by Carol Berg
I plunged into the dark, hoping never to see light again. . . .
But of course I did. Eventually, the Archivist started loosening buckles, grumbling at the tedium. I still had both arms, for I clung to the straps to hold myself upright when he walked away.
“Well, get over here,” he said from the direction of the bench. “I am the Knight Archivist of Evanide. Whatever you are, I am not going to dress you.”
Blood pounding in my face and arm, I pulled on the black hose and leather braies he stuffed in my hands, then numbly reached for the plum-colored shirt.
“Are you not even going to look?”
I shook my head. There was no mirror glass and I was glad of it. I never wanted to see.
“Your right arm, fool! You have to know where it is. Pssh . . .” He yanked my arm out straight. Between two of the silver bands on my upper arm, where Fix’s splinter had once gleamed, sat the gold medallion, embedded in my flesh.
“A pretty job, if I say so myself,” he said, beaming a macabre satisfaction. “The medallion’s original spellwork is primitive, and Damon jumbled it grotesquely, but it’s repaired now. Threading should attune the thing to your blood, but that could take a great deal of time. I’ve anchored it through Fix’s splinter, which might speed that, and I’ve moved his rubies to a band on your leg. How such a common, lackadaisical sort of man came to be so gifted is a mystery. . . .”
I scarce noticed his rambling. My hand flew to my face. The silk was smooth and did not shift or wrinkle as my fingers tested it, a sensation that set off gibbering panic. But it was the stitching I sought. No embroidered spirals, but an elaborate border stitched near the edges. Lilies. The Archivist had done as I asked.
Taking a shaking breath, I jerked my head in acknowledgment and drew the plum-colored shirt and black leather jaque over my sweat-soaked linen. An undecorated swordbelt of fine leather with empty sheaths for sword and dagger lay on the bench next to a pair of knee-high boots and leather gloves.
“Yes, put it on,” he said, when I held it up. “The Marshal plans to present your weapons before the Sitting, and fortunately”—from the worktable he brought a cloak of thick wool, dyed in the claret hue prescribed for purebloods—“your cloak has a deep hood. Shadowing your face will give you more time to do . . . whatever you think to do . . . before he kills you for this.”
Mind racing, I pulled on the boots and buckled the swordbelt. My idea seemed so flimsy. I pointed to my lips and wriggled my fingers to exhibit their uselessness. I needed to be able to speak. Work magic.
“I can’t undo his compulsions, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. “He took all the dust. But gods’ bones, you trained at Evanide. Your skills are not confined to magic. Wits might suffice.”
Geraint could counter any assault with compulsion, but control of will with magic was a heinous crime, certainly no recommendation for a king. So I had to force him to expose his sin in front of the Sitting. But how? I ran through one scenario after another, finding only quicker ways to get myself killed or compelled to forgo thought completely. I needed help . . .
The Archivist was tapping his foot in impatience when I jumped up from the bench and made writing motions. He narrowed his eyes and pointed to a writing desk in the corner. With ink, pen, and scraps of parchment that had been used and scraped innumerable times, I set my plan in motion. First a request for the Archivist.
“Carry a message like a sweating tyro? Certainly not.”
He didn’t budge until I wrote a bit of what I had in mind. “Hmmph. That’s not entirely stupid. There should certainly be a historian among the Three Hundred. I can think of several families. . . .”
While he rambled of names and bents, as if we weren’t speaking of murder and magical enslavement and Navronne’s future to be determined within hours, I wrote the message I needed delivered. And then I wrote another short request for him.
“You retrieved a bit of the dust! Well thought!” His face brightened, then fell just as quickly as he clucked disapproval. “But to rummage netherstocks in a bathing closet . . .”
The clangor of bells interrupted his grumbling. I pulled on gauntlets and the wine-hued cloak, and we hurried off to the hall and the Sitting of the Three Hundred. One way or another, Damon’s misbegotten plot and the Marshal’s leash on my will would end there.
CHAPTER 42
“’Tis done as you prescribed, Knight Marshal. None’ll ever know his face, nor even think to look at it.” In an eyeblink, the Archivist’s rust-colored robes vanished into the crowd.
He had cleverly arranged to transfer me to the Marshal’s custody just as trumpets signaled the imminent processional. With dignitaries swarming into the castle rotunda, the Marshal scarce had time enough to give my dress a cursory glance. Both masks were deep-colored. Only the removal of my hood would reveal that mine was not the one he had prescribed, but a match for that on his own face. Though the prospect of a lifetime with a silken face nauseated me, I relished the grim irony. The true Pretender’s mask was not permanently affixed.
The Marshal dismissed his Order bodyguards and shoved a well-balanced sword and a similarly efficient dagger into my hands. “You’re damnably late. You will not use these weapons save in my defense or at my command. . . .” He ordered me neither to speak nor to leave his side without his command; to keep watch for assassins and identify anyone displaying unease at his naming; to defend his life with mine. He reached as if to yank down my hood, but his hand paused. . . .
The lordly pureblood, Canis-Ferenc, joined us. As the ushers herded us forward, I ducked my head and breathed again.
Celebratory cascades of bells rang from castle and town, and trumpet fanfares greeted each of the three hundred Heads of Family, resplendent in their finest brocades and jewels. The dignitary’s plainer-dressed secretary, footman, or bodyguard followed—one attendant allowed each delegate, three for Domé Canis-Ferenc, as the host of the greatest gathering of purebloods in half a century.
“We are allowing a small number of non-delegates—purebloods of importance—to attend the sessions,” said Ferenc as he and the Marshal paused at the threshold of the Great Hall. “They shall sit behind the Three Hundred and are not allowed to speak. You, Lord de Serre, will sit at my right hand, and when we discuss the matter of supporting your claim, you will be invited to address the assembly. But just now, I must mention that it is customary at a Sitting for everyone’s”—he glanced over his wide shoulder—“attendant to deposit his mundane weapons with the doorwards.”
“My bodyguard shall carry all his weapons, mundane and elsewise,” said the Marshal, with effortless command. “With due respect, good Ferenc, I’ve no confidence that the word of my identity has been contained to this house. My life shall be at peril from the three princes—and our own pureblood dissenters—until I take my rightful seat.”
The trumpets blared flourishes, and we moved into the Hall.
“Our own— Certainly. My apologies for my lack of consideration. May I summon my personal guard to stand with your man?”
“Be sure, my man needs no one to stand with him.” The Marshal laughed in easy humor, hands at his back, then swiveled in my direction. “Fetulé iniga!”
The command pierced the air like a lance. Scarce a breath and I had dropped to one knee, sword and dagger drawn at the ready, a shoulder-high shield of fire surrounding me. Body and breathing were controlled as I pivoted slowly, my senses roaming the glittering crowd in search of threats, weapons, or smoldering magic. Only when convinced no danger threatened did I erase the fire, rise, and sheath my weapons. “Infetulé, Master.”
Delegates and attendants goggled as the Marshal and Ferenc resumed their grand entrance. Had anyone been able to see my face, they’d have noted only horror.
For every member of the Order, the response to the on guard command became purest instinct, just like running when the tide horns sou
nded. But my reaction had been so swift as to defy my own belief—far, far faster than I had ever seen it done. Had I been standing in a city lane or a hayfield when the Marshal spoke that brief command, I could have ignited a holocaust.
The Order had drilled us in a dozen commands that could trigger similarly dangerous reactions, but always they were given by trusted commanders—and always with time to assess the threats and choose. But spellwork bound in the threaded bracelets was triggered in the very instant I reached for it, requiring no thoughtful construction, no summoning of power, no purposeful release. Geraint’s compulsion bypassed any restraint of will, and the speed of my reactions eliminated the time to seek alternatives. This public display of the truest danger of my enslavement was terrifying—my master’s purpose, no doubt.
Ferenc yielded Geraint his own grand chair at the head of the assembled dignitaries and took a lesser seat beside him. I stood at my master’s right shoulder. Every eye in the hall was trained in our direction, the weight of awe heavier than Ferenc’s vaults and pillars.
“Well executed, Axe,” said the Marshal. “We’ll do more of that. You are exactly as Damon promised, whether he intended this partnership be consummated or not.” Was I the only one who smelled his greedy pleasure?
Ferenc, admirably undaunted, platooned his functionaries with the confidence of a powerful sorcerer lord, housed safely in his own keep. “The ceremonies and confirmation of our delegates shall be tiresome,” he offered in brotherly fashion. “But be sure, my lord, that with matters of such monumental significance at hand, we shall dispatch miscellany and get on to our true deliberations by midday at the latest. Where is Curator Damon?”
With my hood pulled low to shadow the mask, my actual sight was somewhat limited, but I’d already begun to understand Fix’s uncanny perceptions. My silver-threaded skin told me of a woman’s cheeks flushed with excitement, an attendant’s boredom amid so many whose powers he failed to comprehend, a man’s uneasiness at the crowd, and everywhere a quivering anticipation as Ferenc introduced the Marshal to eager delegates and the ceremonies proceeded. Muted conversations flowed through the room like tangled streams of hope and doubt. Caedmon’s heir . . . sorcerer . . . Fine figure of a man. Noble bearing . . . Remeni’s proof . . . a true medallion. Tragic about the grandson. Don’t like these stricter rules . . . no idea about the Xancheira horror . . . Our own king at last.
Whispers of war rose like vapors from a swamp . . . some stinking of lust . . . some ripe with trepidation . . . some with horror. To my disgust, Geraint’s command ensured I noted each source of doubt or opposition, imprinting faces and blazons on my memory. Truly a sorcerer’s war was my fear as well. Even if I discredited the Marshal and escaped this new prison . . . then what? Who would lead our kind out of corruption? Surely all Damon’s mad hopes had not hinged entirely on me. And yet my own hope of deliverance rested solely on the fractured mind of a knight who lived with other men’s memories . . . and a stranger who had vowed me a lifetime’s service for a deed I could not remember. Had the Archivist delivered my message?
A disturbance at the door distracted me from my flimsy hopes. As a taut-bodied soldier hurried toward Ferenc’s three attendants, I wanted to crow in delight. A whispered conference and the grim-faced ordinary departed in the company of one of Ferenc’s men, while another attendant whispered in Ferenc’s ear. “Curator Lares-Damon is nowhere to be found, domé. We’ve given his military aide leave to search the castle.” Damon’s military aide, Fallon de Tremayne.
• • •
After hours of tedium and breaks for wine and pissing, the business of the Sitting was begun. My back and jaw ached from standing ready. I dared not relax, for the danger lurking inside me. My will could not control the initiation of my magic, but I might be able to control its focus and its speed. Physical and mental discipline could slow my reactions or complicate my methods, perhaps allowing time for someone to stop me. None of it mattered, however, if the seeds I’d planted with the Archivist didn’t grow. Fallon had not yet returned.
Three of the judges gave a full accounting of Damon’s arguments for purification. But one delegate after another rose to argue that dissolution of the Registry would encourage ordinaries and scoundrels to trespass on the time-honored prerogatives that preserve the integrity of the divine gift.
The Marshal gestured for recognition. “Delegates of the Three Hundred, I thank you for allowing me to address this noble assembly. I respect these arguments. Curator Damon told me that they might be raised. He advised that reading this book might illuminate particular concerns among you . . .”
He raised a leather-bound folio crammed with sheets of parchment. The portraits. Cold fear pelted my threaded skin like storm-driven sleet.
“. . . but I care naught for transgressions of agreements with ordinaries. On my word, sworn by my noble ancestor, I hold to a vision of Navronne where divine magic shall never be sullied with corruption, nor will its practitioners be demeaned by the touch, gaze, or rule of ordinary hands. No sorcerer of true blood shall ever again be subject to the judgment of ordinaries or have his lands taxed by ordinary nobles. Every person of the blood may approach the Sorcerer King, assured that his or her concern will be heard. Our law will not be a matter of treaty or concession, enforced by the whim of ordinaries. Our law shall be the law of Navronne.”
To persuade those few unconvinced by his melodious promises, the Pretender quite clearly passed the leather folio to me.
The Sitting quickly confirmed the dissolution of the Registry. Necessary tasks would be overseen by the Three Hundred until the day that Geraint de Serre, rightful heir of ancient Caedmon, sat the throne of Navronne, uniting the administration of pureblood society and that of ordinaries. Until that day, the Three Hundred would offer whatever aid the Pretender’s strategy demanded.
The Marshal briefly thanked them for their trust, demonstrating his commitment to live behind his regal mask, abjuring personal glory to lead them forward. With mesmerizing serenity, he elaborated on his vision of a holy kingdom ruled by sorcerers. The Three Hundred and their guests came to their feet as one, their cheers filled with ferocious pride. It didn’t matter that he’d subtly threatened them or described a tyranny alien to everything we believed of the divine gift. They adored him and believed.
Misgiving had not wholly vanished from beneath jeweled velvets and brocade. But who would dare speak it? Anxious eyes flicked to the one who stood at his shoulder, the one with the book, the hooded menace who might see to those dark necessities of power their new ruler abjured.
As deliberations moved to an actual muster of forces to support de Serre’s claim, the doors of the Hall burst open. “Murder! Domé Canis-Ferenc, murder in your house!”
Members of the assembly shot to their feet. Before Ferenc’s guards could prevent them, a knot of men carried in a draped litter and set it before the assembled purebloods. Fallon de Tremayne knelt before Ferenc, his eyes humbly averted and hands outspread. At Ferenc’s word, he spoke.
“Domé Canis-Ferenc, it is my great sorrow to report that my master, the Curator Attis de Lares-Damon lies before you most cowardly murdered.” Fallon’s battle-trained voice boomed, so that even the delegates of lower-ranked families and the silent observers seated in the farthest reaches of the Hall must hear. “I beg the indulgence of the gods’ chosen for my bold trespass on this assembly. But there is such urgency in this evil matter, I dared not hesitate to bring evidence before those who can address it, as an ordinary cannot. May I speak further, my good lord?”
“Proceed.”
The Mother could not have felt more relief at birthing the world than I did when hearing Ferenc’s decisive assent. Everything depended on it.
“Thank you, domé,” said Fallon. “Curator Damon believed this day the culmination of his life’s work. He deemed that a leader who shares the divine gift, as well as our greatest king’s bloodline, would be the nob
lest legacy he could provide in service of Navronne. He commanded me that if anything threatened this legacy, I must warn the Sitting—”
“Pardon, noble Ferenc!” Geraint interrupted. “Attis-de Lares-Damon has been my guide and mentor. His loss leaves the world immeasurably diminished. Yet the Sitting of the Three Hundred is a sacred assembly, and if an ordinary is allowed to disrupt the proceeding, even for such a grievous event, does it not set unfortunate precedent?”
Though the Marshal expressed sincere concern and such grief as would twist the heart, the air between us trembled with his rage. I held tight to my magic. Compulsion mandated obedience, not speed.
“A wise observation, my Lord de Serre,” said Ferenc, “especially in the face of your grief. Yet the victim is one of our own. And this ordinary is no common servant, but Curator Damon’s military aide, Fallon de Tremayne. Once a famed general in Prince Perryn’s legion, he has pledged his strength and wisdom to Damon’s quest for cleansing. I advise we hear him out for the very reasons you wish your bodyguard to hold on to his weapons. I’d not have our rightful king harmed in my house.”
So Ferenc was intelligent as well as bold.
The Marshal acknowledged the point without words.
“Proceed, Tremayne.”
Fallon bowed to Ferenc and then to the Marshal. “Indeed, domé, I fear this villainy must be aimed at Lord de Serre as well. Since the convocation of the Fifty, Curator Damon has learned of a conspiracy to supplant Caedmon’s true heir with an imposter. Where better to discover the perpetrator of this bloody murder than here among the gods’ chosen, and immediately before time fades the evidence? Root out the devils and we can eliminate the direst threat to our kingdom’s hope of peace and purity before more harm is done.”
