by Carol Berg
“Damoselle de Vernase!” As I angled into the main passage, a youth from the steward’s office hailed me softly from the stair. “I’ve letters.”
“Post messengers must travel on the night wind,” I said, curious at the sizeable stack.
“Nay, damoselle. These were actually held for Sonjeur de Duplais, but he instructed Secretary de Sain that if he was out of the palace for more than a day to forward his post to you. The secretary heard you were to be leaving this morning, so he says I should bring them early.”
I sent him off with my thanks and a spark of anticipation. Only one reason Duplais would have his letters sent to me—hope of an answer to his inquiries about Kajetan’s noble guest. I riffled through the stack as I hurried past the two gawking Gurmedd men yet loitering in the passage. Two letters were from a tailor, one from a wine merchant, and three from libraries around Sabria. Four or five had no identifying marks. I separated those from the rest.
Pushing open my bedchamber door, I’d only a heartbeat to wonder why Ella had left a candle burning. Before me, grinning and fingering his tongue, stood Dagobert de Gurmedd.
“Come to fetch you, wench. We’ve chose to leave early, as we’ve been told you might have friends thinking to snatch you away.” The two Gurmedd ruffians blocked the doorway behind me.
Despite the bile stinging my throat, I lifted my chin. “Doubting the bride’s honor is a poor way to begin a marriage. I keep my agreements.”
Dagobert flared his nostrils. “You’ve had talk with men. Conspired. I can smell it on you.”
My face heated before I could even ask how he could possibly know.
The youth grinned in triumph. “He said you’d blush at that. My sire will teach you obedience, he will. Now ready yourself.” He thrust the atrocious garments into my hand. Squirming, he cast a sidewise glance at his companions. “And yer not to wear drawers nor lady linens ’neath the gown, neither. We’ll have no uppity ways in Gurmedd.”
Sheerest will kept me from drawing my knife. “Get out, Dagobert. If I’m not to converse with men, then I’m certain my betrothed husband would not wish men to observe me dressing or even to think about it. You’ll be the one disciplined when I tease your father’s ear with sweetnesses and at the same time tell him how you tried to sneak a look at his naked bride!”
Dagobert’s jaw dropped, seemingly astonished that anyone could figure out his nasty scheme. Red-faced, he shoved the two snickering guards from the room and was halfway out the door before he could think of anything to say. “Make it fast or we’ll drag you out by the hair. Da’ll skin us if we’re late.”
I slammed the door, hoping it broke his nose. Only a few hours to the Voilline Rift. I could bear that.
Retaining my “lady linens” and gray petticoat, I donned the spangled gown and ankle-length, fishnet veil. Commanding my shaking hands to cooperate, I used the zahkri to cut a ragged slit in the gown’s seam, and made sure it allowed me access to the precious knife. The perfume, I tossed out my window. The veil stank badly enough.
My stomach churned with doubts. Sheathing my knife, I clenched my hands to my forehead. Friend? I called, reaching . . . searching. I could use a reassuring word just now. Please.
. . . father lives . . . The response was so faint, I could scarce believe I’d heard correctly.
My father lives?
Portier, too, for now. The words brimmed with fervid satisfaction. And truth.
My eyes welled with tears. My brother?
Not yet. Already the mindstorm was submerging his voice. No other answers yet.
Disappointed, yes, but hopeful. I’m on my way. No tantrums needed.
For a moment, I feared he’d not heard. But then more words took shape, stronger, more solid, wrapped in his own relief and glinting with amusement. You’ll be welcome . . . fierce ally . . . sunset tonight . . . It was not the mindstorm that carried these, but a cold, dark current that filled my head, my chest, my spirit—a river, deep and black, not a morbid darkness as commonly thought, but as richly textured as ermine, as substantial as liquid ebony, as mysterious as midnight with all its exotic scents and eerie cries, its unexpected wonders, secrets, hidden passions, dangers, violence, and risky pleasure. Infusing all was a fierce and abiding joy that blazed with the pungent heat of good wine. It felt as if my friend had ripped himself open to send these fragments to reassure me, exposing this singular flood, this pungent darkness. It was his lifeblood . . . his magic.
In that moment every other person I had known—father, sister, mother, brother, those friends I had just come to appreciate—faded into insubstantiality. I knew Dante. I understood him as I understood no one in the world. He had trusted me, exposing his essence in all its dark and terrible beauty. So much to explore and learn. Angels’ mercy, I did not want ever to look away.
“Get out here!” Muffled grumbling outside my door demanded my attention. I stuffed linen, soap, clothes, and towels into the tapestry traveling case pulled from under my bed, and Duplais’ letters and the packet of signal crystals into my bodice. Still glazed with wonder, I pulled open the door and walked out of my life.
OUR UNSETTLING DESCENT OF THE servants’ stair to the east doors recalled my transport to the Bastionne Camarilla. But instead of being thrown into a wagon, I was lifted to the back of a bay mare. Torches flared and smoked in the yard.
“Took you time enough.” Derwin’s snarl banished the lingering magic of the mindstorm. Though the netting veil obscured my vision, I spotted my betrothed lord not far away.
“What are you doing?” I said. The two guards had set the stirrups for me, but didn’t stop there. They looped an extra leather strap through the irons and about each ankle. I had poked my hands through the proper holes in the veil to have the use of them, but the men bound my wrists together so I couldn’t pull them back again, and hooked the spangles on the hem of the veil to metal loops on the hem of my skirt. I was locked inside the horrid garment as if it were a cage.
“Can’t have our prize jumping off, now, can we?” Dagobert sniggered and flung himself onto his own mount.
As Derwin’s party, some twenty strong, formed up around the lord and me, a small, stiff figure in a scarlet cloak and hood descended the palace steps. “You know your orders, Gurmedd lord?”
“Homeward bound with my prize, good lady. And never a look back—lest my gold and new horses be not waiting.”
“All is arranged.” The wind lifted the hood from Antonia’s piled curls. “Gold at Sessaline, remounts at the Crenci Waystation, the Challyat border, Navella, and the rest, and the last payment waiting at the Gurmedd Pass. Ride hard and by midmorn you’ll have her out of reach. Then you can enjoy the interfering little vixen at the roadside for all I care. She is insolent and proud and needs a strong master.”
Cold dread seeped upward from my toes. North? Crenci? Out of reach? Voilline was southeast of Merona, nowhere near Crenci. Dante had confirmed the location of the rite.
“Lady Antonia, what are—?”
“Surprised, are you?” she said. “These men—this Aspirant—thought to use and discard me. He kept me playing games he never meant for me to win. But I listen beyond the words and hear his scorn and recognize the poison’s taste in my tisane in time to wreak havoc before I die. And when a friendly bird whispers of new arrangements made, I pounce. If I cannot have my prize, they shan’t have theirs. Analyze it in the days ahead, Anne de Vernase. Calculate where your vaunted intelligence guessed wrong as you lick your lord’s boots in the deeps of mountain winter. I hope he keeps you in chains.”
Her cloak whipped about her ankles as she ascended the steps.
“Move out!”
“No! Wait!” Stung with dismay, sick with fear, I started yelling. “Betrayed! Help me!”
Surely someone—a stable boy, a kitchen girl, Ilario from his balcony—would see what was happening. Someone might think the screaming lady was worth mentioning.
Guards halted us at the palace gate, and though the Gur
medd riders kept me surrounded and well apart as Derwin showed them our betrothal contract, I shouted to get their attention. “I’m the king’s gooddaughter,” I yelled. “I’m abducted! Tell the king we ride north.”
“These fine ladies never understand the business of dowries.” Derwin chuckled and slapped the gate guard on the shoulder. “They prance and preen to attract a man’s favor, then get their tits in a twist ’cause we men-folk must look square at the cost of upkeep—dresses and follies and tasty bits to eat. No matter it’s legal, they’re scared to lose their maidswatch, so’s they raise a fuss. Ah, now you’ve stamped the paper, we’ll be on our way. My bride’ll cheer up once we’re cozy in my keep. She’ll tame just fine.”
“We’ve been betrayed!” I yelled. “Tell the king!”
The square-face guard grimaced at the Gurmedd lord. “Such a message’ll do no good today, sonjeura. His Majesty rode out not half an hour since, like the Souleater was on his tail.”
No! The king had moved too early. It didn’t make sense. Eugenie was safe with his own bodyguards. And Antonia poisoned? Dying? Everything was wrong!
Derwin laughed and bellowed. “On to the Iron Hills!”
Derwin led us at a fast walk through the deserted city and the first few kilometres on the road. No one could see well. The coarse mesh of the veil obscured just enough to leave me blind in the late dark. But as soon as the sky began to gray, the Gurmedd barreled northward as hard as he dared push. They had taken the reins from my mount and attached a lead rope to Dagobert’s saddle. I’d no choice but to ride.
Dante, hear me! They’re taking me north. Was panic blinding me to his voice or muting my own? Was he spellworking? Sleeping? Or was this his doing, a grand deception by the master? Lure the naive girl with images of truth. Gain her trust. Set her on a course . . . and crush it.
Impossible. His horror at the requirement to kill Duplais had been genuine and displayed before he knew I was watching. Did daemons grieve for their victims? He had shared his essence. He had sent me to Raissina to save me from this. I could not . . . could not . . . be wrong about him. I clung to belief as I clung to the horse, because to relinquish either was unthinkable.
Our mounts’ hooves thundered on the good road. The horses would be blown by Crenci. But with fresh mounts we’d be into Challyat before midday, too far ahead for anyone to catch us, even if someone discovered where we’d gone. Even if there was anyone left at Castelle Escalon to come looking.
On any other day, the surge of muscle underneath would have thrilled me. But as I curled forward, clinging desperately to mane and pommel, every step took me farther from the place I needed to be. Great gods, my father was at Voilline. A sword in the gut could be no more painful than the knowledge that I was helpless while he suffered. Any imagining that my father would survive the Aspirant’s triumph was flimsier than the mist draping the vineyards to either side of us.
“Don’t slow, Dag,” said Derwin, goading his son’s horse with a snap of his crop. “Wouldn’t want the girlie to have time for magicking.”
Would that I could control that molten fire I’d felt on Merona’s ridge. But I’d no idea even how to begin.
Sunset, Dante had said. Easy to imagine sorcery most effective at the time of day when the mysteries of the world felt strongest, when the change from light to dark fed our most profound anticipation and most abject fear. Sunset would come at Voilline, and Dante would have to dredge up the book’s spells for himself. . . sapping his strength for the difficult work of the rite and the even more difficult work of unraveling what his partners did. No one would drop a packet of crystals into a fire, signaling the king to take down the conspirators. Duplais would die in his chains.
Speed and pain wrenched a sob from me. The world streamed past, a blur of green and gold through the flapping veil.
We’d ridden perhaps five kilometres when our pace abruptly slowed. Those at the front of the party shouted at one another and those behind. Even without knowing their language I recognized fear and uncertainty.
“Griv yagnat!” Derwin, pushing to the front. Dagobert followed, dragging me along behind. As well as I could see, the road plunged downward into a bank of yellow-brown fog. Autumn fog in Louvel’s hollows was not so unusual, especially near the river. Not so usual were the crisp lightning bursts inside the cloud wall, and the immediate, ear-splitting cracks of thunder, as if an entire storm had been trapped between two swales with blue sky above us.
“Forward,” snapped Derwin. “No detours. My gold waits at Sessaline.”
Sessaline. I’d heard that name. But where?
The fog slowed us to a walk, elsewise we risked the horses stumbling into a ditch or a wall. Derwin quickly ordered Dagobert to dismount and lead us through so we could keep to the road. The men fell silent, save for mumbled curses. The horses snorted and jinked, tossing their heads in protest. Every lightning strike set them off.
The fog enveloped us like wool, smothering sound and making every breath difficult. Sweat dripped and trickled under my thick clothes. It took all my skill and concentration to keep the mare steady. With my ankles bound to the stirrups, she’d crush me in a fall.
“Houses ahead!” Dagobert shouted. “Alloo! It’s the Gurmedd lord come. Step out and speak. What place is this?”
No one stepped out. Even his assertion of houses seemed doubtful. The ill-defined shapes could as easily be rocks as dwellings.
Derwin ordered a halt and dispatched his son and another man to inquire if this was Sessaline. Dagobert detached my lead rope, and Derwin shouted at the others to form up around me.
The men vanished. Everyone else stayed close. You could lose a legion in such a fog.
“Dimios’s balls!” A nearby warrior threw down his water skin and spat repeatedly. The skin’s contents splattered on the rutted roadway, droplets the size of eggs bouncing into the air, stretching and shifting like bubbles. Some dissolved into the fog that twined around the horses’ legs. Some settled on the man’s stained trousers, then rolled off slowly, shattering like glass when they struck dirt again. “What devil’s work is this?”
Devil’s work! Duplais had mentioned Sessaline when he was talking about the anomalies in the city—the exemplars of our new world under the Aspirant.
The warrior couldn’t stop swiping the back of his hand across his face. A few of the men laughed uncertainly, as if they thought someone had played a prank. Others backed away from him, their fingers twitching witch signs. Derwin, positioned at the front, stared into the fog ahead as if to will his men back with his booty.
Free of the lead rope, I nudged the mare gently.
Soon the barone sent two more men after the first. One returned immediately, stopping dead in his tracks when he confronted his lord.
Derwin slashed the man’s face with his crop. “I said get thee after, Vigger.”
“But, lord, I was walking straight ahead. Fog’s thick as mustard.”
I nudged the mare again toward the edge of the party. Bring her around and I would bolt, fog or no. Blind or no.
Some of the Gurmedd warriors began mumbling of withdrawal. Some simply shouted louder.
Just as I forced the mare a little farther beyond the group, I felt a firm tug on her bridle. A soft cluck was accompanied by, “Sshh.”
My stomach hollowed and I strained to see, but raised no alarm, allowing the unseen hand to lead me deeper into the fog. In moments the Gurmedd warriors were out of sight, and their calls to their comrades were muffled as with down pillows. Hands fumbled with my ankles, tugging fruitlessly at the straps. Then a sawing pressure released my right ankle.
Hurry . . . hurry . . . I willed the indefinable bulk to get quickly to the other side of me, and the shouts of Derwin’s warriors not to change into warnings.
As the strap on my left ankle fell free, I whispered, “Hands,” and held them as far down as I could reach.
A man’s sturdy, capable fingers found mine. A knife obligingly cut through the binding
cord. As he held the mare’s head, I wrestled out of the damnable veil, threw it to the ground, and pulled out the zahkri.
“Now show me your face,” I said softly. If it was a Gurmedd, I’d shove the blade in his eye.
He moved closer, running his hand along the horse’s neck. Indeed I recognized the hand first—wide, well tended, a forest of curling hair—before his head of gray-streaked curls came into view. “Saint’s mercy,” I breathed. “Roussel.”
CHAPTER 39
27 OCET, MIDMORNING
The physician laid a hushing finger across his wide grin, then used it to shift my shaking knife blade away from his face. I swallowed my thanks and questions.
He tugged on the bridle again. Slowly, quietly, we moved away. Saints please, we would not turn back on our tracks as the Gurmedd warrior had! But the physician seemed sure of his course, and before I knew it we came on his own horse tied to a metre post.
He motioned me to bend down. “Can you ride a b-bit more?”
“To Syanar, if need be.”
He squeezed my hand and mounted. We moved out at a painfully slow walk.
About the time we broke out of the fog into the watery sunlight, a bellow burst from behind us. “Witch woman! You’ll wear chains at your wedding, girl! Find her!”
“Shall we go, lady?”
Never had I experienced such a glorious gallop. Free of the fog, the veil, the bindings, and the vile Gurmedds, I could indeed have ridden to Syanar. We retraced the morning’s route, and almost before I knew it Sante Paolo’s Pillar rose in the distance. But my horse was laboring.
I shouted at Roussel to slow. “The mare’s blown,” I said, breathless myself. Though a glance over my shoulder evidenced no pursuit, my blood drummed with Gurmedd hoofbeats. The sprawling vineyards and fields left the road exposed.
He coaxed his own beast closer and peered at mine. “We’ll walk her. It’s not so far. You’ll soon be safe behind Merona’s walls.”
“I can’t stop at Merona.”
