Authors: Carol Berg
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction
The Soul Mirror (69 page)
“Undeath, death, and life,” I murmured.
“Sante Ianne’s holy mystery,” said Roussel at my shoulder.
The leftmost circle was centered by a deep rectangular basin. A system of stone troughs seemed designed to divert the myriad seeps from their natural channels off the mountainside to feed it. Both channels and basin were dry. Beside the basin sat a slab exactly the size of the opening.
A raised stone platform stood in the middle ring. Centered on the platform, a metal plaque or plate gleamed in the sunlight.
In the rightmost circle, a single, small azinheira grew right out of the rock. The breeze swayed its pendulous lower branches, the dark leaves trailing on the stone tableland. Ever green, the azinheira was the tree that blazoned Sabria’s ensign, the sign and seal of my goodfather’s kingdom. On the otherwise barren rock it spoke everything of tenacious life.
Though nothing moved on the tableland save windblown rags and azinheira branches, we had come to the right place. My skin itched; wind teased my hair, tickling my ears with ghostly fingers. Every sense cried out that something lived here beyond sun and wind and tree, and that if I would just look a little deeper, listen a little more carefully, touch a little more reverently, I would plumb the world’s mysteries.
Friend, can you hear me? I’ve come to Voilline.
For the tenth time since leaving Sessaline, I opened myself to the aether. On the road, the farther we were from Merona, the more the mindstorm had settled into a quiet murmur, like twittering birds on a summer morning or the brush of falling leaves when walking an autumn wood. But here, in this vast and mystic wilderness, I felt as if I stood in the Plas Royale on Feste Morde, two hundred thousand drunken Sabrians wailing for loved ones dead and the coming of winter. But none of them was Dante.
For the tenth time since leaving Sessaline, I opened myself to the aether. On the road, the farther we were from Merona, the more the mindstorm had settled into a quiet murmur, like twittering birds on a summer morning or the brush of falling leaves when walking an autumn wood. But here, in this vast and mystic wilderness, I felt as if I stood in the Plas Royale on Feste Morde, two hundred thousand drunken Sabrians wailing for loved ones dead and the coming of winter. But none of them was Dante.
I needed his voice. Doubts lingered on my palate like the taste of bad fish.
Somewhere the Aspirant waited for sunset. One of the pennons flying from the prayer poles was striped green and black—the colors of Demesne Delourre, once known as the Grande Demesne Gautier.
“This is a fascinating place,” said Roussel, offering me first pick of two rocks to sit on. Even in such vastness, we needed to stay low. “The columns are marble. Some say the Cinnear floated them down the river from the quarries in Coverge, then hauled them here with teams of mules. The basin is called Eilianna’s Sink. It’s named for the woman the Creator charged to wash Ianne and soothe his thirst in the years he was chained to the mountain. She lived in one of the caves, it’s said. Several of them are quite deep.”
“You’ve been here before?” He’d not mentioned it at the shrine.
“My father, as I said, was a believer, and brought me here as a boy. No matter one’s own doubts about the holy cosmos, it raises your neck hairs to stand around the bonfires in the center circle on Ianne’s Rock and hear the Cultists chanting. Or to see the echoing bonfires lit on the Ring.”
“The Ring Wall, Germond de Gautier’s magical defense . . .”
“Aye.” He pointed to the pinnacles beyond the rift. “Every few hundred metres along the ridgeline—wherever they could find a saddle or a flat spot large enough to hold wood for a b-bonfire and a few spelled artifacts, they built a small defense work. They hoped to make it a c-continuous boundary to provide safe shelter from their attackers, but it was destroyed before it was completed. With a spyglass you can pick out their ruins from the rest of the rock. Now, are you ever going to tell me what we’re doing here? Why would anyone need rescuing from the Saint’s holy place?”
I didn’t want to tell him. This place . . . the eerie quiet . . . the sense of things unseen . . . had my nerves jangled and my skin buzzing. Yet I needed a way into the game, and I’d come up with no alternative. The physician’s enveloping admiration, his half-hidden smiles, his warm and eager solicitation promised he’d do whatever I asked. But justice demanded I tell him what he risked.
“An unholy rite of sorcery will take place down there in the circles tonight. I know this sounds preposterous, but its purpose is to engulf Sabria in chaos. I aim to stop it.”
“Stars’ g-glory! Sorcery? I didn’t think you even believed . . .”
“I’m not sure what I believe anymore. But these people are murderers who plot the world’s ruin. I’ve some skills . . . language skills . . . that might help defeat their plan, so I must be there. Unfortunately I can’t appear to be there of my own will, else I’d never ask you.”
“P-please don’t apologize.” He cupped my hands in his larger ones and gazed down at me, his well-proportioned face sober. “I am honored, lady. You truly would put yourself in my p-poor hands?”
“Your hands are most capable, physician. There are few I’d trust so well.”
He leaned down, his gray eyes sparkling, not at all shy today. “In t-truth, damoselle, I’ve not seen such adventure since I was fifteen, when my life turned in upon itself and left me this self-absorbed island of study and work. I’ve needed a challenge. And I c-cannot think of a person I’d rather share it with.”
A month previous, or a tenday, Ganet de Roussel would have been everything I could ask for in a man—kind, good-humored, modest, intelligent, a big, well-favored man whose imperfection of speech only made his charm more human. I should grasp what he offered, relish it and hold it precious as we embarked on the dangers to come. That my thoughts kept drifting to an arrogant, half-mad, unrepentant villain of a sorcerer was lunacy. Yet Roussel seemed like the reflected image in a mirror glass, neither so marvelously vivid nor so painfully flawed nor so filled with passionate life as the quiet scholar who spoke in my mind. So I pretended I didn’t understand him.
My companion’s earnest kindness unknotted one thread of anxiety, at least. “All right, then. As soon as we see someone preparing”—or as soon as I could exchange a word with Dante—“we’ll do as I proposed at the beginning. You’ll bind my hands and take me down there. While I struggle and protest, you’ll barter with them, telling the story we’ve agreed on. Keep your distance, though. If they refuse to pay or give you any reason to believe they don’t trust you, you must leave. Without question. Without argument. Without
me
. These are not gentlemen, but ruthless rogues and murderers. Promise me, Ganet de Roussel.”
me
. These are not gentlemen, but ruthless rogues and murderers. Promise me, Ganet de Roussel.”
“Obviously there’s no point in arguing that
you
have no place among ruthless rogues and murderers, either. But I do wish you’d tell me what in the name of perdition an intelligent young woman with no training in magic thinks to do about such dire events. I am a man of science, and I very much dislike risking your life—or mine—by going in blind.”
you
have no place among ruthless rogues and murderers, either. But I do wish you’d tell me what in the name of perdition an intelligent young woman with no training in magic thinks to do about such dire events. I am a man of science, and I very much dislike risking your life—or mine—by going in blind.”
His rueful expression dredged a smile from my worries. “If all goes well, I’ll tell you everything,” I said. “If it goes badly, then nothing I could say will matter.”
He sighed in resignation. “Does anyone ever win arguments with you? We’d best discuss something more pleasant than venal sorcerers. That day in the royal bedchamber you mentioned de Vouger’s theories. . . .”
As we awaited some sign of life in the pillared circles, we kept our heads down on the breezy ridgetop, drinking from his water flask, eating the remainder of our bread and cheese, speaking no more of magic or the ruin of the world. Instead we talked of physics, and how strange it was that an anvil, the filled water flask, and a tiny pebble would land in the rift at exactly the same moment if we dropped them from the edge of Ianne’s Bench at the same time.
“The wind would make a difference, of course,” he said. “The lighter objects could be slowed by the wind. One has to consider the ideal. . . .”
It rankled when he doubted I really understood how this applied to planetary movements, but I exposed the fundamental principles as Dante and I had explored them.
“Well-done, damoselle! As clearly as the astronomer himself could explain it.”
“I’ve a teacher who explained it
better
than de Vouger did in his own writing.” My mind drifted in that dangerous direction again. “Weren’t you going to check on the horses half an hour ago? The daylight wanes.”
better
than de Vouger did in his own writing.” My mind drifted in that dangerous direction again. “Weren’t you going to check on the horses half an hour ago? The daylight wanes.”
“Ah, you send me on errands instead of letting me refute your premise. But I’ve come to serve. Perhaps your nefarious sorcerers chose not to work their scheme today.” The creases in his brow belied his light tone. He kissed my hand and vanished back the way we’d come.
Indeed the sun was getting perilously close to the spiny tops of the ridge across the chasm. The wind was cooling rapidly. If all went according to plan, my goodfather and his men would find their way up here to Ianne’s Hand as soon as it was dark, and on my signal would swoop down and take the Aspirant and his henchmen prisoner. By that time we would know the Aspirant’s identity. The Queen of Sabria and—if I was lucky, her maid of the bedchamber—would remain inviolate. De Vouger’s principles of objects in motion would remain stalwart.
Head resting on my drawn-up knees, I again lowered the walls in my mind to reach for Dante. The mindstorm had swelled to a raging hurricane, battering, stretching, lacerating thought.
Friend, I’m here. Roussel rescued me from Derwin and will play the mercenary to bring me in. Where are you?
Friend, I’m here. Roussel rescued me from Derwin and will play the mercenary to bring me in. Where are you?
After only a few moments, I was ready to give up.
Gods, you’re here!
His voice sliced through the tumult.
We had a report that Antonia was dead and you were taken north with that . . . abomination.
His blunt horror and outrage and relief warmed my blood, more even than Roussel’s mannered gallantry.
They’ve kept me buried in trivial work all day, so I’ve just now got to work at the book, and it’s damnably obscure. No fear the Aspirant will have scrounged it from me beforetime, even if he deigns to show his face this moment. You say the physician is here with you? Never imagined he’d discomfort himself for anyone. How—?
His voice sliced through the tumult.
We had a report that Antonia was dead and you were taken north with that . . . abomination.
His blunt horror and outrage and relief warmed my blood, more even than Roussel’s mannered gallantry.
They’ve kept me buried in trivial work all day, so I’ve just now got to work at the book, and it’s damnably obscure. No fear the Aspirant will have scrounged it from me beforetime, even if he deigns to show his face this moment. You say the physician is here with you? Never imagined he’d discomfort himself for anyone. How—?
I couldn’t wait. One question trumped all others.
Please, my father?
Please, my father?
This time he withdrew, in our way, shaping his words carefully.
He will hurry this to its end. They’ve bled him . . . four years.
He will hurry this to its end. They’ve bled him . . . four years.
Thank you for your honesty.
I held my grief to feed anger. If that was the only way I could rouse Mondragon magic, then so be it.
What of Ambrose and Portier?
I held my grief to feed anger. If that was the only way I could rouse Mondragon magic, then so be it.
What of Ambrose and Portier?
Portier’s here.
A shiver of outrage reminded me this was Dante.
No hint of your brother. But these caves are bottomless, and I’ve the notion that there are more prisoners than I’ve seen. Can you see the circles of pillars?
A shiver of outrage reminded me this was Dante.
No hint of your brother. But these caves are bottomless, and I’ve the notion that there are more prisoners than I’ve seen. Can you see the circles of pillars?
Yes. And I read the missing page and believe I’ve an understanding of it. Portier is supposed to die—or not—in the leftmost circle.
Aye.
Urgency bound his every word.
I’ll place you close to him. You must convince him to hold on. I’ll keep him breathing, if he can just not yield to what they do . . . what we do. When he followed the false trail, knowing well it could be their trap, he consented to be used. But he must
not
consent to die. Tell him a
student
must trust and obey his master. That exactly.
Urgency bound his every word.
I’ll place you close to him. You must convince him to hold on. I’ll keep him breathing, if he can just not yield to what they do . . . what we do. When he followed the false trail, knowing well it could be their trap, he consented to be used. But he must
not
consent to die. Tell him a
student
must trust and obey his master. That exactly.
I will. What else?
I hungered to get on with this. At the same time, I felt a pleasing ripple of ferocity that was not my own. His melded with mine, strengthening it as braided rope becomes stronger than the sum of each strand.
I hungered to get on with this. At the same time, I felt a pleasing ripple of ferocity that was not my own. His melded with mine, strengthening it as braided rope becomes stronger than the sum of each strand.
Stay open to the mindstorm, no matter what. It wears, but you’ve reserves you’ve never tapped.
Believe
that. When I tell you, think of that page you read. Draw it on the canvas of your mind—every detail you can remember. I’ll see it, and it will be much faster than trying to explain it in words. I must stay ahead of them. Anything you can do to that end is good. And be prepared for anything. Despite the news of the witch’s betrayal, Kajetan wears an unhealthy smirk. Gods . . . must leave off—
Believe
that. When I tell you, think of that page you read. Draw it on the canvas of your mind—every detail you can remember. I’ll see it, and it will be much faster than trying to explain it in words. I must stay ahead of them. Anything you can do to that end is good. And be prepared for anything. Despite the news of the witch’s betrayal, Kajetan wears an unhealthy smirk. Gods . . . must leave off—
He broke off abruptly, before I could tell him that Eugenie would not arrive. He would likely be furious at my changing the plan, but I still believed it the right choice. As for the king . . .
The wind seemed to urge the encroaching shadows more swiftly now. Why had my goodfather left the palace early? Had he changed his mind about letting this move forward?
I scanned the hillside behind me. Where was Roussel? Maybe he had found better grazing for the horses. Exposed grass was sparse in the maquis, only a few little patches between the rocks.
I tried to assuage my guilt at drawing Roussel into this. The Aspirant wouldn’t care about him. He had no blood mark on his hand. But if the physician insisted on staying close to help once I was in the Aspirant’s hands, he needed to know about the king and our signal. Perhaps I should give him my knife, still strapped to my thigh beneath the vile Gurmedd gown. Perhaps I should give him some of Lianelle’s potion and tell him how to use it.
I reached under my jacket to make sure the vials remained secure and undetectable to anyone searching me. One was bound with my breasts, one in the rolled waist of my underskirt. In my fumbling, my fingers came across a thin packet of folded papers, limp with old sweat.
Stars of night, Duplais’ letters. The abrupt departure with Dagobert had completely erased them from my mind. I stuffed the notes from tailors and merchants under a thornbush and devoured the others. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Until I opened one addressed to
Libarean Duplais
and smoothed it on my knee to read . . .
Libarean Duplais
and smoothed it on my knee to read . . .
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