by M. J. Scott
Lord Castaigne cocked his head, as if acknowledging the challenge in the question. "I am a reasonable judge of character, Lord Scardale. And my profession brings with it a certain skill at recognizing the truth when I hear it, even without using my magic," he said calmly. "We questioned the other members of the delegation at some length, but it wasn’t necessary to encourage them any farther than that."
He sounded as though he was telling the truth. Sophie hoped he was. He had no reason to deceive them, after all. It wasn't as though they were in any position to challenge the emperor's authority to do precisely as he liked with prisoners under his control.
"If they couldn't tell you what Sevan was talking about, what makes you think that my husband or I would know more?" Sophie asked. "Neither of us knew him well."
"It may be that you cannot, Lady Scardale," Lord Castaigne said. "But I would not be fulfilling my responsibilities if I didn't use all the sources of information at my disposal in conducting this investigation."
Something about his dispassionate tone grated. It was obvious that here was a man who had a mission and a duty, one he would fulfill or die trying. The kind of man who perhaps would have been better following a religious path. Full of zeal and convinced he was justified in doing whatever needed to be done to serve his purpose. But his purpose wasn't the glory of the goddess or doing good. No, his purpose was truth. In the service of the emperor—or perhaps in service of that concept alone.
It would be more than satisfying to tell this cool Illvyan lord that she wasn't at his disposal. She clenched her teeth against the urge. That would be stepping over the line she was trying to skirt. Lord Castaigne was clearly a force in the emperor's court. Not to mention, possibly the reason Sevan was dead. It would be foolish to take him as merely the perfectly calm and perfectly presented Illvyan nobleman he appeared to be. She would give him no reason to need to use his talents on her.
"Of course," she said, striving for a calm tone to rival his own. "We will tell you what we know." It wasn't a lie. She didn't think they knew anything that would help. She wished she knew more about his powers. Did he always know if someone was lying or did he have to intentionally use his magic?
Lord Castaigne nodded. "Then if you would be so kind." He nodded toward the table where a small pile of neatly inked papers lay. "Those are the records of the discussion with Mestier Allowood. Read them, please. See if anything makes sense to you."
Sophie would rather have picked up a snake. Her skin crawled as she reached for the first paper. Sevan had been unpleasant in real life. She had no desire to read the words he'd uttered between attempting to kill her, then himself, and then finally dying.
But she did it anyway. She drew a breath to steady herself and began to read.
The words were Anglish, which made her wonder who had been recording the conversation. Someone with a good ear for the language, it seemed. The words were disjointed and rambling, but they sounded like an Anglion speaking to her. Like Sevan, even.
The first few pages were repetitive, with Sevan denying his guilt and the right of the questioner—Lord Castaigne presumably—to question him. The interview seemed to have taken place over nearly a full day, with the times neatly recorded. What did the gaps in time represent? Had Sevan been unconscious or raving or had the Illvyans been doing things to him that they didn't want documented? She steeled herself to read on. With each successive page, Sevan's words grew more confused.
More denials. But in between those, pleas. And sentences that were completely out of context. Mentions of names Sophie recognized as his cousin, the late Baron Nester, and if she was remembering rightly, another man, Sevan's father. A snippet of description of a house beside a stream—his home perhaps? Her eyes stung as she read on. She blinked hard against the tears. She would not cry for a man who had tried to kill her. Who thought her a traitor and an abomination. But the words he’d spoken vibrated with pain and despair. Sevan was not much older than her. Or had been not much older than her. Because now he was dead.
On the second to last page, there were several lines that came from temple services. "O earth, rise to keep me" and "glorious merciful lady." But the rest descended into single sentences and then single words. Nothing that made any sense. Whether the poison had made him incoherent or the pain of torture, she saw nothing that might give any hint of whose orders he had been following.
The final words on the page, halfway down were "Please. The root." Then there was nothing more. She dropped the paper back on the table and stepped back, rubbing her hands down her skirts as though she could wipe the sense of Sevan's desperation from her body.
"Sophie?" Cameron said. "Are you all right?"
"Lord Scardale, I would prefer you to read the papers yourself before you discuss anything with your wife," Lord Castaigne said.
"And I don't care what you prefer," Cameron said. "My wife is distressed."
She swallowed, struggling for composure. She didn't want to break down. She wanted this to be over with. For it to be over with, Cameron needed to read Sevan's testimony. Then they would answer Lord Castaigne's questions and leave. "Cameron. It's all right. I'm all right."
The blaze in his blue eyes told her he knew she was lying. Lord Castaigne would know as well. But, if he did, he made no move to relieve her distress in any way. "Do as he asks," she said, raising her chin. "Then it will be over."
Cameron watched her a moment longer, as though reassuring himself that she wasn't hurt. Then he reached for the papers. The minutes while he read seemed to stretch interminably, the room deathly quiet other than the sound of paper rustling as he let each page fall back down to the table when he was done.
As the last one fell, his mouth twisted as though he felt the same distress she had. He backed away from the table and put himself between her and the truth seeker.
"There's nothing in there that makes any sense to me," he said, directing the words to Lucien.
"Nothing?" Lord Castaigne's tone was skeptical.
"I recognized the names he mentioned," Cameron said. "His cousin. His father—I think."
"Yes," Sophie agreed before Lord Castaigne could swing that cool green gaze in her direction. "Those were the only two names I knew. And there are two lines that come from temple services." She repeated what they were. "The rest...the rest meant nothing."
"Not even the last?" Aristides asked.
Sophie shook her head. "No. I’m sorry but no."
Lord Castaigne's eyes narrowed. "You have no idea at all?"
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I suppose it could have a religious meaning to him. Sevan was a devout man. To him a tree would be the symbol of the goddess. Perhaps the root could have something to do with that. But it's not a term commonly used in our observances in Anglion."
"No," Cameron agreed. "It's not. Perhaps you could ask the dominas here if it has any significance. But I can't tell you any more than that, and I imagine Sophie can't either."
Lord Castaigne's expression eased. "Thank you for telling the truth, Lord Scardale. What you have said is consistent with the other Anglions. So it corroborates my conclusions."
Sophie let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Aristides’s lips thinned. His mood did not seem to be improved by this turn of events. "So we know nothing more about whoever was controlling Mestier Allowood than we did at the beginning." He tilted his head at Sophie. "It seems I owe you an apology, Lady Scardale. I promised you answers. Which I cannot provide. Not yet." His gaze flicked toward Lord Castaigne, and Sophie's lungs tightened again. If the emperor demanded, the other Anglions could be questioned—or tortured—further despite this truth seeker's decree that they had not been involved.
"No one could have foreseen that Sevan would die, Your Imperial Highness," she murmured, hoping it was a suitably soothing statement.
"Do you not want to know who wants you dead, Lady Scardale?" Aristides asked.
"Of course, I do. I want the tru
th. However, Lord Castaigne has said he does not have that for us tonight."
"Yet," Aristides corrected.
Sophie shook her head. "You cannot torture a truth from a man who does not know it, Eleivé. If you believe your Lord Castaigne can do as he says, that he knows the truth when he hears it, then you must believe what he is telling us now. That the other Anglions do not know. You must let them return home."
"To carry the tale of the failure with them. If whoever was controlling Mestier Alloway learns of that tale, what will they do next?"
She lifted her chin. "Perhaps they will realize that I am no threat to them while I am here in Illvya and leave it at that."
He shook his head. "Do you really think that is likely?"
"I do not know. But if James and the barron return and report that I am consorting with Illvyan mages, then I will be tainted in the eyes of most Anglions. That must surely reduce whatever threat whoever is doing this thinks I may pose."
"Perhaps," Aristides said.
"We can only hope, Eleivé."
She didn't know if he would share that hope. Not if he still wanted an excuse to invade Anglion. But she wanted him to see that she preferred to be left in peace. It might not sway him but...she had to try.
"It grows late, Your Imperial Majesty," Cameron interjected. "Was there anything else you needed us for? My wife needs her rest."
"Your wife is not the one recovering from an injury, my lord," Aristides retorted.
"Yes," Cameron said blandly. "I need my rest, too."
The emperor's eyes flicked toward Imogene. "Major du Laq tells me she wishes to take you away to her estate for a time."
"Yes, your Imperial Majesty," Sophie said. "It is most generous of her to invite us. I would like to see more of Illvya."
"You wish to go?" Aristides pursed his lips. "I am not sure it is wise."
Sophie's heart sank. Would he refuse? Keep them hemmed in here in Lumia? Did he suspect that they may try to run?
"Our estate is quite safe," Imogene said. "It hardly seems likely that any Anglion agents would be able to follow Lady Scardale there. Our people would be quick to notice strangers."
Sophie tried to ignore that part. They would deal with how they might get away—if they chose to leave—when they got to Imogene’s estate. The more important thing was to convince Aristides to allow them to go. "It would be nice to get to know the country beyond Lumia,” Sophie said. "As it seems likely we will be staying awhile."
"Is that a polite way of saying you have had enough of the capital and politics, Lady Scardale?"
"I'm not sure there's a polite way to answer that question, Eleivé," Sophie replied, lifting her chin, and sending him the sort of smile she used for court banter. She didn't want him to think she was overly eager to leave.
Aristides smiled. "And what will Maistre Matin have to say?"
"If you give permission, then I'm not sure he can say anything," Imogene said. "I'm not proposing to kidnap his Mackenzies for months, just to give them a few days away from Lumia. Henri can wait to continue their education."
The emperor made a vague noise of agreement. "I suppose that you will continue to ask me until I agree?"
"You know me, Eleivé," Imogene agreed with one of her brilliant smiles. "So, you may as well say yes."
The emperor snorted. "What about you, Lord Castaigne? Are you sure you will not need the Scardales again?"
The truth seeker shook his head, blond hair gleaming in the lamplight. "I believe my work is done, Your Imperial Majesty. There is nothing more for me here."
Aristides still didn't look pleased, but after a long moment, he nodded. "So be it. Imogene, proceed with your plans. Just keep me informed."
Chapter 8
"We need a plan," Sophie said as they watched the carriage the emperor had sent them home in move off down the street. She hadn't been willing to say anything in the carriage—who knew what means the emperor might have to spy on them there—but now they were home. And running out of time. She didn't know exactly what had her feeling so uneasy, but the sensation had only increased with each passing minute since they'd left the palace.
Cameron reached for her hand. "Sophie, love—"
"We need maps and clothes and—"
"Sophie, slow down."
She tugged her hand free. "No. We don't have time. Imogene could arrive in the morning and want to sweep us away. We have to be ready."
He frowned, then gestured toward the front gate. "This isn't the best place to discuss this."
"I know. But we're running out of time. We need a map. You go to the library and—"
"We don't even know where the estate is," Cameron objected.
"Then we'll ask. We have the perfect excuse." She headed for the door, not waiting to see if he followed her. The first person she saw in the hallway was Willem, seated on a bench near the door, nose deep in a textbook of some kind. "Willem! Just the person I need."
She summoned a smile as the boy looked up. "The Duquesse du Laq has been kind enough to invite Cameron and me to visit her estate. Do you think there might be a map of it in the library? I'd like to know what sort of a place it is. So I can bring the right clothes for whatever we might do there." She hoped Willem didn't remember that she and Cameron had arrived virtually empty-handed.
Willem snapped his book closed. "Yes, my lady. There are atlases in the library that show many parts of Illvya and the empire." His brow wrinkled. "The du Laq holdings are north from the city. I'm sure we could find something." He focused his gaze on Cameron. "Do you want to go now, my lord? It's not yet that late."
"Perhaps—" Cameron started to say, but Sophie interrupted.
"Yes, he does." She pushed Cameron in Willem's direction. "Go on."
"No, he doesn't," Cameron said, a growl edging the words. Willem looked slightly alarmed, and Cameron softened his expression as Sophie glared at him, willing him to do what she said.
"Willem, I will meet you there," Cameron said eventually. "I will need to fetch a notebook from our rooms. I won't be long. Come along, Sophie. I don't want to keep Willem waiting."
He hooked an arm through hers and set off, leaving her little choice but to go with him. They made it back to their rooms in record time, and Cameron closed the door with a firm thump.
"You need to take a breath, love," he said. "Or tell me why you're suddenly in such a rush." His eyes widened. "Did you have another vision?"
A vision? "No."
"Then tell me. Do you definitely want to try and get away when we're with Imogene?"
He didn't sound sure. Was she crazy? Rushing where there was no need? Perhaps she was, but insanity didn't trump the anxiety coiling through her. "I think we should, yes."
"Do you want to tell me why?"
"It's just a feeling," she admitted.
"A feeling about what?"
"A feeling that if I asked Aristides if he intended to see me on the throne of Anglion in front of Lord Castaigne, and he said 'yes,' then Lord Castaigne wouldn't find that to be a lie."
"I didn't hear him say anything that makes me think he's about to act immediately. And he was angry about Sevan. If he didn’t let that sway him, then he strikes me as a man who takes his time."
"So you think I'm wrong?"
"I don't know," Cameron said. "But if this is what you want, then I'm willing to try. But even if we can get away—and there is no guarantee of that—they may find us. Bring us back. That might leave us in a worse position."
"Or we might get away. If we can stay hidden long enough, then Eloisa will lose interest. If she loses interest, then Aristides has no reason to move against her."
"There are a lot of 'ifs' in all of that."
"I know. But unless you are determined not to try, then I think we have to. Which means you should go meet Willem. And I should find luggage." They'd arrived with their belongings in two small bags. And while they may indeed have to sneak away from the du Laq estate with the same two bags, they could
n't arrive there with only those.
"Luggage?"
"Trunks. That kind of thing. They won't suspect that we have anything in mind if we arrive with more trunks than two people could possibly carry."
Cameron's mouth twitched. "You realize we probably don't own enough clothes between us to fill that many bags?"
"That's my problem. Maps are yours. So go. For all we know, Imogene could arrive in the morning and want to leave. Tonight might be our only chance."
"Are you having second thoughts about this?" Cameron asked, not sure what was causing the hesitation in Sophie's voice. Their departure for the du Laq's estate had been delayed a few days when Imogene had claimed she had business to attend to. She had then dragged Sophie off to the clothiers for yet more clothes provided by the emperor. An apology Aristides had said, for the attacks they had endured. Cameron had spent time with a tailor himself. Between them, they would have no trouble filling a pile of luggage big enough to satisfy Sophie's plan.
Their spare time between that and lessons had been spent in the library, trying to learn more about the countryside around the du Laq’s estate along with more of the geography of the empire, and holed up in their rooms, having long discussions about options. Sophie had become more and more tightly wound with each day that passed, though she put on a good face whenever they weren't alone. She had seemed near-desperate to leave. But now, as they were finishing packing before their departure in the morning, she was oddly reluctant.
"No-o-o...." Sophie met his gaze but her hand twisted nervously in the skirt of her dress.
"That doesn't sound like certainty. We don't have to do this. We can go with Imogene, enjoy a rest in the country, and then come back and deal with what comes next."
Her mouth twisted. "It's just...." She trailed off again, looking down at the trunk at her feet.
