The Soul Mirror (45 page)

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Authors: Carol Berg

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BOOK: The Soul Mirror
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“I’ve every confidence in your abilities at translation and interpretation, as well as sorcery. You’ve done well enough so far without the key.”
Dante whirled about and pointed his flaming staff at the other man. “Then tell me the rest,” he roared. “I do all the work: dandle mincing aristos, suckle your incompetent protégés and cover their mistakes, squeeze words from these daemon-ciphered books, and devise spellwork that your feeble talents cannot seem to reproduce, and
still
you refuse me!”
The sorcerer’s rage rent the air between them, crackling like the sparks of the
virtu elektrik
. Bonds of conspiracy might hold these two in partnership, but no ties of friendship or brotherhood.
“Not yet, Master. Soon, but not yet,” said the throaty whisper, smooth as oil on water. “Be assured, your talents have made you indispensable. You’ve earned the vengeance you crave . . .”
The white flames vanished as quickly as they had burst forth. Sputtering in disgust, Dante strode through a shower of floating lights and vanished into the gloom.
“. . . And nothing in this wide universe shall ever again be as it was.” The observer’s conclusion could not have been heard beyond the two of us. He did not speak in metaphor.
How could this man’s detachment be so much more frightening than Dante’s rage?
The cloaked man turned to go. Framed by the drooping hood was a face of leather, a mask shaped and smoothed into a serene beauty that struck my soul with morbid terror.
The Aspirant poked a finger through a purple wisp, and, chuckling softly, melted into the night.
CHAPTER 26
22/23 OCET, MIDDLE-NIGHT
C
lutching my skirts that he might not hear my own movements, I pursued the sinister intruder through the Rotunda’s colonnade. Every few steps I paused to listen for creaking leather, rustling garments—anything that might tell me his course. But echoes confused the soft sweep of fabric on marble and the hushed pad of a big man’s hurried footsteps. And before long I stood at the west doors of the Rotunda, staring into the thick plantings of the courtyard gardens. Not a twig or leaf moved. Not even a birdcall enlivened the dull night.
Quivering with disappointment, I abandoned the pursuit and returned to the Rotunda. Eugenie was gone. The stink of Antonia’s perfume lingered in the vast chamber amid the floating wisps of color. Taking a lamp from its bracket, I hunted evidence of Dante’s work.
Near the place where the mage had produced his fountain of light stood a waist-high bronze candle stand of sufficient breadth to have supported the silver sphere. The nireal, he’d called it. Lianelle had named the two pendants she’d sent me nireals. What were they? Curiosity and excitement almost sent me straight to my room. But I needed to finish this.
Dirt littered the floor where the children had played, along with scant puddles of water collected in shallow depressions in the stone. I’d not noticed the mess while watching the ball game. Surely I’d have noticed the children’s hands or their cloth ball getting wet or soiled.
Ranging farther afield, I discovered two open barrels and a water butt upended next the stilled pendulum. Spilled earth and water littered the floor around them.
As I stared at the mess, willing it to make some sense, the floating lights collected around the puddles as they had in the Bastionne. As before, greedy, angry whispers swelled inside me.
What were they? Daemonish fancy named them dead souls. But reason—even modified by my newfound acceptance of unnatural mystery—insisted they were too incomplete to be the essence of a human life. Unlike the voices of the mindstorm, they expressed no individuality, no variety, impressing me more as dust particles in a sandstorm than singular minds. Yet they thirsted mightily.
The lights did not so much frighten me as suffocate me. Believing I’d found what was to be seen in the Rotunda, I hurried away from the pendulum. I must find some way to tell Duplais what I had witnessed. Perhaps this night did not change everything, but he might make some sense of it.
The shadows lay thick under the colonnade, swollen into blackness in the vestibule beyond. I’d left the lamp beside the pendulum and the barrels. A glance over my shoulder left me unwilling to go back to fetch it or to cross to another door. An army of lights swarmed in a jewel-hued spiral—amethyst, emerald, sapphire, and ruby—down from the mosaic dome toward the pitiful splotches of water.
Annoyed at my cowardice, I plunged into the dark vestibule. No one lurked there. The Aspirant was long escaped.
It appalled me to know the arch-villain was here in Castelle Escalon—and excited me, as well. He must be instantly recognizable to the other players, else why his persistent use of an all-enveloping disguise? Dante himself was unsure of his master’s identity. So who was he?
My suspicions of Prefect Kajetan had overflowed in the Bastionne. His passion in defense of his art was not feigned, nor was his concern for Duplais’ welfare. Yet he had easily relegated Lianelle’s fate—and Ambrose’s—to the necessities of an internecine struggle. Such a man could have seen Ophelie de Marangel’s self-mutilation in pursuit of magical prowess as a god-provided opportunity. He would have had no compunction about handing her over to Gaetana to use as a weapon in their war.
Yet I could not afford to blind myself to other possibilities. Kajetan would be uncomfortable spying on Eugenie de Sylvae’s despair. He seemed the sort who would avoid witnessing the sordid results of his grand ideals. So who else might it be? A big man who could come and go at will in the palace precincts.
My thoughts flitted to Lord Ilario, the tallest man at court and the most recognizable, overlooked as a fool, yet cleverer than he seemed. Yet he wore no sorcerer’s mark on his hand, and he was anything but broad, though padded cloaks could easily disguise that.
I paused at the steps down to the garden, recalling the tall, graceful swordsman who had swept down from the woodland at Vradeu’s Crossing. Cloaked in flowing black, he had rescued Duplais and me from the brigands hunting Lianelle’s book. He had hidden his face behind a black silk scarf and a simple hat . . . exactly the sort of disguise Ilario de Sylvae would require. Just a few hours earlier, I had scoffed at the thought of Lord Ilario challenging Dante, yet his hand had rested quite naturally on his sword hilt and moved away only when the threat was moot. Could the chevalier be another of Duplais’ allies?
The tower bells pealed middle-night. With unexpected warmth at my imagining, I sped down the steps and plunged into the overgrown gardens.
Fog had rolled up from the river, leaving the air close, heavy with moisture and thick with the scent of damp earth and fading lavender. I headed for the east wing, thinking to look in on the queen before collapsing in my bed.
My mind raced faster than my feet, dispersing my moment’s buoyant cheer. Speculation did nothing to solve the matter of Mage Dante’s purposes or the intended results of their dalliance with necromancy.
Necromancy was true deadraising, so I had always understood—the act of returning a passed soul to a physical presence in the living world: a revenant. The Temple pronounced such interference with the Creator’s intent as blasphemy and punished suspected practitioners severely. But was such an act even possible? The spectre of Edmond de Roble had been horrifyingly real, but hardly a true physical presence. But those children . . . imperfect, but so lifelike . . . no mere image in the mind’s eye, but laughing, giggling, reaching, reacting to one another and to Eugenie. I’d never heard any claim that the dead
aged
while traveling Ixtador.
The most startling revelation of the encounter had been that necromancy was not solely a payment to Eugenie for her protection. The Aspirant had spoken of the manifestations as more distinct on this night, and of a longer-lasting breach, as if they were practicing the enchantments. As if necromancy itself was a part of their ultimate scheme.
Tendrils of fog brushed my face. Petticoat and sleeves grew sodden from constant brushing of the untrimmed plantings. The soft movement of the air set me shivering. I’d best pay attention to my path, else I’d be wandering until sunrise.
The peaceful dribble of water to my left elicited relief. The Grotto of the Warrior Angels marked the exact center of the Rotunda gardens and an easy marker for the path to the east doors. But my feet slowed as I rounded the corner. A low, cheerful hum announced that I was not the only person passing this way.
Clutching soul, spirit, and garments, I tiptoed forward and flattened myself to the brick arch that led into the little nook. I listened for any hesitation, any change in the slightly off-key melody. Hearing none, I peered ever so carefully around the brick pillar.
Through the fog I could make out the back of a man garbed in voluminous sleeves of white and black stripes, and a soft, slouching bonnet sporting a white plume. Too unfashionable to be Lord Ilario. No sign of cloak, hood, or mask. The man crouched . . . or sat . . . beside the font, idly swirling one hand in the water as he hummed a roundelay my mother had favored. He appeared to be waiting for someone.
I wanted to see his face. Circling left to keep my distance, I crept into the grotto. The humming ceased and he looked around. Easy. No guilty start.
I halted, heart leaping to my throat.
“Is it not late for court maidens to be wandering the gardens in the damp?” A wholly attentive posture, his deep-timbred, mellifluous voice, and a charming, lopsided smile welcomed me. He did not rise, did not expose a hand, but he most definitely
saw
me.
Yet I cared naught for his manners or personal attractions, nor did I heed my rapid calculations of the time elapsed since my dose of Lianelle’s potion. The sorely out-of-fashion gentleman sitting cross-legged on the rim of the font was Queen Eugenie’s late-night visitor.
Exposing my left hand properly, I curtsied deep, as if he’d pointed a finger to the ground. Such effortless mastery of the moment rarely manifested itself outside the nobility. “I was unable to sleep, my lord.”
“Oh, dear. Don’t say you’ve weighty matters preying on your mind. High-born young ladies ought never have serious thoughts. Or perhaps”—his voice dropped and his body leaned my way, as if to confide a titillating secret—“it’s these strange times keep you wakeful.”
The mist and the bonnet’s white plumes conspired to obscure most of his face. Even so, recognition hovered just on the verge of memory.
Determined to get a closer view, I clasped my hands behind my back and strolled toward the fountain as if my sole interest lay in the three wounded angels whose sculpted bodies were bathed so gracefully by the streaming water. Even if he was the Aspirant, which his immaculate, exuberant attire made unlikely, his posture could hardly have been less threatening.
“Indeed these are strange and dreadful times,” I said, wondering if he’d any idea of what had so recently transpired inside the Rotunda. “I’m new to court and have trouble sorting truth from rumor.”
“Best believe the worst you hear,” he said dryly.
He swiveled to face me directly, planting his elegant, knee-high boots on the damp paving. The plumed hat revealed full lips encircled by a meticulously trimmed brown beard and mustache. His broad hand, jeweled with rings, patted the benchlike rim of the font. “Sit beside me, lovely maiden of the mist, and converse a while. Company would please me. Tell me of your activities here. Your viewpoint on the news of the day. Whatever gossip you’ve gleaned about the denizens of this mighty seat of power. Where have you come from that you are new to court?”
I did not sit. The situation was too odd, the language of his smiles and posture too intimate for a stranger, and he had neither asked my name nor offered his own. Instead, I cast my line into the stream, hoping to learn more of him. “I grew up in a country house, my lord. Less than a month ago, I was summoned to serve Queen Eugenie as maid of honor. Though I was reluctant to leave home, her generosity and kindness have astounded me.”
“Hmm. You’ve not the air of a household lady, no matter how elevated. Perhaps it is these weighty concerns, which rarely occur in a mind bent solely on profitable marriage. Or perhaps it is this accursed fog. What house?”
I blinked. No coyness about Eugenie. No reaction at all to her name or my compliment to her. “Montclaire, lord. At Vernase.”
“The Ruggiere demesne? Life’s breath, I adore that house! A prospect to rival the view from yon castelle tower, as well as superb grapes, and the finest hunting in Aubine.”
“Indeed, lord. True on all those counts.” No mention of Papa? Of treason or conspiracy? “So you’ve visited Montclaire?” Perhaps that was where I’d seen him before. He could not be so much as a decade older than me.
He cocked his head sharply, setting his plumes aquiver. “Not for a goodly while.”
The bells pealed the quarter hour, bringing him abruptly to his feet. “Alas, I must depart,” he said, buckling the sword belt about his waist. Rubies gleamed from the weapon’s hilt as if they released their own light. “Dreams await.”
Smiling broadly, he stepped forward and reached for my hand. His touch was featherlight. His kiss the merest brush of his soft beard. Only as he straightened and turned to go did I at last get a peek under his plumes. His eyes were nicely spaced alongside a stalwart nose. Sun-creased at their corners. And entirely black, deeper than the midnight around us.

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