Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

  The lady’s delight should have cheered Perryn a little, expressed with such bold intimacies as it was. But he grumbled at the paltry haul and dispatched the ducessa to have wine brought in. It was curious he’d brought no servants.

  Fortunately, the Repository was quite as I remembered it. No Royal Historian had been appointed after my grandsire left the post. The rise of the Harrowers and the worsening weather in the last years of his reign had likely distracted Eodward from naming a replacement.

  From a buried leather trunk filled with King Eodward’s documents, I pulled a Cartamandua map of Navronne’s western coast. Besides its superb illumination, which made it a work of art in itself, the spells worked into a Cartamandua map could keep a traveler’s road inerrant. Some said such maps could take its user to places no common traveler could find—holy places, places of legend. As my finger traced its inked borders, exquisite magic teased my senses. I hated giving it over.

  “What’s that?” Perryn peered over my shoulder.

  “Your father commissioned this in the first decade of his reign,” I said, pointing to the date and the words Eodward Regne scribed in the map’s cartouche.

  Perryn beckoned young Tremayne—Fallon—who wore a leather satchel hung over his shoulder. “See what Lucian’s found in this collection of my father’s things. Cartamandua maps fetch a fine price. Keep this with my lady’s baubles.”

  The taciturn Fallon stuffed the map into his bag and wandered off again. How wasteful to have a seasoned veteran in his prime serving as a footman.

  We moved on from Eodward’s era to Caedmon’s.

  From a crate of tins and boxes, I drew a handful of gold coins struck with a man’s noble likeness. My grandsire had believed the face Caedmon’s own—probably the only likeness of him in existence—which made the coins far more valuable than the weight of gold in them.

  Delighted to see gold of any amount, Perryn again summoned Fallon and his sack.

  My fingers slipped two coins back into the crate as I handed them over. I could not allow such a treasure to vanish entire.

  “Have we searched enough, my stalwart?” said Perryn, once all was stowed away.

  Fallon met the Prince’s gaze and nodded. “I serve your pleasure, Your Grace.”

  “And your opinion, Excellency Eligius?”

  “As long as we are finished here by the holy hour of Vespers, I am content, lord.” The hierarch’s words burbled up from the depth of his wide body.

  “Well, perhaps a little more hunting, then, Lucian.” Perryn’s spirits had shot upward again. “We cannot let the Lady de Spano return to find us flown. The wine she brings shall fortify us!”

  Perryn was not at all interested in the sonnivar, the booming signal horn from Evanore’s mountains, its length twice the height of a man. “Barbarians’ trash,” he called it, though the intricate silver inlay had been worked over generations of craftsmen. “If those decorations were gold I’d have them melted out of it.”

  “Lord!” Fallon’s bellow whipped us around. His wanderings had taken him back to the trunk where we’d found the Cartamandua map. “See what lies here.”

  Perryn hurried over, the hierarch and I on his heels. Scrolls, bound pages, and loose sheets of parchment were scattered outside the leather trunk. Atop the remaining contents was a scroll the length of a man’s forearm. The vellum was the finest that could be had in Navronne. Three leather straps bound it shut, each fixed with a heavy seal.

  “What do you make of it, Lucian?” Perryn’s voice throbbed with excitement.

  Kneeling beside the case, I examined the wax impressions. “This one is your father’s own seal, lord prince. This the seal of Kemen’s Temple. And the third you will recognize, Excellency Eligius.” The seal of the Hierarch of Ardra. Which meant . . .

  Eodward had made three copies of his will. One was to be hidden in some place of safety where it would be revealed at his death. The other two he had entrusted to the two clergymen who had borne witness to his lineage before he took the throne—the High Priest of Kemen Sky Lord, and Eligius’s predecessor as the Hierarch of Ardra. But the two holy men had preceded Eodward in death and no one could find any copies of the will. The lack of a writ naming one of Eodward’s sons as his successor was an ongoing mystery—and a tragedy. It was the cause of the war. Lord of Light, this document could end it.

  And yet . . .

  How could I have missed a document with unbroken seals as I searched for the Cartamandua map? And my grandsire had never mentioned the will.

  My fingers lingered on the scroll. If I invoked my bent while touching it, what might I learn?

  I was wholly aware of Fallon standing behind me, the leather satchel over his shoulder, and his lord, one of the partisans in this conflict, kneeling beside me. If they were determined to press a falsehood, my protest would not alter it, and the shades of four children stood at my shoulders, begging for justice. If I discounted them when we had some slim chance of a hearing, what right had I to demand justice for the unnamed thousands? Perryn might yet be the kingdom’s best hope.

  “Break the seals, Your Grace,” said Fallon. “You’ve witnesses enough. If this is what it appears . . .”

  “I recommend you proceed carefully, lord,” I said. “The chancellor of the realm must be the one to break the seals before witnesses of his own choosing. He can call any of us to testify to its discovery.”

  “Wise, Lucian. Very wise.” Perryn’s voice quivered. “Excellency, could I prevail upon you to carry this to Chancellor Ruthais? Tell him the circumstances of its finding and the names of these witnesses. Assure him that I will most certainly not interfere with his duties in the matter. Have four of my lancers escort you. See to that for him, Fallon.”

  The hierarch bowed deeply. “With all humility I accept this charge, Your Grace. By holy Iero’s mercy, may it prove the hope of us all.”

  “Lucian . . .” Perryn motioned me to take the scroll and give it to Eligius.

  Clever of the prince not to touch it. If the chancellor called in a pureblood to examine the thing, that one would certainly look for evidence of Perryn’s hand on it. I could have offered to mark the scroll with an indelible imprint to validate that it was the one pulled from the trunk, but observing Perryn this last hour . . . these odd circumstances . . . his pent eagerness . . . I chose not to be an active collaborator.

  Eligius marched out as if he bore the crown jewels themselves, as I supposed he did. Fallon accompanied him as far as the entry and gave orders to the guard commander.

  “I had hoped our meeting might lead to a few treasures,” said Perryn, hands clasped to his breast, watching through the open doors as the hierarch’s scarlet pelisse vanished into the fog-draped hedge garden. “Never did I imagine this possibility. Truly the gods are with you, Lucian.”

  “May the result be the salvation of Navronne,” I said, meaning it in ways he would likely not approve. Surely somewhere there must live some true inheritor of Caedmon and Eodward’s legacy. Not Bayard—the Smith, they called him, for his hammer hand, capable in battle but lacking education, generosity, moderation, or mercy. Not Osriel, the crippled bastard who lurked in Evanore, the secretive halfblood rumored to steal the souls of the dead. But not this prancing caricature of greatness, either.

  As I lamented the desperate courage and bright light I’d seen in Fleure and the horse boy, Fallon pulled the bronze door shut. “Are we finished here, Your Grace?”

  Perryn surveyed the cluttered room. “What treasure could we find to match hope?”

  I glanced toward the barrel of lamps. Bastien had already read the signs.

  “If I may, Your Grace . . .” The coroner stepped from his hiding place and dropped to one knee before the prince, his fist on his breast, conveniently covering his coroner’s pendant.

  “Who is this?” demanded Perryn. Fallon darted to the prince’s side, sword drawn, before Bastien’s words had faded. “How did you get in here?”

  “I brought him,”
I said. “Your Grace and my lord Tremayne, may I introduce Bastien de Caton, a loyal and faithful city official of Palinur? As a measure of his exceptional honor and distinguished stature, the Registry has deemed him worthy to hold a pureblood contract that links him to the noblest bloodlines of our kind. He is, as it happens, my own contracted master.”

  “You hid him here . . . why? So he could listen in?” Perryn’s frown deepened.

  “Certainly no spy, lord prince. Master Bastien and I have ventured your patience on the chance to present a matter of justice before a prince of the realm. As a holder of the gods’ magic, as well as the grandson of your royal father’s loyal servant, I request you give my master fair hearing, for the matter in question is one that touches on your royal person. Has he your consent to do so?”

  “Surely there are better times and venues for matters of justice?” snapped Fallon.

  “My lord?” My gaze remained focused on the prince. We had rehearsed this introduction for hours, devising the precise words so that any assent on Perryn’s part would, by crown law, allow Bastien to convene a formal inquest.

  “Your grandsire was contracted to a king. How is it possible you are contracted to this Bastien?” said Fallon. “Is the Registry now giving away its sorcerers to peasants and tradesmen?”

  “The Registry only recently extended my contract an additional three years,” I said. My tongue did not even sting.

  “A matter of justice that touches my royal person?” Perryn’s gloved finger massaged his lower lip. I could imagine him riffling through his secrets and indiscretions.

  The ducessa flew through the doors with a salver laden with flagon, pitcher, cups, and a bowl, handling the burden as deftly as a serving girl.

  Perryn brightened and waved her to hurry. “Come, come, dear lady, bring the wine. We’ve a new diversion. And, Fallon, find us stools that we may sit and hear out Remeni’s bound master. I’ll wager he tells us that justice demands Lucian paint my likeness when I become king. Proceed, noble Bastien de Caton.”

  Only one who knew how to read expressions behind a mask could have noticed the predatory gleam behind Bastien’s wiry red-brown thatch. Perryn’s mocking consent would but hone Bastien’s waiting knife.

  Bastien rose from his genuflection and waited politely until the young noble had brought three stools and wiped the dust from the seats. Fallon did not take the third stool, but remained standing beside his lord. Protocol forbade me sit, but I would not have done so anyway. Better I stay to one side, halfway between Bastien and the others, ready to defend my master if need be.

  Once the prince and the lady were settled with wine cups and entwined arms, Bastien uncovered his pendant. The bronze hammer of his office shone in the torchlight.

  “Your Grace Perryn, Duc of Ardra, Prince of Navronne, by your consent, witnessed by these men present, and with the power granted me by the Crown of Navronne, do I, Bastien de Caton, Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur, here convene an inquest into the untimely death of a girl child known as Fleure, found strangled in the vicinity of the hirudo Palinur and Necropolis Caton.”

  He turned to me. “With the lawful capacity of my office—and forgoing any control or duress implied by my contract for your service—I do summon thee, Lucian de Remeni-Masson, to give witness in this matter, thy truth verified by the grace of the gods’ favor born in thy blood.”

  I nodded.

  Then he turned to the young noble. “With the lawful capacity of my office I do summon thee, Fallon de Tremayne, to give truthful witness in this matter, any perjury to be punished with all force of law.”

  Yes, Fallon could tell us of his stepmother’s daughter, who had been suckled by the same wet nurse as Perryn’s own children. Perhaps not Fleure’s friend at all. Was it possible a prince would cuckold his consiliar prime? This one surely might.

  And then back to Perryn. “Out of respect for your interests in this matter, Your Grace, I have not summoned every possible witness to this inquest. We can do so afterward, if you please. But a few additional witnesses will be arriving shortly, summoned upon the chance of this hearing.”

  Perryn looked puzzled; Fallon, disbelieving. The ducessa, however, bloomed with a slightly bloodthirsty excitement that disgusted me. “A strangled girl? How intriguing! Tell us more.”

  Bastien needed no encouragement to proceed apace. He must get his case flowing before Perryn realized what was happening.

  “Step forward, Fallon de Tremayne. I wish you to identify the subject of this portrait.”

  “My lord prince?” Fallon, increasingly wary, looked to Perryn.

  “As he bids.” Perryn, brow creased, eyes narrow with uncertainty, waved him forward.

  Fallon took the rolled parchment from Bastien and spread it open. “Why do you have a portrait of Ysabel? And this—?” His head jerked up, steel-hard eyes riveted on Perryn. Then they shifted to Bastien. “Where did this come from?”

  It seemed as if the world gave a great sigh. The lily child had a name.

  “Ysabel,” said Bastien, with polite interest. “And who might she be? Recall that the law obliges you to answer to the best of your knowledge.”

  “She is born of my father’s wife.” Each word was broken ice.

  Like a beggar’s pustule, my hatred for both the Duc de Tremayne and this prince swelled and burst all in that moment. I had not wanted to believe the connection. Naive and stupid, Lucian. Was Pontia not enough to teach of the world’s savagery? Was the second fire here in Palinur not enough? Were the lessons of Necropolis Caton not enough?

  No wonder the elder Tremayne wanted to tear out Fleure’s pale, shining hair, so like that of the master who cuckolded him. No wonder the child feared the devil lord so. Whether or not she knew of her mother’s fault, she would recognize her erstwhile father’s spite. Had he violated Ysabel in his own house before abandoning her to debauchery?

  “You speak of his current wife, Annitra de Rosine, who is not your own mother?” said Bastien. His self-discipline was worthy of a pureblood. I wanted to spit fire.

  “The whore, yes. But the child is innocent . . . and safely housed, cared for—”

  “That will be all, lord.”

  Bastien took the portrait from Fallon’s hands and showed it to the prince. All color faded from Perryn’s cheeks save the flush of wine. He chewed a fingernail like a nursery child and looked away.

  As for Fallon, his narrowed eyes peered at Bastien and me as if we were messengers from the netherworld. I’d swear he had not suspected his liege of fathering Ysabel. Nor had he the least clue that the child was dead or how. And he cared.

  “Domé Remeni, step forward.” Bastien passed me the portrait. “The Writ of Balance requires you to validate your blood heritage, if you please.”

  I crouched down and drew a circle in the dust on the floor. Bastien had wanted to see the prince’s reaction if a void spell emptied a hole in front of him. But Perryn had lived near pureblood magics all his life and would not be so impressed as Bastien. On a whim, I invoked my aerogen spell, scooping the dust from my circle and tossing it into the air. The torchlight colored the enchanted particles with every hue of flame as they showered us like a rain of stars.

  The ducessa’s face lit with delight. Fallon blinked, which I considered a success. Perhaps it did not instill Perryn with awe, as Bastien wished, but Ysabel would have liked it.

  Bastien released a great breath. “Sufficient. Now, domé, tell us of this artwork.”

  And so I began my tale. “Some half year since, on the first day of my contract with the Coroner of the Twelve Districts, the body of a child was brought to the necropolis. A beggar child, by the look of her, she had been found in a ditch below the inner ramparts of Palinur. . . .”

  Imitating Bastien, I sped onward, giving no opportunity for interruption. “. . . and I released the power of my blood and began to draw her. As Prince Perryn himself has spoken today, my grandsire believed that I inherited not only the gift of true portrait
ure from my Masson lineage, but his own bloodline magic of envisioning the connections of history. Within me these two bents have merged, and so the work of my hand and my visionary investigations can produce truth that is beyond the evidence of my eye alone. By the gift of the gods that resides in me, I swear that this portrait is the result solely of my magic. . . .”

  I had just shown them the second portrait depicting Fleure—Ysabel—with dark hair and a blood-stained shift, when the grand doors opened. Our guide and doorward, Hugh de Orrin, announced the arrival of a new guest.

  Like a whirlwind of silk draperies, High Priestess Irinyi swept into the Repository, a rolled page clutched in one hand. She lifted the veil covering hair and face, and her painted eyes took in our unusual surroundings before settling on Prince Perryn.

  I stepped backward, hoping that between the wavering shadow, my new growth of beard, and the different mask, my identity would remain concealed for the moment.

  “Your Grace,” she said, bending slightly in deference as she would to none but a king—or a prospective one. “What a pleasure to meet you at last. Your summons was at one so gracious and so mysterious, I hardly knew what to think.”

  Her gaze swept across the rest of us. I merited no attention. Nor did Bastien. More surprising, Fallon’s face elicited no recognition, either. The ducessa, however, received a scornful twist of the priestess’s thin lips.

  “Why have you brought me here, Your Grace? I was given to believe that certain other members of your household would join us in a private meeting.”

  Perryn waved her off with a mirthless laugh. “I’m as mystified as you, priestess. Strange magics. Portraits of dead girls. Witnesses popping in and out. You’ll not imagine who is this roguish fellow!”

  Bastien bent in a modest acknowledgment of her rank, but did not lower his eyes. “Sinduria! Greetings of your divine mistress.”

  Her nostrils flared in distaste. “Who are you to address a high priestess of Arrosa?”