“I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily.”
The Princess folded her arms. “I take it that means the Crown is unaware of this danger as well?”
Michlos shifted uncomfortably. “No, the Crown knows.”
“I thought as much. Let’s get something straight right now—though my realm is smaller, I am no less a head of state because of it.”
“I never meant to imply—”
“And if you think that just because I’m a woman I need to be protected from vital information instead of kept apprised of it, well then, you can just find yourself another ally.” She turned on her heel and stalked back toward the gate.
Michlos scrambled to keep up. “Celeste, wait. I can explain.”
Her pace didn’t slow. “It’s ‘Your Highness’ to you.”
At that moment, the distinctive sound of the church bell reverberated across the churchyard. Michlos stopped and glanced up at the steeple in confusion. Then he remembered the tampered lock at the gate, and somewhere deep in his mind, two met two—Vane.
The Princess whirled. “If this is some sort of joke, I’m in no mood.”
Again, the bell tolled.
Michlos triggered his Amulet. “Get away from me.”
“How dare you!”
“No, I mean get out of sight. I’ll try to draw any fire.”
The Princess wavered only a moment before diving unceremoniously behind a headstone.
The bell rang a third time.
Michlos sprinted for the church. “Vane is stealing the Eye. Get out of here—tell the Magisters.”
“If he has the Eye, you’ll be powerless against him.”
“But if he escapes, the leviathan consumes us all.”
For the fourth time the bell’s doleful clang echoed across the island.
Michlos arrived at the Church and ducked inside.
The Princess winced in anticipation, but a fifth peal never came. An eerie silence descended over the churchyard. Leaning back against the headstone, her cloak now stained, her diadem askew, she blew a wayward lock of hair from her face and sighed. “Good thing he never bothered to mention who this Vane person was, or I would probably be unnecessarily alarmed right now.”
. . . . .
Ordinal Lavicius surveyed the fairgrounds and beamed. Brightly colored tents had been erected around an elaborate but temporary central pavilion in the alpine meadow that served as this year’s site for his beloved Accipitrine Festival. Nearby, the tantalizing aroma of roasting boar emanated from a makeshift fire pit, while numerous well-dressed participants milled about waiting for the festivities to begin. To one side, a cadre of falconers and owners tended their hooded charges, eager to test their mettle in competition. Lavicius stood among them, a great white gyrfalcon perched on his arm. He looked up as Prentiss approached.
“Good news, Your Ordinence. We’ve tracked down the Primal’s carriage.”
Lavicius handed off the gyrfalcon to his falconer. “That’s reassuring news, Prentiss. I was beginning to think your Accipitrines weren’t up to the task. And how is our beloved Primal?”
“Notably absent. It seems the carriage was accosted by brigands somewhere along the road to Caprian, but when they pried it open to greet their hostage, it was empty. Fortunately for the driver, our men intervened when they did, or things might have gone badly for him.”
“How did he explain the Primal’s absence?”
“For some reason, he was loath to speak of it.”
“Was he? You don’t suppose his reticence could indicate complicity in a plot against the Primacy, do you?”
Prentiss shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“Have him brought to me. Perhaps after his ordeal, he needs a softer touch.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Ready the Interrogation Chamber. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you could find me some old-school Inquisitors. You know, the ones our well-meaning but misguided Inquisitor General dismissed as too efficient?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“We also must consider the possibility that the driver doesn’t know the Primal’s current location. Who was the last person to talk to him before he boarded the carriage?”
“Theratigan,” Prentiss said.
“The demon hunter?”
Prentiss nodded.
“How convenient. I think he’s already being held in the Interrogation Chamber. And who, before him?”
“I believe he was scheduled to meet with his nephew.”
Lavicius raised an eyebrow. “Thurman, you mean?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Splendid. Could you find him and let him know I’d like to speak with him? And Prentiss, I hope I don’t need to impress upon you that time is of the essence. I’ve only been voted temporary executive powers—I’m not Primal yet. Allowing Laitrech to find the Primal before we do would be an unmitigated disaster.”
“I understand,” Prentiss said.
. . . . .
Sunlight blazed through the rose window above the church entrance, splashing brilliant hues of, gold, azure, and crimson across the floor before Michlos. Rows of pews filled the space, split by an aisle of mosaic tiles stretching all the way to the altar. To one side, red and green votive candles flickered. The air was thick with incense, as though the building had been miraculously restored to its original purpose.
Perhaps the change was part of a test. He rubbed his chin, considering the best route to reach the bell-tower entrance. The most obvious path was the center aisle, but the tiles were a problem—touching them could trigger some test-related obstacle. The side aisles were equally suspect. He was considering hopping from pew to pew when the side stairwell caught his eye. It led to the crypts beneath the church, off limits for examination purposes. The bell tower might hold another entrance, which made the stairwell a safer option—but what if, while he was downstairs, Vane were to escape across the main floor?
His decision was made for him. A tall well-muscled man appeared within the sacristy arch. Michlos sensed his initial surprise, which was followed by a look of calculating appraisal.
“My apologies for setting off the bell,” Vane said. “I went up for a look at how the Academy has changed, and I was intrigued by the mechanism. I’m pretty sure I reset it properly.”
“You’re aware this church is off limits?”
“I thought that was only for students, not graduates. Are you new here? I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You’ll have to come with me. The other Magisters will be worried someone was injured or that an exam may be compromised.”
“I’ll head back through the crypts and meet you by the door.”
Michlos suffered a twinge of panic. He couldn’t lose sight of Vane now. “The center aisle is clear.”
Vane eyed him dubiously. “I’d hate to risk setting something off.”
“The center aisle is always the last area prepared for an exam.”
“But I thought there was an exam tomorrow. Are the preparations not yet complete?”
Michlos’s pulse quickened. The chances of an exam the next day were ridiculously slim. Vane could be fabricating an examination to test him. He improvised. “Actually, everything has been postponed due to the Royal visit.”
He realized his mistake as soon as he’d said it.
Vane gasped. “The Crown is here?” Then his eyes narrowed. “What did you say your name was?”
Praying his slip hadn’t caused Vane to recognize him, Michlos pushed on. “No, not the Crown—Princess Celeste. She arrived this morning. If you’ll just come with me—”
“In that case, I shouldn’t risk taking the aisle. We can’t afford any more untoward disturbances.”
Vane was gone before Michlos could react. With a resigned sigh, he worked a protective spell to avoid being incinerated like the men at St. Sophia’s. He also activated one of his many rings—perhaps he could recapitulate his mother’s victory despite the Eye
. And then he waited.
Vane shouldn’t have taken more than a minute or two, but minutes came and went. Had he slipped out a back door? Michlos’s thoughts turned to the Princess—he hoped she’d locked that gate. Several more minutes passed.
Michlos approached the stairwell. “Are you all right down there?”
Silence.
Michlos extended his hand, and from it, a deadly looking blade materialized. The resulting breeze stirred his hair and produced scuttling momentary whirlwinds. A few whispered words, and the rapier glowed. Taking care to reactivate his Amulet, he descended.
The air became abruptly dank. Before him stood an ancient door. Tattered cobwebs suggested infrequent use—and that at least one was recent. He pushed. The decrepit hinges cried out, but yielded. Ahead lay a broad expanse of darkness. Here and there, pairs of tiny reddish eyes flashed into existence as they caught blade’s light, then vanished.
“Hello?”
Great stone pillars loomed before him. Darker regions of blackness shrouded mounds of detritus—long-empty casks, rodent-ravaged furniture, and rusted tools. Several stone sarcophagi presided over the crypt’s heart—a final obeisance to some of Ranselard’s noble but ill-fated occupants.
Michlos began to doubt his choice. If Vane had escaped through a back door, he would be long gone before Michlos even made it across the crypt. But he was also mindful of the presence of a multitude of nooks and crannies capable of concealing someone determined to remain hidden.
“Are you down here?”
Something skittered in the darkness.
“Ah, so you are here.”
“Who are you?” Vane asked.
Michlos tried to locate the voice, but sound echoed strangely in the crypt. “I’m here on behalf of the Magisters.”
“You’re a Santine.”
Michlos edged forward but still couldn’t pinpoint Vane. “What makes you think that?”
“Magisters don’t carry Amulets.”
The voice seemed to come from off to the right.
“And why not? Can’t a Santine become a Magister?”
“Have I been Noticed, or haven’t I?”
Michlos ground his teeth. Now Vane’s voice seemed to be coming from someplace else. He focused instead on getting Vane to show himself.
“Let’s just say your escapades at St. Sophia’s didn’t go unnoticed.”
“Then I demand proof, as is my right.”
“You know as well as I that it won’t work in the presence of the Eye.”
“The Eye? What are you suggesting?”
“You’re denying you stole it?”
“If I did, then trying to provide your proof will betray me, won’t it?”
“Very well,” Michlos said. “Show yourself and you shall have your proof.”
“Oh no, not while you’re armed.”
Michlos laid the sword across the nearest sarcophagus and took several steps back. He held up his hands.
Vane stepped out from behind a cask. “My proof, if you please.”
Michlos held out his left hand and closed his eyes to concentrate on recreating the figment that would manifest his namesake. He could almost feel it squirming in his hand just as it had that day so many years ago, when Magister Treust worked the spells to make its image an indelible part of his being. Designed to withstand even his active Amulet, the illusion flickered once or twice and then stabilized. The serpent’s sinuous scaled body coiled around his wrist and up the length of his arm. His hand gripped the beast just behind the neck where it split into two serpentine heads. Confident in his ability to maintain the figment, he opened his eyes. In the rapier’s glow, Michlos clearly saw his namesake. He also saw Vane completing a spell.
The two-headed serpent vanished as weariness overwhelmed Michlos. Though he strove against it, he succeeded only in mastering himself long enough to settle slowly to the floor, where consciousness deserted him.
. . . . .
Cautiously Vane approached. He stared down at Michlos for a long moment before digging the toe of his boot into his side. When Michlos did not stir, he pulled a small lump of soft clay out of his pocket, pushing at it with his thumb until it revealed a black gem with a twelve-pointed star hovering beneath its surface. He grunted in satisfaction and slipped the gemstone back into his pocket.
Next, he approached the sarcophagus. The rapier-light illuminated the brightly colored lid, which was carved in the likeness of its long-dead occupant. The inscription identified her as Her Grace, Cecily Chartruvan, Duchess of Arusia. Taking up the rapier, he inspected the lid’s edges for catches. Finding none, he tried lifting it. A lesser man would have despaired of the task, but Vane was both sturdy and determined. It yielded at last, and he slid it askew. Inside, skeletal remains grinned up at him from beneath bejeweled ducal regalia. Here and there, rotting fabrics still glinted with golden threads and other adornments that proudly proclaimed royal status, for whatever that was worth to a Ranselard alumna.
But Vane was not interested in baubles. Now that the sarcophagus was partly open, he leaned over, grasped Michlos beneath the arms, and dragged him toward it.
Michlos’s eyes suddenly sprang open. He lashed out, striking Vane across the face with his ring, but Michlos’s triumphant grin faded when, in response, Vane merely dropped Michlos and rubbed his jaw. Then, Vane’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his fist crashed into Michlos’s nose with a satisfying crunch.
A few moments later, Vane wrestled the sarcophagus lid back into place. Still panting, he strode back to the crypt exit. From the steps, he turned and saluted the sarcophagus. “Give my regards to your mother.” And then he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dusty Old Skeletons
The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the Nevinander library were finished in a varnish so rich it was almost black. Rayen drew an overstuffed wingback chair up to the fireplace, removed his boots, and warmed his feet on the hearth. He rubbed the chair’s orange-and-black-striped upholstery admiringly, wondering out loud what sort of exotic creature could have provided the hide. Nearby, Dona’s mother peered through the crack in the door to make certain no one could overhear, and silently nudged it closed.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Not at the moment,” Rayen said. “Really, I’ve been feeling pretty good lately. Thank you for asking.”
“Don’t get smart with me. What do you think you’re doing, proposing marriage to that woman like that?”
“I thought you rather liked her.”
“It’s not a matter of that. You don’t know anything about her.”
Rayen shrugged. “I know if I marry her, she stands to inherit all this. Is that really such a bad thing?”
“It makes no sense. You saw what they said to each other. He was practically goading her into it. Is that really the kind of marriage you want?”
Rayen glanced around and then nodded decisively. “Yes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That woman couldn’t care less about what happens to you.”
“I beg to differ. Unless she wants to forgo her inheritance, she has every reason to care.”
“And once her father is out of the picture? What then? What’s to stop her from tossing you out on your ear?”
“Not every marriage ends in happily ever after. That’s hardly a reason not to try. Are you going to tell me you wouldn’t have married Henry if you had known?”
“But I loved Henry.”
“What makes you think the order of such things matters? Verone is intelligent, sophisticated, reasonably attractive, and she’s been extraordinarily kind to us—she spent considerable effort helping us track down Dona. Even if I don’t love her yet, she’s just the sort of woman I think I could. If I don’t marry her now, I’ll never get the chance to find out.”
“That may be, but if she’s everything you say she is, then why, of all people, should she pick you?”
Rayen stared at her incredulously. “Madam, may
I remind you that I have a gift, not some loathsome disability. I should think any woman would be delighted to land me.”
“I was referring to your social status. But, while we’re on the topic, just how delighted do you think your lovely bride is going to feel when your precious ‘gift’ puts in an appearance at the opera—or during tea with the Countess?”
“She is already aware of it, and she said ‘yes’ despite it. It’s not like I kept it secret.”
“Take it from me, there’s a big difference between being aware of it and enduring it year in and year out.”
Rayen trembled with indignation. “Then it’s all worked out for the best, hasn’t it? I suppose you’ll be very relieved to finally be rid of me.”
“Look, this isn’t the most pleasant conversation for me either. I’m just pointing this out for your own good—it’s far better that you to go into this with a realistic understanding of what this marriage is going to mean, instead of finding out later it never really stood a chance of working in the first place.”
Rayen’s face was ashen, and the trembling became more pronounced. “You’re just jealous. Can you really be so crabbed and bitter that you would sabotage my happiness just because your husband ran out on you?”
Amanda gaped at him openmouthed. And then she slapped him.
Rayen’s eyes rolled up, and he fell backward, his limbs twitching, froth accumulating at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, not now. I’m so sorry. Oh Rayen, what have I done?”
As she had countless times before, she turned him on his side and moved away any hard objects. Then cradling his head in her lap, she rocked, tears streaming down her face, until the seizure at last subsided.
She was still there when Nathalie swept in, Verone in tow. “Now then, if we’re going to have any chance of getting this done in time, we’re going to need to get him measured right away. And, of course, we can’t even start the invitations without a surname. Have you given any thought at all to where you’d like to hold the ceremony? Good heavens, what happened?”
“He’s had another seizure,” Amanda said. “He’ll probably come around shortly.”
Nathalie clucked consolingly. “Looks like as between the two of you, he got the better deal. Is there anything we can do?”
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