The mage closed his eyes, in pain. “Oh, Mother of All.”
There had been no surprise, or hostility, or dismay, or satisfaction—none of the reactions Fejelis would have expected in an enemy hearing his intent divined. He knew he should not be overconfident of his interpretation, but he could think of nothing else that fitted. And as for overconfidence in his perceptions—were it not for Tam, he would be twice dead. He had heard the mage vigilant protest her helplessness while he lay in Tam’s arms. The wound itself might have been mortal. Tam had healed it, and wiped the blood from Fejelis’s face, and called him by his dead brother’s name.
If you’ve looked your hardest, trust what you see, his father had told him, on more than one occasion.
“. . . Was it with the Temple’s leave that you attempted to bind this mage?” Fejelis said.
“No,” Tam said. “It’s not . . . Lukfer thinks it would be dangerous for me, for the other sports, if the Temple mages knew that we knew this magic existed. As best Lukfer can tell, the ability to sense and use it was lost to the lineages about five hundred years ago.”
“. . . Five hundred . . .” About the time the Lightborn ceded the Borders entirely to the Darkborn. “But the Darkborn can—you can. Lukfer . . .” He saw, then, the connection. “All sports.”
“Yes.”
“. . . This may—change a great deal,” Fejelis said, a weak expression of possibilities beyond his prosaic imagination. “It may be the basis of a true challenge to the mages’ hegemony. It may also be the spark to tinder of all the resentments.” What he could imagine terrified him.
He drew a deep breath. “. . . We cannot let Sejanus Plantageter die,” he said. “We need him, not a regency council run by Kalamay and Mycene. . . . I am putting you under contract—we will have to find language that would stand up to challenge without being too specific—to find a way to prevent his death that does not violate the compact. If at all possible.”
“The Darkborn mage—might,” Tam said. “But I don’t know if she—”
“. . . Be persuasive,” Fejelis said, grimly.
Telmaine
She was aware of nothing outside herself, nothing but the need to tamp her terrible magic down, bind it within her skin. People spoke around and to her and she did not acknowledge them; they touched her and she winced away from their consternation and worry. Intermittently, she felt a hovering awareness, sensed a half-voiced mental whisper,
“And she has been like this since—”
“Since we brought her back from the ballroom.”
Sonn stroked her, a harsh intrusive touch. Her fingers sought a veil that was not there, found only tangled and uncombed hair.
“Mrs. Hearne”—Sachevar Mycene’s voice—“do you know who was responsible for what happened in the ballroom?”
I was, tried to start out of her mouth. Her hand slid down her cheek and found her lips, sealing them.
“If you please, my lord duke”—that was Merivan—“my sister is Lady Telmaine Stott by birth.”
“Madam, I am trying to get answers.”
“My lord, my sister is in deep shock. Her closest friend was killed in front of her; we brought her back here with her clothes soaked in Lady Sylvide’s blood.”
The words evoked the sticky warmth of it, the iron stink. Telmaine retched into her hands, though there was little to bring up but bile. Mycene swiftly stood and stepped away, and the maid bent over her. Her touch was unsettling, the tumble of arcane symbols replaced by suspicion and fear of the men, protectiveness of Telmaine, worry for herself.
“Please,” Merivan said, “leave my poor sister to rest.”
The intruders retreated, their voices withdrawing into the next room. “My lady, Lord Vladimer accuses Lady Telmaine of being responsible for this catastrophe. He claims he was aiming at her, not Lady Sylvide.”
“How utterly extraordinary,” Merivan said, in fluting skepticism. “Why ever should Lord Vladimer do that?”
Another voice, Malachi Plantageter’s. “Lady Erskane, someone or something caused materials in that room to ignite, causing injuries to over two dozen people, including the archduke.”
I’m so sorry, Telmaine’s lips shaped.
“I am well aware of that, gentlemen, as my own burns attest. If you have an actual accusation to make, do so, and let me deny it on my sister’s behalf.”
Malachi Plantageter said wearily, “Lady Merivan, several days ago, a part of the Rivermarch burned down in daylight, killing hundreds. Three days ago, four men died in a warehouse blaze that started so suddenly and burned so fiercely that they had no chance to escape. Lady Telmaine admits to having been on the scene at the time the fire began, rescuing her daughter. Lord Vladimer and Lady Telmaine arrived in Bolingbroke Station two evenings ago, and the train they had arrived in burst into flame. This evening the archduke and others were injured by fire. Immediately prior to that, Lady Telmaine showed signs of great distress. She was heard to cry out, ‘No,’ and ‘Leave me alone.’ When I examined the damage, it was apparent that the damage and the injury centered around herself and the unfortunate Lady Sylvide, who were the only people in that part of the room completely untouched.”
“Your sister”—that was Kalamay—“was also keeping company with Ishmael di Studier.”
“My lords,” Merivan said, coolly, “you cannot persuade me that my poor sister has been guilty of anything other than ill-chosen company and being the victim of her husband’s ill-considered decisions.”
Telmaine made a low sound in her throat, too low to carry.
“But as soon as Lady Telmaine becomes capable of talking, I will ensure she speaks to you. In the meantime, I wish you well in finding those truly responsible.”
“Lady Erskane,” Mycene said, “what is your sister’s relationship with—” The sound was abruptly pinched off. Telmaine’s head came up; her sonn caught the maid with her hand on the door. The maid snatched her hand away from the door handle. She tiptoed back to Telmaine, bending to breathe, “M’lady?” Telmaine ignored her, listening with her skin.
Merivan was saying, “. . . no more of a relationship with the Lightborn than you or I.”
“Mistress White Hand, a member of the Lightborn court, is in custody here in the archducal palace. She was granted sanctuary last night by Lord Vladimer, as she was being hunted by the Palace Vigilance under suspicion of having had a part in the death of the prince.”
“And what,” Merivan said, “has that to do with Telmaine?”
“Mistress White Hand is a known acquaintance of Balthasar Hearne. Lady Telmaine visited her twice last night, once in the company of Lord Vladimer, and once alone.”
“My sister—,” Merivan said, with feeling, stopped herself, and said, with a calculation Telmaine at least could hear, “My lords, certainly Telmaine has never confided in me—but a woman may be driven to confront a presumed rival for her husband’s affections.”
“A Lightborn?” Kalamay said.
“For a woman,” Merivan said, sadly, “infidelity is a matter of the heart. My sister has been unwise, unwise in her marriage, and it seems unwise in her conduct. But I am certain that she would never be part of any conspiracy to harm the archduke.”
Kalamay and Mycene took their leave, wishing Telmaine a quick recovery and saying that they must attend to other matters. Their voices were respectful and dissatisfied; Merivan had, for the moment, bested them. Telmaine did not realize that Malachi Plantageter had remained behind until he spoke. “Lady Erskane, how much has Lady Telmaine told you?”
With a brittle laugh, Merivan said, “Superintendent, my sister tells me as little as she possibly can. I do know that, on account of some embarrassment of Balthasar’s, their daughter was abducted and held in captivity and Telmaine turned to other persons for help while Balthasar languished in bed
. He does seem to have made quite a remarkable recovery,” she said, maliciously.
There was a brief silence; then Malachi Plantageter said, “I would not burden a lady with this, but I do not know whether I would have the opportunity to tell your husband or your brother in a timely fashion. . . .” He hesitated. “In confidence I tell you that the archduke’s condition is very grave. He is not expected to live.” Merivan caught her breath, audibly. Telmaine whimpered and began to rock again. The maid twitched toward the door. “Even if he does live, he may never be able to resume his responsibilities. The regency council has been convened for his son, under the leadership of Duke Mycene and Duke Kalamay. They have confined Lord Vladimer, considering his mental stability suspect.”
“And yet they—and you—give weight to Vladimer’s accusations,” Merivan pointed out.
“Lady Erskane, I have the deepest respect for your family and that of Balthasar Hearne. But over the past several days, Lady Telmaine and her husband have been repeatedly connected with bizarre and fatal events. I cannot ignore that, and still fulfill the responsibilities entrusted to me.”
There was a silence. “Thank you, Superintendent, for your candor,” Merivan said, her voice breathy. “Be assured I shall advise my husband and my brother of this conversation.”
“I ask that your sister remain here. She may keep her maid with her, and the household will attend to her needs. If she needs a physician—”
“I will arrange that our own physician attend her.” With an exchange of brittle pleasantries, the superintendent departed. The door closed; the room outside was utterly still. “What has she done?” Merivan said, in a low voice.
“Merivan,” said her mother’s voice, unheard until now.
“I must sit down; I feel faint,” Merivan said. Dresses and petticoats moved toward the armchair that Mycene had occupied; hems brushed Telmaine’s ankles; fabric whispered upon upholstery as Merivan collapsed into the chair. The dowager said, in a low voice. “You did magnificently, my dear.”
Merivan did not answer the praise. Her sonn rasped against Telmaine’s skin. “Telmaine, what have you done?”
“Merivan!” the dowager hissed. “Do not undo all your good work.”
Telmaine’s lips moved, soundlessly. Nobody’s listening, Mama. I would know.
“Vladimer has gone quite mad,” Merivan said.
“Merivan,” warningly.
“He tried to kill Telmaine, Mama, and he did kill Sylvide. Now he is accusing Telmaine of—of sorcery.” Merivan’s teeth chattered on the last word. “I’m shaking,” she said, in an affronted voice, Merivan, who prided herself on her composure and propriety. “Thank the Sole God that the dukes don’t believe him, even if the superintendent—oh, I do feel unwell. . . .”
“Lord Vladimer,” the dowager said, slowly, “has made a great many enemies over the years.” And then she added, oddly, “Poor boy.”
The hard knock on the door, quickly repeated, startled Merivan into a blurt of sonn. The dowager said to the maid, “Answer that, please,” with admirable calm. Merivan cast around the room, and her mother said, “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. We can’t hide her, nor shall we be taking up pistols and pokers in her defense, given your condition and my age. Yes?” This sharply.
“Need t’talk to Lady Telmaine,” Kingsley’s voice said.
“Lady Telmaine is not fit to receive anyone,” the dowager said, “and this is most importunate of you.”
“I’ll be worse than importunate, if need be,” Kingsley returned, and cast his sonn over Telmaine. “M’lady, the dukes and the super are having their word in the halls right now. The super’s minded to arrest you for collusion with sorcery, if nothing else, though the dukes favor the Lightborn having done the archduke. The one thing they’re all agreed upon is that they want you caged up, the same way they’ve caged up Lord V. You’re best away from here now.”
“How dare—,” Merivan said, but the dowager said, “Go on.”
“Not much more to be said. It’s no more healthy for me here, now, for my part in—well, since I’ve taken the lady’s silver.” Kingsley abruptly took a long stride and dropped on one knee beside her chair. “Come on, m’lady, show some of that fine spirit of yours. I’m in no position to smuggle you from the asylum they want you in, but I can do my best to get you out of here. The baron would strip the hide off me if I didn’t.”
The dowager said, “What is your name?”
“Kip—Kingsley, your ladyship.”
“You have not been in service long,” she observed, “and certainly not in the archducal household. What is your real name, and how do you claim to be in my daughter’s service?”
Kingsley stood quickly up. Telmaine lifted her drooping head enough to sonn him, standing before her with closed fists, as though to champion her even against her family. “M’name’s Kip, your ladyship; none other, you can guess why. A fistful of days ago I was apothecary to the main prison. That job’s gone, the price of a good deed and hopes for vengeance. I lost a bonny child in the Rivermarch fire, your ladyship, and I want blood for my child’s life. Now another fire’s taken the archduke and maybe the lady’s mind. I won’t see her suffer more.”
“Thank you, Kingsley, that is satisfactory. Wait outside. We will not be long. Girl, help me out of my dress.”
“Mother,” said Merivan, in a strangled voice. Farther away the door closed, Kip retreating in some haste.
“Do take a moment to compose yourself, Merivan; this will all rest on you.” Fabric rustled and slithered, and buttons popped under hasty fingers, as the duchess divested herself of her outer dress. “Telmaine will wear my clothes, and the two of you will leave with that young man out there. I rely on you to decide where to go next, but I suggest it not be within the city. I will remain here. I am sure the good superintendent will be vexed, but I doubt he would turn the law upon the Dowager Duchess Stott. Though I do confess I have always wondered what it was to be on the inside of a cell. One should seek out new experiences at one’s time of life.”
“Mother,” said Merivan, an oddly weak reflexive bluster.
“But perhaps you should advise Theophile and Eduard, just in case.” The slithering and rustling ceased. “Now, Telmaine, you must put my dress on—”
“We’ll have to pad her. Come on, Telmaine, stand up.”
Hard fingers dug through the dressing gown into Telmaine’s right elbow, sending lancinations along her arm. Through the touch, she felt Merivan’s alarm, outrage—at Telmaine and the dukes, equally—nausea, and hurt. Over it all blazed the longing for the safety and order of her own household and the determination that the family reputation must be spared from the scandal of having a mad relative—or worse. Telmaine stood like a mannequin as they padded her torso, threw the petticoats and gown over her head, and buttoned the bodice. Padded into a semblance of her mother’s shape, she could scarcely breathe.
Merivan threw a thick cloak around her and tugged the hood down over Telmaine’s head until she felt its hem rest upon her nose. “There’s no need to make me fit for the road. The more raddled I seem, the better. You’d best stay with the duchess. Else someone might wonder why you’re going.”
“Yes, m’lady,” the maid said, in a small voice.
“Brave girl,” the duchess approved. “We shall do well together. Go now, my dears. We shall be along presently.”
Merivan spared no time for her own farewells, but forced Telmaine along the passageway, pulling her on when she balked on the stairs, remembering Ishmael sprawled chained and senseless over his captors’ arms. In the vestibule Kingsley supported her while Merivan swept forward, raising her voice to demand why the coach she had ordered was not waiting.
“The—the regency council—has ordered that no one is to go outdoors, m’lady,” the footman said. “There is a curfew—”
“I very much doubt,” Merivan said, with fine imperiousness, “it applies to me, or to my mother, the Dowager Duchess Stott. I am feeling most unwe
ll, and I wish to be attended by my own physicians. Bring me a carriage.”
“My lady, the risk of further Lightborn—”
“My dear man, I am well acquainted with the harms of Lightborn magic, as you could observe if you chose to do so. I shall feel safer by far in my own home. Now, a cab, or we walk, and you may account of yourself to the master footman.”
Merivan’s bullying hauteur bore them past the footmen, down the steps. Kingsley and the coachman hefted Telmaine into the coach, leaving her to grope blindly up onto the seat. Merivan climbed in behind her, the sharp breath she drew as she seated herself suddenly reminiscent of Ishmael di Studier as they fled Balthasar’s town house, he suffering from burns sustained escaping the blazing Rivermarch.
“Meri—,” she croaked.
“For pity’s sake,” her sister rasped, “hold your tongue!”
Kingsley climbed up beside the coachman, ready to stiffen his resolve if need be. The gates that enclosed the entrance ground open; the carriage lurched forward and gained speed down the narrow driveway, throwing them against the side on the sharp turn. At the main gates, which were closed, Merivan renewed her argument with the guards—of course the archduke’s curfew could not possibly refer to her, wife of Lord Theophile, sister to Duke Eduard Stott, daughter of, et cetera. . . . The gates were swung open, releasing them; the carriage turned sharply and the pulse of the cobbles evened.
Suddenly stifled, Telmaine pushed back the hood. Merivan was wearing an odd expression, exhilarated, queasy, and triumphant all at once. Her left sleeve had been cut away and a bandage covered her arm from wrist to shoulder. Her coiffeur was a tangled relic of its former self; the curls on the left side had been singed to frizz and bristles. Telmaine, anguished, whispered, “Merivan.”
“Don’t bleat, Telmaine,” Merivan said tartly. “I’ve been brought to bed of six children; this hardly bears mention. Be thankful you’re completely untouched. The archduke was only a few steps from you.”
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