The Spirit Lens (65 page)

“Sonjeur, the book!” This time the blaze seared my cheeks, and the crackling quickly rose to a thunder like fifty horses galloping together.

Fedrigo’s agitation erupted in crows of triumph.

But I sought the power that lived in the pattern I had made, and I joined it with what lived in me, born in my blood. And as if the spout of flame had been sucked into my veins, enchantment roared through me, unruly and awkward, but building, rushing, towering, shivering my foundation, swelling heart and lungs and filling me with torrents of magic. I spread my arms and bellowed in the triumph of a lifetime’s longing.

I did not need to open my eyes to know the book was ash or that Fedrigo glared at me with such hatred as would eat a man’s heart, for I had built his hate into the keirna of his book, and I had quenched it with the glory of my art.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

30 CINQ 5 DAYS AFTER THE ANNIVERSARY

I LEAFED THROUGH THE NEAT pages, meticulously penned by the judicial scribe and delivered to me for review, scratching out a word here or there, replacing a sentence, correcting not the testimony itself, but its articulation. My cousin had insisted I complete the task immediately following the trial’s adjournment to ensure that no questions remained unanswered before he announced his verdict publicly.

Countless activities came to mind as preferable for a soft summer evening after such a long and arduous day. I would have liked to close my eyes and recapture the sweetness of Maura’s embrace. I would have liked to write a letter to my mother and tell her I’d be home to visit soon, and express my hope that perhaps she would be feeling well enough to walk in Manor Duplais’ lavender beds with me, as I knew she enjoyed that above all activities.

Magic, too, beckoned at this sunset hour, when the world itself donned a mantle of mystery and all things seemed possible. All these days, even when concentrating on this trial, my spirit had existed in a state of exaltation. So much to learn, to explore. Everything I’d read and studied lay before me like mysterious lands and oceans lay before the
Destinne
’s prow. Twice in the days since, I had ridden into the countryside and spent an afternoon creating simple spells, just to confirm this renewal was no cruel imagining. Each success but fed the yearnings that had ever lingered in my innermost heart, a deep and hungry burn like that of raw spirits or swallowed lightning.

But I would work no magic at Castelle Escalon as long as Dante remained there. He would sense it, and I was not ready to tell him. Somehow his terrible spellwork at the Exposition had shattered the walls and barriers he’d claimed stifled my magic, in the same way it had broken through my memory of my own death. I wanted to believe he had given me this unparalleled gift knowingly, as a friend. But until I understood what was happening with him, I would tell him nothing. It grieved me, but I dared not trust him.

So much for the Invariable Signs of sainthood. For those first few moments after magic had scalded my veins, Ilario’s beliefs had come upon me in a rush of wonder. I had eluded Death three times, once so close as to smell the grass of Ixtador Beyond the Veil. What if I
was
Other? What if the recurrent dreams of my youth—the battlefields, the flood, the rescue that had gotten me chained to a rock—were the true memory of recurring lives?

I had quickly recovered my sanity. If I were a Saint Reborn, my inerrant perception of righteousness was, if not broken, then entirely confused.

And so I corrected a paragraph, then approved a swan’s graceful glide to its landing in the swan garden pond. Another paragraph and I watched the sky change color. After so many sultry days, the breeze ruffling the pond smelled of rain to come. I breathed deep, hoping that the most refreshing of all scents would cleanse my blood as Dante’s sorcery had cleansed my head, for it seemed as if the facts and implications of this investigation had taken up residence in my veins and arteries, so that if I were to cut my arm I would bleed evidence. Appropriate, I supposed.

I turned another page. Two-thirds of the testimony was my own. The remainder I had elicited from witnesses, for my cousin had designated me Principal Accuser.

Calvino de Santo had testified to Michel de Vernase’s actions in the aftermath of the previous year’s assassination attempt. In return, Philippe commuted his former captain’s sentence. De Santo could now find work and rebuild his life—outside of Sabria, I hoped, lest someday his king discover his role in Maura’s escape. I wondered if Gruchin’s spectre would yet haunt him outside the palace walls.

Audric de Neville had testified haltingly of Ophelie de Marangel’s death. Philippe had granted royal clemency for the killing stroke Ophelie had begged from the old chevalier.

Chief Magistrate Polleu of Challyat testified that the fire that killed the Marqués de Marangel and his family had been traced to a carpenter’s apprentice, whose money box at home contained receipts for
the building of crates to specification
, signed by Maura ney Billard. The apprentice’s wife identified Fedrigo as a customer she had spied delivering “white paste in a jar of water” just before Ophelie’s home burned. The carpenter’s helper himself could not testify, as he had died in a fall less than a week after the Marangel fire. That small fact I recorded in my journal, another death to the Aspirant’s account.

Henri de Sain witnessed to the shipments of crates by Maura ney Billard, bringing a solidity to the case that masked some of its more speculative elements.

A palace guard and a registrar identified Fedrigo as the householder who brought an “ill kinsman” into the Exposition, revealed later to be one Edmond de Roble-Margeroux, dead son of the king’s great friend, Lord Olivier. Captain de Segur’s soldiers witnessed to Fedrigo’s attempt to murder Philippe by dropping a fire-spelled book on his head.

Orviene had tried repeatedly to defend himself, babbling like a terrified child of his blindness to Gaetana’s and Fedrigo’s plotting. He claimed never to have seen the spelled book, and that the enclosure string turned over to the Camarilla had never bound a fire spell and was never his at all.

The Camarilla advocate sat silent through all this. His participation would have made no difference. Orviene and Fedrigo would be bound over to the Camarilla as soon as I verified the transcript. They would be dead by middle-night. The imagining did not grieve me.

Lianelle ney Cazar de Vernase initially refused to testify, until the Principal Accuser took her aside and pointed out that she could sit either in the witness chair or in her father’s empty prisoner’s box, accused of complicity to treason. The prospect of beheading at dawn the next morning tarnished the luster of defiance.

To give full credit to the girl’s courage, however, she agreed only to give yea or nay answers. Though it made my questioning more difficult, I was happy at the solution. I was able to squeeze the story of Ophelie and transference out of her, while avoiding the matter of Eltevire or its disturbing nature. I avoided any testimony that might reveal Ilario’s or Dante’s roles as king’s
agentes
. For Ilario’s sake, if no other, our confederacy would remain as secret as I could manage.

Certainly, the most damning of all witnesses was Anne de Vernase, who identified Maura’s letters, verified her father’s signature on the letters that had sent Edmond de Roble to his death, and reported Michel de Vernase’s last words to her: that it was his duty to “take down” persons he deemed corrupt, “no matter how highly placed . . . no matter the consequences.” Nothing more was required of her.

Throughout the day the girl had listened to every word unflinching, never once meeting the eyes of her royal goodfather or anyone else in the chamber. When I had done with her questioning, it required three prompts for her to remove herself from the chair. She could not seem to take her eyes from the bloody lancets and scarificator we had found in her father’s library.

It surprised me that Lady Madeleine would have sent her daughter alone into such an ordeal. Bad enough the girl had been forced to witness to her father’s infamy. At the end when Philippe gave Anne an opportunity to speak in Michel’s defense, the girl had shaken her head and remained silent.

Philippe’s own demeanor, grim and settled more than angry, had not wavered throughout. He did not present Michel’s last letter in evidence, but told his advisors that it laid out frustrated ambition as motive for Michel’s crimes. I did not believe that was all, but it was enough for the Magisterial Advisors that Philippe was convinced of Michel’s guilt. The burden of judgment was the king’s alone.

And so we arrived at the verdict.

AND IT WAS DONE.

Without hesitation, I signed the document in the space reserved for the Principal Accuser, capped my ink, and wiped my pen, and again wondered if I had done right.

My life held too little of faith to understand how Maura could have done what Michel told her without questioning, yet my conviction of her innocence remained unshakable. I had risked my life and carved out a piece of my honor to save her. Never again could I call myself an honest man, else I must give myself up as guilty of conspiracy as outlined in the verdict. And I would do it all again.

It was not love that made me believe. Though it might have grown to that, we scarce knew each other. We had spent perhaps six full hours in each other’s company—both of us bound in secrets. Since that last cold kiss, my dreams of her were already altered. Her soft, self-contained beauty had become that of an indelible artwork, not a living, breathing woman. I wished her safe and happy, but the ache of not knowing where she was—and maybe never knowing—had quickly become manageable. Someday I might discover that I had been duped. Until then, I would rejoice in her freedom and believe.

Having tied up the documents and gathered my materials, I returned to the palace, waiting in an anteroom as the transcript was signed by Philippe and the Magisterial Advisors, sealed by Philippe’s ring, and installed in the judicial archives. An attendant was dispatched to summon the family representatives to hear the verdict read. By morning, heralds would be spreading news of it throughout the kingdom.

Shortly after the arrival of the Camarilla advocate, two masked inquisitors, and four adepts, Anne de Vernase arrived. I rose when she entered the waiting room, bowed, and exposed my hand. She returned neither the greeting nor the gesture, but rather faced the judiciary chamber door with hands knotted in front of her. Great gods, what cruel mother sends a seventeen-year-old child alone to hear her father condemned?

The girl’s flighty curls were already escaping the tight braid she’d worn for the trial. She appeared altogether small and pinched, as well she might. No matter what secrets she yet held, I felt sorry for her.

“Damoselle,” I said quietly, when the attendant stepped out, “though I understand your distraction, I would advise you to maintain protocol while you are here.”

Her brow wrinkled, and she flicked a glance at me as if my meaning might be written on my face. I waved the marked back of my hand at her. “It is the law. I don’t mind one way or another, but others might. Especially today.”

With a shaking breath, she set her lips tight, returned her gaze to the door, and exposed her hand on her shoulder. She was trembling.

“Perhaps we should send for your mother.” Out of all the verbiage I had directed at her that day, it surprised me that this suggestion broke her composure, evoking a spearing glance of hatred and contempt.

The door to the judicial chamber burst open, and the masked inquisitors came out, followed by the two sorcerers, shackled and shrouded in dark wool sewn with iron rings. An attendant held open the outer door.

“Damoselle de Vernase,” said one of the Magisterial Advisors, poking his head from the inner chamber, “enter.”

But the girl stood paralyzed, her face devoid of color, her eyes like copper medallions fixed in horror on the bullish Fedrigo—unrecognizable in his shapeless hood and gown. Holy angels, her father was reportedly a big man, like the adept.