Lightborn (20 page)

There was a silence, several heartbeats long. “One does not
stop
, Lady Telmaine,” he said, in a much quieter voice. “I suppose being a bastard in a noble family is not unlike being a woman,” he mused, ignoring her indrawn breath of affront. “Every aspiration beyond silence and obscurity is a threat. If I’d had sufficient cunning or good counsel, I should have played the half-wit—as a lady is obliged to play the lightwit—and saved myself much trial. Fortunately for me, Sejanus ignored his counselors and treated me as a brother and an ally instead of a shame and would-be usurper. In answer to your question, I will not
stop
while there is a threat to his standing and state remaining.”

“I—can’t do that,” she whispered.

“Can’t you? You already have abandoned conventional morals on behalf of your husband, your daughters, and Ishmael di Studier. The state and I are merely incidental beneficiaries. Love, Lady Telmaine, is not the tender emotion portrayed by the sentimental literature. Whether they speak its name or not, it brings people to dare, and do, what they would consider unthinkable. I suggest, my lady, that you visit your daughters, and remind yourself.”

As the carriage made its sharp turn into the long side driveway to the ducal palace, Telmaine’s unhappy mood deepened. In bitter rebellion at the use Vladimer had made of her, she had taken him at his word—let him manage his own safety—and had asked a carriage to be brought to drive her to her sister’s house.

It had not been a relaxing visit, between Merivan’s questions and her brother-in-law’s inability to promise her that Balthasar’s safety could be assured. “It’s a dangerous game your husband’s been drawn into,” he said. “Even without the more—fantastic elements. He’s traveling with a known fugitive, and you say it was willingly.”

“
Lord Vladimer
asked him,” she stressed.

“In the absence of a warrant,” he said, “the arrest can be challenged. I warn you of two things: a warrant could be easily obtained, and it will not protect Balthasar from coming to immediate harm.” He sat, tapping his lip lightly. “I will arrange for one of my representatives and two of my agents to proceed to the Borders first thing tomorrow.” He smiled. “It may also prevent Balthasar’s idealism from leading him into further jeopardy.”

If the price of Bal’s safety was that Theophile judged him naive and incapable of fending for himself, she would gladly pay that price. Outside the courtroom, Theophile judged with tolerance.

And the children . . . she had thought a brief visit to their own home would cheer them up—it had certainly cheered her to review the earthshakingly ordinary matters of meals and domestic supplies in preparation for their eventual return. She had thought the children could collect any little treasures they wanted for their stay at Merivan’s. But she had not considered how the children would react to
leaving
again and how the crying and shrieking—Amerdale had evidently adopted this new tactic from Merivan’s next youngest—would affect her shattered nerves. Bal would be upset she had shouted at them.
She
was upset she had shouted at them.

. . .
Curse
Vladimer, she thought, huddling in abject misery in the corner of the coach.

If she were a different woman, she would retire to her room indisposed. Though if she were a different woman, she would not have let them put her in this
impossible
position. And she was not, she realized, going to have even a moment’s reprieve. Kingsley was skulking in the hall outside her room. Oh, Sole God, what now? She unclenched her mage sense to sweep it over the household, relieved to find Vladimer’s and the archduke’s distinctive vitalities unchanged.

“Can’t stay long,” Kingsley said as soon as she closed the door behind them. “Wanted to let you know there’s maybe trouble simmering. Lord V.’s none too well, and he and Blondell had a knock-down-drag-out of an argument, there in Lord V.’s bedroom. Staff said they’ve never had anything like it before. Someone said they’d heard Blondell shouting about ‘treason,’ and you can imagine how the whispers’re spreading. And there’s gossip about what happened in the summerhouse, come back with some of the summerhouse staff; they’re talking about ensorcellment. People are starting to repeat old gossip about Lord V., and about his influence on the archduke.”

“Lord Vladimer,” Telmaine said tartly, “is not overly concerned with gossip or reputation.” His own or other people’s.

“They’ve never had ensorcellment to cast against him, m’lady,” Kip said somberly. “Last time I crossed paths with Blondell, he was wearing an ugly great amulet against magic. Maybe that was the quarrel, over the rumors of ensorcellment.” He shook his head slightly, qualifying the speculation. “When I come by more, I’ll let you know.”

Alone, she sat and nibbled the finger of her glove. An amulet against magic—could there be such a thing? Was it a talisman itself, or a fake? She must avoid Casamir Blondell, either way. As for the argument, Vladimer could provoke even a follower of one of the contemplative disciplines. But gossip was a poison she understood. Even though Vladimer’s seemed a reputation apart, the archduke must eventually take heed. Was this merely a whispering campaign, taking advantage of Vladimer’s indisposition? Or could Mycene and Kalamay suspect that Vladimer knew about their guns? Was that the treason Blondell alluded to?

The memory of how she had learned of those gun emplacements brought her to her feet to shake off uncomfortable recollection. She wished she had been better able to use the information to force Vladimer to protect Balthasar and Anarys. Or even—should she have gone directly to Mycene? But how, then, might she plausibly have come by the knowledge? Vladimer was the only one she
could
tell, because he already knew. She could only wish to be better at blackmail, and that—she did not desire.

But if she
could not
depend upon Vladimer to protect Balthasar, her children, or even herself, if he did not judge it in his own interests, she must thank him for the lesson in realities, and make her own arrangements.

Resolute now, she called her maid to her, satisfied herself that her dress provided the best possible compromise between appropriateness and unobtrusiveness, and set out to follow the route Lord Vladimer had taken her to Floria White Hand’s prison. Blessedly, she met no one on the way, and blessedly, too, the little interview room was empty. For a heartbeat she thought, from the silence, that Floria was gone—liberated, surrendered, or melted away as her lights failed. Then she brushed the familiar vitality and the familiar taint.

“Mistress Floria?” she hissed.

“Lady Telmaine,” said the other, with distinct relief. “Is anyone with you?”

“No,” she said. “I came—Balthasar would—he would expect me to ensure your well-being.” Having more or less decided why she was here, she still did not know how she should explain it. “Are you well?”

She expected the woman to deride her social airs, but all Floria did was sigh. “Has the prince asked for my surrender?”

Telmaine’s hands closed to fists in her lacy sleeves. She would have said she had no desire to know what the other woman was thinking, ever. Now she was appalled at the temptation to fling a defining question at her and sweep from her mind the true answer.

“Not yet,” Telmaine said, instead. “But the sun has yet to rise.”

Floria said, “Maybe you can help me. The skylight is closed, and the door to the outside courtyard locked behind me when I came in. The lights I have with me will need recharged, sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

She did not want to admit that she was here without Vladimer’s knowledge or leave. “You would be best to speak to one of Lord Vladimer’s servants.”

There was a silence, in which Telmaine realized that Floria preferred not to reveal her vulnerability to anyone else.

“When do you expect Balthasar back?” Floria said.

She subdued the reflex to tell the woman that was none of her business; why else had she come here except to hope for an ally?

“Oh, spare me, Telmaine,” Floria uncharacteristically snapped, misreading her silence. “You Darkborn think marriage means that you possess each other body and soul, and Bal’s friendship with me is tantamount to infidelity. Balthasar has been my friend from the time he was barely old enough to lisp his first questions through the paper wall, long before he even met you.”

“Balthasar’s questions got him into this,” Telmaine said bitterly, wifely loyalty or no.

“You mean Tercelle Amberley’s children,” Floria said, her voice moving toward the screen. “I had forgotten—did Strumheller find Florilinde? Is she safe? Bal sent me a letter, but I had only just received it before all this.”

Letter, she thought—but it could not be the letter now in Vladimer’s custody. That “I had forgotten” outraged her. “Florilinde is safe. A young colleague of Baron Strumheller’s located her, and
I
got her back.” Foolish, reckless, to claim so, she knew immediately, but she knew that the Lightborn woman regarded Darkborn women as willfully enfeebled and passive. She waited for Floria to say, in disbelief, “How?” but the Lightborn woman only said, “Good.”

A silence, and then she heard Floria begin pacing. She bit her lip. She was aware how much Vladimer had withheld the first time they spoke, and had he dealt fairly with Telmaine, she would have continued to observe his wishes. But he had used her unconscionably, as bait and tether on the Broomes, and as spy upon the dukes. He might argue it was necessary, but she suspected he also believed that it was his
right
to use her so. He would use her, and Balthasar, and Ishmael, to shame and destruction if he chose.

Telmaine was as much a novice at spymasters’ games as she was at magic, but she must find a way to protect herself and her own, even from Vladimer. And even if Floria was a prisoner now, and possibly even ensorcelled, she was also a veteran of the intrigues of the Lightborn court.

She said, slowly, “Mistress White Hand, the reason Balthasar is not here now is because two nights ago, Balthasar and Baron Strumheller saved Lord Vladimer from dying from an ensorcellment set”—what
was
the correct verb?—“by a Shadowborn mage.”

“A
Shadowborn mage
?” Floria said, disbelieving.

“I was
there
when Baron Strumheller killed him.” And had nearly vomited at the shattered skull and spilled brain matter, but she let that pass unsaid. “When we first faced him, he was wearing the form of Lysander Hearne.”

“Balthasar’s
brother
?”

How much had Balthasar confided to Floria about Lysander’s cruelties? “I never knew Lysander Hearne, but the man I met resembled Balthasar, in appearance, at least.” She had taken his voice for Balthasar’s—or
one
of their voices for Balthasar’s—when first she heard it. “But the dead
body
did not resemble Lysander in the least. Baron Strumheller said that he must be some kind of shape changer.”

She could hear agitated breathing from beyond the paper wall. “What are you
saying
?”

“Maybe it was one of
them
who took your guise, and carried the talisman to the prince.”

“That’s impossible. The prince holds—
held
the contracts of a dozen mages of fifth rank and higher, to guard his person and secure his work. They sensed
nothing
. Telmaine, I swear, by your gods or mine, I would never have done anything to harm my prince. My family has been in the services of the princes for ten generations.”

Two weeks ago, she would have accepted—even welcomed—Floria’s guilt, assuming the worst of a functionary of the corrupt Lightborn court. But then, two weeks ago, she would not have imagined that a mage could be
falsely
charged, and that the gossip and headlines, however outrageous, might not contain some truth.

“Baron Strumheller was arrested on charges of murder and sorcery, our enemy’s doing.”

“Strumheller is just a first-rank mage, Telmaine. He kept Balthasar alive, yes, but as for sensing what the Temple Vigilance could not—”

“While he was in prison, a guard tried to poison him, and a prisoner tried to knife him. He barely escaped alive”—though his narrowest escape had nothing to do with Shadowborn. “Surely that suggests
something
to you.
That
is where Balthasar has gone, south to help him prepare the Borders for an invasion that Vladimer thinks is coming.”

There was a brief silence, in which, no doubt, the Lightborn woman weighed up her own prejudices. “Telmaine,” she said, with audible reluctance. “I think I know what the talisman was. A trinket box Balthasar gave me, years ago.”

“Balthasar! How dare you—”

“Telmaine, for the Mother’s sake—he was seven years old! It was taken from my house—I think by someone who came in through Balthasar’s and cut through the paper wall. But I’m—it’s possible
I myself
took it to the prince, though my memory—and I do not know why . . . ,” she finished, forlornly.

Though she did not want to, she could not help but soften toward that tone. “This is what I know. . . .” Once again she recounted the events that had brought her here and Balthasar to an uncertain fate in the Borders, ascribing anything that she could not attribute to coincidence to Ishmael’s magic. To her relief Floria was too preoccupied with the intent and powers of the Shadowborn to question her in detail about how she had survived the burning warehouse; unlike the superintendent and dukes, Floria would not defer to feminine delicacy of feeling.

“I’ve heard no rumor that there was magic behind the Rivermarch fire,” Floria said. “And no mage should take it on—such an atrocity, even against Darkborn, would attract Temple retribution.”

“Is it possible,” Telmaine said slowly, ignoring that “even,” “that only certain mages
can
sense Shadowborn magic?” Vladimer had essentially asked the same of the Broomes.