The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  “The Dire Sweepers happened,” he snapped. He caught himself and softened his next words. “It is their custom to burn any building which has had the Horned Death within. If the situation allows for it. Stops the spread of the disease, I believe.”

  A few minutes later, she and Peregrine were alone, looking around their spartan cells in the staff quarters. “Hardly luxurious,” she remarked.

  “Be looking good to me,” Peregrine replied. “It’s got a bed for a start and I reckon the roof won’t leak. “ ’Sides, a hot bath every five nights sounds good. But Agent Gerelda, I still don’t understand why we’re here. I’d be of more use staying in Vavala and warning the Pontifect every time one of them pitch-men popped up his rotten head—”

  “I think perhaps the Pontifect can look after herself.”

  “So why does she want me to see the Regala of Lowmeer?”

  Gerelda waved a hand at the bed. “Sit down, Perie. It really is time for you and me to have a talk about everything. But let me explain something first. The Pontifect has not told me the whole truth. So don’t blame me later on if you find out you only know a little bit of what’s going on, all right?”

  He nodded. “My da used to say that you should never be telling anybody everything.”

  “Maybe.” But damn Fritillary anyway. I hate being hamstrung by ignorance. “Anyway, we’re going to meet the Regala Mathilda because she asked for help from the Pontifect. She is worried about Prince-regal Karel. She thinks he might have been contaminated by A’Va at birth, that he was born a so-called devil-kin.”

  He stared at her, his eyes widening. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Lowmian thing. The Pontifect thinks a devil-kin contamination might be the same thing, or similar to, what pitch-men have.”

  He looked at her blankly. “I thought we had a fret ’bout Prime Fox having summat to do with the pitch-men. Now you be saying A’Va gives the pitch to babies? You think maybe Prime Fox is working for A’Va?”

  “Possibly.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Fox would never work for someone. He is the pitch pit. I told you that. He be not at all like the folk who killed my da.”

  “Look, all you have to do is take a look at the Prince-regal and tell us what you see, if anything. We want to know if we need to worry about him. It wouldn’t be good for anyone if there was a devil-kin, or a pitch-man, on the throne of Lowmeer one day.”

  “I can do that much.”

  “One other thing. There’s another kind of black smudge too, only visible to us ordinary folk when someone marked with it steps under the protection of a shrine oak. Wicked people leave that mark on their enemies as a warning to their fellow evil-makers. You must be careful you don’t confuse that kind of smutch with pitch-men.”

  He was offended. “I’m not that daft.”

  “Good. We will have to wait a couple of days for the appointment. In the meantime, I’ll be working in the library, looking into the history of the Fox family and the Regal’s family. What would you like to do?”

  “Can I go out into the city?” he asked, his eagerness to be gone from Faith House obvious.

  After considerable cajoling on his part, Peregrine was on his way out when he saw Prime Mulhafen coming the opposite way.

  “Where are you going?” the Prime asked, smiling slightly. “No, silly question; you’re going out into the city, as any small boy would do if given the chance.”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded childish to his ears, but in his head he denied the idea of being young. His boyhood seemed distant and fleeting, as if it had once been no more than chalk marks on a slate, wiped away by the pitch-men who had murdered his da.

  “I wanted to chat with you.” Mulhafen was still smiling, but the smile looked uncomfortable. “Tell me, Peregrine, what is your witchery?”

  He was about to reply, when he remembered neither he nor Gerelda had told the Prime he had a witchery. It was possible the Pontifect had mentioned it in her letter, but he’d had the impression that she’d not said much at all. “Boys of my age,” he said neutrally, “don’t get gifted witcheries.”

  “I can see you have one.”

  That shook him. He said carefully, “To see a witchery, you must have a witchery.” And you don’t have one.

  The Prime smiled, but this time there was something heart-rending in the way he was forcing his lips to curve upwards. “You are right of course; I don’t have a witchery. Nonetheless, I have the ability to see that you do. You see, Peregrine, I once had a witchery too. I had it taken away from me. Vanished, far more easily than I earned it.”

  Peregrine was speechless. He had no idea what he could possibly say to that.

  “You do know that can happen, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “I knew too. But I was young. I didn’t realise that you can lose a witchery, not just for misusing it in a bad way, but for not using it in a good way when you should. Youth understands very little.”

  Probably that’s because too few adults ever explain things properly.

  “Will you tell me what your witchery is?”

  Peregrine shook his head.

  “Ah, perhaps you are wise. Be on your way.” There was such sadness in that old man’s tone that Perie wanted to apologise, but Mulhafen had already nodded and walked away.

  Peregrine sighed. He might not have been a boy any longer, but he wasn’t grown either. Sometimes it was so hard to guess what went on in the heads of adults.

  Princess Mathilda sat in her retiring room with several of her ladies-in-waiting. She was supposed to be delving into the book on her lap, entitled The Small Compendium of Court Etiquette, but she was gazing out of the window instead. When her ladies tried to talk to her, she waved the book at them, and bent her head over the pages, but the words remained unread.

  She had pushed Aureen through that very window to her death. No one had questioned the supposed suicide; no one had pretended concern. She’d got away with murder.

  But she hadn’t, not really. Guilt sat on her shoulder, all the time, digging its claws into her bones. All she had to do was glance out that window beside her. One glance, and the claws tightened.

  Strange–at first the murder really hadn’t bothered her that much; she’d done it for little Karel, after all. Like Sorrel. Sorrel had murdered her husband in revenge for her daughter, hadn’t she? Anyway, it was all Sorrel’s fault that Aureen’s death was necessary. Or maybe the Pontifect’s fault. If Sorrel had gone to the Pontifect immediately, as she’d been bidden, and the Pontifect had come to counsel her, none of this would have happened. She was the Regala and an Ardronese princess–and no one had come to help her in this dilemma. No one!

  Guilt had crept up on her and now it wouldn’t go away. Then there was the stupid irony of it all, prodding at her, not letting her forget what she had done, reminding her with a truth: she missed Aureen. The woman had been no more than a servant, but she’d been a link to Ardrone, to her previous life. Aureen’s knowledge might have been a danger, but killing her meant that Mathilda had rid herself of the one person who understood her situation. Her secret was safe, but her death left a hollow inside.

  I’ll never forgive you, Vilmar Vollendorn, for making what I did necessary. Never. You’ll pay for it, I swear.

  She waited until her ladies were all chattering at the other end of the room, exclaiming over some newly completed embroidery, then drew out the Pontifect’s letter, which Prime Mulhafen had given her the previous day. She’d read it several times already, but was still puzzled. At first, she’d assumed it would be confirmation that Sorrel had reached Vavala, but that wasn’t the case.

  In fact, the Pontifect intimated that neither Sorrel nor the baby had arrived, although the information was vaguely worded. The letter then continued, “Do not be alarmed, Your Grace; the woman and her child are under the care of a reliable cleric, who has their best interests at heart.” So, if th
ey hadn’t reached Vavala, where in all of Va’s creation were they, and how did the Pontifect even know about them? Infuriatingly, there was no explanation.

  The rest of the letter said two people–Gerelda Brantheld and Peregrine Clary–had been sent to her, and would she grant them a private audience. Neither of the names meant anything to her. She sighed, realising she’d been naive to think the Pontifect might make a trip to Ustgrind herself, even though the reason was of paramount importance, but it was some added information from Prime Mulhafen that had truly shocked her. He hadn’t any knowledge of why the Pontifect had sent anyone, and he’d casually mentioned that one of her emissaries was merely a young lad.

  That, she didn’t understand at all.

  Surely, surely the Pontifect had not told a mere lad that the Regala of Lowmeer had given birth to twins and one of the babies had been spirited away? By all that was oak holy, her life–and Karel’s–was forfeit if anyone in Lowmeer learned the truth! She’d asked Sorrel to take the other twin to the Pontifect, wanting help and advice. She’d wanted to be told that there was no such thing as devil-kin; she wanted to be praised for her courage; she needed to be told that all was well and her secret would never be known to anyone who would ever utter even a hint of it.

  A lad? Had the Pontifect lost her wits?

  A shiver went up her spine. How many times had that horrible dream returned? Red-eyed crows on the traitor’s wheel stabbing at her eyes… Dearest Va, anything but that.

  Please, oh please.

  Just then Lady Lotte, the boldest of her younger ladies-in-waiting, approached her, saying, “Whatever can the Prime have said to make you reread it, Your Grace?” she asked. “Is his note so obscure?”

  She raised her gaze and gave Lotte a hard stare. “You can be very silly, Lotte. This is not from the Prime. It is a letter from the Pontifect, informing me she has sent an emissary. Doubtless merely a courtesy, to deliver blessings for the good health of the heir. I am giving them an audience tomorrow.”

  Her heart raced at the thought, but she was confident no agitation showed on her face. At hiding her feelings she was now an expert.

  15

  An Heir Under Scrutiny

  When the herald announced that the Pontifect’s emissaries were on the way to her solar, Mathilda seated herself on the Regala’s chair in the reception room and bade the nursemaid to place Karel’s cradle at her side. The ladies-in-waiting in attendance–ten of the chattering flock that morning–gathered around, brightly curious and ready to sharpen their relentless tongues on any breach of protocol.

  Ward’s-dame Friselda, the pesky woman, was the first. “Your Grace,” she’d said in her most imperious tone, “should the babe be here when you are expecting the arrival of strangers? Who knows what pestilence they bring clinging to their clothing? Who knows what noxious streets they have walked down?”

  If Friselda hadn’t been the Regal’s trusted cousin, she would have flung the wretched woman into those same noxious streets. “Surely you are not saying that the Pontifect of Va-faith is so indifferent to our well-being that she would send someone unclean into our royal presence, Lady Friselda? Perhaps you should mention such concerns to my dear husband.”

  Friselda, puffed up like a pigeon, glared, but it was all posturing for she said nothing more. Doubtless, though, she would carry some tale or other to the Regal later.

  The guards in the gallery flung open the door and the herald announced the two envoys. “Proctor Gerelda Brantheld, Agent to the Pontifect of Va-faith, and her attendant, Master Peregrine Clary!”

  Silence fell, almost a funereal hush, as the two walked forward to face her. Dear oak, what an unprepossessing couple! The woman was too tall to be fashionable, and although her face was attractive enough, she was too broad across the shoulders to be feminine. Besides, she strode into the room like a man. The lad was clumsy and coarse, wearing a sullen expression. They wore Lowmian clothing, but she had expected their garments to have been made of fine linen as befitted envoys, not ugly broadcloth more suitable for tradesmen.

  Brantheld curtsied in a perfunctory, graceless fashion and the lad belatedly attempted a bow.

  “Come forward,” Mathilda commanded, “where I may see you better.” Her heart was beating so fast, she wondered if they would hear it. Who were these people into whose hands the Pontifect had put her life–and that of her son? Commoners, surely. Not even clerics!

  The woman came closer and Peregrine followed her lead. “Your Grace,” she said, “we are honoured to be granted this audience.”

  Mathilda nodded, then she turned her attention back to her ladies, saying, “Leave us alone. You may all await my pleasure in the retiring-room.”

  The ladies-in-waiting obeyed, but the ward’s-dame did not budge and the nursemaid moved towards the cradle. Mathilda glared at them both, asking, “Did I suggest you take the Prince-regal with you, nurse? Leave him be. And you, Lady Friselda: this visitor has come from the Pontifect with spiritual guidance for me, as mother of the Prince-regal. You may safely leave us alone.” She glanced back then at Peregrine. “Although perhaps it would be best if my ladies were to entertain this young man.” She nodded at Peregrine.

  He shot a look of entreaty at his companion, but she jerked her head at the door. Lady Friselda inflated her chest and hesitated as if she were about to argue. If so, she then thought better of it and beckoned to the lad. “Come this way, boy.” Without looking behind to see if he followed, she sailed from the room.

  “So,” asked Princess Mathilda after they’d gone, “come sit here next to me so that we can be truly private.” She waited until the woman had obeyed before adding, “Gerelda Brantheld. What message is it that the Pontifect has sent to me through a lawyer?”

  “Your Grace, my designation is irrelevant. I am a trusted agent of the Pontifect of some years’ standing. Whatever secrets exist are safe with me, now and in the future. After all, I am–as you emphasise–a lawyer.”

  “And can you say the same for a boy scarcely out of a suckling’s smock?” The very thought sent terror coursing through her veins.

  “Your Grace, I would trust the lad with my life. Indeed, I have done so. He is no ordinary child, and against all that is normal, he possesses a witchery. However, he knows nothing of twins. If you had not dismissed him, I would have done so. He is not privy to such matters.”

  She took a deep breath, partially mollified. Perhaps she was safe yet. Perhaps she would survive. Perhaps there was no traitor’s wheel in her future. Still, she wanted explanations. She said, the steel in her voice intentional, “I sent word to the Pontifect immediately after my travail; what has taken her so long to send you to speak to me? Were my affairs not thought to be urgent? Perhaps the Pontifect should have come herself instead of sending her lackey. Did she not realise what is at stake here?”

  “Your Grace, I am sure she did. Does. But it is no easier for a Pontifect to leave the seat of her power than it is for you to leave yours. In truth, without an invitation from the Regal, it would be impossible for her even to set foot in Lowmeer.”

  “So what took you so long?”

  “Sorrel Redwing and your daughter did not arrive in Vavala. The Pontifect knew nothing of your predicament until recently. It’s my understanding that Mistress Redwing was being hunted, and her one avenue of escape was a ship. Unfortunately, the ship was on its way to Karradar. She is not yet returned.”

  Her consternation burgeoned. “Karradar? But that is almost in the Summer Seas, surely! This is rattle-brained nonsense. How could you even know she was on board? And my daughter…” Incredulous, her thoughts churning, she stared at Gerelda. She clutched the arms of her chair tightly, thinking she was going to faint. For almost the first time, she felt something for the girl she had given birth to, for the baby she had sent away with such desperation. “Did… does my child have a wet nurse, then?”

  “I imagine so, Your Grace, for she was alive and well, several sennights into the journey. She is
accompanied by a witan who cares for them both. It was he who managed to send a message to the Pontifect.”

  “A witan?” Her bewilderment suddenly doubled. The only witan Sorrel had contact with before she’d left the castle that night was Saker. “You–you can’t mean Saker Rampion!”

  The expression on the lawyer’s face told her she was right. “Is this a jest? Rampion?”

  Confused memories of that dreadful night she had given birth tumbled through her mind. Saker, inexplicably, had been there in the castle the night before. And if her memory served her truly, he had indicated he knew she was going to have twins. She should have demanded more answers of Sorrel, but her travail had been upon her, and nothing else seemed to matter. She and Sorrel and Aureen had been so scared…

  Sweet acorns, what if Saker hates me? Va knows, he has reason and he knows too much about me.

  Gerelda Brantheld was looking at her blankly. “Jest? No one is jesting in this matter, I assure you. Unfortunately, the Pontifect has not been able to examine the child, to see if there is aught ailing her by virtue of being a Lowmian-born twin.”

  Mathilda shook her head in disbelief. “You haven’t explained how it is possible to send a message from the middle of the ocean. Do you think I am that gullible?”

  “Apparently Witan Rampion has a witchery that involves birds. A written message was delivered by a bird.”

  “Saker has no witchery!”

  “Your Grace, he was chained to a shrine oak tree on freezing high-country moors and survived. He now has a witchery.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to halt the tears that threatened. Oh, Va, how tangled the threads were becoming.

  “Your Grace, the Pontifect’s primary concern is the welfare of the Prince-regal. If there is a problem, it should be identified as soon as possible. This is why she sent Peregrine Clary with me. He has the ability to tell if Prince-regal Karel has any, er, issues that need the Pontifect’s immediate attention.”

  She tried to clamp down on her emotions, but doubted that she was able to stop the horror she felt from showing on her face. “This–this commoner boy is going to tell me if the Prince-regal is a devil-kin?”