Masks and Shadows

by Stephanie Burgis

The lighting had not changed, yet Charlotte could have sworn that darkness gathered behind him. The shadows seemed to thicken and bunch together.

  Nonsense, she told herself. Yet she couldn’t rid herself of the illusion.

  His voice rolled out, projecting easily through the theater. “His Highness Prince Nikolaus Esterházy has entrusted me with the great honor of studying a source of power and strength previously unknown to any monarch on earth. Allied to this elemental force and its kin from beyond the aetheric veil, any army would prove irresistible. This, Your Majesties, is His Highness’s royal gift to the House of Habsburg.”

  The Empress’s plump face tightened into hard focus. Beside her, her son’s figure was a pure line of intensity, aimed at the stage. Charlotte fought to stay decorously seated instead of running for her life. Had no one told the imperial guests what had happened the last time this elemental had been summoned?

  It had to have been tamed by now, she told herself. Prince Nikolaus would never countenance any danger to his honored guests.

  A week ago, that reassurance might have comforted her. But now . . .

  “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and hosts, if you will only grant me your attention, we may prepare for the presentation of this royal gift. If you will but close your eyes and focus on my voice . . .”

  No, Charlotte thought. Not this time!

  She saw Signor Morelli’s hands clench into fists as Radamowsky’s voice turned into a drone. Beads of sweat stood out on Morelli’s forehead. Dizziness spun through Charlotte as she fought to resist the pull of the Count’s voice. His words pushed at her head, tugging at her, pulling her down into the trance and filling all her limbs with torpor. She wouldn’t give in this time—she wouldn’t let herself—

  Something clicked in the back of her head. Enough.

  She had done what was expected of her every year and minute of her life. She had never offended a host or disobeyed her parents, husband, or superiors in rank. She had paid scrupulous attention to the laws of polite society. She had followed every one of those laws . . . until tonight. Tonight, she could finally see with cold clarity that none of them truly mattered—not enough to risk her life. She would escape this!

  She threw herself forward. She would jump from her chair, run out of the theater, run as far as she needed to escape this bloated travesty of power—

  But she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs had turned to lead. She struggled desperately, trying to scream. No sound came out. She saw her arms lying quietly on her lap. Her mind floated high above the rest of her body, shrieking silently.

  Charlotte’s eyes closed. Her head tipped forward.

  Franz waited until he saw Radamowsky’s signal before he took the wads of cloth out of his ears. Lieutenant von Höllner, at the other end of the stage, did the same. They walked out to join the Count in the center of the stage.

  Radamowsky bowed. “The field is yours, gentlemen.” He did not bother to lower his voice.

  Franz looked out into the audience and shivered. Four hundred people sat before them, eyes closed, entranced. Insensible. Waiting for their deaths.

  He’d thought his own voice had power. He’d had no idea.

  This had to be more than mere mesmerism. There was dark, frightening magic mixed in with this man’s skills as a performer . . . and he had chosen to use it all for this?

  Franz shouldn’t have said anything, he knew that. Now that he was committed, he should have been able to ignore the self-loathing that gnawed at his stomach. But his voice came out in a cracked whisper, far beyond his control.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Radamowsky raised his eyebrows, looking amused rather than offended. “For much the same reasons as you, I’d imagine. What fool wouldn’t desire the patronage of powerful men?” He smiled. “In my case, the new government in Vienna will be infinitely supportive of my researches and of my, ah, personal requirements for them.”

  Franz blinked. “New government? But there’s an heir—the Emperor’s brother—”

  “Ah, but who do you think will step in to rule the new Emperor, in this crisis?” Radamowsky shook his head gently. “Especially once Austria’s relations with the Hungarian magnates are thrown into chaos by tonight’s massacre? And—”

  “Enough!” von Höllner snapped. The lieutenant was visibly trembling. “Let’s get it over with, damn it!”

  “An excellent notion.” Von Born called the words down through the theater as he stepped up above the royal box, setting his walking stick down on the floor. “Radamowsky, I thank you for your help. It will be well-rewarded, as we’ve discussed. Von Höllner, Pichler, take your positions. It is finally time.”

  Anna swam up out of unconsciousness, head pounding, with a tight constriction clamped around her arm and waist. The ground rolled up and down beneath her.

  She cracked open her eyes and gasped with pain. Nausea whirled through her body. The shell-lined path outside the opera house crunched beneath her dragging feet. The pressure at her arm and waist was the tight grip of an imperial soldier, dragging her away from the opera house. Toward . . . She swallowed, and pain crashed through her head. Toward the prison.

  It was too late. The finale had ended. The Prince hadn’t believed her. Hundreds of people would die. She had given up her newfound career and missed her chance for a shining new life. All for nothing?

  No!

  She’d remained slumped, her eyes still mostly closed, as the thoughts had played through her head. The soldier had no way of knowing that she had woken. He wouldn’t expect any trouble.

  How much worse could her own trouble become?

  She counted down in her head, preparing herself. Three . . . two . . . one!

  She spun around with all her weight, throwing herself against him. Her captor’s grip loosened. She kicked out her leg from within her great mass of skirts, slamming her foot behind his knee. He stumbled and fell, cursing, onto the path. Murderous rage darkened his face as he rolled onto his back, preparing to jump to his feet.

  “You little—!”

  Anna stomped the sharp heel of her elegant shoe straight onto his diaphragm, and ran.

  Friedrich strode across the stage without a moment’s hesitation, taking his place on the mark von Born had set for him. Not something he’d ever thought to do, stepping onto a stage—not something his parents would ever have imagined for him, either—but then, it was the least of the madness taking place tonight. If he’d been in his right mind, he probably would have been bloody terrified.

  He should have felt frightened even now, shouldn’t he? When he looked at his hands, he could see them shaking. But his head felt cool, safe and far removed from what he was doing . . . at least as long as the bloody singer shut up about it. What was the point in talking about it? Anton was already dead, and Friedrich had killed him. It was too late to pretend that anything could be made right, after that.

  He’d always thought it was enough to mean well, to be liked, to be a good fellow. Well, it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t saved him, had it? All that was left now was to give in, because it was too late to care anymore.

  He looked out at the audience, at the sea of empty faces waiting for their deaths. What he realized, then, surprised him into a near-laugh, for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours.

  Sophie was safely outside the pyramid, at the far edge of the third row of seats. If they’d sat in the center, as she’d wanted, she would have been in the middle of the pyramid, sucked down to Hell with the rest of them.

  “Ha!” he breathed. “You see?” She couldn’t hear him, but he said it anyway, in a moment of fierce elation. “You don’t know everything, after all. I’m the one who was right this time!”

  For a moment, that was nearly enough.

  Anna ran along the side of the opera house, kicking off her shoes for speed. She only had a minute or less of grace from the gasping, wheezing soldier behind her. She sped through the side entrance, ignoring the pain that f
illed her head. She couldn’t be too late.

  She threw herself up the stairs to the auditorium. The sharp corners of the marble stairs scraped at her stockinged feet. She slipped.

  She grabbed the wrought-iron railing and caught herself just in time. The soldier’s footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs just as she launched herself through the door, into the audience.

  “Raise your arms,” von Born called.

  Franz raised his arms. What was the point of resisting? All this time, everything he’d done, everything he’d hoped—futile, all of it. All of it had led inexorably to this moment.

  They’re only aristocrats, he told himself. They wouldn’t lift a finger for me, either.

  “Repeat after me,” the leader called. “We summon you through our bond of fellowship.”

  “We summon you . . .” As Franz droned through the words, something moved in the corner of his vision. He blinked.

  It was a woman, hurrying through the back rows of the auditorium. A woman in a familiar blue gown.

  What in the name of God?

  Franz snapped his gaze back to von Born. The man’s gaze was focused and intense as he stared down at the stage. He hadn’t seen Fräulein Dommayer yet. Franz could swear to it.

  What the hell was he to do?

  “We summon you through the rites of atonement,” the leader intoned.

  “We summon you . . .”

  Franz breathed all the words, hardly aware of what he said. All his attention focused on Fräulein Dommayer as she raced up the stairs to the balcony and neared the royal box. She pushed past the entranced guard, whose head nodded against his chest. She threw the door open and hurtled inside.

  Von Born’s head snapped around . . . and then he shrugged. Even from the stage, Franz could see his fierce grin.

  “We summon you to our company. Now!”

  Flames shot up along the lines of the triangle and closed Fräulein Dommayer within it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Fräulein Dommayer’s screams ripped through the theater, filling Franz’s ears. They were the only sound of protest from the rows and rows of people who sat, blank-faced, within the great triangle formed by crackling flames.

  Von Born didn’t even blink at the sound as he raised his arms. “Call the flames into the pyramid with me, gentlemen! We invite you to—”

  “Wake up!” Fräulein Dommayer screamed, throwing herself at one of the women in the royal box.

  “No,” Franz breathed.

  The lines of the pyramid cannot be broken while at least two guardians stand at its points.

  Franz leapt back from his post and launched himself across the stage, straight at Lieutenant von Höllner.

  “Wake up!” Anna screamed. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

  Heat blazed against her skin, and the scent of burning wood filled the air. A sheet of fire outside the box blocked the open doorway, while two lines of flame crossed through the top corners of the royal box, setting the thin wooden walls alight. She didn’t understand why the fire wasn’t spreading to the rest of the box. She was too desperate to care.

  How could they all sleep through this? It could only be magic, witchcraft, to hold them all unconscious while strange, still lines of flame rose around them. She would have taken them for dead already, had she not seen the steady rise and fall of their chests.

  She was trapped in a sea of ghosts.

  Heat licked at Charlotte’s face. Something was burning, somewhere close. A voice rose in entreaty, calling her name. Hands touched her shoulders and shook them urgently. The voice broke into sobs.

  Anna? Charlotte thought. But she couldn’t open her eyes to look.

  Franz slammed into von Höllner and fell with him to the gold-dusted wooden floorboards of the stage, letting out a muffled groan as his back hit the ground and the half-healed scabs split open. He hadn’t fought since he was a boy; he barely even knew how to fight. All he could do was clamp his arms around von Höllner’s, pinning them down, and commit all his strength to trying to roll the other man away from his point at the pyramid’s base. The leader of the Brotherhood screamed orders and imprecations from the top of the balcony above them. Franz ignored him.

  “Have you gone mad?” von Höllner grunted, as he struggled against Franz, fighting to free his arms.

  “We can’t do this,” Franz panted. “You have to see that. It’s—”

  “It’s too late!” Von Höllner pushed him back, holding them still at the pyramid’s base. “Do you want to be arrested? Tortured? Executed?”

  “There are hundreds of people here! We can’t—”

  “Are you just too stupid to see the truth? It doesn’t matter anymore! Nothing matters!”

  Fräulein Dommayer’s screams filled Franz’s ears, rising above the roar of the flames and von Born’s shouted threats. Franz looked into the other man’s bloodshot eyes, a bare inch from his own. Their arms were locked; their weights, equal.

  “Some things still matter,” Franz said. “Even now.”

  “Oh, God, please wake up!”

  Anna sobbed as she shook the Baroness’s shoulders. The flames rose high around the royal box. How long until this strange spell broke and they swept inside?

  “Her Majesty!”

  The soldier behind her had finally reached the open door. He threw himself at the line of flames—and rebounded as though he’d hit a wall. He landed, stumbling, two feet back from the line of fire. His clothing wasn’t even singed.

  “What the hell?” He stared at Anna, panting, eyes wild.

  “Help us!” she screamed. “Go get help. They’re all sleeping. I can’t—”

  Through the open door, she saw him turn away, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Above them, hidden by the back wall of the royal box, she could hear Herr von Born still shouting threats at the men who fought onstage. The soldier set his jaw and started up the steps.

  “No!” Anna yelled. “Get help! Go—”

  But it was too late.

  The thin sword hissed free of its casing. The bottom of von Born’s walking stick clattered to the ground. He raised his sword and smiled down at the approaching guardsman.

  “Yes? You had something you wished to say to me?”

  The soldier pulled out his own sword, his face pale. “Sir, I hereby arrest you in the name of Her Imperial Majesty and her co-regent the Emperor.” He swallowed. “And I order you to dismiss this black magic.”

  Von Born’s gaze flicked to the stage and back. He shrugged. “If you want to arrest me, you’ll have to come and take my sword.”

  The soldier took the last four steps in a run.

  Swords met and sparked.

  Metal clattered to the ground.

  The soldier’s sword had fallen from his hand. He lunged forward to retrieve it—

  —But the tip of von Born’s sword darted forward to rest against his throat. The soldier froze, panting.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” von Born said. “But I really can’t leave this spot.”

  He thrust the sword straight through the other man’s neck.

  Anna fought against every instinct that had been trained into her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  She slammed the flat of her hand against the Baroness’s smooth face. A red mark blossomed on the Baroness’s powdered cheek. The Baroness’s eyelids twitched—and opened. She blinked. Her lips moved.

  “Anna?” she croaked. “What—what’s happening?”

  “It’s not too late,” the leader called. “Pichler, think what you’re giving up, you fool! Don’t you even want a future? A life?”

  Franz didn’t bother to shout out a response. All his effort was concentrated on the grim, silent struggle he fought. If he could only move von Höllner by an inch . . .

  “Very well, then. You’ve made your choice.” Von Born’s voice filled with venom. “Von Höllner—just kill him and get him out of our way.”

  Sensation tingled back int
o Charlotte’s arms and legs. She took a deep breath, turned—and screamed.

  “Fire!”

  Flames crossed through the top corners of the royal box and swept in diagonal lines down across the auditorium below. Why did the flames not move? Why hadn’t they spread?

  “You were so sound asleep—you all were. I didn’t know what to do! Herr von Born led it all. I couldn’t stop it, I was too late . . .”

  Anna broke off, but Charlotte barely heard her. Next to her, Signor Morelli sat barely a foot and a half away from the line of flames that blocked the open door, yet his smooth, curving face was set in peaceful repose. His eyes were closed. The moment the flames moved toward them, he would die.

  “Signor!” Charlotte flung herself at his chair and seized his hands. “Signor, please—Signor Morelli—Carlo!”

  Anna spoke behind her. “Madam, it won’t work. With you, I had to—well . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but I had to slap you.”

  “Anna, you’re an angel. You did exactly right. I’m so grateful—if we escape this, I’ll prove it to you, I swear.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Now if I can only be as strong as you . . .”

  She slapped Signor Morelli’s cheek, as if to wake him from a faint. His eyes moved beneath his closed eyelids, but his expression didn’t change.

  “It didn’t work.” Panic sucked away Charlotte’s breath, leaving her reeling. It wasn’t too late for him. It couldn’t be. Not now, not when she’d wasted so much time already.

  Hadn’t she decided to fight for what she wanted, after all, earlier tonight?

  Steeling herself, she drew back her arm . . . and this time, she hit him with all her might.

  His face jerked back, and she cringed with sympathetic pain . . . but a moment later, his eyes flickered open, pupils dilated. He blinked, and focused on her face with a visible effort. “Baroness? What—”