The Ruined City (35 page)

“Listen to me, and listen well.” Her voice was still low and quiet, but cold as the end of time and space. “Some arcane force has taken hold of Vinzille. I feel it, I see it, and it is entirely real. He needs your help and he needs it now. Don’t speak to me of conservation, don’t prate of the greater good. Just do what you must to shield him. If you are his father, you’ll protect him. Now, will you go to him?”

He controlled his own impulse to yield. He had yielded to her too often—it was downright unmanly. Moreover, she was wrong about Vinzille; the boy was in no real danger. Affecting an air of patience, he replied, “I’ve already promised to examine him twenty-four hours hence, but I doubt that it will be necessary—he’ll have recovered before then. In the meantime, madam, try to control your hysteria.”

“I am far from hysterical, but you are making me very angry.” She took a deep breath. “Listen. I know next to nothing of arcane matters, but it doesn’t take a trained adept to see that this Overmind you seek to thwart has become a real presence
in our midst. I know that Vinzille is under Its influence now.”

“You know nothing of the sort. In one breath you rightly concede your own ignorance, then you turn around and—”

“I also know that you can shield him against that influence, should you so choose.”

“Even if that were true, I’m not certain it would be the wisest course.”

“Protecting your son would be unwise?”

“There is such a thing as overprotection. Would you lock the boy in a box, for his own good? Vinzille is destined for great things, but he’ll never reach his full potential unless he’s given a chance to confront and experience arcane force in the real world. Reading the scrolls and chronicles, memorizing and performing exercises, practicing in his father’s workroom—these activities teach and prepare him, but they’re not sufficient. You ask me to shield our son from the force of the Overmind? If anything, I’d increase his exposure—it will serve to strengthen him. He’ll be the better arcanist for it.”

Vinz was starting to feel better. With a few well-chosen words, he had simultaneously asserted and justified himself. He was no erring father, careless of his son’s safety. Rather, he was a wise guardian and instructor, guiding his talented boy to brilliant maturity. His aims were high and his judgment sound. He would have been downright pleased with himself, but for the look on his wife’s face. It was an expression he had often almost unconsciously looked for, even expected to find there—a glaze of chill contempt.

“No,” said Sonnetia.

Vinz felt the color flood his own face, and sought relief in anger. How dare she look at him and speak to him like that? Forcing himself to meet her eyes, he replied steadily enough, “Magnifica, you will accept my decision.”

“No,” she repeated. “Vinzille needs help. I intend to get it for him. If you won’t oblige, then I must seek elsewhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should think it’s clear enough. There are other arcanists here, with skills to equal yours. I’ll go to one of them. Innesq Belandor seems fond of Vinzille. He’ll not refuse me.”

“You stay away from Innesq!”

“The Taerleezis then. Pridisso and Zovaccio. Or even that odd girl Nissi. One or another of them will help.”

“You deceive yourself. They are my colleagues—my allies and peers, not yours. Do you seriously believe that any one of them would cross me in order to oblige you?”

“Yes, Magnifico. That is exactly what I believe. But we’ll soon know. I’m about to put it to the test.”

“I absolutely forbid it. You will not humiliate me, madam!”

“I’ve no desire to humiliate you. I only mean to help my son.”

Incredible
. She was openly and brazenly defying him. She was turning her back on him and walking away.

“Stay where you are,” he commanded.

She ignored him.

Vinz’s dismay was tinged with desperation. He did not know what to do, but one thing was clear—he could not countenance flagrant disobedience. She would never respect him if he allowed it; he had to act. His desperation boiled. Grasping her arm, he spun her around to face him. He did not hurt her, but certainly he had never in all their years together handled her so peremptorily, and he experienced a thrill of mixed trepidation and exhilaration.

“I told you to stay where you are,” he repeated, and his voice was excellent, convincingly assured and masterful.

“Take your hand off me.” Sonnetia’s voice remained quiet and well controlled. But her eyes—green speckled with brown like a forest brook, ordinarily cool and gracious as a forest brook—had caught fire.

It was astonishing. He had never seen her look like that, never dreamed that the calmly unreadable eyes could blaze with such unequivocal anger, and he checked the impulse to take a step backward. For a moment he wondered, almost
fearfully, what she might do. Some part of him had always wondered what would happen should her habitual self-control flag. But then, in truth, what
could
she do? He was not a large man, but he was certainly heavier and stronger than she. Moreover, as her husband, he had every legal and moral right to rule her. No, more than the right, it was his duty. Timidity and self-doubt had caused him to neglect his duty for years, but the time had come to correct that error.

“Silence,” Vinz Corvestri commanded. “You’ll listen and obey, else know my displeasure. You will curb your tongue and spare my colleagues your complaints. They’ve serious concerns to occupy their minds, they’ve no time for your vapors. As for my son, he’s well enough. He suffers from nothing more than a passing arcane incursion, too minor to address. I understand your fears, but you’ve reached the limit of my indulgence, and it’s time for you to accept reality. No more of tantrums and troubles. Hold your tongue, bide your time, and all will be well. Do you understand me?”

“I told you to take your hand off me.” Sonnetia’s voice was very quiet, but easily heard. “I also told you, not long ago, that I won’t tolerate abuse. If you’ve forgotten, I take the opportunity to remind you.”

Alarm shot through Vinz. He had seriously overstepped his bounds, and he should apologize at once. She was always magnanimous, and a display of sincere contrition was certain to purchase her forgiveness. But then, he had treated her with regard bordering upon reverence throughout the course of their marriage, and where was the good of it? Did she love him, admire him, or even respect him? She respected strength, and he had plenty. He would show her.

“Abuse?” His hand stayed where it was. “Woman, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Do you propose to teach me?”

It was a direct challenge, the first he had ever received from her. Her tone was perceptibly scornful, and his alarm grew. This exchange with his wife, which had begun with her simple
request for his help, had swiftly swollen into something larger and uglier than he had ever expected or intended. All he really wanted was to go back, start over, and do it differently, turn it into something controllable. But there was no going back, not without major self-abasement. If he backed down now, he was granting her the upper hand for all time to come, and she would despise him for it. The whole world would look down on him.

“Don’t provoke me.” Vinz took a deep breath, and the answer was clear before him. It had been there all along, had he only allowed himself to see it. “You will behave as a dutiful wife, discreet and sedate. You’ll not go pestering my colleagues. You’ll keep your idle imaginings to yourself.”

“If you wish to conduct a civilized discussion, you’ll release my arm. I won’t ask again.”

“Disobey me—spread rumor, sow doubt and fear—and you will be confined to the carriage. Moreover, you are apt to find your powers of speech suddenly curtailed, along with your ability to write. Do you hear me, madam?”

“I hear, but surely I mistake your meaning. You are not threatening to stop my voice with an arcane gag?”

The objectionable hand seemed to have been forgotten for the moment. She was still staring at him, but her expression had altered, disdain yielding to shocked incredulity. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, and some sort of guilty compunction stirred inside him, but Vinz pushed it away, for this was exactly the desired effect. More than time for her to see him at last for what he truly was—a personage of consequence, a magnifico of the Six, an arcanist of power and skill, and, above all, her rightful lord.

“I am telling you that I won’t tolerate defiance,” Vinz returned.

“Do you know what you are doing, Magnifico? Do you realize that you are contemplating a form of betrayal that I would never forgive?”

There it was, the threat that he most dreaded, spoken aloud
and out in the open. There was still time to apologize, but Vinz managed to conquer his weakness.

“Nobody is asking your forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive.” He released her arm. “I assume that you comprehend and will respect my wishes. Now leave me.”

For a moment she stood surveying him, then her jaw set and she retired without another word.

He had emerged as clear victor. Indeed, within the confines of their marriage all genuine power belonged to him, and always had. He had simply lacked the courage to use it, until now. Self-assertion, however, seemed to exact a curious price in depletion, much like the exercise of arcane skill. He found himself drained and oddly depressed. No matter. The unpleasant sensation was certain to pass quickly, and would no doubt lessen as he grew more accustomed to ruling his household.

But time passed, and his discomfort persisted. He saw nothing more of his wife. She did not share the evening meal with him, and he did not know where she was. Off somewhere sulking, probably. Trying to make him feel guilty, trying to make him feel small. She wouldn’t succeed.

The darkness deepened as the campfires sank. The travelers took themselves to their respective places of rest; well-appointed tents for the quality, bedrolls spread on the ground for the servants. Sonnetia was nowhere in evidence. Probably she had repaired to the Corvestri carriage to sleep, her refusal to share her husband’s tent a deliberate communication of her discontent. Well, she could nurse her ill humor for as long as she liked, and welcome.

Vinz stretched himself out upon a pallet furnished with clean linen, thick blankets, and a feather pillow. It was nearly as comfortable as his own much larger bed in the master suite of Corvestri Mansion, but sleep eluded him. The tent’s second pallet remained empty, and his mind roamed in search of its rightful tenant. Sleeping in the carriage, almost certainly, but
what if she had sought warmth and refuge elsewhere? Beneath some other canvas roof?
Aureste’s?

She had gone to him for help, not long ago. She had not turned to kin or to friends for assistance in securing her husband’s release from prison. She had run straight to Aureste Belandor.

And it had been a sound choice. The Magnifico Belandor had exerted his influence, receiving ample recompense in the form of the Magnifico Corvestri’s arcane services. It had been a simple, straightforward exchange of favors.

There were other men of wealth and power that she might have approached. But she had chosen Aureste Belandor.

Nonsense. Unjust suspicions of a faithful wife. She was in the carriage, or perhaps she was watching over Vinzille’s sickbed. No, probably not the latter, for Vinzille—granted a small tent to himself for the first time, and glorying in the novelty of private territory—would brook no maternal cosseting. He would not want her hovering over him, and Sonnetia would respect his wishes.

The night chilled around him, despite the good blankets, and Vinz remained wakeful, restless thoughts divided between wife and son. Sonnetia had exaggerated, of course. The boy could not be as sick as all that. It was some commonplace disorder, nothing more. But sleep did not come, and the ugly fancies cavorted in his head.

Around midnight, he rose from his pallet. Wrapping himself in a heavy cloak, he stepped out of the tent into an exceptionally clear night. For once, the mists were nearly absent. The moon, approaching fullness, was circular but for a slightly flattened section of its rim. The stars all but shouted.

A few yards apart from his parents’ spacious shelter stood Vinzille’s tent. Small, hardly enough space to accommodate anything more than an adolescent boy’s bedding, with a low entrance designed for crawling, or at least stooping. He went in, letting the canvas flap fall shut behind him.

A small compartment sewn into the lining of the cloak contained an ovoid tablet, which he drew forth and swallowed. The effects were almost immediate, and his mind opened like a rose in the sun that was the Source. There was no light within the cramped enclosure, but his surroundings were perfectly visible, down to the fine detail of loose thread at the edge of a patch in the canvas ceiling.

Vinzille lay sleeping, his slumber restless and uneasy, but profound. His father’s entrance had failed to wake him. Vinz knelt to examine the boy. For a few moments he simply observed with his enhanced vision, then laid a careful hand across his son’s brow. Vinzille stirred and mumbled, but slept on. His flesh was dry and hot; feverish, beyond doubt. Mundane or arcane?

Vinz directed his perceptions through the point of dermal contact deep into the boy’s sleeping consciousness and beyond, into the realm of dream, emotion, instinct, reflex. He looked, and comprehended at a glance. Sonnetia had been right—by sheer chance, no doubt, as she was no qualified judge, but her guess had been a good one. Vinzille’s first defenses had been breached, probably in some unguarded moment; he was still too young to avoid all such lapses. The penetration was superficial as yet, but would deepen if left unattended.

For now, treatment remained sure and simple. Vinz exerted his arcane self for the first time in days, with enjoyment and without remorse. It was, as Sonnetia had justly observed, a legitimate and necessary expenditure of power. When all was done, his sense of satisfaction easily outweighed the inevitable exhaustion. He looked down at his son, sunk in peaceful and healing sleep. Vinzille’s color was good, his breathing easy and even, his fever gone. A light arcane shield guarded the integrity of his being, and he would shortly receive additional instruction in the essentials of self-protection. For the moment, all was well.