, and even after all these years, he still grieved for his loss. His grief made her uncomfortable. Magda looked away.

  Magda pulled at the collar of her grey dress uniform as though she might blame her discomforts on her clothing. She ground her teeth and tensed her jaws together with such force her whole face ached, but at least she didn’t scowl. Emotion threatened to overflow her control, but she didn’t have time for emotions to cloud her mind or her judgment. Not now she had duties to perform.

  I am like ice, she told herself. Ice. And I feel nothing.

  They had almost died to bring Olivia home. Yet now they were here, she wished she could be someplace else. Any place else. Even back in the tomb of Sh’Na, where she would rather face the wrath of the Queen of the Night herself than this. This grief and this loss.

  At her side, Ascara stood ramrod straight. Her stiffness had little to do with her formal uniform and more to do with the ownership mark upon her collar. A ceremonial sabre rather than her more familiar sword lay across one hip, and a three-barrelled pistol rested on the other.

  Next to her, Lucinda wore a black dress of mourning. The red hair swept back in a tight and severe bun and the gold chain of ownership around her neck were the only signs of colour.

  Neither of them had complained about the marks of ownership they were once more forced to wear. It was not easy for them, but they bore the indignity with grace and poise. Both of them. Magda wished she could remove this indignity, but to do so would have compromised their safety, and she would not—could not—do such a thing.

  She turned her attention to Mogharan. All in black, with gold epaulettes, gold braiding, and rows of medals on his chest, he looked very much the part of the leader of the Rabian High Guard.

  “Face the sun, Mag,” he said. His voice sounded harsh and disapproving. “You know this.”

  Magda nodded. To turn away from the sunset on the first day of mourning would be to turn away from God. And no Rabian would ever do such a thing. On this day, she would be a good Rabian.

  She adjusted her gaze and watched as the sun sank further over the horizon. In the bay, the sea turned from blue to grey and then, as the sun sank out of sight, the sea turned black. As far as she could see, not a single white top marred the stillness of the ocean.

  Darkness spilt like ink across the city and chased away the remaining light. Not a single lamp nor open flame broke the gloom. This ever-active city, which brimmed with life and commotion, had drawn to a complete stop. No one spoke. Still, like death, the thriving city had become little more than an empty and abandoned ruin.

  A city of the dead.

  When the last sliver of light vanished below the horizon, she and Mogharan turned to the temples of the four quarters on the palace grounds. The priest of the third quarter stepped out onto the parapet of his tower. In his hand, he carried a single lit candle, the only light in the city that drew attention to this one man.

  He called out then. “V’arlya,” he called out. “Attend to me,” he said in High Rabian. His voice, and only his voice, rang out clear and strong as he began the recitation of the prayers of mourning.

  Magda let the words flow through her. The sound of his voice as it echoed across the palace compound resonated within her chest and heart. She did not follow every word, but not even the Rabians understood the formal language of High Rabian. She recognised some of the words but knew the meaning of his words even if she failed to recognise the exact words used.

  Other priests joined in at the start of each part of the prayer, until the priests of all four quarters prayed together as one. Their combined voices rose high and then settled over the city like a shroud.

  As the words died into the night, acolytes strode from the temples. Each one carried two burning brands which they held aloft. At a word from the priests, the acolytes dropped the torches into the heart of huge braziers placed before each temple. With a whoosh as the fire caught, the flames of remembrance grew high. As light erupted from the palace grounds, around the city people joined in and lit their own pyres of remembrance.

  “Look to Holy Mount,” Mogharan said.

  She turned, and there, in the darkness, the three peaks of the mountain erupted in dancing yellow lights. A string of torches circled the mountain like pearls of shining flames.

  “Now the procession will come to us. My sister was much loved, and there are many to show their respect,” Mogharan said.

  “Yes, she was,” Magda agreed.


  “You were there for my parents, weren’t you, Mag? Do you remember what happens next?”

  “I was there, and yes, I remember well.”

  “Good. There are no explanations needed then.” He stopped for a moment, but Magda waited for him to say more. “I should have named myself king right away.”

  “Yes,” Magda agreed. She wasn’t sure where this line of talk would lead. “Then why not be king?”

  “Politics,” he said. “A prince has more freedom than a king. They forgive a prince his indiscretions, and he answers to no one, but a King of all Rabia answers to them all.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Maybe I should change my mind. Perhaps now is the time to take control of the whole of my country and my people.” He looked away then, a sure sign that the conversation had ended.

  “Yes, Prince Ruth,” Magda replied.

  It wasn’t until the torchbearers were halfway through the city and close to the palace that Magda heard their approach. She could hear them singing now; hundreds of voices joined together in such a slow and mournful dirge that the hairs on her arms stood on end. They sang in Street Rabian, with a little Gyptan added. And although she could not follow it all, she had more chance of understanding them than the High Rabian of the priests.

  Their song talked of the princess, and they mourned her passing. They sang of the loss to her brother, to Magda, and to the city. Even in the warmth of the early evening air, Magda shivered; she couldn’t stop herself.

  The singers stopped at the palace gates, and over the voices, she heard someone bang the gates.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  They were expected, and so the gates opened and mourners filled into the palace grounds like a lamp lighting tide of black robes.

  “Come,” said Prince Mogharan, “we must go to them now.”

  “Of course,” Magda agreed. She took a position beside Mogharan and they walked back through the palace to the main doors and into the grounds. Two guards, also dressed in ceremonial black, opened the doors as the prince approached.

  Outside, a mass of black-robed figures greeted her gaze. In the sputtering torchlight, the faces of these people disappeared into shadows. In the sputtering half-light of the torches, they all looked the same.

  As the singing drew to a close, a single voice rose over the hiss and splutter of the torches. Clear and feminine, she spoke in High Rabian and another, quieter voice translated into Anglish for her. “The princess is dead. Sorrow is all we have, and grief the measure of our loss. The princess is dead.”

  “I hear you,” Prince Mogharan said. “My sister is dead. May she live forever in the arms of Our Father.”

  “Blessed is she, in the arms of Our Father,” the many voices of the mourners intoned. “Blessed are those who loved her.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. “Mag,” the prince prompted her.

  She forgot what she had to say, and in High Rabian, the words stuck in her throat. With great deliberation, she spoke the words that were expected. After all these years, her voice sounded like the voice of a foreigner. She was a foreigner, she admitted. “Blessed are we for she is cherished beyond all others,” she said. “The princess is dead, and I shall mourn her.”

  “Blessed is she for the ones who cherish her,” they said.

  “Blessed is she for the mourning of so many,” Magda replied.

  The throng of people parted and four figures stepped forward. Between them, they carried a large basket. She could see the leaves and spices mixed with pure and uncoloured linens. A gift basket of preparations for the funeral.

  They placed the basket on the steps before the prince and then returned to their place in the crowd. “Blessed are those who prepare her way,” the crowd intoned. “Cleansed and perfect so shall she greet her Maker. Bless her.”

  The crowd sang once more, and their choral lament filled her with the loss. Magda felt her grief anew. She drew her hands into fists to fight her own sadness. At her side, Mogharan stood as still as a statue, his face blank.

  “And now we must prepare her for burial,” Mogharan said.

  Magda watched as the mourners turned away from them and eased out of the palace grounds. She turned to the prince. “Mogharan, as she was my wife, I would ask permission for her cleansing, and the Rite of Ba’Haswaein.”

  He didn’t answer at first; she could see the muscles clench in his jaw. He seemed to twist words around in his mouth. “Did she understand, when you married, that you were not equipped to be a husband?”

  “Yes, she knew I was a woman and she still wanted to marry me.”

  He nodded at that.

  “Not only did she know, but she also made it clear I should court her,” she said. “She did not marry me in the belief I was someone, or something else.”

  “That sounds like my sister; it would be her right to choose her mate. She was wise and you would not fool her as you did me. I am content if she went knowingly to your bed,” Mogharan said.

  “She did.” This was not the kind of conversation she wanted to have. Not at a funeral, and not with the brother of the deceased.

  “Yet you have no family for the Ba’Haswaein.”

  “I have all my family right here.” She turned around to Ascara and Lucinda. “And I would trust no others more than I would trust them.”

  “I would be honoured to be a part of your family,” Ascara said. She bowed.

  “And I will always be by your side,” Lucinda said.

  “Very well, she was your wife, and it is your duty to prepare her. That your family is all women is also acceptable, even if they do not understand our ways.”

  Magda said nothing more. The wishes of the prince trumped all else.

  “The cleansing begins, as it must, at dawn tomorrow,” he said.

  Magda clicked her heels together and saluted.

  Mogharan stepped closer to her and stared into her eyes. “Thank you for bringing her back.”

  Magda met his gaze. “I could do no less.” She fell to one knee and looked to the ground. “Forgive me for not being good enough to protect her, and too slow to bring her home.”

  “Get to your feet, my brother who is not my brother. It is sundown, and the fasting has begun,” he said. “Under other circumstances, we would celebrate her life together.”

  He didn’t need to say more. “I understand,” she said.

  “My thanks for the Tanike Pink tea. It is a rare gift, and I shall think of you when I taste it.” With that, he turned around and walked away.

  Magda stared at his back as he left. She had done all she could.

  “Let’s go inside,” Ascara said.

  She didn’t answer at first, instead she caught sight of Lucinda who looked, for want of a better description, as though she chewed on something unpleasant.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, let’s go,” Lucinda answered.

  2

  Even though five years had passed since Magda had explored any part of the palace, there were some things which didn’t seem to change. Her rooms had been laid out pretty much as she remembered them. She even found her old bone-handled comb on the dressing table. Along with her old nightshirt and slippers, both of which still fit.

  The Chambers of the Ba’haswa represented another part of the palace which would never change. This room only had one function, to service the needs of the dead. Here, the body would rest and be cleansed through the Rite of Ba’Haswaein, ready for the last journey from physical mortality to spiritual immortality in the arms of God.

  Familiarity gave her some comfort as she strode through empty passageways. Gaslights, set very low, lit the corridors with a dim glow and took away the darkness of the predawn hours. Ascara and Lucinda followed, but she took little comfort in their presence.

  Although she did not relish the task ahead, Magda strode with purpose and determination towards the ba’haswa. Her footsteps echoed with the regularity of a clock or the stride of
the doomed. She did not know which.

  The ba’haswa stood on a flat-topped hillock within the grounds of the palace compound. Access to the building lay through the narrowest and least used corridors on the east side of the palace.

  “What is this Rite?” Lucinda asked.

  “The Rite of Ba’Haswaein readies the deceased for the last journey. From physical mortality, they rise to spiritual immortality in the arms of God,” she answered.

  “You said as much last night, but that doesn’t give us much in the way of details,” Ascara added.

  “That’s because I’m not sure of all the details either,” she answered. “It is a ritual; the priests take charge of the whole process.”

  As they approached the ba’haswa, she saw a single guard block the way.

  “Only one guard?” Ascara asked.

  “Few would dare enter this place without right or invitation,” she answered. “To do so would be an affront to God, and the blight on their soul would create a blemish so deep and dark, their soul would likely never recover.”

  “Right, so why a guard at all?” Ascara asked.

  “For respect and thieves. For them, a token of the dead might be more than worth the risk to their soul.”

  Magda checked her timepiece as she drew up before the guard. Magda saluted in Rabian fashion. “Magda Stoner,” she said.