Corambis

by Sarah Monette

  “Yeah. What’s that mean exactly?”

  “Nothing good.”

  And, yeah, I’d figured that out already, but he sounded so tired—so fucking beat—that I let it go. He didn’t need me nagging at him. If there was something I could do, I had to trust he’d tell me.

  Kay

  I had taken to asking Springett the date every morning. I realized full well that it was an annoying and repetitious habit, as bad as any child demanding to know how many days now until his birthday, but I could not break myself of it. I could not deny the fear crawling up inside my chest that, did I but allow it, I would become an invalid, not merely in that my body was not whole, but in that my mind was not, either. Thus, I demanded to know the date, and I demanded to know the color of my clothes, and whatever he might think of me, Springett answered my questions. I tortured myself with the idea that he might lie to me, for indeed, how could I confirm the truth of what he said? But he did not seem the sort of man to do it; though I doubted I knew much of who he was in truth, his hands were always gentle, and I did not think—could not allow myself to think—that his hands could lie to me. I had often seen the truth of a man in the way he handled his horse, or his hounds.

  And on the day that he told me was Domenica, Julian Carey came again to take me to Our Lady of Mirrors.

  I supposed that in a novel, the situation might be comical, though I did not find it so myself. Julian, standing well away as if he thought I might try to attack him, said, “Uncle Ferrand says I am to apologize. And that I am to take you for a walk after church.”

  “And thus I am your punishment,” I said, and did not try to curb my bitter tongue. “How kind of Uncle Ferrand.”

  “I am sorry,” Julian blurted. “I didn’t think.”

  I believed him, for he was nothing but a spoilt child. “You thought of your friend,” I said tiredly.

  He had no answer to that. I heard him shift his weight uncomfortably, his jewelry clinking. Shallow, spoilt boy, not worth any drama. I said, “We should go, should we not?”

  “Yes,” he said gratefully, and as I rose from my chair, he crossed the room to give me his arm.

  Was easier, this second time, to leave Carey House. I could not brace myself for the fathom station, exactly, but at least I knew what it was and that I had only to let Julian tow me through the press of bodies and the unearthly howling. When we reached Our Lady of Mirrors, he was careful of me, and when he guided me to a seat, he sat down beside me.

  I did not want the boy to make himself a martyr. “You don’t have to sit with me,” I said. “Just come back when the service is over.”

  “No,” Julian said. “Uncle Ferrand would notice. And believe me, he’s mad enough at Aunt Isobel for not letting us sit with them.”

  “Of course.” I was, after all, the only blind man in the cathedral. Murtagh would only have to turn his head to see whether Julian was obeying orders.

  “You and Aunt Isobel really don’t like each other, do you?” Julian said. He sounded curious, a little shocked; I should, I realized, have faked some sort of response to news of Isobel’s hostility. But perhaps that was not worth any drama, either.

  “We have always hated each other,” I said. I folded my hands in my lap and bent my head over them.

  “Always?” He sounded even more shocked.

  I wondered if had ever been a time when Isobel had not resented me. Had she looked at her newborn half brother with affection?

  Before I had to answer Julian’s question, the service began. I paid better attention to the intended this time; it made a difference to know that his name was Constant Godolphin, to remember that he had been kind to me. He preached about the necessity of peace, the duty incumbent upon each follower of the Lady to work actively toward harmony (like many intendeds, he had a taste for musical metaphors). “Peace,” said the intended, “is not merely the absence of strife. It is the refusal of strife.”

  But what if one cannot refuse strife? I thought. What if one has not the luxury? The people of Rothmarlin might refuse strife; it meant nothing but death if the Usara did not choose likewise. And I had chosen strife again when I chose to follow Gerrard. But so had the Corambins of forty indictions ago chosen strife; if they had not so chosen, the Mulkist warlocks would still hold sway in Caloxa, and that might be peaceful, but I did not think it could in any way be considered right.

  Is easy to refuse strife when thou standst in a cathedral in Esmer, when no one in thy life has offered thee harm.

  And is easy, I answered myself, to disdain peace when thou hast fought all thy life. Thou art no soldier now, nor margrave, nor anything save an invalid. Perhaps thou shouldst give a little more thought to peace.

  And another thought formed before I could stop it: What good has all thy fighting done thee?

  None. Gerrard was dead; Cecil held Rothmarlin; I was a duke’s dependent whose skills—with sword, with bow, on horseback, on foot—were worse than useless. Thus far, I had spent much of my time sleeping, healing, and when I was alert, I explored my new home, if home it was, determined not to be prisoned in one chair. Every day I could endure for longer, and my mental map of the nursery was complete, though vague in places. What I would do with the long empty hours once I had recovered my full strength, I knew not.

  And if I kept thinking along these lines, I would turn Julian’s afternoon penance into torture indeed. I recited the coraline in my head, drowning out my own gnawing thoughts, and wondered if there was any difference between the peace the intended preached and the tranquility the coraline brought me. Could I have one without the other?

  When the service was over, Julian said, “Let’s wait until the crowd has thinned out a little. It’ll be easier for you.”

  And you won’t have to worry about encountering your friend Thrale. I bit my tongue against the words, for I was burdened with Julian this afternoon as much as he was burdened with me, and I had no great fancy for braving the crush in any event. I could hear the muted babble of voices, the splash of feet in the pool, a great rustling murmur of cloth and bodies, and I did not want to be among them.

  We were still waiting when I heard feet approaching us, and beside me, Julian scrambled to his feet, dragging me up with him. “Intended,” he said, nervous enough that his voice cracked. I reached forward and found the back of the bench in front of me. An anchor.

  “Julian,” said the intended. Constant Godolphin’s soft, gracious voice. “I am pleased to see you well. And Mr. Brightmore. I had been afraid you would not return after the mischance last Domenica.”

  “That was my fault,” Julian said, and even a spoilt child could have his own sort of bravery. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said the intended, and I could not decide if was some sharpness under his habitual softness, or if was merely my imagination.

  But, no, Julian heard it, too, for there was diffidence in his voice when he said, “Intended, could I ask a favor?”

  “Of course, child,” the intended said, though not warmly, and I deduced that whatever the issue was between the intended and the duke, Julian was a part of it.

  “Not for me,” Julian said. “For Mr. Brightmore. I thought, if you showed him the cathedral, then perhaps coming here wouldn’t be so . . .” He trailed off, and I wondered just how much of my fear and unhappiness I had betrayed.

  “That’s a very good idea,” the intended said, his voice warm now with approval, and Julian muttered, “Uncle Ferrand bade me think.”

  Think how you would feel if you were blind. I could all but hear Murtagh’s voice. Blessed Lady, I had become an object lesson in this silly child’s moral education.

  On the other hand, I reasoned with myself, fighting a wave of sick humiliation, seems it has done some good. Julian had thought, and he had conceived of a notion that might actually make my life more bearable.

  “I would be very pleased,” said the intended. “Give me a moment, for I must say farewell to Mrs. Chepstow
and Mrs. Storridge, but I will return directly.”

  His footsteps padded away; I wondered if he was like the intended in Barthas Cross who argued all winter with the vestry about the sanctity of socks, or if he enjoyed going barefoot.

  Julian said, “Is this all right? I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, but I wasn’t expecting the intended to come over, and really he’ll be a much better guide than me.”

  “Perfectly all right,” I said, mostly to curtail the flow of his words. “If you’ll return in, perhaps two hours?”

  “Return?”

  “I won’t tell your uncle. You need not be tied to me all afternoon.”

  A silence. He said, sounding hurt, “I said I was sorry.”

  “And I accepted your apology. You needn’t stay.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you wish me to go? I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

  “I care not,” I said, and realized too late how harsh it sounded.

  He said stiffly, “I think I should stay, thank you.”

  Then the intended returned, and I was spared the attempt to placate. The intended said, “Where would you like to begin, Mr. Brightmore?”

  This was a new thing. Since I had been blinded, I had known only two places properly: the old nursery in Carey House and the tiny hotel room in the Althammara. Both those places I had learned by trial and error, by creeping about with one hand against the wall, or feeling my way from one piece of furniture to the next. I had never entirely learned the hotel room, because I was never sure enough of privacy to be thorough. In Carey House, I seemed to have nothing but privacy; was no one to watch my childish fumblings, nor anyone to ask for help. On Venerdy I had become hopelessly lost—richly deserved comeuppance for reckless overconfidence—and had finally resorted to crawling, hands and knees, until I ran into a wall. And then crawling along the wall, in and out of a corner, until I found the door frame. Then, blessedly, I had known where I was, and had been able to walk, upright as befitted a man, back to the chair by the fireplace. And there I had sat, shaking, my eyes stinging with tears I would not weep, for nearly an hour before I could regain my composure.

  Would be none of that here. Not in front of the intended, and not in front of Julian Carey. Carefully keeping my voice calm, light, a little disinterested, I said, “In truth, I know not. I had no familiarity with Our Lady of Mirrors before I was blinded, thus I cannot even hazard a guess as to its . . .” I released the bench back to make a two-handed gesture. “Habiliments.”

  I was proud of myself, both for saying before I was blinded as if it mattered little and for the gesture, which proved I did not fear the unknown space around me.

  Yes, with Julian to one side of thee and the intended to the other, thou’rt most brave.

  “Well,” said the intended, “then let’s be methodical and start with the entryway and the pool.”

  As it turned out, Julian was as methodical as the intended, and both of them were far more patient than I. They spent hours that afternoon showing me the cathedral, the sacred pool, the wall shrines, even the Altar of Mirrors. Was I who finally admitted fatigue and asked Julian to escort me back to Carey House.

  Soon enough, I would start to slip and think of it as “home.”

  Felix

  Mildmay went out Domenica afternoon, on another of his errands he preferred not to discuss. I was too relieved to care, for I did not want an audience for what I had to do. I had thought I had defeated the fantôme, banished it if not destroyed it entirely, but I had been horribly wrong. It had merely been waiting, searching for advantage. And it had found its advantage in the rubies, adding their noirance to its own, weaving a trap of nightmares for me: rape instead of seduction. It had failed, but I knew that was only because Mildmay had been here, because he had woken me. If it tried again, as it certainly would, I had no illusions about my own ability to withstand it.

  I had failed in banishing it when I had my magic, and now with the choke-binding on me the idea was merely ludicrous—but there was a difference between magic and will, and it was the will that the fantôme worked on, while it was the magic that it wanted. And dreamwork was not magic, though it could be the basis for thaumaturgical workings.

  And I had the Sibylline.

  I sat on the bed in the Golden Hare, as I’d sat on the bed in the Five Dancing Frogs, and laid out the Sibylline. This time, I was divining simply for the card that would represent the fantôme. I was expecting the Dead Tree or the Siren, but what came up, over and over, regardless of what method I used, was the Hermaphrodite.

  “This makes no sense,” I said to the cards. The Hermaphrodite was the card of the union between the male and female aspects of the self; it could symbolize a literal union between man and woman, or close cooperation between wizard and annemer, but more often indicated the need for the waking self to attend to the dreaming self or for rational thought to heed emotional need. And there are many arguments, had said Mavortian von Heber dryly, over which of these is the male and which the female. It was the card of balance. Also, I thought, the card of the sphinx.

  There was no point in using the cards if I wasn’t going to trust them—a lesson that Iosephinus Pompey had very nearly beaten into my head when he started teaching me oneiromantic symbolism. I put the other cards away, crossed the Hermaphrodite with the Parliament of Bees, and descended into a trance.

  My construct-Mélusine was still barren and desolate, a cold schematic in gray stone. The ruby bees made small stiff flights around my head. As I had before, I made the circle, closing the gates. This time, I shut Horn Gate without hesitating.

  Thou knowst that will not work, said the fantôme. Even thy magic could not make thy fortress fast against me.

  Oh, it depends, I said. You see, I’m not trying to keep you out.

  I turned and said to the bees, Hold.

  The worst thing about Malkar’s rubies, the worst thing, had always been the knowledge that I could use them. They obeyed me now, circling the fantôme, which wavered from Isaac’s shape to Mildmay’s and then vanished entirely. But it was still there, for the bees continued to circle. With all my strength of will, I imagined a prison for a ghost, not of rock or of iron, but of glass and blood and dust. I put the Hermaphrodite within the prison, and then, imaginary hands clenched with entirely real effort, I put the fantôme within the Hermaphrodite.

  Its shriek of protest went through me like iron nails through paper, but I held fast to my image. The Hermaphrodite within the prison blinked, and when it opened its eyes, they were red with fire and fury, dark with blood and madness.

  Fantôme.

  The bees landed one by one on the glass and began to circle, just as they had done in the air.

  Why dost prison me? said the fantôme. I would serve thee.

  You would devour me.

  They are the same, said the fantôme.

  I do not wish your service.

  Thou art mine to serve, it said implacably. And thou liest. Thou wishst my service with all thy heart. I have seen thy heart, Felix Harrowgate. I know what it holds.

  You do not. You see only what serves you.

  I see what is there.

  No, I said and twisted into waking.

  The construct-prison held. I knew the fantôme’s rage, but did not feel it. I was not free of it, but at least I wouldn’t wake Mildmay in the middle of the night again because I could not tell the fantôme’s urgings from my own thoughts.

  And nothing, not an emperor’s ransom or the chance to go home again, would make me take the rubies out of their wash-leather bag. For now, I was using them, but I knew in the darkest, twisted corners of my heart how little it would take for them to begin using me.

  Mildmay

  Cyriack Thrale led me to a place I wouldn’t’ve found on my own, but that was just fucking perfect for me and Felix. Big old brick apartment building, with a courtyard with a tree in the middle, and an apartment that was twice the size of anything I’d ever had in the Lower City, and if I was
doing the math right, it cost about half as much. And it came furnished.

  I made the deal with the landlord Domenica afternoon. When I got back, Felix was sleeping like a dead thing. I didn’t know if that was okay or not—because he hadn’t fucking talked to me, the secretive son of a bitch—but I figured finally that his body needed the sleep anyway. So I watched in case something bad happened—well, something bad I could recognize—and when he woke up, he said the fantôme had been “dealt with.”

  “That a permanent kind of ‘dealt with’ or the other kind?” I said, and he hunched up a little and said, “I’m working on it,” and I left it at that because he still didn’t need the extra grief from me and it still wasn’t like there was anything I could do. I figured my best bet was to give him a distraction, so I told him about the new place, and he chewed me out about not telling him, and we were okay again.

  Lunedy morning, we moved ourselves in, us and our carpetbags, and Felix was unpacking our stuff into the closet and the big ugly bureau when he suddenly stopped and said, “You know, this really won’t do.”

  I looked up. He was standing in the middle of the room, holding his dark green coat out in front of him and looking at it like it was a cat he’d just dragged out of the milk jug. And, you know, seeing it in bright mid-morning sunlight, I knew what he meant.

  Back in the Mirador, I’d packed two of his coats, the dark green and a dark blue. They were the plainest coats he had. I didn’t feel like getting bashed over the head so somebody could pick the bullion out of Felix’s sleeves.

  The blue coat had lasted until just past Fiddermark, when we hit a patch of the nastiest weather I’ve ever been out in. We’d both ended up soaking wet and covered in mud. And then we’d gotten in this kind of tangle with the gate of the hotel courtyard and somebody else’s nasty-tempered horse, and the coat had ended up with a hole in it you could put your hand through. I’d expected Felix to yell at me or yell at the guy who owned the horse or just plain yell, but he hadn’t. He’d stripped out of the coat and given it to the hotel-keeper’s wife for her patchwork and hadn’t said a word. Two days later, he had yelled at me, gone off like a string of firecrackers over Kethe knows what, but I’d known it wasn’t about whatever the newest thing I’d done wrong was and it wasn’t even about the coat. It was about Gideon and being exiled and the whole fucking mess that he just couldn’t talk about.