by Gwen Perkins
His hands crumpled around it, his throat closing up as he realized that he’d just lost his last chance.
Chapter 21
Asahel stood outside the antechamber doors, barely able to think of anything beyond the pounding in his head and the catch of his breath. The Winter Court was preparing its move into summer, and so his fear went unnoticed. All around the man were the signs of organized chaos. Pages ran past, carrying heavy chests, as maids swept out the corners of the palace rooms. Everywhere, it seemed, there was the sound of closing doors and sliding drawers.
In the midst of all this activity, Asahel alone was still.
He didn’t know for how long he waited. The weight of the sword at his side distracted him, unfamiliar and awkward as it was. He wished that he had never taken it, despite Felix’s urgings. It had been that, Asahel believed, that had persuaded the steward that he was worthy of the audience that he requested.
When the doors opened, all that he could focus on were the maps inside the room that he now entered. The outlines of countries, cities, and roads had been painstakingly scribed into parchment, black scrawls revealing intimate detail of faraway lands. Hundreds of the maps lined the walls, the edges of the paper overlapping at points. Magic pulsed through the lines, illuminating some roads, then sweeping over to light another place.
The sheer number of papers dwarfed the man who sat below them. The man was of massive girth, so large that his frame overtook the padded lounge upon which he lay. He was swathed in opulent fabrics, red velvets and silks giving him an appearance larger even than the frame that he possessed. He lifted a handkerchief, coughing into the blue silk at Asahel’s approach. It drifted to the floor gracefully as Asahel neared, noticing that he did not bother to pick it up.
“My lord.” Asahel knelt, his knee dropping next to the square of blue silk. The sword banged the floor, its steel blade scraping against the marble.
“You may rise,” the Geographer answered. Asahel did as he was told, uncertain of the proper ritual. He glanced at the Steward who remained in the corner. The Steward simply nodded, his expression offering no hint for behavior.
“I come, Lord Tycho, because I have to confess Heresy.” The Steward’s breath hissed behind him but Asahel saw no distress in Tycho’s face, nor any change in the maps that surrounded them. The Geographer simply lifted a thick wrist and waved at his servant, the hiss silenced before his hand fell back down to the cushion. “I come to ask for… leniency.”
“Only a foolish man makes promises without knowing the requestor’s intent,” Tycho replied. His eyes were lively though the rest of his body was not. “Heresy is no small thing and you, no man of stature, to request such a boon.”
There it was—his social standing laid out between them, in a way that few rarely acknowledged. The mercy that Felix had led Asahel to expect now seemed distant. He had spoken the words, however, and there was no turning back now. What Quentin was doing endangered them all and Asahel told himself silently that this betrayal was for the greater good.
“I’ve conspired with another to break the laws of magic,” he said. “We thought that we’d got to use magic to do good for others—to heal disease, aye, or wounds, perhaps.”
“And did you succeed?”
Asahel hesitated, remembering the look in Quentin’s eyes when Meg had shown him her hand. She said that she had not been hurt, he reminded himself. This quest—it drove Quentin insane. It drove us both insane. For a bit, any road. His mouth tightened, then he answered, “No.”
“I see.” There was a cold light in the calculating eyes that followed him, waiting a minute too long before speaking again. “You do not come to court. Save for the once, some time ago.”
“No, my lord,” Asahel said. “I’m not—I have no place here.” He looked again at the rich fabric that Tycho wore, the golden threads woven within glinting as light hit them. “I never did have.”
Tycho lifted his hands high into the air, clapping them once. The steward nodded, leaving the room without comment. He returned a moment later, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and a single glass. He poured the wine, handing it to the Geographer without even looking at Asahel. Thick fingers grasped the stem of the glass, draining it slowly, before placing it on the tray and waving the steward off again. Asahel noticed that the man leaned down and plucked the fallen handkerchief from the floor before leaving.
“The university never should have taken you,” the Geographer said. “I’ll warrant you felt the pain of it. They took you from your proper place and tried to make you into a man. Not without effort, I’m sure.” The glance that he afforded Asahel indicated that the attempt had failed. “It must have taken little work for your conspirator to convince you of his cause. Did anyone else even bother with you?”
“It wasn’t…” Asahel stopped talking, unable to express what had happened to pull him towards Quentin. The Geographer was too calm for him to feel that his conflicted loyalty would make any difference. Tycho spoke to him as if he was that same student from the colleges, invisible only by virtue of birth in a land where birth was all that mattered. His words were direct, those of a man who knew exactly of what he spoke.
He knows too much, Asahel thought, then he realized. No. He already knows. All of it. And he couldn’t know it by looking at a map or viewing us from afar. Felix left something out or Felix- His gaze dropped to the sword at his side, his fingers clenching the pommel rather than allowing his conscious mind to complete the thought that it had started. He understood, now—something that he had never wanted to understand.
“I would consider that a threat,” the Geographer said, his smile a dry, twisted thing. “If I didn’t know exactly what you must be thinking.”
Asahel’s hand jerked away from the weapon, his palm sweating as he looked up.
“Lord Carnicus was right. Everything you think is written across your face.”
The words stung, Asahel’s skin suddenly burning from the shame of it.
“I owe his family much,” Tycho continued. “You have given me the opportunity to cancel the debt. But know this—the talk of Heresy ends here, with us. The Council has no patience with those who break its laws.”
Quentin, Asahel thought, unable to determine from Tycho’s speech or expression whether he had the other man’s name. How much did Felix tell him? Why did he tell him? He choked on it inwardly, wishing that he had never come to the Court. There was no time to warn Quentin more than he had done when he’d run from the cottage and he thought again of leniency, wondering if that was as much a myth as Felix’s friendship had been.
“Go then.” Tycho’s voice went so cold that it chilled him. “I have business to attend to. Some of it yours.”
Chapter 22
“Cosimo, I need to prepare for a journey.” Quentin’s manservant stood next to the banister at the top of the stairs, looking down at him as he opened the door. Cosimo’s weathered face showed signs of a storm, his lips puckering inward as the rest of his face went taut. He descended the stairs one at a time, taking each one like a punishment.
“Lady Catharine said we weren’t to join the Summer Court this year.” Cosimo had been with Quentin for years but, as with all the servants, Catharine inspired a certain devotion in him. Quentin had never quite understood it but then, he thought, she spent more time talking with them.
“It’s not the Summer Court, and I’m going alone,” he said. To where, he didn’t yet know. To leave the island would be to commit another Heresy, and one for which he knew the penalty.
“Alone? But wher-”
“My husband is going nowhere, Cosimo.” Catharine stepped out into the upstairs hall, her eyes bright as they rested on Quentin’s face. The rustling of her petticoat echoed into the silence that followed as she descended the steps herself. “Why don’t you take the rest of the evening for yourself? Quentin and I need to talk.” The smile that she gave their servant was warm, though clearly brittle. Cosimo nodded, though he looked as if he lo
nged to remain. Quentin half-wished that he would.
Catharine waited until they were alone before she spoke again.
“What is this?” She asked. Her words were softer than he’d expected them to be. Perhaps, Quentin thought. She wants me to go.
“I have to leave, Catharine. It’s not safe for either of us if I stay.” He reached for her hand, only catching it for a moment before she took it away.
“Do you think it will be better if you go?” There was hurt beneath the anger, her body more rigid than he’d ever seen it and her voice more resigned.
“You can say that you had no part in this,” Quentin paused. “Tell them that you knew nothing.”
“That would be true, wouldn’t it?” Catharine replied. “I still know nothing beyond what I learned on my own. If you were leaving me for your lover, I’d have hate at least.”
“You’ve pretended to hate me for years. Why should this be any different?”
“I don’t,” she whispered. “Hate you.”
Quentin hesitated in turn before he said, “I know.”
“Then let me come with you. It could be different away from the city. We could be different.” The woman moved a little closer, still not touching him. “I don’t like the person that you become at court, Quent. And you don’t like the woman I am there, either. But we don’t have to be those people, not if we turn our backs on it.”
“It won’t matter who we are if they take my hands or my head,” Quentin said. “It won’t be any kind of life, whatever choice we do make.”
“And if you leave me behind, what life have you left me?” she asked. “I’m your wife, and with you gone, that’s all they’ll remember me as. A deserter’s wife, maybe—if I’m lucky.” Her hands gently rested against her stomach, hugging herself tightly as she waited for his answer.
He wanted Catharine. That was the problem. For all the years of fighting, uncertainty, and discontent, Quentin still longed for her even if all that she gave him was the sound of her voice.
“No.” It was barely audible. “I’ve hung Asahel along with me. I can’t do that to someone twice.” His hands shook. “Let me get my things, Cat. Don’t stand in the way.”
The woman stepped aside, her fists now clenching her skirts. She didn’t look up as he passed—Quentin considered that a small mercy.
“Asahel Soames can explain why I had to go,” he instructed as he reached the upper hall, Catharine trailing behind. Meg’s sudden betrayal had spurred his movements but he suspected, Asahel would not be so swift to leave the capital. After all, he believed her. “I think you knew that, or you wouldn’t have written the letter that you did.”
“I—”
A knock on the door interrupted her.
“Don’t let Cosimo answer,” Quentin told her swiftly. “Hold them, Catharine. If you have any love for me, hold the door.” Her eyes were frightened as they met his but for once, she obeyed, her feet flying down the stairs, skirts lifting high as she ran. He followed her himself, then turned, moving towards the back stairs reserved for the servants. His only hope was to escape before the Council’s men came for him.
The knocking intensified as he slipped into the back streets despite the fact that distance should have made it quieter. They must be near to breaking down the door, he realized. Where do I go? Asahel was his first thought but he knew that he’d told Catharine to find him. There was too much danger in that path.
With no time to think, he let his feet make the choice for him, darting down the cobble as quickly as he could push himself. The loose stones rattled under his feet and he stumbled, his body pitching forward into the open street. He could see women leaning out of their windows, watching as a crowd of men pushed their way into his home. The roses that bordered their gardens were trampled underfoot, the thorns crushed into soil. The cry of Catharine’s angry voice carried to him across the wind, strong enough to keep him moving.
He knew as he left the narrow walks of his own district where it was he had to go. It galled Quentin so strongly that he could barely keep his feet moving. I’d almost rather let them take me. The sight of a lantern up ahead intensified his frustration It waved in the wind, followed by another light and yet another. He was doing as Asahel had, he knew, except that—unlike his friend, Quentin knew that he was walking into the home of the enemy.
As he knocked on the door of the Carnicus estate, he could still taste the sour bile in his mouth. It did not surprise him when Felix answered, his slender frame standing in front of it and barring him entrance. But the shallow breath that the other man took did, as did the pale flush of his face.
“I need—”
“You can’t possibly come here looking for a favor,” Felix cut him off. It was not cruel, however, but sad.
“It’s not just me. Asahel—it’s Asahel—he—”
“He went to the Geographer this morning,” the other man said. For the first time, Quentin noticed that Felix had no sword at his side. “Tycho knows everything.”
Chapter 23
Night approached, and with it came no ease.
Asahel’s fingers struggled with the windowpane. The sea air at work on the wood, it had bloated. He pressed his shoulder into the glass, his weight bearing into it until it finally wrenched upwards. The cracking of the wood frame was the only sound in his bedroom except for his labored breathing as he stepped away, staring at the wall.
He needed to breathe the scent of the tides, to feel the air deep inside his lungs. By rights, Asahel knew that he should have been imprisoned, yet here he stood, a free man. Asahel had no illusions about how long that freedom would last—his movements would be ever watched as he stepped outside of his own door. The Geographer could peer through his maps at every street and he knew that the man had chosen his among those to be guarded.
“I betrayed him,” he muttered to himself, not speaking of the Geographer, but of Quentin. It released nothing within him to say it out loud. The guilt still clung inside him, so heavy that he could barely hold his head upright.
A pebble shot in through the open window, striking Asahel on the shoulder, and he turned. A second followed with enough force to send him to the windowsill to peer outside.
There was a woman standing below. He could tell that it was a woman only by the skirts that bunched up beneath the heavy hooded cloak she was wearing and the outline of her body. The figure did not look up at the window but instead reached out to tug at the hood, shielding her face still further. He squinted to catch a look at her hands and saw that the pale skin was mottled, marred by red patches of scarred and twisted skin.
The Plagues.
“Who are you?” Asahel called down, unwilling to step away from the window in case there was a surprise awaiting him at the door.
“I came to talk to you,” the voice that returned his call was clear, but low for a woman’s. There was something about it that resonated in his memory, and he hesitated before making the connection between the scars and the pitch of her words. Catharine.
“Please,” she said again, her voice desperate. “Don’t ask me to stand out on the street.”
“Just—just a moment, aye?” He bit his lip as he cast a look at his clothing. It was dirty but serviceable. You can’t leave her out there, simply because you’re worried about the way that you look. Asahel spurred himself to motion, running down the stairs and towards the small sitting room that bordered the entrance to his home. As he opened the door, he saw that she was already at it, staring at the carvings in the wood.
“Mermaids,” Catharine murmured, just before she stepped inside. He still couldn’t see her face clearly. “He should have told me to look for those.”
“Who?” Asahel asked.
“Quentin.”
“He’s never been here,” he answered, locking the door, then walking over to close the gap between the drapes. Whatever business Catharine had, he knew there was no good in it.
“He hasn’t?” Her fingers reached up to the hood, pu
lling it down. Asahel had had only a few glimpses of Catharine beyond the dance that they’d once shared, and he’d never once seen her with her hair down. It fell around her face, rich and brown, obscuring the harshest of her scars. He could see the red pockmarks most clearly when she spoke, but the rest of her scars were muted by the strands that crossed her eyes. It was here that he could see how beautiful she must have once been.
The thought shamed him and he turned away. She hesitated, misunderstanding and said, “I can put the hood back up. If it’s easier.”
“No. It wasn’t that,” Asahel replied. “It was… why did Quentin send you?”
“He’s been—” Catharine didn’t cry but for a moment, he thought that she might from the tightening of her eyes and the lines around her mouth. “I don’t know where he is. The Council is looking for him because of something that he’s done.” Her hand reached up to her hair, sweeping it away from her face as she began to plait it, fingers shaking. “He said to come to you, if I wanted to know what’s happened. In truth, I think that what he truly wanted was for me to warn you.”
Asahel said nothing.
“I wrote a letter to you once,” she said. “Hoping that whatever foolish thing the two of you were doing would end. It didn’t work then, and I know that it wouldn’t work now, if Quentin was here.” Catharine herself paused. “I only had rumors at the time. People who’d seen the two of you. The dance that we shared. The way that, once in a while, Quentin spoke when he looked at the sea. I never thought it was Heresy, you see, not… the magical kind.”
“Whatever else you might’ve thought, it wasn’t true,” Asahel whispered. “He loves you.” He’d taken her husband from her—there was nothing else he had to give.
“He has such odd ways of showing it,” her voice cracked.
“Have you been any better?” He stopped himself before he could carry on. It was not his fight to wage.
