The Spirit Lens

by Carol Berg

  The daughter hurried off toward the back of the house, while the contessa led me into a reception room. The afternoon breeze shifted filmy draperies. Sitting in a high-backed chair where the air from the courtyard could cool her, the contessa leaned her forehead wearily on her clenched fist. I’d never have judged Lady Madeleine fragile. Yet the sultry heat or perhaps the hour’s expense of emotion had left her looking drawn and ill. “What else would you have from us, sonjeur?”

  Damoselle Anne returned and took a place behind her mother’s chair, laying a hand protectively on the lady’s shoulder. Though the girl’s fair skin was marked properly with the Cazar sign, she had violated the law by failing to expose it to me. Her right hand gripped the chair back, her knuckles entirely bloodless.

  Lady Madeleine was a striking person in all ways, but, somehow, the girl intrigued me more. “My lady, may I address your daughter?”

  The lady’s long fingers caressed the paler ones that rested on her shoulder. “I suppose you must.”

  “Damoselle, as I’ve told your mother, I am here seeking information about your father’s activities. I will not lie to you. We’ve well-grounded suspicions that he may be involved in terrible crimes. But I am interested only in truth, in facts—those that may explain away evidence that we have, as well as those that may support it.”

  “I don’t know anything that could help you.” This scarcely audible response reminded me of Lianelle, who, of course, had known a great deal.

  “We all know more than we think, damoselle. Tell me, what interests did you and your father share?”

  Her brows knitted, as if trying to fathom to what wicked purpose I could put such information. “Natural science,” she said at last, pushing several escaped curls behind her ear. “Languages. Foreign lands. Stories. Books.” She offered each topic slowly, as a small bite from a much larger feast—a private feast.

  “Mathematics?” I asked, and she dipped her head.

  “Medicine?” A negative shake.

  “Sorcery?”

  “No!” Genuine distaste here.

  “Yet your sister studies sorcery. She summons animals. . . .”

  “Drafi, our stable lad, can make horses follow him about like puppies. That doesn’t make it magic.”

  “And your father’s belief?”

  Not so quick to answer this time. Again I felt her running through the implications of anything she might say. “Papa believes we should explore what branches of learning fascinate us.”

  “But does he believe magic to be trickery, ready to be unmasked by scientific advancement, or a true branch of learning, in the same vein as physics or alchemistry?”

  “Papa believes—” A quick, tight breath hinted at deeper feeling. “How can I say what he believes? He’s gone away.” Not He’s dead.

  “Damoselle, do you understand the concept of blood transference—an immoral, illicit, and dangerous practice used to enhance a mage’s power?”

  “Yes. I’ve read histories of the Blood Wars.”

  “Have you ever discussed this practice with your father?”

  “Never. Why would we?” Brittle. Short. Out of breath. But not at all weak. Eliciting a reaction from the girl felt akin to pecking stone with a needle.

  Hoping to nudge her off balance, I kept up the pace. “You studied with your father for many years, played verbal and logic games, practiced languages, wrote stories and mathematical proofs, I would guess, exchanged correspondence frequently when he was away.”

  “Yes. All those things,” she said without a hint of boasting. But then, I didn’t think revealing her thoughts or feelings was Anne’s vice. An extraordinary mind must be hidden inside those solid walls.

  “Damoselle Anne, have you received a letter from your father since the day he last departed Montclaire?”

  Her complexion lost what color it held. “No.” So definite, yet so fast—too fast.

  “And you’ve received no letter that could possibly be from him. For if you received a letter lacking a signature or seal . . .”

  “He has not written to me. I would recognize his hand anywhere.”

  “Certainly you would.” I pounced without hesitation. Holding my breath, I pulled out the unsigned note addressed to Edmond de Roble-Margeroux and passed it to the young lady. “Tell me, damoselle, is this your father’s hand?”

  Her eyes scanned the note rapidly. The text contained naught to indict or condemn. Naught that should induce her to lie.

  Here at last is the occasion you have pressed for, a chance to return my several favors. Please deliver the accompanying missive to our king in all immediate haste, for his eye and hand only. I’d recommend you seek extended leave from your captain for this journey, as an extended commission will likely follow. As ever, lad, commit. Do not withhold.

  “WHEN WAS THIS WRITTEN?” SHE said, voice dropped to a whisper, which question told me the answer I needed to know.

  “I’ve no way to ascertain that. Perhaps a year ago. Perhaps a month.” Let her reveal what she knew.

  “Papa scribed it. To Edm—I suppose you know to whom it was written.” She hated slipping.

  “Your father was young Edmond de Roble’s sponsor in the Guard.” One step, then another. For the first time, I felt as if matters were coming to a head.

  Anne offered the paper to the contessa, who waved it away, covering her eyes with her hands.

  “What does it mean?” The girl’s soft question did not sound as if she expected an answer.

  “We’re not sure,” I said. But I did know, of course. It meant Michel de Vernase was alive.

  Another question had arisen before this diversion, something about letters, but before I could recapture it, a ruddy-cheeked, comfortable sort of woman in a floury apron joined us. She set down a tray holding decanter and cups, and poured wine for the contessa. Lady Madeleine accepted it gratefully, inhaling the rich fragrance before she drank.

  The serving woman straightened up, taking my measure with a disdain worthy of an empress. “I suppose you’re ‘the priggish aristo investigator, ’ ” she said. “Your mage insists you come to His Grace’s library right away.”

  I suppressed a childish retort. Annoyed, not so much with Dante’s insulting address or peremptory instruction, but with losing progress to this interruption, I had come near wasting an opportunity. A trusted servant could know a great deal and might not be so carefully schooled as wife or children. “Lady Madeleine, may I speak to your housekeeper?”

  The contessa looked up. “Is that necessary?” Evidently my posture spoke answer enough. “Melusina, please tell Sonjeur de Duplais whatever he wishes to know.”

  “Mistress Melusina, I’ve only one question. A small thing. How are mages perceived in the village of Vernase? We faced an unfortunate incident on our travels here, and I’m concerned for my companion’s safety. He is quite ill mannered, as you’ve seen.”

  Melusina flushed and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I don’t know. We’ve not had a mage visiting in Vernase in ever so long. My lady, can you recall when the last might have been? Long before the little one went off to school, I think.”

  The contessa shifted her gaze to me. Despite a weary sadness that seemed to sap her strength more every moment, she understood very well what I was asking. “We’ve not entertained a mage at Montclaire since Lianelle was three and that woman came from Seravain to validate her handmark.”

  A woman . . . “Was it Mage Eliana, perhaps, bright red cheeks, one foreshortened leg?”

  “No, she was extremely tall,” said Melusina, “almost as tall as His Grace and sturdy as a smith. Our little one was but a mite in her hand. She brought that young adept with her—the pretty girl that was so spindly—and as far as I can recall, everyone in house or village treated them both most respectful.”

  Gaetana and Michel de Vernase. Father Creator! Ten years past and tenuous, but I’d found a connection.

  “I really must go.” The contessa made as if to get up, but
sagged back into her chair.

  “Mama, what’s wrong?” Anne dropped to her knees beside her mother’s chair, chafing her flaccid hands and patting her scarlet cheeks. “Look at me.”

  The lady did not respond, and Melusina’s speedy provision of damp towels and smelling salts and extra cushions changed nothing.

  “Has she been unwell?” I said, feeling entirely out of my experience. “Fevered?”

  “Please leave us, sonjeur,” said Anne, tight-lipped. “You’ve clearly pushed my mother beyond all bounds of mercy.”

  “Do whatever is necessary for your mother’s health and comfort, damoselle,” I said, bridling at the accusation. “But sometime before this day is out, we must take up this conversation again, whether the contessa is fit to supervise it or not.” It shamed me a bit to imagine the lady’s illness feigned, yet I could not discount the possibility. Beautiful women of good family were not exempt from conspiracy.

  Though the desire to pursue my questions had trumped Dante’s summons, the contessa’s plight induced me to reverse course. “Melusina, please guide me to the conte’s library,” I said.

  “I should stay—”

  “Unfortunately, we are not always free to choose our roles in these matters, mistress. Please show me the way. Then you and your staff may attend the ladies. Later, when I resume my conversation with Damoselle Anne, perhaps you could sit as her mother’s surrogate.”

  The grumbling Melusina led me up the stair and along a winding gallery into a library worthy of any collegia. Two walls of book-laden shelves so high as to need stepladders were only the beginning. More shelves held models of temples, bridges, towers. Another wall of shelves held stacked boxes of papers, labeled POETRY, ANNE’S STORIES, MAMA’S WILDFLOWER SKETCHES, and the like. More papers, books, and maps lay heaped on two long tables, or spread on one of three desks that crowded the room. Even the ceiling was in use, with a great star chart fixed to it at one end, and the largest map of the world I’d ever seen fixed to the other.

  How could I not compare such a place to the library at Manor Duplais? We owned ten books of Sabrian genealogy bound in red leather, a general history of the kingdom, and a chart detailing the Savin family line back twenty generations—far enough to expose our flimsy connection to the reigning monarch. My blood yet stained that chart, as my father had pressed me against it after he pulled his knife, as if to make sure I would recognize my shame before he gutted me.

  As always, my hand massaged my belly. A good thing my father had not studied anatomical charts like those propped on Michel’s easel stuck off in a corner.

  “Here he is, Master,” said Jacard, popping up from behind one of the desks.

  Dante had already risen. Though his eyes remained shadowed by his hood, I felt their heat, as always.

  “What is it?” I shook off my maudlin history and glanced over my shoulder to make sure Melusina had gone. “I could ill afford interruption.”

  “Over here,” said Dante. “Can you use your senses, student, or must I hold your hand as usual?”

  A dozen or more wooden storage boxes seemed to have vomited their contents across the floor. Mostly letters, it appeared. Drawings, scribbles, a litter of broken jewelry, buckles, and pen knives. Opening myself to the touch of magic, I stepped through the jumbled heaps. I assumed I searched for bound enchantment. In the ordinary way, I could detect magical residue only for an hour or two after its expenditure—Dante’s for much longer.

  In the end, this was easy. When I touched a cube-shaped tin box that sat amid the conte’s relics, a sensation of steel nails scraping glass set my teeth aching. I crouched and flipped its lid open.

  My breath near left me entirely. A jumble of cloudy glass and tarnished brass and steel filled the box. I pulled out the thin tubes first, and then three small rusted knives and the smooth-rimmed glass cups, nested one within the other. Last came the stained brass blocks, one small, one large, with levers cocked, ready to pop out the lancet blades.

  “Blessed angels,” I breathed. “We have him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  9 CINQ 16 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY

  No one in the manse, meaning Damoselle Anne, Melusina, Bernard—the balding steward from the stableyard—the house- maids, the gardener or his daughter, the cook or cook’s help, or even Drafi, the Arothi stable hand, admitted to having seen the tin box before. None but Anne had ever heard a whisper of transference, save in the same unsavory context as necromancy or death curses or spirit slaves. None knew what a scarificator might be used for.

  When I showed her how the little blades snapped out to nick the skin, Damoselle Anne looked as if she might collapse. I told her that even a man with no talent himself could collect blood to infuse a mage. The needed spells could be affixed to blades and vessels—as they were with these artifacts. But the girl squared her chin and said again, “I’ve never seen such a horrid thing. I can’t say why my father would have one, save that he had an interest in learning.” She ventured no guess as to whose blood yet crusted the instruments.

  Young Ambrose could not be found anywhere in the house, stables, or gardens. Dante did not object when I dispatched Jacard to query the young officer we’d left at the gate. The mage had observed the afternoon’s interrogations in silence.

  The contessa, rebounded from her faint, wandered into the kitchen as I finished questioning the cook. “Forgive me, sonjeur,” she said, puzzling over my simple question. “Transference? Ask Michel. I’ve told him I’ve no head for business. Ani”—she waved at her daughter—“dearest, we have guests. Where is Melusina? Why have we not set out refreshments? You must pay more attention to hospitality, Ani. You’re almost eighteen.”

  The lady began to hum a Fassid love song, closing her eyes and smiling as if lost in dreaming. But her voice soon faltered, tears coursing down her feverish cheeks.

  “Mama!” Anne grabbed the contessa as the lady swayed and stumbled. “Melusina, help me!”

  Daughter and servant coaxed the lady to her feet. The three of them vanished up the nearby servant’s stair.

  “I doubt her condition feigned,” said Dante from the doorway. “Secrets always break those who believe themselves unbreakable.”

  That could certainly be true. But Lady Madeleine had impressed me as an open heart, not welcoming to secrets. Perhaps that’s why Michel did not confide in his wife. The daughter, though . . . Anne’s secrets preyed on her.

  Jacard tramped into the kitchen, winded from his run up the hill. “The boy’s not ridden out.”

  “Ah! Then it’s time to examine my perimeter,” said Dante, planting his staff firmly on the slate floor. “Come, Adept!” He vanished through the kitchen door Jacard had just entered.

  “Perimeter?” I said.

  “The man moves like a greyhound,” said Jacard, sagged against a kitchen cupboard, still puffing. “First thing this morning, he raced around the lawns and gardens, dragging that blasted stick in the dirt to create this ‘perimeter.’ I’ll swear he never bound a spell, spoke a key, touched a particle . . . anything, but the dirt turned black behind him. Next he drew a binding circle on the terrace and did some actual spellcasting with silver nuggets and hair and bits of those blasted roots and powders he had me chasing down, but the particles fit no formula I’ve ever read. I’ll swear he’s got me twisted end around trying to figure it all out. At least he’s let me do his dog work for once: rifling the kitchen pots, examining the ladies’ closets, and dragging out every book and box in that damnable library. Naturally, he himself discovered the only useful bit.” He sighed heavily. “I’d best go. He doesn’t yell quite so much if I keep running, and I’ve hopes to graduate from dog work before I die. Someday, you must tell me how to figure out what he’s doing.”

  Would that I knew!

  As a bellow from outside set Jacard running, a blur of indigo in the passage drew my eye. I set off after it. “Damoselle!” I caught up to the girl in a small yard, walled by red brick service buildings. “
Do not think to run away.”

  She halted immediately. “I am not running away. I just . . .” She tugged her wayward curls behind her ear again. “Why don’t you leave? You have what you want. You’ve pushed my mother to exhaustion. I’ve never seen her so . . . overthrown.”

  “Where is your brother, lady?”

  “I don’t know.” Every strained line of her body said otherwise.

  “He is not accused. But matters will look very ill if he runs away. Does he know where your father is?”

  “How could he know?” she cried, impatience bursting through her reserve. “How could any of us know? Papa has not written in a year. He’s sent no message. I’ve not heard his voice since the hour—” She near swallowed her tongue.

  “Since what hour, damoselle?” I said softly. And when she did not answer, I pushed ever so slightly, recalling my lost question at last. “Did your father speak to you in the hour he left Montclaire?”

  “Yes.” I could scarce hear her answer. “Just ordinary cautions. He asked me to comfort my mother. That’s all.” I didn’t believe her.

  “Lianelle would not wish to worry your mother, but I’d guess she confides in her elder sister. She wrote you about Ophelie, didn’t she? About the bleeding?”

  “Yes. Those vile instruments . . .”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment, her hands plucking at her skirt. She was so controlled for a young woman, so inward, so blank a page when one considered the knowledge and intelligence contained within. The daughter of a worldly man, she could not be so naive as she seemed. If ever a child could be lured into conspiracy, would it not be one like this?