Authors: Carol Berg
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction
The Soul Mirror (66 page)
He never raised his voice, never spoke anything I’d not considered already, but his quiet outrage trembled my bones. Yet it took me only a moment to summon my own from the heated iron in my belly. “Perhaps for my mother, your friend, who weeps in madness. Perhaps for my brother, your goodson, who rotted four years in your prison, beaten, starved, and abused in the most obscene ways because you did not heed your responsibility to him. Perhaps for my murdered sister, whose tale I’ve come to tell you. And if nothing else, then for the debt you owe my father. By saving your life, he gave you this kingdom.”
The king leapt from his chair. “He
betrayed
this kingdom! He stole its future and my wife’s peace! With pleasure and malice, Michel de Vernase murdered my
son
. You didn’t know that, did you? He slaughtered the noblest young lord Sabria had ever birthed as if he were a crawling beast, then dumped him naked on the floor of my house.”
betrayed
this kingdom! He stole its future and my wife’s peace! With pleasure and malice, Michel de Vernase murdered my
son
. You didn’t know that, did you? He slaughtered the noblest young lord Sabria had ever birthed as if he were a crawling beast, then dumped him naked on the floor of my house.”
His wrath fell on my head like a mighty river from a cliff top. It was all I could do to remain standing. Yet the words confused me as much as the power of their speaking.
Noblest young lord?
Desmond was but a year old when he died. That was years before the conspiracy, the assassination attempt, the investigation.
Threw him naked . . . ?
Noblest young lord?
Desmond was but a year old when he died. That was years before the conspiracy, the assassination attempt, the investigation.
Threw him naked . . . ?
The image in the Rotunda reshaped itself in my mind, limned with pain beyond bearing . . . and enlightenment. No wonder the king could not live in this house anymore. “Edmond de Roble was your son.”
“And that’s my difficulty with anything you might say. Only four people in the world knew that truth. Myself. Ilario de Sylvae. Edmond’s mother, who is not my wife. And your father. Neither his mother nor Ilario wrote the letter pinned to my son’s dead flesh. No one knew the words to put in such a message that would identify the writer, and the handwriting was as familiar to me as it was to you. You risk your life walking in here and asking my indulgence, Anne de Vernase.”
He returned to his chair, propped up his feet, and drank his wine, staring at me.
The ramparts in front of me were much more formidable than I’d guessed. But the very reason I could grasp the magnitude of my goodfather’s grief and anger was because they mirrored my own. Edmond and my parents, Ophelie de Marangel, and Lianelle had been the Aspirant’s first targets. Duplais and Ambrose and Eugenie were the next. And after them the rest of us . . .
So I stood my ground. “Four years ago you rendered judgment that my father had committed treason against you, conspiring with corrupted sorcerers to do murder—this despicable, unholy outrage to your son and other innocents—in order to tear you from your throne. When I bore witness against my father, I believed fully in his corruption. Just as you did, I felt betrayed by a man I had believed worthy of all my love and honor, and if he had showed his face at Montclaire, I would have turned him over to your justice. But four-and-thirty days ago, everything changed. That was the morning my sister, Lianelle, your other gooddaughter, knew she was going to die and arranged to leave us a message. In an act of extraordinary magic and extraordinary courage, she pointed us to the truth. . . .”
I told him the story of Lianelle and her books of magic. I recited her letter from memory. As I told him of Lady Cecile and the page she had stolen from Orviene, of the down-at-the-heels nobleman, and of Warder Pognole and Ambrose’s middle-night visitors at the Spindle, Philippe de Savin-Journia pulled his feet from the stool and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, knuckles taut. But he said nothing and let me continue.
When I came to Eugenie, Ilario’s words blended with mine, explaining his conviction that I might provide his sister some shelter from Antonia’s smothering wickedness. And he told how Duplais had set him to watch and protect me, while giving the household to believe we were at odds. “He used her, sire, to force them show themselves, and so they did, beyond his expectations. And he was convinced of her innocence.”
I told him of the Bastionne, of Soren and the children, of the aether and the mindstorm, of hearing Papa and knowing in my bones and heart that he was innocent. Of all, I omitted only the tale of my quiet friend who happened to be Dante. Neither of them was going to believe that until they saw it for themselves. And no matter the honor of these two, there were doors and peepholes everywhere. I dared not risk news of Dante’s duplicity reaching the Aspirant. He would believe.
I even told the king of the copper shield bracelet. By this time, I dared pause long enough to venture a question. “How did he explain its origin, sire?”
“He said it was found on him when he was born. The Delourre demesne records recorded no such device, so he assumed it was the kitchen girl’s god token.”
And then I risked all, because if the king chose to ignore my warnings, my family’s safety wasn’t going to matter. I told him my family’s name.
“That’s why they’ve kept Papa,” I said. “To bleed for their magic. And if the Aspirant knows his name, then he’s kept him for vengeance.”
“Mondragon. Michel a sorcerer. Impossible . . .” The king’s soft utterance gave lie to his denial.
“It explains the manacle.” Ilario now sat cross-legged on a stool between the king’s chair and me, absorbing the details of the story he’d not yet heard. “Ophelie’s manacle,” he answered to the king’s puzzled stare and mine. “Ophelie de Marangel was held prisoner in the royal crypt. A burst of magic from a fellow prisoner set her free—raw power; that’s how Dante described it to Portier. Portier assumed Michel was Ophelie’s warder, because someone scratched the Ruggiere device on the wall. But we never found out who the prisoner was and we decided it couldn’t be Michel, because she was freed by magic.”
“Michel would have gone mad at watching them bleeding a young girl,” said the king.
“That’s exactly what happened to me on the ridge,” I said, blinking back tears at the imagining and at the burgeoning grief coloring my goodfather’s voice. “It enabled me to cut the snaketethers. I used magic, though I’ve no idea how or whether I can ever use it again.”
And then came the difficult piece . . . our plan. “We must have faith in Duplais, sire. He believes we can stop this evil, bring the Aspirant to justice, and repair the damage he’s done only by letting events move forward without overt interference. We’ve . . . sensed . . . powerful forces that work to our benefit, that confuse the conspirators’ cause and spoil their magics and that must be allowed to play out. Only when the time is right will Duplais and I and our allies, known and unknown, find the resources to undermine these mysteries. I’ve come to believe he’s right, lord, as deeply as I’ve ever believed anything. But I would feel much better about it all if the King of Sabria and my noble bodyguard were watching, as well, prepared to come drag us out.”
The fire snapped, its last burst of energy before fading out. Having poured out so many words, I felt as if I were fading, too.
The king’s cold anger was more fearsome than his earlier outburst. “So you would have me send Eugenie into this obscenity? I will not.”
“No. They couldn’t have based their plan solely on the queen.” The conclusion had come to me as I outlined the plot. “Antonia’s aims are irrelevant to their larger purpose, and your actions could never have been entirely predictable. They must have an alternative . . . vessel . . . in mind—another woman who will be there and prepared. Likely another captive. So we rattle them again by sending our lady somewhere safe with people you trust. Neither of you can go with her, else they’ll be suspicious right away. And by all means, don’t tell
me
where she’s taken! It’s a risk, but a safe one, I think. I’ll go with Derwin in the morning; that must be the plan to get me there. And then Duplais can do . . . whatever it is he believes will stop this. And you, sire, can bring down your full might on their heads when you get our signal—well, you’ll have to think of a signal, as I’m entirely out of ideas. But I don’t see that we have any choice in any of this. . . .”
me
where she’s taken! It’s a risk, but a safe one, I think. I’ll go with Derwin in the morning; that must be the plan to get me there. And then Duplais can do . . . whatever it is he believes will stop this. And you, sire, can bring down your full might on their heads when you get our signal—well, you’ll have to think of a signal, as I’m entirely out of ideas. But I don’t see that we have any choice in any of this. . . .”
Eventually I persuaded them to see it my way. Both were convinced I was mad. Likely I was. But they didn’t know Dante would be working with me. Dante was everything.
CHAPTER 38
27 OCET, PREDAWN
A
t half past fourth hour of the night watch, a small cadre of the Guard Royale rode out of the postern on their way to a new posting in Arabasca. Half an hour later, a carriage marked with the gold feathers of Enderia clattered out of the stableyard and through one of Castelle Escalon’s minor gates. The gate guards took no note of passengers other than the hysterical Marquesa Patrice, who was called to her ailing sister in Challyat, and the physician trying in vain to comfort her . . . though they might have observed a tall serving girl asleep in the corner. I didn’t witness these occurrences, but I had helped plan them.
t half past fourth hour of the night watch, a small cadre of the Guard Royale rode out of the postern on their way to a new posting in Arabasca. Half an hour later, a carriage marked with the gold feathers of Enderia clattered out of the stableyard and through one of Castelle Escalon’s minor gates. The gate guards took no note of passengers other than the hysterical Marquesa Patrice, who was called to her ailing sister in Challyat, and the physician trying in vain to comfort her . . . though they might have observed a tall serving girl asleep in the corner. I didn’t witness these occurrences, but I had helped plan them.
“Have we disrupted the divine order by sending Geni away?” said Ilario as we watched the wheeling stars from his balcony. “What if we’ve thwarted Portier’s mission here in the world, and he dies truly . . . forever . . . forbidden to come back? Cult teachings are ambiguous when it comes to failure.”
“I’m the last one to ask about divine order,” I said, fingering the king’s little signal packet. “But it seems to me that the very definition of saints, according to your beliefs, implies they are a random influence in the world, directed by their own innate sense of what is right. So, Portier chose his risk. If your sister had been more than halfway lucid, I would have said let her choose her own role in this, as well. But she’s too much under the influence of poisons and fertility charms, incense and ghosts. Physician Roussel will see to her health, and Lady Patrice to her wellbeing. I hope they’ve taken her somewhere winters are mild.”
The cadre of the Guard Royale—Philippe’s handpicked ten—would meet Patrice’s carriage outside Merona’s gates and escort it neither to Arabasca nor Challyat, but to a place far from Voilline. The king told Roussel and Patrice only that he had received threats on Eugenie’s life and chose to keep her journey and her refuge secret. They surely suspected more.
How odd it was to find so many friends at Castelle Escalon, against all expectation. None better than the extraordinary man standing next to me.
“I’d best go now, lord chevalier,” I said. “Derwin’s sent me a gown the color of a frog’s belly, a
modesty veil
that’s the size and quality of a fishnet, and a flask of his favored perfume, which smells like rotted seaweed. My toilet will take some time and a strong stomach.” Two hours remaining. I needed some time to breathe.
modesty veil
that’s the size and quality of a fishnet, and a flask of his favored perfume, which smells like rotted seaweed. My toilet will take some time and a strong stomach.” Two hours remaining. I needed some time to breathe.
“Saints mercy, damoselle.” Ilario’s face crumpled. “I think I’d rather face my foster mother when she discovers Geni gone than that disgusting wretch. Portier will have a deal to answer for when this is over, convincing you to proceed with whatever these devils plan.”
“Voilline is but three hours’ ride. You’ll have to deal with Antonia for much longer. Lord, you must watch your back when they come for the queen.” Antonia couldn’t abduct the Queen of Sabria on her own. “I’ll be anxiously awaiting my noble rescuer.” I waggled the small packet of crystals that would make any fire burn green.
“I’ve a lifetime’s practice watching my back.” He walked me to the wall. The panel remained open from our arrival half an hour since. “Can you find your way? I’m thinking to catch some sleep while I can. Dama Antonia is an early riser.”
“First right turn. Down three steps and right again. Second left turn. Fifteen metres and look for the latch. Divine grace, good lord.”
“Exactly so.” He bowed and kissed my hand, merry blue eyes peeking up through his flaxen hair. “But truly, Damoselle Anne, any lovely lady I entertain in my chambers in the predawn hours must call me Ilario.”
And before I could laugh at him, he raised my hand to his forehead. “May you find the grace of the divine, the courage of all saints, and all angels’ blessings this day.”
ILARIO’S MOMENT OF GRACE WAS but a single treasure in a chest of worries. My accounting of Raissina Nialle’s evidence had been more than enough to induce my goodfather to halt my marriage. But he refused to issue his denial of consent until I returned to his custody. If I agreed to ride out with Derwin without being legally betrothed, I would be labeled harlot and ineligible for any decent marriage. Though I preferred the title
harlot
to
betrothed wife of Barone Gurmeddion
, my goodfather was adamant, and I had tested his patience enough. Titles would not change what was to come—for better or worse.
harlot
to
betrothed wife of Barone Gurmeddion
, my goodfather was adamant, and I had tested his patience enough. Titles would not change what was to come—for better or worse.
While traversing the quiet route from Ilario’s rooms, I tried again to speak with Dante, but could not touch him even so slightly as before. Was he already gone to Voilline? To inquire of his whereabouts among the householders would be as subtle as setting geese loose in the east wing. Anyone in the palace could be Antonia’s spy. The more I considered my
friend’s
identity, the more stupid I felt. How could I possibly trust him?
friend’s
identity, the more stupid I felt. How could I possibly trust him?
“Damoselle de Vernase!” As I angled into the main passage, a youth from the steward’s office hailed me softly from the stair. “I’ve letters.”
“Post messengers must travel on the night wind,” I said, curious at the sizeable stack.
“Nay, damoselle. These were actually held for Sonjeur de Duplais, but he instructed Secretary de Sain that if he was out of the palace for more than a day to forward his post to you. The secretary heard you were to be leaving this morning, so he says I should bring them early.”
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