Dust and Light (39 page)

“Of course,” said Bastien, with the sinuous glide of an adder, “it makes sense that young children living in such a holy place would need someone devoted to their tending. We wish to know if you recognize this child”—Bastien passed her the lily portrait—“or this one.” He passed her the second portrait, Fleure in the bloodstained white shift.

“Mistress?” she said, pleading.

“Why look at me, Varouna?” Spite tainted Irinyi’s offering. “Arrosa’s child servants are entirely your responsibility. You’re the only one who even knows them all.” Irinyi, too, had chosen who would take the blame.

“Yes, I know them . . . her. It is only one. Her name was . . . is . . . Fleure. A hateful child.” She nodded to herself. “She thinks because she’s highborn that she’s better than the others, entitled to privileges. Yet all our aspirants, initiates, and serving girls are equal in the sight of the goddess. One day when Fleure was cruel to a sweeper, I punished her. I cut the hair she was so proud of. Put blacking on it to quench her pride. Dressed her like them.” She indicated the second portrait. “This one’s wrong. Sweepers don’t wear pretty shifts. Never . . . and why would there be blood?”

“You put her in gray tunic and leggings,” I said, unable to keep silent longer. “Coarse cloth.”

“Yes, gray. All our sweeping girls wear gray. And simple fabric for dirty servants.” Only then did Varouna look up to see who had spoken. When she recognized me, all color left her cheeks. She knew I had seen what she did. She had offered me a half-naked child in a fine embroidered shift to do with as I pleased in the name of her divine mistress.

Bastien took back the reins. “Mistress Varouna, can you tell us when you last saw Fleure?”

Again the pleading gaze at the hard-faced Irinyi, at the Prince of Navronne. And again the cold indifference. She’d begun to shake.

But when no one offered any relief, she stiffened. “Fleure hated the punishment and somehow sneaked out a message to her family. To a brother, I think. He came and fetched her away, and I didn’t tell the high priestess, as I thought she might punish me for losing one of the goddess’s pledge children. That’s it, her brother fetched her and I’ve not seen her since.”

“He did not.” Deadly quiet, Fallon denounced her lie. “No brother fetched her from the temple. I know this girl’s brothers and both have been in the fields of Ardra and Morian, fighting for their prince for more than half a year. She was a spritely child. Be sure of it—either brother would have slain the one who treated her meanly.”

Varouna’s mouth opened, but no words came out. How grievous that Ysabel had such a champion only in death.

Bastien seized the moment. “Would you change anything of your
testimony, mistress? Perhaps you now recall the name of the one who came and
fetched
the girl called Fleure.”

Speechless, she shook her head. The pink ruffles quivered like aspen leaves.

“Then I think it is time we heard what happened that night the girl disappeared, for the gods have opened the past to the magic of our witness.
Domé?
”

I told them how I had felt the hand of the goddess in the tepidarium pool and she had sent me the image of a man holding Ysabel over the water and blacking what was left of her hair, as most of her pale locks were left in her bedchamber. I did not mention that this image was not sent through magic, but through the eyes of a grief-stricken sweeping girl. Who is to say how the gods do their work?

And then I told them about the drainage channel. “I invoked my magic again. In my visions the gods . . . the earth . . . divine magic . . . showed me that this dark place was indeed the place where Ysabel died. Below the hellish heat of the hypocaust, down in the dark and the slime and the cold, with the only music the cry of rats, she battled a nobleman with thick, dark hair and well-shined boots. A man she looked on with eyes the color of a winter sky and called the devil lord. Because she knew him. Because she knew that if he came for her, it would mark her end. She fought him with the stalwart courage of her incomparable lineage. But she died there. And the devil lord unlocked the drainage grate and tossed her out into the winter night.”

As I told the story, Fallon de Tremayne’s anger had grown so large that it felt like night and storm had taken up residence in the Repository, no matter what the day or season beyond the doors. Only at the end, when I spoke of thick dark hair and well-shined boots did he stagger backward as if someone had kicked him in the gut.

Bastien noticed, too. He handed Irinyi’s scroll to the prince. “The high priestess can tell you the name on this scroll. But it is my thought that you must read it for yourself. You should recognize the hand. You may be able to fit details into this terrible story that we’ve not had time to review. Reasons, for example. We can surmise, but you, lord, know the man as we do not.”

Then the Coroner of the Twelve Districts stepped back—well out of reach—and waited.

Perryn ripped open the scroll, glanced at it, and then dropped it to the floor. “By Kemen Sky Lord’s holy balls . . .”

The ducessa clucked in disappointment when she was unable to read the name over his shoulder. But Fallon de Tremayne dared pick up the discarded evidence and read it for himself.

The document flew again, and the young man walked away, his hands clasped atop his head and his elbows squeezed tight as if crushing his skull was the only way to erase what he had just seen. Moments later, from the depths of the Repository, came a bellow speaking grief and disappointment and helpless rage. I recognized them.

Fallon’s cry had not yet faded when the bronze doors swung open yet again, and Hugh de Orrin announced, “His Grace, the Duc de Tremayne.”

T
remayne strode through the door, a striking, dark-haired, thick-bearded man. His tabard was the purple and gold of the Ardran household, his mantle lined with fox fur, his position immediately affirmed by the onrushing power of his presence. His calf-high boots gleamed.

“My good lord”—he swept a bow—“your knights are near devouring the tables in your great hall. I’ve done my best to stave off their hunger with your ale, but truly we ought to get back before that pays us ill—or drains every one of your casks. Fortunate that I knew where you might be at this hour, though I wasn’t at all sure this came from you.”

He twirled the summons that Bastien and I had labored over. We’d tried to make it just intriguing enough to draw him, just official enough to make him chary about not coming, just conspiratorial enough to ensure he wouldn’t mention it to anyone beforetime, even Perryn.

“What an odd venue for an illustrious gathering. Greetings, Sinduria, Ducessa, mistress—”

Perryn leapt to his feet, hands raised in a flourish of jewels and lace. “By the gods, Laurent, what have you done?”

Tremayne’s glance glided over me to settle on Bastien, who bided his time, his hands at rest behind his back.

“Nothing but serve you, I hope, my lord. May I ask what transpires here? Your summons speaks of secrets unveiled. It said you had a question that only I could answer.”

“
I
have the question, Father.” No pureblood sculptor could have chiseled a more perfect image of a god’s fury than what Bastien had wrought in Fallon de Tremayne. If Kemen Sky Lord felt such wrath at human failings, then ravaging winter, plague, and war were only the beginning of our punishment. “Where is Ysabel?”

Tremayne’s curiosity vanished. Arrogance remained, however, and contempt.

His glance whipped around the circle of light defined by the diminishing torch flames. To the ducessa gaping alternately at the damning document and his own face. To Irinyi launching daggers from her eyes. To quivering Varouna, back to the wall, creeping quat by quat toward the bronze doors. To an inexpressive pureblood, who wished he dared create a void hole as deep as his loathing under Tremayne’s feet. To Bastien, calmly waiting, and his prince, not so calm. Tremayne judged his audience and chose his defense.

“She is dead, my lord prince, as was necessary. As are five others whose lives should never have been. I will not apologize for it. This is wartime. Deaths are necessary for the future of Navronne. You and I preach it every day on every battlefield. Do we preach a lie?”

“You
admit
it,” said Fallon. “You
strangled
a child who brought nothing but love and brilliance to a house bereft of both. You thought your young strumpet would fill the emptiness left by my mother’s death. And so she did, not with her own vicious vulgarity, but with her child. And you took that brilliance and snuffed it out in a
sewer
? How can you live with such sin?”

“Duty sustains me through every battle,” said the duc, unapologetic, “whether with Bayard the Smith and his hired mercenaries, or Sila Diaglou and her lunatics, or corrupt nobles who would use bastard children to tear Eodward’s kingdom apart. Who would you have sit Eodward’s throne? Did you think the brat might carry
you
there?”

Fallon crossed the gap between them and touched a knife point to his father’s neck before any one of us could react. “How
dare
you profane her—and slander me for defending her?”

Tremayne displayed no fear. But he, as all of us, held quite still. Had one of Perryn’s lancers glimpsed the unsheathed weapon, Fallon would already be skewered.

It was Bastien who stepped up and with a dagger pulled from his boot lifted the son’s steadfast blade. “Let us hear our prince’s judgment, young
lord. We are not here to witness a new crime, but to uphold the Crown’s law—the Crown you have shed blood to defend.”

Did I wish Fallon to plunge the dagger through its mark or withdraw? Surely, it would take all his strength to step back. But so he did. And then pivoted smartly to face Perryn, sheathed his dagger, and dropped to one knee.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “To hear that one’s honored parent has slaughtered one’s young sister sets mind and heart at odds. His slur upon my honor must await another occasion’s resolution. I serve you only, as you well know. But laying my service, past and future, at your feet, I beg your justice for this child, an innocent who did not deserve such an end.”

Tremayne blew a note of indulgent scorn. “In the hour our prince is proclaimed, you’ll see the wisdom of my course. Until then, mewl about bastards as you will.”

Perryn had sagged onto his stool. His mistress had crept to his side, rubbing herself on his arm like a cat seeking warmth and attention. But he wrapped his arms about himself, not her. “Of all the wretched, nasty messes. What am I to do with you all?”

Pitiful. Not even Tremayne’s admission of his victims’ identities seemed to strike Perryn ill. Was he too much the fool to understand the crimes committed in his name or was he complicit and too much the coward to admit it? Did any of those who yearned for a resumption of Eodward’s kingly path, who fought for Perryn and died with savage, mutilating wounds, have a notion what rubbish hid beneath Perryn’s comely figure?

Bastien, knife returned to his boot, stepped forward. Never would I doubt
his
courage. “May I speak, Your Grace?”

“Have you not spoken enough, you and Remeni here?”

Curb your tongue, prince!
To hear my name spoken in front of Tremayne and Irinyi chilled my marrow. I imagined minds reaching for half-remembered rumor regarding that name. My testimony, exposing the inner workings of my gift, had been all I could contribute to this trial. We needed to finish it before Registry lies made that testimony worthless.

“I would go, lord,” said the priestess. “I have answered what was asked of me, and it is time for prayers. The goddess beckons.” Varouna seemed already to have vanished during the father-and-son confrontation.

“Yes, yes, be gone from here. No accusation has been made against you. A good thing I’ve not been asked to challenge the Elder Gods!”

I’d never seen a woman move so fast as Irinyi. We needed a quick resolution. She had Temple guards with swords and knives at her disposal, and the fury in her departing glance at Bastien and me vowed her intent to use them. She knew our names.

“There are yet formalities to observe, lord,” said Bastien, a similar urgency tugging at his calm.

“Speak, then, before I order every one of you hanged. This grim tale is not at all what I wished to be hearing on this day of all days.”

On this day . . .
He referred to the scroll, I supposed. He believed he would be king by the morrow. Perhaps he would, gods save us all.

A sneering Tremayne jerked his head at Bastien. “Who is this windbag who presumes to lecture the Prince of Navronne on formalities while stinking of a midden?”

“He is Palinur’s coroner,” said Perryn, “and evidently more reputable than he looks or smells. The Registry thinks highly of him. And he’s presented a formidable case against you and certain of your acquaintances.” He glared at the bronze doors closing behind Irinyi. “All of it is vouched for by pureblood testimony and now your own confession!”

Perryn was far too easy with Tremayne, talking as if judgment was a matter of discussion. That did nothing for my rising anxieties.

“I am bound by Crown law to render judgment in cases of suspicious death, my lord duc,” said Bastien. “If I judge a death murder and am satisfied that I know who has done it, the verdict is published to the citizenry of Palinur. The appropriate magistrate must then assess punishment. In all cases, the final arbiter is the Duc of Ardra—our own Prince Perryn.”

“Appoint a new coroner, lord,” snapped Tremayne. “No commoner should get the idea he can interpret the law or insert himself into the Prince of Navronne’s plans. He wrests his livelihood from corpses, for the gods’ sake. No doubt he’ll soon come begging for his fee—likely a prodigious fee when he aims his righteousness at Ardra’s
consiliar prime
.”

“This is no minor indiscretion blown to scandal,” said Fallon, pacing in a tight circle like a chained bear. “Those of us in this chamber have heard the entire sordid tale. The prince. Myself. The Ducessa de Spano.” She looked most alarmed at the mention. “That high priestess was responsible for Ysabel, and that unnatural woman debauched her. Witnesses can
be found to the other deaths, I have no doubt. The gods themselves have taken pity on Ysabel and sent the pureblood these visions. What retribution might they demand do we bury the truth?”

Perryn shuddered. “Speak as you will, Coroner. Just be done quickly.”

Bastien bowed yet again—this time to Fallon as well as the coward prince. He gripped his pendant and I imagined the bang of his gavel, giving weight to his saying.

“It is my judgment that the child known as Fleure is proved to be Ysabel de Tremayne, daughter of Annitra de Rosine and an unnamed partner of the blood royal. It is my judgment that Laurent de Buld, Duc de Tremayne, is responsible for a crime that every god in every heaven deplores—the willful murder of an innocent. So say I, Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur.”

Bastien released the symbol of office, returning his hands to his back and his voice to a more natural timbre. “I have fulfilled my duty by the Crown, by the people of this city, and by the dead. The crime is verified. The guilty party is established. The preliminary report of this case has already been turned over to the chief magistrate of Palinur for recording and displayed this hour in every district square. And now, my lord prince, punishment—justice—rests in your hands.”

If a man ever looked less willing to take on such a responsibility, I could not imagine it. Perryn looked like a limp stocking tucked in upon itself. He disgusted me.

“This is lunacy!” Tremayne threw his hands up and turned his back. “I took on the hard work of power. Will you not do the same, lord? Will you throw away your triumph? For if you think you can prevail without me—”

“Silence! All of you!” The prince jumped up from his stool and wandered over to the tables and stacks. “What have I done to get so foully entangled with priestesses, children, and over-diligent servants, some of them sporting priggish purebloods? It’s as if you all conspire against me!” He shoved a pile of helmets to the floor.

As the helms clattered and bounced, the pouting ducessa refilled her wine cup. She drained it and launched the delicate vessel into the scattered armor. Then, as if her pique was satisfied, she joined Perryn and led him away from the mess.

“Sweet lord, it grieves me to see your generous heart so torn.” She drew his arm to her breast. “That poor child. Your loyal ally. That must be
why the gods favor you above all men, both upholding you and testing you, so that those of us privileged to stand in your shining circle might be uplifted as well. How perfectly right that it is in your power both to
do
and to
undo
.”

She brought his hand to her lips for a soft kiss. Relinquishing his arm, she returned to her seat and folded her hands modestly in her lap.

Perryn, his back to all, wandered a little farther. Stopped. After a moment he spun sharply and returned to the wavering circle of light transformed. Standing straight and fair and sober, the light gleaming in his pale hair, he was the perfect model of noble justice.
Great Kemen, Lord of Sky and Patron of Kings, let him not be just a model, but an extension of your hand. . . .

“Such a terrible crime as the murder of innocents must reap punishment.”

“My lord—!”

“Silence!” Perryn’s roar aborted Tremayne’s protest. “You need not remind me of your loyalty, Laurent, or your might, or our long history of great deeds and shared pleasures.”

Fallon held still, his steel gaze fixed on the man he served, his pain raw as any battle wound. He could not win this day, no matter how Perryn’s judgment fell.

“Coroner Bastien, we thank you for bringing this crime to our attention. Your knowledge of Navronne’s law and your firm adherence to it in face of this most difficult situation is wholly admirable, and we hereby confirm you in this post for as long as Ardra remains in our care. In the writ of confirmation, I shall stipulate severe penalties for
anyone
—peasant, pureblood, or noble, even my own friends—who dares threaten or enact retribution upon you for bringing a case to the fore, no matter what the magistrate’s ultimate verdict. Bear witness to this, all of you.”

Good. Unexpected. Tremayne’s jaw was near cracking with rage. Perhaps I had rushed to judgment of this prince. . . .

“As for this judgment. We are engaged in war. As Lord Tremayne has reminded us, death is ever present and sacrifice necessary. But deliberate murder of innocents is cowardly and casts an ill odor on our cause. Therefore I deem that the proper punishment for this crime is the punishment for cowardice. Laurent, Duc de Tremayne, you are hereby sentenced to be stripped and displayed in the public market alongside a description of your
crime, and you shall receive fifty lashes at the hand of the captain of the Guard Royale—”

“Fifty lashes! For
cowardice
?” Tremayne’s rage shook the foundation of the Repository. “How can you imagine I will tolerate this? My men and I have bled for you, lord. I have killed for you.” He held his fists in front of him, ready to crush the first person who tried to drag him to a flogging post.

Fallon dropped to one knee and bowed his head, his expression unreadable. His father’s shame would cling to him until the end of days.

Bastien’s lips were pressed hard together. It was not the judgment he hoped for. Tremayne would likely not die. But the humiliation, the judgment of cowardice, and the crippling punishment would ruin such a powerful man. A victory, even if tempered.

Satisfaction filled my own spirit. Questions answered. A resolution. Rightness. If only somehow we could persuade Perryn to judge Irinyi and Motre Varouna . . .