She whirled, but nothing seemed amiss. In the rapier-light, she could make out hulking rectangular shapes in the room’s center. They were too tall to be trunks and too massive for tables, and it took several seconds of squinting before it occurred to her she was standing in the presence of coffins.
Although she’d never been particularly superstitious, the idea of being alone this close to the dead with a mysterious rapier as the only source of light was more than a little unsettling. Then she heard the sound again. As best she could tell, it was coming from within one of the coffins.
She tried telling herself it must be a test, but her heart raced nonetheless. She asked herself what Michlos would do to pass such a test, but it wasn’t clear what the test even was. Not to panic, maybe?
Gathering the tatters of her resolve, she pushed forward for a better look at the restless sarcophagus. The inscription read: Cecily Chartruvan, Duchess of Arusia. Why did that sound familiar? But the attempt to recall was promptly driven from her mind by faint scrabbling from deep within the sarcophagus.
“It’s only a test, it’s only a test, it’s only a test.” Despite the mantra, her pulse pounded in her ears. She took deep breaths to calm herself but only succeeded in making herself dizzy. Then, as she was regaining some measure of composure, the heavy stone lid shot up off the coffin base. It flipped head over foot, pivoting like a trapdoor along its bottom edge, and landed with a thunderous crash on the floor. She shrieked in terror. Had she been standing at the foot of the coffin, she would have been killed instantly, but that realization was not what kept her backing away aghast. A low agonized moan emanated from the coffin’s dark depths. Then, to her horror, a bloody hand emerged—and groped its way toward her. As she watched, it trembled and collapsed back into the darkness. In response, Princess Celeste resorted to a response she had never before used in her life—she fainted.
. . . . .
In the rapier’s glow, a violent wind arose that whistled through the cellar of the Academy’s church, stirring up all manner of dust, grit, and litter. It formed, for an instant, a whirling vortex above the open sarcophagus of Cecily Chartruvan, Duchess of Arusia. How it resolved would have been of keen interest to both the room’s occupants, had they had been conscious to see it.
. . . . .
Reston entered his office lost in thought. He’d checked for Everson three times now, and there was still no sign he’d been back. He would have to come up with a new strategy for tracking down the elusive Miss Nevinander if he was ever going see his precious book again. A pity, since Everson no doubt could have given him a reasonable assessment of what he might be up against. Then again, if it was just a matter of tracking her down, perhaps Miss Merinne’s mother could be of assistance. After all, she had responded promptly the last time he’d sent word to her.
“Hello, Reston.”
The tiny woman seated in his office chair rose to greet him. She was clad in a modest gown entirely of black silk. Her face was covered by a veil of black lace that completely obscured her features. As she approached, she lifted it to reveal her perfect heart-shaped face, with its pale complexion and rosebud lips—her only flaw, an angry purple bruise spattered across her right cheek. She regarded him coolly over the top of a fan of bone and black lace—her wide-set eyes twin pools of unfathomable melancholy.
Reston took a step back “Widow Bainbridge? What brings you here?” He made a mental note always to lock his office door.
“Let’s see. You’ve only been here a few months, and already you’ve attracted the full attention of the Inquisition. What do you think?”
“That wasn’t us.”
“Really? Who was it then?”
Reston paused.
“Memory problems?”
“There are too many suspects to know for certain. Why didn’t you warn me there were so many Phrendonics in Trifienne?”
She shook her head. “All those Phrendonics, and yet Trifienne was completely ignored by the Church until after you arrived.”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t us.”
She snapped the fan shut. “It doesn’t matter. The experiment is over.”
“But I’m making good progress.”
“Don’t waste your breath. I couldn’t change the decision even if I were inclined to. I’m just the messenger. Hand over the book, and I’ll be on my way.”
Reston paled. “I don’t have it here.”
The Widow arched a perfect eyebrow. “No?”
“I had to hide it, you know—because of the Inquisition. I didn’t dare risk them finding it here.”
“I see.”
“I’ll get it for you as soon as I can.”
“I don’t have all day. Where is it?”
“Trifienne.”
The widow sighed. “Very well. I’ll be back for it in a week. I hope I don’t have to warn you what will happen if you disappoint me.”
“I’ll have it for you then.”
“See that you do.”
She flipped down the veil and brushed past Reston.
Reston sank wearily into his chair as Jonas poked his head in.
“Who was that?”
“Just some poor widow looking for spare change. I gave her a few coins and sent her on her way. Say, are you free this week?”
“I was planning to help Tilly with the repairs. Why?”
“I have a little proposition for you.”
“If this is about getting your book back, I’m not interested. Your last little deal almost got us killed.”
“Just hear me out”
Jonas took a seat. “All right, but you’re not going to change my mind. I’m only staying because hearing you out is slightly less annoying than stripping scorched wallpaper.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
“If that’s true, I expect it’s only because I really hate stripping wallpaper.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Apprehensions
There was light—blinding light, but she could ignore that. But then came the burning. She could feel it invading her mouth, her nose—her lungs. She gasped for breath, but that made it worse. She screamed, struggled, and finally opened her eyes. And then she remembered.
“She’s coming around,” said a familiar voice. “I think that’s enough with the salts.”
Treust, she thought. That’s Magister Treust. And sure enough, now she could see his concerned face looming over her in the light.
“Well that’s a relief,” someone else said.
She struggled to put a name to this new voice. “Provost?”
“We’re here, Highness.”
“The coffin?”
“Michlos will be all right,” Treust said. “He’s in some pain and he’s lost a bit of blood, but the injury doesn’t look life threatening. It’s probably just a broken nose. Are you feeling better?”
She nodded.
“Ready to try sitting up?”
She nodded again.
“Gently now,” the Provost said.
She felt herself slowly being lifted to a sitting position. She was dizzy but recovering quickly. She was still in the church cellar near the coffins, but unlike before, the entire room was awash with light. Candles had been placed at various points around the cellar, though they were not lit—instead, the candles themselves glowed. She spied Michlos sitting off to one side, his head tilted forward, applying a blood-spattered ball of cloth to his face to stanch the flow.
“There was something in the coffin,” she said. “It reached for me.”
“You mean something other than Michlos?” Treust asked.
“That was Michlos?”
“We got him out right away. I shudder to think of him passed out in those remains like that.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He says Vane did it. Or, I think that’s what he’s saying. He’s not so easy to understand at the moment. It seems sort of senseless to toss him into an open coffin though. Do you suppose it was i
ntended as some sort of warning?”
“It wasn’t open.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I got here, the coffin was closed. I heard something moving inside, and when I got close to investigate, the lid flew off. I had no idea Michlos was in there. I guess I overreacted a little. Where is Vane now?”
“I presume he’s on his way to meet you at Ranselard—he bypassed the dining hall and went directly to the gate. Either he’s eager to meet with you, or he got what he came for.”
“Or he was worried we might find Michlos sooner rather than later. Help me up. I have to get back there.”
“I doubt he was worried about us finding Michlos,” the Provost said. “There’s not much air in these things when they’re closed. It’s a wonder he managed to get out before he suffocated. My guess is Vane thinks Michlos is safely dead with no one the wiser.”
“Where is Newcomb?”
“I asked him to stand guard outside the Church. He was hot to get in here, but that really wouldn’t be safe, either physically or from a security standpoint.”
She nodded and took a few tentative steps. When that went well, she headed over to Michlos. Bending, she put a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Now don’t try to talk. The Magisters think you have a broken nose but that you’re going to be all right.”
He nodded without taking the cloth from his face.
“I’ll have you taken to Ranselard to have that looked at, but you’ll need to stay here just a little longer, all right?”
He nodded again.
“Just until I deal with Vane.”
He shook his head emphatically and winced. “He’ou kiou you.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. You stay here and rest.”
“I can’t yet you do yis.”
“You can, and will. If you even so much as think about anything other than getting better, Provost Wellsbrough is under strict instructions to put you right to sleep. Have I made myself clear?”
Grudgingly, Michlos nodded.
“All right then, Magister Treust, if you would be so kind as to escort me out of here?”
“Right this way, Your Highness.”
As the two of them emerged from the church, Newcomb’s face lit up.
“They said you were hurt.”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“I swear.”
“I only fainted. I’m perfectly fine. Can I trouble you to bring the horses?”
“I’ll get them straight away. Will we be traveling incognito?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when we came here, you were wearing the diadem.”
The Princess felt the top of her head. “It’s gone.”
“It must have fallen off when you fainted,” Treust said. “I’ll go back and check for it.”
“I’ll come with you. We can’t leave until Newcomb is back with the horses anyway.”
“As you wish.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find it though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I just noticed the cloak I was wearing is missing too—unless you think that also rolled under something when I fainted. Are you sure Vane left the Academy?”
Treust nodded. “I watched him head out through the front gate. And you were wearing the diadem when I left you. I don’t think there was time for him to get back in, steal your things, and get back out again.”
“But if not Vane, who else?”
“Let’s just go look. “No sense speculating when the evidence may be in plain sight.”
No one below had seen either the cloak or the diadem, and a careful search yielded no clues.
“I can’t spend any more time on this,” the Princess said. “I must go deal with Vane. Will you keep looking?”
“Of course, Your Highness. One more thing before you go?”
“Yes?”
They started up the stairway. “I know you’re determined to set things right, but now that it’s certain he’s gone rogue, Vane is especially dangerous. Are you sure you want to confront him?”
“He almost got away with murder. I intend to see him brought to justice. Besides, so long as he carries the Eye, he isn’t any more dangerous than anyone else, right?”
“I see Michlos has already briefed you. Keep in mind, though, that for all its power, the Eye can easily be circumvented.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard the story.”
“The safest approach is to stay a long way away, preferably out of his sight. Barring that, you can hope the Eye will keep him in check. If that doesn’t work, I’d like you to take this.”
He removed the only ring he wore and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“Has Michlos told you about Amulets? Normally I make these only for Santines, but this was my first functional prototype. It works when you depress the gem. If it’s on, the gem turns red, like this, and that means it’s protecting you.”
He pushed down the gem and it clicked. The blue gem became a vibrant red. He pushed it down once more and it faded immediately back to pale blue.
“It’s easily overpowered if someone is determined, but you still might find it useful.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll be careful.”
“I will.”
Arriving outside, she hopped nimbly into the saddle before Newcomb could assist her. “Take good care of Michlos, won’t you?”
“I’ll keep my eye on him.”
Once they were beyond the front gate, the Princess sent Newcomb ahead to quietly warn those at the keep. Meanwhile, she took a meandering route back to Ranselard, collecting one-by-one a small contingent of armed guards in the midst of their rounds. They slowly made their way up the twisting path toward the keep, allowing Vane plenty of time to arrive ahead of them. Just out of sight of the gate she called her troops to a halt. Newcomb was waiting for her.
He bowed deeply with a sweep of his plumed hat. “The rat has taken the bait, Highness.”
“Where is he?”
“Waiting for you in the vestibule.”
“Tell him I will see him now. Lead him around to the courtyard’s back entrance but give him the artist’s tour. We’ll need time to get into position.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
“And Newcomb.”
“Yes?”
“No heroics. I can’t afford to lose you.”
“You have my word.” With a final nod, he was off.
The Princess gave him a few minutes of lead time and motioned for her men to follow. At the courtyard gate, she left behind several members of her force.
“No one is to pass through this gate until I give the order. Is that clear?”
They fanned out.
She led the rest of the men into the vestibule with bravado. If Newcomb hadn’t managed to lead him away, she wanted to meet Vane radiating the impression of strength. It turned out not to be necessary—Vane wasn’t there.
“From here, we’ll be heading directly into the courtyard. You’ll have only minutes to get into position. It’s critical you remain out of sight and that you stay well separated. Prefer bows to blades where possible. Do you understand?”
The men nodded.
“Very well. Follow me.”
Ranselard Keep’s courtyard had a long and bloody history. As the site of the gallows for the old prison, it was commonly said that more of Trifienne’s noble blood had been spilt there than on the battlefield. And in those rare cases that called for it, the very center had been reserved for the stake and pyre. Even all these years later, the vegetation still grew sparse and sickly over that spot. Since those days, Trifienne had ceded sovereignty, prison had become palace, and repeated attempts had been made to adapt the area for recreational and ceremonial use. Skilled landscapers had been retained to create a welcoming space for the families of the palace staff. Famous sculptors had been awarded space there to showcase
their labors—but to no avail. Whether because of its reputation, or for other reasons the Princess didn’t fully comprehend, people occupied the courtyard only so long as they were obliged and not a moment more. The intricately carved throne her mother had commissioned for public events had seen less and less use over the years, since Celeste had little interest in forced participation. After all, she had the entire run of the island for hosting events.
For her meeting with Vane, however, the courtyard and its weathered throne seemed like just the place. She had no sooner taken her seat than a door opened across from her. Vane stepped into view, with Newcomb right behind.
The Princess stood as Vane strode toward her.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Highness. I have some new ideas to help with your reconciliation that I think you might like.”
When he’d covered about half the distance that separated them, she finally spoke. “That’s close enough, Mr. Vane.”
Vane stalled. His eyes registered sudden suspicion. “I apologize if I’ve done something that’s offended you.”
She clapped her hands, and the armed men emerged from behind the trees and statues that lined the courtyard. As one, they leveled loaded crossbows at Vane’s heart.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Vane, there are times when a simple apology just won’t do.”
Vane stiffened. “I don’t understand.”
“Listen carefully—your life depends on it. With your right hand, I want you turn out all your pockets onto the ground in front of you. Keep the left in the air.”
Vane slowly raised his hands. “Your Highness, are sure you want to go down this path? As I told you before, I am an Inquisitor. Can you really afford to risk escalating hostilities with the Church just now?”
“Mr. Vane, you only have until the count of five. I suggest you get started.”
“Perhaps there’s been some misunderstanding?”
“One.”
He swallowed hard and pulled things from his pockets. First to drop was a sack of coins, followed moments later by a handkerchief.
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