Delphinium- or A Necromancer's Home

by V. M. Jaskiernia

  “Non! Oh, show me.”

  “I do not have it with me.”

  “Then what use it is if you do not carry it on your person?” Síofra asked.

  “Swords and knives and blades,” Cordelia said, exasperated. “Has your mother turned all of the women into warriors, Lady Síofra?”

  “Knives are not actually the traditional weapons of the fée,” the red-haired girl replied. “Though many of us carry them for practical purposes, and I confess I love elegant designs, we began doing so because it was the people who came to Clandestina who kept them. We merely let women use them.”

  “What is the traditional fée weapon?” Perdita asked.

  “Magic, among all of the Fae. Illusions, trickery, transformations. That sort of thing. Most have something they specialize in.”

  “And how can you use trickery as a weapon?”

  “Well if I reveal that I cannot use the trick, now can I?”

  “Transformation then! Oh, please show us.”

  “I suppose I can… Mother has shown me something recently and I have become quite good at it.”

  Síofra took her napkin from the table. She examined it, found it to her satisfaction, and twisted it in her hands for a moment before whispering a word at it. She then laid it out again as it had been before. She did not feel the spirits as she usually did, but thought it was only because she did the spell here and not in Faery.

  “Pick it up,” she encouraged. Perdita leaned over and plucked it up with two fingers. “Shall it harm me?” she asked, not wanting to let go, but realizing a little late what she had done.

  “No…” Síofra furrowed her brows. The napkin, made of cloth, should have become stone, heavy and stiff. She had not failed in doing the particular magia for a few weeks now.

  The others noticed her change in mood, for all by now knew her to be very often cheery.

  “No matter,” Cordelia said. “You are right, a trick is not much of a trick if one is told about it beforehand. It would not do to spread about secrets.”

  “No, it would not,” Síofra agreed, pushing aside her disappointment. Perdita returned the cloth to its place and gently smiled at her.

  “Speaking of secrets,” Cordelia said, “My dear husband has told me that his younger brother is quite taken with a new lady of the house.” A flurry of gossip began. Síofra soon forgot that her magic had not done as she wanted.

  ***

  Pluta was on his bed when Pierre entered his room, laying on top of something and hiding it. She got up and stretched when he closed the door, revealing several letters.

  “Where did you find these?” he said, picking them up and looking through them. He knew the handwriting on several— both his brother, and his father’s steward.

  “In Jourdain’s room,” she replied. “Among the usual stacks of letters from home.”

  The topmost letter was from Prince Aimé to Vivien, detailing that Pierre was ill but seemingly getting better, though still confined to bed. It must have been sent shortly after Aimé had visited him at the castle. To inform the steward that the future duc had taken ill was not unusual, but that Vivien’s open mail was in Jourdain’s possession was.

  Pierre sat at his desk and grabbed a piece of paper to write down the dates. The poisoning had been on Springfinding, and Aimé had returned to the castle almost a week before that. A bird could, at a rush, get to Spadille from the castle in half a day. Six gave someone in Spadille plenty of time to plot an assassination and send instructions to poison his wine.

  It was still not enough proof for a legal case. Even if he asked Jourdain to be confined to jail at his pleasure there would be backlash. And was Frederick involved as well, or Renaud?

  He looked through the other letters. Two more were from either Aimé or the king’s own steward, one from Bladeren to Tibault. None of them to Jourdain, and yet all were found in the future comte’s rooms.

  The last letter was in fact to Renaud from his father.

  “Why this one?” he asked Pluta, opening it.

  “It smelt of death,” his familiar replied. “The same way as something at the prison did that night. It is from Renaud’s room, though, not Jourdain’s.”

  It was a usual letter at first. Information from home, asking about how things were… but the last sentences seeming wrong and random. They were written too quickly, in a different ink, as if added on later before being sent.

  And the cook has invented a potent drink with extract of rhubarb. We will try it on Springfinding.

  When Pierre had chosen poison as his method of dying for Mora’s last test he had studied several plants before choosing larkspur. Rhubarb had been among them, but the sheer amount that he would need to consume made it almost impossible. He had tried smaller amounts and gotten ill, but nowhere near dying. Yet if it were refined somehow…

  So he had recognized the burning in his throat that night. His death had been orchestrated by these men, even if not managed.

  He would return the favor and not fail.

  ***

  The next day Pierre called Jourdain and Renaud to the advisor’s meeting room. He had rid it of the large desk and given himself a similar chair to all the rest. It might seem as if to make the men more equal, but in reality he preferred to be free to move. A large desk made it difficult to get out of the way.

  “I have a request,” he said after they had sat. He poured them all drinks and handed the brothers their glasses. Jourdain thanked him and took a sip while Renaud declined. He had drunk at the last meeting, where Vivien had poured. But perhaps it was only too early in the day for him to imbibe.

  “I would like the two of you to go to Quercus,” Pierre said. “I am sending an important message and would prefer not to have it done by pigeon. Go together, but otherwise alone. It will be faster with just the two of you.” Having it sent by his advisors would also be telling of how deeply important this was. For all this was a trap for the men the mission was no less true, and the task was important enough to throw suspicion off his involvement in their disappearance.

  He handed a letter to Jourdain, sealed with his personal seal as princeling. “Do not open it, present it to Lord Eichel directly, please.”

  They accepted the request and carefully pocketed the letter. Pierre did not wish to drag out this meeting with pleasantries, there was nothing pleasant with speaking to them now and so he dismissed them.

  Pierre closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, draining the rest of his glass. He was a hypocrite. Had he not just spoken with Elwin and Rhianu about how the people of Piques see the fée? How something must change? The fée needed to adhere more to the humans’ laws…Or perhaps it was the humans of Clandestina who needed to be reminded that this was not originally their land.

  Either way plans were already set in motion. He would improve relations after this deed was done.

  He had been in contact with Lord Spadé and hopefully the margrave would be able to capture one of the men if not both, though only after the message was delivered. Pierre could prove nothing, not yet, so he would take his revenge in secret.

  Twenty-one

  Pierre had never plotted a murder before. He had committed them, yes, but the target had always been found by another or chosen scarce moments before the deed was done. He had practiced on the ill, the criminal, and those already in some form condemned by forces outside of his own power. To kill the brothers was to judge and execute without sufficient proof, the mark on his soul alone.

  Pierre had thought to ask Elwin not only capture the brothers but to kill them for him as well, yet that did not feel right. They had threatened his life, and if the connection to the doctor was true, his people as well. The lord of death wanted to be the one to end them.

  A letter found the duc late in the afternoon of the new moon. It was tied to the leg of black pigeon that flew straight to him, having come in through an open window somewhere on this warm day and causing a bit of a disturbance if the shrieks were anything
to go by. The universal magic bred into carrier pigeons usually let them find their way to several buildings, but a more expensive sort could find people specifically if there was a tie to the receiver, usually hair. He wondered how Elwin had gotten the necessary component to reach him.

  The note was short.

  I have it. Midnight. Your forest.

  Pierre burned it without sending a reply.

  The night he met with Lord Elwin in the same spot where they had taken the fay. The margrave sat atop a white horse with a large bundle in the back. Magec stood beside his master, looking back to the tied-up man and growling, though his tail wagged in excitement for the hunt they had been on.

  Elwin tossed the wriggling bag down.

  “It’s the elder brother,” he said. “The younger was too smart to leave camp late in the night. I replaced Jourdain with a friend that will on the road to Eichel begin an argument and then decide to return home. He will disappear on the way back. Perhaps the fée will be blamed, or perhaps it thought him killed by a highwayman. It at least leaves Renaud to complete the task you sent. For the next hour he will be invisible, so hurry and do as you will with him.”

  “Thank you, Grandpère.”

  Not having Elwin’s strength, Pierre helped Jourdain to his feet and walked with him back to the château. The advisor was either gagged or bespelled, or both, for he walked without much noise or fight.

  ***

  Elizabeth could not sleep. Something woke her and would not let her rest even after much tossing and turning. Deciding it impossible she got out of bed, dressing quickly and taking a lamp with her out into the corridors.

  There were more guards then on other nights past, with the time being so close to Midspring. In Eichel the days would involve some celebration and festivities, and in Cœurs they would go on as normal. In Piques there was a wariness and edge to the nights near each sabbat.

  A pull in her chest took her down the hall. It was not towards the library but a way that lead to the gardens and then out into the forest. As she turned a corner she saw Pierre in the candlelight. His clothes were wrinkled and, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, a twig rested in his hair.

  “Your Grace,” she called softly, lifting her lamp to illuminate herself.

  He must not have realized she was there, for he looked up surprised and then smiled.

  “Lady Lizzy,” he said, changing direction and going to her. “Why are you up at this dreadful hour?”

  “I could not sleep. Yourself?”

  “Ah, well. I was—”

  “Outside?”

  He raised a hand to run it through his hair and froze when he reached the twig. Pulling it out he made no comment about it as it dropped to the floor. “Oui, outside. I thought I would take a stroll around the forests.”

  “So close to Midspring, I do hope you were careful.”

  “Of course. I do believe I have nothing to fear in my own forests.”

  “Perhaps you may protect me as well? I would desire to accompany you on your next midnight stroll, if at all possible.”

  “Of course, my dear.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips. Just when a chaperon would have tapped their shoulders he pulled away, and Elizabeth almost reached out to bring him back.

  “Goodnight,” he said, and returned to the path that would take him to his rooms.

  Lizzy watched him go, but did not turn back to her quarters. She was still no less tired than before, even more so as her mind buzzed with thoughts after such a kiss. The pull in her chest was still strong and wanted her to continue. She followed it, nodding greetings to the guards, assuring them she was well and only unable to fall asleep. But then she passed by the gardens and went further into the back of the château, where even on this night guards were not stations because no one ever wandered these abandoned halls. The tug was becoming painful.

  “No,” she whispered. Elizabeth held onto the wall, stepping away. A cold wind hit at her back, almost a shove.

  She turned around, so very tired now, returning back to her rooms and walking away from the old dungeons.

  ***

  “You must learn first and foremost that this is a magic of death,” Pierre said to Wolfram. They walked an empty hall in the back of the château, under the guise of needing time to discuss medical patients without others listening in. “The keres governed over the spirits of violent death and agony.”

  Wolfram kept his eyes down, wishing to say something but unsure of how he could dare correct the princeling.

  “Yes?” Pierre prompted after a few moments. Hiding his gaze had not hidden his anxious movements.

  “The lord physician was adamant that this could be used as a magic of life. He said that he never took a life that he could not return. Would that not be possible for me?”

  “My uncle is a skilled doctor, and in all my time in his guardianship I have never seen him take a life purposefully, though I assume he did when he was learning the magic. I have rarely seen him allow a lost life to remain lost if it would be saved—you are correct. But my uncle is not a lord of death, or of life. He rejected Mora’s teaching and cannot do as much as I, even though he is far my senior in both cræft and medicine.

  “He did lose several patients recently,” Wolfram whispered. “He tried to revive them, with all he could think of, but nothing happened. At one point he was praying to Mora asking why she would not help him.”

  “Exactly.”

  He still hesitated. He did not want to harm, that was not in his nature. At least he did not believe it was. But he was still young, he could alter himself? But had he really gone through all of the trouble to become the student of the lord physician to throw it away?

  Was it really throwing away an opportunity when what would be taking its place was to be the student of a duc, a prince?

  “I would like to continue learning with you,” he said.

  “Very well. Now, you must be exposed to a violent death.”

  “I have seen people die before,” Wolfram offered.

  “But not because of a deliberate murder.”

  “… no, Your Grace.”

  He waved his student forward and they walked down to the stairs that led to the dungeons. Pierre took an old unused torch from the wall and lit it against a candleflame.

  “Here, hold this. There are sconces with more torches that we can light when we reach the bottom.

  The door opened for him as it had before, unlocking at a touch. He came through with Wolfram, showing the boy where to light the room. The door was quickly shut.

  “Who is there! Help! I have been taken!”

  “Your Grace, who is that?” Wolfram asked. But he knew that voice, though he had not spoken much with the man.

  Pierre took another torch and finished and went to the first locked cell, gesturing Wolfram over to see. It was one of the advisors, the one that had been on a mission for the duc with his brother.

  “I have found out that he and his are the ones who poisoned my drink the day before we left the castle,” the duc said.

  “This is a lie!” Jourdain shouted. He was as close to the bars as he could be while in chains, eyes wide as he strained to be nearer. Bloody wrists spoke of how he had been kept. “My Duc, your Grace, I did no such thing!”

  Pierre pulled out a knife and pointed it to Jourdain’s throat until the caged man was forced to step back.

  “My dear principule,” he continued to plead. “I hold nothing against—”

  “Wolfram, open the door. The keys are back in the main room on the table.” The boy went to get them, his stomach twisting in knots. He had come here to witness a murder. Would Pierre kill Jourdain? Would he? Yet he did not disobey, doing as His Grace ordered him. This was for Salome.

  “Now open the door and stand behind me.”

  Jourdain had not moved from his spot, hands now at his side. He did not seem to notice the door opening or care that the duc and his student entered his cell. He stared past th
em at something in the hall, pale. He swayed on his feet. His lips began to move in silent prayer.

  “Do you feel the spirits,” Pierre asked, continuing to ignore Jourdain.

  “I think so,” the boy replied. “There is pain, and sickness, down here.” It felt like a sick-room. He felt sick. His hand shook and he kept his eyes to the floor. He thought he would vomit.

  “But no death. Not yet.”

  The lord looked over the man that had tried to have him killed. There could have been many reasons for it, from Aimé offering a promotion that Pierre would not, to just not wanting a change in who ruled. Honestly, he did not care. Even more honestly he was not entirely certain and that the advisor had done it, Pierre just had a strong inkling. There was evidence of foul play, but nothing in Jourdain’s own hand.

  It was enough.

  A violent death. He justified it in so much as Jourdain had tried to have him killed, and would have succeeded if not for the cræft that he practiced. That he now used the same cræft as a reason to kill him in return was merely poetic justice.

  Pierre grabbed Jourdain’s throat and shoved him against the back wall. Wolfram shouted, moved forward, but at a look from Pierre the boy stepped back. Jourdain fought, but the lord held him until the struggling faded. The dagger then found his lungs, and any remaining movement and life in him began to drain away. His arms moved up to touch the handle and brush Pierre’s hand, but they fell back to his sides. Pierre pulled out the knife only to stab him again. And again.

  In all Jourdain had five deep wounds in his front; none were yet fatal. Shock was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

  The lord of death stepped aside to let Wolfram observe and the victim suffer.

  After a minute, when both Wolfram and Jourdain seemed to have had enough, he quietly snapped his fingers.

  The body slumped to the ground, arms still hanging some inches off the floor because of the chains. Blood pooled in a shallow corner of room before sinking into the dirt, and the stench of waste filled the air.