Masks and Shadows

by Stephanie Burgis

  “Nemenel, that is Frau von Höllner, who asked for tonight’s meeting. Will you greet her properly?”

  Charlotte could only see the edges of Sophie’s face, suffused with fear and excitement. As the glowing light neared her, Sophie gasped. The light wrapped around her.

  Charlotte could not even turn her head to look closer. She sat frozen, tormented by curiosity . . . and shameful envy. If only it could have been her . . .

  A soft giggle escaped Sophie’s throat as the light pulled away. “She—she tickles!”

  Radamowsky chuckled. “Bow to His Serene Highness, Nemenel.”

  The glowing light floated high in the air and then dipped down, in a perfect caricature of a bow. Delighted laughter filled the room.

  “She is precious,” Sophie said. “Oh, Niko . . .”

  “Return to me, Nemenel,” Count Radamowsky said. As the light streamed back toward him, he raised his hands. “I thank you, gracious gentlemen and ladies, for your attendance. Now, if you will be so kind as to close your eyes once more, I—”

  “Wait.” Prince Nikolaus’s voice rapped out, though he sat as frozen as all the rest of the onlookers.

  Count Radamowsky turned to him. “Your Highness? Is something—”

  “Summon another one, Radamowsky.” The Prince’s voice seemed edged with other meanings as he added, “Let my court see your most impressive work.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You know exactly the one I mean,” said Prince Nikolaus. “And I insist upon it.”

  “Your cloak, Brother Friedrich.” The leader stepped back to make room for the black cloak to be tossed around Friedrich’s shoulders.

  Friedrich moaned and backed away from the figure who held out the cloak. The specter.

  “What, too proud to accept help when it is offered to you?” The leader of the group pushed him forward. “Or would you prefer to return to the flames?”

  “No,” Friedrich mumbled.

  He clamped his teeth together and stood quietly as the floating figure arranged the hooded cloak around him. Was it only his imagination that conjured up the sound of scraping bones?

  The figure stepped back and flashed him a grin. Its shining white teeth were the only visible remnants of its face beneath the hood.

  Before Friedrich could speak, the man behind him shoved him straight into the center of the flames.

  “No!” Friedrich screamed and fought—then stopped.

  Flames surrounded him, yet his skin remained cool beneath his cloak. Even his damaged face, protected within the billowing hood, felt only distant heat.

  He laughed out loud in sheer relief, despite the pain. He wasn’t dead. It was beyond miraculous.

  “You see, now, the advantages of your membership.” The leader of the Brotherhood raised his voice, speaking to the crowd at large. “We are men of reason here, untethered by the superstitious fears that hold back lesser beings. Unafraid to touch the deepest darkness in order to protect what belongs to us. Brothers, would any of you follow the weaklings’ way of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy and his brethren, who lick the hand of our Habsburg overlords even as it turns into a fist? The Empress may yet believe in compromise, but she won’t be able to rein in her hotheaded son forever. One day soon our young Emperor will take sole control—and what then? Will you bow your heads and wag your tails like obedient lapdogs while this so-called enlightened Emperor wrests away all the rights to property and pride that our ancestors won for us centuries ago? While he denies the very nobility of our blood and raises our own peasants above us?”

  The answering, rage-filled cry shivered through Friedrich’s bones. Through the flames, he saw faces open in anger beneath dark hoods. In a few of them, he recognized the oldest aristocracy of the land. And in a few . . . He swallowed. Rotting, long-dead faces joined the living, here, on common ground.

  The leader’s voice swelled. “We in this room wear cloaks of protection. The darkness we step through cannot harm us, for we are the chosen among mankind.” He stepped back, leaving Friedrich free to move. “Are you glad now to be wearing one of our cloaks, Brother Friedrich?”

  “Yes,” Friedrich mumbled. His cheeks hurt even more when he spoke.

  “Excellent. Brother . . .” The leader gestured to another black-robed figure, who hurried forward, both feet reassuringly solid upon the ground. “Take Brother Friedrich away and find salve to repair his face. We cannot have him too injured to perform his duties.”

  “Duties?” Friedrich echoed faintly, as he turned to leave.

  “Of course.” The leader’s smile echoed in his voice. “You are now one of the most highly valued members of our Brotherhood. And in only five days, you will be our shining star.”

  “Your Highness . . .” The pale light that was Nemenel rippled and wrapped around Count Radamowsky’s straight figure as he spoke. “With great respect, I do not believe that would be a wise idea.”

  “It is my idea, Radamowsky. And my command.”

  Charlotte swallowed uneasily as she watched Nemenel’s nervous ripples. It was as though the pale spirit reflected her master’s disturbance.

  “The other is not ready yet.”

  “It has been tested, has it not?”

  The Count darted a quick look at the listening circle. “Perhaps we might discuss this later, in private, when—”

  “I wish to see your other summoning, and I will be most seriously displeased if you refuse me. Is that discussion enough for you?”

  Count Radamowsky stared at him a moment in rigid silence. Then, abruptly, he nodded. “As you wish.”

  His shoulders rose and fell in a sigh as he turned to speak to the circle as a whole. Charlotte could almost see the mantle of calm he assumed as he stretched his lips into an unconvincing smile.

  “My noble audience! Might I beg you to prepare for an experience quite unlike any that you have ever felt before? In my latest researches, I have delved long and deep into the ancient texts of scientists and wise men. Clinging to the aetheric veil are many spirits like the gentle Nemenel. But they are not the only ones to migrate from the spirit world.” His voice deepened. “In the darker regions of the spirit world exist elementals of a different order. Only by the most powerful mastery can such creatures be summoned through the veil. And then only . . .” He flicked a glance back at the Prince. “Only with the greatest care and for the highest causes.”

  Charlotte’s head twinged, fighting against the soothing rhythms of his voice. She misliked the sound of this new elemental. She wanted to leave—but she could barely even feel her legs any more, much less move them. She was trapped.

  She glanced at Signor Morelli, on her left, and saw his forehead tense with effort. He, too, must be trying to move. Trying, and failing. Their common effort gave her no comfort.

  “Gentlemen and ladies, please close your eyes.”

  Radamowsky’s voice tolled out, rich and compelling, and, despite herself, Charlotte found her eyelids falling shut.

  “I call upon it with the words of power. I call upon it with the words of compulsion.”

  His voice changed, shaping words in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. They tolled through Charlotte’s head until they nearly deafened her. They started a nerve throbbing in her skull.

  It seemed to go on for hours. The pain in Charlotte’s head intensified until it felt overwhelming, a red haze. Finally, the chant ended.

  “You may open your eyes,” Count Radamowsky said.

  The red pain in Charlotte’s head had vanished with the cessation of his chant. She opened her eyes warily.

  A thick, roiling, dark gray mass of smoke wrapped around the alchemist’s waist. Count Radamowsky’s face looked strained and pale. Nemenel had flown up to the high ceiling, where she hovered, rippling convulsively.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present before you an elemental from far across the veil?”

  There was no giggling or sighed appreciation now. A taut silence gripped the circle of chairs. Charlotte felt he
r heart beat quickly against her chest.

  Deep within the dark smoke, two red eyes flashed open.

  “Let it move around the circle, too,” Prince Nikolaus commanded.

  No, Charlotte thought. If she could have moved, she would have run.

  “Your Highness—”

  “Niko?” Sophie’s voice wavered. “Perhaps—”

  “Can you control the thing or not, Radamowsky?”

  “I can.” The alchemist bit off the words.

  “Then we have naught to fear. Let it loose.”

  Count Radamowsky raised one arm. He began to chant softly as the elemental unwrapped itself from his waist. Slowly, it began to float around the circle.

  Hisses and grunts of effort sounded as people fought to lean backward. As the gray, twisting smoke floated closer and closer to her, Charlotte’s chest stiffened into rigidity. She hardly dared even to breathe, for fear of attracting the thing’s attention. Even in the dim candlelight, she could see the shining beads of perspiration that stood out on the alchemist’s forehead as he chanted.

  The gray fog floated slowly past Signor Morelli and paused before Charlotte. She held her breath, praying silently. Move on, move on, move on . . .

  Its red eyes gazed straight into hers. She couldn’t restrain the gasp that tore itself from her mouth. The elemental uncoiled itself, slid closer—

  The alchemist’s voice sharpened into urgency. The red eyes vanished. The smoky mass withdrew and floated on to the next seat.

  Air flooded Charlotte’s chest until she nearly choked. She blinked rapidly, and found Signor Morelli staring at her with wide, dark eyes. She tried to smile at him in reassurance. She failed.

  As the gray smoke floated the rest of the way around the circle, Charlotte turned her eyes up to the ceiling where Nemenel floated, a safe distance from the roiling gray mass. Charlotte wished she could join the spirit there.

  Even as she watched, though, Nemenel began to float downward, toward the chanting alchemist, whose gaze was fixed on his second summoning. The mass of gray smoke passed Sophie, who did not ask to touch it. It passed the Prince, who gazed at it with hard satisfaction. It passed his niece and her companion—both of whom, Charlotte noted, for once in their lives neither giggled nor whispered. As Nemenel floated down, closer and closer to the Count, the gray smoke drifted up to the English traveler, Edmund Guernsey.

  With a nearly audible sigh, Nemenel finally dropped onto the Radamowsky’s shoulder, wrapping lovingly around him. The alchemist jerked in surprise. His voice cut off in midchant.

  Red eyes flashed open within the smoke as it shot forward, straight at Guernsey’s face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Guernsey’s scream cut off in a gurgling hiss as the gray smoke enveloped his face. Other screams filled the room, but no one moved. That was the worst of the horror, Charlotte thought with numb clarity—that they couldn’t even run or hide. Even Guernsey’s own arms remained leadenly at his side. There should have been chairs crashing to the ground, people racing to save the poor man—

  Count Radamowsky’s shout silenced all the rest. His words rapped out as Nemenel slid down behind him.

  The gray smoke rippled and condensed around Guernsey’s face. Count Radamowsky snapped out a sharp string of words.

  Slowly, the smoke pulled away from its victim. Radamowsky’s voice deepened into a rolling chant, dragging the smoke back toward him. Finally, only long, thin tendrils of smoke still clung to Guernsey’s face. They separated from it with a wet pop, and Charlotte gasped.

  Blood streamed out of the dozen holes that the tendrils had left behind. As gasps and cries erupted around the circle, Guernsey’s breath sobbed out. He tried to say something, but his eyes rolled up and his head tipped forward. Still, his body remained fixed to his chair.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Radamowsky held the gray smoke before him as he addressed the circle. “If you will aid me with your full attention, we may work together to dismiss both these spirits for the night. Then, all of your fears will be assuaged. Please, let your eyes fall closed.”

  The ‘please’ was no more than a formality, his compulsion blatant now, Charlotte thought, as her eyelids closed of their own accord. Still, the oblivion of the trance state came as a blessed relief this time. Radamowsky’s words droned through her ears, and her racing heartbeat gradually slowed. By the time he spoke in German again, her breathing had almost returned to its normal rhythms.

  “You may open your eyes.”

  Feeling flooded into Charlotte’s arms and legs. She opened her eyes just in time to see Mr. Guernsey crumple and fall to the ground. Blood covered his face.

  Sophie let out a piercing scream and covered her face with her hands. Charlotte paused a moment—but no, the Prince’s niece and her companion were already bending over Sophie. Charlotte lifted her skirts and hurried across the circle to drop down beside the fallen man instead. Guernsey was still breathing, but only in short, shallow gasps. Beneath the mask of blood, his face was deathly pale. Charlotte snatched out her silk handkerchief and began to wipe at his skin, fighting down panic. There were too many wounds to even try to staunch them all.

  She saw the buckled toes of elegant shoes before her and looked up to find Signor Morelli standing over her.

  “I’ve summoned the Prince’s physician.” He glanced back at the sobbing women, muttering men, and various fainting fits taking place around the circle, and his lips twisted. He knelt down beside her. “Is there aught I can do until he arrives?”

  “I’d be grateful for your handkerchief. The wounds are deep, and I fear he’s lost too much blood already.”

  Signor Morelli’s voice was soft as he passed her a creamy white handkerchief. “There are spots of blood on the floor above which the elemental floated.”

  “Horrible.” Charlotte swallowed convulsively and pressed the new handkerchief against Guernsey’s face. Red blood blossomed against the white cloth. Her own handkerchief was already soaked. How long would the physician take?

  She looked toward the door and saw the Prince and the alchemist engaged in a heated, whispered argument. Their hands swept through the air in cutting gestures.

  Signor Morelli followed her gaze. “Not quite the demonstration they’d planned.”

  “I should think not.” Charlotte shuddered.

  A round man carrying a medical bag, followed by two sturdy footmen, hurried into the room, pausing only to listen to the Prince’s commands. He bent over Guernsey’s body and signaled to the footmen.

  “We’ll take him back to his quarters immediately, as His Highness wishes for him to be treated in privacy.” He gave Charlotte a brief, dismissive smile and nod of the head. “Have no fear, madam, I shall attend upon him myself. I’m certain he will be recovered shortly.”

  “Did His Highness tell you how he was injured?” Signor Morelli’s voice was bland, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

  “No need, sir, no need. His Highness wishes me to treat him with the greatest care and not to concern myself about the causes.”

  “A loyal servant,” Morelli murmured.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The footmen managed to haul Guernsey’s body onto a chair, and they carried him out under the physician’s clucking supervision. As soon as they passed through the door, Prince Nikolaus stepped into the center of the room, holding up his hands for the crowd’s attention. As the Prince began to speak, Count Radamowsky walked out of the room, his back ramrod-straight.

  “Well, it’s been an instructive evening, no doubt. A great pity about our poor Mister . . . our poor English visitor, but still, my physician assures me that he will recover shortly. Every new weapon needs some testing out, eh? Like a skittish colt being broken in.” The Prince laughed overheartily and turned to Sophie, who was red-eyed but quiet now. He murmured something to her, and she laughed prettily, fluttering her eyelashes.

  Charlotte stared at them, her head whirling. When she turned away, she found Signor Morel
li looking down at her. He held out his hand.

  “May I help you to your feet?”

  “Thank you.” His long fingers felt reassuringly warm around hers. Exhaustion flooded her as she stood up. She swayed, and he caught her.

  “Baroness?”

  “Forgive me.” She released his hand, stepping back. “I only—”

  “It’s been a tiring evening.” He offered her his arm. “May I escort you back to your quarters? This is no night for walking alone.”

  She bit her lip. “I should go to Sophie—”

  His voice was dry. “Frau von Höllner seems to have recovered admirably.”

  Sophie’s laugh rang out across the room, and Charlotte sighed. “Well, then . . . I thank you, signor. I would be most grateful for your escort.”

  She wrapped her fingers lightly around his proffered arm and walked beside him out of the room.

  After nearly five minutes, Baroness von Steinbeck still hadn’t uttered a word, yet Carlo could feel her fingers trembling against his arm. He would have spoken himself if he could, but rage choked him. An instructive evening, indeed. And a fine game for the Prince to play on his guests.

  Carlo remembered again the moment the elemental had paused before the Baroness and begun to float toward her. His muscles had refused to move. He would have been forced to sit and merely watch as it devoured her. Would the Prince have found that instructive, too?

  “Signor?” She was looking up at him now, her light eyes wide. “Are you unwell?”

  “Only in spirit,” he said tightly, then clamped his lips together to hold back any worse.

  “Pray, don’t even mention the word ‘spirit.’” She shuddered and gave a rueful laugh. “I have lost any fascination I ever felt for those beings.”

  “Have you? I confess, I’d never believed in them until tonight.”

  “Tonight was . . . convincing.” He felt her shiver.

  “Count Radamowsky is a fine mesmerist. Had his exploits ended with Nemenel, I might yet wonder whether it had all been a trick of our imaginations, guided by his will.”