by T L Greylock
“I am, your Eminence. Which is why I feel I must tell you that collar you wear is a fake.”
Interlude 3
A letter sent from the Lordican, dated two years ago, copied and kept in that institution’s official record of correspondence
My nameless friend,
I hope this letter finds you. The instructions for reply do not inspire certainty in success, but I understand why you have undertaken these measures. I suppose I must have confidence that the vast forests of Licenza will not swallow up my response.
I understand, too, the risk you took in writing to me in the first place. As a scholar, you have my gratitude. As a man, you have my thanks for your trust and my sincere, fervent wish that no ill has—or will—befall you as a result of your letter or my reply.
Now to the matter at hand. This is an extraordinary thing you speak of. It will, perhaps, give you no comfort to know that never before have I heard or read of this ability you find manifested in yourself. I am aware of no record, academic or otherwise, of a person possessing the power to strip a Carrier of his or her gift.
I can, however, tell you that it may be related to the phenomenon known most commonly as Carrier fever, which is, like so many things, misnamed. When afflicted, Carriers do not experience a fever as you or I might. However, the symptoms experienced by the Carrier, poor vision, nausea, loss of hearing or sense of smell, physical weakness, and, of course, most importantly, the temporary absence of their power, align closely with what you say you have inflicted. Of course, given that you have achieved this intentionally only once, we must not leap to assumptions.
Forgive me if my use of the word inflicted feels accusatory. I cast no aspersions on you. The anguish and guilt you carry are clearly reflected in your letter. Understand, though, that if I am to assist you, I must attempt to approach this from a scholarly perspective for the sake of accuracy and intellectual integrity. And perhaps even for the sake of Carriers themselves. This is a grave matter. My understanding of the fever is that Carriers suffer greatly at the loss of their power—a devastating wound to the mind and body.
I’m afraid I can do no more without significant study and research. Please treat this letter as an invitation to the Lordican—at your convenience. We will assume responsibility for all expenses, including your travel and other needs. I am certain we can learn more about your condition given the opportunity. In the meantime, please be assured I will adhere faithfully to your request for secrecy.
I remain your humble servant,
Diomede Tulienne,
Master Librarian, the Lordican
Chapter Seven
“I am no jealous child.”
Manon wanted to cry.
The sensation was one she could not remember experiencing since childhood, perhaps after a scuffle with her older brother, Victor, or a forgotten promise by her mother. And yet in all the years between those childish moments and the one in which she found herself a day after the incident in the Toridium harbor, there had been plenty of opportunity for tears. Certainly opportunities others might have taken advantage of. But not Manon. Not when the creditors had come for her father, nor when she realized her mother was never coming home from Teroa, not even when she watched Victor breathe his last, though that had been a near thing.
But there within the walls of a Toridium cell, her younger brother’s mournful face staring back at her from between the bars that divided them, his silent hostility boring into her back whenever she turned away, tears prickled in the corners of her eyes.
She didn’t remember being put in the cell. By the time she had fully recovered from the effects of the toxic fumes, her world had shrunk from blue skies over the harbor and the vast sea at her back to three walls and fourteen iron bars—she had counted them more than once. A cot filled the length of one wall, one leg shorter than the others, causing the frame to list uncertainly at the thought of bearing any weight. She had been fed, twice actually, which was more than she thought likely upon first waking, and the stone floor, while dusty, wasn’t covered in grime or unidentifiable filth.
Perrin remained silent. It seemed that since discovering she wouldn’t die just yet, his concern for her health, a hazy thing she sensed as she swam in and out of consciousness, evaporated, replaced by accusation in his eyes and anger in the set of his jaw and the hunch of his shoulders.
“It’s not as though I killed anyone,” Manon said. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, nor did she truly think repeating it would soften Perrin. “They can’t keep us here forever.”
Where exactly here was Manon did not know, she realized. In Arconia, those suspected of crimes were kept at various locations within the city walls, while those convicted were sent to the Hibarium—remote enough to be out of sight and mind, close enough if the Archduke wished to invite any prisoners to dine. Not that he did.
But Toridium was another matter and the only thing Manon knew with any certainty, due to the lack of rot and salt in the air, not to mention the cell wasn’t swaying about, was that they were not aboard a prison ship in the harbor. Captain Ivano and her crew were nowhere to be seen and Perrin hadn’t seen fit to relent and answer her questions about them.
“I did suggest you stay in Arconia. Don’t forget that.”
Pettiness didn’t suit her, she knew, but at least that got a response, though not a very productive one. Perrin turned his back on her.
“I know this isn’t just about what I tried to do to that ship. You’ve seen worse. This is childish stubbornness because you think I’m keeping secrets from you. Victor was stubborn too, but at least he knew when to accept the judgment of another.”
“Tell me it’s not for Victor you do all this.”
Perrin had not moved, did not turn to face her, but the severity—the maturity—in his voice startled her, a reminder that he was born and bred of the same father as Manon, though he so seldom exhibited any commonalities with Julian Barca that Manon had wondered about his paternity more than once. But in that moment, his slouchy demeanor replaced by perfect posture, his voice more commanding than she had ever heard, he was the very image of their father.
“Victor is dead, Manon,” he went on, quieter, but no less firm. “Nothing you can do can change that.”
“I know,” she said at last. “But he would have wanted this. He would have wanted me to fight for his legacy, for something other than the future our father made for us.”
Perrin was silent so long, Manon thought he had resolved to shun her once more.
“But at what cost.” It was not a question.
Manon felt herself flush with anger. “Do you hear yourself? Do you think to convince me you are happy with this life? With using scraps and crumbs and handouts to keep the creditors at bay? With losing our dignity and the respect the name of Barca once demanded?” Manon was on her feet, pacing, the words flying forth unchecked. “Victor would not have suffered such a life. But you, you do nothing. Are you still a child, unable to measure up to the brother everyone loved?”
At last Perrin turned to face her. He stepped close to the bars of his cell. The anger was gone, replaced by sorrow, his face pale, and for a moment Manon thought he repented of his words. “You place Victor among the stars, Manon, but he is not worthy of the excrement I would shove down his throat if he were alive.”
Not repentant. Manon found she could not speak, could hardly breathe, and that perhaps she did not know her younger brother as well as she thought.
Perrin wrapped his hands around a bar and leaned as close as the iron would allow, his gaze unblinking, his every word grinding through his teeth. “Victor was a liar. A man of base, immoral character, bereft of any shred of decency. A man capable of destroying lives without a thought, of taking what he wanted, be it life or livelihood, without compunction. He knew neither guilt nor kindness nor empathy.”
Manon stepped back, aware of a trembling in her hands, aware of a spark in her ribs, a spark she had not felt since summoning it aboa
rd the Carribe. It beckoned to her, asking to be set free.
“Would you use your talents on me, Manon?” Perrin asked, composed, resigned. “Simply for speaking the truth? You spared little thought for sacrificing lives to get what you wanted yesterday, what’s one more now? I’m sure Victor would be proud.”
Manon did not understand how he could have known the spark had flared, did not know how long they stood there, how long it was before she regained control of her heart and her body. But at last she broke free of her brother’s gaze and stepped away.
“I would never hurt you, Perrin.”
He disregarded this, though not, she thought, because he believed her.
“I can prove it, Manon. All of it. I can show you who Victor truly was. I am no jealous child.”
For a moment, Manon wanted desperately to ask him to explain. The feeling passed quickly, trod down by approaching footsteps.
It was not Manon’s cell the guards opened. It was not Manon they dragged forth with rough hands. It was not Manon’s face they shoved into the stones of the wall or her wrists they bound with iron cuffs. It was not Manon’s foot they stomped when faced with resistance.
“Where are you taking him?” Manon screamed. “What are you doing? I did it!” She threw herself against the bars of her cell. “It’s me you want. I am the guilty one!”
Her pleas fell on deaf ears and she sagged to the floor of her cell as Perrin was hauled out of sight. And so she was alone when the tears came. Quietly at first, taking her unaware as her eyes brimmed with wet heat. But as they spilled onto her cheeks it was like the breaking of a dam. The sobs burst forth in great ragged gasps and she sank to the ground, curled inward, trying to hold the pieces of herself together. But the torrent raged on until at last she was nothing more than an empty shell.
When she could breathe, when the tide had been stemmed, she got to her feet. Taking a deep inhale, she forced away the thought that Perrin might be dead in a matter of moments. She forced away, too, his words and any thoughts of the brother she knew was dead. And in place of those thoughts, a vow formed. She would survive this place. She would walk free. And if she could do nothing else, if she failed in all her plans, at least she could ruin Eska de Caraval. Whatever the cost.
Chapter Eight
“Snails?”
Eska could not have asked for a more dramatic reaction if she played a part opposite the Vismarch in one of Theobald Heuerfabre’s works—the playwright was known as the poet of the endless swoon for a reason.
The Vismarch frowned at first, as though Eska’s words were incomprehensible, then went a bit red in the face as his latest bite of lobster pie got caught somewhere between his disbelief and his esophagus. When he recovered, he came to his feet in a tangle of robes—swaths, as it were—the fake eagle swinging ponderously as he found his balance. Now he pointed a finger at her—truly, he was the spitting image of the tragically betrayed Duke Penza in Heuerfabre’s A Rose in Death—and spoke.
“How dare you impugn my honor so! Am I to bear such an insult? And from a guest I have welcomed into my home? Does the love between our cities, the love I bear for my brother-in-rule mean so little?”
Eska might have laughed, but she was acutely aware of the pair of crimson-cloaked guards standing vigilant at the door into the Hall of the Lions. They had not quite placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, but they seemed prepared to do so and had taken several steps from their post.
“I mean no insult, your Eminence,” Eska said, keeping her voice calm and low. “I speak not as a reflection on you or your good taste or the love you bear for the Archduke. I speak as one who has made a life of identifying and understanding artifacts, but most importantly, as one who has a great respect for the truth, as I know you do.”
Her words had the desired effect and the Vismarch had the sense to look less affronted, though the frown was still etched on his face, which was, incidentally, still quite red.
“You will come with me, Lady de Caraval. Now.” And with that the Vismarch of Toridium turned on his heel and marched from the pyramid, leaving Eska to follow him to a door tucked in a back corner. She met her mother’s gaze as she hurried past and couldn’t help but look at Alexandre, who raised an eyebrow and grinned.
To her surprise, she found herself in a vast room, not quite as cavernous as the pyramid, but just as grand. Pillars of carved marble supported the ceiling, which bore painted scenes Eska could not quite make out in the dim light. One wall was made entirely of glass and a series of skylights were strewn across the ceiling like a constellation. The effect, as daylight spread across the room and illuminated the collection of objects housed within, would be quite stunning, Eska realized.
The Vismarch, quiet now, allowed her a moment to take in the room, then beckoned her to follow once more. They passed statues of bronze and stone, a fountain made entirely of gold, and cases displaying rare and ancient coins. The Vismarch stopped in front of a nude torso carved from black stone—Pharecian stone, Eska was quite sure. The figure was armless, legless, and headless, but what remained was exquisitely worked. And adorning it, resting just above the nameless Pharecian queen’s breasts, was a true eagle.
It was identical to the one the Vismarch wore, down to the gem-encrusted tips of the wings, save for the absence of eyes. And yet that sightless gaze sent a shiver down Eska’s spine. She looked at the Vismarch and saw he was smiling.
“I would not dare wear the real thing. It’s far safer here than on my person,” he said. “Besides, who am I to lay claim to the legacy of Pharecia?” He touched the forgery around his neck. “This is a piece of my power, my position. I am known as a collector of rare items and so I must be seen as such, a man who adorns himself with treasure.”
“Why give it eyes?” Eska asked.
The Vismarch smiled again. “I didn’t at first. But I found it frightened people. It seems our world today is not capable of bearing up under the powerful gaze of the queens of Pharecia.”
“And no one knows it’s here? Your outrage was not just for my benefit.”
The smile grew sad. “Few people take the time to explore my collection. I doubt a single person in that hall is aware. You will honor my performance, yes? I would not have it known that the Vismarch wears forgeries.”
“Your secret is safe with me, your Eminence.” Eska hesitated, unsure how far she could extend the intimacy he was granting her.
“Go on,” he said. “You may touch it.”
Eska approached the statue, her heart racing. She had seen a Pharecian collar before. There was one in the Lordican. But that one was incomplete, missing gems, and she had never been allowed to examine it for fear she might damage it further.
She reached a hand up and let her fingertips gently trace the edge of one wing, following the feathers down to the talons and the emerald embraced there.
“It’s beautiful,” Eska whispered. “Though that word does not even begin to describe it or do justice to it. How did you come by it?”
“Pure chance, I’m afraid,” the Vismarch said. “It seems one of the ancient kings of Toridium owned it. It was discovered a few years ago when a wall in the old, unoccupied part of the palace caved in. The workmen clearing the rubble found a dagger with a lion on the hilt. I knew I needed to see what else had been hidden in that wall. It’s a wonder the Alescus never discovered it.” The Vismarch paused and looked at Eska. “It would suit you.”
Despite herself, Eska felt the heat of a blush rising to her cheeks. “You flatter me.” She took her eyes from the collar and faced the Vismarch.
“I never lie about beauty, my dear Lady de Caraval. In fact, it would go very well with the green of your gown.”
Eska couldn’t help but laugh. “Your clothier would disagree, I’m afraid.”
The Vismarch frowned. “Beranaire?” He cocked his head. “Was he at dinner?”
Eska nodded. “And quite underwhelmed by his dining companion.”
“But what on earth
was he doing there? I can’t imagine who invited him.”
“It was your dinner, your Eminence.”
The Vismarch nodded ruefully. “Indeed. But I usually leave the details to my chamberlain. Perhaps we had an odd number and he was the lucky addition. You’ll have to forgive me. From now on, you’ll sit by my side.” His nose wrinkled. “Or at least closer to me. I’m afraid even I can’t place you above your mother or Arch-Commander de Minos.”
Eska smiled, this time with genuine warmth. “You honor me, your Eminence.”
“It’s not every day I have a guest who can spot a forgery from across a sea of dining couches.” The Vismarch made an expansive gesture around them. “My collection is at your disposal, my lady, if you have the time and inclination to explore it. And perhaps, in exchange, you might tell me of some of the more fascinating things you have seen and studied at your Lordican.”
“It would be a great pleasure, your Eminence. Have you had the chance to visit the Lordican?”
The Vismarch gave a slow shake of his head. “Sadly, when one is ruling one of the Seven Cities of Bellara, one has fleeting amounts of time to spend at leisure. I intended to go, once. It was a long time ago, when I was newly invested as Vismarch. I was touring the cities. Parades every day. Banquets every night. Extravagant entertainment around every corner.” The Vismarch chuckled. “Your city was last, and I was thoroughly sick of the whole affair. I made a plan to sneak away from the Varadome disguised as an acolyte of some temple or another. My aide found me a cowl and the appropriate half-mask and I was moments away from escape when the previous Archduke was assassinated.” The Vismarch smiled at Eska. “There was no going anywhere. And your Lordican has remained out of reach ever since.”
