Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

  “Enough,” said Bastien, shoving me toward the door.

  I slipped on my mask and clutched my pen case tightly enough none could notice my hands trembling. Bastien led me through the rotunda and around the right-hand passage. Only one visitor. I’d give three ribs for it to be Pluvius.

  But the man in the pureblood cloak who gazed out Bastien’s window was shorter than the Master of the Registry Archives, leaner, tidier, and his well-trimmed hair was solidly black. He pivoted sharply as we entered. His ivory silk half mask set off deep olive skin, a long Aurellian nose, and ungraceful ears slightly too big for his head.

  “Why in holy Deunor’s light does it take two hours for you to sketch a dead ordinary?” First Registrar Damon, the second-most-powerful man in the Registry—or third if Gilles’s uncle Albin had anything to say about it. An extremely impatient curator. The one I knew least.

  Touching fingertips to forehead, I bowed deeply, using the time to swallow my surprise, consider my response, and note the bulky bodyguard beside the door. Perhaps I should bend a knee. But Damon prized personal discipline, so I’d always heard, and discipline included pride and exact protocols as well as proper submission.

  Thus I stood up straight and opened one hand to Bastien as if to receive a grant, hoping he would understand.

  “You may speak,” he said. Not for the first time, I felt thankful that Bastien and not dullwit Garibald had pursued my contract.

  “I’ve had to adjust my technique in working with dead subjects, domé. As ever in matters of my contract, I do not withhold or offer less than my best. Though it takes more time than he expected, Coroner Bastien is patient. He, of course, must speak to his—”

  “I am not come to this place to investigate contractual matters.” The curator tightened his lips and waved a hand to dismiss the subject. I’d have wagered his annoyance was with his own display of annoyance.

  Both Bastien and I held our tongues as the curator’s silent gaze traveled my length, from my unbound hair to my shackled ankles. He squinted like a man who had spent too much of his life reading in weak light, and his eyes narrowed even tighter when he reached my bare feet.

  “Do you allow him no boots, Coroner? You said he was working outdoors. Surely no such deprivation was specified in his restrictions.”

  “Boots were muddy.” Bastien’s complexion was far cooler than Damon’s. “Bare feet seemed more respectful to your presence than graveyard filth or further delay. I understand he was kept naked in the Tower.”

  Damon’s flush deepened to a new intensity.

  Careful, careful! I could not but applaud Bastien’s cut, especially as it struck a tender mark. But the line between plain speech and insolence shifted when addressing a curator of the Pureblood Registry, and Damon would not have considered it necessary to inform a mere ordinary of either his name or his rank.

  “I would advise a study of respect, Coroner.” Damon’s clipped tone was cooler than his cheeks. “I will speak to both of you and then to Remeni alone.”

  Bastien bowed agreement without a hint of apology.

  “Perryn of Ardra, the presumptive heir to the throne of Navronne, is but a few days from taking up residence in Palinur. He intends to solidify his support from the Pureblood Registry, the temples, and the Karish hierarchs by participating in various celebrations of Caedmon’s Writ of Balance. One of these celebrations will bring the prince to the Registry Tower to offer his condolences on the death of King Eodward’s late Royal Archivist, Remeni’s grandsire—a historic link between Registry and Crown.”

  Though my heart’s tempo increased, I kept my gaze politely lowered and nodded slightly. Perhaps Pons had failed to mention she had already informed Bastien of the prince’s visit to the Tower. Why was a curator come to tell me this? That my grandsire had been a favorite of King Eodward would certainly not move the Registry to take sides in the ordinaries’ war.

  “What concern is that of mine?” said Bastien. “The dead take no holidays for such frivolities.”

  “Indeed.” Damon’s nostrils flared. “The prince has requested the curators to deliver a message to Lucian de Remeni-Masson. He is summoned to attend the prince in the Royal Antiquities Repository at fourth hour of the afternoon on the day of the ceremony. The prince wishes to review the historical collection with young Remeni, reminisce about his own youthful encounters with the grandfather, and then travel together to the Registry Tower for the official ceremony.”

  “No. The contract states—”

  “This meeting will not happen.” Damon cut off Bastien’s indignation with the decisive efficiency of a headsman’s broadsword. “Remeni is specifically and absolutely forbidden to attend it. The curators would not expose our prospective king to aberrant behavior or distress him with stories of murder or madness within a family he respects so highly. We have informed Prince Perryn that the grandson Remeni has been sent away to recover from a fever.”

  Cowards! Did they think I would so violate custom by airing their ignominious behavior before Perryn? Even if I’d reason to think the prince would care about my difficulties, I had not forgotten myself so much as that. Whatever was wrong at the Registry was not the king’s to put right.

  “Do both of you understand and agree?”

  “Suits me well,” said Bastien. “And my pureblood has no say, so what does it matter if he agrees?”

  “Honor matters,” said Damon, cold now, as if lecturing an idiot child. “Even with madmen. If Remeni says he understands and agrees, I will believe him.”

  My breath slowed. Honor? Belief in what I said? A desire to hear me speak? Did he mean it? It seemed so unlikely, yet might explain why he delivered the prohibition in person.

  “Well, tell him your thoughts, Servant Remeni,” said Bastien, flailing his arms as if to say purebloods were impossible idiots. “I’ve five more corpses out there need drawing before you’re finished for the day.”

  I looked straight into Damon’s eyes, a flagrant breach of protocol, but of all times, this communication must be clear. “Honor and truth matter a great deal to me, domé. I understand your message, and in faithful submission to the curators’ command, I agree that I will not attend this royal meeting you speak of. My contracted master is my witness in this matter. As is the shade of my late grandsire.”

  Fitting that Capatronn should be witness to a swearing that was true but not entirely the truth.

  Damon did not avert his gaze. Nor did his expression register disapproval—or anything at all—when I refused to drop my own. “I would speak with Remeni privately now, Coroner. The conversation will not concern you, thus I prefer we remove to his studio. I understand it was not entirely secure when my colleagues inspected it, and would ensure it has been improved.”

  “As you like. We’ve buttoned up your madman quite fine and keep the shackles on for extra. Show him the way, Remeni. I’ve work to do here.”

  I bowed Damon out of the cluttered chamber. The bodyguard remained with Bastien as I led the curator around the passage and up the stair to my little domain. As ever, the hobbles made my progress slow and awkward.

  It would have been easy to let expectations rise at a chance to speak with a curator who seemed open to listening, but Bastien said the visitor knew of his spyhole. So did Constance and Garibald, Garen, Pleury, and gods knew who else. Whatever we said would be no more private than what was spoken in Bastien’s chamber.

  Once we were alone, I removed my mask. Damon did not. Clearly, manners were not on his mind. He swept briskly about my little chamber, taking in the shutters, locks, and furnishings.

  “Need for the bier is obvious, but what purpose does this other table serve?” he said. “Loose planks and bricks in the chamber of a sorcerer under restriction are not usual. And these materials on the shelf . . .”

  “I must lay out my drawings to dry,” I said, “and to remain dry until the coroner collects them. The shutters leak, you see, and puddle the floor. The materials on the shelf are cleared
away at the end of the day’s work, lest I be tempted to corrupt them with wicked enchantment.”

  His attention reverted sharply to my face. “And are you tempted?”

  “To afflict or harm or frighten the people here? Never. To escape this restriction—the shackles, the silkbinding, and the leather mask, which is Magrog’s own invention—and the consequences that could result in the end of two most honored bloodlines? Every moment of every day tempts me. But will I ever succumb to that temptation? No. I have sworn on my beloved dead to do what is required of me until I can convince the Registry of my honor, sanity, and innocence. I did not commit the crimes of which I am accused. I am not mad.”

  More bitterness had spilled out than I intended. He would likely disapprove. But to speak my truth at last to a pureblood was irresistible. I certainly would not weep or grovel, not to one of those who had put me here. Perhaps only two or three of the curators had conspired in my downfall, but I trusted none of them.

  Damon made no answer in either words or expression. Instead he took down the leather mask, attempting to flex it—an impossibility. He riffled the stack of parchment and unstoppered the ink horn and sniffed at it. Again, no comment. Then he rejoined me in the center of the chamber, standing uncomfortably close—close enough I could smell wine and garlic on his breath and the perfume covering his body’s odors.

  Perhaps he hoped to intimidate me. Perhaps it was merely to allow a weak-sighted man to gauge the nuances of my expression. I did not retreat.

  “My colleagues are divided on many matters, including your future. Several believe you more trouble than your life is worth. At least one of our six, maybe more, believes you would make a fine pet in a very dark cage.”

  The phrases were tossed out like scraps, without feeling. Foolish that they could churn my bowels and chill my skin so; he spoke naught beyond what my night terrors conjured.

  “One of us is convinced that your back will be a stepping-stone to a position of authority—the preeminent position of authority among our kind.”

  Would that be Albin, aiming to replace Damon as Gramphier’s successor? Why would my life or death aid such an ambition?

  Damon continued. “Several would prefer that you walk free and justified, yet are willing to see you dead for their own causes. All see you as dangerous; two believe you are the most fearsome danger to our way of life that has ever existed.”

  My asking would certainly not affect his choice to tell me which curator believed what. Yet his pokes struck steel inside me. How dare he dismiss my life, my bloodlines, or my young sister, whose fate none of my Registry visitors had deigned to mention, in so flippant a manner?

  “Explain this to me, domé,” I said. “Tell me why I am a danger to anyone or of any use in a cage. Tell me why I deserve death.”

  Not for murdering a pureblood. If my sister had done as I commanded her, then Damon surely knew that charge was false. Yet to admit that I knew Juli lived was to imply collusion, putting her and Bastien at risk. I bit my tongue before I could lose control of it and waited for an answer.

  Not a blink or a word acknowledged my outburst. “Your life hangs by a thread, plebeiu. Each day a thinner thread. Even in this chamber.”

  He twirled a finger and lowered his voice, but not so low a spy would fail to hear every word. “I am included among these partisans I’ve outlined, certainly.”

  An exquisite enchantment settled over and around me like tendrils of steam from Arrosa’s baths. As mists and fogs distort sight, so did these fogs distort my hearing, so that I could scarce distinguish which words my ears heard and which were laid upon me so delicately that they must be absorbed through my skin.

  “But I have not declared my opinions to the others. I know you only by hearsay, thus decided to come see for myself.”

  A cold dismissal, but at the very same time I heard him say, “But some among my colleagues have dispatched me with a proposal that might preserve both your life and bloodlines. You would be required to leave Palinur for at least a year to reside in a house of healing and reflection. It is a strict house, known but to a few. You would voluntarily submit to the rules and practices of the masters there, as you do for this ordinary.”

  No matter this strange dual message, no matter my resolution, I could not stay silent. “Coroner Bastien has enforced his agreement with exactitude, and I have obeyed every restriction the curators imposed. Save for particular instances of my master’s business, I exist entirely in this room, shackled. I have written no letters, begged no relief, served this humiliating contract in every nuance, and worked no magic without my master’s permission. What further submission could you possibly require? Must I walk into my own cage?”

  My speech took on a different quality, as if it, too, occurred on some other plane of hearing, some phrases audible to anyone, some floating in the air where only Damon could grasp them.

  My spirit heard him continue. “It is not the Tower cellar we offer. It is not a cage. For your safety, none but those who send you will know where you are. The Registry will name you recondeur, but because of the nature of your submission, your good name and family honor will be restored on your return.”

  Run away and reap no consequence? What fool would believe that?

  “Your behavior will determine which faction earns my support,” he said . . . or so my ears heard. “It has been decided that you must willingly forgo all use of your bent.”

  “Forgo? Stop? Break my vows . . . my contract? Never to use—?”

  Shock and disbelief left me stuttering. To be forbidden magic as a punishment was terrible enough, but to stop of my own will?

  A savage fury rose from my belly and infused my veins and sinews, setting my hands trembling, threatening to shatter every remnant of self-control. Perhaps that’s what he wanted: an excuse to haul me away. I could not give him the pleasure, so I did not call him the spawn of Magrog or a rock-headed fool; I did not even yell, but snapped my words quietly like dry sticks. “You would have me dead by my own hand, domé. I will not do that. My gift is from the hand of the gods. I cannot—will not—abandon it.”

  A flick of Damon’s hand, heavy with gold and gemstones, dismissed my outrage. “This necropolis is not secure enough to contain a sorcerer of aberrant mind—one capable of kin murder. Your choices are severely limited. If Coroner Bastien’s contract is revoked, your future will certainly be meted out on much crueler terms.”

  And in that other place, he added, “Consider the opportunity. When the time is right—and only at that time—two men will present the stipulations of the house of healing and ask if you will accept and abide by them. Refuse and you give up the chance for all time.”

  Without ceremony or additional word, he departed, leaving me speechless with fury and frustration. If he wished me dead, then how better to entice me into incaution than suggesting conspiracies at every hand? If he were the one who wished me in a cage, he had served up the very plan to accomplish it. He must think me an idiot even to propose such a scheme. Yet his warning was chillingly real. If one of the most powerful men in the Registry reported that Bastien’s restrictions were inadequate, the contract would be voided and I would be returned to the cellar. Why would he bother to give me a choice if the end was the same? And if not the same, as he claimed, then what in Deunor’s mighty name was it?

  Great gods, if I only knew more about the man, about the Registry’s secrets and lies, and about what, in the name of all gods, this proposal meant and who it was had proposed it. Was giving up my bent a condition of this house of healing, too, or just the goad to make me choose it? Did Pons know? Did Gramphier, a man of passions that only my grandsire had seen? Or did blathering, ineffectual Pluvius?

  Heavy footsteps raced up the stair, warning of a more immediate problem. I chose to make my stand beside the window, unlatching the shutters and pulling them open. I could always jump out head first if need be.

  CHAPTER 27

  The coroner’s rant began before he wa
s fully in the room. “An invitation to stand in a room with Prince Perryn himself and you swore not to go? You vowed it on your family, you damnable cretin, and I know what that means. I should have expected it after last night’s farce. Solving the lily child’s murder is my part of our bargain, so who cares if you fumble away a chance to make right your blundering?” His meaty finger shook, accusing. “You’ve a glib tongue on you when you want. You could have found a way. But perhaps you’ve decided to throw in your lot with Demetreo and his band of murdering knife throwers now you’re so friendly.”

  “Are we alone?” I couldn’t have him gabbling about our agreement with the Cicerons in front of a spy.

  But he paced in tight circles, ignoring me entire. “Did Demetreo provide you a fresh corpse, so you could draw his picture with my ink and dance off with the Danae, leaving the rest of us to bleed for you like Garen did? Was that what the white hand was all about? Or were all your tales meant to confuse an ordinary too stupid to understand magical marvels?”

  “We shouldn’t—I can’t talk about—”

  He threw his hands up. “Well, of course, you can’t talk about what you did for them, nor what secrets you learned, because all I’m here for is to pay for you to do favors for damnable Cicerons!”

  “Bastien, listen to—”

  “I should chase down that Registry prick and tell him to take you. Let them bury you alive or chop off your hands or whatever they want.”

  “By the name of every god in this universe, Bastien, will you just shut off this self-pitying nonsense and listen?”

  My bull’s bellowing stopped him in mid rant.

  “First and most important, can we speak freely?” I swirled my eyes around the room.

  A brief puzzled squint and understanding dissolved his angry frown. Then he bolted from the chamber as if I’d stabbed him in the backside with one of my pens.