The Universal Mirror (25 page)

“Me?”  Felix was still close to him, so close that Asahel could hear his breath quicken.

“You didn’t give me the sword only for protection.”  It had been hard to think it but Asahel found it harder to say it out loud.  Tell me I’m a liar, a voice inside his head willed Felix.  Argue.  Say it’s all wrong—you meant what you’d said.  No denial came, just another long silence between the two of them.  There was no comfort in this one at all.

“Explain what you just said.”  It felt like an admission of guilt as the words sunk in, pounding into Asahel’s head as Felix spoke them.  The older magician was still, his hands gripping the pommel of his sword once more as he waited.

Asahel let the netting drop.  He stood up, letting Felix remain seated, his feet stepping on the beginning of the pier.  The waves were lapping the pilings, white caps of foam brushing the wood and leaving it dark.  By morning, there would be no trace that the waves had leapt so high—the wood would be bone-dry until the water came again.  Asahel leaned into the damp railing that secured the pier, wondering whether the friendship that he’d had with Felix was just as momentary or as false as the sea dashing itself against the land in hope of remaining.

“You were always as much a Heretic as I,” he whispered.  It floated away into the wind, not loud enough for the other man to hear.  The only sign that Asahel had spoken was the moving of his lips, chapped red from the briny air that came off the sea.

Felix stood up, his sword clumsy as it banged against his legs.  It no longer seemed naturally attuned to his movements, Asahel noticed.  As he came up to the railing and stood next to Asahel, an elbow’s length away, the scabbard touched the other man’s leg.

“Whatever you said,” Felix’s hands rested on the railing, tracing the weather-worn grooves in the wood.  “Say it again.”

“I said that you were always as much a Heretic as I.” 

“And you’ve said it here, on the water, where the Geographer’s maps don’t travel.”  Felix’s mouth twisted.  “Clever.  One might think you’d been at this a while.”

“I haven’t and you know it.”  Asahel bristled.  “Aye, and I’d no knowing of where the maps do and don’t go.”  The wind rose slightly, whipping dark hair across his eyes.  “I’ve no need to say it quietly, whatever you say.”  That rang as false as he believed Felix and his face flushed with the sting of knowing that.  All that he’s done and you wish he hadn’t done it at all.  “Don’t change the subject.”

“Then you shouldn’t, either.  Why call me a Heretic?  It doesn’t do you any good, nor is it an idea I’d have expected you to leap to.”  He smiled a little.  “No, it makes sense when I see it.  You think differently than most people—or perhaps, it’s that you think at all.”

“It’s your sword, that and your magic.”  There was no warmth in Asahel’s face.  “You told me that you can only channel magic through the sword.  If that’s the case, then for you to use the magic, it’s got to be the sword that serves as the conduit.”

“Right.”  There was a warning in Felix’s voice.

“The only way for you to use a sword is in violence against another person, creating Heresy.”  The scabbard hung between them, a heavy presence that the two men were sharply aware of.  “Unless you’d been cutting trees with it.  But you’ve not been, not with a blade that fine and not one that’s passed from hand to hand.  It was your father’s sword.”  That was a guess on Asahel’s part but one that proved correct as Felix nodded.  “And your father served the Geographer.”

“That he did.”  Their eyes met and now there was not warning in Felix’s face, but relief.  “You’re right about the fact that I have committed Heresy, but wrong about part of it.”

“What?”

“I didn’t give you my sword to hide what I’d done.  Tycho—the Geographer—he knows.  He’s ordered the actions that I took.”  The other man said.  “Except that one.  He never would have condoned my giving you the sword, but it was the only way that I could think of to keep you from the guards while you went on your fool’s path through the city.  Your plans were never subtle enough.”

“Why would you do that?”  None of it made sense to Asahel, not if he ascribed ordinary logic to it.

“Because…” Felix bit his lip, something that Asahel had never seen him do.  His gray eyes colored, a hint of blue creeping into the depths of his irises.  “First, I wanted to know what it was that you were doing and then… because I wanted to know you.”  He seemed to read something in Asahel’s eyes then, for he said, “It’s nothing now.  You’re right to call me out for all that I’ve done and in a way, it’s a relief.”

Asahel stopped himself from asking more.  If they were to save Quentin from his fate, he needed more from Felix than where he stood in the other man’s estimation.  You’re falling into the trap that caught Quentin—this isn’t about you, or even him.  It never was.  He folded his arms, willing himself to focus.

“They haven’t charged Quentin yet.  As far as I know, no one’s even said that he committed Heresy.” 

“No, and it won’t be said,” Felix answered, falling back against the rail and watching the waves.  “The Council doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Aye, I thought as much.”  He swallowed.  “Why is that?”  He knew, or thought that he did, but Felix’s next answer surprised him.

“The Plagues.  They’re worried that it will cause people to look into the Plagues.”  The other man pushed away from the railing then and began walking farther out on the dock, his long legs carrying him forward swiftly.  Asahel had to double-step to keep up with him, the two men walking until they reached the end of the pier.  It was far from the shoreline, distant enough that nothing could interrupt whatever Felix had to say unless it came from the water.

“The two of you were—or were trying to—heal,” the older man continued, shivering at the chill from the breeze that whipped at his coat.  “People think of the first Heresy only as a proscription against violence, but it was never meant for that.  If it gets out that the Council is trying to stop two men from healing, that’s a difficult thing to understand.  We’d be able to argue that you were causing deliberate harm, from the way that you went about it with digging up bodies, but someone else would need to have their crack at it.”

“And then what?”  Felix asked Asahel.  “How could we keep on saying that it was wrong?  How can a government argue against the betterment of its people?”

“I don’t understand why you would,” Asahel whispered.

“We cause the Plagues,” he answered, trembling.  “We are the ones who plot its course, who plan it out, who set it free through the Geographer’s maps.  The sickness comes from the Council.”

Asahel closed his eyes, letting the knowledge sink in.  This had been what he had feared when he had spoken to Catharine.  Such fears could not have been confided to her—even now, he feared bringing his certainty to her.  The ideas took on new shape, hearing them spoken with Felix’s dry voice.  He respected Felix still even if he was uncertain whether he ought to trust the other man.  You have something of his now, Asahel reminded himself.  The truth could destroy him just as it could you.  At least, in that, you’ve something to trust.

“Why have you admitted it then?”  He asked, his voice hoarse.

“Look at me, Soames,” Felix said.  The younger man lifted his chin even as Felix stooped slightly to even the distance in their heights.  The expression Felix wore wasn’t frightened or jubilant or even relieved, so much as it was tired.  Hollows under his eyes hinted at a burden carried so long that it had become a part of his skin.  Asahel thought of the weight of the dark secret that now rested between them and wondered how long Felix had known it.  He’d never come to the Carnicus estate so late or so early that Felix was sleeping, whatever the hour.  He knew that both Catharine and Quentin spoke of the man as if he was as much an outsider in the glittering capital as Asahel himself.  Was that the cost that Felix had paid?

“I never wanted to be any part of the Council, but that was never any choice of mine,” Felix continued.  “I was born to it.  And it was always made clear that I was born to serve, not to command.  It’s a noble tradition to be a part of the Steward’s house—in fact, it’s made Carnicus one of the higher houses—that doesn’t mean, however, that it gives us any actual power.”  He grimaced.  “And there is nothing noble, nor honorable, about keeping secrets such as these.”

“You encouraged me to talk to the Geographer,” Asahel pointed out.  “You told me to keep those secrets.”

“You acted as if Quentin had gone mad, for one thing.  Don’t doubt your own part in this,” Felix said, his words bladed.  “Not to mention, you put me in a position where I had to guard myself and my own interests.  You kept coming to my house at incredibly odd hours of the night, often clearly distraught.  It was obvious that I had some part in your plan.  And after you paid your visit to Tycho?  I’ve proven myself loyal by setting you back on his path—but we have no need to keep rehashing this old story.  Why did you call me here, Asahel?  If this was it, then wash your hands of it or push me off the dock and be done with me.”

“I…” Asahel’s fingers curled around the wooden railing, ignoring the splinters that dug into his coarse skin.  “…need you.”  He paused again, then amended, “Catharine and I need you.”

“For what?”  Felix had the look of a wolf backed into a corner.

“We have to prove that Quentin shouldn’t be in prison,” Asahel said, breathing hard.  “We have to show Cercia that the Geographer started the Plagues.”

“Don’t die,” Quentin whispered as he knelt next to the bed of straw, watching the man’s chest rise and fall with each labored breath.  The cell smelled worse than it had before, congealed food and sweat so heavy in the air that it choked the pressed, tight space.  Dirt clouded every inch of the floor, but Quentin had long made his peace with it, growing used to matted hair and filthy cotton.  What worried him now was the heat coming from his cellmate, his skin burning so fierce that the warmth seemed to come off in waves.

Swallowing hard, he wetted a strip of fabric torn from his shirt with the little drinking water they had left, wringing it out into the bucket to save what he could.  Gently, the redhead placed the strip across the other man’s forehead, resting his palm against his skin in an attempt to soothe as he moaned.

Healing, he thought.  He’s going to die.  What if I could give him a chance at life?  Not for the first time, Quentin’s eyes stared at the small patch of earth that he could see through a crack in the floor.  It would have been enough for Asahel to pull magic from—as for himself, Quent was not so sure.

He felt the other man twist from his touch and he pulled back slightly.  At least he has the strength to resist—that has to be a good sign.  Quentin sighed, wishing that he knew more about the man lying on the straw.  There was no one to tell him save for his cellmate himself.

“What’s your name?”  He tried whispering but received no answer that he could understand.  There was nothing to do but wait, and, with a sigh, he stood up, still in thought.  His fingers reached around the bars and he leaned into the iron, letting it press against his skin.  There was nowhere else to go in the cramped space, so he would take what respite might be offered.

When the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, he didn’t move.  His eyes closed, expecting to hear the guards again with their frightened, hoarse voices that always cracked when they caught sight of the sick man.  They came less and less often—Quentin wondered whether one day they would stop coming at all.  Now wasn’t to be that day, it seemed to him as he remained in his silent trance.

“He’s so thin.”  The low voice of a woman carried down the narrow hall, as sweet a sound as he’d ever heard.  You’re dreaming, he thought to himself.  She’s not here.  Quentin kept his eyes close, cheek pressed against the bars, to preserve the dream as long as possible.

“He’s in prison.”  A guard’s words followed.  “You only have a few moments, milady.  Worry about that later.”  The footsteps came closer, lighter than a pair of boots and slower, as if the walker feared the path that they were treading.

“Quent.”  He smelled violets as the whisper warmed his face.  “Open your eyes.  Please, Quentin.”  His eyes cracked open slowly, fixing on his wife’s nose first of all.  She was pressed against the bars as tightly as he—so tall that they were almost of a height—and she smiled as he stared at her nose.  “Your eyes are crossing.  I do hope it’s not permanent.”  The tip of her nose bumped his as she stood on tiptoe.

“Are you real?”  Quentin asked her, shivering from the heat and her nearness.  He had always believed his wife beautiful, but in the darkness of the prison, she shone.  Her brown hair rippled down her back, neat and clean, her eyes the same color that they had always been, but he saw them more clearly now.  His finger reached out, touching the scars on her lip, but for once, she flinched but did not pull away.

“I’m real.”  Catharine said.  “What kind of a question is that?”  She looked immediately sorry after she’d said it, her mouth opening to speak again but Quentin cut her off with a laugh before she could continue.

“Now I do know that it’s you.”  He let his fingers slip through the bars but she did not take them.  “What’s happened?”

“You’re in prison.  I think that’s a rather large happening.”  Her mouth pressed together as she glanced back over her shoulder. 

“No, I mean, what news?  The Council has said nothing, told me of no ex—punishment.”