The Fall of Ventaris (9 page)

She shook her head. She’d hadn’t been this open with anyone in
ages
. Perhaps it was finally unburdening herself to Lysander. Perhaps such things became easier the more one did them. Or perhaps it was Jana herself. She seemed guileless and without secrets.

That brought her up short. Something in the girl’s tale had bothered her ever since she’d first heard it. “Jana,” she said quietly, running a finger along the rim of her cup, “you’ve been weaving for awhile now...ever since you got to the city.” The other woman nodded. “What I’ve seen of your cloth is amazing, and it seems to me that you could make a living by selling it quietly to foreigners. Why bother applying for a license at all?”
 

Jana’s hands, which had been running over her own cup, suddenly stopped, and Duchess wondered if she’d presumed too much on her new friendship. The girl kept her head down for a long moment before replying. “I came to this city a stranger,” she said at last, her voice soft, almost melancholy. “I knew the language, yes, but I did not know the
people
. I had no family, and nowhere that I belonged. I do not mean this” — she gestured around her — “but, rather, a place where one’s name is known and one is welcome. I looked for others that I could share something with. A family of common ties, if not blood.” She looked up at last. “I...did not do well with the other Domae, here. I do not know why.” There was something in the way she said the last that rang false, but Duchess nodded for Jana to continue. “I searched for something I could share with the people of my new home. And I learned of the guilds, and of the weavers, and it became, to me, something I could be a part of at last. A family of my own.” She took a sip of tea and fell silent.

Duchess remembered her first days at Noam’s bakery, amongst strangers who did not know her family, or her life, or even her real name. She had felt as though she was living someone else’s life, looking out of the eyes of a stranger. She had never truly felt at home in the Shallows until she met Lysander. She had never felt welcomed.

“Yes,” Duchess said at last. “I imagine it could be.” She gave the weaver a reassuring nod. “I’ll take care of this license business, never fear. It’s just...a few things have gotten in the way.” She briefly considered telling Jana about Julius or Pollux, but she decided that the weaver was still too new a friend for
that
kind of trust. In any case there wasn’t much to tell: Julius was out of town and Pollux must sit in his cell until Minette arranged a meeting with the First Keeper.

“Before we get back to demonstrating my ignorance of weaving,” she said, setting down her empty tea cup, “we should talk about getting you a new place to work...
and
live. If we’re going to expand this business we’ll have to get you out of the Deeps. A reputation for witchcraft might scare off a thug or two, but it won’t attract customers.” She smiled. “And once you become part of the family of weavers, you’ll be too busy to worry yourself about such things.”

Jana returned her smile and Duchess found herself wondering if perhaps it was not just Jana who might have found a family.

She brushed herself off, and stood. “But all that will have to wait, unfortunately. Right now, I need to see a man about a horse.”

Chapter Five: Lost in the light

Duchess had only the vaguest memories of Ahmed as her father’s master of horse, long ago, but in the intervening years he’d clearly made something of himself. Acting as the Eusbius majordomo and running an entire household was certainly more complex and prestigious than tending the stables. She just hoped he remembered where he’d come from.

By eleventh bell the Godswalk was in action: beggars crying their need along the inside of the circular boulevard, while supplicants, scholars, priests and sundry other citizens moved about on business. A good portion of these were moving toward the Halls of Dawn, the temple of Ventaris where the radiants held sway, and she followed in their wake. Before breakfasting with Lysander she’d donned the current best in her wardrobe, a simple dress of dark red, long-skirted and long-sleeved, modest and, she hoped, appropriate for religious services. Lysander had helped comb her hair and pin it back, and when she’d examined herself in the mirror she’d not been entirely horrified by what she’d seen.

Although the Halls of Dawn were the most accessible of the three officially recognized imperial temples, she had no memories of ever attending the mysteries of Ventaris. Her father had not been particularly religious. Marcus Kell used to joke that in Rodaas, religious beliefs were either vaguely held and strongly stated, or strongly held and vaguely stated.

The Halls, built from the ubiquitous Rodaasi gray stone, were shaped as a great flat disc, hundreds of feet in diameter. The roof was pierced at its center by a crystal spire that rose majestically into the air. The Delaying Glass, like the necropolis and the fabled Avenue of Trees, was one of the architectural wonders the Domae had left behind when they abandoned the city eight centuries before. She had never seen it up close, and since she had arrived a bit early for the mysteries and there was no sign of Ahmed she decided to get a better look. Along with the other worshipers she passed beneath one of the great carved archways that served as entrance to the Halls.

The huge circular chamber was laid out like a wheel, with the Delaying Glass as its hub and long lines of pillars as the spokes. Light filtered in through carven slits in the ceiling and glinted on bits of red and yellow gold embedded in concentric circles in the white marble floor. On a day like this, when the Rodaasi cloud cover was light, the floor was a shimmering glory. She weaved her way through the petitioners and the mingled odor of incense and sweat, moving towards the center of the temple so she could examine the Glass more closely.

It was surrounded by a great ring of black stone nearly three feet thick. Up close the artifact seemed milky as ice, as if a great geyser had erupted from the marble floor and had, in an instant, frozen solid. Although today the Glass was illuminated from the light above, it was said the artifact remembered all the light it had ever witnessed, even back to when Ventaris first kindled the sun and stars, and would glow even in the dark of night. Eight young men in radiant’s robes of gold and white stood vigil, each holding a gilded torch above his head. As she watched, one of them surreptitiously blotted sweat from his brow, and his fingers brushed a gray forelock amidst the thick red mop of his hair. Shifting to take a closer look, she realized she knew his face. The young man’s eyes met hers for an instant and then slid away without interest, but she froze in her tracks, cold with recognition.

Lysander had pointed out Adam Whitehall in Market Square the previous winter, one day when they’d had little to do except wander the city looking for fresh gossip. That day he’d worn silk and satin, and not a radiant’s whites, but the man was the same. Lord Whitehall’s eldest son and heir was even then the topic of much rumor, and little of it good.

The Halls of Dawn might be too warm for Adam Whitehall, but the sweat she wiped from her own brow was cold. He seemed so innocuous there before the Glass, his robes immaculate, his features plain and unremarkable. There was no sign of madness or guilt upon him, and yet she could almost see the blood dripping from his hands. She found herself wondering how long it had taken Manly Pete to die, and how his murderer had come to be here, at the heart of Ventaris’ power upon earth, bearing not a knife but a sacred torch.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the touch on her shoulder. She turned to see a woman, perhaps twenty years her senior, her back sword-straight in a severe black dress. She held out a small, white candle. Looking around, Duchess realized that while she had been examining the Glass, the Halls had filled with worshipers, each bearing a candle the radiants lit from great golden tapers. The woman in black accepted a light and Duchess did the same. When she turned back to the Delaying Glass she saw that Adam Whitehall and his companions were gone. In their place was a radiant of some rank, his robes thicker and more elaborately embroidered. Throughout the hall lights bobbed and flickered as the worshipers formed into concentric circles, along the inlaid red-and-gold floor patterns. The mysteries were about to begin.

She moved to take her place in one of the circles, looking about for Ahmed. She wanted to observe her father’s former servant during the ritual and gauge the best way to approach him. As she craned her neck she finally caught sight of the Baron Eusbius. She’d not seen him very clearly the night of the party, and she hadn’t missed much – narrow features in a wide face. To his left, seeming as though she wished to melt into the shadows, stood his lady wife, Agalia. There was no sign of Eusbius’ son, nor – Ventaris be damned – Ahmed. Still, the majordomo of the House would not likely be far from his master’s side, so she made her way through the press towards them with much
excuse me-ing
as she moved from one circle to the next.
 

Her heart was racing with anticipation. Although Minette had helped her realize that her father’s suicide had brought an end to the War of the Quills, there were many questions the wily madam had not answered. What had been Marcus Kell’s plans for his younger daughter? What had happened to Justin and Marguerite? And, as Lysander had reminded, what had become of her father’s country estate? Who now owned the Freehold? Her mind whirled with questions she had never dared ask.

Which is how she ended up nearly walking into young Dorian Eusbius, his expectant face lit from below by a candle of his own.

*
 
*
 
*

She’d only ever seen Dorian masked, but she recognized him well enough. His features marked him clearly as Agalia’s son. In some ways he could have been Lysander’s twin: glorious blond hair tied in a neat tail, blue eyes, lean and well-made. The candle he held threw soft light onto his face, giving him a fey, unearthly beauty. Caught between appreciation of his appearance and fear that he might recognize her from the party, she froze, mouth hanging open.

He did not seem to share her discomfort, and his lips curved upwards in a smile. “You seem discommoded. Did I singe you, my lady?” Suddenly aware she was gaping like a half-wit, she closed her mouth with a snap, nearly biting her tongue. Dorian’s eyes were not true blue like Lysander’s, she realized, but flecked here and there with green. Interesting, in their own way.

“No,” she said at last, finally remembering how to speak. “I, ah, have never been to the mysteries before and, well...”

He nodded. “I’m sure I looked much the same, my first time in the Halls of Dawn,” he said. One hand adjusted the broach, depicting a crossed flail and pitchfork, which fastened a cape of dark blue satin around his shoulders. “The movements are complicated, but it’s funny how quickly one picks them up.” His eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”

She made a mental wish for the ceremony to begin, but the congregants were still forming into circles. “I am sure I would remember if we had.” Not quite a truth and not quite a lie. Minette would be proud. “My lord,” she remembered to add.

He chuckled.”I am no lord, at least not for a year or so. And yet you seem to know me.”

“You wear your House sigil,” She pointed at his broach.

He fingered the item, his gaze turning speculative. “I do indeed, though I am surprised you recognize it.” A tease touched his smile. “Can you name the House?”

She smiled back, intrigued by his bantering curiosity. “Eusbius, if I’m not mistaken.” Just to hold her own in the conversation, she added, “Which would make you Dorian, heir to that House.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Then you have me at a disadvantage, Lady...?” She noted with relief and an absurd gratitude that his gaze did not drop to her breasts.

To hell with caution. “Duchess,” she replied, “and if you are not yet a lord, then I am even less a lady. I’m afraid I come from much farther down the hill.”

“Duchess,” he mused. “And I thought only nobility came up with strange names.” She hesitated, uncertain, but there was no mockery in his sea-blue eyes. “Though I have the feeling I have seen you somewhere before, Duchess. Perhaps in Market Square?” She felt a tickle of unease. Clearly this boy was no empty-headed aristocrat, and she had a sinking feeling she had already said more than she should.

The rumble of metal on stone spared her any further awkwardness, and she looked up to see that brass plates were slowly closing over the ports cut into the ceiling, blocking out the daylight. The congregants were standing in their circles, and Duchess had no choice but to take her place next to Dorian. She would have preferred to escape the handsome young nobleman and his shrewd questions, but it would not do to stand out, not today.

The Delaying Glass glowed softly in the half-dark, the crystalline surface flaring here and there, throwing ripples of light across the sea of worshipers, and against the frescoed walls of the temple. Candles shimmered beneath faces, making each one a chiaroscuro, dark balanced against light.

A senior radiant, flanked by two of his brethren, stepped forward and raised his hands. “Ventaris, Father of All,” he intoned in a sonorous voice. “We here upon the cold earth are lost from the sun that brings light, and warmth, and life. Blaze in our hearts a way that shall lead us back to your grace. Kindle in our souls the fires of your love.” He turned to face the Glass, and the congregants began to move. The first circle moved to the left, one, two, three steps. The circle behind them moved the opposite way, and the row behind that moved left. Caught in the fourth circle, Duchess prepared to move right, but found herself stepping into Dorian. He smiled. “Left, my lady,” he murmured, putting a hand on her arm to guide her. His touch was the barest graze, but it sent a thrill up to her shoulder and down to her wrist. She blushed and moved left, awkward where everyone else was practiced and graceful.

The radiant began another chant, but she was too busy concentrating on the motions of the congregation to pay attention. Circles moved left, or right, without any pattern that she could see, and yet she seemed the only one confused. It was like attending a ball at which everyone but her knew the dances. She tripped and bumped her way through, muttering apologies, and yet no one seemed to mind her clumsiness. In fact, they barely seemed to notice her at all, their faces blank as their feet stepped left, then right, then left again. Even Dorian’s gaze seemed unfocused, as if nothing existed but the Glass and its light and its mysteries. All eyes were fixed upon it.