by M. J. Scott
He looked calm, but there was a tone to his voice that made Sophie think the emperor was quietly furious. He stepped forward. “Imogene, make sure I’m heard.”
“Of course, Eleivé.”
Aristides nodded and then motioned to the guards, who once again faded back to leave a break in the circle. Beyond, Sophie saw curious faces peering to see what was happening. A few worried ones as well.
“Music,” Aristides called, and although he spoke in a normal voice, his words tolled through the room like a great stern bell. “This is a ball. The unfortunate distractions are under control. Let the dancing recommence.”
He stepped back and the guards closed ranks again. But not before Sophie saw the courtiers start to move toward the dance floor. What the emperor wanted, the emperor got, apparently.
Cameron’s hand slipped into hers. She squeezed it gently. She wanted nothing more than to pull him away from here and be elsewhere. She wasn’t even entirely sure where. Just away.
Aristides had returned to the dais, seating himself on the throne, expression stony. Louis bent to whisper a question in his ear and the emperor gestured him away with an irritable flick of his fingers. Imogene received a similar dismissal when she approached him. She came back to stand with Sophie, Cameron, and Henri, the silk of her skirts swishing over the marble with a vigor that suggested she was no happier than her emperor.
“I wanted to thank you,” Sophie said. “For what you did.”
“No more than my duty,” Imogene said.
“Was that your sanctii? The one with the black around his eyes?”
“Yes. That’s Ikarus.” Imogene smiled tightly.
“And the other? The darker one that helped before you or Henri arrived?” Sophie asked, ignoring the disapproving expression she could see in the barron’s face across the dais.
Henri and Imogene exchanged a look.
“What?” Cameron asked.
Henri looked over to the Anglions before turning away slightly so his back was to them. “I am not entirely sure,” he said, speaking Illvyan.
Not eager to have the Anglions know what he was saying?
Sophie frowned. “Are there so many in Lumia that you do not know them all?”
Imogene shook her head. “No. We keep track of water mages. Particularly those bound to sanctii.” She pressed her lips together. Then her expression turned considering. “Of course, you do shine so,” she muttered. “But that should be of no matter.” She paused. “But no, all the known water mages here tonight have sanctii I would recognize.”
“How can there be a sanctii you do not know, then?” Sophie asked. “Does that mean there is an unknown mage? Was the man who attacked the ambassador a mage?”
“No,” Cameron said. “He wouldn’t have used a knife if he had magic. And I felt nothing from him.”
“Then how?”
“That is something we shall find out,” Henri said. “There is a theory that—” He broke off as Barron Deepholt approached the emperor’s throne.
The man still looked pale, though two hectic spots of color sat high on his cheeks. Perhaps there had been more than water in whatever Sir Harold had been urging him to drink. “Your Imperial Majesty, I think we deserve an accounting.”
Was she imagining it or did his voice quaver slightly as he spoke?
Aristides stared down at him for a long silent moment. “I believe the accounting is that you are alive and unharmed, thanks to the actions of Lord Scardale and others, my lord ambassador.”
“But I was attacked!’
“Yes. Rest assured, Barron Deepholt, that we will bring those responsible to account.”
Not justice, Sophie noted. Account. The facts would be gathered and then . . . what? A price would be paid?
The barron inclined his head. “Nevertheless, Your Imperial Majesty, it would be remiss of me to remain too long in your palace under such circumstances. Lord and Lady Scardale should accompany us back to the harbor so we can get underway.”
Sophie stepped forward before Cameron caught her arm.
The emperor’s gaze flicked to her before he focused back on the barron. “I believe, my lord, that you and your party will depart when I allow. As will Lord and Lady Scardale.” His tone was flat, the anger that had been an undertone earlier rising much closer to the surface.
“But—”
“Enough, my lord.” Aristides’ voice cracked like a whip. “You are here as my guest. Trust me, you do not wish that status to change. You and your party may retire for the night. That is acceptable, given the distress you have faced.”
The barron’s face twisted. Behind him, Sevan Allowood took half a step forward before James clutched his arm and he halted, glaring at Sophie with loathing.
“But they were working with demons,” he hissed, loud enough for her to hear.
“Shut up, Sevan,” James said none too gently as he yanked the younger man back to his side.
“Louis,” Aristides said. “See that Barron Deepholt and his party are escorted back to their chambers.”
The barron—wisely—didn’t venture any new objections. A squad of the guards broke off and surrounded the Anglions at Louis’ direction.
As they marched away, Sophie let go of the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
“May I attend to Lord Scardale now, Your Imperial Majesty?” Imogene said a little tartly.
Aristides made an impatient gesture. “Yes. Then I think it might be best if the three of you also retired for the evening, Maistre Matin. Take your charges back to the Academe. We will speak again soon enough.” He looked around at Louis who hadn’t followed the guards out of the room. “Show them to the white chamber so the major can work on Lord Scardale. Then fetch their carriage.”
Louis nodded vigorously.
“And then,” Aristides said, expression thoughtful, “I think perhaps that I would like to speak to my son.”
* * *
It seemed to take forever before they passed through the palace gates and the wheels of the carriage bumped onto the cobbled road beyond. Safety. Or the illusion of it.
A very thin illusion. Not even the fact that Cameron had placed her between Henri and himself, all three of them sitting on one seat—cramped as that was—made her feel less exposed.
It was all she could do not to look behind them to watch the palace receding. To make sure no one followed. Not that no pursuit equaled any kind of certainty.
After all, the emperor’s reach extended throughout the whole city—and the entire empire, for that matter. Though the emperor wasn’t their immediate problem. No, that seemed to be the Anglions. Hopefully their reach went no farther than the walls of the Imperial Palace.
It would be foolish to assume that the Anglion court hadn’t managed to develop some sort of network of contacts or spies in Illvya, no matter how small or tenuous. Though she found it impossible to believe that they could have placed anyone at the Academe.
No Anglion would wish to take on a duty that required entering the very heart of the magic that was forbidden to them. Where sanctii roamed freely. As did the mages who controlled them. No Anglion who wasn’t desperate to survive, that was.
The reaction of the Anglions had proved that, both before and after the attack. She rubbed at her temples, exhaustion starting to set in now that they were safely out of the palace. She’d spent the time while Imogene du Laq had worked on Cameron’s ribs half expecting to be summoned back to the ballroom. She’d kept silent, watching Imogene work, though part of her attention had been on the door, ready in case of another attack. There were questions she wanted to ask but she’d saved them for Henri, not wanting to inadvertently say something that might make Imogene decide that perhaps they did need to discuss things further with the emperor.
Cameron had asked again about the third sanctii and how it might have come to be in the ballroom. In response, Henri and Imogene had spoken quickly, their Illvyan reaching those speeds at which Sophie found it incomprehensible. As bes
t as she could make out, they’d said something about a sanctii sometimes being able to ride the power used by a water mage when they brought forth a sanctii from . . . well, wherever it was the sanctii came from.
But she didn’t understand the Illvyan—or water magic—well enough to understand much beyond that. Or to know if the explanation made sense.
Apparently, Cameron hadn’t wanted to ask anything more. He’d subsided back into silence as Imogene worked. To distract herself from worrying about him, Sophie asked Henri what “Eleivé” meant. She wasn’t familiar with the term, and given that several people had called the emperor that over the course of the evening, perhaps she should be.
Henri had nodded at her question. “It means ‘most high’. In an older version of our language. It is something the emperor is called by those he is close to. Or those he grants the privilege to. A less-formal term to be used in situations where it would not be appropriate to use his personal name, even if the speaker holds the rank or familiarity to do so. ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ is quite a mouthful, after all.”
It was. So an alternative title made sense. She had filed the term away, though she doubted she would ever need to use it. By the time Henri was done explaining, Imogene had declared she’d done what she could and Louis and another small squad of guards had escorted them back to the carriage. And now they were free again.
At least for the night.
“What will they do to that man? The one with the knife?” she asked.
Henri grimaced. “I imagine they will extract such information as can be extracted, and then, most likely, they will execute him.”
Even though she’d suspected as much, hearing it said out loud made her sorry she’d asked. But she didn’t want to stick her head in the sand. The presence of the envoys had added so many layers of complication to the situation that she really had no idea how to start untangling it in order to reach a solution. All she could do was try to understand what had happened and what might happen next.
“Don’t think about it,” Cameron said. He also looked unhappy with the thought. Though presumably it wasn’t squeamishness in his case. Maybe he was angry that he wouldn’t get to do any of the interrogation himself.
Cameron shifted a little in the seat as the carriage slowed, one hand pressed to his ribs.
“Do they hurt?” Sophie asked. She was sitting as still as she could, not wanting to bump into him if she could avoid it. The fact that he’d been hurt made her want to both hit someone and cry. But she wasn’t going to indulge either emotion.
He shook his head at her. “Nothing too bad. Whatever Imogene did back there eased them. Though I daresay I’ll be happier when we’re out of this carriage.” The carriage jolted as he spoke and he winced. “Damned cobblestones.”
“We’ll get you examined again when we’re back at the Academe,” Henri said. “Imogene is powerful but she never studied the healing arts particularly thoroughly. Her earth magic is not so strong. Her interests lie elsewhere.”
He sounded vaguely disapproving. What exactly were Her Grace’s interests if the man in charge of the Academe didn’t approve? War? Espionage? Something else entirely? Imogene du Laq had used water magic and earth magic, and that little trick of amplifying the emperor’s voice was most likely one of the Arts of Air. Was there anything she couldn’t do?
It made her shiver. Trying to make it through each day in Illvya was like walking through thick fog, surrounded by things unknown and unimagined, hands outstretched in the hope it might prevent her from stumbling into something deadly. How could you protect yourself against something you didn’t even know existed? And it didn’t help when the explanations were offered in a language that was one of the things you didn’t truly understand.
But that, at least, she could do something about. The night had held many surprises but also one truth: If she was going to survive here, she needed to master Illvyan as quickly as possible. She turned to Henri. “I want the reveilé.”
Cameron jerked, head twisting. “What do you mean?” His knuckles where he was bracing himself against the carriage wall with the hand not pressed to his ribs went white.
Sophie focused on Henri. This was her decision, not Cameron’s. “Can I have it?”
“I thought you wished to play things safe, to pursue only earth magic?” Henri said.
“The reveilé isn’t me using magic,” Sophie pointed out. No, it was a demon who would be wielding the magic. And aiming it at her. The snarling faces of the three battling sanctii swam before her eyes. So much power and strength. So inhuman. Could it really be safe to allow something like that to rummage around inside her head?
Her stomach clenched at the thought, but she had made up her mind. The vastness of the court and the frustration of not being able to understand all the conversations that had flowed around them had made it clear that her struggles with the language were a more severe disadvantage than she had supposed. Even without the attack and the sanctii, she would have reached the same conclusion.
She needed Illvyan, and the presence of the Anglion delegations meant that she didn’t have the time to overcome that disadvantage the old-fashioned way.
“The Anglions won’t take it kindly if they find out,” Cameron said.
“Why should they ever know? I didn’t ever speak Illvyan at court in Kingswell. The tutor my parents found for me died several years ago. For all they know I was fluent previously.” She pulled the black cloak closer around her. Martius wasn’t in the carriage with them, and she hadn’t seen him since he’d appeared so unexpectedly in the ballroom, but she felt as chilled now as if he, rather than Cameron, was sitting beside her.
She couldn’t get the hate in Sevan Allowood’s eyes out of her head.
“If we are going to be returning to the palace—” There was no “if.” It was certain. Unless the emperor decided to send the Anglions back where they’d come from. Unlikely. And even if he did, she and Cameron had attracted Aristides’ attention during the attack. Aristides had watched her very closely in those first minutes of confusion after the attack when Henri had dragged her back to the relative safety of the dais. As if seeing her anew.
Aristides hadn’t struck her as a man whose attention was diverted easily once drawn. Eloisa shared that quality and she didn’t rule over a realm anywhere near as complicated as the empire.
So no, she didn’t imagine that the emperor would simply lose interest. Not until he had evaluated the situation and any threats or opportunities it might present. “When we return to the palace,” she continued, “I need to be able to understand what is being discussed around me.”
“Are you sure?” Cameron asked. He looked uncomfortable with the very thought of such a thing.
Well, that made two of them. But Cameron wasn’t in her position. His Illvyan was fine. “I’m sure it’s necessary.” Need would have to stand in for certainty for now. “So, Maistre, will you do this for me?”
“If it is what you want,” Henri said. His expression was troubled. “But not until the morning. You need to be well-rested. And you may change your mind with a little time to think on it.”
She wouldn’t. “Thank you, Maistre.” She settled back against the seat, trying not to count each beat of the horses’ hooves as taking her one step closer to safety.
Chapter 12
“I’m not going to question your decision,” Cameron said, watching Sophie as she moved directly to the fireplace when they were safely back in their chambers. He undid the buttons of his jacket with care. The pain in his ribs had faded to a faint ache thanks to the expert ministrations of the Academe healer Henri had summoned on their return, but she’d warned him to be careful not to aggravate the injury anew. “But I want to understand. The ambassadors being there was a surprise, I agree. But also an opportunity.”
Sophie hadn’t taken off her cloak. She stood, hands stretched toward the flame, staring into them as though they held the secret solution to all their problems. He didn’t kno
w if she’d even heard him, so distant was the look on her face.
“Sophie, love,” he said gently, moving to join her. “Are you cold? From the sanctii?” Or worse? Delayed shock, perhaps? The evening had been unsettling enough to give anybody fits.
She shook her head fiercely, dislodging several of the pins holding her hair in place. Strands fell around her face. He brushed them back. She had looked beautiful in the red dress. Glorious, in fact. But not entirely like his wife.
“No,” she said. Then, “Yes. I don’t know.” She tugged at the large brooch holding her cloak closed at the neck. It was heavy gold like the other jewels she wore but unadorned by gems. Instead it had been formed to resemble a spray of small leaves, spilling down the fabric of the cloak. “And you—-we—cannot take what Barron Deepholt said at face value.”
Cameron thought about James’ face as he had stood behind Sir Harold. He’d looked calm, but there had been none of his usual easy humor in his eyes. And there’d been no time to try and speak to him privately. Cameron wasn’t even sure how he might go about arranging a meeting with James sequestered inside the palace.
Or even how to determine if he was there unwillingly. If he was there to somehow persuade Cameron to comply with the delegation’s wishes, he would be watched. He and James had never been close, but one thing Cam knew was that James was very fond of his sister, Jeanne. Cameron was fond of her, too. She’d been his sister-in-law a long time now. The thought that his and Sophie’s actions may have put their families at risk made his gut churn.
He’d known it was a possibility, of course. That their choice to leave might have repercussions. If the Domina had been behind the attack in Kingswell. Or worse, if the queen had.
He didn’t want to believe that was true. Goddess. Eloisa had been his lover once. Could she truly want him dead now? Perhaps the true question was whether she was still the woman who had so charmingly coaxed him into her bed or whether that woman had vanished the moment the palace had been attacked and she had become queen.
