Now he had a feeling it wouldn’t work out that way. Orellana had charged him with finding out why the majority of both Councils didn’t want Alegria to get her children back and he couldn’t imagine he’d be able to do that between Council meetings and the inevitable dinners, parties and tours they would be obliged to attend.
Then there was the personal mission of discovering what Gabe had done to anger Ibarra and Abbess Morales.
“Sol,” Aracelle said, coming to his side, “they’re almost ready to depart.”
Sol took a final moment to memorise Sebastian’s face and then let his wife take him. “I wish I could take you both with me.”
She smiled and touched his face. “Me too. I would love to be able to show Alamar our son.”
Alamar Antulio Ibarra Madera de Ibarra, Duke of Ibarra, Aracelle’s brother and the man who’d sent Sol’s friend off to war. Sol and Alamar had never been friends, unlike Sol’s older brother, Selestino. With the death of Sol and Selestino’s father, Selestino had assumed the mantel of Duke of Roque and Alamar had been there to help his friend through the hard, early months. Sol and Selestino, their relationship strained by the loss of their beloved father, had grown further apart. The rift, Sol had felt, was Alamar’s doing. Confronting Selestino with his suspicions had only aggravated the situation. Then Selestino had made his ultimatum and, unable to accept it, Sol had left. Three years in Alarie, most of that time running and hiding, trying to make his way back to Delaluz. He’d finally made it home, damaged and half-mad with paranoia, only to find a brother who seemed to have forgotten him, who was immeasurably happy and about to wed Alamar’s sister. Unable to find the peace he desperately needed, Sol had seriously considered running again.
Before he could, tragedy had struck. Selestino’s funeral, Sol’s coronation and then, surprisingly, his wedding to Aracelle. All of it had only served to ignite the tension between him and Alamar. It was easier now, since a couple of years had passed. All three of them had mourned Selestino, but Sol couldn’t help wondering if Gabe’s punishment was partially meant for him as well.
“I’ll definitely brag at every opportunity,” Sol said.
“I’m sure you will.”
“Your Grace.” Engineer Maquina bowed. “Your dirigible is ready for flight. We can lift off whenever you wish.”
“Thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”
Maquina nodded, bowed to Aracelle and hurried out onto the landing square. In the middle of the field, the royal dirigible of Roque waited patiently. Its balloon of Sevastian green was full and straining against the ropes holding it to the luxury gondola emblazoned with the Roque shield, a silhouetted dragon-ship on a field of green. Its engines were warming up, the harnessed fire magic driving the pistons that turned the twin propellers. It was a fast airship, sleek and agile, unlike most royal dirigibles, which were bloated with the needs of dukes and duchesses who couldn’t possibly go without a full complement of servidors and companions. Sol, however, much preferred speed to excessive comfort. He’d already spent too much time away from home.
Aracelle dusted down the front of his jacket. “Don’t be gone too long,” she whispered as the ground-crew retreated from the landing square.
Sol smiled. “You know me. I hate being away from home, especially now.”
She matched his smile, then leaned against him. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something?”
What he’d learned the night Sebastian had been born was highly secret and Sol hadn’t been able to tell Aracelle. He’d done his best to keep the troubling thoughts from her, but she was perceptive.
Unable to lie outright to her, he settled for holding her tight and kissing her and Sebastian. “I’ll be home as soon I can, I promise.”
Aracelle met his gaze. There were ghosts in her rich blue eyes, flitting through her memories and he knew what she was thinking.
It was a day like this, at this very airfield, where she’d last seen Selestino. The wedding had been planned, the guests had all arrived and Selestino had boarded the royal dirigible to fly to Montserra to pick blue roses for his fiancé. A silly promise he had made to have Aracelle holding a garland of the rare flowers he swore matched her eye colour perfectly.
He hadn’t returned. The dirigible had gone down on the outskirts of Roque City, a fireball streaking through the sky, crashing into a freshly ploughed field. No one had survived. Fire Mages had poured over the wreckage for weeks, finally concluding it had been an accident. The containment around the magic in the engine had failed, the fire had escaped and sparked the gas in the balloon.
After the accident, Aracelle had come to Sol for support. He’d spurned her, insulted her. Alamar had come to exact an apology from him and only Sol’s incapacitating fury had kept him from killing Alamar then and there. Alamar gave up on him, but Aracelle didn’t. She’d persisted, suffering his accusations and rants, slowly wearing him down. It had been Aracelle who nursed him out of his madness and brought him back to the world. She’d cried with him, shared stories of Selestino, held him and in the end, Sol had realised why Selestino had loved Aracelle, because he loved her for all the same reasons.
“Just so long as you come home,” she said.
The ground shimmered beneath their feet. An Earth Mage sending. Neither of them had the ability to read it, but it was enough to catch their attention.
“Church carriage,” a woman shouted from one of the towers.
Aracelle gave Sol a pointed look. “The Abbess?”
“Possibly.” If it was, it couldn’t mean good news. Nothing Orellana had told him since her return had been good.
The gate in the earthworks around the airfield opened and the Abbess’ carriage rolled in. It eased to a stop behind the royal carriage and the portly figure of Abbess Orellana clambered out.
“Do you know why she’s here?” Sergio asked as he joined Sol and Aracelle.
“No idea,” Sol murmured.
Behind the Abbess, a young woman emerged from the carriage, wearing the uniform of a de Roque page. Sol, Aracelle and Sergio took a few steps toward them, but Orellana held up a hand, halting them while she spoke with the page. The page nodded, then nodded some more and finished with a firm nod. Seemingly satisfied, Orellana motioned Sol forward, singling him out with a sharp wave of her hand.
Not good. Sol walked alone to meet the Abbess and page.
“Thank the saints you hadn’t left yet,” Orellana said. “Mage Eloisa Madriguera de Mayola, his Grace, Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque. Sol, Eloisa is an Earth Mage and she’ll be accompanying you to Ibarra.”
Sol’s stomach sank. A mage dressed as a servidor. This did not bode well at all.
Eloisa bowed. She was young, not long past her qualifiers. A fresh mage, probably with little experience outside of the church and Academy. Her uniform was crisp and spotless, dark hair pulled back in a bun, face clean of any cosmetics. She was rather short but lean and, as most Earth Mages were, likely far stronger than she appeared.
“Thank you, Abbess Orellana, but I don’t need an Earth Mage.”
“You do. I would like to be able to reach you with...” Orellana looked about to make sure no one else stood too close. “Privacy ensured.”
Ibarra had plenty of Earth Mages in their message-hub, ready to receive and send messages anywhere within Delaluz. It was required to relay all messages through the hub, to prove you had nothing to hide. To bring in an outside Earth Mage for the express purpose of sending and receiving private messages was an insult.
“Of course you won’t be introducing her as a mage,” Orellana continued. “She’ll be your page.”
“She’ll be my spy,” Sol corrected.
Orellana frowned. “I thought you would appreciate the help. Eloisa, go join the crew at the dirigible. The duke and I have further things to discuss.”
Sol waited for the disguised mage to get out of hearing distance before saying, “I don’t want her along. If anyone in Ibarra learns she’
s an Earth Mage I’ll be tried for treason.”
“No one will discover who she is. She’s fresh out of the Academy, has barely earned her Name and hasn’t stepped foot outside of Roque in her entire life.”
“Great. An untried spy. That’ll work perfectly. I’m more than capable of finding out the truth behind Princess Alegria’s troubles without help.”
The Abbess drew herself up, large bosom thrust forward. “Things have changed since we last spoke. Saint Sevastian has revealed something new to me.”
A chill rolled down Sol’s spine. When the saints spoke, you listened or suffered.
Seeing his protests die, Orellana said, “I’m not certain what it means in terms of Alegria’s petition, but Sevastian has told me the Immortal Soldier is awake.”
“The Immortal Soldier? That’s just a myth. He doesn’t exist.”
Orellana shrugged. “Your saint seems to think he does. Are you going to argue with him?”
“Of course not, but I don’t see how the Immortal Soldier could have anything to do with Alegria’s problem and why it means I need a disguised Earth Mage with me.”
“I don’t see the connection either, but when I asked Sevastian for advice on the matter, this was the answer he gave me. And I want Eloisa with you at all times in case Sevastian decides to reveal more.”
Sol ran his hand over his face, trying to think of a way to keep the Earth Mage out of this. Nothing came to mind. As duke, Sol ruled Roque, but it was the Abbess who had the final say in any decision of importance. He and Orellana had a good relationship, friendly and familiar, but Sol was never allowed to forget he had to bow to her as much as a Nameless commoner.
If Orellana wanted the mage to travel with him, then the mage would travel with him.
Sol resigned himself to the situation. It wasn’t going to be dull, that was for certain.
#
The hard soles of Duke Alamar Antulio Ibarra Madera de Ibarra’s boots rang against the marble floor of Saint Ciro’s cathedral. The highly polished surface reflected his image; tall, lean, full head of dark hair starting to grey at the temples, his jacket of Ciro red tastefully adorned with gold braid and pearl buttons. Above him, the arched ceiling soared three stories high, supported by columns so thick it took four men to circle them with their hands touching. The ceiling was painted with intricate images of Luz, his saints by his side as they discovered the secrets of magic. A dome of stained glass in the centre of the vast chamber let in coloured sunlight. The pews had been removed and a dozen monks worked with mops and cloths to clean the floor. They scattered from Alamar’s path like rodents fleeing a terrier.
Beside the altar, Prior Wilfredo Rufino Briones Montero de Ibarra awaited him.
“Is it done?” Alamar swept past the Prior and headed for a door in the back wall.
“It’s begun.” Briones fell in behind him.
“Begun? I wanted it finished by the time I got here.” He slammed through the door and into a narrow, dimly-lit corridor.
“It is a delicate process, Your Grace. It cannot be rushed. Besides, no one could remember where it was.”
Alamar growled low in his throat. “You couldn’t remember where it was?”
“It has been several generations since it was last released and its exact location is never written down. We had to search most of the catacombs.” The Prior stopped at a door. “This way, Your Grace.”
The room behind the door was empty, barely twelve feet square and unlit. Briones closed the door, blocking out the meagre light of the corridor. Alamar remained where he was in the dark while Briones felt his way along the wall, hands running over the undressed stone until he found the one he was looking for. Pressing on it caused a second door, hidden behind a thin layer of stone, to open up across from Alamar. The space beyond it was dimmer than the first corridor.
“Through here,” Briones said, once again leading the way.
They emerged at the top of a spiral stairwell. Alamar shoved past the Prior and took the steps two at a time, winding his way down, down, down into the ground beneath the cathedral. It grew colder as they went and Briones shivered, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. The stairs ended in a small room as empty as the one above. Briones once more performed the trick to open the secret door and they headed out into another long, shadowed corridor.
This one had doors at regular intervals; sturdy, steel reinforced, locked doors. It was mostly silent, but every now then, there was a moan or cough and once, a woman calling out, demanding to know who passed, crying to be let out, sobbing that she wasn’t a demon.
Alamar ignored her. The mere fact she had broken down indicated she was human, but the inquisition was Morales’ domain and the Abbess would decide who was and wasn’t a demon.
Briones stopped before a door like every other door. Bright light seeped around its edges. The Prior knocked and the door was opened.
Alamar stepped in and took everything in at a glance.
Abbess Nuria Lucila Morales Mesa de Paloma stood beside the door, observing the activity on the far side of the room. She was as tall as Alamar, thin and stiff-backed, with white hair coiled about her head and held in place with gold pins. Her robe was silk, Ciro-red with black embroidery and gold trim. Around her neck was a thick chain holding the ruby-eyed, golden wolf rampant of Ciro and the five pointed star of Luz. Arms crossed, her fingers glittered with rings as she tapped them against her sleeves.
A Dean stood next to her, holding a small book and charcoal pencil poised to take notes. Across the room, three Bone Mages in black robes worked around a table on which a desiccated corpse lay. The mages bent over the naked, shrivelled husk, studying it closely and murmuring to each other. One of them stepped back and took off her black glove.
“Just in time,” the Abbess said softly. “They’re about to begin.”
Alamar bit back a retort about the urgency of the matter.
The Bone Mage, pale hand exposed, closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, gathering her magic.
Alamar tried not to sneer. They shouldn’t be called mages at all. It wasn’t magic. Luz, the Shining Light, had possessed the four magics—Fire, Air, Water and Earth, but not Bone so how could anyone consider it real magic? The strength to wield magic came from the world around them; when a Fire Mage worked, you could feel the heat leave the world, harnessed by the mage. The ground shook when an Earth Mage called on its might, water would flow uphill at the behest of a Water Mage and the winds bent to the will of an Air Mage.
Alamar felt nothing as the Bone Mage worked. That bastard Castillo could rattle on as much as he liked about the magic coming from within but Alamar knew better. Luz had taught his saints and many others the secrets of the four magics he held so Delaluz would be protected from the jealousies of Alarie and the war-madness of Talamh.
Without Fire and Air Mages, there would be no dirigibles for fast travel. Without Earth Mages, they wouldn’t be able to send messages over vast distances in the space of hours, not weeks. Without Water Mages, they wouldn’t be able to irrigate enough land to produce an excess of food crops to be exported. Yet, without Bone Mages, bones would still heal, babies would still be born and the ill would either recover or die, much as they did already.
Bone magic was a fraud. It was a talent, a skill, like weaving fine cloth or baking soft, sweet bread. It wasn’t magic and should never have been sanctioned by the church.
Ready, the Bone Mage turned back to the corpse and laid her left hand on its chest. Alamar watched closely, looking for some sign that magic was being done and found none. There was no change in the atmosphere of the room, no charge running down his back, no prickling of hairs on his arms. Nothing.
After what seemed like hours, the Bone Mage sagged against the table. One of the other mages caught her and led her to a corner. The exhausted mage curled up, face covered in a sheen of sweat, trembling as she fumbled with her glove, covering her pale hand.
The second Bone Mage took the first
one’s place, his hand on the chest of the corpse. A long time passed in silence and this time, Alamar saw a change. It was minute but once noticed it couldn’t be ignored. The corpse was taking on substance, beginning to flesh out. Grey, papery skin faded until it was almost translucent and the shape of decayed muscles could be seen beneath it. The first movement was here, blood flowing, purple under the new pink-flushed skin.
Then it breathed. A sudden, rasping gasp through dried, cracked lips peeled back from black teeth. The hollow chest heaved, ribs creaking. It expelled the air as a cloud of dust as the mage working on it collapsed.
“Three may not be enough,” Briones murmured to Morales as the remaining mage took over.
“They have done much already,” the Abbess said confidently. “I’m sure this one will finish the job.”
“She better,” Alamar snapped. “We can’t delay any longer.”
“Calm yourself, Duke Ibarra.” Morales laid a hand on his arm. “The situation is not as dire as you think it is.”
“Not as dire as I think it is?” Alamar ground his teeth together. As much as Morales thought otherwise, she didn’t know everything. “If the boy dies down there I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The Abbess looked at him steadily. “He won’t die, Alamar. My investigator sent word this morning that he boarded a troop carrier bound for Negron Battalion. Quiet now, the mage is about to finish.”
Negron Battalion. Where Castillo had washed up, where he continued to be the same conceited, self-righteous bastard Alamar was punishing him for being. According to Captain Meraz’s report, the Bone Mage was making a show of saving every wounded soldier, no matter how grievously injured. Alamar had no doubt it was a conscious rebellion on Castillo’s part. What was it he’d said when confronted with Morales’ accusations? It’s my duty to save every life I possibly can, even if I have to damn myself to do it. It galled Alamar that the future of Delaluz might come to rest in Castillo’s black-gloved hand.
Dead Bones Page 6
