The Soul Mirror (56 page)

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Authors: Carol Berg

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction

BOOK: The Soul Mirror
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“But for now we wait and gather crumbs while the Souleater’s servant tortures my brother.” I could not restrain my bitterness.
“Listen to me.” Duplais’ fervor—solid, substantial, healthy—passed through his hand to mine. “For four years I’ve gathered crumbs. I’ve investigated odd physical disturbances . . . every whisper of illicit sorcery, blood transference, strong magic, strange magic. I’ve studied all that’s known of Ixtador and the Veil, and traced every inquiry made about them at temples throughout the kingdom. A few times I felt I was close enough to feel the Aspirant’s breath whispering his plan in my ear. But every trail withered into nothing . . . until your extraordinary sister’s death. Lianelle did not die in vain, damoselle. She breached the Aspirant’s fortress of secrets, and you’ve become her worthy successor. We are so close to the end. Yes, I do sense it. I’ve this conviction—I wish I could convey how strongly I believe it—that we must not abort their scheme too early. It’s not just a matter of identifying the traitor at the center of an assassination plot. This work—this magic—touches on the very boundary between human and divine, between Creator and creation, on the mystery of our nature, of our future beyond this life. We
must
understand it all. Thus we must hold patience and keep our own secrets and follow this trail to its hard end. Let them grow more confident. Then we pounce.”
I hated his logic. I hated his faith. That his conclusions made sense left them no more acceptable.
“Antonia thinks to marry me off or kill me. But I must be at this culminating rite. To see . . .” To save my father.
“Antonia’s wishes are of no moment in the Aspirant’s scheme. Think, lady: You can open the
Book of Greater Rites
for Dante. Your brother and your father cannot. Dante would never have tested you in the Bastionne otherwise. Yet he could not have taken enough blood from you that night to translate the entire book. These vile magics ravage him, body and soul, and with Jacard banished, he has no one to take any share of the work. Yet Dante’s truer weakness is his inexperience with human beings. I see him watching you, and he cannot decide what you are. But for certain, he plans for you to be there.”
He laid my hands in my lap and retrieved his candle. “Don’t allow the Gurmedd wretch to touch you. But move carefully. Right now they believe nothing can stop them. How arrogant they are—walking Philippe’s palace while planning to rape his queen. It will be their undoing.”
“You’re a hard man, Duplais.”
“I wish it could be otherwise. But now I
must
go. I’ve other oaths to uphold besides the one I swore to the king at the beginning of all this, and I cannot fail. So cover my absence. Watch your back always. And let events unfold, leaving the damnable book where it is for now. I’ll be back by midday, and we’ll decide what to do about it. The Creator’s grace shield you, lady.”
Even fully awake, I scarce heard him go. I’d no chance to reciprocate his blessing or urge him to watch his own back.
Further sleep was impossible, especially as I considered all the things I should have told or asked Duplais. About Lady Cecile’s diagrams. About the shield bracelet. He ought to know about the possibility that my family was Mondragon, though it would likely harden his beliefs about my father. Midday, he’d said. The hours would crawl until he showed his face again.
Ixtador. If Dante could transport souls across the Veil and shape bodies for them, and if a revenant king could converse of favorite houses and hunting grounds, then what was to prevent Soren telling us the truth about the Realm of Trial and Journey or even what might lie beyond the Ten Gates to Heaven? The seduction of such knowledge was indisputable.
History recounted the games of kings and queens and those who challenged them. The prizes were never simple knowledge, even knowledge of the divine. The prize was always power—of land, of wealth, of sea routes or harbors, of subjugation, of numbers. I knew what power Antonia wanted, but Duplais seemed to share my notion of her as a pawn who would be sacrificed when the Aspirant made his play. What power did
he
seek? What would nobles pay to learn the secrets of the dead? A merging of the Temple and the Camarilla might serve as a balance to my goodfather’s temporal might. But at the trial Duplais had said they wanted chaos, not balance.
As ever my thoughts ran in circles far from my starting point. With a sigh I dragged my coverlet over to the window seat and settled there to await the sunrise. The hours before dawn were always the loneliest of the night.
I leaned my head on the window mullions, closed my eyes, and let the voices of the aether flow over and through me, battered but no longer terrified by the onslaught.
Are you there?
A faint sense of him—the pool of quiet solidity—held amid chaos. But he didn’t answer. Perhaps he was bent upon a mysterious errand or coaxing his queen back to health. More likely he was asleep, as any sensible person would be.
Far outside the maelstrom, the relentless tower bells warned me of approaching day. I’d need to be at Eugenie’s side by sixth hour to take Duplais’ place.
Someone’s seen to my injuries
, I said.
He had kind hands and knew exactly what to do. I feel ever so much better. So I wanted to thank you for your advice. And for caring.
I left it at that, hoping my friend would hear and feel my gratitude as he woke to greet the light.
25 OCET, SIXTH HOUR OF THE EVENING WATCH
“I’M SORRY, MY LADY. I’VE no idea where Duplais might be. I presumed he had discussed the schedule changes with you.” I threw open my hands in helpless surrender.
“Inexcusable.” Antonia dabbed her lips with a kerchief. An unsightly blister had erupted at the corner of her mouth, and no cosmetic had sufficed to hide it.
It had been difficult enough to pacify the dowager queen when I arrived instead of Duplais to relieve her and Ilario at sixth hour of the morning watch, but when I arrived again in the evening watch, she was ready to call up the palace bailiffs.
I
was ready to call in my goodfather’s legions.
“I’d wager he went shopping for flowers in the dawn market,” offered Ilario from the divan in the retiring room, where we had adjourned to discuss the matter. “He knows how Geni loves them, and this late in the season all the best ones are gone by seventh hour, though I’ve never seen how anyone could select flowers properly so early.” Ilario had taken my lead from the morning, offering excuses plentiful enough and ridiculous enough to confuse a sphinx.
“Idiot! Do you believe it’s taken him twelve hours to select a few flowers?”
I returned to the window and peered into the gloom. The gardens and maze beyond the windows were naught but a blurred tangle of green, gold, and autumn red obscured by a mournful drizzle. Despite my willing, the path from the stables and the carriage road remained deserted. “Wherever he’s gone, it’s likely the rain has delayed him.”
“That’s it!” chirped Ilario. “He’s trapped. Riverside markets turn into a bog with the slightest drizzle. When he extracts himself, I do wish he’d bring ale from the Baithook. It is the finest in the city—such a rich, earthy subtlety to it. Though merely stepping into the Baithook is enough to soil the roots of one’s hair, it is such a den of low and villainous scum. I scarce escaped with my life! I never could fathom why Gilles de Froux chose to meet me there last Cinq and then failed to come. I had kissed his sister’s hand and paid her a few compliments, and he said we should meet at the Baithook and discuss it over a tankard—”
“Still your tongue, fool, or I’ll have someone put a bit in your mouth.” Antonia stormed out, dispatching the chevalier to fetch one of Eugenie’s two night chamber attendants to take the watch with me. The damp had forced the gout-ridden Lady Eleanor to her bed.
I lit a few candles and dampened a sponge with wine. More than in any hour since she had fallen ill, Eugenie’s heated beauty seemed poised on the verge of waking. “What are we to do, lady?” I said as I moistened her lips. “If this long sleep is your choice, I beg you wake. Together we might make a plan and confound these villains.”
Sitting on the edge of her bed as the gray evening deepened toward night, I smoothed her hands with rose-scented cream. To pass the time and break the heavy quiet, I told her stories of my sister and brother and the grand occasions when Papa took us adventuring in the wild.
“What must I do, lord?” Eugenie’s sighing words were almost obscured by the whisper of rain on the window.
“My lady, can you hear me?” I snatched up the purple-stained sponge and squeezed a few droplets onto her lips. Her tongue ran over her lips as if savoring the pungent flavor.
“A plan,” she murmured. “A plan, beloved, else she wins and I lose you forever.” She shifted. Tossed her head. Shoved away pillows and picked at the silken sheets as if they were binding her. “Come back to me, gracious lord. Touch me. I’m lost here . . . alone . . . desiring you. Only you, beloved.”
I patted her flushed cheek. “Your Grace, you’re safe in your own bed. ’Tis only Anne, here to help you. Can you open your eyes?”
She moaned and kicked at the tangled sheets. Opening her eyes, she sat bolt upright, throwing off my hands with such ferocity, it staggered me halfway to the window. “How dare you keep me from him!”
She swung her legs from the tall bed, slid down onto her feet, and took off across the room. But after only a few steps, she halted, swaying like a wind-whipped cedar.
“My lady!” I caught her before she crashed her head into a tabletop, but hadn’t strength enough to prevent her slumping weight from pressing us both to the floor.
“Sorry. Sorry,” she whispered as I scrambled out from under her and ensured neither of us had broken anything. “The world’s spinning.”
“If we can just get you up.”
“He touched me with such sweetness, then vanished.” Her words flowed thick as cold honey. Lips parted, eyes vague and uncertain, awash with tears as from unremembered dreams.
I pushed my shoulder under her arm, my right arm around her slim waist, and heaved upward. “Help me, sweet lady,” I murmured.
We staggered forward two steps, until she swayed again. I lowered her to her knees before we toppled.
A draft from the passage signaled someone’s arrival. “In here!” I called, trying to untangle my skirts and her shift and our feet.
Firm footsteps halted at the doorway, which was, unfortunately, behind me. “The queen’s dizzy,” I said. “Help me get her back to bed.”
The newcomer stepped around us and hauled Eugenie to her feet as if she were a child. Unfortunately she was standing on my foreskirt, which meant all I saw of my rescuer was sober gray breeches and worn black boots that had been tramping in the mud.
That was enough to flood my eyes with relief. “Duplais! Saints’ mercy, where have you been?”
“Has our clerk of hairpins deserted his post? How wretched for all of us.” A sleek black glove slipped around Eugenie’s waist. “He’ll learn better than to take on matters he’s ill prepared to handle. As will you.”
“Mage!” Dante’s hold on Eugenie reminded me of my night in the Bastionne, when his gloved hand snaked around me from behind and pierced my finger. Of the day he touched my mother’s hand and broke her mind.
The instant my skirt pulled free, I scrambled up and took Eugenie’s left side. “I can support her now.”
But I couldn’t. It was an awkward business getting her to the bed, as I was so much shorter than the lady, and the mage seemed reluctant to touch her. Even wearing gloves, he kept his fingers curled. Once we lifted Eugenie onto the high bed, the mage stepped away almost as quickly as he had bolted my cell at the Bastionne. Back to the window, he watched as I drew up the sheets to shield the queen from his scrutiny.
“Ever your stubborn father’s stubborn daughter. A consummate liar, who can convince even the holy librarian of your innocence.”
“Where do you keep my father?” I said, snapping my head up to meet his black gaze. “Have you drained his blood entirely? Have you left his mind a wasteland as you did my brother’s, or broken it as you did my mother’s? What has my family ever done to you that you take such pleasure in our torment?”
He cocked his head, while pulses of heat and cold scraped my skin as on that day at Seravain. But the pooled fire in my gut made me strong, and I did not flinch.
Abruptly he turned away to face the night through the window, and left me to breathe again.
“The man who taught me of sorcery was a healer,” he said, the words arcing over his wide shoulders like spits of ice in a winter rain. “Uncollared. Unsanctified by the Camarilla, because he claimed no blood-family alliance and because he could not read, thus was unable to study their books of formulas. He provided only a few small remedies to his customers—a balm for burns, a physic for a man’s failed rising, a charm for colic. Large in importance to those in need of them, of course, for unlike most spelled remedies, they worked.
“Word spread in the town. Laborers and householders flocked to his door. Over the years, merchants and noblemen joined them, only unlike the laborers and householders who saw a competent man who ran a fair business, they saw a fat, illiterate commoner with brown teeth and grease stains on his tunic. They took his remedies, but chose not to pay. His debts grew and when he applied to the nobles for payment, their bailiffs beat him. And when he applied for payment yet again, for he was a stubborn man, too, they diddled him to the Camarilla as an illicit practitioner.

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