Flesh and Spirit tld-1

by Carol Berg

  My father snorted contemptuously. “It was certainly not my doing. Evidently someone in the Registry, higher placed than you, Eqastré Rhom-Magistoria, felt it risky to have any one of us exposed to the rabble during this unsettled time.”

  He motioned Sestius to the table beside him. As the administrator unrolled his scroll, my father’s cold gaze traveled over me. His nostrils flared as his eyes fixed on my silkbound hands. “No surprise to hear that Valen has shown himself insolent and violent,” he said to Sestius. “But I’m surprised you found it necessary to curtail his use of magic. He was never competent.”

  “We’ve witnesses that he cast spells to aid his escape from the Karish abbey and attempted more on the journey to Palinur. He is completely untrustworthy. Here—” Sestius tapped a spot on one of his pages. “You must acknowledge the transfer of custody, though, as you were informed, we will keep our men here.”

  “I don’t like strangers in my house. My daughter, the Sinduria, has insisted on providing Temple guards as well.” My father pressed his thumb on the page, triggering a spell that would identify him to the Registry. I felt very like a hanging goose at the poulterer’s.

  “Though I am sure the Sinduria’s attendants are well qualified, the Registry must supervise the recondeur’s restriction until his sentence is completed.” Sestius rolled his papers back together so tightly he could have used the roll as a cane. “Your son has three days’ punishment to fulfill, at the least. And as he physically assaulted and verbally abused one of his overseers today—a man protecting him from harm from a rapacious mob—I intend to see him flogged before we’re done. I advise you keep him on a short leash.” Sestius never allowed sympathy to interfere with discipline.

  My father brushed his wide fingers over the silver mask that lay on the table. “Valen will not escape his duty again. If I have to pry up every rock in this kingdom, I will secure him a contract with a master who can control him.”

  Of course, Patronn would wish to remind me. The Registry inserted certain standard clauses into pureblood contracts. Clauses requiring adherence to Registry breeding rules. Clauses requiring recognition of the Registry as arbiter of all contract disputes. And protective clauses ensuring we were maintained in safety, dignity, and luxurious accommodation appropriate to “extraordinary beings of proven magical lineage.” In running away, I had forfeited my rights to those protective restrictions. Whatever master he selected for me would be permitted to ensure my faithful service in any way he chose—confinement, whips, isolation, starvation…

  Sestius took his leave, ordering Caphur to cooperate with Thalassa’s temple attendants and to report any conflicts. I remained standing near the brazier, sweating beneath my fur-lined cloak, my face itching beneath the silk mask. My good humor had completely faded.

  As the outer door closed behind Sestius, two men in green livery appeared at the inner door. A whiff of cheap perfume identified one of them as Thalassa’s temple attendant Silos, the observant fellow whose hands wielded paralyzing firebolts and whose nose sniffed out spellmaking. Worse and worse.

  “You may escort the recondeur to his quarters,” said my father, walking past me as if I did not exist. “I’ve no need and no wish to see him any more than necessary. He is not to wander the house or grounds unaccompanied. His meals will be taken in his quarters unless I specifically summon him to dine. Work out your guard schedule with these Registry people.” He waved at Caphur to join the two in green and then flicked a wrist to dismiss us all.

  A hundred retorts popped to mind as my father left the courtyard. At fifteen I would have spat them at his back, sauced them with curses and obscenities, and forced the guards to drag me to my bedchamber. But I held my tongue. I had tasted freedom, and until the day I lay rotting in my grave, I would not give up hope of regaining it. If yielding present satisfaction to lull my captors was the price required, I would pay it.

  The east wing was the oldest of the sprawling house, little more than low, musty chambers with small windows huddled along two sides of an overgrown court, on that night draped in snow. The walls were thicker there, and consisted of irregular, alternating layers of brick and rock that gave them a rough appearance. I remembered the rooms as being filled with broken furniture, old carpets, spiderwebs, and beetle husks.

  Most of the windows gaped darkly. The low-pitched wavering mewling of a cat in heat came from one dark corner of the square. Silos dispatched his companion to show Caphur his quarters and the facilities of the house and then motioned me toward a section where light gleamed through thick shutters. I had to duck my head to enter.

  Despite the rough exterior, a habitable apartment awaited me—two connecting rooms, a bedchamber and a sitting room, cleaned and furnished. Though not the broken sticks I remembered, its accoutrements contrasted starkly with those of the main house. A plaited wool rug on bare stone instead of thick carpets on mosaic and tile floors. An earthenware basin for washing instead of Syan porcelain. A hard chair instead of velvet lounges. A small eating table with two backless stools beside it. A coal scuttle beside the hearth. No hanging maps or exotic artifacts to remind visitors of the Cartamandua talents. No magical cards or bronze water bowls left easily available for Celestine divinations.

  Coals blazed in the sitting-room hearth. A kettle hung over the fire, and a bathing tub sat beside it. A shirt of fine linen lay neatly over the chair back. My sour-faced Registry valet stood beside the hearth, eyes unfocused, hands clasped properly behind his back.

  “You must be Lukas,” said Silos, latching the door behind us. “Assigned for personal service by the Registry.”

  The valet bowed stiffly.

  “As I am sure the Registry overseers have informed you, the Sinduria Cartamandua-Celestine has arranged for me to supervise the recondeur’s confinement while in this house,” said Silos.

  “Yes, domé.”

  “Overseer Caphur will be taking his orders from me as well.”

  “I understand, sir. I was told to see to the plebeiu’s bathing upon his arrival. Do you approve?” I enjoyed seeing Lukas’s face darken and shrivel like an old grape at Silos’s assumption of command. My valet clearly did not believe a Registry employee, even an ordinary, should be taking orders from a temple attendant, even a pureblood.

  Silos was unfazed. “Proceed with your duties. Unfortunately this wing has no piped water, but you’ll find the household staff efficient and accommodating. You’ve been shown the kitchen?”

  The valet nodded, bowed, and departed through the courtyard door. A soft whining and a skin-prickling heat burst infused the room as he passed through the door. They hadn’t bothered to mute the door ward, designed to alert my guards that someone had left the room.

  Fine as a hot bath sounded, I wasn’t sure I could bear another hour with Lukas. At least the rules of household privacy would keep both Registry and temple guards at bay while I bathed.

  “I’ll take those off now,” said Silos softly, pointing at my hands, startling me out of my murky deliberations.

  The temple guard had slipped off his mask and hung it over his belt. Large ears poked through his dark straight hair. Though his address was proper as always, his wide face expressed neither gloating nor severity. Perhaps forty, he seemed a bit soft around the edges for a Sinduria’s bodyguard. But our confrontations at the abbey and on the journey to Palinur had taught me not to take him lightly, despite the unprepossessing body and his fondness for flowery scent.

  “I’d be grateful,” I said, extending my arms. “I hope you’ve less constricting means to ensure my good behavior while I’m here.”

  As Silos unwrapped the silk-clad lump joining my arms—I could no longer swear the bloodless bundle was hands—one side of his mouth curved upward. “You wouldn’t be imagining I’m going to tell you about our precautions, would you? I’ve not forgot you had the better of me on the road.”

  “I didn’t escape,” I said. Happily for me, Silos’s skill at spell detection lagged his skill at hurl
ing paralyzing firebolts, else I would be a madman already. On that night of my last doulon, somewhere between Gillarine and Palinur, my spellworking had not waked him. He’d only detected the magical residue in the morning. For the rest of the journey, he had mumbled curses at himself.

  “I was too slow picking up on what you were about. That won’t happen again.” He slipped off the cords and tossed them on the table. Then, kindly, he peeled off my mask and threw it down beside the bindings. “Tell me what spell you worked that night, and I might tell you some of the ways we have to keep you from running away from this house.”

  “Ach…” The cords had left deep grooves in my flesh. I fumbled to unfasten the clasp on my horrid cloak, but my fingers felt like clubs. I shook them vigorously and moved closer to the fire. As my fingers throbbed, I shot him a halfhearted grin. “Tell me what protections you’ve set up here, and I might tell you what I was doing that night.”

  He shrugged in mock apology as he unhooked the clasp for me and threw the yellow cape over a chair. “I’ll say only this. There’s only the one passage out of this courtyard, and you will be sure to meet either me or my partner, Herat, or this Registry man, Caphur, if you should venture it. This door will remain locked—only a formality, as your father requests it—but we will know of any comings or goings. You may walk in the yard in company with one of us. Your needs will be taken care of. The Sinduria sent a personal attendant for you…an ordinary…but this Registry fellow, Lukas, was here already.”

  His equitable manner emboldened me. “Can you tell me, good Silos, what news in the realm? I’ve heard naught of the world since we left the abbey. But Prince Perryn’s banner no longer flies above the citadel.”

  Silos went to one of the windows and ran his fingers along the iron frames—checking the locks, I assumed, or installing wards. Though common wards could prevent spellworking, they could not disrupt a pureblood’s bent. Unfortunately, tracking and route finding in this chamber would lead me nowhere but to the door.

  “I’m sorry, plebeiu,” said Silos. “You remain under Registry censure, thus are not privy to news. Your sole task is to attend your own behavior and submission to your family.”

  Ludicrous. The world was crumbling and I was supposed to be concerned with masks and manners. “Of course, that’s true,” I said, straining to remain civil. “And you are pureblood and must serve the Registry’s wishes, as well as my sister’s. But even the Registry does not interfere with a man’s duty to the gods. So surely then, as a servant of the goddess Samele and her high priestess, duty-bound to reclaim a soul who has been dabbling with Karish ways, you are permitted to discuss matters of worship…of the temple. Such as the rioters today…some of them Harrowers…so many…”

  “Once Sila Diaglou declared for Prince Bayard, Prince Perryn gave her Harrowers the run of the city to appease them. But they’ve no loyalty to buy. Instead they’ve put themselves on every district council. They run out the magistrates and judges with fearmongering and threats of burning, then name their own to fill the places. And they’re doing the same in the temples.”

  He moved to the door and ran his fingers about the perimeter. “Three months ago, Jemacus, second to the high priest of Erdru, burnt his temple in Trimori and declared himself a Harrower. We’ve heard he’s on his way here and that half the priests in Erdru’s temple are his men. Every temple staff is eating itself with suspicions and examinations. Chaos, that’s what the Harrowers want. All of us eating roots and cowering in caves. What ‘purity’ lies in chaos and ruin?”

  I shook my head, trying to recapture a memory as fleeting as starfall. Jullian had once said something…that someone had told him everyone should be made pure like him and Gerard.

  A sudden anxiety stabbed through every other concern. How could I have forgotten? “Silos, did you find Gerard—the boy at the abbey?”

  “Is this a matter of your soul as well, plebeiu?”

  “Yes. Well, of course it is. He is my vowed brother.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but did not argue. “The boy was not within the abbey precincts. We found his footsteps mingled with many others outside the walls, but could discover no definite direction to them. We’ve no reason to believe he’s harmed.”

  Likely the boy was tucked safely in his own bed back home, having decided that girls were more fun than celibate monks or studious Jullian. Likely. So why couldn’t I believe it? Ready to be done with this wretched day, anxious for Silos to depart, I squatted and held my hands closer to the little brazier.

  The temple aide brushed the dust from his hands and jupon. “I’m off now. Behave yourself, plebeiu. I don’t like you twisting words and dealing lightly with the gods to get your way.” He remained stiffly by the door, his lips set in a prim line, waiting.

  Of course. Manners. I stood up, touched my still-tingling fingers to my forehead, and bowed. Every pureblood was my superior. “Good night, Domé Silos.”

  As soon as he was out the door, I hurried to the bedchamber window. The cold night air took my breath as I yanked the balky casement inward and peered into the night. A quivering energy about the window indicated more magical alarms to warn of my escape. My poor skills gave me no hope of shaping an unraveling spell. Thus, for the moment, I let my eyes adjust to the dark sloping lawn and the thin line of beech trees and low wall that separated this wing of the house from the lane and the Aingerou’s Font.

  No movement was visible through the leafless branches. No dark blur against the night or the embankment. No blue dragons scribed in light on muscular limbs.

  I gripped the casement and stared into the empty night until I was so cold I could scarcely move. Dealing lightly with the gods… perhaps I had been. A catch in my throat threatened to unleash emotions I had no use for. Somewhere the lonely cat was still wailing.

  When Lukas returned to undress me for bath and bed, he snorted and slammed shut the casement. Thank all gods he was not pureblood. They would hang me before I bowed to him.

  “I cannot sit in that room all day and pick at my scabs,” I said as I strode down the cobbled paths of the knot garden. “My father said I was not to roam unaccompanied, so accompany me or explain it to him, whichever you choose. He very much outranks you, domé, and is not happily thwarted.”

  Caphur, the Registry overseer with the hairy chin and short legs, dodged snow-laden branches and tripped over broken paving, struggling to keep up as I sweated out the frustration of a long night of little sleep and an entire morning of doing nothing. I felt ready to tear down the garden walls with my teeth.

  The squalling I had thought was a cat had broken into cackling and screams early that morning. Only one explanation had come to mind: They housed mad cartographers as well as recondeurs in the east wing. My grandfather was confined not a hundred quercae from my apartment. By midday, I was half crazed with the racket…and the thought of its source. When Lukas arrived with my dinner, I bolted through the door into the open air. Though only one alarm had triggered, not two, prickly Caphur had spotted me instantly and latched on to me like a wasp.

  The din from the corner apartment quickly drove me out of the overgrown courtyard, through the brick arch, and around the washhouse. I remembered this garden as the sunniest of the little patches of nature sprinkled about my family’s rambling house. Not that there was much sun in evidence this day. Moisture-filled clouds bulged and sagged onto the roof tiles.

  The meticulous plantings of the knot garden appeared flat and soggy under the patchy snow, blackened leaves and dead stems instead of colorful swaths that shifted hue and pattern through the year as the various plants bloomed and faded. Silos and the second temple guard posted themselves at the outer wall, lest I take the wild notion to fling myself at the piled stones and skitter over them like the lizards that lived there in true summer. Tempting to try it anyway. Caphur alone, I might challenge. The bristle-faced Registry man was strong, but not particularly quick. Burning the Harrower youth had shown him unimaginative and brutish. But Si
los…My body well remembered his precise and paralyzing sorcery as I ran from Gillarine.

  No, escape would be impossible as long as my guards were so edgy. I had to wait. I had to behave myself, to lull them into belief in my compliance. Stupid to have walked out like this.

  When I tired of circling the same half quellé of path and the same gnarled blockage of grievances, I returned to my chambers, bearing some faint hope that Lukas had not disposed of my meal in his haste to report my ill behavior. To my dismay and astonishment, I found my father seated beside my brazier.

  “Patronn,” I said, genuflecting.

  He flicked his hand in a gesture that I interpreted as “continue with what you should be doing, if you can possibly complete it before I get too impatient.” So I sat on one of the stools while Lukas, wearing no expression but smug superiority, deftly removed my muddy boots, replaced them with gray slippers, and blotted the damp from my shoulders, back, and head with a soft towel. Unable to stomach the yellow cape, I had worn no outer garment, despite the chill.

  Protocol forced my valet to withdraw to the bedchamber and close the door once his sartorial duties were completed. Poor nasty, spying Lukas. I rose and awaited the reprimand to come.

  “You didn’t run.” Less anger than I expected. Suspicious, though, and a bit off-balance. Almost tentative. I had never seen my father this way.

  “You did not forbid me to breathe, Patronn. Only to intrude on your sight. I’ve never seen you in the knot garden.” I would keep my temper. Or, at the least, I would force him to lose his first. “Did you wish me to run? Silos’s firebolts are impressive and quite debilitating.”

  “I’ve had an inquiry about a contract.”

  Bravado drained into the region of my great toe. Max had been right; anyone interested in the contract of a recondeur was more likely brute than saint. No point in asking the identity of the inquirer. My father would tell me or not at his pleasure. Why had he come here—to watch me tremble? Did he imagine that terror at a perilous future would make me beg him for a lifetime’s forgiveness?