The Soul Mirror (36 page)

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Authors: Carol Berg

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BOOK: The Soul Mirror
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“What event?” Duplais and I voiced it together.
“The ancient wards of Spindle Prison were shattered tonight, and its warder murdered with a spelled knife. For good or evil, as you may see it, lady, your brother is nowhere to be found.”
The news sent my spirits soaring, but only for a moment. That the vile Pognole lay dead did not trouble me a whit. But Ambrose was sure to be accused of murder and named a fugitive. Those were the best of possibilities.
“How is that possible?” said Duplais. “If the boy had magic enough to murder the warder and escape the Spindle, he would never have waited four years.”
Yes. That exactly.
“It was assumed he had help from his sister,” said Kajetan. “Evidently there was a recent visit where plans could have been made.”
“I did no such thing!” I said. “My brother was a hostage, dreadfully, wrongfully abused, but innocent of any crime. Even if I could work magic, the last thing I’d do is make him a fugitive.” Or a murderer. Or a conspirator in treason. Exactly why I’d not left him Lianelle’s potion.
“I believe you, damoselle,” said Kajetan, overflowing with sympathy.
The Aspirant had taken him. I was sure of it. He had tormented Ambrose into months of sickness, thinking no one would notice, but my visit had threatened exposure. “My brother has been abducted, sonjeur. The king must be notified.”
“That’s as may be. But Angloria, that woman of clear head and good sense, has ascertained that
you
were incapable of this crime. You’re free to go with the sincere apologies of the prefecture.”
He
sounded
quite sincere. Yet I could not shake the sense that I was watching a play unfold. If Chancellor Kajetan was so grieved by Lianelle’s death, why had he not written to me? If he valued Duplais so highly, why did he speak to him as if he were a twelve-year-old child? I would detest anyone who patronized me so. Natti and his confederates had been expecting a prefect.
“Master Kajetan, upon my arrival repeated references were made to a plan to spirit me into the Bastionne,” I said, exaggerating only a little. “Is it presumptuous to ask why?”
“Not at all. And for this I make no apology.” He propped his backside on Prefect Angloria’s writing table. “For years, your father worked to convince the people of Sabria that sorcery had failed them. He claimed the Camarilla had nothing to offer in a new world shaped by natural philosophy. I believe that Michel’s sponsorship of heinous magical practice, and the public association of depraved sorcery with royal assassination, are but a continuation of that assault.”
“You believe my father sponsored blood transference and murder in order to discredit sorcerers?”
Kajetan inclined his head. “The ultimate aims of his strategy, I cannot fathom. But we of the Camarilla are engaged in a war for our survival, damoselle. Sadly, the children of principals in that war are themselves players who must be accounted for.”
“As my sister and brother have been? ” I could not withhold bitterness.
“Who could blame you for assuming the magical community responsible ? For my part, I believe your sister’s death was the tragic result of a girl overreaching her talent in order to prove that she was
not
her father’s child. Believe me, the last thing the
Camarilla
would do is destroy a determined, legitimate talent who might, if we were fortunate, stand with us in this war. Your brother? I find it far more likely that your father found it expedient to retrieve his son than that a young lady with no inclination to power unlocked the old magics of Spindle Prison. We of the Camarilla cannot begin to unravel such spellwork as exists in the Spindle.”
His arguments sounded entirely rational. Except that I knew Lianelle had uncovered some unexpected danger that left her terribly afraid. Except that the Aspirant and his servant, Dante, had been given access to the Spindle. Except that my father was a captive, not a player.
“Ambrose would have strangled Papa rather than go anywhere with him.”
Mage Kajetan shrugged. “Others might see profit in holding Michel’s heir.”
Duplais had turned his back to the discussion, favoring the view of the dawn-lit garden beyond the window. It was left to me to push further. “And who might that be? Our goodfather would welcome that information, I’m sure. When he hears of this, his wrath will shake this kingdom.”
“Ah, yes . . . well . . . let us say that there are factions even within our community who disagree about the best way to fight the threat Michel de Vernase represents.”
I could read the warning signs as clearly as I had read Sabria’s woeful history. Rivalry parading as reason. The siren trumpet summoning sorcerers of the blood to defend their lives and passions. Skirmishes were already being fought in the haunted streets of Riverside, in the halls of Collegia Seravain, and the palace of Sabria’s king. When would it break into open combat? When would cities and collegiae and libraries begin to burn?
“Is
discretion
how you account for this mage, Dante, who threatened and assaulted me here under your own roof ?”
The mage’s long finger rubbed his lips, crunched in a rueful grimace. “Mmm . . . not quite. Dante is the enigma. He bears no intrinsic loyalty to any faction, yet each hopes to lure him to its service. You could call him a mercenary, an extremely talented and well-protected mercenary. I would advise you to be wary of him, as we all are.”
“Dante is no cipher, Master,” said Duplais, still perusing the sky beyond the window. “He is rogue. Dangerous. He entirely lacks moral grounding.”
“I need no lecturing, Portier.” Even gently spoken, Kajetan’s reproach must have stung. “You know my thoughts. Knowledge must not be forbidden. Study must not be forbidden. Proven acts of illicit sorcery are already subject to our law, so bring me proof if you would stop him.”
Duplais pivoted, acknowledging his mentor’s admonition with a shallow bow. “Pride of intellect and prejudgment remain my worst failings. For my sins, I must now revert to tedious duty and return this lady to her mistress. Perhaps you and I could dine together before you return to Seravain.”
Pride of intellect and prejudgment.
I almost laughed. How often had Mama warned me of the same? Had Duplais addressed that confession to me? Did he suspect that his meticulous case against my father was flawed?
“I would like that very much, lad.”
“And I must ask”—Duplais dropped his eyes—“might you provide us escorts for our return to the palace? These quiet hours are often the most dangerous. I was sent down in such a hurry I failed to arrange proper protection for the lady.”
“Certainly. Give me a moment. Damoselle”—Mage Kajetan inclined his head politely—“if I learn anything of your brother’s fate, I’ll do what I can for him. We’ll hope he merely took advantage of some unrelated assault on Warder Pognole and will soon be returned to his goodfather’s safekeeping.”
The vibrant prefect’s departure left a void in the room. Did no one else in the world feel his contempt for us all?
Duplais patted his pocket, nodding to me and to Angloria’s desk, his unspoken message clear.
To leave Lianelle’s book behind, knowing it the key to these mysteries, was wretchedly difficult. Yet the trap was obvious, now I had sense to see it. I had no wish ever to return to the Bastionne Camarilla.
“You’ll have another chance,” Duplais said softly. “Keep pushing. You’ve thrown them off balance. Tonight they made a series of terrible mistakes, and mistakes will undo them. Have you guessed who recommended Pognole to the Overseer of Prisons?”
Only one name made sense. Someone of devious purpose and high influence. “Antonia?”
His head jerked assent. “Be very careful. But do
not
count on me to help you again. I’ve exposed far more than I wish tonight. Someone trustworthy will contact you in the coming days, offer help, advise you.”
A trustworthy contact! The idea sparked an excitement . . . and relief. . . I could not hide. “Who?”
He shook his head. “You’ll recognize him, as you’ve already spoken. If you believe yourself in imminent danger or discover something truly significant—something that changes everything—tie a love knot to your window at sunset. Just understand, when you take that step, forcing a contact, you’ll put lives at risk.”
“Why haven’t you said something before? I’ve floundered . . . so stupidly. I’ve needed help.”
“I’d no way to judge your intents or true loyalties.”
Simple. Obvious to a person who had not allowed prejudice to cloud her judgment. “This storm that’s coming . . . magic . . . the king . . . the queen, too . . . it’s the Blood Wars all over again, isn’t it? Just as you said at the trial. And now they’ve got my brother. What must I do?”
“Hold your secrets close,” he said. “Pretend—
live
—as if we had never spoken. Right now you are poison, a traitor’s daughter of unknown talents who could be anyone’s tool or anyone’s spy. Every eye in Merona is trained on you, which is not a bad thing at all for the rest of us. We all have our own parts to play in the search for truth. Unfortunately, most must be played alone.”
A suspicion nipped at me then, a distracting idea that I could ill afford to consider until I was alone and safe. I wished he would look at me, allowing me to learn more by what I could read in his face. Perhaps revealing even so much as he had put his “part” at risk. On this night a righteous strength and conviction lay behind his words, leaving me satisfied. Only for the present, however, as his every answer opened up a thousand other questions.
Reluctantly I placed the little volume on the desk, brushing my fingers over the cover. My punctured finger left a thin film of blood on the faded gilt of the title. “
Andragossa
,” I whispered, little more than a breath, more a determined wish than an intentional act.
Falling . . . falling . . .
My head spun, stomach surging into my throat, as if I had jumped from the tower. The faded gilt characters writhed and twisted beneath my fingers.
I blinked, then snatched my hand from the book, thumb scrubbing the blood smear away.
Duplais whirled about. “What have you—?”
His demand was cut short, as two Bastionne adepts, neither of them familiar, appeared in the doorway. “We’re here to escort you out, sonjeur. There’s mounts waiting.”
“You said you wished to pen a message of appreciation to Prefect Angloria,” said Duplais, peering over my shoulder, his body rigid as a steel post.
The cool leather displayed naught but gibberish.
“I . . . yes,” I said, trying not to allow tremors to show. A message to leave with the book.
I borrowed paper and ink and scribbled my thanks for the prefect’s even-handed investigation of my situation, adding a note that I had inadvertently carried away a book Master Dante had asked me to translate. As the book was wholly illegible, I chose to leave it behind on her desk.
Making use of the lamp, I dripped a blot of wax on the folded paper, and handed the sealed missive to a door guard as we followed the adepts out of the Bastionne. Let Dante answer Angloria’s questions about an encrypted Mondragon book.
 
 
AS THE LIGHT GRAYED AND the city began to stir, Duplais and I rode up the Plas Royale in silence. The Camarilla aides held much too close behind for us to speak freely.
We dismounted inside the palace gates and Duplais dismissed the two adepts. Only when we walked under the gate tunnel on our way into the busy inner bailey did we have a moment out of sight and hearing of the world. “Thank you, Duplais. I see now what I should have recognized much earlier.”
“I’ve not been able to trust my instincts for a while,” he said there in the dark. “I’m happy to see they were correct in your case.”
“One question.” I could not leave it unspoken, because if I heard the wrong answer, I must reclaim what grace I had yielded Duplais this night. “Your mentor . . .”
“Thirteen years ago, Kajetan saved my life, my sanity,” he said with urgency and conviction, as if he had guessed what I wanted to ask. “He is my true father, a man who fights with words, not bloody lancets, who seeks to inspire by the power of ideas, not fear and chaos.”
“But do you trust him?”
Our footsteps rang on the cobbles. “Saints forgive . . . no.”
Honesty won him the night’s prize. “Dante’s book is titled
Diel Schemata Magna
,” I said. The words unmasked by my blood were seared into my mind with fiery script. “
The Book of Greater Rites
.”
CHAPTER 21
20 OCET, MORNING
“
S
ante Ianne,” said Duplais, scarce breathing. “Tell no one of this . . . of the words . . . or that you recognized them . . . or how. For your life, lady.” He began to move away.
“That book holds their plan, doesn’t it?” I said, blocking his path before he could run away again. I wanted answers in return for my revelation.
“Possibly. Now—”
“Saint’s mercy, Duplais, my sister
died
for that book!” I moved to block him again, feeling his rigid frame centimetres away from me. He would have to strike me to move past. “Tell me why. What do they plan?”

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