The Daemon Prism: A Novel of the Collegia Magica

by Carol Berg

  Hosten bowed politely. “I bear you no ill will, magus. I’ve no concern but to see you safely brought where you are required to be.”

  That place was a good distance from my cell. I slowed Hosten’s brisk pace to something more manageable for my trembling legs, by inspecting every centimetre of our route. The palace sprawled in open splendor, showing no evidence of war or defense works. Its corridors were a labyrinth of vast rooms, tall columns, courtyards, and galleries on a hundred different levels. Glass windows filled the walls—some tall and thin, some square or round or cut into small panes. Some sheets of small, gem-colored panes were fashioned into scenes of warring angels and beasts, like a grand mosaic of colored light, a marvel I’d not seen even in Merona.

  Yet, indeed, Jacard’s fine house seemed in sorry disrepair. Paints were dulled and peeling. The gargoyles and beast carvings had crumbled, their noses, snouts, and ears little more than rough patches. Some of the colored glass panes had been replaced with clear, and some remained cracked or broken. The thick draperies that closed off the arched doorways instead of wood had faded. Foul smells seeped through cracks in the floor tiles and the walls.

  We found Xanthe ensconced in an upper-level apartment that bowed outward from the main structure, overlooking the city and the expansive lands eastward. She lounged on a soft couch amid an overabundance of pillows, hangings, mirrors, lamps, statuary, tables, and gold-trimmed dishes. It appeared Jacard had stuffed all such decorative foolery from the palace into the one vast suite of rooms. Bless all spirits, the lady had thrown open every window, bathing the clutter in morning light, else there’d have been insufficient air for the three of us.

  “Did my servant behave himself, Captain?”

  “Dragged his feet on our way. But he attempted no magic.”

  The lady had traded her plain white gown for a close-fitted court gown of scarlet. Her fingers sparkled with jewels and her bare arms were ringed with bracelet upon bracelet of silver, gold, and every sort of gem and colored stone. Unlike the chamber’s, her personal decorations did not seem excessive or ill chosen.

  “Good.” Her sharp word forced my eyes from her bare feet, washed and rouged, toes banded with glittering rings. “In that case, magus”—her waving finger dragged my eyes to a tray of delicately fried fish, cheese, eggs, and fruit—“you may eat. When Captain Hosten told me he gives no refreshment without orders, I was distraught. Captain, unless I tell you elsewise, you will provide my servant with reasonable provisions in his chamber. Is that understood?”

  “Indeed so, my lady.”

  “And take those ridiculous manacles off him. He’s under my command here. They’ll do only to make a mess when he eats. He’s like to have trouble enough with that hand.” Her mouth stretched in disgust. “A good thing I’ve already eaten. Imperator Maldeon did not allow cripples in his house.”

  Glaring at me in warning, Hosten unfastened the bracelets. I tried to appear unthreatening.

  “And now you may leave us, Captain.”

  He whirled on her. “But the Regent said—”

  “I’ve informed the Regent that unless he permits me the normal privileges of royal guesting, I shall take up my residence elsewhere. He has agreed. Now, go!”

  “Yes, my lady.” He bowed his way out, speeding his exit when Xanthe scowled at him.

  “I already tire of this place,” she said, as I drained a full pitcher of gloriously cooled ale. “Iaccar says Hosten is to be my bodyguard. But the captain clucks and scolds like a nanny goat. I’ve insisted he stay at a decent distance to give me privacy.”

  “I’d guess him to be a very capable soldier,” I croaked, savoring a morsel of goat cheese. “Quick and strong.” My arms had a whole layer of new bruises.

  “When he says you must do no magic, you’d best heed. He can sniff spells.”

  I paused between more cheese and a handful of the savory fish. “He’s a practitioner, a magus?”

  “Nay. But he can sniff out magic. Iaccar swears to bury you alive if you so much as enspell a candle outside my rooms.”

  “A watcher, then.” I forced breath through my constricted chest, blessing Xanthe for letting that bit of information slip. So I’d need to work around Captain Hosten as well as Xanthe, Jacard, a sorcerer’s hole, and a mind shredded with nightmares that left a taint on the day. But I could see.

  As I gorged, the lady chattered about anything and everything. Hosten had been a sergeant in the old prince’s service, so Xanthe understood. He had tried to augment his pay by selling palace art objects to a caravan factor who happened to be the palace steward’s brother. Mancibar’s former prince had driven Hosten out of the palace naked through a gauntlet of his fellow soldiers. When Iaccar scouted out fighters willing to share in the prince’s ruin, Hosten had been first up. The incident did not speak well of the captain’s cleverness. But doggedness, physical capability, and a vengeful nature could make a formidable opponent.

  Even when my belly felt near bursting, I continued to nibble at the remains of the feast. Xanthe smiled beneficently, though she might not have done had she realized what else I was working at—a slight illusion to fade my bruises. Something simple, just to see if I could. Something easy to justify if I was caught.

  Magic flowed through bone and sinew, heating my joints like strong wine. No hammer fell on me. No footsteps thundered beyond the curtained doorway signaling a watcher’s alarm. Xanthe’s smile did not dim.

  Another small working—a slight change in texture of the pear I ate. Simple, too, but purest magic, altering the fruit’s underlying nature. Anne had refused even to try such works, appalled that true magic could so “violate nature’s laws of growth and decay.” As if such a working was somehow different from striking fire without flint and steel. We had argued until dawn.…

  “What is it, magus? What makes you smile? I wasn’t sure you knew how.”

  I glanced up from the pear, cold sweat popping out on my back. Never, never think of her, fool. Not her name, not her talents, not her whereabouts. Xanthe must not know of her.

  “Only the wonders of your gift, lady,” I said. “To see, even something so simple as a pear…its shading…its perfect shape so like other pears, yet unique to itself. But now that I’ve eaten enough food for three, tell me what use you’d have of me.”

  I had to set both guilt and magic aside for the time, allowing Xanthe to think she had me fully under her control. Earning her trust was my path to the Seeing Stones. The Seeing Stones were the key to Jacard’s schemes and Portier.

  Xanthe wished to rule a demesne of her own as absolutely and luxuriously as had her liege Maldeon. “Such spectacles and entertainments he ordered, and always the best wine, beautiful clothing, and the fastest horses. I forever put myself in his way, thinking he would take me as his mistress. But he teased and said I was too prickly and he preferred his women ‘smoother.’ Then he took Nessia to his bed. I survived and bided my time. Eventually, such a vigorous man must desire one to laugh, ride, and spar with him in bed.”

  Though her bracelets might not survive, as every mention of Maldeon or Nessia caused her to yank at one of them. Broken loops of silver and pearls already littered the floor.

  “On one night the imperator encountered me in the fountain court. He yanked my hair and wrenched my gown from my shoulders, stroking and caressing and kissing me with magnificent urgency. I was sure he’d had enough of my smooth sister. Thus I demonstrated fully the pleasures of a prickly woman. But no sooner had he roused my fires to burning than he shoved me naked to the grass. ‘I deemed I might have double pleasure on these cool nights,’ he told me. ‘Thou hast her same looks, but not the taste I relish. Thou’rt vinegar to her honey, and I need no woman to choose my pleasures for me.’ ”

  Xanthe had popped up from her couch and wandered about the room, stroking the silk and caressing the alabaster. Now she whirled to face me.

  “That was the night I began preparations in earnest, using all my wiles to learn of Orythmus
. Come the day Fortuna Regina yielded the stone to my hand, I would be ready to use it. Such bribes I paid, such suffering and disgust to glean the words, the binding lore. So many long nights’ practice. Even so, I mastered only three commands. You’ve experienced all: to move or stay, to suffer pain or not, and to see or not see. All useful, certainly. Imagine my delight when I realized that sight could be your leash. But I want bigger magics.”

  She dropped to the floor, so close the thrumming heat of her made my own blood pulse. “You are my bound slave, and I can cause you such pain as will make you devour your own flesh. But as you pointed out, I cannot command your use of sorcery, and now I’ve seen you— It would be far more pleasing if you help me freely. You are the Regent’s enemy. He told me how he rejoiced in your blindness because it would be worse than death to you. I can protect you from his vengeance. Your eyes, your life, your future, and your soul are mine, are they not?”

  “Indeed, Mistress, my fortunes are in your hands.” But she could issue only a few commands. Potent ones, yes, she was right about that. But Orythmus must hold much more.

  She leaned across the table, her dark eyes huge and sharp with silver, not at all smooth. The scent of lemon flowers wreathed my senses. “Teach me the secrets of the Maldeona.”

  “Teach you…”

  “Iaccar insists he can read the Stones to learn of them, but I think perhaps you can do it better. Then I’ll not be beholden to him.”

  “You wish me to study your two Stones and teach you what I learn—how to use them, control them.”

  “From the moment I heard your voice in the soldier’s dream, I knew you were not smooth, either. You’ll not rest until you understand all magic. Why else could we send you to see a man you despised and know you would go? Why else could we send warriors to beset you on your journey and know you would be there? It puzzled me at first when Iaccar told me how a mention of his prisoner would bring you halfway across the world, for he also said you would as soon kill any man or woman in the world as befriend one. But then I learned that this librarian is a magical mystery, too, as potent as the Stones. The two together would surely fire you beyond reason.”

  “Indeed, lady, I—” Conscience required denial, curses, or outright refusal. To teach this murderous child to access power that already shivered my soul violated everything I believed about wielding magic. Yet with one glance backward, denial died unspoken. I had flailed in horror and regret at murder, yet found reason to proceed. I had yielded to Xanthe’s bondage, accepting her word that I could not strike her down. Did I pursue understanding of these mysteries for the good of a world I despised? Did I care for the starving dead any more than I had cared for Philippe de Savin-Journia six years past when Portier had drawn me from Bardeu? Or was it always the magic?

  “Confess your sins, magus. Tell me I have not misjudged.”

  “Certainly you are correct, Mistress. I am neither smooth, nor kind, nor gentle, nor even civil, though as your servant, I shall…behave. Magic—learning, teaching, and wielding it—has ever been my sole desire, and, indeed, blindness was insupportable.” The words Xanthe wanted flowed from me with disturbing ease. “If my sight is at your whim, then certainly I must do as you wish. What greater gift could I ask of any sovereign than permission to pursue the deepest secrets of sorcery? Of course, I make no promises. The Stones are ancient and complex. I may not be able to unravel their mysteries.…”

  But I would. If anyone in the world could do it, I could. Gods, to know the mystery of these things, to be allowed unfettered access…

  My fingers drummed on her table. A plan of study was already arranging itself in my head. “We’ll begin here with the two Stones you control. Without writings or detailed history to guide me, I’ll need to parse their magics on my own. That will take time, as I’ve no notion as to the most basic structure. Are the things enspelled or is their power intrinsic to their crystalline nature or are they something else altogether? As I go, I’ll do my best to extract useful skills to teach you. Eventually, I’ll need to understand how the three relate to each other, how they work together, as what little I’ve gleaned from writings says their power grows geometrically with their union. I’ll need access to Tychemus.”

  Xanthe grabbed my chin, all her ferocious delight chilled, as if clouds had drifted across the sun’s face. “It had best not take too long to give me what I want or I’ll think you dawdling apurpose. Before all, though”—she scraped a fingernail along my unshaven chin, then reached for my braid and near twisted it off—“you must be cleaned, like it or not. You stink like the kennels. And this must be cut off. Slaves have no privilege to wear long hair.”

  I wiped my hands on my breeches and knelt up quickly, uncertain what had changed. “As you—”

  “And I want that”—screwing her face into a knot of disgust, she pointed at my clawed hand—“covered at all times. I refuse to have such ugliness thrust in my face. Keep it gloved or I’ll have it cut off, too.”

  I swallowed an apology and dipped my head instead. She didn’t seem to want words from me.

  She leapt to her feet and yanked a ribbon that dangled against the wall. A bell clanged deep in the house. I began to count.

  Quick, heavy footsteps. The curtain whipped aside and the red-haired captain stepped in and bowed. “Lady?”

  Thirty measured counts had elapsed. The distance to Hosten’s post—a span of action, always useful to know. And he had not come running when I transformed the pear, so he could not detect minor spellwork at that distance. Also a useful measure.

  Xanthe gave orders as to my grooming and commanded I be returned to her at sundown.

  “Fed?”

  “No. I’ve changed my mind. His sustenance will come solely from my hand.”

  “As you say. Up, magus.”

  I allowed Hosten to fasten the burdensome manacles about my wrists. Then I turned to the lady and bowed. Not too deep. I would submit, but must not allow her to think me cowed, even in the shadow of this mysterious pique.

  “One more thing, Mistress. I must have my staff when we work. It will enable me to produce results much faster.”

  She cocked her head, frowning, assessing. “The Regent has been trying to wheedle it away from me. He said you would want it and that it would be a great mistake to give it to you. He said you had secret spells stored in it, enchantments that could drive me mad or make me ugly.”

  “It is not in Iaccar’s interest to have me succeed, Mistress. You either trust me to do as you wish or we might as well end this now.”

  Her face hardened. My every muscle hardened awaiting her response. It took a long time coming.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  I nodded. Victory enough for now. She didn’t look at all pleased, but I was yet standing.

  “You are my slave, Magus Dante, naught else. Remember that your eyes are the price of disobedience.”

  “I cannot forget, Mistress. Not ever.”

  I RELISHED THE IDEA OF a soak in a hot bathing pool. My earlier glimpses from the palace windows had revealed a long, low building south of the main palace, holes in its foundation and roof emitting the telltale steam and smokes of a luxurious bath. I had experienced such a place only once in my life.

  Instead, we returned immediately to the sorcerer’s hole. The captain shoved me to my knees in front of the opened door, growling at me to be still if I didn’t want my throat cut, and summarily sawed off the most of my hair. Before I had quite recovered from the surprise, he shoved me inside, slammed the door, and locked me in, leaving the pile of black hair…admittedly filthy…on the stone floor beside me.

  A quarter of an hour later, the door opened again and, as Hosten watched, a nervous soldier set an earthenware bowl and pitcher, a towel, and an implement of some kind just inside the door. Another man tossed a pile of clothes at me. Hosten himself picked a few longer strands from the pile of my hair, wound them around one finger, and waggled it at me. An artifact so intimate could enable a wat
cher to isolate spellwork to a particular practitioner. He would know which spells throughout the palace were mine.

  The door slammed; the bolts snicked; and I was left in the dark to make what ablutions I could.

  I washed. Shaving with a bone knife and one good hand was more challenging. The netherstocks, shirt, and breeches felt like good cloth, but plain. No buttons. No ruffles or pockets. My hands knew what to do. I appreciated the improvements for the most part, though hair no longer than a centimetre was going to take some getting used to.

  Once dressed, I had naught to do but think. Acquiescing to Xanthe’s bargain, allowing her to understand that I relished what she offered, did not mean yielding my purpose. I would carve out a private laboratorium—a part of my mind where I could work without her influence, as I had in my previous double life. This wasn’t so different. Xanthe was as ambitious in her way as de Gautier and Kajetan. Obey her, and I could learn of the Stones. Please her, make an ally of her, and I could find a way to plumb Jacard’s purposes and rescue Portier. Whatever power my friend represented in this world must not be left at Jacard’s service.