Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

  Only discipline could hold my voice firm. “When I painted Curator Albin’s portrait, the concept of Registry involvement in Harrower attacks was as impossible to imagine as walking into dreams. To consort with Sila Diaglou’s fanatics is to condone the slaughter of the gods’ chosen, as well as ordinaries, both noble and mean. A Harrower massacre has near wiped out a pureblood family your noble father held in favor. Is that not treason?”

  “Lies!” bellowed Albin the toad. “Who could believe—?”

  “But the torch wielder himself is right here!” Pluvius’s sharp accusation came from the direction of the stair. “You brought him here tonight, Guilian. And you brought him to testify at Remeni’s judgment about the other fire, the one that killed his sister.”

  Astonishingly, the white-bearded Master of Archives had Skefil in a lock hold. The old man’s arms—powerful arms—wrapped underneath Skefil’s shoulders, and his hands gripped behind the Harrower’s neck.

  “Pull open his coat, boy. Sila Diaglou ever requires her minions to carry her telltale.”

  Skefil writhed and snarled as young Rigaro pulled an orange rag from the black coat.

  “Harrowers!” Curator Scrutari, the forger, whirled on Albin and Gramphier, spitting like a cat. “Are you mad? We agreed—”

  “The Registry consorts with Harrowers?” Perryn’s protest sounded wheezy compared to Pluvius’s booming outrage, but his horror rang huge—and genuine. “By Kemen Sky Lord’s mighty hand, I’ll have your heads!”

  “This is but trickery, prince,” said Gramphier, “and proves naught but this madman’s disposition to evil works. We tried to protect you from his obscene ravings.”

  “Master of Archives,” called Damon, as clear as the gods’ trumpet through chaos. “Is Remeni’s demonstration honest? Can he do this—revert changes to his works? Reveal truth?”

  “Aye,” said Pluvius. “Not every artist can wield the necessary spell, and certainly not so easily, but Lucian has always exhibited extraordinary talents.” The old man grinned at me. “Show them the truth of my own portrait, lad.”

  Pluvius’s support made me question my intent to expose him. But then again, he was no innocent. He had consented to my condemnation and confinement. He had known of what was done to me in the cellar—whatever magic had forced me to the work and stripped my memory of it. And he certainly knew something of the Xancheira secret.

  “Lord of Light and Magic, guide my hand. . . .” I dived into the enchantment yet again.

  “What crime does this one tell, Lucian?” Perryn’s sharp query, spoken from just beside my shoulder, startled me as I raised my hand from the canvas.

  I couldn’t answer right away. After three quick invocations of the most difficult magic I knew, body and spirit felt riddled with bruises.

  “Lies and secrets,” said Pluvius, also at my side. “A lifetime of lies. Centuries of secrets. No treason, however. No murder. I doubt Lucian can explain.”

  Damon had taken Pluvius’s place as Skefil’s warden, but with much less strain. Cool as always, the diminutive curator stood beside a kneeling Skefil, twirling a sparking finger above the man’s head. With every circuit, the Harrower snarled through clenched teeth. He tried to rise but could not.

  “All right, Lucian,” snapped Perryn, moving down the row of portraits. “You spoke of other crimes. . . .”

  Pons stood silently behind Albin and Gramphier. Eyes of gray marble in a face of stone, she’d spoken not a word in all this endless hour. I could tell the world what had been removed from her portrait, but as my hand had not altered it, I could not revert it to the truth. What was I to think of her? We were enemies. She despised me. Yet her portrait hinted that she had judged herself with the same ruthless standard and punished herself as severely as she had wished to punish me. The root of our enmity was her excess of righteousness, and her crimes hypocrisy and ambition . . . not savage murder, nor stealing Eodward’s throne.

  I pointed to Scrutari’s portrait. “This one, lord prince.”

  “Your Grace!” The bent-shouldered curator’s panic was palpable. “Surely you’ve seen enough. Though I cannot imagine what personal foibles Remeni’s magic might show, I am ever your loyal servant, as is His Excellency the Hierarch. Clearly there are serious matters for the Registry to address, but . . . sire . . .”

  Perryn glanced from Scrutari to me, his blue eyes wide. Only now did he seem to realize the possible implications of my exercise. There were many kinds of treason. Forging royal wills would certainly count among them.

  “Perhaps we do not need to waste our time with this one.” The prince spread his hands, inviting, all smooth reason and accommodation. “It’s clear that this Harrower disease has not spread to all six of your masters. Your revelations read true, and exposing such vipers must certainly see you vindicated amongst your kind. Indeed, you should have a hand in rebuilding the trust between Crown and the Registry. We shall certainly value your advice, now and later. So, tell us, Lucian, what do you advise in this case?”

  To live with magic prepares one for the extraordinary, but the choice Perryn gave me could alter the course of a kingdom . . . tens of thousands of lives . . .

  I didn’t want that kind of power. Had I the least notion that Perryn’s brothers were more intelligent, more large-minded, more suited to kingship, I would not have hesitated to expose Scrutari and the hierarch and with them Perryn’s scheme. But to reveal their lie was to ensure the war continued—a burden of lives and fortunes too heavy for my shoulders. And if I let it go, I could perhaps right one great wrong. Surely the world would be the better for that.

  Thus, I met the prince’s gaze and tapped my fingers on the portrait. “Curator Scrutari well knows what this altered version hides. As I recall, the particular discrepancies have to do with a matter we discussed yesterday, of which there were only two, both of them quite personal to you, lord prince. One touched on a matter of present justice; one on an incident of history. In my mind, matters of justice trump every other consideration, even incidents of history. For justice’s sake, I am willing to allow these private concerns to remain private. But that is your decision, lord.”

  I did not, even for a moment, remove my fingers from the portrait.

  The prince’s fair visage twisted into ugliness; his blue eyes grayed to iron. Never again would I imagine Perryn of Ardra a man of fickle attachments or passing enmity. So I might as well give him the rest of it. When I removed any way for him to weasel out of the bargain, he wasn’t going to hate me any more than he did already. His kingdom or his duc; he had to give up one.

  “And I must see firm evidence of that decision before we leave here, lest some misfortune happen to this painting. When I am assured that justice has triumphed—the appropriate sentence for such a crime carried out—I will ask one of my non-treasonous masters to affix a binding on Curator Scrutari’s portrait that will prevent me ever unmasking its private revelations. Curator Pons-Laterus, whom, as anyone in the Registry can attest, loathes me, could do such a thing. She would surely be pleased to thwart any backsliding on my part.”

  “You can lock this portrait as he said?”

  “If he allows me access to the true image he holds,” she said, “I can.”

  That must be the reason they’d not sealed these changes when I was a prisoner. Even in my madness they had not subverted my will entire. A bit of encouragement going forward.

  “And can you ensure he is unable to speak of the personal matters involved?”

  “I can. A tongue block can be keyed to certain words or phrases.”

  Perryn’s question did not surprise me. Nor did Pons’s answer. Certainly she—likely all of them—had guessed some sin on Perryn’s part was involved. But Perryn’s concerns were thrones and wars and allies. The politics of ordinaries did not concern righteous purebloods like Pons.

  Albin stood mesmerized for the moment—curious, questioning, complacent, his meaty arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. I hoped that would ch
ange very soon now. Surely Perryn could not ignore a pureblood Harrower, even if our own curators could.

  “Noplessi!” Perryn whirled and beckoned a wiry, bent old man who wore the same royal household tabard as the Duc de Tremayne. Though older than Pluvius, I judged this man more dangerous, his wrinkled face reflecting no more human feeling than a storm wind. “Send up Vuscherin and Comlier. You yourself must deal with another matter.”

  Perryn murmured in the old man’s ear. Whatever he said made the old man twitch, a reaction likely worthy of an earthquake in anyone else. Noplessi recovered quickly and bowed deeply. “As you command, Highness.”

  Even the jammed crowd seemed to recognize a force of nature and parted to let him through. Perryn shouted after, “Yourself to see to it, Noplessi, and return with proof.”

  Then he turned to the curators. “I came here tonight to join with the Pureblood Registry to ensure our mutual interests according to the Writ of Balance. Instead I’ve found a nest of traitors, arrogant ink dabblers, and quivering cowards. I could dissolve the Writ on the day I am acknowledged king of Navronne. Tell me why I should not. Who speaks for the Registry?”

  A snarling Gramphier stepped forward. “It is my—”

  “I do”—Damon crushed the First Curator’s assertion as a smith’s hammer flattens molten iron, and only then inclined his head respectfully to Gramphier—“until my fellow curators consider these revelations.”

  With a smooth touch of their palms, Pons assumed Damon’s sparking control of Constable Skefil. The diminutive Damon folded his hands at his back and strolled into a position equidistant from the prince at the head of the stair; Pluvius and me beside Scrutari’s portrait; and Scrutari, Gramphier, and Albin, who formed a bulwark of pureblood indignation halfway along the portrait wall.

  “We are as disturbed as you by these strange matters, prince,” said Damon. “You must excuse us for short while as we consider these portraits, Remeni’s recent illness, and the demands of our position.”

  “Consider as you will,” said Perryn, bristling. “But I want this business settled tonight, so I need never set foot in this blighted tomb again.” He could not leave. To hold the throne, he needed the Registry neutral, at the least.

  The curators drew into a circle, all save Pons, who kept Skefil immobile and his curses trapped inside his purpled skin. The discussion grew heated, all of them speaking at once, but was shielded by some enchantment that left the words unintelligible. From time to time, Pons nodded or shook her head. Perhaps Damon included her in the conclave with his extraordinary way of communicating without words. This time I was not privy to it.

  What had Damon said to me at Caton? One of us is convinced that your back will be a stepping-stone to a position of authority—the preeminent position of authority among our kind. Perhaps Damon himself? That might not be the worst outcome.

  Prince Perryn and I waited. Or, rather, I stood guard over the painting, while Perryn stood guard over me. The true image of the prince in that moment would surely show him watching me burn at the stake or laughing as I turned to stone while he held a quarry hammer at the ready. But my fingers rested on Scrutari’s portrait—on Perryn’s crown. He dared not touch me.

  After a short while, Pluvius stepped away from the circle and dispatched Rigaro down the back stair. The boy returned in moments with several Registry servitors—big men who remained in the shadowed arch. My heart near seized when I glimpsed shackles and the spool of white silk cord.

  Observing Albin did not reassure me. He seemed unperturbed, asserting himself as authoritatively as ever, chest thrust out, flinging dismissive gestures in my direction. The rise and fall of his scornful basso was unmistakable. Had I overplayed my hand?

  Two court nobles bulled through the crowd on the stair and took a martial stance at Perryn’s side.

  As if that were a signal, Damon stepped forward. “We, the Curators of the Pureblood Registry, request parlay with the Prince of Navronne, according to the Writ of Balance. Our purpose is to offer judgment of the serious charges Lucian de Remeni-Masson has brought before us all.”

  “Get on with it, you blighted fossils!” Perryn’s diplomacy had been seriously compromised.

  I forced breath in and out of my constricted lungs. Six curators. Pluvius and Damon, perhaps, believing in me. Gramphier, Albin, and Scrutari my implacable foes. And Pons, where would she fall? How could right prevail?

  “First Curator Gramphier is accused of no civil crime,” said Damon, unperturbed. “For the present the Registry assumes all responsibility for him. If we determine that the unsettling artifacts of his portrait bear on a crime against the Crown, we shall inform you.”

  No surprise there, though I believed Gramphier complicit in all. Nothing happened in the Registry without his approval. But one side or the other had to buy his loyalty with a pardon. Damon’s face revealed naught, either beneath or outside his mask.

  “The Harrower ordinary is yours, of course, to do with as you will,” Damon continued. “He has murdered purebloods, and the Writ mandates his death. As with all Harrowers, who defy gods and men with their savagery, we assume he will receive no mercy.”

  Again no surprise. Skefil, bound in Pons’s ring of sparks, growled and wrestled his invisible bonds. The great veins in his purpled forehead bulged.

  Damon cleared his throat. My heart stilled.

  “Guilian de Albin has consorted with Harrowers and solicited murder of purebloods, treason to our kind as well as the Crown. The evidence against him is judged unimpeachable—revealed by the gods’ design through the truth of Lucian de Remeni’s magic.”

  “What?” Albin whirled about, not facing Perryn, nor even Damon. His bile was all for Gramphier. “You would yield to this royal vermin on a madman’s word? Remeni will be our—”

  Damon tweaked one finger and a sparkling rope arced toward Albin and circled his neck. The big man dropped to his knees, words transformed to unintelligible roars.

  “Albin is ours to punish, prince,” said Damon. “As of this moment, he is silenced. As of this hour, he is dead.”

  Damon raised his open hand, and three Registry servitors fell on the writhing Albin like dogs on a fallen hind. While one man held him down, a second forced his hands together, and the third bound them in silken cords. A full-faced mask lay beside them at the ready. Iron, not leather.

  Justice.

  I sagged against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Albin’s feral bellowing and Gramphier’s strident protests were drowned by the echoes of death screams and the choking scent of burning flesh. Discipline kept it all inside me. These soulless beasts would not see a Remeni weep, though I drowned in such a flood of pain and grief as must reive divine Idrium itself. . . .

  * * *

  “Lucian . . . Lucian, heed. Drink this before you collapse.” Pluvius pushed a cup into my face.

  The world recovered its shape. Marble floor underfoot. Mosaic ceiling above, shimmering with magic. A wall behind my aching shoulders—one still throbbing from Albin’s thunderbolt, the other from the strain of keeping my fingers jammed against Scrutari’s portrait.

  Albin and Skefil were already gone, as were most of the crowd on the stairs. Perryn paced alone, shielded by five attendants. Scrutari twitched nervously halfway between Perryn and the other curators. Damon and Pons conferred with Gramphier, one and then another of them casting hooded glances at me—altogether too comfortable with each other. The danger was not passed. Did Damon or Pons know what the stola revealed? Did Pluvius?

  “Take this, lad. Let me help you.”

  I shook my head. I would not drink in the Tower.

  Pluvius leaned in close. “What bargain have you struck with this rogue prince, Lucian? Interfering in ordinary affairs taints all purebloods.”

  “Justice should not depend on bloodlines,” I snapped. “And sometimes there are no clean bargains. I think you know that, master.”

  He either didn’t understand or chose not to take offense. “You�
�ve put yourself in a terrible position.”

  “A terrible position? My family—two hundred and fifty-three souls, two hundred and fifty-three pairs of hands that graced this world with magic, the entirety of two bloodlines, save only me—died in agony. Fifty ordinaries who were part of our lives for generations died with them. All were innocent of any crime. I should not have had to endanger myself or anyone else to find justice for them. And if I can squeeze out a bit of righteous truth for a few ordinary children as well, I’ll wager the gods will forgive my lapse in pureblood discipline.”

  “But I fear no one else will.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I can help you get away.”

  Boots tramping up the marble stair silenced his offer. Two young members of the Guard Royale arrived first . . . and Noplessi just behind them. The old, bent noble bowed to the prince and showed what he carried. The prince motioned him to me.

  The cold-eyed duc handed me a gold ring bearing the device of a bear with lancet teeth, a well-used dagger with the same device scribed in its plain hilt, and a purple and gold tabard. Even such witness was no good untested. I closed my eyes and dived once more into enchantment, hunting justice and death. . . .

  “Are you pleased, pureblood?” Prince Perryn bit off each word. “You can go out and view his corpse if you wish. The crime of royal murder is blazoned on the gallows.”

  I tossed the evidence to the floor. “Satisfied, lord, not pleased. And I’ve no need to see his body to know you have fulfilled your part”—my bent had shown me a bound and kneeling Tremayne and this very dagger opening his throat—“even if he was given a noble’s death before he was hanged.”

  Old Noplessi paled. I turned to the curators. “Domá Pons, if you would, please.”