Daughter of Mystery (22 page)

“But they were killed in the war.”

“Only the two sons. Remember that daughter who married in Austria? There’s no bar to the female line, if it’s determined to hold the best choice. And she has two sons.”

Margerit frowned. “Then one of them will inherit?”

Barbara closed the book and returned it to its place on the shelf. “Maybe. There are those who argue that marriage should cut the legal line between a father and daughter. There are some precedents for that position, but it isn’t clear if they apply here. Some seem to be purely a matter of timing rather than an absolute barrier. There are others who argue that a contract overrules everything but that can’t be true. The prince couldn’t have contracted to pass the crown outside his lineage entirely. And even the contract only holds weight because it was approved by the succession council at the time. Most agree that even if Iohanna’s children have no special right, Elisebet’s don’t either. You can tell which line a man favors by the language he uses. The
Charteires
—those who hold by Iohanna’s marriage charter—will speak of Aukustin as ‘the French woman’s son.’ Elisebet’s supporters—and she’s been working hard to gather them—speak of ‘the Austrians’ and call themselves
Chustines
, though the boy himself is little more than a symbol. In the end, it’s for the council to elect the best choice when the time comes. And the prince is an old man.” Barbara watched Margerit digest the complexities. “You can see why it’s not a subject to debate on street corners. There are duels being fought over questions of allegiance.”

Margerit nodded, looking thoughtful. “What did my godfather think about it?”

It was like an unexpected touch on a bruise. She worked so hard not to see the baron in every shadow and hear him behind every door in this house. Maisetra Bertrut had been starting to remake the place to her own taste and style, which helped. But now she could see him there, standing by the glass-paned panels of the door, looking out over the river terraces, speaking coldly to Estefen,
I will not change my pledged word for mere advantage. Even for me, some things are sacred.
And Estefen raging at him for a shortsighted fool.

A small noise brought her attention back to the present. “It wasn’t my place to know the baron’s political opinions.” On second consideration she continued, “Estefen, that is, the new baron supports Princess Elisebet.” She let that observation settle into Margerit’s awareness, then continued briskly, “It’s nothing to concern you and you’re well out of these matters but it’s good to know the players on the board. Have you read the passage from Erasmus on formalism yet? I remembered that there was a commentary on it in Desanger that specifically applies to that question you had on the Great Mysteries. It might give you some ideas.”

The distraction was successful and she watched Margerit cross the room to hunt out the green-bound volume. Did she realize how much more difficult her studies would have been if the baron hadn’t been something of a scholar and collector himself? She would have been spending all her time—and a great deal more money—trying to track down rare but essential works for her studies. Or struggling for a share of time in the cathedral library or any of the other paths an ordinary scholar used. But then, if he hadn’t had inclinations in that direction, he likely never would have had the whim to send Margerit a private governess from the Sisters of Saint Orisul and she might never have stepped on this path at all. It meant Margerit could study in the security of her own home. She would even have an excuse to invite her new friends to come to her rather than always being out and about. At heart, she found it terrifying every time Margerit left the house in someone else’s care. Not that she didn’t trust Marken’s competence. Not that she doubted Maisetra Bertrut’s watchfulness. Not that she was even capable of being at Margerit’s side at every moment.

She tried to return her attention to the passages from the Statuta Antiqua that Chunirez’s lectures would dissect in the weeks to come. The only thing that kept her from gnawing guilt over the time spent on her own study of law was the belief that it too would some day serve as protection.

When had she started seeing herself watching over Margerit’s safety long past the day when the baron’s will set her free? Was it sensible to dream that far? She looked up from the page that had been struggling for her attention and gazed across the room.
What will we be to each other when I know my history and my true name? When I know whatever shameful secret the baron concealed all these years?

The smile that crept over her face every time she looked secretly at Margerit faded. What if that truth drove them apart? She shook the question away. There was no answering it now.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Margerit

What she had seen—or perhaps experienced was a better word—during the Mystery of Saint Mauriz puzzled Margerit enough that she went back to Bartholomeus. There were so many types of mysteries: the Holy Mysteries of the sacraments, the everyday rituals of praise and worship for telling through in private when you wanted to go beyond the prayers for the day. There were the public mysteries, like that of Saint Mauriz, that invoked aid and protection and prosperity for the community. There were the private rituals of the mystery guilds that had purposes known only to their members. Uncle Fulpi had mentioned once in a sour moment that the Guild of Saint Mark in Chalanz seemed to concern itself more with the state of roads than the state of souls. She knew that professional guilds were often little more than social clubs. Then there were the sharp and desperate pleas—for healing, for mercy, for a son—more often learned by word of mouth than kept in books. Or performed for you by old men and women in the marketplace who claimed to have the ear of the saints. Most who made that claim looked rather in need of the saints’ blessings themselves. With their signs and herbs and scribbled charms and rhyming chants the street-corner mysteries were scorned by many as mere superstition but where was the line drawn? Then there were the Great Mysteries, celebrated for the benefit of the nation and performed only by those of the highest rank.

Margerit scribbled notes on what she remembered as she worked out her questions. Saint Mauriz’s work partook of the Great Mysteries, but in structure it was an ordinary public
tutela
—a celebration of a patron—merged with the
turris
format used for all manner of protective rituals. In its words and symbols it was meant to seek the saint’s blessing on the parish, to ask protection against harm and disease. Back in Chalanz the mystery performed in high summer for Saint Andire had much the same form, using the symbols and images of the fisherman, rather than the warrior. She had expected this one to be similar, but that was the puzzle. She hadn’t always noticed visions during Andire’s mystery, but when she did, the light flowed up and out from the altar and seemed to pour through the stones and out into the town. But in the Rotenek cathedral that day everything had seemed to swirl around aimlessly and then sink into the floor. She’d read through the text in Bartholomeus again, but it had only the skeleton, not the details of the ritual. She’d never before thought to question the connection between those details and their effects.

When she asked Barbara, she only shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like that—only when something actually happens, like the early blossoming at Saint Chertrut’s Spring or when Saint Iohen healed the kitchen maid’s burn overnight. But she might not have been burned as badly as she thought.”

She asked Amiz as they waited for the start of Desalamanca’s theology lecture, but she only laughed and asked why it would matter. “Say your prayers and burn a candle to the Virgin and trust the priests to know their own rituals. If you need a charm to get a good husband, I can tell you who has the best ones. But if there were something wrong with Mauriz’s mystery someone more learned than you would have noticed.”

Margerit knew better than to ask why Amiz was studying theology if not to better understand divine workings. And then the professor began speaking and there was no chance for further questions. But when the session had passed she signaled to Marken that she wanted to stay behind while the others left. There were always a few questioners detaining the professor at the end and she began down the theater steps to join them.

A hand on her shoulder drew her back and Antuniet said, “Don’t bother.”

As she turned, Margerit saw the two armins shift position with their eyes flicking back and forth from each other to their charges.
It’s not just Barbara
, she thought fleetingly.
They all do that: those little movements and looks that say, “this one is watched and guarded.”

Antuniet either hadn’t noticed the mutual bristling or considered it of no importance. “He won’t answer your questions. What you need to do is make friends with one of the real scholars and ask him to propose them. Don’t you know any of them?” She gestured generally at the regular seats.

Margerit shook her head. “Only my cousin Nikule and he…doesn’t go to the same lectures.” No need to explain why Nikule was the last person on earth she’d ask for favors.

“What were you going to ask?”

Margerit recalled that Antuniet had come in late, after the lecture had started. But she hesitated. If Antuniet had not been particularly warm, neither had she been unfriendly, for all that she had reason. Was it a sincere offer? Amiz had said Antuniet was interested in thaumaturgy so she might have answers.

“It was just something I noticed in Saint Mauriz’s. At the feast day. I don’t know what it means. In Chalanz, at the public mysteries, sometimes something…happened. But I’m not always sure what I’m seeing.”

“You see things?” Antuniet asked sharply. “What?”

Margerit tried to find words to describe it. “Colors…that aren’t really there. And music that moves—” She gestured in the air trying to give the shape. “Bartholomeus doesn’t say anything about—”

Antuniet snorted. “No, he wouldn’t. You’re reading a dictionary when you want a history. Next you’ll tell me you’ve tried Fortunatus. Everyone assumes that everything must be found in one or the other.” Margerit began to explain but she waved her hand to cut it off. “Oh, they have their place for babies, but if you’re seeing visions then what you need is Gaudericus.” She stared long and hard until Margerit wondered what response was expected.

“Thank you,” she began.

“Not everyone does, you know,” Antuniet interrupted, then turned and left without another word.

* * *

The baron’s library might have been extensive, but for once it failed her. Even Barbara was stumped. “Are you sure it was Gaudericus? I’m not very familiar with the practical mystics. I know there’s a book by Chautirik—but no, that’s an atlas of the old pilgrim’s road through Nofpunt. Not likely to be what you want.” She frowned in thought. “Who was it that suggested the work?”

Margerit felt oddly hesitant to mention Antuniet. She saw how Barbara still went all hackles-up around her. “One of the girls mentioned it—I don’t remember who. Back to the booksellers then?” She laughed. “How dreadful!”

Barbara seemed on the verge of questioning her further when the door opened and Aunt Bertrut entered holding a folded paper and with a puzzled expression.

“Margerit, I know you don’t like being disturbed when you’re studying, but this invitation…”

“You know I trust you to sort them out.” Even in a strange city, Bertrut had developed an instinct for what to accept and what to decline. “Is there a problem? What am I invited to now?”

“Only a barge party on the river—I turned it down because of the damp. No, it’s not you; it’s for me.” Her aunt offered her the paper to view.

Margerit ran her eyes down the formal text. Although it would be unthinkable for her to attend dinners and balls alone, Bertrut’s expected presence was normally indicated by the simple formula
cum vizeino
, “with escort.” But here, in plain black ink on the pale cream-colored paper, was “…request the presence of Maisetra Bertrut Sovitre for dinner…” and tucked between the lines, the formula
“cum vizeino”
as was proper for an unmarried woman.

Margerit looked farther up the page for the identity of the host. Mesnera Pertinek, Lady Marzim. The surname sounded familiar—yes, the kind gentleman at the cathedral. His wife? No, Barbara had said he wasn’t near to the title. But at his request perhaps? That would make sense. It wouldn’t be proper for an invitation to come from him—not only as a man and a stranger, but as he wasn’t master of the house he lived in. And there was the address, just a few doors down, as Barbara had said.

“You’ve accepted it, of course?” Margerit asked. From the corner of her eye she could see Barbara suppressing an amused grin where her aunt couldn’t see.

“I don’t know, dear. Why would he—would they be inviting me? I’m nobody.”

The obvious answer was too fragile to mention aloud. Margerit suggested slowly, “Well, they’re our neighbors…and I don’t know if there’s anyone in their household that I might meet socially. So if they wanted to become acquainted with their new neighbors, perhaps they thought it more proper to approach you?” It was an unlikely possibility. Nobody in Rotenek worried about becoming acquainted purely on the basis of living on the same street. Either your families had known each other already for generations or one of you was too new for notice.

Uncle Fulpi had the same thought when the matter came up over dinner, but he didn’t try to disguise it. “What nonsense! They want something and you’d best take care until you know what it is. It’s Margerit they want to get to, though heaven knows why as they haven’t any marriageable sons. If you feel you must go, I’ll accompany you of course, but it would be better to find some excuse for now.”

It was the wrong tactic to take for the desired end. Margerit could tell the precise moment when her aunt’s decision was made.

“Mauriz, you are neither my brother nor my father and I’ll thank you not to behave as if you were! I’m not being invited off to some den of iniquity, I’m being invited to dinner by Mesner and Mesnera Pertinek, who happen to be well-respected people in Rotenek and happen to be our neighbors. I will be taking Margerit as my
vizeino
and I believe that should suffice to protect my reputation!”