The Princess permitted herself a secret guilty smile. Only once Verone had made it fully to her feet did she pull herself away from the canvas. “Verone, how delightful of you to visit.”
Verone curtseyed. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Highness.”
The Princess turned back to her canvas. “Don’t be silly. You’re always welcome here. I trust your parents are well?”
“Both fine. They were a little disappointed you didn’t make it to the party, though.”
“I would have loved to come, but there were two parties that day, and as you know, I refuse to play favorites.”
“Pity. Mum outdid herself.” Verone stepped forward and peered over the Princess’s shoulder. “Interesting subject matter. Political allegory, per chance?”
The Princess furiously dashed on brushstrokes as the approaching clouds threatened the last vestiges of sunshine. “How do you mean?”
“Clearly, the escalating tensions between Church and Crown have not escaped your notice.”
“Oh, I see. You think perhaps this represents the gathering storm?”
“It certainly is suggestive, under the circumstances.”
“I was under the impression those tensions were little more than a misunderstanding well on its way to being resolved. Is there something I don’t know?”
“Do you by any chance remember Father Cartier?”
The Princess shook her head. “Should I?”
“Well, for several years, now, he’s run my mother’s Church. During that time, I’ve gotten to know him fairly well.”
“Oh, wasn’t he the celebrant at Reginald’s wedding?”
“Indeed, he was. I mention him because he’s been tapped to run the Inquisition up at Exidgeon. Last I spoke with him, he seemed pretty concerned about Trifienne’s Church-Crown relations. He couldn’t give me any details, but his expression spoke volumes. I got the distinct impression he thinks this situation could get pretty bad.”
The Princess’s brush came to an abrupt halt. “You don’t think they know, do you?”
Verone shrugged. “Maybe it’s nothing. All I can say is that Father Cartier sure seemed worried.”
A low rumble rolled in, accompanied by a chill breeze off the river.
The Princess dropped her brush in a waiting crock. “Is the Crown aware?”
“I’m not sure. We aren’t exactly on speaking terms. And even if we were, it’s not like I could just go warn him about my inferences from Father Cartier’s grim expression.”
“But you think perhaps I could?”
“Oh, no, of course not—at least, not until there is something more definite.”
“Then why tell me?”
“I thought perhaps I could offer my assistance. I got to thinking about how you’ve been embroiled in this petty little feud with the Church for some time. It struck me that now might be a good time to repair it. That way, if it turns out they need someone to mediate this dispute, you’d be an obvious choice.”
“Me? Why on earth would they would they come to me?”
For one thing, you’re royalty. That counts as credentials with anyone. For another, the Crown respects you, and everybody knows it. Not only that, but you aren’t particularly threatening to either side, and you have a vested interest in seeing both sides get along.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The Church would never go for that.”
“Well, not as things currently stand, but suppose you and the Church had just gone through a very public reconciliation?”
“They would have to agree to some very stringent conditions for that to have any chance of happening. I won’t sacrifice the Island’s artistic freedoms, and neither will I cede one iota of my sovereignty.”
Verone patted her arm. “That’s precisely where I can help. If there really are serious problems between the Church and the Crown, I’m sure the Church would love to make a big show of reconciling with you. In fact, you’ll probably never get a better chance to name your terms. I can use my influence with Father Cartier to help shape the Church response. He’s not particularly dogmatic, and he was born and raised here in town—he understands how important the Artists’ Colony is to Trifienne.”
“And if the problems turn out to be…irreconcilable?”
“Let me put it this way. If by some horrible twist of fate, the Church has discovered the Crown’s dirty little Phrendonic secret, would you really want to be both this close to the Crown and on the wrong side of the Church?”
The Princess blanched. “I see your point.”
“So, I take it I can tell Father Cartier you’ll meet with him?” Despite the careful phrasing, she clearly intended those words as a statement rather than a question. It was Verone’s turn to sport a secret smile—negotiating this reconciliation would provide Cartier ample gravitas to maintain his new position in the face of all but the most formidable of challenges. And, although the crack the reconciliation would create in the Crown-Island alliance was tiny, it was only the beginning.
Forked lightning flashed amid the bruise-colored clouds that loomed over Ranselard Keep—and the thunder it unleashed followed immediately. The storm was nearly upon them.
. . . . .
After what she’d seen that thing upstairs do to the Monsignor, Dona was less inclined than ever to meet with it—particularly not alone. Feeling helpless and exposed, she cast about for something with which to defend herself. Her eyes fell on the altar. Without regard for any traps that might be lurking on the dais, she rushed over and grabbed the prybar, but it proved to be too unwieldy to be an effective weapon. She dropped it in the open coffin and returned to the altar to scoop the neatly ordered wands into her habit’s ample apron pocket. Maybe she could somehow use them to undo what they had done.
She took several deep breaths, but before she could come up with a plausible plan, the stone blocking the stairwell vaporized once more.
Weapon drawn, Alphonse took the stairs in a single bound.
Alexi’s voice echoed after him. “Dona? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Where’s the Vismort?”
Alexi finally appeared, leaning on the Morgatuan. “He’s having a little nap.”
“You mean—that actually worked on him?”
“So far.”
Dona rushed into his arms. “Oh, well done! And the Monsignor?”
“He’s still a little pale, but I think he’ll be all right.”
“And the pit?”
“We know its secret now, but we all need to be upstairs to try it.”
“What are we waiting for? We’ll want to be as far away as possible when Mr. Congeniality wakes up.”
“I think the Monsignor needs a few minutes.”
The Monsignor sat propped against the wall looking pale and uncomfortable and holding his shoulder—it had borne the brunt of his weight in his fall.
Dona knelt beside him and touched his arm. “Is it broken?”
The Monsignor grimaced. “I don’t think so.”
Alexi rounded on the Bursar. “You have some explaining to do.”
Brent sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I did exactly as we all agreed.”
“You deliberately withheld information.”
“You didn’t ask. And, in case you haven’t noticed, the plan worked. If it weren’t for me, we’d all still be trapped in that chamber waiting to add our corpses to the collection. Do you really think you’d be better off if I’d told you more?”
Alexi huffed. “Alphonse, keep a close eye on him.”
The mood was tense, but there was little else to do but wait for the Monsignor’s status to improve. Fortunately, by the time the blade’s light failed, he’d fallen asleep and his color had returned. Alexi muttered, and the blade resumed its glow.
When the Monsignor awakened, Dona was the first to notice. “How are you feeling?”
He sat up, still favoring his shoulder. “Better.”
“We should move on, then. W
e need water, and I’m getting pretty hungry, too.”
“I have supplies upstairs,” Brent said. “We can stop there first.”
The Monsignor shook his head. “Not yet—we need to destroy that chamber first.”
Brent’s mouth fell open. “What are you talking about?”
“We can’t let this abomination stand.”
Brent crossed his arms. “I won’t permit it.”
“You saw what that demon was capable of. It would be irresponsible to allow something like that to get free.”
Brent didn’t budge. “I also saw what young master Reysa is capable of. Does the same argument apply?”
“Alexi is compelled to do what he does to keep us alive. Are you suggesting he shouldn’t defend us?”
“From what I saw, Alexi did what he did the instant the Vismort reversed what he’d done. And, I might add, the Vismort was engaged in saving our lives at the time. That doesn’t sound like defense to me.”
“Miss Merinne was trapped.”
“On the contrary, he asked her politely to remain behind, and she consented.”
“Yes, but only after the demon demonstrated what it does to those who displease it. Could she really have refused its request?”
“Enough already,” Dona cried.
At that instant, there was another blast of air and grit. When they opened their eyes, the daemon had vanished.
“How did you do that?” Alphonse asked.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Can it come back?”
“The Monsignor shuddered. “I’m not sure.”
Alexi handed Monsignor the Morgatuan. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think we should wait to find out.”
The Monsignor rotated one of the rings. “Perhaps you’re right. Let’s find that mechanism.”
“While Alexi held the blade aloft, the Monsignor and Alphonse searched for the concealed switch. As Dona gathered up the daemon’s cloak, she felt a hard lump in the fabric. Suddenly aware that she had become the subject of the Bursar’s scrutiny, she nonchalantly maneuvered the lump into her apron pocket and donned the cloak.
“So, I was right about you after all,” Brent whispered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me—Mistress.”
“Got it,” Alphonse called out.
Once again, they were engulfed in a whirlwind of dust and grit.
. . . . .
Marguerite almost never had time for needlepoint anymore, but the storm’s incessant howling had been so distracting she’d finally been forced to give up work on her more demanding projects. Needle and sampler in hand, she settled into her favorite chair beside the great hall’s roaring fireplace. There, she stitched and watched through tall leaded windows as the tempest’s incandescent fury lashed the heavens. The simple sampler afforded a rare opportunity to let her mind wander. She smiled, recalling the wonder that fierce storms had always evoked in Spiros when they were young, and how cross she would get when he pulled her away from her work to watch. If only she’d known how little time they would have.
A pealing bell jolted her back to the present. Even over the moaning of the wind, she recognized the doleful clang of St. Sophia’s pride and joy.
What disaster does it portend this time? Has the lightning touched off another fire?
She was tempted to climb the stairs and look for smoke, but even if there were a fire, by the time she got there it would either already be out, or well beyond her ability to extinguish.
Instead, she let herself fall into the rhythm of the stitching, giving herself over to the delicious freedom of not having to think.
Arerio startled her—his silhouette only erratically realized by the relentless flickering of the storm.
“You have a visitor, Mistress.”
“A visitor? In this weather?”
“A young militiaman by appearance. I showed him in to the parlor. He seems a bit…distraught.”
Marguerite’s heart skipped a beat—in the distance the bell still rang.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Only that his message was urgent.”
“See that he’s comfortable. I’ll be out presently.”
“Very good, Mistress.”
Marguerite retreated briefly to her chambers to freshen up, trying not to contemplate what dire message might await her. Casting a critical eye over the woman she faced in the mirror, she nodded, drew herself up to her full height, and strode downstairs to face her fears.
She found the young man warming himself before the fireplace. His ill-fitting uniform had created a pool on the hearth that threatened an heirloom rug.
“My apologies,” she said. “Didn’t Arerio offer you dry clothing?”
The young man turned. “He did, ma’am, but I’m on duty. Are you Marguerite Serrola?”
“I am. How can I help you?”
The young man fidgeted with a button on his coat. “I don’t know how to say this in a good way, but the Crown Prince, well—it ain’t good. The Crown Princess wants you to come right away.”
Marguerite struggled to keep her composure. “Can you tell me what has happened?”
“Assassin’s bolt, or so folks are saying. I didn’t see it myself or anything.”
She clutched her mouth in shock. “Nathan? Is he…?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Marguerite did not reply.
“I gotta go, ma’am. I’m still on duty. I’m real sorry.”
He made for the door, his every step wringing a puddle from his sodden boots.
Marguerite stared blankly after him.
And then, shock gave way to rage.
“Arerio.”
The manservant stepped from the shadows. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Have the driver prepare the carriage. Someone is going to pay.”
Chapter Thirteen
Reversals
Brent cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted upward. “Just bring a few bottles—it doesn’t matter which.”
Once they had made it back to the stairway beneath the vault, Brent reminded them again of his store of supplies. The problem was that neither Alexi nor the Monsignor was eager to limp all the way back up, and no one was comfortable sending Brent alone. Finally, they decided Dona should go. Alexi relit her locket to light her way. Rummaging with the aid of the Bursar’s shouted directions, she’d located his stash of wine and a few wheels of cheese, which she dutifully lugged back to her grateful companions.
“Well, here we are,” Alexi said between mouthfuls. “Right back where we started.”
“Only now we no longer have a journal to rely on,” Alphonse said.
Brent scratched his head. “I don’t understand—I followed the instructions precisely.”
Dona handed him a bottle. “That only helps if they were written with the same precision. Perhaps the account was reconstructed after the events?”
“Then why give all the detail? If you were simply conveying the basic story, wouldn’t you just say ‘we took a passage,’ instead of ‘we took the second passage from the bottom?’”
“Are you sure you read it correctly?” Alexi asked.
Brent fixed him with a withering glare.
The Monsignor cocked his head. “Did you say the second passage from the bottom?”
Brent held out the journal. “That’s what it looks like to me, but if you can read it better, be my guest.”
The Monsignor held up his hand. “Relax, Mr. Brent—I’m not impugning your literacy. Miss Merinne, how deep would you estimate the layer of straw at the bottom of the stairwell to be?”
“Pretty deep. I fell a long way.”
Brent peered over the landing’s edge. “Are you suggesting the straw conceals another passage?”
Alphonse drew his blade. “Well what are we waiting for?”
Dona’s brow furrowed. “Hold on, if there’s one, couldn’t there
also be two passages under the straw?”
Alphonse considered that. “Yes, but the right one will have an archway with the proper inscription.”
“Unless there’s more than one with the same inscription,” Alexi said.
Alphonse scowled. “Is there anything you can’t overthink? Let’s just go look.”
Brent stood. “I’m game.”
The Monsignor still moved slowly, even with the Morgatuan to lean on. Before they made it to the straw-level passage, Alexi had to renew the light again—from his expression, his efforts were taking a toll.
When the sword’s glow revealed an archway, the Bursar rushed forward, leaving the others to catch up as best they could. “The inscription matches—this must be it. Hand me the Morgatuan.”
They passed it forward. Brent checked it briefly and began counting paces.
“Stand here,” he said, waiting until everyone had gathered around his mark.
Finally satisfied, he clicked the scepter’s bottom ring.
As the swirling dust settled, they saw that once again a deep pit had opened behind them and the wall ahead had disappeared. Beyond, instead of a lighted chamber, they beheld a narrow passage leading into darkness.
The Bursar nodded. “That’s more like it.”
Floor-to-ceiling alcoves lined the musty passage, although these were unlit. The passage intersected several others, but Brent chose their route with confidence. In one spot, he had everyone step over a loose stone. In another, he bid them squeeze one at a time into an alcove that concealed a tight passage near the floor. It was easy to spot, since it billowed dust and grit as they approached. Still, Brent meticulously counted the alcoves from the last fork to confirm. Alexi didn’t know which was worse—the thought of what else might occupy the alcove, or the thought of squirming through the narrow cleft beyond. It took several deep breaths before he calmed enough to make the attempt, but he made it through without difficulty. The Monsignor was not so lucky—for a few heart-stopping moments he got wedged, but with concerted tugging, Alphonse pulled him free.
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