The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  “I sense no mortification,” said the woman after a moment. “And, to answer your concerns, I sense no enchantment, either. Let us leave this dreadful place. We’ll look again in better light, and meanwhile sort out the matter of your summoning.” Clearly Prefect Angloria was not accustomed to arguments. “Walk with me, Master. You may enlighten me as to this awkward business along our way. Sonjeur de Duplais, see to the Witness. You will recall the penalties for interfering with a Camarilla investigation, I’m sure.”

  Angloria and Dante led the way back, heads together and far enough ahead we could not hear their conversation. Two robed adepts closed in behind Duplais and me. I was somewhat surprised when Duplais took my arm as if to support me over the rubble. “Where did you leave the Camarilla warrant?” he murmured, keeping his face pointed straight ahead. “I couldn’t find it in your bedchamber. I need to know what this is about.”

  “I saw no warrant. He waved a scroll at me . . . Vronsard . . . Adept Vronsard was his name,” I said, spewing pent fear and anger before someone silenced me again. “But he never showed me. He threatened shackles, put that horrid hood on me, and forced some potion down my throat. Sneaked me out of the palace. I was afraid no one would know.”

  “They didn’t let you read the warrant?” he said, fiercely quiet. “Who else had a hand in this? Was Dante there?”

  “Just Vronsard and an inquisitor. A woman met us here, but I never heard her name. She was unprepared, upset with the two of them, said things were irregular. She called the inquisitor Natti, and I believed he was a mage, but I’m not sure he’s even an adept. He said the summoning was a high-level sanction. What does that mean?”

  “It means someone has serious reason to believe you are a danger to the Camarilla. What were you and Dante doing in the ruin?”

  “They put me in a cell at first, a sorcerer’s hole, the mage called it. Then he took me to that chamber. He tried to make me believe it was my father’s chamber, and said he wanted to identify his master. Then he showed me—”

  I hesitated. To mention the book, an anchor weight in my skirt, was to admit that I attached some significance to encrypted books, opening the door to all those things I had tried to keep from Duplais.

  My fist closed over my burning thumb. The hateful words Duplais had spoken in the past yet confused me. But his actions spoke clearly. He had tried to protect me—in the wood at Vradeu’s Crossing, in our excursions through the city, even at the Spindle. He had raced here, setting himself squarely in Dante’s path, to get me out. Such a debt required payment.

  “The mage showed me a book that bore the mark of the Mondragon family. He asked if I could read it.”

  Duplais’ head came around sharply before reverting to its determined forward-facing posture. “And could you?”

  “No. That’s when he cut my thumb.”

  “Ixtador’s Gates!” His exclamation was little more than a sigh, but its tenor left no doubt that I had thrown him a wholly unexpected prize. I just wished I knew what it was.

  CHAPTER 20

  20 OCET, BEFORE DAWN

  Before we could say more, Angloria led us into a cramped study in the unruined part of the Bastionne. Dante and Duplais remained standing as she examined my punctured thumb in the steady brilliance of a painted lamp. Blotting it with a bit of linen from a drawer in a desk, she concluded, “A splinter, perhaps. A cut, perhaps. But neither septic nor in any fashion reminiscent of transference.”

  Solely by virtue of Duplais’ timely arrival, I guessed.

  Taking a seat behind the desk, Prefect Angloria stared at the two men for a moment. “Master Dante has presented a compelling argument for the young woman’s retention until the confusion of her summoning can be clarified. He refuses further information. I don’t like that. But given the history of the Witness’s family, I am inclined to agree that we should await the issuer of the inquisitorial warrant. Sonjeur de Duplais, tell me why I should not heed the master’s advice.”

  “Because, honored Prefect Angloria, you have a terrible mess on your hands. The Witness claims she was not allowed to read the warrant—a clear violation of the Concord. She could be lying, yet she has no reason to be familiar with Camarilla protocols. As no warrant remains anywhere in Castelle Escalon and no one else has seen it, we’ve no way to determine if it was properly presented . . . or properly issued. Perhaps Mage Dante could tell you which prefect signed the warrant, and you could obtain a copy to verify the basis for the summons.”

  No matter his mussed hair or half-buttoned doublet, I recognized this Duplais—the Royal Accuser who had so skillfully laid out the case against my father.

  “Unfortunately, there seems to be no copy of the warrant,” said Dante, mellow as cream.

  “An administrative error, certainly.” Duplais acted as if he did not take note of the color risen in Angloria’s cheeks. But I knew how unlikely that was. “More troubling is the status of the two who fetched the Witness. I understand that the inquisitor who visited this warrant upon Damoselle de Vernase—the man who emerged from the inquisitor’s gown upon their arrival back here in the Bastionne—answers to the name of Natti, not at all a common name. My employment at Seravain familiarized me with most young people who study the magical art. The sole bearer of that name is a young man who could scarce qualify for the post of laboratorium sweeper, much less mage inquisitor. I doubt the Concord de Praesta has been amended to permit a raw acolyte to parade about in a mage’s collar.”

  The gray-haired woman’s flush deepened to a scarlet that matched her prefect’s gown.

  Duplais drew himself up, as if he had himself taken on the stature of a prefect. “Prefect Angloria, Camarilla representatives—Adept Vronsard and Acolyte Natti—have invaded the king’s house illegally and abducted his gooddaughter. Whatever chain of events led to this violation is yours to investigate, but I respectfully submit that the young lady must be released and returned to Her Majesty’s household. I believe it most fortunate that I, a man who values and honors the traditions of the Camarilla, was called in to investigate this incident.”

  “If these allegations are proven, then I would agree with you, sonjeur. You will excuse me briefly.” Angloria spun like a scarlet typhoon. “Mage Dante, with me!”

  The woman departed the room in such haste her silver collar left glimmering streaks in the air. Someone would feel her wrath.

  Dante paused at the door, bowing to Duplais, a mirthless smile twisting his face. “Well-done, librarian . . . and damoselle. A fine pair you make. I’ll see you again, of course. Especially if anything important should turn up missing.”

  When the door clicked shut behind Dante, I closed my eyes, trying to pretend that icy green stare had not seen straight into my pocket. Foolish to imagine he would have forgotten the book.

  “What did he mean?” Duplais’ quiet question slapped me in the face.

  When I pulled out the book, I thought he might vomit on my shoes.

  “Creator’s grace, no!” His hands flew up when I offered him the little volume. “Dante could detect my handling it. But show me.”

  I opened to the title page where the pair of scorpions fought their endless duel. In the matter of a moment’s scrutiny, he could have reproduced every ink droplet on the page.

  “Why did he want my blood?”

  Shaking his head, Duplais dragged his gaze from the book. “He must believe your blood has some efficacy when it comes to decryption spells. Is this the book they retrieved from Montclaire? Your sister’s book?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t,” I said, adding the confirmation when his wiry body stiffened at my first denial. “She mentioned reading encrypted books of magic. Gautieri books.”

  Duplais raked slim fingers through his short dark hair. “She broke Gautieri encryption? A girl of seventeen? I’d vow to Sante Ianne himself that was impossible, yet Dante must believe it. A vitet might explain it.” He bit off his mumbling.

  “A vitet?” I said, pouncing on
the word. M vitet and G vitet had been written on the scrap of paper I had retrieved from Lady Cecile’s hidden drawer.

  “A spell created using blood as a particle—as a physical piece of the working, rather than as a source of power, as is the case with transference. He must think the encryption spell was built using blood. Hers, and thus yours.”

  “I might know someone who could help,” I said, thinking of Lianelle’s cryptonymics instructor. “If we took this to him, we might understand her capabilities.” The book held the answer to Lianelle’s murder . . . to so many things. I was sure of it.

  “Dante knows you have it. Walk out with it, and the Camarilla will have you again before you can sneeze, this time with every backing of royal authority. Mondragon books are forbidden to any without permission of a Camarilla prefect. Hsst!” He held up a hand. Footsteps approached the door.

  Duplais moved away, holding me to silence with a gesture to his ear and the door. No one came in. But no footsteps moved away.

  When the latch rattled at last, Duplais held stiffly across the room from me, hands behind his back, annoyance written in every muscle. But his posture changed when a tall, silver-haired mage in prefect’s red burst into the room and enveloped him in a hearty embrace.

  “Portier!” boomed the newcomer. “Bless my heart, lad, it’s good to see you! Angloria told me you were here trying to sort out this debacle. I told her I must pop in before you got away.”

  “Master! I believed you still hunting books in the desert. When did you get back?” Duplais expressed genuine pleasure.

  “Mid Nieba. How is your mother getting on?”

  “She speaks no more of sense than she has in thirteen years. I apply a little more patience than I have in the past, so she does not shriek quite so loud when I arrive, nor weep quite so voluminously when I leave. Our visits are rare. My duties tie me to Merona.”

  The mage’s abundant silver brows slanted downward from the center of his forehead, giving a pleasing crinkle to the corners of his eyes. The loosening folds of his aging skin hung over supremely elegant bones. As a younger man, he must have been the idol of every woman he met.

  He laid a long, beautifully formed hand on Duplais’ shoulder. “Ah, Portier, why must you—?”

  “I beg you not renew this argument, Master. My position at court is not negotiable. Though not my vision of my future, it brings great honor to my family. Now, sir, we’ve business here . . .” He extended a hand in my direction. “The queen’s handmaiden.”

  “Spirits, yes!” The man whirled about, as if he had wholly forgotten my presence. As if he had not examined me with astonishing thoroughness at his entrance. “Damoselle de Vernase, excuse my rudeness. Portier here is as near a son as I can claim in this world. We so rarely cross paths, restraint is difficult.”

  “Mage Kajetan,” I said, recognizing a person who could describe magic’s history and destiny in a way that made students go all gooseflesh. “My sister had only good words to say of you.”

  “Ah, Creator’s Hand,” he said, the brilliant smile bending into perfect sorrow. “The little girl. Such a talent, just revealing itself. She would have made a fine mage. I am so very sorry for your loss. For all your losses.” Every word Kajetan spoke was infused with a fervency that must attract the sympathies of everyone who listened. Except me, perhaps.

  Duplais pulled aside a drapery, revealing a walled courtyard and an ash-hued sky. “Dawn is near, Master. Both the lady and I have duties to our mistress.” Duplais’ dismissal of sympathy was a marked contrast to his mentor’s exuberant offering. “Have you brought us word of Prefect Angloria’s decision?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the prefect, scowling at Duplais. “And an explanation. Evidently this unfortunate mistake was made by the ever-diligent inquisitorial staff. A crime committed in the evening hours was attributed to Damoselle de Vernase and judged to be within Camarilla purview. But the jackanapes who raised the alarm did not do the least work to verify his assumptions. The lady is incapable of the magic used. And a few simple inquiries have shown her to be in public view in the entire time frame of the event.”

  “What event?” Duplais and I voiced it together.

  “The ancient wards of Spindle Prison were shattered tonight, and its warder murdered with a spelled knife. For good or evil, as you may see it, lady, your brother is nowhere to be found.”

  The news sent my spirits soaring, but only for a moment. That the vile Pognole lay dead did not trouble me a whit. But Ambrose was sure to be accused of murder and named a fugitive. Those were the best of possibilities.

  “How is that possible?” said Duplais. “If the boy had magic enough to murder the warder and escape the Spindle, he would never have waited four years.”

  Yes. That exactly.

  “It was assumed he had help from his sister,” said Kajetan. “Evidently there was a recent visit where plans could have been made.”

  “I did no such thing!” I said. “My brother was a hostage, dreadfully, wrongfully abused, but innocent of any crime. Even if I could work magic, the last thing I’d do is make him a fugitive.” Or a murderer. Or a conspirator in treason. Exactly why I’d not left him Lianelle’s potion.

  “I believe you, damoselle,” said Kajetan, overflowing with sympathy.

  The Aspirant had taken him. I was sure of it. He had tormented Ambrose into months of sickness, thinking no one would notice, but my visit had threatened exposure. “My brother has been abducted, sonjeur. The king must be notified.”

  “That’s as may be. But Angloria, that woman of clear head and good sense, has ascertained that you were incapable of this crime. You’re free to go with the sincere apologies of the prefecture.”

  He sounded quite sincere. Yet I could not shake the sense that I was watching a play unfold. If Chancellor Kajetan was so grieved by Lianelle’s death, why had he not written to me? If he valued Duplais so highly, why did he speak to him as if he were a twelve-year-old child? I would detest anyone who patronized me so. Natti and his confederates had been expecting a prefect.

  “Master Kajetan, upon my arrival repeated references were made to a plan to spirit me into the Bastionne,” I said, exaggerating only a little. “Is it presumptuous to ask why?”

  “Not at all. And for this I make no apology.” He propped his backside on Prefect Angloria’s writing table. “For years, your father worked to convince the people of Sabria that sorcery had failed them. He claimed the Camarilla had nothing to offer in a new world shaped by natural philosophy. I believe that Michel’s sponsorship of heinous magical practice, and the public association of depraved sorcery with royal assassination, are but a continuation of that assault.”

  “You believe my father sponsored blood transference and murder in order to discredit sorcerers?”

  Kajetan inclined his head. “The ultimate aims of his strategy, I cannot fathom. But we of the Camarilla are engaged in a war for our survival, damoselle. Sadly, the children of principals in that war are themselves players who must be accounted for.”

  “As my sister and brother have been? ” I could not withhold bitterness.

  “Who could blame you for assuming the magical community responsible ? For my part, I believe your sister’s death was the tragic result of a girl overreaching her talent in order to prove that she was not her father’s child. Believe me, the last thing the Camarilla would do is destroy a determined, legitimate talent who might, if we were fortunate, stand with us in this war. Your brother? I find it far more likely that your father found it expedient to retrieve his son than that a young lady with no inclination to power unlocked the old magics of Spindle Prison. We of the Camarilla cannot begin to unravel such spellwork as exists in the Spindle.”

  His arguments sounded entirely rational. Except that I knew Lianelle had uncovered some unexpected danger that left her terribly afraid. Except that the Aspirant and his servant, Dante, had been given access to the Spindle. Except that my father was a captive, not a player.

&nbs
p; “Ambrose would have strangled Papa rather than go anywhere with him.”

  Mage Kajetan shrugged. “Others might see profit in holding Michel’s heir.”

  Duplais had turned his back to the discussion, favoring the view of the dawn-lit garden beyond the window. It was left to me to push further. “And who might that be? Our goodfather would welcome that information, I’m sure. When he hears of this, his wrath will shake this kingdom.”

  “Ah, yes . . . well . . . let us say that there are factions even within our community who disagree about the best way to fight the threat Michel de Vernase represents.”

  I could read the warning signs as clearly as I had read Sabria’s woeful history. Rivalry parading as reason. The siren trumpet summoning sorcerers of the blood to defend their lives and passions. Skirmishes were already being fought in the haunted streets of Riverside, in the halls of Collegia Seravain, and the palace of Sabria’s king. When would it break into open combat? When would cities and collegiae and libraries begin to burn?

  “Is discretion how you account for this mage, Dante, who threatened and assaulted me here under your own roof ?”

  The mage’s long finger rubbed his lips, crunched in a rueful grimace. “Mmm . . . not quite. Dante is the enigma. He bears no intrinsic loyalty to any faction, yet each hopes to lure him to its service. You could call him a mercenary, an extremely talented and well-protected mercenary. I would advise you to be wary of him, as we all are.”

  “Dante is no cipher, Master,” said Duplais, still perusing the sky beyond the window. “He is rogue. Dangerous. He entirely lacks moral grounding.”

  “I need no lecturing, Portier.” Even gently spoken, Kajetan’s reproach must have stung. “You know my thoughts. Knowledge must not be forbidden. Study must not be forbidden. Proven acts of illicit sorcery are already subject to our law, so bring me proof if you would stop him.”

  Duplais pivoted, acknowledging his mentor’s admonition with a shallow bow. “Pride of intellect and prejudgment remain my worst failings. For my sins, I must now revert to tedious duty and return this lady to her mistress. Perhaps you and I could dine together before you return to Seravain.”