Authors: Carol Berg
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction
The Soul Mirror (68 page)
No one stepped out. Even his assertion of houses seemed doubtful. The ill-defined shapes could as easily be rocks as dwellings.
Derwin ordered a halt and dispatched his son and another man to inquire if this was Sessaline. Dagobert detached my lead rope, and Derwin shouted at the others to form up around me.
The men vanished. Everyone else stayed close. You could lose a legion in such a fog.
“Dimios’s balls!” A nearby warrior threw down his water skin and spat repeatedly. The skin’s contents splattered on the rutted roadway, droplets the size of eggs bouncing into the air, stretching and shifting like bubbles. Some dissolved into the fog that twined around the horses’ legs. Some settled on the man’s stained trousers, then rolled off slowly, shattering like glass when they struck dirt again. “What devil’s work is this?”
Devil’s work! Duplais had mentioned Sessaline when he was talking about the anomalies in the city—the exemplars of our new world under the Aspirant.
The warrior couldn’t stop swiping the back of his hand across his face. A few of the men laughed uncertainly, as if they thought someone had played a prank. Others backed away from him, their fingers twitching witch signs. Derwin, positioned at the front, stared into the fog ahead as if to will his men back with his booty.
Free of the lead rope, I nudged the mare gently.
Soon the barone sent two more men after the first. One returned immediately, stopping dead in his tracks when he confronted his lord.
Derwin slashed the man’s face with his crop. “I said get thee after, Vigger.”
“But, lord, I was walking straight ahead. Fog’s thick as mustard.”
I nudged the mare again toward the edge of the party. Bring her around and I would bolt, fog or no. Blind or no.
Some of the Gurmedd warriors began mumbling of withdrawal. Some simply shouted louder.
Just as I forced the mare a little farther beyond the group, I felt a firm tug on her bridle. A soft cluck was accompanied by, “Sshh.”
My stomach hollowed and I strained to see, but raised no alarm, allowing the unseen hand to lead me deeper into the fog. In moments the Gurmedd warriors were out of sight, and their calls to their comrades were muffled as with down pillows. Hands fumbled with my ankles, tugging fruitlessly at the straps. Then a sawing pressure released my right ankle.
Hurry . . . hurry . . .
I willed the indefinable bulk to get quickly to the other side of me, and the shouts of Derwin’s warriors not to change into warnings.
I willed the indefinable bulk to get quickly to the other side of me, and the shouts of Derwin’s warriors not to change into warnings.
As the strap on my left ankle fell free, I whispered, “Hands,” and held them as far down as I could reach.
A man’s sturdy, capable fingers found mine. A knife obligingly cut through the binding cord. As he held the mare’s head, I wrestled out of the damnable veil, threw it to the ground, and pulled out the zahkri.
“Now show me your face,” I said softly. If it was a Gurmedd, I’d shove the blade in his eye.
He moved closer, running his hand along the horse’s neck. Indeed I recognized the hand first—wide, well tended, a forest of curling hair—before his head of gray-streaked curls came into view. “Saint’s mercy,” I breathed. “Roussel.”
CHAPTER 39
27 OCET, MIDMORNING
T
he physician laid a hushing finger across his wide grin, then used it to shift my shaking knife blade away from his face. I swallowed my thanks and questions.
he physician laid a hushing finger across his wide grin, then used it to shift my shaking knife blade away from his face. I swallowed my thanks and questions.
He tugged on the bridle again. Slowly, quietly, we moved away. Saints please, we would not turn back on our tracks as the Gurmedd warrior had! But the physician seemed sure of his course, and before I knew it we came on his own horse tied to a metre post.
He motioned me to bend down. “Can you ride a b-bit more?”
“To Syanar, if need be.”
He squeezed my hand and mounted. We moved out at a painfully slow walk.
About the time we broke out of the fog into the watery sunlight, a bellow burst from behind us. “Witch woman! You’ll wear chains at your wedding, girl! Find her!”
“Shall we go, lady?”
Never had I experienced such a glorious gallop. Free of the fog, the veil, the bindings, and the vile Gurmedds, I could indeed have ridden to Syanar. We retraced the morning’s route, and almost before I knew it Sante Paolo’s Pillar rose in the distance. But my horse was laboring.
I shouted at Roussel to slow. “The mare’s blown,” I said, breathless myself. Though a glance over my shoulder evidenced no pursuit, my blood drummed with Gurmedd hoofbeats. The sprawling vineyards and fields left the road exposed.
He coaxed his own beast closer and peered at mine. “We’ll walk her. It’s not so far. You’ll soon be safe behind Merona’s walls.”
“I can’t stop at Merona.”
“But these Gurmedd—” He pursed his lips, frowning. “I can see there’s no arguing. A freeholder I know k-keeps a few horses not far from here. We’ll exchange and take the circuit road around the city, while you c-convince me not to turn you over to your g-goodfather’s safekeeping.”
“How in the name of Heaven are you here?” I said, taking advantage of the slower pace. “The queen—”
“She is quite safe. I’ve been watching the vile G-Gurmedd since learning of your prospects.” He ducked his head and lifted his shoulders in resignation. “There are advantages to b-being an invisible person. Last night I heard him bragging of his bargain with the Lady Antonia. I didn’t quite understand all of it, but . . . sometimes a man is forced to take action. Our mistress agreed.”
“Eugenie’s awake?” The morning took a yet brighter turn.
“She’d not been away from the p-palace a quarter hour before she shook off her stupor entirely. When I expressed my misgivings at your fate, she almost b-booted me out of the carriage to be on my way to your aid. I left her in the capable hands of the m-marquesa.”
“Bless you, sonjeur. I shall be forever grateful.” More than he could know.
He pointed to a stack of flat stones a few metres ahead. “Turn eastward at the cairn.”
A track led through a stripped vineyard, the golden leaves half fallen. On any other day, the poignant reminder of Montclaire and the season’s completion would have tempted me to dismount and wander for a while. But my father was waiting.
I urged the panting mare to yield a little more, as my thoughts raced ahead to Voilline. How could I surrender myself without raising the Aspirant’s suspicions?
“Be at ease, lady,” said Roussel, coming up from behind. “They’ll not catch us now.”
“It’s not entirely Derwin. There are other matters pressing . . . even more dangerous.”
“Heaven’s gates, is the king
c-complicit
in this marriage? I c-can’t believe he’d hold so hellish a grudge.”
c-complicit
in this marriage? I c-can’t believe he’d hold so hellish a grudge.”
“Not that at all. It’s—” Though relief and gratitude urged me to spew every detail, my friends had too many secrets I dared not reveal, even to my latest savior. Yet getting myself into play on my own was going to be difficult. A plan began to take shape. . . .
“Would you be willing to help me more, sonjeur? The circumstances would be far more dangerous than those you’ve just ventured.”
“I am at your service, of course. Our mistress c-commanded.” He bowed from his saddle. “Yet to accompany you into danger . . . I’ll confess, I’ve no d-defensive skills of any worth. Better I see you safe with friends or family who can help you.”
“I don’t want a warrior, and I cannot afford delay. I need to reach Mont Voilline by sunset. Though it sounds awful, I need you to
deliver
me to the people there, as if you overheard Antonia bragging of her betrayal and saw an easy way to improve a physician’s poor pay.”
deliver
me to the people there, as if you overheard Antonia bragging of her betrayal and saw an easy way to improve a physician’s poor pay.”
Shock struck him rigid. “Great heavens, lady, we’ve just g-got you out of slavery!”
“This is very different. A good friend is in mortal danger. The story would take me days to explain, but I swear to you, I am acting in the interests and with the consent of the King of Sabria.”
“The king’s consent?” He seemed to relax a bit. “Clearly I’ve missed some fascinating twist to your presence at Castelle Escalon. Your c-confidence honors me. Tell me what to do.”
With the expenditure of half an hour and a debt to a grizzled, taciturn hostler named Favreu, we were racing southward.
AUTUMN SUNLIGHT MANTLED THE FIELDS behind us in gold, as Roussel and I hiked up Mont Voilline’s northern shoulder, otherwise known as Ianne’s Hand. Warblers and woodchats twittered from atop rocks and shrubs, or startled as we approached, then settled back to harvesting the year’s crop of berries. Though the sun had gone from the east-facing hillside, the lingering heat still carried the resinous fragrances of the maquis: juniper and tree heath, leathery smilax and madder. Spiny leaves scratched our arms, and midges swarmed our ears and noses as we trod the narrow pilgrim path. Horses had come this way in the past hours. We’d hobbled our own mounts a few hundred metres down the slope so they’d not give us away.
The mendicant brother at the cult shrine in the village of Voilline had told us that Ianne’s Hand provided the best view of both the holy mount and the daemon-touched rift, as well as the easiest path to the site of the warrior saint’s imprisonment. He’d also cautioned that wise pilgrims would do well to keep away, for the sky had burned red the previous night, as if the Saint were at last cleansing the blood from his land.
My stomach fluttered in anticipation.
“The battle in the Voilline Rift effectively ended the Blood Wars,” I told Roussel as we approached the summit of the low ridge. “Two blood families almost exterminated each other that day. In the ensuing months the people of Sabria finished the job.”
“I’ve read a bit of history,” he said. “A dreadful day that was, here on holy ground. Some call the slaughter the greatest sacrilege ever committed.”
“Are you a Cultist?” I said, startled by the suddenly serious turn in his mood. He’d shown no particular reverence at the shrine. And throughout our long ride from Sessaline, our short stops to buy bread and cheese and rest the horses, and this sweltering climb, he had seemed singularly dedicated to bolstering my spirits. Laughing off incipient saddle sores, blistered feet, and uncomfortably unsuitable dress, he had professed simple delight at being outdoors in Sabria’s most glorious season.
“My father was a Cultist. I don’t subscribe to most of their trip-trap, but I do believe truths can be found in their legends. It doesn’t make sense that our essence would be lost when the heart stops. It’s one reason I chose to study medicine after years of other studies. I do find it fascinating that your mysterious mission brings us to the holiest site in cult lore and the holiest site in the history of magic.”
“Not the holiest,” I said as the delicious breeze of the heights welcomed us to the crest of Ianne’s Hand. “The most depraved . . .” And then the expansive landscape stole the rest of my argument, my questions, and my words.
On our left Mont Voilline bared its craggy white face to the westering sun, afire in gold light near blinding in its brilliance. Easy to see how stories might arise here of a courageous young man who breached Heaven to bring fire to humankind.
To our right and looping back to the west to form a U shape stood a palisade of jagged pinnacles, vertical bands of white stone and seamed vales thick with joint pines and prickly juniper. To the south—the open end of the U—Mont Voilline’s south shoulder fell away in long rills of white rock, like pale fingers plunging into the dusty green forest of Ardienne. Blue shadows had settled into the narrow vale between these bastions of stone—the rift.
A gentle slope led from our position on Voilline’s shoulder down to a sun-drenched tableland that jutted from the mountain’s sheer face before plummeting into the depths of the rift. This was the holy place, where pilgrims came to honor Sante Ianne. A black scar marked the scene of countless bonfires. Rags and ribbons fluttered from wooden poles jammed into cracks in the rock. Legend said that when the wind snatched the rotted fabric away, it was truly the Saint of Wisdom’s hand, answering the prayers of the one who tied it there.
Yet it was not the common exhibits of reverence that transfixed me, but the image of Lady Cecile’s stolen diagrams reflected upon the broad shelf. Thirty-six stone pillars, as ancient as Ianne’s story, stood in three giant rings set side by side.
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