“So, they can be copied?”
“Not a point we advertise, for obvious reasons, but even without the Amulet, the bulk of the encryption that encodes the namesake should remain Patterned on the individual. It should manifest just fine, provided the owner maintains concentration. You just won’t be able to see it without the Amulet’s contingent illusion to make it visible.”
“At which point,” Michlos said, “you could presumably copy it using some sort of displacement-cast detection to broadcast the namesake’s pattern to a waiting Encryption spell.”
Treust nodded. “Or you could just cast an Extension to spread it to anything that might be attuned to and touching him—like a new Amulet, for example. Pattern it while Extended like that, and I’m betting you could replace your Amulet without having to change the namesake.”
“Wouldn’t that create two overlapping copies of the namesake?”
“I think it would, but the Amulet’s Illusion spell will only be able to read the one that’s been Extended. It’s a little sloppy, but I think it should work.”
“I agree,” Michlos said. “But why would you bother?”
“Why indeed?”
Michlos eyes widened as the implications of Treust’s rhetorical question struck him. “Wait—you were working on this problem when I arrived, weren’t you?”
“I was, but it’s been a most delightful interruption. If only I could convince you to do it more often. You know you are always welcome.”
“If you don’t mind, then, perhaps I’ll stay a bit longer. Drop in on some of the other Magisters, take a stroll around the place and see how things have changed—you know, that sort of thing.”
“By all means. Perhaps we’ll see you at lunch?”
Michlos rose to leave. “I’d like that.”
Treust grabbed his arm. “Michlos?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
. . . . .
Nathalie Nevinander blinked, shook her head, and blinked again as her husband and daughter emerged from the villa—they appeared to be chatting amicably, and that was utterly outside the realm of her comprehension. She gaped as Alistair slid back the chair next to Rayen and offered it to Verone, who politely accepted. Amanda’s eyes darted nervously among the three Nevinanders, while Rayen, seemingly oblivious, smiled, raised his teacup in salute, and turned his attention back to the remnants of a blueberry-slathered pancake.
“I’m glad you two were able to iron things out so quickly,” Nathalie said. “Tea?”
“Forget the tea, dear.” Alistair boomed. “An occasion like this calls for champagne. Have Eloise raid the cellars for that ’19 we’ve been saving.”
“I thought you were saving that to toast the passing of the estate. Does that mean you’ve decided?”
“Indeed, I have. What better dowry could a proud father provide?”
Nathalie eyed him skeptically. “Don’t you mean inheritance?”
“No, I mean dowry—you know, the property the bride brings to the marriage?”
“What are you talking about? What marriage?”
“The one Verone needs to have within the week if she expects to get the dowry.” Alistair glanced over to Verone. “Those are the terms, right?”
Verone shot her father a disgusted look. “Ass,” she muttered.
“Oh, my apologies. I’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.”
Rayen swallowed the last of the pancake. “It’s all right. It wasn’t really a surprise anyway.”
Amanda sprayed her tea through her nose. “Rayen, stay out of this.”
Rayen’s eyes flashed. He stood and drew himself up to his full height. “Not this time, Mandy. For too long, out of gratitude, I have allowed you drag me on your fool’s errand. Fate is not some credulous ingénue to be used and deceived as you see fit. You’ve spent your youth dodging destiny, and to what end? Mark my words—try as you may to conceal it, the taint will out, and when it does, what will you have left?”
Amanda regarded him coolly, but her teacup trembled. “If you’re quite finished—”
“I most certainly am not.” He turned to Verone and dropped smartly to one knee. “Vision of loveliness, lady of my dreams, though even in a thousand years I could never hope to merit the honor, will you marry me?”
He opened his hand. Nestled in his palm was a delicate ring of gold filigree set with a fiery crimson gemstone.
Verone sat transfixed. Never in any of her wildest fantasies had she permitted herself to envision a handsome man showing any interest in her at all, much less executing a flawlessly romantic proposal of marriage on her behalf. It was only when she felt tears welling that her skeptical nature reasserted its iron grasp on her heart.
He just wants the estate.
Amanda’s jaw dropped nearly to the table at the sight of the ring. “That’s not yours to give.”
“I beg to differ,” Rayen said. “It became mine once Mother abandoned it and I found it.”
“Veronique, dear,” Nathalie said. “It’s impolite to keep the nice man waiting.”
Verone’s gaze strayed to her father. The corner of his mouth was pulled up in that maddening little smile of his—the smug bastard thought she’d never be able to go through with it.
She stood, cupped Rayen’s outstretched hand in hers, and leaned down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I will,” she whispered.
. . . . .
Dona’s eyes snapped open. She fully expected to be surrounded by a legion of Ordinal Isrulian’s omnipresent sycophants, each armed to the teeth and grinning wickedly. To her surprise, other than the two of them, the garden was completely deserted.
“Did you just—”
Alexi clamped one hand over her mouth. With the other he put his finger to his lips, and then pointed upward. She let her gaze follow. Through the tangled grapevines, she could just barely make out a window, its sash slightly ajar.
Isrulian spoke again, his voice clear enough to suggest he must be at or very near the window. Despite the lush layer of vines that separated them, Dona felt helpless and exposed.
“I trust my release from this makeshift prison of yours was precipitated by an emphatic response to my letter to the Holy City. I hope this little escapade was worth the Primal’s ire. I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he orders this whole operation shut down.”
A woman’s voice responded. It was low, smooth, and accustomed to wielding authority—if the Ordinal’s threat had made an impression on her, Dona surely couldn’t tell.
“Ordinal Isrulian, you are being released from quarantine because we have determined that you no longer pose a plague risk. As for your letter to the Holy City, I expect you will find it among your belongings. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that such things cannot be distributed while any risk of contagion exists.”
Isrulian sputtered. “You never sent it? I was assured it was on its way. This is an outrage!”
“The sisters have been instructed to avoid agitating our guests. I’m afraid that sometimes involves humoring them.”
“Just as well,” Isrulian snarled. “I’ve come up with a few more things I’d like to add. And speaking of my belongings, where are they? Haven’t you wasted enough of my time?”
“I expected them to be here by now. Wait here, and I’ll see to it myself. Believe me, I have no desire to waste any more of your precious time than is absolutely necessary.” The emphatic sound of door striking jamb belied the woman’s apparent calm in the face of Isrulian’s tirade.
Isrulian picked up on it instantly. “Well, it seems I’m finally making an impression.”
“And long overdue it is, Your Ordinence.”
“Orley,” Isrulian said, “In case I haven’t mentioned it, I want to thank you for being here when I was released. Such loyalty shall not go unrewarded.”
“It was both my duty and my pleasure, Ordinence.”
“The rest of my retinue apparently didn’t share that point of view.”
“In their defense, some waited for several days, but when Father Cartier ordered the evacuation, most were understandably reluctant to disobey.”
“Ah yes, and speaking of the good Father, where was he while I was rotting in my cell?”
“I saw him speaking with the Sisters on several occasions. I can only imagine he did what he could.”
Isrulian harrumphed. “Yeah, I bet. I’ll deal with him in due course. In the meantime, I must get that letter to the Holy City. I’ll wager even Goodkin won’t allow such blatant disrespect of one of his Ordinals to go unpunished.”
“But the Sisters aren’t beholden to the Primal. What could he do?”
“Orley, this isn’t about authority, it’s about power—something our current Primal is apparently unfamiliar with. It’s about time we had a strong Primal again—one who stands on principle and isn’t afraid to defend the sanctity of his anointed officials.”
“You think if Ordinal Laitrech had been Primal, he would have found a way to free you?”
“Not at all. I think if Laitrech were Primal, the Sisters would never have dared imprison me in the first place.”
“So, when he becomes Primal, you think he will put them in their place?”
“Once Laitrech is Primal, it’s only a matter of time before they no longer even have a place.”
“Who will tend the sick if he excommunicates them?”
“Once he begins distributing Relics to all priests who show an aptitude, the Sisters will become obsolete. What patient in his right mind would choose to be merely ‘tended’ when he could be healed outright?”
“He plans to give Relics to priests? Won’t the other Ordinals object?”
“When Goodkin is finally out of the way and Laitrech is Primal, they can object all they want, but I doubt they’ll object for long. Once the Church establishes a monopoly on healing like the one it already has on spiritual well-being, no state will have the temerity to oppose it. Temporal powers like Trifienne wouldn’t dare risk an affront to the Church like the one that just occurred at Exidgeon. Imagine the power of an interdict or excommunication that suspends not just spiritual functions, but all healing as well. The power of the Church will be absolute. Laitrech will usher in a golden age the likes of which the world has never seen, and we shall be a part of it.”
The scraping of the door’s latch announced the Sister’s return, and Isrulian fell silent.
“Here, I’ve located your belongings,” she announced. “Once you’ve checked through them, you’re free to go.”
“Yes,” Isrulian said. “Well, everything seems to be here, including my letter, which will no doubt require significant amendment. I hope you’ve enjoyed your little victory over the Church. I intend to see to it that you have precious few such opportunities in the future.” The door slammed behind him, interrupting the Sister’s response.
. . . . .
“No really,” the sister said sarcastically to the empty room. “The pleasure was all mine.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement in the courtyard below. Her curiosity piqued, she lifted the window for a closer look, but the only thing moving was the swing under the grape arbor, which swayed silently in the still air as if motivated by a hushed conspiracy with an errant breeze.
. . . . .
The grounds of the old monastery were clearly in decline since Michlos’s days as a student. It’s not that they had become shabby or unkempt—quite the contrary. But the opulent groundskeeping, with its formal beds and exotic flora, had given way to a humbler rustic aesthetic of quiet trails and native plants that required little care. In the rare instance where a new building had been necessary, the materials and design were suited solely to fulfilling function, apparently at the lowest possible cost. Michlos found the new approach to be very much at odds with his grandfather’s vision of an elite academy for training a force of gifted agents to address the unique needs of a network of powerful families who held in common a single nefarious secret. The original endowment had been engineered primarily by Marguerite’s father, who had negotiated promises of ongoing contributions from several of the most influential families. It was, after all, a time when the deft intervention of a skilled Santine could make the difference between an isolated unresolved disappearance and wholesale Inquisitorial destruction of the entire familial network.
Initially, the endowment paid a generous stipend to each active Santine, but that practice had already fallen by the wayside before Michlos had enrolled. With it went any pretense of Academy oversight, resulting in what had essentially degenerated into a loose part-time confederacy of volunteers lacking clear standards or centralized control. Of course, against an Inquisition adept at turning friend against friend, the lack of organization was also a strength, but it did nothing to assure the continued integrity of the Santines themselves. It was presumed the high standards instilled during their rigorous training would suffice, and indeed, despite the lack of oversight, the track record for virtuous conduct had been impressive—until now.
And grateful as Michlos was for Magister Treust’s subtle hint that Vane might be waiting nearby for a replacement Amulet, knowing he was there didn’t solve the problem. The best he could do would be to keep Vane from further implicating his mother in additional crimes, but even if he found a way to neutralize Vane, it wouldn’t change the fact that Marguerite was now under suspicion for both heresy and murder.
He’d already decided to decline Magister Treust’s lunch invitation. He couldn’t take the chance Vane would recognize him or that one of the other Magisters might unwittingly give him away. He’d also decided to move his horse from the hitching post at the gate to the stables proper, where it wouldn’t announce quite so publicly that the Academy was hosting another guest. He was also eager to learn if Vane, too, had arrived on horseback, perhaps accompanied by saddlebags bulging with important information.
As he approached the stables, his heart skipped a beat. The gate stood ajar, and he could hear activity within. Instinctively his left thumb sought out the signet on his ring, but he stopped short of activating the switch.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Master Michlos? Is that you?”
A congenial face topped by a black velvet hat sporting a cacophony of plumage poked out of the stable gate.
“Newcomb? What are you doing here?”
“I’m tending to her Highness’s mare. No offense to the Magisters or anything, but Petunia’s not exactly used to slumming like this, and it’s making her nervous.”
“Princess Celeste is here?”
Newcomb stepped fully into the daylight. His black-and-white-striped doublet stood out in stark relief against the stable’s gray brick and aged wood. “We just arrived.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“Well, I probably oughtn’t say—but then again, her Highness does seem favorably disposed where you’re concerned.”
“I promise to be circumspect.”
“It won’t be secret for much longer anyway. She’s decided to close the Academy. She’s here because she thought it was only right that the Magisters be told in person.”
The news hit Michlos like a punch in the gut. “Close the Academy? Why?”
“I think she views it as a danger to her reconciliation with the Church. She’s afraid they may ask her to return the monastery as a show of good faith.”
“And give them a foothold on the island? Why would she do that?”
Newcomb shrugged. “She doesn’t always tell me her reasons. But she’s never been fond of them, so I doubt she thinks she has any choice.”
“I must speak to her before she makes the announcement. When is she planning to tell the Magisters?”
“I don’t know—probably as soon as she can. She’d think it was rude to accept their hospitality for long without letting them know.”
“Where is she now?”
“I heard them say something about lunch at the new
commissary, and it’s about that time.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“I’d be honored, sir.”
“Can you see to my horse for me?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Michlos handed off the reins. “Thank you, Newcomb. I owe you.”
Newcomb paused at the stable door. “Well, then, now that you mention it, if you wouldn’t mind confiding in her Highness how much you admired the old uniforms, I’d be much obliged.”
He turned to gauge Michlos’s reaction, but the man was already gone.
. . . . .
Arriving at the commissary, Michlos took a moment to catch his breath. He could hear the clatter of dishes inside and the low rumble of distant conversation, but he couldn’t make out the Princess’s voice. Reluctantly he approached the front stoop, eager to locate her, but leery of revealing himself to Vane. He spent several long moments at the door hoping to overhear something that would make the choice easier, but nothing came. Finally, cursing his indecision, he reached for the latch.
“Michlos, is that you?”
Michlos’s hand froze mid-pull. After an almost imperceptible sigh of relief, he smiled and turned to face the voice.
“Your Highness, what an unexpected surprise.”
Celeste stood before him, tall and stately, a forest-green ermine-lined cloak across her shoulders and the platinum-and-emerald diadem of her office glinting on her brow. Beside her, Magister Wellsbrough, Provost of the Academy, paled to awkward insignificance, and when Michlos finally acknowledged him with a nod, it was almost as an afterthought. She clearly intended this visit to be official.
“Well that’s reassuring,” she said. “I confess I was beginning to feel like you could anticipate my decisions before I even make them—not that you’d let on, of course. Let me guess. You’re going to tell me you have no idea why I’m here and that your visit at precisely the same time is pure coincidence?”
“It seems I am an open book, Your Highness.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not disappointed. I resigned myself long ago to never to expect a straight answer when dealing with you. I am curious though, do you come by it naturally, or does the Academy offer specific courses in tergiversation?”
A House of Cards Page 31