Prism Cloud

by Jeff Wheeler

  “The risk is in letting you sleep too little,” he said wryly. “I’m sorry for Lord Fitzroy. I’m sorry our wedding caused a riot.” He chuckled softly. “Hopefully, the worst is behind us.”

  She went over to one of the couches, one that had a small blanket resting along the top, and covered herself before snuggling into the cushions. A little quiet, a little rest would do her wonders.

  After closing her eyes, she fell asleep almost instantly.

  What awoke her was a sound ensuring that Trevon’s words had been merely wishful thinking. There was a cry of warning, then a pistol discharged, and something—someone—slumped against the door. The sound jarred Sera awake, and as she jumped to sitting, she saw Trevon walking toward the door with an unsheathed sword in his hand.

  “Trevon!” Sera gasped as the doors shuddered. They were battered open, and several men entered the room. Not guardsmen. They closed the distance quickly, separating her from her husband.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Trevon demanded hotly.

  “You’re under arrest, Your Highness,” said one of the men with a sneering voice. He was the one she had seen before in Montpensier’s office. Sera saw a flash of metal on the man’s hand. An Espion ring.

  When sleep decided to evade me last night, the eve of the wedding, I held a vigil. It is a blessing from the Knowing that when one focuses on experiences from the past, the memories may bring us new insights. My thoughts kept returning to Cettie. Why did she pass through the mirror gate with Lady Corinne? I sense something is deeply wrong. That she feels lost and confused. Perhaps Lady Corinne intends to use her against me, to thwart my investigation. Would I sacrifice the child I rescued from the Fells to fulfill my duty? Is that the price I’ll be forced to pay?

  One cannot bargain with the Mysteries, although many try. The power is not a fickle friend to be wooed with fair words when the storms of life crash upon us. No, it is a faithful confidant, a wise companion, a harbinger of all that is good. I cannot pit my wisdom against its knowledge and foresight. And so I did not try. I merely offered that if giving my life to save Cettie’s would bring her to a good end, I would do so without hesitation. I would do the same for any of my children. For Stephen, for Phinia, or for Anna. How I love each one of them. And while I hope to endure to a full head of white hairs and to dandle grandchildren on my knee, I would sacrifice myself to see them safe. I would suffer any privation to help them. To see them living up to their individual potentials. My hand trembles writing these words. My heart is full. This, I realized, is how the Knowing feels about each one of us.

  —Brant Fitzroy, Prime Minister

  CETTIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE POISONER’S GARDEN

  Cettie awoke in the sparse but dignified cell she had been furnished with upon her arrival at the poisoner school in Genevar. In her disorientation, she’d supposed it to be the keeper’s room in Fog Willows, but as the muddle of sleep lifted, her heart constricted with dread and despair. It was just before dawn, a pale glimmer touching the room through a single shuttered window. No magic interfered with her emotions now, and she experienced the full brunt of them. She’d been deceived, and not only by Lady Corinne. Her whole life was a deception. Her reality was nothing more than a glass mirror, now shattered by the truth of her parentage. She’d been afraid to believe that she was a true Fitzempress. Yet hadn’t that thought appealed to her vanity? Had she not secretly wanted it? Yet the truth was different. Her real father was a kishion. Her mother, a poisoner.

  Cettie felt her insides twist, and she gripped her middle tightly. Though her stomach felt sour from hunger, she feared she would be sick. Casting her eyes around the room for a basin or something similar, she first saw a glass mirror, which seemed to mock her thoughts, and then a small dresser. Atop the dresser stood a wash basin and a small pitcher of water. Standing up, still holding her stomach, she set her feet down on a reed mat on the floor. The quailing of her insides subsided, so she instead walked to the window and opened the shutters, looking down on the courtyard she’d arrived in with the kishion and Lady Corinne. Her room was on the upper level. A few birds trilled sweetly, greeting the dawn with their discordantly cheerful songs. The patio below was empty of people.

  She found her shoes where she’d discarded them before going to sleep and quickly put them on. Testing the door handle, she discovered it was unlocked. In fact, there was no locking mechanism at all on either side. A quick glance down either side of the shadow-filled corridor revealed it was empty. She’d been told the night before that when a gong sounded, she was to arise and go to the common room for food. Uncertain when that would happen, she decided to explore the grounds.

  And find a way to escape.

  A stone-paved staircase led to the garden, and she took it, feeling the crisp air on her face as she opened the door at the bottom and stepped outside. She was used to cold climates from living in the sky, so the morning breeze didn’t bother her. As she had noticed the day before, there were long rectangular garden boxes filled with small plants and herbs growing in meticulous rows. Potted trees loomed in the center of each box, but none were any taller than her. There were a variety of plants in each of the planters. The smells coming from them were interesting, very unlike the gardens she had walked through in Muirwood. She did not recognize more than two or three varieties from the book Adam had given her. Just the memory of it, the memory of him, caused a spasm of guilt and pain. She stopped, an overpowering feeling of wretchedness consuming her. His little book—the little gift he had given her before departing for war—had been lost.

  Breathing in through her nose, she knelt at the edge of one of the stone borders to study the plants more closely. That was when she heard a man’s voice come from the shadows.

  “I wouldn’t recommend touching any of the plants yet,” he said, startling her. “Not until you know how to do so safely.”

  He had a quiet way of speaking—there was no harshness at all in his voice. It surprised her that he spoke her language fluently, but she attributed his ability to a form of magic Sera had told her about, one that could allow someone to speak and understand any language. Turning her head, she peered into the shadows and realized he’d been there the whole time, sitting in a small wrought-iron chair at one of the patio tables. He wore a very simple black cassock with large buttons on the front and a small white collar protruding from the neck. He had a sparse frame, a trimmed beard, thick hair combed forward in the front, and very deep, penetrating eyes. A small ledger or book sat on the table in front of him, and he had a white feather gripped in one hand. Had he been studying her, writing his observations? Judging by his face, she guessed he was less than forty years old.

  “I didn’t intend to touch them,” Cettie answered. She did not feel threatened by him, but neither did she feel safe.

  “Good,” he said, then looked down at the book again and made a few more scratching sounds with the quill as he wrote. He offered no introduction.

  Cettie continued her circuit around the planter boxes. Occasionally, she’d glance back at the corner table where the strange man sat to see if he’d moved. He remained where she’d left him. Was he a student? A teacher? His cassock reminded her of the outfit of an Aldermaston.

  More memories of home began to torment her.

  After finishing her exploration of the garden, she extended her search until she reached the nearest part of the high stone wall surrounding the estate. Some ivy decorated the wall, but it did not look sturdy enough to support a person’s weight. Jumping wouldn’t help either. But as she walked along the boundary, she sensed there were protective Leerings set into the wall. They were in the form of serpents, coiled into a twisted pattern, and the magic radiating from them was powerful. Threatening, even. She avoided the first few, continuing along the wall until she reached a small postern door. It was made of iron and had a small window set at eye level. Another serpent Leering was set into the archway around the door, and she felt
it flare with angry, assertive power as she drew closer, almost as if there were a true serpent coiled there waiting to strike. She pressed forward anyway. Fear slithered down her legs and made them start to tremble. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest, but still she approached the door. The eyes on the stone Leering glowed dangerously, brightening with each step she took.

  And then she did see serpents—sleek black-scaled creatures—emerging from gutters built into the floor directly beneath the wall. They hissed and writhed as they emerged, coming to heed the call of the Leering. Cettie’s mind went black with terror, and she froze, watching the undulating bodies. One of the serpents hissed at her and started to slither toward her, and she took a hasty step back. She tried to swallow, but a knot in her throat prevented it. The snakes kept coming, probably a dozen or more. The Leering seemed to mock her cowardice as she retreated.

  Then she heard the sweet tones of a hautboie behind her. It was a haunting melody, and Cettie turned back toward the man at the corner table. He held a long, pipelike instrument with a fluted end, his dexterous fingers maneuvering the stops while he blew into it. Music was one of the Mysteries of Wind. She recognized the instrument and felt her fear begin to fade as he played. The serpents retreated into the stone gutter from which they’d emerged. The energy from the Leering began to ebb.

  The rhythm of the piece lasted for a while, the sweet notes rising and falling, striking chords within her heart. He was an expert musician. But he was also probably a murderer, a poisoner, just like her natural mother and father. She steeled her heart against being taken in.

  Turning back, she looked at the doorway again, focusing on the Leering that had summoned the snakes. Intuition told her it would react with hostility to anyone who wasn’t part of the school. There was no surprise in that. Cettie reached out to the Leering with her mind. In the past, she had always been confident with them. Her strength of will had tamed any that she’d come across. But the power she had once wielded effortlessly had withered, and this was a very different kind of Leering. She felt a haughtiness about it, a vindictive pride. It would not obey her. She wished she could force it to obey her.

  That thought brought another memory with it. Rand had retrieved a small, whorl-like medallion from the corpse of the kishion. The kishion, her father, who had helped abduct her once again. Yes, if she had a medallion like that, she could force the Leering to obey her. She knew it instinctively. If only she’d kept it instead of giving it to Caulton Forshee. If only she could find another one. The first had come from these people, and surely they had more. Maybe she could use one to get to Kingfountain and find Father.

  She would do anything to save him and Anna. Even if she herself was lost.

  The music from the hautboie trailed off in a final, achingly sweet note. Cettie approached the man, crossing the garden again to reach him. He set the instrument down on the table and folded his arms.

  “That was beautiful,” Cettie complimented, wary and distrustful.

  “Thank you,” he answered. “You rise early as well?”

  “It’s my first day here,” Cettie said.

  “Well, you’ve slept an entire day away,” he answered. “You are not used to the routine. The rhythm of life here. You will be soon.” Now Cettie understood her hunger and why she’d woken so early.

  “What is your name, sir?” Cettie asked.

  “Jevin of Toussan,” he replied, bowing his head.

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “I imagine your grasp of our geography is limited,” he said, giving her what looked to be a genuine smile. “I am an instructor here at the poisoner school. The gardener, if you will.”

  “You play beautifully. Where did you study?”

  “I grew up in the sanctuary of Our Lady in Toussan. Brythonica. I sang in the choir when I was a little boy.” His eyes narrowed, but the smile did not leave his face.

  Cettie glanced around the courtyard. “Is the garden where you grow the poisons?”

  “You’re very astute. And to answer you, yes. All of the learners help tend my garden. I will teach you how to care for the plants. How to nourish them. How to extract tears from them. How to dry them and grind them into powders. Which ones can only be harvested under moonlight, and which can only be dug up in winter. And you will taste them to learn how to tell if you’ve been poisoned. Of course, you’ll also learn the remedies. Not all poisons grow here, so we will go outside the walls—eventually—where you’ll learn how they can be gathered and what they do.”

  “What if I don’t want to learn these things?” Cettie asked, holding her head high.

  He shrugged and then wagged his finger at the nearest garden box. “Put the purple flower on your tongue, and you’ll be dead in a few agonizing minutes. That is the fastest way to leave. Join your ancestors in the mythical portal beyond.” He snorted at the end, waving his hand dismissively. “If you believe in those lies. I used to. Or you will continue, in the Deep Fathoms, as a shadow of your former self. Bah! That’s a lie too. Life is a contest for power. The sooner you recognize this, the better you will come to grips with your fate.”

  Cettie pressed her lips together.

  “Well, at least you know how to end it if you so desire,” he said. “The choice is yours. You were chosen for your particular aptitude. Your mother is the finest poisoner this school has produced in hundreds of years. To be taught in this school is the highest privilege.”

  A loud, heavy note clanged from an ancient gong. The sun had just risen, although the shade in the courtyard still lingered.

  Jevin cocked his head, listening as the sound reverberated. Cettie felt it thrum in her chest bones. The gong sounded again. And again, before the vibrations finally stilled.

  “Time to eat,” he said, rising from the table and gathering his quill, book, and hautboie.

  “How many more students are here?” Cettie asked.

  “Students?” said Jevin with a smile. “You are looking at it in the wrong way. You are to become a hetaera! I cannot convey with words what that means. Do you realize what your mother is doing? She has subverted an entire nation . . . nay, an empire! . . . because of what she discovered here. My purpose is simply to help you learn what you seek to learn. All of us teachers are here to share our knowledge with you so that you, too, can achieve great things.” He bowed his head slightly. “Realize that I serve you. It will be my honor and privilege to share what I know of plants and poisons, of the workings of the body, and how it can best serve as a vessel for the ancient ones. You will have knowledge, my young friend. There is no greater fruit.”

  As he said those words, a shuddering feeling came into her heart.

  The Myriad Ones were here at the school. In Muirwood they had been locked out. But here, they were locked in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY−ONE

  CHOICES

  It was like a nightmare that she couldn’t wake up from. Cettie had gone from being a beloved and respected member of a world she knew and understood to being a victim in a training school for the deadly arts. Her mind was baffled by the rapidity of the change, yet it also felt as if her entire life had been preparing her for this moment. Beings of darkness had always been attracted to her, like flies to honey. She had thought she’d grown beyond the feeling that something was wrong with her, but it had been lurking in the back of her mind all these years. What made it worse was knowing that if she did not cooperate, those she loved would be harmed. Or killed.

  The meal at daybreak was eaten in silence. There were five other girls in the school, all younger than her, and the youngest was probably twelve. That alone was enough to horrify Cettie. They were served their food on elegant plates, but no one ate until they received a nod from the headmistress, a woman of at least fifty with crow’s-feet and a taciturn mouth. The girls ate in silence, but the food was excellent and designed for good health, a savory mix of fruits and vegetables, seasoned porridge, and crumbled nuts. Cettie spent most of the meal studying her sur
roundings. Some of the other girls gave her surreptitious looks, but these were not the disdainful kind she had endured at Muirwood. These girls seemed more curious, more interested.

  Following the meal, servants who did not speak to them led the way to a training room that had weapons of all varieties mounted on the walls. Swords, chains, whips, daggers, spears, staves. Mirrors lined the walls as well, revealing their reflections to them. The girls lined up in prearranged positions. Cettie was directed to join the end of one of the lines as the others began stretching techniques. The room was mostly silent, although some of the girls whispered to each other in a language she didn’t understand.

  After a while, the door opened again. The burly man who entered had a menacing look, a scraggly beard, and scars across his temple, cheek, and bearded chin. He wore a padded leather jacket and pants, making him even bigger in appearance. The feeling in the room changed as he strode into the center of the room and stood before them. The feeling of unease rippled across all the girls, Cettie included.

  “Vut,” he said in a clipped, strange tongue. The girls all immediately made a move, as if cupping a giant sphere between their hands, one curved hand on top, the other beneath. Cettie quickly imitated them, feeling lost and confused. The instructor scowled at her and came forward, adjusting her hands to make the invisible sphere larger. He pushed on her arms, forcing her to resist him, and when she applied enough force, he nodded and backed away.

  “Jit,” he said next, and the girls all assumed another stance. Again he corrected Cettie’s posture and position as she tried to emulate the others. This went on for some time. Sometimes he’d start at “vut” again and repeat the sequence, and he’d scowl if Cettie got it wrong. After he finished the drill, he barked another command, and the girls retreated to one end of the wall and stood waiting.