by Carol Berg
Shortly before middle-night, I roused a palace messenger and posted copies of this great fiction to Kajetan, my mentor, who had solicited news of transference, and to Angloria, a methodical, painstakingly honest, former instructor of mine, newly raised to the Camarilla prefecture. As guardians of the Concord de Praesta, they could not fail to investigate. Gaetana, the only female mage at Castelle Escalon, would find Angloria’s inquisitors at her door by midday. The story was near enough the truth that they would ask her the right questions. Unlike me, they had means to judge the truth of her answers.
My instincts claimed I had done right. At some point I had to take action, lest we swirl in evidence until we were all dead by fire and chaos. I would apologize for the deception later.
“PORTIER! COME, WAKE UP.” A hand rattled my bruised shoulder bones.
“Heaven’s gates, what is it?”
A candle burned on my bedside table. Ilario’s anxious face loomed near. “Come along, Portier, he wants to see you.”
“The damnable mage?” I scraped the grit from my eyes and blotted my chin with my sleeve.
Ilario shook his head and tossed my crumpled shirt at me. “Philippe.”
That woke me. Mayhap my cousin had reconsidered having a poor relation dictate the course of his marriage, friendships, and sovereignty.
The air from the open window spoke of lapsing night as I laced my traveling breeches and buttoned my shirt. By the time this errand was done, Dante would be waiting for me in the stableyard, ready to set out for Vernase. Unless I wasn’t available.
“I didn’t know you were come back to Merona, lord,” I said as I pulled on my new boots and made to follow Ilario.
“Eugenie sent to me,” he said, peeking out of the outer door before pulling it open. “Seems she had a wretched day and needed diversion.”
I could well imagine Eugenie’s need for comfort.
We tiptoed down the householders’ hall, rounded into the northwest tower, and slipped into an abandoned stool closet. Alert now, I noticed Ilario shift the brick in the upper corner. Thus I was not surprised when a narrow panel swung out of the scuffed wooden wall. Once the door clicked shut behind us, Ilario unshuttered a lamp. A quarter of an hour, six turnings, two halts to scurry across public passages and through more hidden panels, and we ended in a capacious wardrobe closet.
“Portier,” whispered Ilario, the lamp exposing lines of worry on his boyish face, “I don’t like all this, people knowing you’re on the hunt. You’re awfully . . . exposed. And Philippe—” He puffed his cheeks and blew an unhappy note, shaking his head until his fair hair fell over his eyes. “I’ve not seen him so angry. So uncertain.”
“I appreciate your concern, lord.” Truly it warmed me more than I could say, even if he could only express it in the King of Sabria’s closet. “But I can’t exactly have a bodyguard trailing me around, can I? Not if we’re going to find the answers we need. As for my cousin . . . none of us is immune to royal displeasure. At least I’ve blood kinship on my side.”
He grunted a quiet laugh. “That’s served me well. I’ll be waiting here to take you back.” He rapped on the wall and shoved open a panel, allowing me to enter the very study I’d been tossed out of half a day earlier.
The damaged desk and chair had been cleared away and the ruined carpet removed to expose patterns of dark and light wood. A small, bright blaze illumined the tiled hearth. Philippe, gowned in fur-lined silk, hunched in a chair beside it, as if he were eight-and-seventy years and not eight-and-thirty.
I dropped to one knee beside his chair. Before I could rise, he thrust a paper into my hand. Sitting back upon my heels, I read it by the light of the flames.
Sire:
I must assume that your battered cousin has limped back to Merona and whispered dreadful tales in your ear. If his story is at all coherent, then you, my friend, my liege, have surely guessed his tormentor’s identity and are engulfed in rightful fury.
You must believe me. Things are not at all what they seem. Something extraordinary happened when your servant went searching for your enemies. He found them. And then he discovered things about himself, about magic and power, about the truth of the world. We have been wrong, Philippe. Terribly, blindly wrong.
There is too much to write, and our enemies are ever close. I am forced into hiding. As poor Portier experienced, the dangers are very real. Convey my apologies that I could not protect him better. Good fortune that he had a doughty companion to salvage him!
I do not expect you to meet with me yourself nor dare I trust just any messenger. Your court is riddled with treachers. In honor of our long friendship, the debts we have owned and paid, I beg you send the bearer of this letter—a noble heart well-k nown to both of us, utterly trustworthy and capable of defending himself—t o meet with me, one to one. He will be met at Vigne Caelo at next moonrise and brought to my hiding place. I will send him back on my goodson’s deathday with clear evidence of my discoveries.
Ever your servant, M.
“YOU’LL NOT SEND ANYONE, SIRE?” I said, appalled. “Certainly not alone? This is but a lure.” The high, open ground of Vigne Caelo, Heaven’s Vineyard, was completely surrounded by rugged hills, notched with verdant vales—a thousand escape routes and a thousand hiding places.
My cousin’s face might have been chiseled in coldest marble. “Is the letter magicked? Do I see what is not there?”
“There’s nothing. No enchantment. No residue.”
“The hand is Michel’s. How can I refuse?” Yet clearly Philippe was torn. He was asking, quite explicitly, for a reason not to acquiesce, a shocking reverse from the morning’s stalwart faith.
The wrongness of the words on that page seemed clear to me. Not only had the Aspirant not protected me, but he had helped extract my blood, which he yet held. His harsh voice still sounded clearly in my ears: arrogant, lustful, resentful. He had relished my groveling, exploited my history of despair against me, stuck his filthy boot in my mouth. Even discounting personal humiliation, I could summon no belief that he had only feigned cruelty.
“The screams I heard in Eltevire allow me no grace for the Aspirant, sire, be he Michel de Vernase or any other. Even now, he makes you doubt yourself. Heed your instincts, lord.”
“We cannot fail to collect this evidence he offers. If he is villain and sends us lies, even that would provide grist for your mill of logic, would it not?”
He’d thrown my own words back in my face. “True, but—”
“Will you swear to me upon your life that the danger we face is of greater moment than my own safety? Greater than the normal consequence of a sovereign falling before his time?”
An odd swearing, but easy. Philippe himself had stated this condition when he recruited me. What passing doubts I might have harbored in those early days were long dismissed.
“Your enemies”—I purposely did not mention the Aspirant—“pursued forbidden magic in a place where nature itself is maimed. I swear upon my ancestors that your death is not their sole object and may never have been their object at all. Think what would have been the outcome of the Blood Wars, if those who battled the savagery had been unable to loft an arrow that would reliably hit its mark, or if those who wielded magic in the cause of right could not predict the outcome of their spellwork?”
Even I, who yearned for magic, could not imagine nature wholly unbound by law and logic. What would sway the balance of sovereignty in such a world? Fear, I thought. The power to outwit nature, to compose illogic and harness chaos. Sorcery.
After one moment resting his head on coupled fists, Philippe pulled a sealed dispatch from his lap and waved it and me to the outer door. “Give this to the one who waits outside.”
I bowed, forced to swallow the questions and arguments his face forbade me speak.
The moment I opened the door to the anteroom, a rangy young officer in the colors of the Guard Royale jumped up from a waiting bench. “Sonjeur de Duplais! Divine grace.” He bowed cris
ply. “Edmond de Roble-Margeroux. Do you remember me, sonjeur?” A ready grin illumined the young man’s dark eyes and well-hewn features that surely sapped the knees of every young lady he encountered.
“Certainly, Greville Margeroux,” I said. His thick black hair and cinnamon-hued complexion must instantly recall the luminous Lady Susanna to any who had ever met her—along with old Conte Olivier, and this, their striking son. The king’s dear and trusted friends. No wonder, then, at Philippe’s reluctance to send him into danger.
“How does my testy pupil?” said Edmond, leaning down from his height in cheery confidence. “Truly that was the most terrifying sevenday of my life. Never have I been threatened with dismemberment, transmutation, disordering, accelerated aging, scabs, leprosy, and worms all in one hour, and all over the matter of learning to use a fork. Is he here? Has he transmuted anyone into vermin as yet?”
“You did well, lord. The mage has made a place for himself in the queen’s household, though he dines alone. Everyone in the palace, including me, is terrified of him.” I glanced at the three doors that led to adjacent rooms and passages. No one lurked, so late at night. “You’ve never mentioned your venture into mage-schooling?”
“On my mother’s back,” he said, his smile vanishing as he uttered a soldier’s most solemn swearing. For this young man, that particular bond would be formidable.
“I’ve brought your orders,” I said, handing over the sealed document. The return of his good cheer did not dismiss my wish that I could withhold the page.
His eyes sparked with excitement, flicking over my shoulder into the near-dark study. “Am I to go, then?” he whispered. “The letter was delivered to my barracks sealed. But the note delivered with it warned me to ask extended leave, as I’d likely be sent on a critical mission for the king.”
“I’ve not read these orders,” I said, dread and warning near deafening me. “But if so . . . Young lord, be on your guard every moment. Every moment.”
He sobered properly. “Naturally, sonjeur. This is my first mission for my liege, who has ever shown my family kindness and favor. I shall not fail him.”
“There are things worse than failure, Lord Edmond.” Hearing myself blurt this platitude, I felt a righteous ass, and though the young man bowed politely, his demeanor spoke disbelief and a youthful assurance of immortality.
I grimaced and shook my head. “His Majesty has set you free to go. Yet, hold . . .”
“Sonjeur?”
“Do you carry the note that brought you here tonight?”
“Indeed. I thought it might be wanted.” He pulled a folded page from his pocket.
The brief message reflected exactly what he’d said. Though the hand appeared the same that scribed Philippe’s letter, Edmond’s note was not signed and the broken seal was plain. “What made you believe an anonymous message to be of such import that you sought leave from your post and rode through the night to deliver it to the King of Sabria?”
“Certain references in the message revealed the sender’s identity. I’ve known him all my life and knew the king would welcome word from him.”
“Ah. The conte is a friend of yours, then.”
He flushed. “Taskmaster more than friend. He sponsored my appointment to the Guard and trained me to be worthy of it. I was inclined to . . . withhold . . . in confrontation, not a useful quality in soldier or lord. Lord Michel taught me otherwise—a lesson neither easy nor pleasant.”
“Indeed. But your families were friendly?”
“Not at all.” He blurted this quite vehemently, then attempted to remedy it. “My parents, as you saw, do not go much in company. But I visited Montclaire once. The conte’s family is most generous and welcoming, all of them so different from one another and so . . . astonishing. On one evening, the younger girl gathered every cat from the neighborhood into the house using sorcery, while Ambrose, spouting verse, dueled with a manservant in the drawing room. The contessa cajoled servants, family, and guests alike to dance a pateen, while Anne—Damoselle Anne—argued the movement of the planets with her father in three languages at once. I’ve always wanted to go back. This year past must have been awful for them—not knowing.”
“Aye. Awful.” But not the worst it could be. By far, not the worst. “Divine grace, Edmond, and godspeed.”
He inclined his back briskly and left. Fraught with misgivings, I returned to the study. Philippe’s gaze did not shift from the fire. Dismissed already, I bowed, slipped through the hidden panel, and threaded the dark passage in search of Ilario. Michel’s two missives sat safely tucked inside my doublet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
5 CINQ 20 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY
“Get tha gone, sonjeur! I’ve four mounts come in early need to be tended, all the mornin’ usual to be done for our own, and you demanding this ’n that on the skimmy. The upset’s took Wek from his duties, when I’ve my two best lads puking from overmuch ale. The beasts know. . . .”
“What about my upset?” I grumbled, once old Guillam had limped away. If the grizzled dotard planted his feet in front of me once more, sucking his toothless gums, whacking a cane on his breeches, and blaming me for his unruly stable, my teeth would be ground to nubs.
Our delayed departure from Castelle Escalon could not be unnerving the king’s horses any more than it was unsettling me. Just when my cracked head seemed to be healing itself, the cursed Dante had set it hammering again by failing to meet me as arranged. I did not want to be here when the Camarilla came for Gaetana. By the time we returned from Vernase, they would know something—the truth of her activities, I hoped—and I could apologize for my fabrications.
For an hour, I’d resisted the urge to go rip the mage from whatever was keeping him. The arrogant devil was probably working on some new line of inquiry that he could not be bothered to tell me. And yet . . .
I peered yet again through the stableyard arch. Rosy dawn light bathed the palace’s eastern portico, the logical route for a man leaving the queen’s household wing for the stables. The doors remained firmly shut.
What if Dante lay in a heap on his floor, collapsed again?
Unable to dismiss this image, once it settled, I set out to roust the mage. Midway across the carriageway, a flash of color from behind the fluted columns caught my eye. Crimson and olive green—Camarilla colors. Anxiety swelled to panic, the certainty of danger a drover’s whip, as real as the boots on my feet, as vivid as the out-of-time hero dreams of my youth.
God’s teeth, how could inquisitors be here so quickly? Never had I known Prefect Angloria to make a decision in less than a tenday—especially one of such import. And Dante . . . One hint of suspicion, a single unpleasant encounter, and he would himself become the focus of an inquisition. They’d never forgo an opportunity to examine the legendary Exsanguin. Not only did I fear for our investigation, which already felt balanced on a hair, but for Dante himself. He would not bend well to Camarilla questioning. I had to get him away.
Though heart and mind galloped, I maintained my steady pace toward the portico. Nothing attracts a watcher’s attention so much as reversing course or speed at first glimpse. I mounted the steps, inclining my head to the balding man and the square-jawed woman who flanked the doors, as if I were any common courtier out to enjoy the fair morning.
Neither responded. Bless the saints, neither looked familiar. I hoped my newly shorn hair, my mottled bruising, and the fringe of beard let grow where it was too painful to scrape would keep me unrecognized. Prefect Angloria, once my formulary instructor, would be somewhere inside.
Fierce urgency propelled me through the east wing passages. But as I arrived in the queen’s household, I slowed my steps and smoothed my clothes. Courtiers huddled in conversation or ambled along the window gallery, enjoying the air and the view and gleaning gossip to fuel the day’s conversations. More had come than usual today, titillated by mages’ mysteries.
A craggy-faced, red-haired woman stood at the intersection of t
he gallery and the passage to the mages’ apartments. Entirely unaffected by the attention she garnered, the scarlet-mantled Prefect Angloria waited like a rock in the confluence of streams. Her gaze roved the gallery and its denizens, the mages’ passage, the royal staircase, and the bright scenery beyond the windows with equal disinterest.
Philippe’s First Counselor, Lord Baldwin, no longer cheery, hovered at her elbow. From time to time he flicked a commanding dismissal at some lordling drawn too near or servant grown too bold with gawking. The gold-tied scroll in his hand would be the Camarilla warrant.
As specified by the Concord de Praesta, the warrant secured the Camarilla’s right of entry, their privilege to enter any home to fetch Witnesses—suspected magical transgressors or potential informants. No civil authority was permitted to intervene.
I hung back, choked by frustration. No one seemed willing to pass by the prefect to access the stair to the queen’s residence. I dared not be the first, thwarting my intent to use Ilario and his secret passages to smuggle Dante away.
“Portier!” My heart stuttered when Jacard, Dante’s sharp-featured adept, snatched at my sleeve. His skin was flushed and damp. His blood pulsed at a gallop, noticeable even through my sleeve as he drew me into a window niche. “Have you heard the news?”
“I see Camarilla.”
“Inquisitors have come for Gaetana,” he said, scarce able to contain himself. “Broached her door an hour since, and her yet in her nightdress! Is this something to do with the mess you’ve dug up? What a paladin you are, out investigating on your own! Everyone’s aflutter with the story. I’ve heard rumor of unholy practice, bleeding. Corpses, even.”
“It’s no secret that sorcery caused the fire on the Swan,” I said, keeping my voice low and my back to the strolling courtiers. “I’ve only pointed out that others must be involved as well. Are the inquisitors questioning anyone else?” I rubbed the mark on my hand. “They wouldn’t be rounding up just anyone of the blood, would they?”
