***
Alyneri woke to a brilliant dawn, such a contrast from the fog-dampened evening of the night before. From their campsite, they had a clear view of the city of Chalons-en-Les Trois across a distant valley where the Mondes River had carved through the cliffs to create a passage called the Eidenvale. The Glass River of Acacia was a tributary of the Mondes, and had they sailed from Acacia’s river port they would have long ago reached Chalons-en-Les Trois. It was a foregone understanding that they would stay the next night in the city, however, for there was no other way through the arm of the mountains into the bosom of Veneisea save to follow them two hundred miles west to the coast.
It was late afternoon when they arrived in Chalons-en-Les Trois, once again traveling under the guise of Alyneri’s pilgrimage to Jeune. She was anxious to find an inn, and the closer they drew to the city the more restless she became. More even than the comforts of civilization, Alyneri craved solitude. She needed time alone with her thoughts, time to reflect on what she’d been through, time to heal her own wounds. Watching Ean those past few days had nearly broken her heart, and though he’d seemed in better spirits that morning, she knew he was still tormented.
What had he done to that Marquiin?
For that matter, how had Tanis avoided Bethamin’s Fire? The lad had told her all about his experience with the poor boy Piper, though the knowledge had only scared her more after the fact. Tanis had reassured her that he was fine, that the Marquiin’s power hadn’t harmed him, that he felt no different; and indeed, he seemed completely fine when she’d placed her hands upon him—which she’d done every morning since leaving Acacia, just to be sure there weren’t any latent effects. But young Tanis seemed well and truly…himself. It was as if the terrible power had never even touched him.
She’d never heard of any Truthreader being immune to Bethamin’s malignant power. So how had Tanis escaped its effects?
They reached the city as a long procession of farmers were driving their livestock home from the markets, and they waited in line behind several merchants while a guard at the gates inspected papers.
When at last it was their turn and the guard asked for their papers, Bastian replied in cultured Veneisean, “This is the party of the Duchess d’Giverny, Healer to the Crown of Dannym, on her virgin pilgrimage to Jeune. We intend to stay the night in town and replenish our supplies before continuing south in the morn.”
“The Duchess d’Giverny, did you say?” asked another soldier, who emerged from a door leading deep within the walls while the first soldier was looking over the papers Bastian had handed him.
“So it seems to be,” answered the first soldier in his native tongue. He handed the papers to the second guard, who might’ve been a commander from the gold seal upon his chest.
The latter was older, and more heavily bearded, seeming more like Rhys than Bastian in voice and stature. He looked over the papers and said in the common tongue, his accent thick, “Well zeese all look in ordair.” He handed them back to Bastian, who returned the papers inside his coat. Alyneri thought he was certain to let them through when he surprised her by saying, “’Owevair, I ’ave ordairs to bring ze Duchess d’Giverny and her party straight to ze Comte d’Ornay.”
He snapped his fingers, and a guard ran up with his horse. As he swung into his saddle, a host of mounted guards appeared just beyond the wall, waiting for them.
“Is le comte another of your pleased patrons, Your Grace?” Fynn posed mildly, but his eyes were hard.
Alyneri shook her head and pressed her lips together tightly. She’d never met the comte d’Ornay and had no idea why he was requiring her presence. “Perhaps he’s in need of a Healer,” she whispered back.
Fynn arched brows skeptically as he watched the city guard fall in around them, a mounted escort of twenty men.
The chateau of the comte d’Ornay was on the eastern edge of the city along the wall of the Eidenvale. Statues in the chateau’s stepped gardens were bathed in the red-gold light of sunset as their horses climbed the switchback road to the chateau’s walls. The commander spoke in brisk Veneisean to the guards inside the wrought-iron gates, and the latter signaled to his men to open them quickly. The commander then turned to Her Grace. “I bid you adieu, Madame la Duchesse d’Giverny.”
With that, he made a sign to his men, and they spun their horses around and cantered back down the long, twisting road.
“Entrez, Madame la duchesse,” said the guard at the gates, sweeping his arm to bid them enter. Still confused and more than a little concerned, Alyneri nudged her mare through, and the others followed. A host of stewards in le comte’s livery took their horses as she dismounted in the yard.
“Bonsoir, Your Grace. Bonsoir, my Lord Captain!” greeted a man coming down the long, many-tiered stone steps that led up to the manse. Unlike the commander of the city guard, he spoke with no accent at all. “I am Antoine, Chamberlain of Ville La Chesnaye. If you would please follow me, all of your things will be brought up for you. Le comte has ordered refreshments and arranged for any comfort you may desire.”
“Monsieur Antoine,” Alyneri replied as he neared, “I confess my confusion. I have never met le comte, and while I am most grateful for his offer of hospitality, I am on a pilgrimage to Jeune—”
“Respectfully, Your Grace,” Antoine interrupted with a polite smile that said she was wasting her breath asking questions of him, “if you would come with me, I feel assured that all things will be explained in due time.”
Defeated, Alyneri forced a smile in return. “Of course.”
They followed the indubitable Antoine up the long stone staircase, which twisted and twined through the stepped gardens fronting the manse. Alyneri thought it a cruel torment to make her climb all those steps after such a long day of travel, but she admitted the view was incomparable.
The company was met in the grand entry hall by the assembled staff. Preeminent among them was a blonde woman who stood to the side dressed in a high-necked gown of green and gold, its cut much in the fashion of Queen Indora’s court.
Upon their entry, Antoine announced, “Madame la Duchesse d’Giverny et son entourage.”
The staff curtsied or bowed, all save the blonde woman, who nodded her head politely. Then a thin woman, whose lined face and black eyes looked drawn from a charcoal nib, stepped forward.
“Your Grace, may I present Madame Gilles-Laroque, the gouvernante of Ville La Chesnaye,” said Antoine. “She will show you to your suite and provide for your needs. His Lordship is in chambers at present but invites you to dine with his household this evening. Of course, your ward is also welcome at table.” He turned to Rhys. “Lord Captain, his Lordship extends you an invitation, but he requests that your men dine with his guard and promises they will not want for hospitality there.”
Rhys just grunted.
Alyneri was beginning to feel light-headed and remembered why she misliked Veneisea—already she felt choked by all the pretension. She darted a glance at Fynn, but the royal cousin shook his head almost imperceptibly. Feeling abandoned, Alyneri put on a brave smile. “Merci, Monsieur Antoine. I am most grateful for your assistance. Please inform the comte that Tanis and I will happily accept his invitation to dinner.”
Alyneri fought the urge to look over her shoulder regretfully as she was led away from her companions. She dared not look at Ean lest she draw undue attention to him, though she wished more than anything to know how he was doing. For all that she’d longed for solitude not an hour past, now she feared to let her friends leave her sight. Were they not traveling under such dire secrecy, the offer to stay in a foreign noble’s home would have been a true windfall, but Alyneri feared so much for Ean’s safety that no boon could be received without suspicion.
She managed the appropriate compliments for the rooms she was given, though she could tell from the housekeeper’s pinched frown that she thought Alyneri not nearly admiring enough and no doubt believed her conceited and snobbish simply because she
was a duchess in a mere count’s ‘humble’ home—never mind that Alyneri was wont to do her own laundry if she could get away with it.
She was relieved to take a bath, however, and she admitted it was nice to have the chambermaids present to scrub her back and wash her hair; nor did she mind at all the service of tea and biscuits set out for her, or the scented oils the maids massaged her with before wrapping her in a lush velvet robe. It wasn’t even unpleasant to let them brush her hair and braid it in the Veneisean fashion. In fact, everything was quite agreeable considering she’d all but been taken hostage by le comte.
Alyneri knew she would’ve been treated with a tad bit more deference—to put it mildly—if her title had actually set her in line for the throne of Dannym, or if her ‘betrothal’ to Ean was more than rumor. Not that she desired either; all she wanted was an explanation from the comte.
Imagine how it must feel to Ean, she suddenly thought as the maids continued readying her for dinner. To be the target of so many without understanding at all…to be forced to flee his home…to see poor Creighton—Epiphany bless and keep him—slain before his eyes, and all without any explanation!
It was quite a humbling realization.
The maids had pressed all the wrinkles from her burgundy and gold brocade gown by the time she was ready to dress for dinner. It was a strange sensation just to feel clean after so many days on the road, much less to be dressed so lavishly again.
When it was time for the meal, Alyneri followed a page to the dining room. Tanis was already seated further down the long table, but he seemed happy talking to another boy close to his age. The steward pulled out a high-backed chair for Alyneri, and she murmured her thanks as she sat. As the steward was placing a napkin in her lap, a woman said from her left, “Bonsoir, Your Grace.”
Alyneri had barely noticed the other woman, she was so entrapped in her own net of fears and worries. What must these people think of me? Alyneri glanced her way with an apologetic look, realizing it was the same blonde woman in the green dress who she’d noticed upon arrival. “I’m so sorry, I was…worried for my ward. But I see he is fine.”
“He speaks with the young Truthreader, Alain, a nephew of the comte who is visiting from Tregarion.”
“Oh!” Alyneri brightened. It would be good for Tanis to have another Truthreader his own age to converse with.
“And I have heard of you, duchess, though I believe we’ve never met,” the woman continued. She had the barest accent, though it didn’t quite seem Veneisean in origin. “I am Sandrine du Préc.”
“Oh,” Alyneri said again, the surprise evident in her tone.
Sandrine smiled slightly. “And I can see that you have heard of me, also.”
“Only good things,” Alyneri assured her. “I am acquainted with your cousin, the Marchioness of Wynne.”
“Indeed,” Sandrine smiled again. Though she was perhaps nearing forty, she had the same sort of beauty as her cousin Ianthe: the cold, calculating kind. Around her neck she wore a charm depicting the Veneisean goddess of Temperance, clearly her patron virtue. “Come to think of it,” Sandrine continued, “Ianthe may have mentioned you in a letter recently.”
Feeling her breath coming faster, Alyneri pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh?”
“Something about a recent betrothal, if memory serves.” Sandrine settled blue eyes on Alyneri and smiled, though the two parts of her face seemed completely divorced of each other—the eyes saying one thing while the smile conveyed another, neither of them particularly reassuring. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
“Please…call me Alyneri.” She swallowed and forced a smile. “It’s…not official, of course. The betrothal. Not until I’ve completed my pilgrimage.”
“Ianthe seemed to think you would not relish marrying Prince Ean, but you seem pleased by the distinction.”
Alyneri managed a little laugh to cover her dismay at the entire conversation. “I…why how could I feel anything but blessed to be promised the hand of Ean val Lorian?”
Sandrine eyed her over the rim of her crystal goblet. “However indeed,” she murmured into her wine.
“And what brings you to Chalons-en-Les Trois, Sandrine?” Alyneri inquired, hoping to turn the conversation away from her personal affairs. “Ianthe said you were serving in Queen Indora’s court.”
“I attend the comte’s wife, Claire, who is expecting twins any day,” Sandrine said as she set down her goblet. “It is the comtesse’s fourth pregnancy, and the queen is concerned for her health. She is a great-niece of Her Majesty, the daughter of a favored nephew.”
It was then that the comte arrived. He was not a handsome man, with a jutting nose and a chin too small for his face, but his brown eyes were kind. He greeted his guests politely in his native tongue, and then invited everyone to begin. Thus the meal was served, and Alyneri still had no idea why the Comte d’Ornay had required her presence.
The comte carried on a conversation with those closest to him, but Alyneri was five seats away. While the rest of the table conversed among themselves, Alyneri felt a strained silence growing with Sandrine. She searched for anything nice to say to the woman, and came up with a question. “Sandrine,” she said as the soup course was being cleared away to make room for the next, “might I ask a question of you?”
“Certainly,” allowed the older woman.
“Ianthe mentioned that you once saved a man from the poison of a Valdère viper.”
Sandrine looked pleased that Alyneri knew of her accomplishments, but she affected an air of humility as she answered, “Indeed, it is so.”
Alyneri hadn’t considered what else she would say until she heard the words rushing out of her mouth. “Is it something you could teach me?”
Sandrine’s blue eyes widened. “Why, it would be my pleasure, Alyneri.”
They conversed more easily after that, but still Alyneri was grateful when the meal ended and the comte at last called for audience with her.
She met him in a gallery filled with paintings of women in compromising positions and only then remembered that Veneisean propriety reigned in the public rooms while in private, all manner of indecencies cavorted. Alyneri never could abide the way Veneisean women were expected to follow the Cardinal Virtues to the letter while the men seemed to emulate only the vices. If the Cardinal Virtues were the hinges upon which hung the door of the moral life, Veneisean men seemed content to stay forever on the other side of it.
“Please, Your Grace,” the comte invited Alyneri to sit upon a divan as he walked to a sideboard and poured a liqueur into two tiny crystal glasses. “And to finish our meal, my special apricot brandy, which I feel certain you will enjoy.” He handed her a glass and sat down on the cushion slightly too close for Alyneri’s comfort. She shifted her feet, which allowed her to move her knee out of his reach.
The comte smiled faintly. “I am so sorry to have detained you and to have made you wait so long for explanation, but I had many guests arriving tonight who required my audience. The truth is, Your Grace, I was asked to look out for your welfare, considering the current problems in Jeune.”
Alyneri shook her head. “What problems?”
“The city is closed. Three Healers have gone missing, not to mention the High Priestess’s own son—who was not an Adept—and no one is allowed in or out of Jeune until the Queen’s Inspectors finish their investigation.”
Alyneri frowned. “I appreciate your concern, my lord. But…if I may ask…how did you know I was coming?”
The comte gave her a slightly pained smile. “My wife received a letter from Queen Errodan’s Companion. She informed us you were on a pilgrimage and would necessarily pass through Chalons-en-Les Trois—for all roads pass through Chalons-en-Les Trois, no?” he added proudly, as if he had somehow orchestrated the Mondes’ carving out of the Eidenvale. “My wife Claire entreated me to alert you to the problems in Jeune. I’m afraid the destination is quite out of the question now.”
“Very well.”
Alyneri managed a smile, though the man was starting to unnerve her the way he kept sliding closer on the settee. She sipped her brandy and was surprised to find that it was quite good, if a little strong for her head after the wine at dinner. “I suppose I must go to the Temple of the Vestals in Cair Rethynnea then.” The pilgrimage to Jeune was just a pretext anyway.
The comte considered her as he drank his brandy. “Things are worse in the Cairs, I’m afraid,” he said then. “Rumors abound of the missing. Many Adepts are fleeing the Free Cities altogether. ’Tis a dangerous time indeed for pretty young Healers to be about the realm.”
Alyneri shifted to avoid his hand reaching for her shoulder and forced a smile, though she felt fluttery and discomfited by his news as much as being alone with him. “You are too kind, my lord,” she managed, “and your lady wife. I truly appreciate such concern for my welfare, but I really must insist. A pilgrimage is not a thing to embark upon lightly, and I would be remiss did I allow myself to be diverted from my promised task out of cowardice or self-preservation.”
A crestfallen look crossed le comte’s features, but it quickly left, prey to his insistence. “Surely you might linger a few days to partake of my hospitality and meet my wife?” he asked, slipping closer again. “Claire is due any day, and having a Healer such as yourself in residence would…ease my fears for her.”
“Sandrine is a renowned Healer, comte,” Alyneri pointed out. She inched back on the settee, only to realize there was no more cushion to support her. She got quickly to her feet and set down her glass on a near table.
Outrun, le comte sat back dejectedly. “Yes, but she doesn’t really like my wife,” he admitted with unexpected candor. “I’ve no doubt Sandrine will fulfill her service to our queen, but would she extend herself beyond mere duty to save my Claire?”
His eyes were so sincere in the appeal, his love for his wife so apparent—even if in conflict with his advances toward herself—that Alyneri felt a sudden compassion welling. She didn’t understand Veneisean men, who claimed to love their wives yet made passes at anything that swayed when it moved, but it was clear that le comte did care for Claire. How could she deny him her help? “I must…I must consult with the Lord Captain on the timing of our journey,” she replied and added hesitantly, “…but I will ask if we might stay a few days.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 68
