The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  “None so amiable.” The humor fled his square face, and his forefinger touched his gray-tinged mustache as if to hush his own opinion. “She c-consults her mage at present.”

  “Ah. I’ll wait, then.” I dropped my eyes and dabbed at my fingers, trying to force my own expression into proper neutrality. “Divine grace, sonjeur.”

  A moment passed. I glanced up, surprised to find him still there.

  He cleared his throat. Clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s never foolish to be w-wary of sorcerers.”

  Better not to acknowledge the softly voiced sentiment, no matter how fiercely I wished to agree. Instead, I returned the now-sullied kerchief. “Thank you . . . uh . . .”

  I could not decide whether to reveal that I knew his name.

  He must have taken my hesitation for maidenly encouragement. “Roussel,” he said. “Ganet de Roussel. Though we lack formal introduction, D-dame Fortune seems intent on our meeting. I doubt I’ve c-c-crossed paths with any of dear Cecile’s young ladies with such frequency.” A smile softened his well-proportioned lips, once he’d gotten the difficult sounds out of the way.

  A knot of pride and anxiety had forever choked me in the presence of “eligible men.” Taking resolution in hand, I swallowed hard, met his gaze, and returned the smile. “Would you care to share the window seat as I await my summons, Physician Roussel?”

  His turn to hesitate. His eyes darted about the chamber.

  Embarrassment scorched a path from my toes to my cheeks. “I’m too forward.”

  “Alas, damoselle, a physician without title is c-c-considered distasteful, unfit company for the q-queen’s salon. And he is often”—his pale gray eyes returned to mine, introducing a certain deliberate quality to his sentiments—“c-counseled as to whom he may address and whom he may not. Perhaps on another day, in a d-different window seat, I might be allowed such a p-pleasure.”

  He bowed and left the room, a finer figure than any man present.

  Stupid, this business of rank. I could not fault the shadings of bitterness in his manner. I supposed a physician of unremarkable background might not be considered a useful enough match for a king’s gooddaughter, even the Great Traitor’s child.

  A flush of ferocity supplanted all other considerations as I reclaimed the knowledge of these past nights. Papa was not a traitor. I wrenched my gaze from the doorway, only to find Duplais watching me from his corner.

  With irreproachable sobriety, I nodded to him. No more childish rebellion. No more slips of control. Not until I understood his purposes and what use I might make of him in order to locate my father.

  “Damoselle Anne de Vernase.” One of the household ladies held open the inner door. I rose, cursing sticky pastries as I dusted my lap for flakes. Duplais’ eyes, and a number of others, followed me as I left the room.

  AS THE QUEEN’S GENTLEWOMAN AND I traipsed through the octagonal waiting room, down the passage, and into the royal apartments, it crossed my mind that I might have an opportunity to beg the favor I needed from the queen herself, bypassing her foolish half brother. Yet how great could be the influence of a queen involved with traitor sorcerers in the past and so blind to her own foster mother’s wickedness?

  My first glimpse of the company in the queen’s sitting room deepened my doubts.

  Eugenie herself might have been one of the moonlit dancers depicted on the canvas behind her. Cocooned in layers of blue silk, her slender form seemed fragile, her softly flushed cheeks as transparent as watercolor, and her eyes larger than a human woman’s ought to be.

  Lady Antonia had planted herself on the couch beside the queen, Eugenie’s hand firmly in her jeweled grasp. Her stiff curls brushed the queen’s smooth black tresses, as she murmured to her adopted daughter in such low tones, none else could possibly distinguish the words.

  Lord Ilario, resplendent in vermillion brocade, sprawled on a divan much too small for his long limbs. As I made obeisance to his royal sister, he twitched and snorted as happens with those who’ve dropped off to sleep from boredom.

  To my dismay, Mage Dante hovered behind the queen, near the hearth, where an entirely unnecessary fire burned. The mage looked ill on this morning, gray-skinned and drawn, leaning heavily on his staff as if he were a much older man. His hard-edged eyes had sunk yet deeper beneath his dark brow. He served as the mortuis memore in this tableau—the death’s head crafted into every painting, every sculpture, and every building created since the Blood Wars as a reminder of our trials to come in the realm of Ixtador Beyond the Veil.

  The crimes of both civil authorities and the rival sorcerous families during that conflict were so grievous, so the Temple taught, that the Pantokrator had altered his creation, requiring the dead to traverse a bleak and barren wilderness, assaying ten barred gates to find their way to Heaven.

  The consideration of Ixtador’s trials roused the steel in me, just as the mortuis memore was intended to do. The souls of the dead could not progress through the gates without our honorable deeds on this side of the Veil; so we were taught. Did we fail them, they would wander until the last day of the world, when the Souleater would carry them off to the frozen netherworld.

  More doubter than believer, I nonetheless appreciated the principle. What better could I do for Lianelle’s memory than to succor Ambrose and rescue Papa? Justice—identifying her own murderer—would surely follow.

  “Anne! Welcome!” Queen Eugenie’s open hand brought me to my feet, but it was her face and voice that startled me. A soft smile transformed her entirely, as if the artist had laid a wash of diamond dust over her person. And a solid vigor imbued her speech, as a deceptive autumn breeze can ripple hair and skirts so gently while at the same time tumbling stripped leaves across the countryside. “I insisted on hearing who had penned these many letters, as I know Escalon’s scribes have a shameful incapacity when it comes to foreign tongues.”

  My box of pages, now folded and sealed, sat on the floor beside her.

  “It must have taken you a day, at least, and all in so lovely a hand and perfectly worded, as far as my own poor skills can attest. You have my deepest gratitude. My dear Cecile must certainly be well begun on her Veil journey, thanks to those like you who have offered such care in her memory.” Her language reflected a pleasant animation of spirit, embracing and welcoming.

  “I was pleased to be of service, Majesty.” I floundered, hunting more words. This opportunity to request access to Ambrose must not be missed. “The ducessa was ever kind to me. Sadly, she was unable to—”

  “Anne is such a talented girl,” Antonia broke in. “Cecile was working to refine her manners in hopes we might secure the best match suitable to her unfortunate circumstances. We must do all we can for her.”

  Resentment heated my cheeks and sparked a cold ember in my depths.

  “I’m sure Anne’s manners are of the most excellent kind, Dama—natural grace without artifice, schooled with love by a gracious lady.” Eugenie patted Antonia’s hand as if to gentle the reproach, while maintaining her focus on me. “In truth, Anne, I have ever admired your mother, her devotion to her family, and her strength . . . to make her own life. And so lovely. Tell me”—in the span of two words, pain etched Eugenie’s glowing skin—“how does she endure?”

  The queen’s kindness but fed the cold fire inside me. Dared I say what I believed about her two companions? I could not but feel the mage stirring across the room. Yet what safety did I gain by withholding my theories?

  “The events of four years ago broke my mother, lady, though not of her own weakness. When I have solid evidence, I’ll tell you and my goodfather exactly the evil cause of her illness.”

  “Evidence is wicked limiting. Is it not, damoselle?” Mage Dante moved swiftly away from the hearth, taking up a protective stance beside the queen’s couch. “It can prod belief in one theory over another. But alas, belief cannot prove the theorist’s position. In fact, truth often eludes both evidence and belief. Is that not so?”
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  “Conceded,” I said, the sap of debate rising in my blood. His argument could have come from my father’s lips. “I should have said, When I have solid proof, the history of my mother’s madness shall make a tale worthy of note.”

  Antonia tapped her bony fingers on the queen’s hands. “Caeri, it’s time for a rest. . . .”

  But Eugenie’s attention did not swerve. Shock etched her features. “Madness? Truly?”

  Now, Anne, I told myself. Say it now. “Four years ago, when my mother was questioned about my father’s disappearance, she suffered a sudden and catastrophic nervous collapse. Her condition deteriorated to such a dangerous state, we were forced to have her confined. She cannot remember her children, lady, nor how to clean herself, nor where she is, nor even her own name.”

  The shocked queen turned sharply to her mage. “But, Dante, you must visit poor Madeleine! You once treated diseases of the mind. Healed them, so I heard. You’ve been so generous with me. . . .”

  Healed! Generous! Hatred and contempt swelled to monstrous proportion, propelling me past caution. “I’d not think of luring Master Dante from Castelle Escalon, Your Grace. Surely he must remain on call to see to your needs. Tell me, lady: You appear so much more rested since your daytime sleep yesterday afternoon. Was it this mage who soothed your troubled dreams?”

  Lady Antonia’s browless gaze snapped to Dante, as if a wire stretched between them.

  The same man who had brutalized his adept in a public venue now armored himself in stillness. Was anyone in this love-forsaken palace so controlled as he?

  Not the reckless idiot Anne de Vernase, who had to clasp her hands at her back to prevent him spying their tremors, whose jellied knees scarce held her up.

  Not Eugenie de Sylvae, who sat back, surprised, and cocked her head. “Indeed, as you say it, that must be why I’m thinking so clearly today, despite a late night . . . at cards.” Her cheeks took on the hue of her snoring brother’s garments. “In the afternoon the dreams came, as always. But they never reached conclusion. And then last night, I thought other events had overshadowed. But I’ll vow I did not dream at all! Master, is this blessing your doing?”

  “Nay,” said Dante. “Though ’tis a boon, to be sure. Someone other must take the credit.”

  For the first time, I glimpsed a true emotion from the mage. As the abandoned hearth fire took that moment to die in a spurt of yellow smoke, an oddity which none but I could have seen, his left hand, sheathed in a glove of black leather, caressed his white staff. One corner of his mouth twitched into a mirthless smile. My challenge had amused him.

  No words sufficed to describe my fear.

  ANTONIA SAW ME DISMISSED BEFORE I could broach the subject of Ambrose. Shaken, berating myself for allowing anger to trump wiles yet again, I returned to the salon.

  The hour was too early to retire. I couldn’t even walk or seek refuge in the library, as the ladies-in-waiting insisted we remain available for Her Majesty’s needs until third hour of the afternoon watch. Unable to bear the stares and whispers, I wandered into the courtyard garden.

  An elderly gentleman sat on a shady bench, playing mournful dances on the flute. Unfortunately, half his notes came sour. Every few bars, he would halt and examine his instrument, twist or shake it, and try again.

  The morning had turned sour, too, a suffocating, anxious mantle I could not shed. I believed Lady Antonia a murderess who was embroiling the Queen of Sabria in her plots. What had possessed me to reveal so much or, saints’ mercy, to spar with the mage? Master Dante frightened me beyond anyone in Castelle Escalon, yet I had so much as told him I’d removed his vile artifact from the queen’s bedchamber.

  “Excuse me, damoselle.” A serving girl dipped her knee. “A gentleman said I was to bring you this, and ask if you would prefer wine or a bracing tisane.” Her flowered dish held a hot couchine.

  “Neither, I think,” I said. “Nor the pastry.” I could not have ingested a morsel, yet I relished the offering. “Return it to the physician with my thanks,” I whispered, smiling at the red-haired girl. “Or have it yourself. You have my permission.”

  No sooner had the serving girl departed than a small commotion broke out inside. I gleaned only bits and pieces. “But surely she’s not gone! You ladies are ever devoted to your duties, all your clever needling and witty discourse . . . especially wished to speak to her . . . no one woke me . . . considering an expedition to the Isle of Naasica . . . giant turtles that expire when brought . . . Good Portier, have you seen . . . ? In the courtyard, you say?”

  I was not so astonished when the lanky lord in vermillion brocade poked his fair head out the courtyard door and begged the indulgence of my time to advise him on Naasican expeditions.

  “Perhaps we could remain out here, as the weather is quite blissful,” he said, when I offered to follow him inside. “I do so delight in the outdoors, but perhaps I could send for your maidservant to bring you a hat, as I was thinking I should have John Deune bring me one, but truly I don’t believe the sun warrants it, autumnal as it is, and John, my manservant, gets testy when I bid him hither and yon unnecessarily.”

  “No need, but my thanks for your consideration.” Truly one could not dwell on frights when this man got to babbling. And the opportunity . . . Hope blossomed anew.

  Hands behind his back, Lord Ilario chattered on about his proposed expedition as we strolled across the garden. Carefully and properly remaining within sight of the broad doors, we appropriated the shady bench the flute player had abandoned.

  As we sat down, the chevalier’s cheeks took on the scorching hue of his garments. “Damoselle de Vernase, I must beg your pardon and indulgence. I do most assuredly wish to probe your experience with regard to the excitements and dangers of viewing giant sea turtles, but I must first give up a confessional that such is not the entire subject of my address this morning. And I will beg, on my knees if required, that what I say be held in the most direst privacy.”

  I blinked, confounded. “Certainly, my lord. I’m happy to discuss whatever you wish in confidence.”

  Taking a deep breath, he leaned his head close. “I was not asleep.”

  He might have been Ambrose at seven, confessing the sin of raiding the kitchen for raisins.

  “In my lady’s chamber just now?”

  He half covered his mouth as if to prevent anyone reading his lips. “I often pretend to doze during tedious discussions.”

  Despite the dark threads of that earlier conversation, I barely suppressed a smile. “I don’t think you’re alone in that, my lord.”

  “Our papa—Geni’s and mine were the same, you know, though our mothers were not—used to feign sleep from time to time, especially when women’s matters were being discussed. He said true sleep was better, if one could manage it, but as long as the ladies didn’t know you weren’t sleeping, you could avoid being held responsible for the information.”

  Solemnly, I acknowledged the point. “Indeed, very wise.”

  His long pale hands, so like his half sister’s, gripped his knees. “Thus I heard you and Geni speak of terrible things . . . your mother’s state . . .”

  Naught to do but nod and let him get it out.

  “I am most profoundly sorry to hear such news, as I’ve met your mother several times on her visits to Merona. As Geni said, she was—is—a beautiful and gracious lady.” He crinkled his smooth forehead and raked fingers through his flaxen hair. “My sister, you must understand, has experienced great sadness in her life, as you have. And since the . . . incidents . . . of four years ago, she’s come deeply under the influence of this dreadful mage.” He huffed in resolution. “The man frightens me, damoselle. Though I am a Knight of Sabria, I can say it no plainer. And I am not the only one in the palace to feel disturbance.”

  He surely read agreement in my face.

  “In this recent conversation, where I was not asleep, you referred to Geni’s dreams—which delicacy instructs me not to mention, save that I must
in this instance. You see, our parents—our papa and Geni’s blessed mama—died in a rapacious fire only a few months after Geni was brought to Castelle Escalon as King Soren’s bride, and only a few days after I was brought to Castelle Escalon to companion her. She was but eight years old, and I eleven. This is a sorrow that torments her most awfully of late, by way of these wicked dreams.” He leaned even closer. None but I could have heard him. “Yet you spoke of an ending to the dreams, as if you knew of them. As if you knew why she was indeed able to sleep yesterday afternoon and last night, as she has not in months. How, damoselle? And how did you stop them, for even a weak-wit such as I heard you challenge this terrible mage with the knowing. And he yielded the point!”

  Great Heaven, I had guessed right!

  Lord Ilario’s exposed love and worry for his sister compelled me to answer truthfully, without endless self-argument. If ever a man were honest in his testimony, it was surely this one. Indeed, the ugliness of what had been worked on Eugenie enlisted me instantly in her cause.

  “Yesterday, as I sat in the Rose Room writing out those letters, the queen appeared in the doorway, distraught with nightmare . . . sleepwalking, it seemed. None of her ladies were nearby, which struck me as exceeding strange, and no guards or footmen, either. It was but happenstance that I was near. So I guided her back to bed. . . .”

  I told him of the closed curtains, the reek of burning, and the barbed bracelet.

  “. . . and, suspecting such an ugly artifact might be the cause of her distress, I removed it.”

  Lord Ilario gaped at me, speechless. Which silence lasted all of an eyeblink. “But why would the mage torment her dreams? She’s done nothing but indulge him.”

  Though I longed to ask in what ways Dante was indulged, it was more important to focus Lord Ilario’s flighty attentions on warning Eugenie. “Chevalier, as I am so new at court, I’ve spent a great deal of time observing and listening. More courtiers than just this mage frighten me. I’ve solid reason to believe Lady Cecile’s death was no accident, and the evidence points to someone in the household, someone very close to the queen, who can dismiss servants and ladies from her bedchamber without question, and who could be working in concert with this mage, who does such awful things. Lord, your sister must not trust anyone, save you. Not friend, nor even kin, no matter how devoted that person might appear . . .”