The crown prince’s magic.
But how was this possible? Crown Prince Elfred had been banned from using his gift at the dinner table, having ruined one too many salad forks, and Roger – despite all reason telling her otherwise – was somehow using his magic, but didn’t realize the difference between iron and silver.
The crowd’s shock wore off and turned to titters of laughter. A nervous young bodyguard moved to intercept him, but Harrod held up a hand indicating he should not. Sibylla locked eyes with Harrod. If only they could get Roger out of here without anyone intervening.
In desperation, Roger changed his tactics. “Dr Lundfrigg.” He pointed at the royal physician who stood at Sibylla’s shoulder with a smug grin on his face. “You’re the real Greyanchor Strangler, and I know why you’ve done it. You killed those women for your experiments. Made ’em sick with infecting spores. All so you can grow this!” He raised something in his hand – a mushroom? “But the Greyanchor Strangler isn’t you alone. The undertaker Nail, the lawyer Murray – you fiends hid your murders behind an innocent scapegoat and kept on killing. Seeing as I’m already damned, I’ve come to show my fellow Myrcnians how you’ve grown magic from the dead.”
Through his speech, most of the crowd gawked, motionless. A few people laughed, and one poor sod even clapped.
Roger leapt from the dais, perhaps emboldened to apprehend Dr Lundfrigg with his own hands, or bash his brains out.
From the corner of her eye, Sibylla caught the queen nodding to Dorinda, her patience for this display at an end. A flash of something red appeared in Dorinda’s hand, and Sibylla knew whatever Roger intended to reveal would get him murdered in a most striking fashion to prevent him saying more.
“Merciful Mother.” She had to protect him. Her fingers twitched first. Black ink pooled beneath her fingernails – something, anything to block Roger’s words from the throng and keep Dorinda safely at bay. Sibylla spread her fingers, flattened her palms. Thick trunks of black ink trees sprouted from the polished parquet floor. A forest took shape around them, a circular copse. Her ink trees grew in height until their branches spread in watercolor streaks like a mourning canopy, black leaves unmoving above their heads. She had never created such a massive, intricate painting at once. A few speckles of ink marred the silver of her dress but that couldn’t be helped. The rest of her ink would diffuse into the air as soon as she lost concentration.
The ink muffled the exclamations from outside the copse, and Sibylla spread her fingers wide, her arms outstretched. She’d caught Roger in her inky net, at least, and Dr Lundfrigg at her side. Harrod as well, thank the Lady of the Stream. Lady Esther and the emperor were the only unintended bystanders. She didn’t know whether she could move without disrupting her inking, so she remained like some terrible water sprite trapped at its center.
“Roger? Harrod?” she called out. The sudden inky canopy enveloped them in shadow. If any of them blundered headfirst through the black walls, they’d encounter Dorinda, the queen, and the contingent of royal guards within the grand ballroom.
Sibylla drew a long, steady breath. Inking and glowing at the same time was like singing while playing the concertina – annoying at best and impossible at worst. Still, she let her skin turn translucent until the eerie glow of her blood lit all their faces with a ghostly pallor. One problem solved, but now she needed to think of a better idea than hide.
“How is this possible?” Lady Esther touched a trunk, staining the tip of her finger black. “I demand you stop this.”
Sibylla’s creations had always been small, like ink-bees, but this was true Muir magic, grand and spectacular. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck as she thickened the ink all around them. Countless days of inking thousands upon thousands of insects and clouds had not prepared her for this feat of endurance. Lady Esther pressed her lips together as though blowing out a candle. A bubble took shape from her mouth, and with speed headed toward one of the tree trunks. Sibylla tightened her jaw, unable to prevent the collision.
Pop!
The bubble burst in a tiny splash, slurring a small portion of the ink gray.
Lady Esther’s strained mouth appeared moments away from shrieking, “This has nothing to do with me.”
Ink was not stone. If Lady Esther wanted to cover herself in black, she could leave whenever she wished. The emperor laughed into his fist while Harrod offered Lady Esther his hand.
“Don’t touch me, you degenerate rake,” Lady Esther snapped.
A loud clang caught their attention.
Dr Lundfrigg lay curled on the ground.
Roger stood over him, chest heaving, the silver tray gripped in his hands. “I spent a night on your little mushroom farm,” he roared. “To think I trusted you. But you lie, your magic lies, this entire bloody country is built on lies.”
Dr Lundfrigg lurched to his knees. His voice cracked. “Do you know how close I am? With Princess Sibylla’s blood and this new batch of mushrooms, I might achieve medical marvels no other doctor could dream into existence. With the royal glow, I could peer through a patient’s skin without scalpel or pain. Remember the broken-legged boy. Imagine if we could see his bone healing with our own eyes, allowing us to make the perfect adjustments so he could run again. And at what cost? A few moments of the royal family’s precious time, to provide a service far more valuable than a pointless ceremony. What good are spectacles to the bedridden invalid? Think how we could bring about the Scientific Age.”
Roger looked ready to trounce him a second time, and Dr Lundfrigg shielded his face with his arms.
“A mushroom farm?” Rivulets of black ink streaked down Sibylla’s fingers, shading the blue-violet glow in her hands as she struggled to hold the tree copse together around them.
Roger brandished the tray. “I’m thinking of a girl who’s got no mother because of you. But I’ve stared death in the face three times over, and I’ll even give him one last glim if only I take you with me.”
His face contorted into an expression she’d never seen, not even during their worst rows. He’d missed his devotional, and yet here he was, alive if not exactly well. Now he seemed ready to throw himself into a volley of rifle-fire. Sibylla bit her lip. A day ago, she’d sent him to fetch that odd pixie girl that haunted his garret. She couldn’t imagine what horrors he’d encountered to make him risk his life.
Dr Lundfrigg clambered to his feet. “Look around.” His arms flailed toward the swaying inky walls. “You can’t spread your lies in here.” He nodded to Sibylla as though she’d assisted him. Now she wanted to strike him, too.
“Please, Sibet,” Roger choked. “In Myrcnia, it only matters how people see you, not who you really are.”
“If you tell me what’s happened, I’ll help.” The strain in her neck spread down her back, and the ink seemed to churn within her, replenishing itself.
“This man,” cried Roger, as he grabbed Dr Lundfrigg by the lapels and shook him, “grows mycological magic in specially chosen stiffs.”
“Enough,” Harrod barked. “This farce must end here.”
“I believe him, Harrod.” Sibylla had already measured Dr Lundfrigg’s character for herself. Not only had he taken great pains to acquire samples of royal blood, including her own, but she also knew he had a list of former salon girls provided by an unwitting Dame Angeline – many of whom she’d learned, from reading court records, now lay dead. As for the magic, Sibylla had seen her cousins faking small displays all week. Her stomach turned at all the times the royal physician had talked to her of gardening. “Dr Lundfrigg is a traitor.”
Sibylla had to think. She couldn’t keep her wall up much longer: glistening ink gloved her forearms to her elbows. How could she end this without Roger winding up dead?
“You believe him?” Harrod gaped at her.
“Your highness!” Dr Lundfrigg exclaimed like a petulant child caught stealing licorice sticks. “If I’m guilty, so is this man. I hired him. Tried him out. He followed orders with
out question.”
“You lying sack of bonemeal.” Roger raised the tray above his head. “The only ones working for you are that two-faced pox of an undertaker’s assistant and the dead lawyer what tried to frame me for your crimes.”
“You’re all daft.” As Harrod raised his hands in defeat, Lady Esther abruptly snatched his pistol – an engraved silver pepperbox he’d concealed beneath his ornamental fur cape.
She trained the barrel at Roger’s nose. “Did you kill Mr Murray? Did you kill my Bruce?”
For a second, Sibylla imagined she was standing in a stage production of The Barnmaid of Bareth. Pain stabbed behind her eyes. Lady Esther intended to shoot. The serving tray clattered to the floor, and the emperor’s hands gripped Sibylla’s waist, pulling her out of the way.
“I didn’t kill him.” Roger raised his hands. “I killed no one–”
“Ma’am, give me–”
“You scum.” Lady Esther’s bosom heaved beneath her gown. Tears trickled down her nose and water bubbled from her mouth. The gun shook in her grasp. The trigger chinked.
Crack.
Sibylla released her hold on the inky trees as she fell. The upper branches disintegrated, ink raining on their heads. Bright light shone through the thinning, lacy trees. An applause greeted them – mistaken delight at Sibylla’s creation. Then screams filled the ballroom. The emperor left Sibylla safely on the ground. He leapt at Lady Esther, who brandished the pepperbox while wiping ink-smears from her face. People jostled back and forth, unsure if they should flee or run to the aid of their new prince bleeding out on the floor.
“Harrod!” Sibylla’s legs buckled.
It couldn’t be. Lady Esther had aimed at Roger and fired at pointblank range! Harrod must have thrust him out of the way – that damnable hero. Steady arms caught her as she attempted to stand and held her upright. She blinked at a blurry face, unable to stop the translucence of her skin, or her glowing blood beneath.
A blond mustache, a scarlet uniform… Lieutenant Calloway. He held her, squeezing the breath from her chest, and turned her face away. She struggled, but he refused to let go.
“Please,” she gasped into his shoulder. “He’s my brother.”
The words seemed to resonate with him, as he loosened his grip for her to slip away.
“If he dies,” Sibylla seethed to Lady Esther as she passed, “you’ll soon follow.”
Edgar and Crown Prince Elfred hovered close, neither daring to help Lady Esther. Not even the queen herself would intervene now. Not while the emperor pinned Lady Esther’s arms behind her back with one hand and wrestled away the gun in the other. Khalishkan officials stood close, hands on the hilts of their guardless swords. Lady Esther slumped, shattered on the inside, perhaps never to be mended.
Sibylla landed on her knees at Harrod’s side in a crinoline puff. She cared nothing for her ink-spattered dress or the crowd that hung back as if a bullet wound were infectious. Blood drenched Harrod’s dress uniform, and the kraken medal on his chest. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Her entire body felt heavy and numb, like she might disappear completely, leaving only her blood on the floor.
“Sibet.” Roger’s voice came to her through an ocean. Not an ocean, but tears – her own. She blinked. “Sibet! Sibet, he’ll be all right.” He sounded so calm, so confident, as though certain of his words.
Roger stripped off his neckcloth, exposing his Straybound tattoo and the red rope-wound around his neck. He cinched the cloth around Harrod’s upper arm as a tourniquet, stemming the flow of blood.
“Bring me gin!”
For a moment Sibylla thought he wanted a drink, but Dr Kaishuk dashed forward with the leather bag she seemed to take everywhere and handed him a bottle of some medical tincture, instead. With scissors she cut the heavy fabric of Harrod’s sleeve from cuff to collar, splitting the shirt in half, while Roger drenched his hands in fluid before beginning his inspection of the wound in Harrod’s left arm. Harrod gave a blood-curdling scream that trailed off when Dr Kaishuk placed a wet cloth over his mouth and nose. Roger worked at the wound and Sibylla looked away.
Harrod’s fingers found hers, slippery with sweat. She looked down with a start, then squeezed them back, exhaling stale air she’d been holding in her chest.
“Damn it all,” Roger said. Sibylla didn’t have the stomach to look. “The bullet’s torn down the length of his forearm and lodged in his elbow. Nothing but boneshards. There’s but one thing to do, though I’m certain he’d near kill me first.”
“We should move him,” said Dr Kaishuk, her voice husky over the crowd. “Leave this to the real professionals.”
“Filthy surgeon,” Harrod mumbled as a litter was brought, and half a dozen men lifted him onto it.
“You’re lucky the bullet missed your lung, brother.” Roger’s voice was full of bravado, but the sweat on his forehead told a different story.
Sibylla gripped Roger’s elbow as they watched Harrod being carted off with Dr Kaishuk dancing attendance.
“That poor livery. There’s no chance of getting it clean now.” She tugged on his shirt. His sleeves, shoved to his elbows, were splattered with blood. He’d wiped his hands on his breeches, leaving wide red streaks. Even his white stockings matched the dark red of his coat.
“Brother.” He repeated the word softly, so only she could hear. “I suppose I can’t be calling him that now.”
“I’m sorry, Dodge.” Sibylla slipped her fingers into his and squeezed. Holding his hand was dangerous. Behind him, Dorinda lingered near the Khalishkan dignitaries and royal guards. If she dared move closer, they’d both discover whether Sibylla’s whistle-click could rupture a skull.
“I’m no royal physician, but do you think they’d let me help change his dressings?” Roger’s arms fell limp at his sides.
“You can try.”
Sibylla didn’t have the heart to tell him that no raving lunatic of a footman would be allowed near the new prince. Straybound or not.
38
Throughout the night, servants brought Sibylla updates on Harrod’s condition while she inked in her bedroom, unable to sleep. By morning, Harrod had shouted off all the physicians brought to his chamber – first the Khalishkans followed by the Myrcnian doctors, until only Roger remained to tend his wounds. Thanks to a timely amputation, early indicators pointed to a steady recovery, no doubt helped by the magic blood in her half-brother’s veins.
At seven the next morning, Sibylla steeled her guts upon entering the dining hall. A glance about the room revealed no footmen, guards, or family members – only the queen. To her right, an expansive spread of browned toast, poached eggs, baked beans, bacon quiche tarts, and five varieties of sausage waited in silver serving dishes.
“Be a dear and fix me a plate.”
Sibylla walked down the row of delicacies, selecting one of each item save for the baked beans she knew the queen detested, and brought the plate to her. Attempting to replicate a palace footman’s meticulous skills, she swooped the plate onto the table. Sibylla pulled out the queen’s chair and eased her into it.
The queen clucked in disapproval. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Sibylla stiffened, clasping her hands behind her back. “Ma’am?” “
Your fry-up, Sibet. You’ll never adjust to devotionals if you perform them on an empty stomach.”
The matter of Roger as her Straybound hadn’t escaped the queen’s notice after all. Fortunately, Dorinda hadn’t murdered him yet, either. Sibylla hastened to the serving dishes and returned with a full plate, save for the black pudding.
The queen skewered a poached egg with her fork, sopping up the spilt yolk with her bread. Sibylla scoured her memory for the last time she’d been alone with her grandmother – when she’d been asked to glow in practice for the emperor’s greeting ceremony. In some ways, her future had been clearer then, without a Straybound or an engagement. She had more to care for now, with so little idea of how to do so. She forced
a bite of dry toast down her throat. This food was too heavy for her knotted stomach to manage so early in the morning.
The queen’s silence eroded her restraint, and Sibylla opened her mouth first. “Did your royal majesty sleep well?”
The queen snorted. “Did I sleep well? You mean after all that fuss you caused. Did you think that was an appropriate way to celebrate your betrothal?”
Sibylla’s grip tightened on her fork. “Has the emperor decided to break off the engagement?” She didn’t know what answer she’d rather hear. While she might happily marry Timur one day, she had no idea how to be an empress.
“I believe he finds it all rather charming.” The queen rotated a brown sausage on her fork. “And a man with his temperament, after going through such trouble, won’t readily change his mind over a few ink-stains.”
Sibylla halted, a fork of baked beans halfway between the plate and her mouth. “What trouble?”
“Privately, I made it very clear that while we wanted to smooth relations with Khalishka, Myrcnia wasn’t in the position to offer her our divine granddaughter. Not as my suspicions concerning your… not-cousins had come to a head.” The queen wiped a bit of gristle from the corner of her mouth. “Do you know what Emperor Timur said?”
Sibylla hunted for the answer, then admitted defeat. “Not a clue.”
“That he’d be taking a princess while providing a prince.”
“Harrod?” Sibylla’s fork slipped from her fingers.
“I never would have uncovered that Captain Starkley was Prince Henry’s son if not for the emperor. Though how he came into possession of such coveted knowledge, he wouldn’t say.”
Outside of Roger’s garret, Sibylla had been out of her mind with anger and careless with her words. The emperor had used her spilling the delicate details of her family relationships to bargain with the queen over her granddaughter’s hand. Now, Sibylla recoiled to think how he might have used her secret if he hadn’t wanted to marry her.
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 36
