The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  I patted the empty pockets of my skirt, searching for the prize I’d snatched from the ducessa’s wardrobe. I surveyed my floor and the dressing table, yanked open the armoire and the night cupboard. Anxiety rising, I rummaged among the bedclothes I’d rumpled in my restless night. And there it was.

  A palm-sized pouch of gray silk. Familiar, though I couldn’t recall where I’d seen one like it. But inside . . . I unclipped the brass ring at its neck, tore at the laces that held it closed, and upended it over my palm. A tight roll of thin paper slipped out.

  I smoothed it on my table. Three diagrams appeared on the flimsy page, not printed but precisely scribed in ink, and not recently, from the faintness of the marks. Each was a triangle, embedded in a circle. Words and symbols annotated the circled triangles, but in a language and symbology wholly unknown to me. Beneath the diagrams was a single line scribed in Lady Cecile’s florid hand, this in common Sabrian.

  “M vitet” or “G vitet”—the essential question is which?

  Perhaps it was only because I’d read Lady Cecile’s book that I immediately associated the G with the Gautieri and the M with the rival Mondragon family. Vitet was the Aljyssian word for life, which illuminated nothing.

  Disappointed, I replaced the little roll in the silk bag. No word leapt out as a spellkey, and the drawings made no sense, especially as a cause for murder. Yet I could not discount them.

  These events were all about sorcery and, even as a skeptic, I had learned enough throughout the years to comprehend the enormity of what Lianelle had stumbled into. My sister’s spellwork had profoundly altered nature, the test of true magic, so she’d always said. I had merely mixed the powder and spoken the keyword she’d given.

  Spirits of night! In moments I had unlocked my own hidden drawer and pulled out the scrap of paper fallen from Lianelle’s leather packet, along with her lockets and wardstone ring. On it she had scribed a single Aljyssian word: andragossa. I had assumed it the spellkey for Lianelle’s wardstone ring. But she had written the keywords for the vanishing powder and the lockets in her letter. Why would she not mention the ring’s keyword in the letter, too, if it needed one? This was for something else.

  As a story depicted on Syan screen paintings, the tale of my sister’s murder began to unfold. On a morning twenty-five days ago, Lianelle, frightened and agitated about something she had discovered in an encrypted book of magic, had reclaimed her red leather packet from Adept Guerin, scribbled a warning note to me, and inserted this scrap—perhaps the keyword to open that very book. After returning the packet to her friend, she had raced through the ravine behind Collegia Seravain to the village and posted the book to me at Montclaire. On her return journey through the ravine . . . Perhaps the murderer had laid an explosive trap, or perhaps he drove her to mistakes that destroyed her. But sure as sunrise, Lianelle’s death was no simple accident.

  Since that day, the murderer had been hunting the book, its key, and any artifact my sister had created that might relate to them. Though the villain had now retrieved the book from Montclaire, he couldn’t use it. Cecile’s paper was linked to the mystery, too, but I believed the key Antonia and her allies sought lay in my hand.

  So what to do about it? For certain, my life was not worth a snip of tin, should they suspect I had it. And the danger was not mine alone. How long before someone pried into Lianelle’s especial friends at the collegia and focused their attentions on Adept Guerin?

  Over the next half hour, I dashed off a warning to my sister’s friendly tutor. New evidence had convinced me that my sister’s death was not accidental, I wrote, but had been deliberately caused by my father’s rivals, who were likely residents of Collegia Seravain. Knowing the horrors befallen the conspiracy’s victims, he must take every precaution not to meet the same fate. In addition, I begged him to forward any of my sister’s personal belongings to me at Castelle Escalon. Surely the man was intelligent enough to infer that the packet Lianelle had been so anxious to annotate on the morning she was murdered left him in mortal peril.

  The next letter had to be short and careful. Antonia had spoken of Lady Cecile’s scholar friend in Tallemant, and the ducessa had owned every work by Germond de Vouger. Indeed, my father’s longtime correspondent taught at the Collegia Astronomica in Tallemant. Using the book collection as an excuse, I delivered the sad news of Cecile’s sudden demise and asked him to pass on the news to anyone in academic circles who knew her. As an aside, I mentioned her kindness and determination to help me sort out the dreadful entanglements of my father’s treason. I hoped he would choose to take up the lady’s cause or at least share what he knew.

  I had just sealed the letter when a tap on my door propelled me to my feet. I whipped the silk bag and the letters behind my back. “Come.”

  “You’re up, damoselle.” Ella lugged in a steaming jug and filled my basin. “I peeped in earlier, but you were sleeping so hard.” Setting down her burden, she assessed me frankly. “You’ll be wanting a fresh gown, then. A sober one, in respect for the poor lady.”

  “Yes, certainly. And Ella”—as she selected skirt and jacket from the armoire, I smoothed the rumpled bedclothes, stuffing the gray silk bag under my pillow—“I’ve letters need posting, one to Seravain and one all the way to Eldoris in Tallemant. Sonjeur de Duplais insists on reading anything I send, but these are private matters, family matters, not at all anyone’s business. Can you suggest someone who might do me the favor? ”

  She rubbed her lips with a plump finger, hesitating . . . considering.

  “I swear to you, Ella, on my poor sister’s Veil journey, these letters are wholly innocent. My sole purpose is to see justice done.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I’d be pleased to pass them to my brother. He mucks stables for the man who runs the coach route to Tigano and is friendly with the coachman. The coachman could post the Tallemant letter and take the Seravain one himself. Will that do?”

  “Perfectly.” I offered her a few coins from my slim purse. “For their trouble and yours.”

  “I’ll pass it on. I don’t need none of it. I’m happy to serve you, damoselle. Truly.”

  “I’ve another question, then. Who in the queen’s household is considered reliable and . . . helpful . . . in private matters? Someone of influence, if you know what I mean.”

  Ella might be only fifteen, but every day as we became more comfortable, she’d become freer with her opinions. I’d found her observant and insightful. She pondered my request as seriously as if I’d asked what prayers to say at temple.

  “The Ducessa de Blasencourt was one to help young and old, that’s sure—angels guide her through Ixtador’s trials. Some say Adept Jacard, Mage Dante’s assistant, is ever ready with a kindness to a young lady, but he promises more than he keeps.” She peered carefully at my face, then rubbed her ear with a thoughtful finger. “Perhaps he’s not the one you want.”

  Though I’d felt a sympathy for the beleaguered adept, he could well be Antonia’s partner.

  “Well, you’ve had a say about Administrator Duplais from time to time, but I’ve heard from . . . reliable persons . . . that he’s a generous man.” The sudden glow of Ella’s complexion affirmed my suspicions about the girl and young Heurot.

  “No, not Duplais . . . and, please Ella, I trust you’ll never mention my private business to anyone, even the most handsome, charming, and reliable young men.”

  “I never would, damoselle!” Her profound shock at the suggestion testified to honesty.

  “So, what of the physician, Roussel?” The man’s courteous demeanor and engaging humor, not to mention his comely aspect, had kept him in my thoughts. Without conscious direction, my eyes sought him in every crowd.

  “I’ve not heard so much of that gentleman, damoselle. He’s new just this summer, and stays quiet and apart from the householders. A bit shy, it’s said. But then, I’ve heard no ill, neither. But if it’s Her Majesty’s favor you need, there’s only one certain, though it’s not t
he kind of one I’d think of, with you being the—Pardon, damoselle.” The pale skin beneath her freckles glowed crimson as her hair. Her hands helped me into slightly less wrinkled skirts of black and indigo.

  “Speak freely with me always, Ella. I’ll never take it ill. I promise.”

  “It’s just you’re serious-minded, so quiet and always reading, thinking so much and of everything at once, while my other ladies—Well, you’re just different is all, and this person is not a bit like you. But if you want Her Majesty to heed a request of yours, the one to ask is Chevalier de Sylvae. Though, god’s truth, you must swear him to silence on his father’s tomb, else he’ll blab about it from here till Desen’s month.”

  “Chevalier—you mean Lord Ilario?” Kind, yes, but I could not imagine the foolish gentleman in lace carrying weight with anyone. He’d been assigned to escort me, for goodness’ sake.

  Ella slipped the tight black velvet jacket over my arms and applied herself to the buttons. “Aye. The queen quite dotes on him, though lots, including very important personages, scoff and say—Well, they’re not respectful. I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with better.”

  “No, you’ve helped immensely. I thank you, as ever, for your truthfulness and discretion.” The girl took my letters, dipped her knee, and departed.

  Lord Ilario. So Eugenie de Sylvae doted on her foolish brother. I instantly thought better of her.

  Tonight I must be watching when Lady Antonia left her card game to meet her partner in murder. Solve Lady Cecile’s murder—the nearer one—and I would be closer to solving Lianelle’s. Learn about the magic—magic not seen in ages of the world—and perhaps that would lead me to my father. Yet before all, I needed to see Ambrose. I needed to share all this with him. If murder stalked the conspiracy’s victims again, then neither of us was safe.

  My first official duty of the day was writing funeral notices in the Rose Room in the afternoon watch. But the household would already be gathered to gossip and mourn. Evidently when he was in residence, Lord Ilario was a fixture in the queen’s salon.

  I pulled the gray silk bag from under the pillows and tucked it into my jacket for safekeeping. Then I combed my hair carefully, hung my mother’s gryphon pendant about my neck, and for once set out for the royal salon with anticipation and purpose. Somehow I would persuade Lord Ilario to get me into the Spindle.

  NEVER HAS ANTICIPATION BEEN SO quickly frustrated. Lord Ilario did not attend the salon that morning. No one did, save Lady Patrice. “I’m sending everyone to see to their mourning clothes,” she said, fluffing the black lace at her sleeves. “Her Majesty keeps to her bed today. After such news, a troubled night is only to be expected. Here’s the message she wishes conveyed to Cecile’s friends in Hematia and Thanitar. . . .”

  I RETIRED TO THE ROSE Room and for five hours wrote and rewrote the same message. By the end I could not have said what language was my own or whether my script was at all readable. The marquesa herself had abandoned me hours before.

  I wriggled and unkinked my stained fingers, stacked the letters to await the queen’s seal, and left them as the marquesa had directed me. As I turned to go, the door from the inner room burst open.

  “Maman! Maman!” The Queen of Sabria stumbled through the doorway, clad in a rumpled white shift. Her unseeing gaze darted about the empty room. “Don’t go home, Maman! I smell smoke. I hear the dogs . . . the horses . . . Old Tomas screaming. . . .”

  “Soft, my lady,” I said, taking her arm as gently as I could, remembering how my own mother had soothed nightmares. “These are but imaginings. Let’s call the angels to bring you sweeter ones.”

  I led her through the doorward’s chamber—surprisingly devoid of guards or Doorward Viggio this afternoon—and through her apartments, into her bedchamber. None of the queen’s ladies occupied the nearby retiring room. The chamber itself was dark as pitch, the heavy drapes drawn, the bed curtains down.

  Eugenie swayed and stumbled. I wrapped my arm about her slender waist, hoping we would make it to the bed before she crumpled. My head only reached her chin.

  “Here,” I said, drawing the curtain into its silver clip. But as I helped the queen into the bed and smoothed the silk sheet over her bare legs, I could not help but notice that the inside of the bed enclosure reeked of smoke and charred grass and—disgusting—burnt meat. The half curtain on the far side—the one that was never to be closed—hung heavy with the rest.

  Once Eugenie slipped into an unsettled sleep, I opened the narrow panel. Then I examined the bedclothes, the frame, the tester, not at all sure what I was searching for. On my knees I peered into the narrow gap between the rope sling and the floor, stretching out my arm to reach what the gloom hid.

  I knew it when I found it. My fingers touched a strand of barbed metal, and the world burst into searing, choking flame. I yanked my hand back. It wasn’t flayed, nor was the chamber burning. Using a shoe, I fished out the barbed bracelet and wrapped it in a linen towel from the bedside table.

  A few days before, I would have called the thing a mechanical mystery. On this day, I was not so sure. Anyone with access to the bedchamber could have put it there.

  “Sleep well, sad lady,” I said, and left the way I’d come.

  On the way back to my room, I detoured by my little balcony and tucked the wrapped bracelet under a pile of debris. My caution felt entirely justified when I noted that Duplais had moved a bench to the junction of the main passage and the corridor where the maids of honor were housed. He stood and bowed, then replaced his spectacles and resumed jotting notes in his journal. But his scrutiny scorched my back as I passed him by.

  IT REQUIRED ONLY A BRIEF, discreet questioning of a drowsy sweeping woman to discover where Lady Antonia was to play cards that evening—a small suite of rooms perched on the highest level of the east wing, where they could catch the morning sun and the fairest breezes from the south. According to the servant, the queen had used the out-of-the-way suite for childhood lessons in music, dancing, and painting. Currently, she used them for games and other quiet activities she wished to pursue away from the unending bustle of the household. Nervous excitement put me on watch early.

  The suite’s atrium, open to the night air, could be accessed from above or below. A short steep stair led down from the sheltering bulk of the northeast tower. And shallow flagstone steps spiraled upward from the east-wing galleries.

  It was a lush night. A profusion of stars glittered through the arches, and the mild, heavy airs promised lingering summer instead of early autumn. Perhaps it was the unsettled season that ran my blood so cold. The breeze smelled of dead leaves and rot, when it ought to smell of ripe apples and meadow saffron.

  I couldn’t blame my megrims on the potion. Not wishing to waste it, I’d not taken it yet. I remained well hidden, tucked behind giant clay pots of scarlet hibiscus and whimsical bronzes of giant beetles, moths, and dragonflies. The position gave me an excellent view of the entry door and a liveried boy, who sat on a bench beside it, tending four lamps.

  As I suspected it might, the evening had stretched well past the bells of eleventh hour. My back ached from sitting so long on stone. Just as I considered changing position, the door opened and the lamp boy leapt to attention.

  “Divine grace, sweet Geni, sacre mater, and lovely young lady whose name I’ve most atrociously forgotten.” Unmistakably Lord Ilario. “I must to my bed, as tomorrow I must notify my stewards to cancel my plans for Feste Morde. Dreadful as it is to utter, I do wish poor Cecile had found a more convenient time to pass the Veil. I was so hoping to sponsor a masque for this year’s feste. Such a display of beauty and cleverness, music and camaraderie must surely honor those who journey Ixtador, and why not allow them the extra benefit of displaying it during the holy days? But then, a mourning term must not be violated in such times as we live in. Saints Awaiting, the terrible things I’ve heard . . . and, no, mater amore, I shall not repeat them. But now I’m wondering if the Temple might approve a mourning
masque, all of us in black and dancing to seriously sober music—”

  Muted voices interrupted Lord Ilario, and a long, fair arm shoved him out the door.

  “There, you see, sister mine, you are capable of laughter even in a grievous time. Though I don’t see why it must be at my expense, when I’ve worked so diligently all evening to cheer you. I’ll expect proper gratitude tomorrow!”

  This last he pronounced as the door closed in his face. He accepted a lamp from the boy. “Always do your best to bolster grieving ladies, young pup,” he said to the snickering lad, flipping him a coin. “Bolster!”

  I shook my head at his inanity, while quite understanding why the queen kept him near. How could she ever be cross with one so singularly dedicated to the purpose of lightening her heart?

  For a fleeting moment I considered following him down the stair to present my petition. But the opportunity to identify Lady Antonia’s confederate might not come again. So I let him go.

  Next out was the “lovely young lady” whose name the chevalier could not recall. To my surprise she was one of the maids of honor, a tall, plain girl named Marie-Claire, daughter of the Duc de Tallemant, the wealthiest lord in all of Sabria. Gangle-legged and haughty, she’d never once spoken in our morning sessions. The door closed behind her and she soon vanished down the flagstone steps, carrying her lamp.

  Antonia would likely be leaving soon. “Aventura,” I whispered as eight drops of the tasteless potion slid down my throat.

  The voices came first this time. Or perhaps I just was listening so intently for them. Whispers quickly swelled into a clamor of excitement, anger, and nightmare. I swallowed hard and allowed them to grow unchecked, though my skull felt like to crack and surely my eyes bulged from their sockets. Searching, listening, I whispered silently: Papa, can you hear me?