The Spirit Lens

by Carol Berg

  As I waited, I occupied my twitching fingers by reshelving logbooks. On a whim, I flipped the student log to Maura’s records, thinking to discover some common bent that might lead to conversation outside palace business. I’d spent much of the two-day journey to Seravain reliving our pleasant hours working on the Exposition and planning what I might say when we next met. Unpracticed at casual conversation and with so much of my present life secret and my past dull or melancholy, I felt as nervous as an acolyte.

  The record provided only one interesting tidbit. I had assumed Maura abandoned her studies for the same reasons I had, but indeed she had passed the intermediate examinations for adept’s rank with high recommendations in all disciplines. Her claim that sheer boredom had sent her to court must be the truth. The reason was certainly not lack of talent.

  Shuffling footsteps rounded the corner into my niche. I shoved the logbook back into its place.

  “Divine grace, Benat, Lianelle,” I said, exposing my hand to a fidgeting, spotty youth of about fifteen and a wiry, sun-browned girl a little younger.

  “And w-with you, Ac-c-colyte . . .” The stammering boy exposed the back of his hand.

  “Sonjeur de Duplais,” said the girl, scarce dabbing her small hand on her shoulder. Her gray eyes raked me from head to boot. “Are you come back to Seravain, then, Curator? Everyone says you gave up and left because you couldn’t read your way past the examinations.”

  Lianelle was exactly as I remembered her. Dark green student’s gown stained and wrinkled. Hair escaped from two braids and frizzed about a smudged face. Speech neither belittling nor sarcastic, but merely uncomfortably frank for a girl of thirteen.

  “I am now attached to Queen Eugenie’s household,” I said. “And I require assistance obtaining materials for Her Majesty’s mages. As you may remember, I like to ensure that students on restriction make good use of their time.” To be sure, I had called on the quiet Benat, continually disciplined for his inability to speak clearly, more often than the brittle-edged Lianelle.

  I whipped out my transcriptions of Dante’s odd requests, items ranging from crystals of blue-white antimonium to several types of exotic feathers to shards of Fassid pottery and Syan porcelain, many of which were difficult to obtain outside a sorcerer’s supply room. The requirements were so numerous and so varied, requiring trips to the aviary, the metallurgical store, and several individual mages in addition to the general supply cupboards, it should take the students several hours to fetch them all—longer, in truth, as I had split the list most unfairly, leaving all the most difficult acquisitions to poor Benat.

  Once the two were dispatched on their errands, I began packing a stack of borrowed volumes into crates destined for Dante. Inevitably my mind turned to the Mondragoni texts. Since the day I had refused his demands to acquire them, our mystery had spiraled deeper into a darkness where innocents died in fire and a conjured spectre drove a decent man to despair. Illicit power for sorcery and transgressing the boundaries of death were exactly the specialties of the Mondragoni, who had named their family the Brotherhood of Malevolent Spirits. How could I deny Dante any resource that might lead to understanding our quarries’ aims?

  Acquiring the texts would not be easy. Assuming I could find an excuse to visit the vault and abscond with forbidden materials, in no way could I take them all. The collection comprised more than fifty bound manuscripts and scrolls—far too many to escape notice were anyone to come looking and find them missing.

  “Adept,” I called, “could someone have shelved our missing treatise in the vault by mistake?” The short downward stair to the library vault began in an alcove just past the curator’s desk. Impossible to pass without Nidallo’s noticing.

  “No,” he snapped, slamming a large herbal on my book stack. “Every visit to the vault is supervised. Just because you no longer serve as curator does not mean the library has fallen to ruin.”

  “No, no. Certainly not. But you see, I myself might have put the book there a few months ago. I seem to recall hearing that the Challyat copy had been destroyed in a fire. I was concerned that our original would be the only remaining version. Perhaps we could take a look.” As I had done frequently during the day, I tapped my fingers idly on Maura’s document authorizing my access to all Seravain’s resources.

  Huffing in profound offense, Nidallo retrieved the keys from his desk. The vault door swung open with a dull clang. The adept hung a lamp from the drop chain in the center of the small stone room, then planted his back against the door frame and waved a hand at the two small cupboards and three chests—one of wood, one of leather, and one of iron. “Quickly, if you please.”

  The cool, windowless chamber housed what few magical texts had survived the Blood Wars. I touched the brittle volumes reverently, noting a threadbare cloth cover that had split, and a gilded title that had tarnished to unreadability. Few people ever looked at the fragile, fading texts. Many, like the Mondragoni collection, were encrypted. A few appeared entirely blank, their information beyond our current skills to retrieve, though age, wear, and the presence of encrypting enchantments bespoke certain significance. Some texts had been composed in obscure dialects or comprised little more than extensive references to even older works we did not possess. The essential knowledge from the readable texts had long been distilled into the Encyclopaediae of Workable Formulae, ten volumes filled with detailed instructions that students were required to memorize and practice. What spells responded to a particular student’s talents might take a lifetime to master. It left little time for browsing.

  A librarian, on the other hand, had plenty of time for study. Nine years had I scoured these source works for explanation of my failure. Though providing no answers, the effort had taught me a great deal about the deterioration of our art. Page after page referred to magic unknown to our experience—control of earth movements, protective wards reliable enough to prevent the spread of diseases, techniques to address afflictions of the mind. . . .

  What had the Bardeu villagers said of Dante? ’E fixes them as is cursed in the mind. I had assumed the mage worked such standard remedies as sleeping potions or sedating enchantments. But back then I’d not yet experienced the strength of his will, the compulsions he could induce, the explosive energies of his magic. Could he truly address aberrant reason? What a blessing such an ability would be, and what terrible risk, too, if such power belonged to one without scruple or moderation. We knew so little about him.

  But then again . . . I flexed my fingers, pocked with healing burns. Perhaps my experience of the man spoke more of his true nature than his own words did. For better or worse, I trusted him.

  My survey of the cupboards complete, I rummaged through a heap of leather scroll cases in the wooden chest. “No books at all in here,” I said, as if unfamiliar with the contents.

  Nidallo rolled his eyes and fondled his keys.

  Whispering the spellkey to release the locks and wards, I thumbed the slight indentation on the side of the iron chest. As I opened the lid, a stench of black mold rolled out. I pressed the back of my hand to my nose, aghast.

  Four or five mold-ravaged texts, each marked with the scorpion device of the Mondragoni family, all that remained of thirty-three bound volumes, lay half submerged in a sea of green-black slime. Only three of nineteen leather scroll cases had survived, soggy parchment protruding from long cracks in their sides.

  My thumb brushed one of the sodden pages. For one seemingly endless moment, the bones of my hand screamed with a cracking pressure. Then scroll and case slumped into a formless mass as would a lead slug thrown into a smithy furnace.

  Was I meant to believe that ordinary mold and rot had so completely devoured these manuscripts in the two years since I’d brought them to the vault? Did someone think my senses too dull to recognize such powerful, corrosive spellwork?

  Scrambling for explanations, I shut the lid and sensed nature’s sigh as the magical wards settled back into place. The chest’s magical pr
otections remained intact—unforced. Even if Kajetan had changed his mind and chosen to destroy the documents, he’d never have destroyed them in place. The Gautieri, a powerful blood family, had encrypted all Mondragoni works as unfit for common readership, and then themselves been wiped out in the Blood Wars. Perhaps they had sealed the pages with destructive spells, as well, and we had triggered them by moving the documents here. I could not recall the last time I had inspected the chest.

  “Mold’s got in here,” I said, tapping the iron box. “Best purge the entire chest, lest the blight spread to other books.”

  “When I have time,” said Nidallo with a yawn. “I’ve more important things to do than play charwoman.” Either he knew very well what had happened to the collection or he had no idea of its significance.

  “You’d best make time to clean it up,” I snapped. “These were incredibly rare. Master Kajetan will pillory you for this—and likely me, as well! Is your logbook complete?”

  He frowned, blinking rapidly, thinking. “No one’s come in here without signing the book. I’m sure of it.”

  The vault log lay open on its lectern. The open page covered two years. In the month since my departure, only two people had visited—Mage Samiel, a healer who frequently found an ancient herbal to be of use, and Mage Eliana, who studied family bloodlines. But Gaetana’s tight signature glared from earlier on the page.

  I had opened the vault for Gaetana many times. She had never demonstrated any interest in the Mondragoni chest, but then her frequent visits would have left her familiar with the drawer where I kept the vault keys. Perhaps she had removed some of the works—or most of them—before destroying the rest. As ever, I cursed my inability to identify magical imprints.

  “No luck,” I said, frustration finding an outlet as I slammed the last chest shut. “Is the Heaven and Earth treatise lost to mold, as well?”

  “Honestly, Portier, I’ve taken good care of everything. I’m working here only until the chancellor appoints a proper curator.” Nidallo had sloughed off his self-important hurry and seemed genuinely concerned. “You’ll not report me?”

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “No. Maybe you’d best leave the mess locked up after all. If there’s a scandal, I’ll do what I can.”

  Nidallo huffed as we climbed the short stair. Awaiting us at the top was Lianelle ney Cazar. The girl hefted a basket half her height, heaped with packets, vials, and boxes. “I’ve got these things you wanted. May I go now?”

  Nidallo returned to his desk, and the girl and I returned to my niche. “Empty the basket.”

  I surveyed her acquisitions. “Not at all correct or complete,” I said, flipping through the contents of three leather packets. “Someday, Acolyte Cazar, you will learn to examine your work with a careful eye. Come along, let us try again.”

  “What are you talking about? I did everything just as—”

  Grabbing the girl’s arm, I hauled her past Nidallo and down the library stair. Clanging bells summoned students to supper. Thus, rather than exiting the main doors into the crush of people in the collegia’s central yard, I drew her downward to the library cellar.

  “Where are we going?” she croaked. “I fetched you everything on that ridiculous list.”

  “We need to discuss that,” I said, moving even faster as she started wriggling.

  A winding trip through deserted binding and copying rooms led us to the back exit and into a weedy enclosure. Around and above us, throughout the sprawl of collegia buildings, lights winked on one after another, like stars in the darkening sky.

  “You’re hurting me.” Her voice rose, and her free hand flailed at my face. “What’s wrong with you? Let me go.”

  She jerked away with strength enough that I needed both hands to keep her. I halted and gave her a firm shake. “Keep silent or I’ll see you on restriction for the next seven years.”

  That at least gave her pause. I propelled her across the uneven bricks and through a gate into the long-neglected outer gardens. Honeysuckle vines tangled in the arched trellises of an old pergola would shield us nicely from view.

  “My regrets for the rough handling, Lianelle,” I said. “I needed privacy to speak with you on a matter of grave importance. Will you listen?”

  “I’ve nothing to tell you or anyone,” she said.

  Her belligerent stance only confirmed my suspicions. This was as stubborn a child as any at Seravain. “Your friend Ophelie de Marangel is dead.”

  Her small body stilled instantly.

  “Cruelly dead from sorcery so wicked and terrible, I’ll not speak of it unless you force me.”

  “Ophelie was not wicked.” A child of thirteen ought to be more surprised at such news. She certainly knew what had killed Ophelie. Elsewise, nothing in the world would have prevented Lianelle ney Cazar from insisting I tell her.

  “No, she was not,” I said. “She was immensely brave and determined to expose the villains who hurt her so dreadfully. Unfortunately, I found her too late to help her.”

  “How—where did you find her?” Her voice quavered only slightly.

  “At Castelle Escalon. She broke free of her captors. Just too late to survive.”

  “Captors? But they were supposed—but she went home!” Lianelle was not fast enough to cover her slip. She expected Ophelie to be somewhere else. Not home, but safe. “She was sick.”

  “Here’s what I believe. Ophelie was bleeding herself to empower her magic. Someone here discovered it and began taking her blood for themselves. Lianelle, who was bleeding her? Did she see their faces?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ophelie never told me anything.” No wavering this time. She was stubborn and angry, as only a child on the verge of adulthood could be. “She helped me with schoolwork, that’s all. You’ve no cause to question me.”

  She tried again to wriggle away. I needed another tack.

  “I’ve every right and reason to question you. Murder—this kind of murder—is more serious than friendship or promises. No one who believes in justice can let it pass.” Retaining a hold on her arm, I sat on a peeling bench and drew her close. “Let’s start again. A simple exchange. Facts won’t hurt anyone or betray confidences. I can discover facts in many ways, but asking you is easiest, because you were Ophelie’s friend. When did you last see her? Last year, I know. Sometime after mid summer.”

  If I was right, the girls’ meeting with Michel had occurred on 13 Siece. Michel’s last letter to Philippe had been dated 17 Siece, and the conte had visited Seravain for the second time on the thirty-fourth day of that month.

  “Sometime in Siece,” she said after a long stare, as if to plumb the depths of my nefarious questioning. “Or maybe it was later in Nieba. Ophelie helped me with schoolwork. I’m terrible at memorizing. She had been sick all spring. She got worse and worse, but the adepts in the infirmary couldn’t make her well. So she ran away home.” The answer marched out of her as perfect and unnatural as a tutorial recitation.

  “But just today I’ve checked the infirmary log and it shows no entries for Ophelie in the month of Siece or Nieba or at any time last year.”

  “Oh!” That surprised her, or at least set her thinking. “Why ask, if you already know?”

  “In Siece of last year, a nobleman came here to question the mages about a crime in Merona—about someone who suffered the same injury as Ophelie. I’m thinking you might have heard about the man and his inquiries. Maybe you sneaked out early one morning to meet him, before taking Ophelie to see him. He returned here some days later. Was Ophelie still at the collegia when he came that second time? It can’t hurt her to tell me that, and I can surely search the archives and find out. Give me the truth, and I’ll tell you something important about that man.”

  Something in my patchwork of facts and guesses had struck home. She’d gone rigid as a post. Her pulse pounded like that of a frighted deer, choosing whether to run or stand her ground.

  “Help me, Lianelle. The truth ca
n’t hurt her. Not anymore.”

  “She was still here.” She near swallowed the words.

  “All right. Good. Now I’ll give you something. You may or may not know that the man’s name was Michel de Vernase, Conte Ruggiere. He is a great friend of King Philippe. I need to know what you and Ophelie told him. I believe he’s held captive by these same villains.”

  She jerked free of my grasp. I cursed the deepening dark that obscured her face, for I would have sworn she swallowed a cry. In any case, this answer came promptly. “We didn’t meet any gentleman. No one took her.” Quiet. Solid. Certain. Stubborn. “I can’t tell you anything. I won’t. I don’t know you.”

  She was right to be cautious, no matter that we had seen each other on hundreds of occasions in the three years of her residency at Seravain. And yet—I rubbed my aching temple—her very assertion that she didn’t know me was a deviation from her steadfast testimony . . . as if she might be able to tell me something if she did know me. If she trusted me.

  That led me to examine the facts again . . . and they fell into perfect alignment. “Michel took her! He came back here that second time to fetch Ophelie. And you . . . you promised to keep it secret and helped confuse the days so no one would realize he’d taken her. You spread the rumor that she’d been sick and wanted to go home. That she’d run away. No one denied it. Those who had hurt Ophelie certainly wouldn’t, and the collegia staff would be embarrassed that an ailing student had left without their knowing. But the villains guessed what Michel had done, caught up with them, and took them both. And if so . . . Child, you are in terrible danger. If anyone suspects you know what happened to her, who was hurting her . . .”

  “Ophelie ran away. She just wanted to go home. Everyone heard us talking about it. Why would I stay here if I knew anything dangerous? I’m not stupid.” The faintest tinge of panic colored her bravado.

  “Listen to me, Lianelle. Go home to your family.” The Cazars were a very old blood family, descendants of ferocious marauders who had holed up in the mountains of Nivanne before even the Fassid had invaded south-western Sabria. They could protect her. “Feign your own sickness. Fail your classes. Just get away from Seravain. You’ve no reason to trust me, else I’d take you myself. But you must go.”