Larkspur

by V. M. Jaskiernia

  “So she is not a blessed spirit?”

  “No.”

  She asked no more questions about it, not even how Pierre knew so much, likely attributing it to the royal status. Which was true, most of that he had learned not from Ophion but from Edgard. A part of him wanted her to continue though.

  ***

  He did not have breakfast with company the next morning, Elizabeth did not come and he refused to let in anyone aside from a doctor (and only when he swore it was on Ophion’s order). At lunch though she returned.

  The duc was sitting up in bed, unable to rest because of the headache that had returned. It seemed to flow throughout his whole body. Writing was impossible, but a distraction would be welcome and so he shuffled a deck of cards and laid out a game of solitaire on the bed.

  Lizzy came in after knocking softly and being granted entry, going to sit in her chair at the head of the bed. Without even asking permission she raised the fork from his ignored lunch to his mouth.

  “I slept in late after our adventures,” she said. They had still wandered the garden for a while after talking, then having to sneak in so as not to be caught. Pierre was almost certain the guards were well aware of what was going on, and had purposefully left them be.

  “I worried perhaps I frightened you with all that talk of necrocræft,” he replied. Pluta’s head jerked up and she glared at her master.

  Elizabeth did not reply, looking to the game being played.

  “What funny cards,” she said. Tilting back his head she placed a cold cloth on his forehead.

  He heeded his Familiar’s warning, taking the new route of conversation. “The comte de Eichel’s daughter does not recognise the symbols?”

  “Of course I do,” she responded quickly. The cloth got a squeeze and water dripped down his face. “Triumphe has worked its lands out to reflect those of playing cards suits, and I am aware that different symbols are used in other lands. But I simply have never seen a set like this myself.”

  “My sincere apologies for saying different.” He wiped at the stream of water, trying and failing to keep back a laugh. She looked at the cards more closely.

  Instead of hearts and spades there were cups and swords, a fourth court card, and another fifth set that were not a clear suit. The cards did not simply show the symbol and what number the card was either, entire scenes were beautifully drawn out.

  “Tell me then,” Pierre said, “are these symbols from the Italaviana set or Roseliande?”

  “Italaviana,” she replied. “Swords, coins- but what are these? Wands? They are not in the standard deck.”

  His game was forgotten as she picked up several of the cards to look at them closer.

  “These are alternate symbols from Italaviana. And these cards,” he picked through the forgotten klondike setup, “are another whole suit, the atouts. They are used for different games than usual. They have the highest value, along with the kings.”

  He handed her the cards and watched as she looked at all of them. At one she paused for a moment, and Pierre counted which place it would be in when she handed back the small deck.

  “This fifth suit, is there any set up in the royal court to reflect it? It is a very interesting group of cards: the Emperor, the Moon.. Death.”

  “No, there is not. The fifth suit is up to the maker of the cards, though some themes are common. Planets, concepts, those alongside nobility like a magician.”

  He gathered all the cards up again, and seemed to shuffle them. When Elizabeth turned to get the fork again he glanced at the card that she had taken note of. He had thought it would be Death, as she had mentioned it softly before, but no, it was the Lovers.

  There was a knock on the door. Before Pierre said anything it opened, and a man several years his senior entered the room. His eyes were a sky blue, and his hair so that it was almost white. Usually clean-shaven, it seemed as if he had not had time in several days.

  “Brother!” Pierre grinned to the true prince, “What are you doing here? You are to be running my duchy.”

  “Ah, that is the welcome I receive?” The prince walked over to the bed, and the two men hugged. He noticed Lizzy upon stepping back, who was still in a curtsy.

  “Rise, dear lady,” he told her, extending a hand to help her. “It is already all about the castle that you are Pierre’s only permitted companion. Feel free to defer to me as his brother, not your prince, in private company.”

  “Yes, my lord, thank you.”

  “Mother sent me,” prince Aimé said to Pierre, sitting on the edge of the bed. “They cannot return from their travels just yet, and wanted to know how you were. With Ophion to see Eglė, they wished a close eye still on you.”

  “Ophion surely told them I was well. Or at least getting better.”

  “Well yes, but Mother worries. She wanted updates, and would not ask for you to write them yourself. Anyway, it was time I returned for a while, and this was a good reason for my departure.”

  “My lords,” Lizzy interrupted. “I believe this is a conversation between brothers. I shall see you soon, Pierre, and prince Aimé.”

  Pierre held out his hand to her and she placed hers atop. He bent and kissed her fingers. “Until we meet again.”

  She nodded, her cheeks rosy. “Until then.”

  “Brother, I am bereft of speech,” the prince said, watching Elizabeth leave. “Does Mother know about her? Has a wedding been planned?”

  “She has been my companion while I have been ill. We are not yet betrothed.”

  “Yet,” Aimé repeated. He then took pity and changed the subject, “What did take you so violently? Screams, Pierre, throwing out the staff?”

  “Already wondering if my degree was well earned?”

  “Truly, Brother.”

  Pierre hesitated on the lie. He had come up with several excuses for when it had merely been the larkspur, but as it was there were more factors than just a small poison and headache. He had not thought of how intense the recovery from her last test would be.

  “Or can you not say?” the prince continued. A chill settled in Pierre’s stomach.

  “An illness circled the dorms this winter,” the duc said, “it was likely that, along with an imbalance in the humours brought on by long travel.” He suspected his brother had some idea of the truth. The royal house was well aware Mora was more than just a rumour; several were brought to sentence because of suspected affiliation in his time at court. Necrocræft was not a moral or lawful practise in the realm. Hiding it while being of the highest status at school had been rather easy. Here, while called principicule affectionately because of his fostering by the king, he was merely the orphaned son of a duc. Legally many outranked him.

  Corruption existed on all levels, though. If the princeling, why not the prince? But Pierre would still not confirm anything for his brother, even if Aimé approved of Mora in some way. The risk was too great if he was wrong.

  “Perhaps you should go take that last semester you’re skipping,” the prince said, and smiled. Pierre relaxed.

  “What did you mean by good time to return?”

  “Ah, well Father and I have been speaking,” he said. “Seeing as you finished classes a year early, but our deal is still in effect, perhaps there could be a transitional year.”

  “Transitional?”

  “I will return to court here more often, begin to move back over the visits and get caught up in business. Similarly once you are well you can go to Piques; begin understanding the land and the people. I have set up a council, those who have aided me, and I hope shall aid you as well.”

  “Brother that is very generous, thank you.”

  “You are welcome. Will you allow a few more guests now, Hélaïse and Ancel are here as well and would like to see you.”

  ***

  Pierre lay awake that night, dismissing the student that Ophion sent to keep an eye on him—the very same he had earlier killed. His name was Wolfram, it seemed, and while only fiftee
n he was top of the private class that Ophion led. The duc noticed the boy was wearing gloves and did not take them off all the while he sat there, and vaguely wondered if his uncle had taken another apprentice. He could not remember if the boy had had gloves on when tending him last time.

  The memory of what he had done to his lady returned to him.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. He reached out towards the larkspur that still decorated the room, but did not touch. With a sigh he closed his eyes. “Forgive me.” A phantom clasped her hand in his. “I was in pain,” he continued. His thumb stroked the back of the lady’s hand. He would not have seen her even if his eyes were open. “I should know how to deal through agony, but I felt betrayed.”

  Mora settled on the bed more spirit than flesh.

  “As did I.”

  He pulled her into his arms and returned to sleep with death.

  ***

  Elizabeth visited often. What had been a pleasant surprise the first few times was now routine and much appreciated. The illness continued to wax and wane with the times of day. Pierre finally realised that his body would finish adjusting the day after midspring—the last quarter moon. Death’s Moon. It was a long time to deal with this level of reoccurring pain; Lizzy’s company was welcome.

  Tonight, there were still a few days left, and the pain had not stopped even at midnight. Pierre lay curled in his bed, having sent Lizzy away hours ago through she had desired to stay. Wolfram was helping him manage and the boy had just left to bring more cool water.

  He needed to kill something. It would distract the spirits of pain that now grew restless being near him and unable to do more harm. He could channel their energy, or suffer, and there was no other magic to tame them as that full moon had. During other times they might leave him be, but this was still his final test. They would not accept a weak lord.

  The cup beside his bed held watered wine, and after piecing his finger with a pin, a few drops of black blood. It would not be able to significantly change the taste, but it was enough for his magic to work.

  His assistant returned. Pierre balled his fist to hide the blood and scars, not having time to pull on his glove.

  “Please, you have worked hard, drink from my cup,” he told the boy. “I have not had the desire for it. Tea, perhaps, if you could get some.”

  “Yes, my lord, thank you.” He first tended Pierre, replacing the cloth and covering him with another blanket. Taking the cup he seemed to want to refuse the offer, but could not. He drank it and then left for the kitchens.

  Some of the spirits left with him, and there was a slight reprieve until he returned.

  Wolfram set the tea down on the nightstand. “Shall I die again?”

  “You know what I am doing?” The same boy that he had killed, the same one that had taken to wearing gloves. Ophion’s student.

  “I have guessed,” the boy replied, allowing himself to look at the duc.

  “Then no you shan’t. I assume you have an interest in this?” Pierre opened his hand, showing scars and smeared black blood.

  “I do.”

  “Then bring me another sacrifice. I cannot return this one.”

  The boy was silent for a moment, unable to look away from the lord’s hand. “May it be an animal?” he asked.

  “No. Bring a person. And I hold your soul already, do not attempt anything revealing or it will be you.”

  He bowed, and left again.

  “And how will you explain a missing person?” Pluta asked. She was almost always with Pierre, now lying on the pillow beside him. She took some of his pain.

  “Fée.”

  “Not entirely a lie either.”

  Wolfram returned with a young woman. She curtsied deeply upon seeing the duc. The boy stood beside her, close enough for their hands to brush together.

  “You fret so much you ask it to be a creature and you bring this lovely mademoiselle?” the Lord of Death asked. He sat up, and his eyes flicked over the girl. She wore a sleeping gown, and dark curls were caught up for bed. “Look at me,” he said. She retained her posture only raising her head. “Your linea?” he asked. There was more to her than human.

  “My family hails from Cygnorum, your grace,” she said.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “You requested my presence.”

  “Come, sit beside me.”

  He motioned for Wolfram to give him the cup. In full view of both the boy and the girl, he took out his knife and cut into his hand. He bled into the cup. Pluta licked the wound until it was no longer so deep, and Wolfram bandaged it.

  Pierre gave his full attention to the girl sitting on his bed. “You will drink this,” he said, “and you will die. It will be painless, and no marks shall appear anywhere on you. Nothing cruel shall be done to your body.”

  She was pale, and now shaking, but stayed sitting beside him. He raised the cup to her lips. She looked to Wolfram, and seeing something that calmed her she closed her eyes and drank.

  The lord put aside the cup, and hugged the girl. He held her, comforted her, stroked back her hair and watched as tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “Un, deux—”

  “Mercy.”

  He snapped his fingers before finishing the count, and the girl died in his arms. He held her a moment longer, and then let her body slide to the floor.

  “Rid the room of her waste,” he told Pluta, lying back down with a grateful sigh as his pain left. “Her corpse must stay intact, let it be hidden underneath the bed. As I promised her, do nothing harmful to her. She will be buried at a more convenient time.”

  Turning his head to look at Wolfram out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy standing, a hand to his mouth, fascinated and abhorred.

  “Death is not pretty,” the lord told him. “She was beloved to you, was she not?”

  “She was dying,” the young suitor replied. He walked over to her body and knelt beside it. “Often in pain. I began to learn so I could heal her, but it did not work.. she asked to die.”

  “Then I am glad it was her will.”

  Wolfram touched her, stroking back her hair. Pluta sat beside him for the moment. It was a sick room, unpleasant scents were standard and it was well known the duc was still quite ill. She could give the boy his time.

  “Can you not bring her back?” He sounded close to tears, as if just now understanding exactly what had taken place.

  “No,” Pierre replied softly. “She was my sacrifice, to return her life would be to break a vow.”

  “And.. if someone else brought her back?”

  The duc turned on his side to he could see the boy and the girl. Clever young man, he could see why Ophion had chosen him. Why Mora had chosen him.

  “If someone else did it, then I would break no vow.”

  “May I return her?” the assistant looked up to his lord, pleading. “I can still learn, can I not?”

  “Returning a person’s life will take quite a long time of studying Three years, perhaps four. You could just wait for Ophion’s return.”

  “I want to. I mean.. is she well, where she is? Happy?”

  “Yes.”

  Wolfram nodded, then turned back to his dead love. He finished his inspection and hid the body, pushing it under the bed and pulling the sheets so that they covered the gap between the bed and the floor. Pluta snuck under after it.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Wolfram said. He stood and poured the cool tea for Pierre, handing him the cup. It was then the lord understood— Ah, not ‘mercy.’

  “You are welcome,” he replied to them both.

  ***

  A touch, a slight of hand. He shuffled the deck in such a way that a card cut into his finger, and then he placed aside the whole pack. Gesturing for Lizzy to remain seated by the bed, he used the same hand to her tea, now with an extra drop of blood.

  He folded his hands together to hide any black stain.

  “Thank you, Pierre.”

  “Of course, Lizzy.�
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  She took a drink and did not notice. He did nothing, but smiled as she complimented the tea and placed it on the saucer for a time. They resumed their conversation as if nothing amiss had happened.