An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  In defiance of all tradition Xaviera wore a sword on one hip and a pistol on the other. Her skirts, though elegant, were not of a standard cut and probably concealed modifications that would allow her freedom of movement. Underneath the silk and satin, she was stretched taut as a bowstring.

  Notably absent, again, was Príncipe Julio. Yes, this was technically a ladies’ court, but that did not mean men were entirely forbidden. Kantelvar had accompanied her in, and Margareta had a bodyguard, a knife-faced man with skin the color of chestnuts, armed with a sword, a dagger, and a brace of pistols. His high collar bore a whole regiment of dueling pins.

  Isabelle curtsied before the queen. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth, but she no longer had the option of silence’s shield. “Your Majesty.”

  “Princess Isabelle,” Margareta said. “Rise and be welcome.”

  Isabelle stood. “I bring greetings from my cousin, His Célestial Majesty Leon XIV, le Roi de Tonnerre. He bids you peace and prosperity.”

  “An awkward wish, as peace and prosperity are ever at odds,” Margareta replied. “But we do not hold the message against the messenger. On behalf of my husband, His Majesty King Carlemmo II, el Rey de los Espejos, and myself, I welcome you, at long last, to our humble house.”

  Isabelle extended her good hand toward Kantelvar. “If I may present my credentials as Célestial ambassadress.”

  Margareta curled her fingers. Kantelvar clanked forward and handed the scroll to the bodyguard, who opened it and showed it to Margareta. She gave it a cursory glance and said, “Everything seems to be in order.”

  Isabelle felt she ought to say something, but she had no idea how to begin negotiating for peace. The only way she could see to avoid a war was if the brothers agreed not to fight, but neither one of them was accessible … except here through wife and mother. From everything Isabelle had heard of Margareta, she seemed unlikely to abort her grab for power, but what about Xaviera? Could she negotiate on her husband’s behalf?

  No sooner had Isabelle turned her thoughts in that direction than Margareta gestured to Xaviera. “Princesa Xaviera, make yourself known to soon-to-be–Crown Princesa Isabelle.”

  In her lap, Xaviera’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. “My lord and husband commands me to bring you greetings, Princesa.”

  Margareta scowled, and Isabelle judged it was because Xaviera had obeyed her command while simultaneously denying her authority.

  Isabelle caught Xaviera’s silver gaze as best she could. “I … Please give your husband my thanks. I pray you are reunited soon in happiness and health.”

  Margareta said, “Alas, that is a prayer unlikely to be answered. Xaviera does her best to project hardiness but her fitness is doubtful.”

  Xaviera’s sinewy features grew even harder. Her reflective eyes had a blue patina Isabelle had not seen on any other Aragoth, like tarnished silver. Her painted lips were also creased around the edges like an old woman’s.

  “You question my fitness and yet you would let this in.” Xaviera’s hand jerked toward Isabelle. “Misbegotten and malformed.”

  Isabelle’s cheeks burned.

  “Xaviera! That is uncalled for,” Margareta snapped, but the crinkles around her eyes were smug.

  She set this up. Of course there was nothing Margareta would like better than for Isabelle and Xaviera to be at each other’s throats.

  Isabelle let go a long breath and began peeling off her right-hand glove.

  Xaviera was riveted, but Margareta leaned forward. “Isabelle, what are you doing?”

  “The truth of a thing is never as horrible as the anticipation of that thing,” Isabelle said, a steady mantra in her life. She had been cursed with the title of Breaker’s get since she was too young to understand anything but its hateful tone. To this day, she remembered clinging to Jean-Claude’s leg, weeping herself insensible while he stroked her hair and made her say a hundred times that she was not touched by the Breaker. It ought to have been easier to deal with by now, but some types of pain just got worse over time.

  She pulled her wormfinger from her glove and held it up for display. It wriggled like a worm on a fishhook.

  Xaviera growled, “You are Breaker touched, unclean.”

  Margareta relaxed.

  Kantelvar stepped up from behind Isabelle as if to shield her. “She has been tested and found untainted.”

  Xaviera sneered at him. “Tested by you, oh web spinner. Your threads dangle from every ear—”

  “Silence,” Margareta said to Xaviera. “One more outburst from you and I will have you removed.”

  Xaviera’s hands twitched, but she kept them carefully clear of her weapons.

  Isabelle cleared her throat and stepped around Kantelvar. She held up her hand and examined it as if seeing it for the first time. “The womb injury to my hand is a fact, nothing more.” Then she swiveled her gaze to meet Xaviera’s squarely. “People have been judging me by my hand for my whole life, as if it is the only thing about me that matters.” Then she placed her hand over her belly, her womb, that organ that had failed Xaviera so bitterly and for which she had been roundly condemned. “I know exactly how much that hurts.”

  Xaviera caught the implication straight to the gut and recoiled into her chair. Isabelle kept her gaze fixed, trying with all her might to convey, We are not so different, you and I.

  At last, Xaviera recovered, squared her shoulders, and addressed Kantelvar. “Your Exaltedness, I apologize. Truly none can find fault with you. You are always to be thanked when victory is to be celebrated or justice is said to be done. I believe there is not a soul in this kingdom that does not owe you some small favor.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Margareta. “Some owe you their whole status and station. I am sure that the rumors that you seek to advance your own cause over all others are completely unfounded. They are merely the mumblings of those who lack your favor, as are the accusations that you grant no favor you cannot take away again, thus binding your supplicants to your will.”

  Though Xaviera spoke to Kantelvar, Isabelle felt the words smite her in the chest, a warning, but was it a gift in earnest or an attempt to divide her from an ally?

  Margareta said, “Xaviera, you are overwrought. Go to your room and stay there until summoned.”

  “Yes, Majesty.” Then she met Isabelle’s gaze again and said, “I am pleased to meet you, Princesa Isabelle.”

  Heartened by this personal greeting, Isabelle decided to up the honor. “As I am pleased to meet you, Crown Princesa Xaviera.”

  Xaviera dipped her tiara in Isabelle’s direction. She flashed a glare at Margareta and managed to give the impression of storming out even while maintaining the proper, decorous, floating pace.

  Margareta said, “Isabelle, please accept apologies on my daughter-in-law’s behalf. I honestly don’t know what has gotten into her. I promise she will not trouble you any further.”

  Which meant Margareta had not missed the armistice negotiations. She’d keep Xaviera away from Isabelle if she could. Not if I can help it.

  The queen dismissed the other courtiers; now that they had witnessed the formal exchange of greetings, their presence was no longer required, and it seemed the queen wished to move on to more private matters. Kantelvar managed to avoid being shooed out, as did Margareta’s bodyguard.

  Margareta said, “Xaviera is not your problem. Her husband is. Príncipe Alejandro knows my husband favors Julio for the throne. The only thing that prevents him from declaring so openly is the fact that Julio’s marriage is not yet consummated and confirmed in the Builder’s eyes. Alejandro will stop at nothing to see your marriage fail.”

  “And yet the first assassination attempt came from your ally, Diego,” Kantelvar said. “What has been done about him?”

  If Margareta’s stare could have incinerated its target, Kantelvar would have been nothing but a pair of smoking boots.

  She said, “He remains ignorant of our suspicions. We must determine if the attempt on Is
abelle’s life was a personal protest, or if he has been suborned by Príncipe Alejandro. I cannot move against him until I can prove to my supporters that he has betrayed us, especially as many of them disagree with our strategy of involving l’Empire Céleste.” Margareta turned her gaze on Isabelle. “It would help us to have some public guarantee of Grand Leon’s support of Príncipe Julio. It is time to fulfill your commitment and pledge l’Empire’s armies to our shared cause.”

  Isabelle retreated into the waxwork expression she always wore in her father’s presence. Of course Margareta would try to get her to commit l’Empire without giving anything in return, but what could she say? Stall. Delay. Time was the thing no one wanted to give her. “I would prefer to talk to my betrothed first. It will be to him that any support is given.”

  Margareta’s nostrils flared in irritation at this check. “It would help him to know what you propose.”

  “I must know what he expects from me, and what he intends to give in return.”

  “Being queen of Aragoth is not enough for you?”

  Kantelvar stepped between Isabelle and the queen, raising his staff. “Majesty, Isabelle fully intends to deliver the might of l’Empire Céleste into Julio’s capable hands. In the end, there is no other choice. Tonight, at the masquerade, she will have a chance to meet Julio and all her fears will be allayed.”

  Isabelle fumed and growled, “You have no right to promise that.”

  Kantelvar’s hunch gurgled and Isabelle thought she heard a hiss of escaping air. He turned his head and said, “Please, Princess. You will get to meet Julio, and you will give him l’Empire’s support as you have been charged to do. You have no choice. At this point we are all just dancing a gavotte through the necessary formalities. Even Grand Leon knows this, although he pretends not to.”

  Isabelle clamped her mouth shut rather than say something stupid.

  “Give Julio his chance,” Kantelvar said.

  It was amazing Isabelle could feel so jilted by a man she’d never met, but she had leapt all the way across the sky on hope and faith and desperation, and still she had no place to land.

  “One chance,” she said. “Just one.”

  Margareta said, “In that case, it seems to me that this audience is premature. We will speak again after the ball. Felix.”

  This last was directed at the champion duelist, who stepped down from his place on the dais and escorted Isabelle and Kantelvar to the exit.

  As he opened the door for Isabelle, he said in a gravelly voice, “There is nothing to be gained by delay. The sooner you commit your forces to the queen, the sooner she can convince your opponents that resistance is futile and more bloodshed can be avoided. Delay only weakens your position by making you seem feckless and indecisive.”

  Isabelle stiffened. “As opposed to being pliant and easily stampeded.”

  Felix shrugged and ushered her out. “It is a wife’s sacred duty to obey.”

  “And do you give Margareta that same advice?” Isabelle asked.

  “You are not the queen,” he said, and shut the door.

  Isabelle was tempted to shout through the door at him, but Kantelvar took her elbow. “Princess, come. We have much work to do before tonight.”

  Isabelle allowed herself to be towed along. “You told me Julio was a great swordsman, a statesman, and a sorcerer, yet everyone else seems to think of him as a puppet and a pawn.”

  “I told you of the man he was, and the man he could be again with your help.”

  Isabelle snorted. “What makes you think he wants my help? He’s made no effort whatsoever to contact me. Not even a message.” But as a wife she’d be expected to prop him up, and be blamed if she failed.

  Kantelvar said, “Margareta was quick to take advantage of his accident to put him under her thumb. Once you remove him from her influence he should bloom into the husband you deserve.”

  “And why can he not extricate himself from his mother’s sway?”

  “Could you extract yourself from your father’s control?”

  That rebuke stung. “It’s not the same. He is a príncipe with his own loyalists. I had no one.”

  “Just a King’s Own Musketeer,” Kantelvar said. “A man who speaks with Grand Leon’s voice. He could have whisked you away whenever he wanted had he the wit to do so. Instead he chose to let you suffer in place so that he could preserve his tattered privilege.”

  Isabelle recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Outrage boiled in her breast. “Jean-Claude has always been there for me!” But could he have stolen her away, given her a different life?

  “As you say, Highness,” Kantelvar said. “I only meant to point out that you do have partisans, just as Julio does. All of Julio’s loyalists have been locked away from him, but Margareta cannot lock you away from your husband once you are wed, nor can she lock you away from court. Therefore you will have the opportunity to breach the wall she has set around him.”

  Isabelle’s mind still frothed with fury at his suggestion that Jean-Claude had only been using her as an excuse to maintain his status. She wanted to pluck the lie from the air and smash it to a million pieces. Instead, it leaked into her mind, spreading out through her consciousness like a single drop of poison in a butt of wine.

  Think about something else. “Then why have none of Julio’s partisans attempted to contact me, if they are so desperate to reach him?”

  “They haven’t taken your measure. No doubt they will do so at the masquerade tonight.”

  “And what if they find me wanting?”

  “They won’t; your destiny and Julio’s are intertwined,” Kantelvar said. “You were made for each other.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Isabelle asked.

  “Let us gather your bloodhollow handmaiden, and I will show you.”

  Isabelle tugged away from him, alarmed. “What does Marie have to do with this?”

  Kantelvar paused and turned. “Have you forgotten? I promised to revive her, and I always keep my promises.”

  * * *

  As long as Jean-Claude didn’t move, all the various pains in his body receded to dull background aches. The problem came when he tried to move, to lift his head off this fine pillow, or worse, to sit up in bed.

  Isabelle had provided him with a feather mattress. It was far too fine a thing for him, who was used to sleeping on a straw-filled canvas mat on the floor. Or just on the floor. Or the dirt. Such luxuries as this could sap a healthy man’s will to bestir himself, let alone a wounded man’s.

  If only there were not so much yet to be done. Isabelle’s enemies weren’t taking the morning off, and there were ever so many more of them than there used to be. He was going to need to take an apprentice … or two … or a dozen. Except he wasn’t really the masterly type. The day he couldn’t do this job himself was a day he did not want to think about.

  So he had to act. Now. Pain or no pain.

  Reluctantly, gingerly, he swung his legs out of bed. It was like stirring up a well-banked fire. All the embers of ache flared to life, passed through pain without stopping, and landed in agony. His leg, in particular, burned like a sap-filled log, hissing and sparking. The world swam …

  “Señor? Señor musketeer, what is the matter?” Gentle hands steadied his shoulders and large, warm brown eyes stared into his.

  Jean-Claude jerked upright and immediately regretted it, but at least he didn’t pass out again. One of the Aragothic handmaids hovered before him, or perhaps “hand-matron” would be a better description. She was not old—perhaps a few years younger than Jean-Claude himself; with women, it always paid to underestimate—but not so young and blank faced as the rest of Isabelle’s new servants. Did her age represent experience and competence, or simply the inability to improve her station?

  Competence, he decided as she pressed a goblet into his hand and held on with both of hers until she was sure he could support the weight without spilling it. The drink was translucent white, like watered milk.

>   “Dream spirits,” he grunted, and made to thrust it away; the stuff eased pain but brought strange visions and made men its slave.

  The señora caught his hand. “It is only a very thin mixture, enough to dull the hurt but not addle your wits. Sip it slowly and maybe you will be able to get out of bed without falling over. Or maybe you would rather the surgeon see you in pain and ask la princesa to order you back in bed for a week.”

  “The princess, where is she?”

  “The artifex took her to meet the queen. She commanded that you be allowed to rest.”

  “And who is guarding her?” Kantelvar’s security had proved singularly inadequate.

  “Royal guards. She specifically commands you to remember that you cannot aid her if you kill yourself.”

  Very competent. She was exactly the sort of servant whose goodwill he needed to cultivate. “Señora,” he said. “May I be so bold as to ask your name?”

  “Adel,” she said. “Now drink.”

  Jean-Claude sipped. The stuff tasted vile, bitter and oily. “And how is it you come to speak in Isabelle’s voice?”

  “As the most experienced lady here, she asked me to. I am the royal midwife.” On her purple sash was a silver pin in the shape of two interlocking rings, the symbol of her station. “I was Príncipe Julio’s wet nurse before I got elevated. It is to be hoped that I will be there for the birth of his son … sooner rather than later.”

  Jean-Claude phrased his next question carefully, which is to say backward of the information he wanted. “Do you think Príncipe Julio will find Isabelle to his liking?”

  Adel hesitated. “She is very smart. I think she would make a lovely queen. I think Príncipe Julio would have liked her.”

  “Would have?” The dream spirits were starting to take hold of Jean-Claude’s flesh, taming his pain even as they made his senses tingly around the edges. Deliberately, he put the goblet down.

  Adel deftly removed it from arm’s reach. “He loved strong women.”

  “Women who fought back?”

  “No. Not like that,” Adel said, clearly eager to defend her príncipe but not sure how. “He once told me that so many of the people at court are just like mirrors; they show you yourself. He could not stand those people. He liked people who were like windows, or telescopes, or—or mysteries. They showed him things he hadn’t seen and made him think. He said he could never call any man a friend who was afraid to slap his face. It was the same with women. I think he always envied his brother because of Xaviera.”