Authors: Carol Berg
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction
The Soul Mirror (53 page)
Duplais never arrived. I didn’t know whether to curse Marie-Claire or fret about Duplais’ safety. I dared not leave to seek him out myself. And so I paced and fretted and clutched my throbbing arm.
“Get out, you ninny!” Lady Antonia’s annoyance at Lord Ilario, rising throughout the afternoon, shattered the quiet.
Ilario had come near wearing grooves in the floor circling the chamber’s perimeters. The chevalier threw himself onto a divan in my little alcove, his sister’s blood still darkening his canary garments. “Her heart races like a songbird’s.” His voice came soft and filled with anguish. “If this be another miscarried child, however will she bear it? If she dies . . .”
No one in the bedchamber had dared voice that wretched likelihood as yet.
Though the wide doorway left us open to view from the bedchamber, no one was likely to overhear our conversation. Nonetheless, I wandered over to the window as he spoke. The sun peered through veils of fog, naught but a solid gray disk that offered little illumination to the day.
He waved his slender hands helplessly. “As we went out this morning, she announced her intent to ride out with Philippe on his progress. To enjoy the autumn weather and the jolly company, she said, and to unburden him of the petty piffelry that complicates such a journey—the pig petting and child dandling and greetings of merchants and marriageable daughters and magistrate’s wives. My lady mother near collapsed at the thought of it. The more dama pressed, the more adamant Geni was. What was she thinking?”
His report made this grievous turn of events even more wretched. Not only had Eugenie understood the meaning of my suggestion, she had added her own generous portion to it.
“I’ve known my lady only these few short days, lord, but she impresses me as far stronger than anyone imagines.” It was not some casual soothing I offered, but a conclusion that had solidified over these terrible hours.
“She must stop this,” he said, twisting one of the cushions into a knot. “No matter what the council says, no matter what she believes, Philippe will not displace her.”
I busied myself plumping cushions that did not need it, straightening paintings, charms, and draperies that were perfectly arranged. “Have you witnessed what she does with Dante?” I said softly. “With the children?”
He stretched out on his back and flung his arm over his face as if to sleep. “She’s told me she sees them,” he murmured. “The babes. I won’t participate.”
“I spied on them last night after the mage worked the sorcery,” I said as I rearranged the cups and pitcher on the table nearest the divan, “and it was both terrible and wonderful to behold. Your sister smiled and played with four children. Whether or not they were what Dante claims, whether or not it was a perversion of the Creator’s will, her actions were as brave and painful as any I’ve witnessed. Who could put themselves through such grief for whimsy or stubbornness or fear? When she expresses her desire to ensure her children are not afraid in their journey through Ixtador, that is
exactly
what she intends. She does it for
them
. And so, I think that when she puts herself through this ordeal of conceiving”—I stared at the crowded bedside—“it is not for her position or duty to Sabria, but for simple love.”
exactly
what she intends. She does it for
them
. And so, I think that when she puts herself through this ordeal of conceiving”—I stared at the crowded bedside—“it is not for her position or duty to Sabria, but for simple love.”
Though whether it was love for her present husband or her lost one, I was not sure.
“Thank you.” It was the swordsman who had saved my life so many hours before who spoke gratitude. When Ilario jumped up and returned to the bedchamber, wringing his lace-wreathed hands as effusively as the ladies, that man vanished.
I sent for warmed ginger clarrey. Few refreshments were so restorative as the peppery honeyed wine. When it arrived, I ventured Roussel’s smoking herbs long enough to share it out . . . and catch a glimpse of Eugenie.
The queen might have been laid out for her funeral; she was profoundly still, dark hair fanned out across the white pillows, the green spirals painted on her temples and neck reminiscent of deadhouse sigils meant to keep daemons away. Yet her eyes fluttered behind closed lids, and her cheeks and lips displayed a rosy flush. From time to time she stirred, licking her lips or pressing her hand to her belly or her breasts. The physician hovered at her bedside with his tincture vials.
I raised pitcher and cup. “Clarrey, sonjeur?”
Roussel’s gaze met mine, and his grave expression softened. “That would be a m-mercy, damoselle. Let me clean up a b-bit.”
Before stepping away, he suggested the ladies take the opportunity to release his patient from her restrictive garments and cleanse her in the ways a male physician could not. I followed him to the washing bowl, well away from the bedside and the hovering women. As he scrubbed his hands, I ventured a quiet question. “How fares my dear lady? She looks perfectly healthy, not even pale. And yet this blood . . .”
“It’s almost stopped,” he said. “And her heart has slowed. Good news all.” After toweling his hands dry, he accepted the wine cup and took a long, grateful pull. “B-but she has developed a fever, causing this flush, and she does not wake. It may be a natural weakness from the ordeal. . . .”
“Or?”
He glanced sidewise at the renewed bustle of ladies and serving women at the bedside. “It may be a d-determined will to avoid hearing what I m-must tell her.”
Aching sympathy filled my already stinging eyes. “Sweet spirits.”
Roussel downed the rest of his clarrey and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “T-truthfully, damoselle, I’ve seen no evidence that she was with child. Certainly she is not carrying one now.”
A rapid assault of five sneezes seemed particularly abrasive in the face of such sorrow. As I pulled out a kerchief and blotted my eyes, he cocked his head in concern. “Have you a d-dose of red eyebright for that problem ? I could formulate—”
“My former housekeeper makes me a helpful tonic,” I said. “But later, when you’re available, I
would
like to consult you on another matter.” Every jar of my wounded arm now caused shooting agony, illustrating my friend’s warning.
would
like to consult you on another matter.” Every jar of my wounded arm now caused shooting agony, illustrating my friend’s warning.
“Certainly,” said Roussel, with just enough eager sympathy to warm my heart. “Anything you need. Now I’d best get back, else
he’ll
step up. The man can crumble b-bones with a look.”
he’ll
step up. The man can crumble b-bones with a look.”
Dante had occupied the window seat nearest his sorcerer’s ring. He observed the quiet bustle, seemingly without interest. Yet a thread of white vapor drifted from his staff. I kept my voice low.
“What can he do, really?” I proffered my pitcher again. “He does not watch idly.”
“I’ve never worked with magicians before. D-don’t believe in it any more than you do. Yet I’ve seen him soothe the queen’s headaches and nightmares by sitting at her bedside, never touching her. Somehow, using that cursed staff, he can birth flames or set the night whirling.” Roussel stroked his thick brush of a mustache and stared boldly back at the mage, scowling. “Such manipulations seem wondrous. Yet I don’t trust him.”
“Nor do I!”
Roussel’s own gaze roamed the bedchamber. Uneasy. “This day feels wholly askew, as if the p-planets have slipped out of alignment. I know that sounds foolish.”
“Not at all,” I said. “These past few hours I’ve sensed the same. As if de Vouger’s principles, the forces that bind the universe, have been violated.” As if I walked that sloping floor in the ruined Bastionne Camarilla.
Roussel whipped his head back to me, quickly smothering a trace of a smile. But naught could dim the spark in his gray eyes. “Exactly that.”
The dowager queen’s red-haired harridan, Morgansa, arrived just then, dragging a wide-eyed boy who clutched an Aubini bell-pipe. Antonia bustled the lanky youth into a corner, tied a kerchief about his eyes, and gave him a quick muttering of instruction.
Morgansa raised the lid of the incense burner above the queen’s bed. Smoke billowed across the room. My ensuing barrage of coughs and sneezes drew Antonia’s glare.
With a sympathetic waggle of his eyebrows, Roussel passed me his cup and returned to the bedside. I retreated.
As the deep flutelike tones of the bell-pipe rose in sleepy melody, Antonia and Morgansa arranged goblets of grapes and bundled willow withes about and under Eugenie’s sickbed. Aubini women placed such talismans in their bedchambers to ensure fertility.
Though Antonia desired Eugenie to bear a male child, she did not welcome the proposal of the king and queen reconciled. The queen’s collapse—a reminder of miscarriage, even if it was not that at all—would ensure Eugenie remained home when her husband rode out in nine days’ time. And the ghostly Soren wandered these halls.
Suspicion flowered like a night-blooming lily. Had Antonia caused this incident to keep Eugenie here? Surely only the pressure of time could prompt her to such an appalling risk.
Time . . . fertility . . . I touched my hand where I’d felt the brush of Soren’s beard, the soft breath of a kiss, so near life. Surely it was madness to wonder whose child was at risk on that great bed.
Roussel’s rumbling voice spoke a few undecipherable phrases, raising a hushed babble from the others in the bedchamber. Curiosity consumed me until Ilario was banished yet again.
The chevalier dropped into a chair, elbows propped on his knees, head resting in his hands. “The bleeding is stopped. The good physician believes she will live if he can suppress this fever.”
Impatience allowed me no time for kindness. “Tell me, lord, how did this sickness befall Her Majesty? She seemed well when you set out.”
“As she climbed into the carriage, she stumbled,” he said. “Said she was dizzy. Wouldn’t hear of returning, though. Not half an hour into our tour of the lace warehouse, she asked to sit down. . . .”
“The queen stumbled
after
mentioning she planned to ride out with the king?
After
the argument with Lady Antonia?”
after
mentioning she planned to ride out with the king?
After
the argument with Lady Antonia?”
His head lifted. “Yes.”
“Think carefully, lord. Did she have anything to eat or drink on the way to the coach?”
“I’d swear not. We sat in the salon courtyard awhile, as Antonia desired tea before setting off. The others had pastry. I tried to get Geni to eat, but she said her stomach was unsettled, the same as every day of late.”
Recollection of the conversation as the party prepared to depart stilled my pulse. “Was she perhaps offered a pastille to suck on for her nausea?”
He leapt to his feet. “Sante Ianne!”
Never had I seen such a battle as ensued. The chevalier’s complexion darkened to the color of clay tiles. His chest heaved and fine mouth twisted in fury. But in the space of two eyeblinks, his long fingers uncurled, and a sighing exhale cooled his fair complexion. He snatched a willow wreath from beside the doorway and spun like a whirligig. Did I not know his secret, I’d have been assured he was the world’s greatest dolt.
“A hex! That’s it! The holy saints can only provide when we give them opportunity to do so, and the same for the Souleater’s servants.”
His exuberant vocalization drew horrified looks from the bedchamber.
“Beloved dama! The saints have answered!” He darted through the doorway, lifted a shocked Antonia into the air, and spun her around. An awkward landing crushed the sputtering woman in his arms. Undaunted, he tugged and patted her gown and petticoats into some semblance of order, then dragged her back to the retiring room with him.
“Blighted idiot!” Antonia was livid. No playacting was required for me to display mystification.
“I am inspired!” Ilario bellowed, towering over the woman once he had her seated. “In part, certainly, because the gentle Damoselle Anne was here, and I could not but think of her despicable—please, please forgive me, dear young lady—her despicable sire, who has shown such vile intents toward my beloved sister. As I begged the Hero Saint Reborn to come to Geni’s aid, it struck me that we have not done our part to defend her from this desperado in the king’s absence. For surely the villain de Vernase has hexed Castelle Escalon! Which means our answer is simple. Once the king arrives, he must take Geni away.”
“A hex, lackwit?”
“Clearly,” said Ilario. “Once they are gone, the palace can be purged of this infection. Surely a battalion of mages will be required to aid Master Dante in the work.”
Dante’s scorn produced a derisive snort from all the way across the bedchamber. Staff in hand, he left the room.
No matter Antonia’s insults, Lord Baldwin and his secretary soon stood in the doorway alongside Lady Eleanor and a breathless, intensely interested Portier de Savin-Duplais. The ensuing discussion reviewed the dangers that impinged on Eugenie’s safety, from Roussel’s poisoning to the haunting of the Rotunda to the destruction of the Bastionne Camarilla, scarce two kilometres distant.
Lord Baldwin, appalled by the tales, was inclined to agree with Ilario. He commanded Duplais to install the most secure precautions to ensure my father’s influence with daemonic hordes could not harm his sovereign’s queen. Two loyal attendants must sit with Her Majesty every moment of her recovery, he said, as well as a willing servant to taste every portion of her foods and medicines.
“His Majesty will question your presence in this chamber, Damoselle de Vernase.” The well-spoken Baldwin raked me with his incisive gaze.
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