Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  The grand bishop looked up in astonishment at such rude and untoward behavior. The monsignor was in his forties, quiet, circumspect, and discreet. His robes disheveled, his hat missing, he stood in the middle of the room panting for breath, for he had come to the grand bishop on the run.

  “Monsignor,” the grand bishop said sternly. “Get hold of yourself. What do you mean by this intrusion?”

  “Eminence!” the monsignor gasped. “The Crystal Market has collapsed!”

  Montagne could not believe he had heard right. “What did you say?”

  “The Crystal Market has collapsed. The glass ceiling apparently just … shattered. The dead … the wounded … I have ordered my staff … all the priests to go…”

  Montagne felt the blood drain from his face. He was deathly cold. The monsignor stood waiting for orders and trying to catch his breath. He regarded the grand bishop with concern.

  “Are you well, Eminence?” asked the monsignor, now growing alarmed. “Forgive me! I should not have sprung news of this terrible tragedy on you so suddenly. I will fetch a healer—”

  “No, no. I am … fine,” Montagne managed, though with a great effort. His jaw was tight, hard to move. His lips were numb.

  By God’s miracle, a part of his brain continued to function. He would never afterward know how. He heard himself issuing orders. All priests and nuns were to go to the site, do what they could to help. He told the monsignor what he should do with the bodies of the dead, where they were to house the casualities.

  He even had the presence of mind to realize that the surviving crafters would be making wild speculations. That must not be allowed. Montagne was about to order that the crafters who had worked on the Crystal Market should be sent to the Arcanum, placed under Seal. He remembered at the last moment that Father Jacob was at the Arcanum.

  “The Asylum of Charenton,” said the grand bishop. “Send them there, where we can minister to them in their grief.”

  Montagne sat for a long time without moving. When he finally came to himself, the monsignor had gone. The grand bishop had no recollection of the man leaving and very little of what he had said to him. He remembered only consigning the crafters to an insane asylum. He gave a shivering sigh.

  Church bells all over the city were ringing wildly. Evreux would be in chaos. People would expect their grand bishop to take charge, share in the grief, the agony.

  Montagne sat writhing in guilt like a bug on a pin. He tried to stand, but his limbs failed him. He slid from his chair onto the floor and crouched down on his knees. Bowing his head, he clasped his trembling hands. Tears filled his eyes.

  “Oh, God! It is true, then!” Montagne whispered. “‘The sins of the fathers are passed on to the childen.’”

  He shuddered. “Our children are coming to slay us!”

  * * *

  Dubois was visiting a lady friend of his—a widow of ample proportions who resided in a small, well-kept house on a quiet street in an unprepossessing neighborhood. The widow was in her forties, pleasant, cheerful, discreet, and an excellent cook. All in all, she was well worth the money Dubois paid to keep her. The widow’s house was located not far from the Crystal Market, and they both heard the crash and the screams. Dubois left immediately to find out what had occurred.

  He viewed the ghastly sight with shock and disbelief. Dubois was not a soldier. He had never been on a field of battle, but he had heard the stories of those who had and he imagined this was what a battlefield must look like, only far more horrible. They were hauling out the bloody, mangled remains of little children.

  The Crystal Market had broken apart in the center. The enormous glass rotunda, so tall that huge trees flourished beneath it, had come crashing down. Inside the market people had been shopping, clapping at the feats of the jongleurs and tightrope walkers, listening to strolling musicians, eating, drinking, laughing with family and friends. And they died in a cascade of splintered glass.

  Death was a great equalizer. The poor man died alongside the rich. Lords and ladies from the royal palace died next to pickpockets from the alleyways. Entire families were wiped out in a single moment. People were cut up like meat in a butcher’s stall. Arms and limbs sliced off. Skulls cleaved in two. Bodies impaled, shards of glass pinning them to the floor. Rivers of blood streamed from the market and flowed out into the streets. The first some in Evreux knew of the tragedy was to see the water in the gutters run red.

  Glass bricks falling from the building had exploded on impact, sending sharp pieces of glass flying into the crowds who had been walking the boulevard on this festival day. People cut by the glass were dazed and bleeding. Some wandered about in shock, others knelt on the ground, holding dying loved ones in their arms.

  The din was horrible: screams and shrieks from those still trapped inside, the cries of those outside, the shrill whinnies of carriage horses hit by the glass, the howls of wyverns smelling the blood, the whistles of constables, the frantic clanging of church bells.

  And still there was the terrible sound of breaking glass, for bricks continued falling, causing more walls to collapse.

  Dubois’s gorge rose. The smell of blood made him nauseous. He staggered over to a tree, threw up, and felt better. Then he ventured as close as he could to the site without risking being hit by falling glass.

  The structure had been designed with the great rotunda in the center and two long wings of glass extending on either side. The fall of the rotunda had brought down a portion of both wings. Some parts of the market hall remained standing, though the bricks in those parts were starting to crack. The constables were doing what they could to keep people from going near the disaster. In some cases, they had to physically restrain desperate people from rushing inside to find their loved ones.

  To add to the confusion, crowds of gawkers were converging on the area, getting in the way and hampering the efforts of healers and physicians and priests trying to tend to the wounded and give final rites to the dying.

  The constables and city guardsmen were outnumbered and in need of help. King Alaric’s decision to recall the royal navy from Braffa proved to be beneficial. His eldest son, Prince Renaud, was admiral of the fleet. His flagship was sailing above the city at the time of the disaster and he happened to be on the bridge at the time. He saw the building collapse.

  The prince was a hard man, known to be a strict disciplinarian, not loved by either his officers or his crew. He was a man of action, however, blessed with more intelligence than his parents. The prince immediately dispatched marines and sailors to the market to assist, and soon the ship’s boats set out from the larger naval vessels loaded with men. The marines cordoned off the area, pushed back the crowds, and told people to go home.

  Dubois was neither a healer nor a physician, so there was little he could do to help. He walked gingerly on the broken glass that covered the street, avoiding stepping in pools of blood, watching, listening, observing. He was twice stopped and ordered to leave. He drew out his credentials from his coat pocket and showed them. The marines bowed and let him alone. Dubois was present when the monsignor and his staff arrived.

  The monsignor gathered his staff around him and spoke to them in low tones. Dubois sidled over unobtrusively to eavesdrop.

  “—looking for guild members who were present when the hall collapsed,” the monsignor was saying. “We need to record their accounts of what they saw before they talk to anyone. Their testimony might become muddled or confused. We have conveyances waiting to take them to the Asylum of Charenton, where they will be treated and questioned in quiet surroundings. Remove them from the scene swiftly, quietly, circumspectly.”

  Dubois was intrigued. He had assumed the collapse to be a tragic accident. Now he wondered.

  Watching the priests of the monsignor’s staff fan out, Dubois thought it might be instructive to hear for himself what these crafters had to say. He searched about until he saw a young woman wearing the emblem of the Crafters’ Guild on her gown. She was
standing in front of the hall. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. She was staring at the wreckage and talking to herself.

  Dubois walked over to her. “Mademoiselle, is there something I can do to help you?”

  She turned to him. “Did you hear it? The singing?”

  “Who was singing, mademoiselle?” Dubois asked.

  “The glass…,” she said. “The glass was singing. And then … gone…”

  Dubois was about to ask more. He was bumped from behind.

  “Pardon me, monsieur,” said a priest, firmly elbowing Dubois aside. “I will assist the young lady.”

  Dubois could have produced his credentials, showing him to be an agent of the grand bishop. But he had the feeling that in this instance, the priest would have referred him to the monsignor, who would have referred him to the grand bishop. Dubois murmured something to the effect that he hoped the young woman would soon recover, and backed away. The priest blessed him for his concern, put his arm around the crafter, and led her to a waiting carriage.

  Glass singing. Crafters present when the hall collapsed transported to an insane asylum.

  Dubois continued roaming about the vicinity of the market until long after nightfall, picking up shards of glass, studying them, letting them fall. Darkness came as a blessing, covering the scene of the destruction as the shrouds covered the bodies of the dead. The gawkers went back to their homes or gathered in the taverns.

  The only people who remained were the marines and those searching for survivors or trying to do what they could to help. The wounded had been carried to the houses of healing. Some of the bodies of the dead that could be identified had been claimed by their families. Others would have to wait until morning. And there were those who would never be identified …

  The monsignor had decreed that the grisly remains be placed in coffins to be buried in sacred ground. Coffin makers throughout the city would work well into the night.

  Dubois was feeling weary and he was turning his steps toward his lodgings when a wyvern-drawn carriage descended from the sky to land on the large, tree-lined boulevard that ran in front of the Crystal Market.

  The carriage was private, belonging to the nobility, and must have come from the palace. Carriages had been coming and going from the palace all day, bringing those who feared friends or loved ones might have been caught in the collapse, as well as those overcome by morbid curiosity.

  The carriage stopped at the corner underneath a streetlamp. Dubois cast the carriage a cursory glance. At the sight of the coat of arms emblazed on the side, Dubois paused. He did not recognize it, a red two-headed eagle on a gold field, quartered with a silver chalice on a black field. Since he was familiar with the armorial devices of all the members of the royal court, he was naturally curious and he watched to see who the occupant of this carriage could be.

  He had to endure a slight delay. The driver was having difficulty controlling the wyvern because of the scent of blood in the air. The driver shouted that he could barely hold the beast, and bid the occupant to be swift.

  The carriage door opened. A woman descended. She wore a long cloak and a hat with a veil over her face. She stepped lightly and nimbly onto the pavement and glanced around. Dubois drew back farther into the shadows.

  Thinking she was alone, the woman lifted her veil. She stood gazing at the wreckage of the Crystal Market. The broken, shattered glass sparkled and glistened. The blood was black in the moonlight.

  The woman’s lips parted in a smile.

  The driver warned that he could not control the wyvern much longer. The woman returned to the carriage. She shut the door and the driver plied his whip. The wyvern snapped at him, then plunged forward. The carriage rolled down the street, the wheels crunching over broken glass.

  Dubois stared after the carriage until the wyvern took to the air.

  “Well, well, well,” he murmured.

  He had recognized the lovely face of the Duquesa de Plata Niebla.

  Dubois had two mysteries to unravel: one of crafters, singing glass, and the grand bishop’s order that they be whisked away to an asylum; and one of a beautiful noble woman who smiled at the sight of mangled corpses. Which should he pursue?

  Dubois had no difficulty making the decision. God had caused the duchess to fall from heaven right in front of Dubois for a reason. God wanted him to pursue the investigation of the duchess, and leave the grand bishop and his secrets to Him.

  19

  With your funding, we will develop a new weapon that will bring Rosia to its knees. Be aware that development of this weapon will not come cheaply. I will require you to provide the means to cover all costs. Once completed, the weapon will have a multitude of applications. Help me revolutionize warfare as we know it.

  —Eiddwen, in a letter to Sir Henry Wallace, ten years ago

  The nation of Rosia was in mourning. The corridors of the palace that were usually busy and bustling, filled with laughter, perfume, flirtations, and arguments, talk of music and art, business and hounds, politics and horses, were almost empty. Those who walked there did so with heavy tread. When people met, they talked in hushed voices.

  The grand bishop had issued a statement that the disaster was due to a flaw in the architectural design, and a warrant had been put out for the arrest of the architect. The statement also read that a memorial service honoring the dead was to be held in the cathedral on the morrow.

  The day of the service, the king and queen were in attendance, accompanied by their oldest son, Prince Renaud, and members of the royal court. The queen was dressed all in black, wearing a hat with a traditional mourning veil over her face. She wept loudly and copiously throughout the service. The king was attired in a calf-length black coat trimmed in silver, with black stockings and weskit. He was silent, reserved. He had issued a proclamation, expressing the nation’s sorrow.

  The service was led by the archbishop of Evreux, Father Guiar. Grand Bishop Ferdinand de Montagne was in attendance, but he did not speak. He was haggard, ashen, and said to be in ill health. The choir sang of redemption and hope. The organ music swelled, the trumpets soared. People of all rank and station filled the cathedral. Those who could not find a seat stood on the grounds outside in a gently falling rain. The air inside was redolent with the suffocating smell of wet black crepe.

  Cecile did not attend the service. She remained in the palace to keep the princess company. Sophia had wanted to attend the memorial service, but the king forbade it. Generally the doting Alaric gave his daughter anything her heart desired. This time, he refused to listen to her pleas. He said that she had recently been very ill, the weather was inclement, and she would find the service too upsetting. He would invite the Countess de Marjolaine to stay with her.

  The queen had protested shrilly within the hearing of the servants that the countess was a bad influence on her daughter, filling her head with music and literature, talking to her of history and politics. Sophia was in danger of becoming clever. How was the queen to acquire a husband for a girl with the reputation of being clever?

  Alaric was in no mood to listen to his wife’s rantings and he had walked out on her, saying curtly that Sophia would stay and the countess would stay with her.

  Cecile went to the princess’s chamber prior to the service to find the king alone with his daughter listening to her play the pianoforte. Alaric had no ear or taste for music. He was listening only because Sophia was playing. His gaze was fixed on his daughter, his expression unusually somber, contemplative. Catching sight of the countess, he rose abruptly. He bent over his daughter, smoothed her hair, and kissed her gently on the crown of her head.

  Sophia stopped playing to look up at her father in surprise. Alaric was rarely given to displays of affection, even to his most beloved child.

  “Play something more cheerful, Sophia,” he said. “I do not like to see you so sad.”

  “I keep thinking of those poor people who died,” Sophia replied. Her eyes were red rimmed. “I wish y
ou would let me go to the cathedral.”

  “I do not want you falling ill again,” said Alaric gently. He was always gentle when he spoke to her, using “I,” never the cold and formal “we.”

  “Look, my poppet, here is the Countess de Marjolaine coming specially to cheer you up. She is your guest. You must entertain her properly.”

  Cecile curtsied to the king and the princess.

  “I must speak to the countess before I leave for the cathedral,” Alaric continued. “Play that piece I like. The one you played the other night. The … uh…”

  “Sonata, Papa?” Sophia asked. “This one?”

  She played several bars.

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one,” said Alaric.

  Sophia found the music among the sheets of music on top of the pianoforte and arranged it on the stand. She began to play. Alaric took one more moment to regard her fondly, then walked over to the window on the side of the long room opposite from the princess. He motioned Cecile to join him. The view was dismal. The clouds closed thickly around the palace. Raindrops splashed against the glass.

  “The Duke of Piette lost his daughter in the Crystal Market,” said Alaric in a low voice under the cover of the tinkling music. “She was Sophia’s age, almost to the day.”

  “I heard, Your Majesty,” said Cecile. “A terrible tragedy.”

  She was dressed somberly in a gown of deep maroon trimmed with black velvet ribbons and black lace falling from the sleeves. She wore a black feather in her hair and jewels of onyx. She knew Alaric had something else on his mind. The real reason he had invited her to stay with Sophia was to have a private talk with her. She waited patiently for him to reveal what he was thinking.

  “We met with the grand bishop yesterday,” said Alaric abruptly. “Montagne looks terrible. He says his stomach troubles him.”

  “That might not be all that is troubling His Eminence,” said Cecile coolly.

  Alaric waited for her to elaborate, but she waited to hear what Montagne had said. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, the king proceeded.