Sworn To Secrecy: Courtlight #4 (24 page)

“Maradian’s dead.”

The man turned around. “Leah, leave her. The fire will consume her. She cannot escape my bonds.”

And so they left Lillian Weathervane on the floor. Alive but trapped as the fire caught wind in the night and spread to the pillows, the blankets, and the fallen empress. And the vision slowly faded out until they all stood in the lord chamberlain’s quarters once again, dazed and confused.

Voices with questions interrupted from all over, but they all boiled down to one.

Vana asked quietly, “How did you survive?”

Lillian lifted her head with a smile. “That is a question for another day.”

“Who is Maradian?” asked Caemon.

Lillian looked at her son and then at Prince Heir Sebastian, who was tense and pale, his green eyes standing out like ovals in his face as he answered Caemon, “My uncle.”

“Your uncle?” asked Ciardis. “What uncle?”

Sebastian turned to her, “The firstborn son of my grandfather, Emperor Cymus. Maradian Athanos Algardis. He was supposed to have died years ago.”

“But his body was never found,” said Lillian softly as she stared into the eyes of the young man before her.

“So in summary, some projection-cloaked man and the future duchess of Carne killed the Empress of Algardis on the orders of the Princess Heir Marissa Athanos Algardis, her sister-in-law?” said the lord chamberlain.

Lillian’s lips twitched in amusement. “If only it were that simple.”

“What else is there, Mother?” Caemon asked.

“I know the identity of the cloaked man,” Lillian whispered, “and so does the Emperor of Algardis.”

Sebastian stood abruptly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying your father knows who really killed Teresa, but, like his wife before him, he refuses to believe.”

Carefully, the lord chamberlain asked, “Lillian, are you saying the cloaked man was the Princess Heir Marissa in disguise?”

Hollow laughter rang out. “No, I’m saying that the cloaked man was the former prince heir of the realm, His Imperial Highness Maradian Athanos Algardis.”

Silence thickened in the air.

“That can’t be,” said Stephanie.

“How do you know?” wondered Caemon.

“Are you feeling well?” speculated Christian.

Only Ciardis and Sebastian were silent as everyone else talked around them. Ciardis saw disbelief in Sebastian’s eyes.

“Mother,” Ciardis said slowly. Everyone quieted.

“How do you know it was the Prince Heir Maradian?” Ciardis said. “The mage himself said only the empress and his brother could identify him.”

“That is because his imperial blood allows him to cloak his features from even the highest of mages. It is a gift from the land usually not employed by the imperial line but available in emergencies or war,” Lillian said shortly. “But I know because Teresa knew. As the emperor’s wife, she could see through his cloak. And in her last moments she looked to me and she signed the letters of his name.”

“Signed?” asked Stephanie carefully.

Lillian gave out a short laugh—a bark, really—as she struggled to hold back her emotions. “Teresa and I had a secret code. We used sign language and would spend hours at court spelling out letters for words like ‘buffoon’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘ugly’ during court functions. It passed the time. This time it came in handy.”

“How did you end up accused of the empress’s murder?” asked Thanar in fascination.

“I was the last person to see Teresa alive after she dismissed her courtiers. Those who lingered saw the guards rush in after she shouted at me. They saw me being escorted out. But they never saw me leave. The outer chamber doors closed before the rest happened, and none saw the future duchess of Carne enter.”

Silence reigned for a tense moment. Silently and emotionally, the twins leaned forward and hugged their mother. For now that was all she needed.

T
he next morning Lillian, Sebastian, Stephanie, and Caemon left the manor to secure their new place of living. Ciardis had insisted she wanted to come, but they had all had various excuses for why she should stay at the manor and, if possible, abed. Although they had managed to avoid talking about why, they were careful to extract the promise of bed rest from her and made sure that she had no intentions of leaving home before they returned. She had grumbled but assented. There was nowhere that she wanted to go right now that wouldn’t turn into a situation that ended badly anyway.

When they left, she had stared at the ceiling of her room as her anger built and grew and ice started to form in a crystallized pattern on the wallpaper above her head. When she realized that the crystal formations were her doing, the power of the Cold Ones residing in her right hand, she got up off the bed and paced around the room. It was a power that she often forgot about, and in contrast to her natural gifts as a Weathervane, which she felt she had a good handle on, it was a mess of a gift at best. Luckily, with each use of the Cold Ones power the reserve in her hand seemed to diminish greatly. Soon it would be completely gone. But for now it was not. And she smiled with odd satisfaction as she watched her feet not only wear a path into the floor but also leave charred imprints in her wake. Making a note to herself, she had to admit that this power was quite versatile. So far she had created a
geist tor
in the mines of Sarvinia, a powerful blast of force when attacked, formed ice crystals in her room, and charred the wood beneath her feet.

But it did nothing to satisfy the anger inside of her. So she left. She felt that after the emotional trauma of yesterday’s revelations, she really needed to beat something up, pound it to the ground, and shake it until it screamed. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know where. But she did know that wherever it was would be better than setting fire to her host’s roof.

As she was hurrying downstairs, Christian had taken one look at her, closed his book, taken her by the elbow, and escorted her to the kitchens. He had explained kindly to the cook that they would take over from the young pot boy currently pounding yams into oblivion. The pot boy certainly hadn’t objected. They had spent a fine morning mashing and smashing with mindlessly abandon. By the time they were done Ciardis was exhausted, her shoulders felt like limp noodles, and her hands ached from the constant grip on the tools.

But she was laughing. Not really at a specific thing, but at her general situation. Laughing and crying at the madness of a former laundress turned companion trainee turned kitchen helper who also happened to be the daughter of an insane and powerful Weathervane who was on trial for murder and general mayhem. And she happened to be in love with the prince heir of the realm.

A fact which she had no intention of ever telling said prince heir.

Christian smiled and reached over to wipe a fleck of burnt orange yam from her cheek with a smile. “You’re beautiful when you smile.”

Ciardis caught her breath, her throat still raw from laughing so hard, as she wiped her hands on the cloth he handed her. “I haven’t had much to smile about lately, have I?”

He grinned. “Not many of us have.”

Their conversation was brought to a halt when a servant skipped into the kitchen and yelped. Turning to look Ciardis saw a wooden ladle raised in the servant’s face as the cook wielding it said, “No running in my kitchen!”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said while rubbing her hand. Carefully she walked over to Christian and Ciardis. She was still practically bouncing with energy.

She said with a lisp, “New package for you, miss. Head butler said not to bring it into the kitchen. Would get dirty.”

“He told you right,” said Christian with amusement as he took off the apron around his waist. “It’s best that we go to it.”

The young girl nodded solemnly.

To the cook he said with a bow, “Your mashed yams await.”

The woman’s ruddy cheeks blushed a scarlet red as she snapped a towel at him. “Off with you now.”

And so they arrived in the semi-erect parlor with splotches of yam on their clothes and grins on their faces.

As Ciardis took the package from the footman with a pensive look, her grin came to an abrupt halt. As soon as the package touched her hands, it began to vibrate and clang.

Frowning, Ciardis gripped it uneasily. As the sound grew sharper, she had no choice. She untangled the twine and ripped the butcher’s paper from its hold around the contents. In her hands sat a mechanical construction. Tiny metal circles upheld on coiled springs began to pop in and out of place on the top as Thanar followed the sound into the parlor.

“What in the world?” Ciardis said, holding it at a distance.

Thanar had no answer. He stared at it in confusion and vague distaste.

“I think it’s one of those mechanical contraptions. The ones that move on their own and run on fuel,” Ciardis ventured.

“Why is it making that god-awful sound?” Christian complained. He had retired to a wingback chair. Ciardis felt a brief moment of regret for having him expend so much energy in the kitchens with her. He looked exhausted, with tired lines on his face and black circles under his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have come with me to the kitchens,” she said. “Now I’ve exhausted you and you’ve still haven’t gotten over your last healing.”

Christian waved a hand to dismiss her objections. “It’s not something you can really get over. I should be better in a few hours.”

She nodded and turned back to the contraption in her hand as she answered his original query. “I don’t really know why it’s clanging and clapping so. But I do know it could have only been made by one person. The companion who’s infamous for them. She’s already made her own patron a fortune by making and selling them. They always do one specific task, like keeping time or heating water. And they are very expensive to make.”

She thoughtfully turned the small object around and around. It was built on top of a round wooden platform that served as the contraption’s base and composed one-third of its size. Atop the polished wooden base were springs and coils and metal plates placed in no particular order that she could possibly discern. But slowly she realized that the solid rectangles made out of silver were buildings and the copper objects were in fact symbols.  Symbols of what, she had no idea.

As the objects took shape in her mind’s eye she realized what locations they represented. One by one she pointed them out internally. She was certain she was right when she could point the Palace of the Sun, the emperor’s main residence in the eastern quadrant. Thanar came up and stared closely at it. “It’s a perfect replica of Sandrin.”

“How is that possible?” Ciardis wondered aloud.

“A lot of time, a lot of effort, and a year’s hard work is what I’d guess,” said the lord chamberlain.

As they watched, the buildings popped up and down in unison as if to grab their attention and then Thanar shifted his stance, his wings folded closer to his body, and the sun hit the mechanical contraption at just the right angle. The light poured through a tiny glass circle atop a tower and the angle of the sun’s ray settled on one particular building.

“What does it mean?” Thanar asked dubiously.

“I think it’s a clue—a clue to a place of importance to the princess heir.”

“Or it could just be a weird ray of sun in a piece glass on a mechanical contraption made out of bronze. A toy.”

This time Ciardis was firm. She shook her head. “The emperor said it was of importance. He wouldn’t have sent this object otherwise.”

Her mind was made up. She was going to the place on the mechanical map. Stepping around Thanar, she exited the manor.

“Hold it, Ciardis,” said Thanar in exasperation. “You’re not going alone.”

Disconcertingly he followed right behind her like a shadow that wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“I thought I was clear. I don’t need your help.”

“And I was clear: I came to the courts to rend them asunder. Right now, I’d love to set fire to those lovely halls and see everyone in them die a fiery death. But as much as I don’t wish to admit it, I’m not in the best shape to take the palace by storm. Which leaves me one other option—to do my best to make the courts fall apart around imperial ears and bringing the princess heir’s diabolical plans to light will certainly go a long way to those goals.”

“I don’t think so,” she said dubiously. “Even for you, that’s a stretch.”

“I’m going—I insist.”

“Your agreement is with my mother. Go help
her
."

“No.”

She whirled on her heel and said, “Then let me be blunt, Prince. I haven't forgotten what you did in the Sanctuary.”

“Neither have I,” he said sarcastically.

“You killed hundreds of innocent kith for your own ends. You’re an unrepentant murderer,” she continued resolutely. “One that I won’t be associated with it.”

“Unless it suits your own ends,” he said dryly, “such as healing your brother and your bodyguard.”

“Stop mocking me,” she said while stamping her feet impatiently.

He folded his arms with a smirk that said,
But you make it so easy
. She narrowed her eyes and her lips almost twitched into a smile. She quickly stamped that down - she couldn't let him get under her skin.

He sighed, “Look Golden Eyes, the emperor has given you a short deadline. You have less than a day before your mother goes on trial and he pronounces her execution. Unless you gather and present the evidence before then that will reveal the princess heir’s efforts to undermine this empire. Evidence that has been buried and forgotten for at least a year.”

She didn’t look convinced as much as pained.

Then he added, “And I can fly.”

Her eyes grew big and her mouthed opened and closed. Ciardis was ready to object but knew that he had presented a valid argument. At least for now.

“Let’s go,” she said grumpily.

He grinned and bowed low with arm outstretched. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

“We need to go to the Weaver’s District,” she said.

“And so we shall.”

Sighing, Ciardis stepped forward into his personal space and he picked her up, spread his wings, and lifted into the sky while cradling her in his arms.