“One moment, Mr. Dart. How did you know about this secret society?”
“I overheard people speaking of it, and was curious, since nothing much else seemed to be happening this month in the barony. My mistake! Mr. Greenwing and I met up, had an, er, encounter, with Miss Redshank here, and then after she returned to her lodgings, followed some men to the Ellery Stone, where they … turned out to be a cult giving sacrifice to the Dark Kings.”
Even Violet looked astonished and impressed. Mrs. Etaris froze. “What did they sacrifice? And to what? How do you know it was to the Dark Kings?”
“I didn’t understand what they were saying—Mr. Greenwing did.”
“I took Old Shaian at Morrowlea,” I said when they all looked at me; Violet nodded. “They were calling on the Dark Kings. And there was a white priest, a black priest, and a silver priest. That’s in the old histories of pre-conquest Alinor. Mr. Dart thinks the silver priest was Dominus Alvestone.”
“Really?” asked Mrs. Etaris, with apparent surprise. “He didn’t seem utterly depraved when he came in last week for a book on Fiellanese folklore, but I suppose it doesn’t always show.”
Mr. Dart and I exchanged mildly confused glances. Violet said, “What did they do?”
We explained, picking around the most disgusting parts of it, trying not to be too crude—not that Violet would have minded, but Mrs. Etaris’ expression grew more and more set as we fumbled through the story.
“Then,” Mr. Dart concluded, “just as they were getting well into the, the frenzy, the wind turned and Mr. Greenwing started sneezing violently. We, uh, hastened out of the thicket, went down to the Lady’s Pools, and, er, saw the Lady.” His voice changed, and he added, with a faraway look, and another touch of his marble arm. “She was beautiful.”
“I’m not sure it was the Lady.”
“Who else would have been there, at the holy stones?”
“Any of the other wizards out-and-about, perhaps?”
Violet frowned. “Did she say anything?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied uncertainly. “She laughed …”
“He was sneezing too much.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dart. The cultists came down the hill after she disappeared, and we, er, decided to get out of their way. In the dark we mistook ourselves, and ended up toppling into the Talgarths’ moat. Someone’s doing illegal magic there.”
“At the Talgarths’?” Mrs. Etaris shook her head. “They’re most loyal to the Lady.”
Violet spoke thoughtfully. “That doesn’t mean they’re definitely against magic. Elsewhere the Lady’s devotees continue to use Schooled wizardry.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Dart put in. “Jemis said he was sure they were doing illegal magic.”
I sneezed, then sighed in exasperation. “They were attacking us with bolts of magic. Violet, you read about that—”
“I’m not sure I’d call Dame Talgarth a devotee of anything except dinner parties,” Mr. Dart said, with an abrupt chuckle, overtop of Violet’s protest that she hadn’t done more than glance at offensive magic for a paper. “And Justice Talgarth’s obsessed with his sweet peas.”
I sneezed vigorously at the mere thought. “They were awfully strongly scented.”
“Really, Mr. Greenwing, your nose is appallingly sensitive. Though I will grant they were perhaps somewhat ripe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dart.”
Mrs. Etaris tipped her cup around on her plate so the thick syrupy dregs swirled mesmerizingly. When she spoke I felt a faint jar, as of a thin line snapping.
“Mr. Dart, do you know who cursed you? The woman at the fountain?”
“You mentioned the Lady’s curse?” Violet asked.
“That was something that happened in the Interim,” I said, remembering the strange creeping paralysis that had affected those who poked around some formerly magical places. “Around the broken waystones. People called it that even though it wasn’t really the Lady so much as everything else. And it stopped when the Interim finished.”
Mr. Dart nodded. “It was surely not the Lady. Unless it was for presuming to look upon her beauty … there was magic in the woods, though. The cult—”
I snorted, or tried ineffectually to. “—Domina Ringley’s companion, who was throwing bolts of magic at us—”
“We don’t know that was her. That could have been one of the dark priests.”
“I suppose so. You did put your arm into that silver light when, er … when you breaking the fascination the Silver Priest cast on me.”
Violet looked sharply at me. “You were caught by a fascination?”
“Some sort of spell, anyway,” I said, embarrassed to admit it. “The priest was using the old lighting spell, but it made this silver light, and I couldn’t look away.”
Mr. Dart nodded. “You were enthralled. He was ahead of me,” he added to Violet and Mrs. Etaris. “I wasn’t in the direct line.”
“How did you break it?” Mrs. Etaris asked.
He blushed again. “Flipped his coat over his head, and pulled him down the path until we got caught up in the sweet peas. Probably it was all the sneezing when you ran into the flowers.”
“Falling into the moat broke it,” I said thoughtfully, remembering the shock of the cold water, and shivering. “He is a powerful wizard.”
“The Dark Kings were reputed to be very powerful,” Violet said. “I remember you telling me about them, Jemis, when you were reading that history of Schooled magic on Alinor.”
I shuddered again. “I’m not sure I believe that the gods are walking, do you?”
Mrs. Etaris tipped her coffee cup thoughtfully again. “They say an angel was seen in Ragnor Parva when a boy was born at the end of the Interim, but I must confess I had not given much credence to their claims of the boy being a saint. I should think it much more likely you saw the Lady of Alinor than the White or Green Lady Herself.”
“If it is the Lady of Alinor,” Mr. Dart said, slowly at first but with increasing eagerness, “then the service she might desire is not—oh!” and he stopped, blushed behind his auburn beard, and said no more. The White Lady required celibacy of her priests; the Green Lady, the opposite; as for the Lady Jessamine … well. She was human.
Violet and I exchanged sardonic glances, and Mrs. Etaris said, “I see we have several puzzles. First, we have the mystery of Miss Redshank’s cousin, which appears to be most personally grievous and of urgency, and apparently is connected to the mystery of the stargazy pie. Second, we have the problem of the curse laid upon Mr. Dart; but despite its obvious urgency we shall have to think further on it. And third, we have this very disquieting news of a resurgence of the worship of the Dark Kings by blood sacrifice. They are contenting themselves with cows and shallow cuts now, but they will not remain there long, not now that they have tasted blood from the black goblet.”
Violet looked at the cookery books beside her, pulling out Fifth Imperial Decadent Style Dinner Parties from where I’d shoved it in awry.
Mrs. Etaris watched her smooth out a corner of the cover inattentively, frowning at her thoughts. She spoke half-inattentively. “Nor do I like the sound of this stone they have found. The Heart of the Moon, you say the silver priest called it? There are old Shaian rituals to do with the Moon that would not be well mixed with the Dark Kings. And it’s only the second day of the Transit of the Dragon, as they’d call it. Something shall have to be done about this, if we can figure out where to start.”
“With the Talgarths?” I suggested.
“I’m going there for dinner tomorrow,” Mr. Dart said. “I can investigate.”
Violet turned the book about the table with slow, pensive movements. I watched the ivory lace and rich wine-coloured cloth of her sleeve, and wondered again just where she was from, and who her family was, and why she was investigating the disappearance of her cousin all alone in a foreign land. The following thought that she was not completely alone gave me a certain pleasure.
I was all set to go find the Honourable Rag and pummel him into confession right then, dairymaids or no dairymaids, but Mrs. Etaris gestured me down firmly. “No, Mr. Greenwing. We must consider a sensible course of action. It would be most rude to go accuse a guest of our barony of being a priest of the Dark Kings—a matter far more than unfashionable—and it would, moreover, be most foolish to suggest the Honourable Master Roald is associating with them. Worship of the Dark Kings was outlawed before the Conquest because of the violence associated with the cult.”
“All the more reason to stop them. He was hanging around the woods that night—”
“He’s the Baron’s son,” said Mr. Dart.
“He’s a right prat, that’s what he is—”
“What about my cousin?” Violet asked hastily. “What would you suggest we do, Mrs. Etaris?”
Mrs. Etaris frowned at her coffee cup for several minutes. We fidgeted in silence, Mr. Dart touching his petrified hand and Violet glancing at the wall of books beside her. I picked up the ring and examined it for any further clues. It told me nothing; no useful inscription; just the floral emblem and the heavy weight of it. I couldn’t think of anything useful to do.
Confronting the Silver Priest appealed to part of me; confronting the Honourable Rag rather more so, though I knew he could take me in any fight, especially given how tired I was and how weak still after the spring. I sighed. I was tired, but also knotted with anxious energy. I wanted to go for a run.
Finally Mrs. Etaris stirred. We all looked at her eagerly. “It seems to me,” she began, “that we need more information. We need to find out whether this is indeed the Honourable Master Ragnor’s ring, and what account he gives of it—and whether we believe him, of course. Though I have never heard of him being called a deceitful young man.”
“He’d thump anyone who dared give him the lie,” Mr. Dart said. Violet looked approving.
“I daresay he would. At any rate, perhaps you and Mr. Greenwing—or perhaps just you, Mr. Dart—could ask him about the ring later today. I shall take Miss Redshank to call upon Mr. Shipston, on pretence of showing her his marvellous cogswork, and see if we cannot find out who this Miranda of his is. As for the Silver Priest—he certainly sounds of the same description as Dominus Alvestone.”
Mr. Dart made a baffled gesture with his left arm; his right moved a bit in his lap but not far. I felt a bit sick, looking at it. I couldn’t think why I wasn’t equally losing some function to the indiscriminate offensive magics last night. “Even in the robes and mask you could see his proportions. I’m sure he was Dominus Alvestone. The blackguard!”
“Would you recognize any of the other participants?”
Mr. Dart looked at me, and blushed. “Not … not in their clothes.”
“I don’t think the Honourable Rag could have been one of the cultists—he didn’t seem to be drunk enough.”
“He never seems drunk enough,” Mr. Dart said. “I think that’s all he did at Tara—that and go hunting, apparently.”
“But how would he have gotten to the other side of the Talgarths’ house so quickly? Without everyone else following?”
“Other people were following, though. And I’m not sure we were all that fast. We spent quite a while in the water when those women were looking for us.”
Violet covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a smile.
Mrs. Etaris paused a moment, into which silence there came a sudden jangle from the doorbell as the door was flung open.
I jumped up in reaction, but the words of alarm died in my mouth when I realized the woman before me was Domina Ringley.
She looked transfigured, her eyes alight, her face exalted, her whole being thrumming with energy and bubbling delight. Something in me belled in response, and I stepped forward, as if she was a fire at which I could warm my hands.
My foot caught on the edge of the rug, and I looked down instinctively; looked away; and sneezed.
“Jemis,” Violet whispered, as I caught my breath.
I forced my hands back to my sides. “Is, is there anything we can help you with, Domina Ringley?”
Her eyes were wide and shining, pupils wide as if she’d dropped belladonna into them, skin no longer sallow but golden. She met my gaze with delight, smiling so cheerfully I couldn’t help but respond, though I was trying hard, my fingernails digging into the palm of my hand. No one else seemed to be moving. In the far distance outside I could hear a voice cutting in and out through the noise of the market, but couldn’t make out the words.
Then Domina Ringley stumbled forward as someone pushed in behind her. “I say!” I said in protest when the Scholar fell on top of me, catching her with some difficulty.
“Unhand my sister!” Dame Talgarth said in a fearful voice.
“Dame Talgarth,” I began, “Domina Ringley is—”
Dame Talgarth actually spat on the floor, and while I was still staring at it grabbed her sister’s arm and propelled her backwards out of the room. “You disgusting young man. Unhand her.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Well,” I said, with an attempt at sangfroid. “I don’t think I’ll be going to any of Dame Talgarth’s dinner parties any time soon.”
“What is Domina Ringley taking?” Mr. Dart said. “She looked … I don’t even know …”
Violet shook her head slowly, not in denial but in concern. “Jemis, she looks like you did when you were high on wireweed.”
“You tried wireweed?” Mr. Dart asked in astonishment.
“Not on purpose,” I replied, closing the door again and trying to avoid meeting anyone in the market’s eye. I looked back to see that Mr. Dart and Mrs. Etaris were both frowning mightily at me, while Violet looked distressed.
The courage of one’s convictions, I thought, and to say the truth … I sighed and crumpled my handkerchief in my hand. “It was when I tried smoking a pipe … it turned out someone had laced the tobacco with wireweed.”
Outside in the market square people were going about their business, carefully not looking at where Dame Talgarth and her sister were arguing between the statue of the Emperor Artorin and the memorial to the Fall. I’m sure they were all, however, paying close attention.
“What did it feel like?” Mr. Dart asked curiously. “People say it’s the most extraordinary feeling, all centred and focussed and utterly sure of oneself and exhilarated at the same time.”
“Maybe if you don’t take it with tobacco,” I said. “It was awful. I was sick for days.”
“You didn’t feel anything? She looked exhilarated. Exalted.”
I thought of the cold outhouse, the vomiting, the weak days in bed. Lark coming to see me, smiling at me, falling in love. That had been the exaltation, the transfiguration, the exhilaration. I swallowed against bile. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Dart.”
“Why take it, then?”
I shook my head, looking at a woman pushing through the crowd towards Dame Talgarth and Domina Ringley. Tall, stout, regal in her bearing, wearing a fashionable dress in this year’s colours, strong nose and cold blue eyes—yes, I thought, that could be the wizard attendant, hastening past us, nearly catching her skirts in the iron railing at the base of the Memorial—in which case—
“They say,” began Violet. The breeze swirled by and I sneezed; and was left shaking my head in mystification and annoyance that the thought I’d nearly had had slipped away in a sneeze, again.
“The Lady’s blessing upon you,” Violet said. She had been known to come up with the best benedictions to my sneezing of anybody but Hal, but her mind appe
ared now to be on other matters; when I turned to her she was frowning at her hands.
She continued: “They say that taking wireweed opens one to the spirit realms. Lark said—” She cast an apologetic glance at me. I shrugged, a bit despondently, and she continued. “Lark said that it’s used in some religions to forge a connection. Between the taker and the earth, or between two individuals if they take it together, or magically in some circumstances—and it augments certain types of magic, though of course no one would talk about that—and she said people get addicted to the sense of, of purpose and connection and love, and the incredible heights of emotion it inspires—”
She faltered. I frowned at her, about to say I’d felt nothing of the sort, when something about Violet’s expression made me think of the circumstances of when I’d taken it. It was right after I’d met Lark, the same Yule ball. How I’d met Lark, actually.
I’d come with Hal and a few others. We were standing by the punch bowls and eyeing the women across the room, like many another clutch of young men in many another university. I was trying to get up the nerve to ask Violet to dance; I’d been admiring her from afar through several classes by that point.
Before I had done so Lark had pulled out an elegant ivory pipe and filled it with tobacco, and I’d been so struck by the beautiful woman with the smoke wreathing her, her eyes brilliant, watching me, that I’d gone over without waiting for an introduction—that she was Violet’s friend was enough—and she’d laughed when I approached and offered me her pipe—how had we all forgotten that she’d been the one smoking it first?—and before I’d taken two mouthfuls of the smoke she’d kissed me and I was—hers.
“I only smoked it once,” I said numbly. “But Lark …”
Lark smoked all the time.
I had a rush of visions, of Lark with that elegant ivory pipe, blowing smoke rings over me, laughing when I sneezed. Lark coming to see me in the hospital wing with her apologies, kissing me better—until I was better, until I was as exhilarated with what I thought was love as Domina Ringley was with wireweed.
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