The Soul Mirror (75 page)

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Authors: Carol Berg

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BOOK: The Soul Mirror
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“Put those away,” I said, unable to see where to put my foot next. “It’s a friend down here.”
De Santo clattered down the steps behind us with a torch.
Dante was huddled in a corner of the cramped, filthy hole, shaking uncontrollably, his haggard face the color of ash. “I’m fine,” he said in a throaty whisper. “Just need my staff. Would appreciate them not puncturing me.”
He was not at all fine. Despite de Santo’s torchlight flooding the oubliette, Dante couldn’t name Ilario or Ambrose. Neither did he blink or squint or look directly at any of us, nor did he acknowledge my proffered hand as he struggled to his feet, his good hand groping the wall. A small, blackened pyramid sat in the center of the mud-grimed floor, spitting orange-red sparks. Veins of the same fiery hue floated in his dull, aimless eyes.
Magic was all about seeing, and Dante, whose lifeblood was magic, who believed light the finest of the Creator’s gifts, was blind.
CHAPTER 43
AFTERWARD
“
H
e’s not one of them! He saved us all! He’ll give his parole until we can explain!”
Ignoring my repeated protests, soldiers dragged Dante out of the filthy pit and shoved him to his knees. They bound his hands, eyes, and mouth, and tied separate ropes to his waist. In a gnat’s breath they had him stumbling up the path to Ianne’s Hand surrounded by nervous soldiers bristling with weapons.
“You fools, he can’t see!” I yelled. “He can scarce walk. Lord Ilario, please. He protected her!”
Ilario, Ambrose, and de Santo had withdrawn as my goodfather’s men took charge. But a lift of Ilario’s chin sent Calvino de Santo charging up the hill. The former guard captain bulled his way through the ring of soldiers and grabbed Dante’s arm, ensuring, none too gently, that the mage stayed on his feet.
Dante had spoken not a word as they bound him. Perhaps he was incapable of speech. The mindstorm dribbled through my skull unchecked as if I were a gutter spout on the palace roof, my silent calls washed away like stray leaves.
The king rode out soon after. He commanded his men to treat Portier, his gooddaughter, and “the abused stranger” with utmost care, but he did not stop to speak with me. He had emerged from the azinheira bower carrying Eugenie, wrapped in blankets. He relinquished her only long enough to swing into the saddle and take her back.
“Lord chevalier, they must not harm—”
“Oh, my dearest Damoselle Anne!” Ilario rode up, transformed into his other self. “His Majesty asked me to assure you that he will consider all pleas as soon as we are sheltered at Barone Crief’s house. Saints’ glory, everyone so damaged and no one knowing who did what or making sense of anything. They tell me the barone’s house—not the most comfortable of houses, but more suitable than inns or village houses—has a sorcerer’s hole, as most do in this region. They’ll stow Mage Dante there until the events of this night are sorted out. My aide and I”—he nodded toward Ambrose, also mounted—“will ride ahead and ensure that all proceeds fairly. You three will be brought along more gently.”
The assurances built into his foolery calmed me only slightly. “He must not harm Dante, lord,” I said softly, gripping his boot. “You
must
believe me. Because of him, Portier lives and the lady is inviolate.”
Yet how could anyone possibly understand? Only two days had passed since my own eyes were opened, and Dante and I had been through events no one could imagine.
Ilario bent down from the saddle. “There’s been death enough this night,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll see.”
He and Ambrose galloped off after the king’s party. They didn’t believe me.
With tender care, the remaining guardsmen bore Portier and my father on litters over the mountain’s shoulder and down to the road. They treated me as if I were made of spun glass. They likely thought I was mad.
 
 
THREE DAYS WE SPENT AT Barone Crief’s fortress near Voilline. That first morning I slept like the gray stones of the barone’s walls. I woke unrested, frantic, ready to strangle anyone who stood between me and the king. Fortunately they’d posted Ambrose at my door. He showed me Papa, who had been washed and fed the kitchen’s best broth, and now slept safely in a clean bed for the first time in five years. Philippe’s own field surgeons were attending Portier. The sorcerer remained confined in the sorcerer’s hole. Explaining the events of the night to our goodfather would fall to me, my brother told me, but only when I was ready. Awake and sensible.
Ambrose returned me to my room, the apartments of some favored daughter. Dolls of porcelain, straw, and cloth sat on every shelf and surface of the room, peeped out of trunks, and lay in heaps on the floor, where they’d been swept from the bed when I was laid there. The pervasive dust suggested the girl was long married off, far from home. Silly that the sight made me weep.
The baroness kindly did not press me with her society, but sent clothes, breakfast, and a quiet chambermaid who supplied a welcome bath. I ate and took care with my toilette. Though hating the thought of Dante confined, I did not rush. By the time I sent word that I would speak to the king, I had gathered my thoughts and as much dignified calm as I possessed.
A full day it took to persuade the king not to execute Dante. Three times I repeated the story of how I’d come to learn of the mage’s long, terrible service as Philippe’s
agente confide
, unable to tell anyone of his purpose without ruining all chance of its success. Unwilling to reveal the secret of the tangle curse without Dante’s consent, I attributed all to Dante’s unique magic and my Mondragon blood. Yet even after I’d convinced my goodfather that Dante and I had worked together to stop the rite before it touched Eugenie or caused catastrophe, it enraged Philippe to think of the terrible things Dante had done.
And so he dragged me into the bowels of the barone’s palace. A guard unbolted a slotlike opening in a thick door, then left us. The reek of camphor from the darkness beyond the slot revived dread memories of the Bastionne Camarilla.
“You are on trial, mage,” said my goodfather. “I am Philippe de Savin-Journia, and I am your only judge this side of Heaven.”
“As I am not allowed to step out of this hole and stand my defense, this seems a waste of our time.” The voice from the dark was cold and dry as the iron band on the door.
I hated that I could not see him, and I hated common speech that could tell me so little of his state. He did not respond to my overtures in the aether.
“My gooddaughter has made your defense.”
“I need no maudlin aristo female to speak for me,” Dante snapped.
“Speak gently, mage. By her word only are you yet breathing.” Anger rumbled under Philippe’s judicious manner. “Yet despite Anne’s testimony as to your deeds at Voilline, I’ve a mind that you’re too dangerous to live. You have terrorized my wife and my household. You have tormented my goodson and destroyed the mind of his mother. You’ve caused havoc in my house and in my city, and have abetted, if not accomplished, the torture and murder of my friends and subjects, innocent as well as guilty. For all I know your treacherous talents have planted these stories in Anne’s head, and you but bide your time to impose your own perverted vision of nature on this kingdom. Tell me why I should not kill you.”
“Do it if you want. I’d as soon be dead just now anyway. But do not accuse me of crimes and at the same time of failing to live up to our agreement in a proper manner. I swore an oath to Portier that I’d discover the person who shot a spelled arrow at you, and why, and what might be done about it. And so I have. No one bothered to tell me you didn’t care anymore, or that you only wanted these things done if I stayed in the kitchen with the other servants and dogs, or avoided breaking the crockery.”
And that was all. Dante refused to say more, no matter that the king commanded it or that I pleaded for it. My furious goodfather slammed the shutter and shot the bolt that sealed the sorcerer’s hole. “You have a damnably perverse ally, Anne.”
In the end it was Portier who tipped the balance. As soon as the surgeons finished setting his leg, Ilario had told him of our impasse. Though in terrible pain, Portier insisted on testifying. And so on the second morning at Barone Crief’s, the king and I sat at his bedside. Again my goodfather asked why he should not avoid future risks and slay Dante before he recovered full use of his power.
“Because it would be unworthy of you, sire,” said Portier, hoarse and panting with fever. “He protected your wife, her very sanity, I think, many times over. He saved your kingdom. Saved your cousin’s life.”
“
Anne
dragged you out of that pool. Gods’ balls, she is a Mondragon sorceress. She might have done it all.”
Duplais managed a weak smile. “Determined, talented, intelligent as she is, she could not possibly have saved me, lord, or done any save perhaps a few of the more . . . explosive . . . feats on her own. I was drowned more than three hours, and your gooddaughter is untrained, incapable of true spellwork. Believe me, no one in the world has been watched more closely than she these few years.”
But the king would not be satisfied. “How do you know it was Dante and not Jacard or some other of the sorcerers who performed this monumental sorcery that I don’t yet understand?”
Portier laughed at that—though the movement robbed his face of what little color it displayed. “The message Anne relayed called me
student
. Back when we were partner
agentes
, Dante always called me
student
when he was trying to teach me, to make me listen. As I look back, I’m thinking that for all these years, he’s tried to point me in the directions I needed to go. He dropped hints that I pounced on as his own lapses. My queries turned up one anonymous lead after another, and I never questioned how they were so effective in putting me on the Aspirant’s trail. Yes, he did terrible things along the way. But his courage and skill, and Anne’s, have saved us from chaos that would make the heyday of the Blood Wars seem like a household spat. He has given—You cannot imagine what he has given, lord. You should grant him whatever boon he chooses.”
With misgiving and ill grace, the king relented.
Portier asked that Dante be allowed to stay with him, if the mage was willing. He faced sepsis or amputation, crippling at best, and offered that understanding the details of the magic we had worked might take his mind off his grim prospects.
And Dante’s off his
, I thought. In return, Portier would stand for Dante’s parole.
To my astonishment, Dante agreed.
And so on that second afternoon, Dante was released from the sorcerer’s hole. Haggard, unshaven, filthy, he was escorted out of the barone’s house and given temporary accommodation in a remote guesthouse, until such time as the king’s party left for Merona. Though I stood on the barone’s steps and spoke Dante’s name as he stumbled past, he did not speak or turn his head my way. He didn’t look at anything.
Heartsick, I ran inside and consulted Portier, then persuaded Ilario to return to Voilline. Portier said Dante’s staff was like a third arm. By evening, he had it.
 
 
SO MUCH LESS WOUNDED THAN my friends, I believed myself well recovered from the ordeal at Mont Voilline. To sit at my father’s bedside and feed him, to hear that Portier had survived another day, to read the king’s proclamation that Michel de Vernase and his son were cleared of all charges, enabled me to put aside the harsh truths of that dreadful night.
Such was clearly not the case. Five days after the Mondragon Rite, my father, brother, and I returned to Merona. From my first step into the city, the mindstorm raged through me unchecked. I was wholly incapable of rebuilding the mental barriers that had kept me sane since Lianelle’s magic had waked my tangle curse.
By nightfall I could not stop weeping, babbling about voices screaming in my head. Lost in the mindstorm without an anchor, I repeatedly relived that night of blood, murder, drowning, and starving spectres. Terrified the murder lurking in my veins might burst out to harm those near me, I barricaded myself in my room and screamed into my pillows. When I collapsed into sleep, I dreamt of being chained in Derwin’s cellar as a savage revenant tried to reshape my body.
The king’s physicians could not explain my frenzy and gave me sleeping draughts until I could not tell night from day or friend from spectre.
In the end Ambrose visited Portier, imploring him to say what might be wrong with me. Portier consulted Dante. Portier wrote me later that Dante had near set him afire for not informing him of my state sooner, heedless of the fact that Portier himself did not know. “Get her out of the city,” Dante had told him. My mind had suffered from the events at Voilline like that of a soldier who had stood too close to a cannonade. I needed quiet, away from people. He didn’t mention it was because we had together expended such magic that left the world thin and gray, or because I truly experienced the passions of tens of thousands of Merona’s residents in my head and was unable to subdue them.
And so Papa and I were taken to Ilario’s country house together, because I would not hear of being separated from him when his health was yet so fragile. It was a blessed place, comfortable and quiet. Very few servants, and those accustomed to discretion. Within hours, the world took on its more usual color. I felt whole again, even if I was not.

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