Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

  He bowed, eyes dropped and arms spread wide. “’Tis only your own masters’ business I tend, domé,” he said in a nasal tone that slid past the ear like oil and honey. “I be Skefil, Constable of the Council District, at the service of the lordly Registry. This lad’s charged to guide me, I ween.”

  “Ah, the assassin watcher!” I said. “My superiors in Morian will be amused that Ardran purebloods must call in ordinaries to protect themselves. I’ve use for the boy. I’ll loan him if you note a nefarious person sneaking up on us.”

  I motioned Rigaro to the next portrait. “Which curator is this?”

  Skefil’s eyes were hot on my masked cheek. But as the boy and I strolled along the portrait wall, he turned away and leaned over the gallery rail. Beaded sweat dribbled down my back.

  Ascetic, cold-eyed Gramphier loomed tall above us, portrayed half in shadow. The First Curator of secrets and mysteries. Again, no evidence of a second artist’s work. Yet again, the painting failed to match the true image I carried. I had removed a shadow from the First Curator’s hand, a shadow the ominous hue of blood. From the murky floor behind his feet, I had removed all trace of a dagger scribed with the white tree of Xancheira. The true image testified to a man willing to murder to protect the Registry from Xancheira’s secret.

  Drums and trumpets sounded in the distance. The crash of doors and a burst of sunlight from the atrium announced the arrival of the royal guest. Rigaro glanced over his shoulder at Skefil, whose attention focused entirely on the scene below.

  “Only two more,” I said, tight as a drum skin. “He’ll call if he needs you.”

  The boy ducked his head and led me on. “This is Curator Albin.”

  Wide brow, olive skin, raven hair. The man likeliest to succeed Gramphier, if rumor was true. The changes between original and the portrait on the wall were immensely subtle. I had portrayed Guilian de Albin standing on a hilltop, overlooking the harvest in his expansive vineyards. I remembered choosing it as his defining environment. On the distant horizon a fiery sunset blazed behind a dark line—the silhouettes of carts laden with grapes.

  Again, my own hand had altered the portrait, but where? The true image seemed very like. Forcing anxiety aside, I studied the painting carefully and then closed my eyes to examine the true image alone.

  The horizon . . . The jagged silhouette backed by garish orange was not heaped carts framed by brilliant sunset, but broken structures, charred roofs and towers against a sky darkened with ash and glowing with rampaging flame. And among the vineyard laborers, half hidden behind a mound of autumn flowers—flowers of Harrower orange—was such a perfect likeness of the man pacing the gallery behind me, I might have thought I’d transported him from life to art right then. A torch blazed in the painted Skefil’s hand. It’s five white-hot flames mocked Xancheira’s tree.

  Albin. Skefil. Harrowers. Fire and ruin. Truth.

  Blood-hot rage, murderous rage, boiled in my belly. The dagger sheathed in my boot sang its readiness. Constable Skefil leaned over the gallery rail, picking his teeth with a wooden toothpick. So casual, as if he belonged here.

  I clenched my hands behind my back to force them still.

  “This time has been well spent, Servitor Rigaro,” I said, my jaw rigid. “I feel as if I know these people now.”

  Albin—the most traditional of purebloods. What arrogance, what cruel and vicious apostasy to attack his enemies with the most despicable of all weapons. Harrowers denied the gods, denied magic, and scorned our responsibility to use our talents for the world’s good.

  If Gramphier, the powerful protector of Registry secrets, and Albin, the powerful defender of Registry tradition, suspected what my grandfather had learned, they would have feared him above all men. They would have wished him dead alongside anyone he might have told. But they would never have dared kill without confirmation of their fears. And with that understanding came devastating truth.

  Last summer, ignorant and blind, reveling in pride at my advancement, I had given them the assurance they needed. All the curators knew of my second bent, supposedly excised. And I had proved its danger—seemingly flaunting the evidence that I could reveal the corrupt secrets they most wished to hide. Not ten days after I’d finished these portraits, my family had been burnt alive. Save for Pluvius and his extra work assignment, Juli and I would have died with them.

  Holy Deunor, I should burn this place down or create a void hole beneath it so deep that all within were plunged unto Magrog’s hells. And then plunge after it myself. I had done it. My arrogance and ambition had killed them all.

  A noise escaped me—a groan, a curse, a sob, or all three at once.

  “There’s one more portrait, domé—Curator Scrutari-Consil.” Rigaro glanced up, puzzled. “Do you not wish to know him?”

  Rigaro’s innocent stare reminded me of poor, dead Pleury. I wanted to scream at him: Run away, boy. Get out of here that their infamy of blood and murder will not taint you. Nor will my own. But paralyzed with guilt and anger, I let discipline provide answer. “Yes, quickly. I’d not wish to slight him.”

  The devil Skefil did not turn as we moved to the next portrait.

  The snappish little curator with the twisted spine glared out of his frame like a demon gatzé. He sat at a writing desk, pen in hand, the document in front of him the finest vellum. A window behind him framed the palace of Navronne’s king and the unfinished tower of the Karish cathedral. No Registry Tower was included, as might be expected, yet the scene was entirely appropriate to his office as Hierarch Eligius’s contracted pureblood.

  I had altered Scrutari’s portrait, too. And only because of our venture on the previous day did I recognize the significance of the changes. On the writing desk lay three leather straps as were used to bind and seal a scroll. And dangling from them lay three unbroken wax seals, one bearing the blazon of Eodward, King of Navronne, one the seal of the Hierarch of Ardra, one the seal of Kemen’s Temple. A puzzle waiting to be assembled. Innocent, one could say, but for the very fact that someone had seen fit to hide them. No contract permitted forgery of a royal will.

  My plan had to change. The web of lies and murder detailed in this gallery were going to be the end of me one way or the other. I would take at least four curators with me.

  I darted to the gallery rail, keeping well away from Skefil.

  “My lord prince, welcome!” I cried, raising my open palms in the gesture forgoing magic.

  The glittering assembly of purebloods and courtiers fell silent. Two hundred faces, male and female, masked and bare, fair and deep-hued, gaped up at me. Skefil withdrew from the rail quickly, keeping out of sight. But he, too, stared. He would not stay back long.

  “I’ve come here to meet you as we agreed, Your Grace. You and your consiliar prime must come up here to view what I spoke of yesterday.” The Duc de Tremayne stood on Perryn’s right.

  Nonsense all, but it would give them pause. Outright assault before so large a company would require too many explanations, so I hoped. If I could live past these first moments . . .

  “Curators of the Pureblood Registry and all who’ve come to celebrate my grandsire’s unique service to Registry and Crown, I beg your indulgence. I’ve come here to surrender, to confess infamy before you all, to submit myself to my righteous masters and beg forgiveness of noble Eodward’s heir, of my grandsire’s respected colleagues, and of every pureblood who holds the gods’ gift of sorcery precious and inviolable.”

  When no thunderbolt slammed into me, I bowed, touched fingertips to brow—and smiled. By the hand of holy Deunor, I was going to expose them all.

  CHAPTER 34

  Young Rigaro stood paralyzed, his jaw sagged at such audacity as shouting at princes and curators from the gallery.

  “You ought to leave now, boy,” I said, nudging his shoulder. “Matters could go ill.” Very ill. Tales said purebloods had once been able to call down whirlwinds. It must have felt quite like this—exhilarating, though carrying a very slim c
hance of survival.

  The curators charged up the stair. Prince Perryn, not to be ignored, marched behind them as if they were beaters scaring up game. The Duc de Tremayne remained behind, pointing at me as he consulted with Fortieri, the commander of the Tower Guard. An inducement to speed and forcefulness in my arguments.

  Skefil had taken the opportunity to creep up from my left, one long pale hand outstretched. His copper rings glinted so brilliantly in the lamplight, I guessed they carried spells. Surrounded by enchantment, I couldn’t tell. His other hand held a very long dagger.

  My attention halted him a dozen steps away. My palm was no longer innocently open, but rather shooting small, hungry flames in his direction.

  “I’d come no closer.” I hoped he recognized my will to murder. “Our masters are on the stair. And my flames can melt those rings right through your fingers. You’ve no idea of my power.” Having three younger brothers had taught me how to state the most ludicrous claims in tones solemn enough to evoke belief.

  Unfortunately, a nasty smirk gashed his long, bony face. “You’d no skills to douse my pretty fire that night your sister burnt.” His voice mimed a snake slithering through long grass. “And I watched you grovel naked in the dark. You couldn’t raise a hand to them snivelly guards.”

  He took another step. And another.

  “If you deem my behavior in the cellar a sign of weakness, then you know nothing of pureblood discipline.” Had he, an ordinary, been one of the shadows?

  “Lucian!” Pluvius topped the stair first and hurried to my side.

  Skefil halted a few steps away. “Best keep away from ’im, Curator. Mad sorcerers must be put down like dogs with the hopping fever. I’ve skills can do such.” He wriggled his empty hand, making the copper bands on his fingers spark in the light. Spider feet pricked my skin.

  “Both of you, stay away,” I said, retreating toward the portrait wall. I’d allow no one to touch me.

  Pluvius ignored the ordinary. “What are you doing, lad?” Soft and intense. “Let me help you— Ah, hand of Magrog!”

  The prince arrived at the top of the stair, curators on either side of him, forcing a babbling crowd of courtiers and Registry folk to stack up on the broad steps behind.

  Pluvius’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “Young Remeni’s been ill, Your Grace, suffering delusions. I’ll take him away.”

  “But he was quite lucid yesterday.” A flush of anxiety colored Perryn’s milky complexion. “Prudish like his grandsire, but clear-headed. Must we talk again of crimes and infamy, Remeni? Is that rough official around here somewhere?” He peered behind me, as if Bastien might pop out of a painting.

  “Muzzle the lunatic!” Gramphier’s order would have been more alarming had any Registry servitor been able to press through the clot of curious dignitaries on the stair. Nor did Skefil move to enforce his command. The constable had thrust his dagger behind him and retreated. But dutiful young Rigaro had returned to his post, conveniently blocking Skefil’s access to the back stair.

  My hope lay in keeping the two parties—Registry and Crown—in a standoff, each unwilling to expose their sins before the other. To maintain their grand posturing before the world, they each needed the other’s support.

  Perryn was key. I kept my eye on him, even as I addressed Gramphier. “Alas, First Curator, I cannot be bundled off before confessing my crimes to His Grace, crimes that imperil our righteous king at the very beginning of his rule. Only yesterday he expressed his wish to see me here—did you not, my lord? Just after I witnessed the god’s hand at work in Navronne’s interest.”

  “I suppose I did.” Perryn’s flush deepened. He could not afford to disavow his unimpeachable witness. “What crimes do you speak of? And what do you mean, my rule in peril? Perhaps we should speak alone.” His glance shifted uneasily from me to Gramphier, who seethed at his side. The Duc de Tremayne was nowhere in sight.

  “Treason must be proclaimed before witnesses, Your Grace. Some here will call me mad, but rather I was entangled in tradition and faulty discipline. Through your generous reception yesterday—and your considered judgments—I have recovered enough to see the right. And when I found this evidence of treason . . . well, I could not stand by and see such injury done you—your noble father’s favored son.”

  “Pureblood treason?” The prince grew ashen. Even a lackwit could see that such a rupture in the fabric of Navronne could prompt a conflict that would make Prince Bayard and Sila Diaglou’s Harrowers seem no more than mosquitoes.

  I dared not let my focus leave Perryn, but Pons and Damon shifted sidewise away from the others, as if to circle behind me. Old Pluvius shuffled across the gallery toward Skefil and the boy. Albin, like a squat toad on Perryn’s left, clenched a fist. Before long I’d be surrounded.

  So I raised a warning hand, first at Albin and then sweeping from one side to the other so as to include all of them. “Stand down, masters, if you’ve naught to hide. Once I’ve had my say, you may do as you will with me, for indeed I must have been aberrant to participate in this scheme.”

  Perryn shook his head. “If this is but an argument between you and the Registry—”

  “Nay, lord. The scheme I speak of involves some few of these curators. They have aided in such deception as to undermine your peaceful ascension. They induced me to conspire with them to hide their treason. In honor of my grandsire, your noble father’s trusted ally, I must reveal—”

  “You will be silent, Remeni,” snarled Gramphier, “or you will wear a steel mask and tongue binding for the rest of your days. Your spew of lies is unworthy, unholy, a grievous result of madness indulged.”

  Perryn’s agitation increased. One of his attendants touched his satin sleeve, but the prince wrenched his arm away. “Leave off this jangling, all of you. I would hear what Remeni has to say. Treason is a Crown matter; the Writ is quite specific. Speak, Lucian, and be quick about it.”

  Touching fingertips to brow, I acknowledged his warning. “As was proved yesterday, the gods have deigned that my art reveals truth beyond my knowing. Summer last I was commissioned to paint portraits of these six who administer the Pureblood Registry—the very paintings you see before you. Proud and ignorant and blind, I brought my fullest power to the work, not realizing that my fingers spoke secrets—”

  The crackle of lightning gave an instant’s warning. I twisted around and ducked. The impact drove me to the floor, the bolt glancing off my shoulder, instead of full in the heart.

  I rolled into a ball to make a smaller target. It was Albin’s fist raised in my direction.

  By the gods, Guilian, stop this disgraceful show. What are you thinking? Damon’s command snapped, not in my normal hearing, but inside my ears. Inviting low ordinaries to troop around as if they belong. Expressing your resentments before Eodward’s idiot son and his associates, who have tongues, for the gods’ sake! A man would think Remeni had murdered your sister instead of his own. Let the man prove his lunacy once and for all. He’s the grandson of Vincente de Remeni, and before we decide what to do with the fool, we must put to rest this royal puffin’s interest in him.

  “Get up, Remeni. Show the noble lord the state of your wits.” Assuredly Damon’s voice, too, only this time audible to all.

  Damon’s magic, the same duality of speech he had demonstrated at Caton, left me itching and queasy. Gods, what a talent! But when he extended a hand to pull me up, I yielded him a modicum of trust along with my hand. He had let me hear his admonition. My mother had once told me that a man honest in his faults tended to be more reliable than one who denied them.

  “Domé.” I inclined my back to Damon, cradling my left arm, lest it drop to the floor like a dead fish. “Observe, and judge my wits.”

  “Someone explain all this!” The crowd on the stair seemed the only thing preventing Perryn’s abrupt departure. “How dare you throw wild magic about my person!”

  I stepped forward. “In brief, Your Grace, by virtue of my magic these portrai
ts exposed several disturbing stories, and I was ordered, as a loyal and disciplined pureblood, to alter them. I did so. I do not seek to absolve myself, for any pureblood artist could tell you that four of these six works have been touched by my hand alone. But that is a fortunate circumstance, for a pureblood artist can reshape the work his hands have created to more perfectly match the truth the god has granted him. Let me show you.”

  “Do not dare!” Gramphier and Albin spoke as one. Scrutari-Consil swayed against the banister as if he would faint.

  “Note these regions here and here.” I pointed at Gramphier’s painted hand and at the bare paving where the bloody knife should lie. Then, before anyone could flatten me again, I summoned magic.

  “Lord of Light and Magic, guide your gift. . . .” Forcing away fear and distraction, summoning strength and will to answer my call, I touched the dry surface and called up the quadreo, the spell of harmony and reversal.

  In a torrent of heat and color and truth that near caved my chest, the world blurred and then reasserted itself. The bloody shadow stained the First Curator’s hand and the dripping knife lay in the shadows.

  “Open yourself to judge if the portrait is a true likeness,” I said when I caught my breath, “and then note the pieces I was commanded to remove. Others might speak to what these artifacts signify. I cannot.”

  “Fakery . . . this has no meaning . . . lunacy . . . murderer . . .” Denials, outrage, accusations of fraud and perversion of magic rained like ash.

  I moved quickly to Albin’s portrait and drew their attention to the dark horizon against the sunset and the clumps of orange flowers. Again I invoked holy Deunor and bled his gift onto the canvas.

  Prince and curators closed up behind me—Damon closest—as I pointed to the flowers of Harrower orange, to Skefil and his torch that had been so carefully removed, to the blaze that was not sunset but horror lighting the night sky. Indeed the charred towers and ruined houses might have been Pontia itself, the vineyards my family’s own. Had my bent detected the plan fermenting in Albin’s mind, or, gods forgive, had I given him the idea for it?