by M. J. Scott
He reached the group of Illusioners and saw, to his surprise, that Lord Sylvain stood amongst them. Perhaps he was the member of the king’s council who’d been sent to observe. Lord Sylvain, short, stout, and white-haired, was gesturing at the wall with the blackwood stick he carried and saying something to Master Egan, who shook his head in response.
As Cameron approached, both men turned.
“Young Mackenzie,” Lord Sylvain said, his wrinkled face rearranging itself into a pleased smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been assigned to relieve Gregson here,” he said, nodding at the Red Guard standing a few feet away from the group.
“But you’re part of the queen-to-be’s guard, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be with her? It seems she’s made a remarkable recovery.”
“I’m on duty later,” Cameron said, sidestepping the issue of Eloisa’s recovery. That was a subject he definitely couldn’t discuss. “And wanted to make myself useful until then.”
“Good man,” Sylvain said. “How about you come over here and we can talk whilst you watch? There isn’t much to observe, to tell the truth.”
Master Egan grunted something protesting at this, and Sylvain flicked his stick impatiently. “Not a criticism. It’s astounding that there’s anything left with the fire so hot. You Illusioners are doing what you can. If anything is here, I’m certain you’ll find it.”
That eased the look of annoyance on the Illusioner’s face. He turned back to the wall, and Lord Sylvain led Cameron over to a group of large stone blocks sitting in the middle of the room. “They’ve already inspected these. So we can’t hurt anything. Stand if you want, lad, but these old bones will sit.” He eased himself down carefully and then sighed. “Sad to see the palace so. Seems wrong, somehow.”
“It is wrong,” Cameron said. He hesitated but then sat beside the old man. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
“True. So many dead,” Sylvain said. “And lucky to find anything left of most of them. The king’s personal wards spared him a little. Enough that there were bones left to bury when Eloisa decides it’s time. A few others who had wards. Like your father.” He reached out and patted Cameron’s knee. “Bad business. I’ve buried a daughter and two wives. No pain like losing family.”
“Two wives, Your Grace?” Cameron hadn’t known that Lord Sylvain had been married twice. And quite frankly, he’d rather hear about Lord Sylvain’s losses than think about his own.
“Yes. Two. My first wife, Louisa, died young. Too young. Before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye. Before he was old enough to have a twinkle, come to think of it. She was a pretty thing. A witch. Red hair and big brown eyes.”
“What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking?” Cameron asked. He watched the Illusioners brushing ash and soot from the wall, but they didn’t seem excited about what they were doing, so he presumed he didn’t need to be, either.
“Came off her horse,” Lord Sylvain said. “Never knew how it happened. She rode like the wind, and horses loved her. Never saw a horse misbehave when she was on its back. She was strong, that one. Others wanted her, but Stefan’s father decided she should go to me. Always wondered if someone in the court had decided that if he couldn’t have her, then I wouldn’t either. Or if she was simply too strong. A risk.”
“Isn’t a strong witch a good thing?” Cameron said, his attention now firmly back on the old man. “We need royal witches with strength.”
“So they say. Yet we tie them up to temple and man at the first sign of power. Stefan’s father had just put down a rebellion of some of the northern counties, and the court was full of suspicion. Not a good time to stand out, to be a potential threat to the Crown.” Lord Sylvain sighed again, tapping his fingers on the handle of his stick, his hand looking dark against the worn mother-of-pearl that covered the handle. “My second wife, Gwynne, she was a good lass, too. But I never felt about her the way I felt about Louisa.” He turned dark eyes in Cameron’s direction. “I guess they’ll all be sniffing around the Kendall chit now. She came into her power when she was with you, didn’t she?”
Cameron nodded, schooling his face to blankness. If Lord Sylvain had been married to a witch—a strong witch—then no doubt he understood perfectly the temptation they represented. “Yes, sir.”
“Thought so. Then I’ll tell you this, lad. If you came to know her during that time, if you care for her at all, then you keep an eye on her until she’s safely married. I’d say now isn’t a good time to be a threat in the court, either. I may be old, but I can count. The lass has moved a fair way up the line of succession with what happened to Farkeep and his family. If her power is anything worth talking about, if it’s enough to attract interest, then she’s standing in the open with very little cover. Not a safe place to be in times like these.”
Cameron felt a chill start in his neck and run down his spine. Would someone really try to hurt a royal witch? Stupid question. Someone had just tried to take out the entire royal family. Though Sylvain was talking about an attack on Sophie—or a plot that sought to use her—from within the court rather than something mounted by external forces.
Lord Sylvain nodded. “Aye. Not a pleasant thought. But it seems it’s not a pleasant world we’re living in right now. So keep an eye out for her. I couldn’t save Louisa. The Kendall chit has something of the look of her. Come to think of it, I think her grandmother and Louisa were cousins, maybe.” He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. But remember what I said.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the temple services, Sophie took her father to meet with the queen-to-be. Then she took advantage of the spare minutes to drag her mother out to the gardens behind the temple to ask her to invite Chloe de Montesse to visit.
“Madame de Montesse,” Emma Kendall said, looking puzzled. “The one who runs that . . . store in Portholme.”
“Yes,” Sophie said.
“She’s Illvyan.”
“Yes. I know,” Sophie agreed. “But she was very kind to Cam—Lieutenant Mackenzie and me when the attack occurred. She helped us. I would like to thank her.”
“You can’t send a note?”
“That hardly seems sufficient. And this isn’t the best time to invite an Illvyan to the palace.”
“Yet it makes sense to invite her to our house? Really, Sophie, are you sure you didn’t suffer a blow to the head when you were off in the wilderness with your lieutenant?”
“I’m sure. I just want to thank her. You can ask her to bring some supplies for you. No one will question that. I’m sure she knows how to be discreet.” Sophie’s hand stole to the pearl at her throat as she silently willed her mother to agree.
“If she was discreet, she’d dye that hair of hers a decent color,” her mother said.
“She can’t help being born Illvyan,” Sophie said. “Obviously she didn’t like it very much, or she wouldn’t have risked her life to come here.”
“She may have liked it perfectly well,” her mother pointed out. “She may have been forced to flee by something else.”
“Well, I know a little about that now,” Sophie said. “About being scared and not knowing who your friends are. I would like to thank her. Please, Mother. It wouldn’t take long. And I don’t feel right leaving it until later. You always tell me not to put things off.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “I hate it when you children quote me to me,” she said, eyes twinkling.
Sophie knew that meant she had made up her mind. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Then you shouldn’t have taught us so well.”
Her mother laughed. “I should have locked you up in a tower when I had the chance.” Her smile died. “Are you truly happy about this marriage, darling?”
Sophie nodded. “I think he’s a good man. Honestly, I would prefer a little more time to get to know him better, but in the current circumstances, that seems unlikely. The queen-to-be is keen to get everything settled again. But you don’t need to worry. I’m n
ot putting on a good face. I think Lieutenant Mackenzie and I will suit each other. Which is probably more than some royal witches can say.”
“My little girl, a royal witch.” Her mother shook her head. “It seems so odd. It was barely yesterday you were toddling around the garden and making mischief. Still, if you say you are happy, then I am satisfied. And I will invite your Madame de Montesse to the house. Did you have a day in mind?”
“The queen-to-be said she was going to announce my betrothal at the audience on third day. I told her you had a dress made for my birthday that would be suitable for court, so I’m sure I’ll be able to get away to see you second day. Tomorrow will be too full with the funeral and everything that comes with it. Funerals,” she amended softly. “Lord Inglewood is to be buried tomorrow as well. After the king. And Lord Farkeep. And others.” She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat and the prickle in her spine. So many dead. She kept forgetting, being caught up in everything that was happening to her. Which somehow made it worse when she did remember.
“A hard day,” her mother agreed, her pretty face full of sadness. She sighed, then straightened her shoulders. “But only a day. Funerals are an ending and a beginning. Remember that. We have to let go and move on. Easier said than done, perhaps, but no less true for that.”
Her sad expression brightened suddenly. “And look, here comes your father. Head still safely attached to his shoulders, so it seems he neither exploded nor provoked the queen-to-be too badly. That’s a relief.”
First day was as grim as Sophie had feared. She sat in the temple behind Eloisa with the other ladies-in-waiting as the rites for King Stefan were held. Eloisa sat like a statue, head held high, during the entire ceremony. In contrast, Margaretta had wept against her husband’s shoulder for the entire length of the rites. Toward the end of the ritual, Sophie found herself wishing someone would slap the princess. She could at least try to maintain her composure when her sister was not in the position to be able to share her display of grief. It seemed selfish somehow. But that was Margaretta. It was just as well for Anglion that she was the younger sister.
After the rites, the ladies accompanied Eloisa and Margaretta and the invited members of the court to see King Stefan interred in the Fairley vault in the catacombs beneath the temple, which was a singularly unpleasant experience. Sophie had never been into the catacombs before, and she fervently wished she would never have to do so again. Not that that wish was likely to come true.
The tunnels, lit with earth-lights, were too dim and too narrow. And despite the bowls of scented oils and hanging bunches of herbs everywhere, the stink of death was unmistakable. Decay and old rot. A dry, sour smell that made Sophie want to retch. But she bit her cheek and tried to breathe shallowly, determined not to make a spectacle of herself as Margaretta had.
When they emerged back aboveground, she almost gave in to the urge to cry in relief. Instead she took refuge in one of the bathrooms, to splash her face with water and try to wash some of the stink she was sure lingered on her skin away before the ritual meal of salted bread and wine. Both of which stuck in her throat, though the wine at least offered some relief, just strong enough to put a warm glow of distance between her and the rest of the afternoon, when they all sat through several more sets of rites. Lord Inglewood’s, Lord Farkeep’s, and then the rest of the Farkeep family.
Sophie tried not to watch Cameron during his father’s rites, afraid that her face might give away how much she wished she could sit beside him, hold his hand. Do something to ease the pain she had seen in his blue eyes when he’d passed her as he and his brothers had escorted their father’s coffin into the temple.
He didn’t look at her, either. Which made it both better and worse. She gulped the wine a little more eagerly at the completion of those rites. And was spared another trip down to the catacombs—the Mackenzies having chosen to have only family present, as was their right.
By the time she reached her room much later that night, the wine she had drunk and the sheer exhaustion of the strain of the day sent her down into the deepest sleep she’d had for days.
Sophie woke on second day feeling better than she had any right to. Sleep, it seemed, could cure an untold number of ills, including too much funeral wine. Plus, today was the day she was going to talk to Madame de Montesse.
Her cheerful mood lasted until she reached Eloisa’s chambers. The atmosphere there was still distinctly somber, and everyone was on edge and fractious as they tried to do all the tasks that needed to be done before tomorrow’s audience. In the midst of it, Eloisa was very cool and calm, but that didn’t ease Sophie’s mind any. Surely it would be more normal if Eloisa lost her temper, just for an instant.
So much had happened to her. Some human display of emotion would be reassuring.
All in all Sophie was glad to escape from the palace and take a carriage to her parents’ house. She had assumed that Eloisa would insist on a Red Guard accompanying her again and had told her mother to ensure that Madame de Montesse was safely inside well before Sophie was due to arrive. The Red Guard—a Lieutenant Wilson, whom she had met several times before but had never spoken more than a few words to—would remain outside the house. After all, he was there to stop anyone snatching her or whatever it was that Eloisa feared might happen. To do that, he needed to stop the potential assailant from entering the house in the first place.
To her relief, Lieutenant Wilson did indeed insist on remaining in the front yard by the gate. Which meant that Sophie was able to sneak Madame de Montesse out from the tiny parlor where her mother was making stiff small talk and into the small walled garden at the rear of the house. It was a pretty place. Neat beds of late-summer flowers lined either side of a lawn bisected by a stone path. An elaborately carved house shrine sat against the far wall. Sophie didn’t think the lieutenant was likely to come out to the garden if he thought she was safely inside.
Chloe de Montesse seemed to bear this in good spirits, not asking any questions until they were both settled on the small stone bench in front of the shrine.
“I believe,” she said then, in her accented Anglion, “that the invitation was for tea, not intrigue.”
“Hardly intrigue,” Sophie protested.
“Hardly tea, either. You pulled me away from your mother’s excellent hospitality. I was enjoying that tea.”
“It comes from an estate near ours,” Sophie said, not above bribery if it would improve Madame’s mood. “I’m sure my mother would be happy to give you some.”
“That would be most kind,” Chloe said. She flashed a tight smile, sitting a little taller on the bench. “So are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come here? I’m fairly certain your mother could have lived without bindweed and nettle root for another day or two.”
“I wanted to thank you,” Sophie said. “We were interrupted the other day. But you were kind to Lieutenant Mackenzie and me.”
Chloe flipped a hand. “No more than anyone would have been.”
“Not true. You’re a refugee. You have a reason to want to keep your head down.”
That earned her a very aristocratic-sounding snort of disdain. “That sounds boring. I was never one for boredom.”
“Still, it was kind. And I thank you.”
“You are welcome. You and your lieutenant of the broad shoulders and very blue eyes. A fine one, that man, do you not think?”
Sophie couldn’t stop the blush that rose over her face. “He is very nice.”
“Nice? Are you Anglion girls blind? In Illvya, someone would have snatched him up and into her bed well before now.” Chloe stopped, her expression turning sympathetic. “Ah, but perhaps you are not allowing yourself to appreciate him. A royal witch does not choose in such matters.”
“No,” Sophie said, hoping this explanation would throw Chloe off this particular topic of conversation.
“So frustrating for you.” A slim hand reached out and patted Sophie’s arm sympathetically. “Once
you are married and have had a son or two, I’m sure your lord will not object to the odd dalliance. Perhaps he will still be available. You are young. You will have babies quickly.”
“Goddess,” Sophie choked.
Chloe laughed. “Truly Anglion, though. All so proper all the time.”
Not all the time. But that was hardly a subject to discuss with Madame de Montesse.
“And are you enjoying being a royal witch?” Chloe asked, expression growing more serious. She regarded Sophie for a moment, and something that wasn’t too far away from doubt crossed her face.
“Everything has been so disrupted since my birthday,” Sophie said. “I’ve hardly had time to think about it.”
“But now things will return to how they were, no? With the queen-to-be recovered and the coronation so soon, surely she will turn her attention to your marriage. That’s what happens to royal witches, is it not?” Chloe was studying her again.
“What is it?” Sophie asked. “Do I have a smudge on my cheek or something?
“No. No smudge.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just . . .” Madame de Montesse hesitated. “Forgive me if this is the wrong thing to say, but you do not look the same as the other royal witches to me. Your power is very . . . bright.”
“Bright?”
“Strong? I’m not sure what the correct word might be. But royal witches always appear more tame to me.”
“Maybe that’s just because you’re Illvyan.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you are different.” She tilted her head. “What exactly was it that you wished to say to me again?”
Sophie took a deep breath. She couldn’t tell Madame de Montesse the truth. Not all of it. She wasn’t sure how far she could trust her. So best to ease into the subject. “It’s just, well, with everything that’s happened, I feel like it would be easier if I knew more. And no one has time to teach me anything.”
“You want lessons? From me? I think not. That would definitely not be a good idea. Not unless you want both of us to be thrown into the ocean with many heavy rocks tied to our necks.”
