Fortuna

by E G Manetti

  Milord? Milord!

  All discipline fled, Lilian burrows against the man holding her. Desperately she fights for breath. Desperately she fights to force the horrible images from her mind along with the awful truth she would deny.

  Milord’s arms and legs wrap tightly around her, holding her safe. Milord’s voice rumbles reassuringly, “Naught but a dream. You are safe.”

  “Evil dream? Jonathan defend us.” Chin’s shocked voice echoes in the chamber.

  »◊«

  “Lilian, you spoke,” milord says softly. “You said, ‘They killed him, and he is dead. He moaned, and he is dead.’ Is this the same dream as before?”

  Held safe in milord’s embrace, wrapped in a coverlet, Lilian tries to control her shivering while Chin gently pokes and prods. The terror of the dream has faded, but not the horrifying truth she wishes to forget. A truth she managed to forget for a dozen years. First stricture. Milord’s will in all things. Willing her stomach calm, Lilian answers not the question milord voiced, but the one milord would wish answered. “Militia Captain Reynald is dead.”

  “We know this,” milord rumbles.

  This day. With a small sound of denial, Lilian forces out what milord must know. “He died my fourteenth year. Remus Gariten and his confederates killed him. They tortured him. It was Maman’s fault, or rather the fault of her visions.”

  Milord is silent. Chin halts his probing and raises startled eyes to hers.

  “How do know you this, Lilian?” Milord’s voice is as firm as his embrace.

  “I remember it, milord.” The simple answer is appalling in its implications.

  “You witnessed Remus Gariten kill this man?” Milord shifts Lilian in his embrace to examine her face.

  “Not as such, milord.” Lilian drops her eyes, unable to meet milord’s penetrating regard. “I witnessed the result.”

  Honor acts as duty commands. “There was a reception. There were six, maybe eight men. I was of age to greet guests to my house. I must have greeted them all, but I was only aware of Remus Gariten. It was always necessary to watch for his frown. It was not well when he was angry.”

  Milord lightly strokes her shoulder, encouraging and comforting. Taking a breath, Lilian is able to continue, “The last to arrive were Seigneur Fenrir and a companion. Before Seigneur Fenrir spoke, my mother greeted his companion as Militia Captain Reynald. It was very silent for a moment. Then Gariten began to frown, the captain was shaking his head, and Seigneur Fenrir was saying something about treachery. It is confused, but I remember the men moving and shouting. After that, after that . . .”

  Lilian closes her eyes, trying to suppress her revulsion. Milord’s large, warm hand closes over hers. “Can you tell us the rest?”

  Swallowing hard, Lilian nods. I am the foundation of my family. “My next recall is of the corridor, a door. I opened it and went in. It was dark. The only light was coming through the window. At least one moon was up for there to be light at all.

  “At first I did not see the man in the chair, and then I did. He was naked. Bloody. Torn. Pieces were missing, and I could see things that should have been inside him. It was Reynald. I knew he must be dead. He opened his eyes, but there was only one left. He looked at me, and he moaned.”

  Uncontrollable shudders run through Lilian, terror and horror once again coiling around her, stealing her breath. With a sob, she confesses, “I turned, and I ran. He was alive and moaning, and I left him, and I ran away.”

  Lilian cannot bear to look at either man, her eyes seeking the windows and the abyss beyond.

  “Lilian.” Milord’s shocked voice tries to call her attention. “You cannot imagine there is anything you could have done for the captain.”

  “I left him,” Lilian condemns herself. “I ran away and left him.”

  “Lilian, he was dead.” Chin leans forward, cutting off her view of the abyss. Chin’s black eyes lock with hers, forcing her to hear him. “He was dead. You witnessed his death. The moan you heard was his shade call. That is why his eyes were open. The man was dead when you ran. With the damage you describe, it can be no other way.”

  “His shade call, Master Medic?” A spark of hope flares in Lilian.

  “Yes, it will often sound as a moan or a sigh.” Chin’s clinical assessment counters the emotional trauma of the long-ago event. “The eyes opening are common when the shade is no longer present.”

  Master Chin may well be right; Lilian recalls that Remus Gariten’s eyes opened as he died, although he made no sound.

  “There is no shade call with the Final Draught. The potion stops it.” Chin responds to a thought Lilian did not realize she voiced.

  With the master medic’s explanation releasing her from guilt, and the sharing of her secret releasing her from its burden, Lilian is suddenly aware of her physical being and a number of discomforts. Chin recognizes the difficulty and tactfully assists her to the freshening closet.

  Waiting discreetly outside the freshening closet, Chin watches as Lucius paces. Both men are grappling with the repercussions of Lilian’s ghastly tale.

  “How are you so certain the captain was dead?” Lucius asks.

  “I cannot be,” Chin admits without shame. “If he was not, he soon would have been. A fourteen-year-old could have done naught. Even had she been successful in summoning aid, the man would not have survived. Not with the damage Lilian described.”

  For her sake, Chin did not hesitate to lie to Lilian. He is more than willing to share the burden of that lie with Lucius.

  22. Secrets

  By the fourth century of the Order, the medical enclaves had developed treatments for physical trauma that revealed some occurrences of disordered wits were due to head injuries and disease. For another century, the Governing Council debated treating these afflictions. Eventually, all concurred that mortals could not silence the Shades. If repairing the damage caused by injury and disease re-ordered the wits, it was the Shades’ will.

  Damage to the psyche was trusted to the Shrines, who could call upon the Five Warriors to heal those injuries not of the body. When the affliction had its source in traumatic events, the Shrines found that directed recollection to purge the evil memories, along with spiritual discipline and meditation, would often heal and strengthen the afflicted. In the intervening centuries, the techniques have advanced in sophistication, but the principles remain unaltered. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.

  Sevenday 100, Day 4

  “You should return to bed,” Master Chin admonishes Lilian. “You are not yet recovered.”

  Pushing aside the last of her midday meal, Lilian insists, “I cannot be interrogated in Monsignor’s bed. It is unseemly.”

  “Bed or sofa, what does it matter?” the master medic challenges. “You are decently dressed.”

  The aquamarine wrap blouse and skirt materialized while Lilian was in the shower. Once again, milord’s phantom servitors demonstrated laudable efficiency. Easily donned, the silk knit is of far finer quality than anything Lilian can afford.

  As grateful as she is for the medic’s care, Lilian is adamant. The notion of holding a conversation with milord, Seigneur Trevelyan, and Master Chin while sprawled in milord’s bed is mortifying. Her attire matters not. “Master Medic, I am not ill. Your potions are wondrously effective.”

  “Spare me your flattery,” Chin retorts. “Your feet must remain elevated, and the toxins from the abductors’ potions have not been flushed from your system.” Spinning the medic’s chair to the mirror, he demands, “Is that the appearance of a healthy woman?”

  Lilian cannot argue. Her loosely arranged hair lacks luster, there are dark circles under her eyes, and even the becoming color of her new garb cannot alter the pallor accented by the fading bruise on one cheek. It matters not. “Master Chin, I beseech you. Monsignor and Seigneur Trevelyan must have what little I can offer. The more time that passes, the less I may recall.”

  “I doubt even Lucius has th
e power to redress a murder over twelve years gone,” Chin replies.

  “Please, Master Medic, I must try.” Lilian’s voice breaks on the last.

  With a defeated sigh, Chin agrees, “Very well, but you will keep your feet elevated, and I will end the interrogation when I deem it necessary.”

  Knowing she will gain no more from the medic, Lilian accepts Master Chin’s terms. Although the medic’s chair could elevate her feet, the master medic will not have it. He transfers Lilian to the plush sofa, her legs stretched out along the length, cushions supporting her back and raising her feet. At Lilian’s insistence, he places towels over the cushions to protect them from the potential of seeping wounds.

  No sooner is she settled then milord and Seigneur Trevelyan arrive. Lilian has not seen milord since Master Chin’s potions took her into slumber. She awoke to find that the master medic had remained in the penthouse through the night, freeing milord to attend his family and the Cartel. To Lilian’s delight, milord has her slate satchel. As she places it in her lap, Lilian can discern the telltale shape of her thorn within. “My thanks, milord.”

  “How fare you?” milord asks.

  “She is well enough for the moment,” Chin replies, placing a water vial on the table by Lilian. “When she tires, the interrogation ends.”

  “Peace, Chin.” Milord turns to the medic. “We dare not delay, but I will not risk her health.”

  “Monsignor, this will go more quickly if Lilian may speak freely,” Seigneur Trevelyan suggests.

  “As you voice.” Milord nods. “Lilian, all you know and all you suspect. No transgressions will apply.”

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian relaxes against the cushions. Milord’s command has freed her of both the apprentice protocol and the restrictions of milord’s security-privilege. She is not surprised that the medic is included with the spymaster. She has long since ceased to wonder at the nature of the relationship between milord and the man he has said is the exception to many strictures. With as much calm as she can muster, Lilian recounts her memory of the night Captain Reynald was murdered. The memory remains horrifying, but with the burden of guilt lifted, Lilian finds it easier to discuss than the night before.

  “You are certain it was Seigneur Fenrir with the militia captain?” milord asks, turning his back to the window, his eyes searching her face. Master Chin is in a nearby chair, silent and watchful, while Seigneur Trevelyan is in another, his gaze shifting between milord and Lilian.

  Lilian nods. “Yes, milord. The seigneur and the captain entered together. They looked very much the same as in the visual. The seigneur’s rage when my mother spoke the captain’s name . . . it is . . . I . . . the image is very strong.”

  “It was also brief and confused,” Seigneur Trevelyan interjects gently. “And twelve years gone.”

  “Yes, but—” Lilian hesitates. Milord knows the tale, but no others. Yet it may be important. I am the sum of my ancestors. “It was also the last time my mother spoke a vision to Remus Gariten. I could tell that she regretted her speech. That she had done ill with it.” Lilian pauses, searching her memory. “The timing would be correct. The Gomez party where I broke Patrick Volsted’s nose was early in the dry season, mayhap two months earlier.”

  “Volsted?” Trevelyan startles. “What has he to do with this?”

  “Naught but as a point of reference.” Milord forestalls the need for Lilian to relive yet another traumatic event. Crossing the chamber, he says, “Lilian, you said that was your last recollection of your mother’s visions before Gariten drove her mad. If that was early in the dry season—and by the end of the following green season, you had been taken to Mulan’s Sanctuary—then these events would have likely been early in the rainy season.”

  “Yes, milord.” Lilian raises a hand to her forehead, seeking to rub away the beginnings of a headache. “Those seasons, so much is confused.”

  “Peace.” Milord rests his hands on the back of the sofa. “The events of those seasons were traumatic. Do not try to sift it all at once.”

  Milord sends Seigneur Trevelyan a warning glance. Whatever the spymaster would know about Gariten and Helena will wait for another time.

  “Let us focus on the reception,” Trevelyan suggests. “Do you have any recall of the others? Any recall of names, a sense of rank? A glimmer of purpose?”

  “No, Seigneur. Or rather, I do not believe so. I know not what else I have chosen to forget.” That she has suppressed something of this magnitude for so long has Lilian wondering what else might be missing.

  “An interesting thought, Lilian, but not a likely one.” Chin’s voice draws three sets of eyes. “The events prior to the captain’s death would not have been overshadowed by the discovery of his body. What do you recall after finding the captain?”

  “Running away,” Lilian whispers. In spite of milord’s and Master Chin’s assurances, Lilian remains ashamed of her cowardice.

  “Where did you run?” Chin’s quiet tones cut through her misery.

  “Where?” Lilian echoes.

  “You must have run somewhere,” Chin insists. “Your chamber?”

  Lilian’s mind flits to the spartan bedchamber that was once the house’s least desirable guest chamber. No. Before the ruin, her chamber was in the other wing. Near to Maman’s suite. Maman. Memory winks, surrounded by fog. “Maman . . .”

  Enfolding arms. Hush. Hush. They must not hear you.

  “My mother’s chamber. She wished me quiet.” Lilian glances at Chin and then milord. “She was afraid. Afraid they would hear me.”

  “They?” Trevelyan pounces on the clue.

  Angry voices coming through the open windows to the balcony. “Gariten and the others. They would have been in his suite. The balcony windows were open.”

  “Over the courtyard,” milord murmurs.

  “Yes, milord,” Lilian confirms. “The acoustics are sound, but loud voices in adjoining chambers can be heard if the windows are open.”

  “Do you recall what they said?” Trevelyan leans forward, elbows on his knees.

  Closing her eyes, Lilian attempts to capture the memory. Fear. Sobbing into her mother’s neck. Hush. They must not hear. Betray . . . servants . . . postpone . . . “They were worried. Something about a postponement.”

  “Naught else?” Trevelyan persists in frustration.

  A dull headache forms as Lilian strives to push further into the past, but there is naught. Maman’s voice. Hush. Hush. The soothing sounds turn to a hum. A lullaby. “Naught but Maman humming. She may have been trying to drown out the sound of their anger to soothe my fear.”

  “Do you recall the tune?” Chin asks.

  “The Warriors’ Litany,” Lilian returns, confused by the medic’s interest in such a trivial detail.

  “What do you smell?” Chin wonders.

  “Shrine scent,” Lilian replies without thinking.

  “Incense?” Trevelyan cuts in. “Lady Helena burned shrine incense?”

  “Occasionally.” Lilian nods. “There is a small shrine to Sinead in her chamber . . .”

  Sinead’s scent is heavy in the air. The candle flickers, drawing Lilian into its center. Maman’s voice blends with the hand harp, soothing, comforting, relaxing . . . an evil dream. Naught but an evil dream . . . forget . . .

  “There was a harp . . .” Lilian struggles with the memories. “Too much incense . . .” Lilian rubs her temples, dazed by the vague and confusing memories. “I cannot make sense of it. It is as if I try to grasp mist.”

  “Peace.” Chin rises, pulling a juice pouch from his aid bag. “This serves no purpose. You cannot recall what has been deliberately hidden.”

  “What say you?” Trevelyan straightens in his chair.

  “Drink this.” Chin hands Lilian the pouch. “It will ease your headache.”

  “My thanks.” Lilian accepts the pouch. “But, Master Chin, I do not understand. What has been hidden?”

  “Your memory of that night,” Chin replies. “Blockin
g the memory of traumatic events is a common shrine healer technique. Has Lady Helena such skills?”

  “Mayhap, at the time,” Lilian replies. “Maman is not a healer, but she was within the shrines for decades. Many healing techniques are also used to aid meditation.”

  “That you did not wish to remember would have helped.” Chin nods. “After so long, it is unlikely you can break through the block.”

  “An extreme solution, to hush a frightened child.” Milord frowns.

  “If they could hear Gariten, he could hear them,” Chin returns. “Had he known of Lilian’s witness, what would have happened?”

  “It may have saved Lilian’s life,” Trevelyan interjects, his voice dark. “From what we know of Gariten, heir or not, if he could not trust you to keep silent, he would not have allowed you to live.”

  “And the seer may not have meant it to be permanent,” milord adds.

  “As milord voices.” Lilian nods, her shock at her mother’s act easing as she understands its purpose. “Maman was taken with madness within a season. Even if she recalled the act, she lacked the lucidity to reverse it.”

  There is silence for several moments as milord, Master Chin, and Seigneur Trevelyan consider the implications. Milord’s hand on the sofa is very near. Lilian would like nothing more than to press her face to it, to take comfort from milord’s touch. She must not.

  “Let us focus on what Lilian does remember.” Trevelyan’s voice pulls Lilian out of her reverie. “Know you the chamber where Reynald died?”

  The chamber? Lilian starts to shake her head in denial. No. This day. She will not be a coward. She will look. The small, unused chamber is crowded with old furniture and boxes stacked nearly to the pitched roof. The moonlight shines through a window, not a glass door. Once a perfect place to disappear. “Yes, Seigneur. It is at the top of the house. I used it often as a child. I have not entered it in twelve years.”

  “It has not been entered in twelve years?” Trevelyan asks hopefully.

  “No, Seigneur,” Lilian denies. “It is a storage room. I expect it has been entered often. The last entry was two years gone. Katleen examined it and found naught of value.”