“Show me everything that has Penelope Rainstone and either Baron or Lady Wintervale,” Iolanthe asked the help desk.
On the day she had revealed her powers, Master Haywood had put her into a portal trunk. She had been transported to its twin, located in the attic of the Wintervales’ residence in Exile, in a fashionable part of London. Which meant there must be some connection between Commander Rainstone and the Wintervales.
And which was confirmed by an image of Commander Rainstone posing for a picture with Baron Wintervale, who had been the one to give her the distinguished graduate award she had received at the end of her studies at the Titus the Great Center of Martial Learning.
Iolanthe rubbed her temples. All the pieces she found were useful, of course. But none of them took her anyplace definite.
“No progress?” said the prince from across the table. He had been been helping her with her search for the past hour, once he returned from his mysterious purpose in France.
She blew out a breath. “It’s so hard to find . . .” She trailed off. The light of excitement on his face—he had unearthed something useful. “What do you have?”
“The second time my mother saw a vision about me, standing on the balcony, she mentioned someone named Eirene, who lost her trust by reading her diary without her permission.”
Iolanthe had a very vague recollection of it. She had not read those visions under optimal conditions.
“I just asked the help desk for anything that mentioned both Commander Rainstone and Eirene,” Titus went on. “And this is what I found.”
“This” was a different interview young Penelope Rainstone gave, also around the time of her being named an outstanding graduate from the officers’ school, but to the student newspaper of her old academy, located in a less affluent area of Delamer.
Titus pointed at a specific paragraph.
Q: Do you have a nickname?
A: Some of my friends call me Eirene, for fun. Eirene is the goddess of peace, but I study the art of war.
Iolanthe’s fingertips prickled. What she did remember from reading Princess Ariadne’s visions was that the first time it had been seen on the day of the prince’s birth, and the second time, in the hours immediately preceding Iolanthe’s birth.
“Do you remember what your mother was doing the second time she saw the vision?”
“Yes,” said Titus. “She was at someone else’s confinement.”
At Eirene’s confinement. And Eirene had read her diary, some vision which probably made no sense to Princess Ariadne, but which Eirene had recognized as being about herself and her child, and which had led her to go to such extremes to ensure that her child would not be found by Atlantis.
And Eirene was Commander Rainstone.
“I checked,” said Titus. “At that time Penelope Rainstone had been on my mother’s personal staff, but within weeks was reassigned to the Citadel’s general staff: she had lost my mother’s trust.”
It felt strangely disheartening to hear this of Commander Rainstone. Iolanthe supposed it was because she still couldn’t quite connect Commander Rainstone to the faithless memory keeper.
“Commander Rainstone has no children. She would have had to disguise an entire pregnancy. And if she passed off her own child as Iolanthe Seabourne, what would she have done with the Seabournes’ baby, the real Iolanthe Seabourne?”
“It has been done before, a woman hiding a pregnancy from everyone. And she could have found foster parents for the baby.”
The real Iolanthe Seabourne had been born at the Royal Hesperia Hospital, near the end of September. Her birth had been two and a half months premature. For weeks she remained at the hospital, her anxious parents visiting every day and staying as long as they could.
At the end of one particular visit, driving home in a borrowed chariot, they had collided in midair with a much larger vehicle full of drunken tourists. According to Master Haywood, both Jason and Delphine Seabourne had died instantly.
On the fateful night of the meteor storm, the real Iolanthe Seabourne had been six weeks old, but would have easily passed for a newborn. And a switch had taken place. She had gone . . . somewhere. And Commander Rainstone’s baby had been brought up by Master Haywood as Iolanthe Seabourne.
Titus was before the help desk again.
“What are you getting?”
“Records from the Royal Hesperia Hospital around that time.” He scanned various volumes. “Nothing about a Rainstone giving birth. Someone, however, did pay for the hospital’s best maternity suite and request complete anonymity. That expectant mother did not even use the hospital’s staff. But listen to this, half an hour after the baby was born, it was taken to the nursery, and not brought back to the mother until several hours later, at dawn.”
When it was brought back, it was no longer the same baby.
“And your guardian visited the hospital at the same time.”
Titus pushed a thick book of visitors’ logs at Iolanthe. She flipped through it, the sound of pages turning unnaturally loud in her ears.
Master Haywood had first visited the hospital’s nursery in September, shortly after the real Iolanthe Seabourne was born. In subsequent days he came frequently, his reason for visit always “To take the parents’ place so they may have some rest.” After the Seabournes died, he still came several times a week, to “Look in on my friends’ orphaned daughter.”
At which point did he begin to conspire with Penelope Rainstone to plan a switch? Penelope Rainstone, who had learned what would happen to her own child because she snooped inside Princess Ariadne’s diary of visions? Had he mentioned in passing that there was an orphan girl at the hospital, one who was about to be entrusted to the care of an elderly relative who had never seen her before? Did the inspiration grow from there?
The last time Master Haywood visited the hospital was on the night of the meteor storm. He had signed in at seven o’clock in the evening and signed out an hour later. Next to the entry, however, there was a note from the hospital’s administrative staff: he had been found by security at half past three in the morning and escorted from the premises.
But he would have had enough time for the switch.
“I want to speak to Lady Wintervale,” Iolanthe said.
When she had arrived in the attic of the Wintervale house in London, Lady Wintervale had nearly killed her. Not because she thought Iolanthe an intruder, but because she held Iolanthe responsible for someone’s loss of honor.
Iolanthe had escaped convinced that Lady Wintervale was completely mad. But now that she knew Lady Wintervale was mostly lucid and only occasionally unstable, she saw Lady Wintervale’s words in a different light.
“It is not a bad idea—she could know more than we think,” said Titus. “I will come with you.”
Five minutes later, they were inside the sitting room at Windsor Castle where Lady Wintervale had first brought Iolanthe. “Toujours fier,” said Iolanthe.
They did not have to wait long before the door of the sitting room opened and in came Lady Wintervale. At the sight of the prince, she bowed.
“My lady, have a seat,” said Titus.
“Thank you, Your Highness. Shall I ring for tea?”
“No, that would not be necessary. We would be glad if you could answer a few questions for my friend.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” said Lady Wintervale.
“Can you tell me, my lady,” said Iolanthe, “why I was translocated to your house, when I left the Domain?”
“You are my late husband’s illegitimate daughter,” Lady Wintervale said calmly, “and he had promised to protect and look after you, should the need arise.”
A gong went off in Iolanthe’s head. Titus looked almost as flabbergasted.
Her lips opened and closed several times before she managed to make a sound. “I am Baron Wintervale’s child?”
“Yes.”
On his deathbed he asked me to swear a blood oath that I would protect you as I w
ould my own child, Lady Wintervale had once told her. She should have guessed then. For who else would a man ask this, if not his own child?
“And—” Iolanthe’s voice seemed to echo in her own head. “And you know who my mother is, too?”
“Of course. But I do not speak that woman’s name.”
“So . . . they had an affair?”
Iolanthe could have kicked herself, as soon as the question left her lips. Of course they’d had an affair.
“Yes, an affair of long standing. It continued even into his Exile—they used to rendezvous at Claridges’, in London.”
“Is she also an Exile?” That would mean the memory keeper was someone other than Commander Rainstone.
“No, she was never an Exile—she was too clever to be mixed up in the rebellion. When Atlantis restricted all the instantaneous modes of travel, she managed to have some loopholes made just for herself. So it was not difficult for her to slip away for an afternoon and meet him.”
For you he gave up his honor, Lady Wintervale had once said to Iolanthe. For you he destroyed us all. “Was that why you said I cause him to lose his honor?”
Lady Wintervale raised her chin a fraction of an inch. And suddenly she was no longer the frail-looking Exile, but a mage of great dignity and power. “I married my husband knowing full well that he was never going to be faithful to one woman. But at that time I believed him to have the markings of greatness and I was proud to be his wife.
“But alas, I was deceived. At the end of the January Uprising, when the outcome became clear, Baroness Sorren had the courage of her conviction to face execution, but he could not bear the thought of losing his life.
“He needed to live, he convinced himself, because you, his daughter, would someday be the greatest elemental mage on earth, and must be protected from the forces of Atlantis—though why Atlantis would be you I never fully understood. He had awakened from a nightmare, you see, screaming in fright of the judgment of the Angels. The story spilled from his lips. But after a while I became incapable of hearing properly, because it dawned on me what he was telling me: he had given my cousin to Atlantis in exchange for his own life.”
Titus rose to his feet, his face deathly pale. Understanding hit Iolanthe like a mallet to the temple: the cousin Lady Wintervale was talking about was none other than Princess Ariadne, Titus’s mother. And Baron Wintervale, the hero of the rebellion, had been the one who betray her.
“Why did you never tell me?” His voice was hoarse.
“For Leander’s sake, I kept it a secret. I never wanted Lee to know that his father had been such a faithless coward.” She smiled a little, a strange, hollow smile. “But fear not, Your Highness. I avenged your mother.”
He shook his head. “Atlantis put the execution curse on him.”
“No, Your Highness, it was me. I could not suffer him to live after that. He did not try to stop me, but asked that I swear a blood oath to look after his daughter as if she were my own flesh and blood. I did no such thing; I only finished him.”
Lady Wintervale clenched and unclenched her hands. “Murder, it changes a person. I’d always been a bit high-strung, but after that, sometimes I . . . I . . .” Stiffly, she rose from her chair. “I hope I have answered all the questions to your satisfaction, sire.”
Titus’s jaw moved. “Thank you, my lady. Is there any messages you’d like us to take back to your son? He would be much relieved to know you are safe and well.”
“No.” Her answer was adamant. “He must not know that I am here.”
“But he has become more tight-lipped. Would you not agree, prince?” said Iolanthe. “I hardly think that—”
“Young lady, you will allow me to know best what to do in this case,” Lady Wintervale cut her off. She bowed again to Titus. “Your Highness.”
After the door closed behind Lady Wintervale, neither Titus nor Iolanthe said anything for a minute. And then, at almost the exact moment, they turned to each other and came together in a tight embrace. Iolanthe wasn’t sure whether he was comforting her, or vice versa. Most likely both.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am fine,” he answered, dropping his head into the crook of her shoulder. “Strange, is it not? I have always wanted to avenge my mother. But now that she has already been avenged, I wish it has not
been at the cost of a father for Wintervale—and a father for you.”
“And Lady Wintervale’s peace of mind, forever destroyed.” She sighed. “I don’t think I can ever see Baron Wintervale as my father.”
“It might be easier after your suppressed memories resurface,” he reminded her.
She was silent for a minute. “Does it bother you, that my father is responsible for your mother’s death?”
He shook his head. “I am the grandson of a man who murdered his daughter—far be it for me to judge anyone on their bloodline. Besides . . . ”
His voice trailed off.
“What were you going to say?” she ran her fingers through his hair.
He took a deep breath. “That it has long been my suspicion that my father is Sihar.”
She went still. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent sure, no. And yet all sorts of gossip sleuths and investigative reporters, with all the resources at their disposal and promises of great reward—everyone wanted to know the identity of the man who had fathered the next heir to the throne—came up empty in their quests.
“This tells me that my grandfather was involved in some way. The House of Elberon is nothing of what it once was, but within the Domain, it is still a force to be reckoned with. And if my grandfather wanted to silence witnesses, he had his means.
“The citizenry of the Domain enjoy trotting out the number and relatively unmolested existence of the Sihar as a sign of their enlightened attitudes. But the truth is that the Sihar are pariahs in the Domain, just as they are elsewhere. And my grandfather would never have allowed even a breath of insinuation that his daughter and heir might have taken up with a Sihar.”
Iolanthe’s schoolbooks had strenuously emphasized that blood magic, which the Sihar specialized in, was not sacrificial magic—and that the Sihar had been unfairly ostracized throughout history, an easy scapegoat whenever things went wrong and people wished to point fingers as to who had incurred the wrath of the Angels.
Despite the official insistence, the Sihar were still the Others. Refugees from the Frankish realms, the Subcontinental realms, and the sub-Saharan realms had all become assimilated—she’d gone to school and made friends with their children. But the Sihars, although she’d stopped to listen to Sihar street musicians, bought cream cakes from Sihar bakeries and once, when she still lived in Delamer, watched a Sihar midsummer procession down Palace Avenue, a celebration that marked their new year and high holiday, she had never visited the home of a Sihar, never met a Sihar at school, and never known Master Haywood to have any Sihar colleagues—at least, no one who admitted it.
Until the Master of the Domain.
She cupped his face. “You are still you. Nothing has changed.”
He gazed at her a moment. “The same goes for you, remember that. For me, you are—and always will be—everything worth living for.”
And for me, you are—and and always will be—everything worth fighting for.
She did not say the words, she only pulled him close and kissed him.
Wintervale was on his cot, as usual, propped up on a pile of pillows. He smiled slightly as Iolanthe walked in. “Fairfax, old chap, come to see the patient? Where is His Highness?”
“Probably in the baths, scrubbing his princely hide.” Or, more likely, in Paris, on his mysterious business, which Iolanthe suspected to have something to do with Wintervale’s condition. Paris hosted one of the largest Exile communities in the world, with a mage population bigger than that of some smaller realms. And she had heard good things about the reputation of its mage physicians. “And how are you?”
&nbs
p; Wintervale shrugged. “Could be worse, I suppose, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
He had several book next to him on the cot and the sight of them rather saddened her: Wintervale preferred vigorous activity to activities that required him to sit still for long periods of time.
“Are the books any good?”
He shrugged again. “They help time pass.”
He had become paler, from being indoors so much. And pudgier—that big, athletic build beginning to lose its muscularity from the lack of exercise, or even movement.
“If I were a better card player I’d play with you—except I don’t think you care that much for cards either.”
“No, never saw the point of them,” he said, tapping his fingers on the top of a thick, red leather-bound book.
She studied his face. Did he look anything like her? If his mother was correct, then he was her half-brother. But try as she did, she could not see any of her own features in him.
A drop of blood from Wintervale, that was what she needed. A drop of blood from him, a drop of blood from her, and Titus would be able to let her know whether she and Wintervale were truly related.
But one couldn’t simply go up to a mage and ask for a drop of blood. The stigma of blood magic ran deep and most mages guarded their blood as they would their lives.
“You think you can ask Titus to walk me down to supper tonight?” Wintervale asked.
The plaintiveness in his voice made her feel guilty: if it weren’t for her, Wintervale would most likely have Titus’s complete and undivided attention.
“If I see him before supper, I’ll let him know.”
“I wonder why Titus is so busy all the time,” muttered Wintervale.
No, she thought. She could not see him as a brother. At least, not yet. Perhaps someday, if they were able to work together toward the same goal . . .
The door opened and in walked Kashkari. “Fairfax,” he said, a little surprised. “Are you walking Wintervale down to supper?”
“I would if he wants me to. But I think Wintervale has his heart set on the prince—as any right-thinking man would,” she said, slipping past Kashkari. “Off I go to find your prince for you, Wintervale.”
The Perilous Sea Page 21
