The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  Lord Ilario had bowed his head, and his fingertips pressed the center of his forehead, hiding his face. A gold ring fashioned in the shape of a phoenix flashed in the sunlight. He did not unmask when next he spoke. “You’ve proof of all this?”

  “I’ve hidden the bracelet. As to who left it, I’ve no proof a Royal Accuser would account, especially coming from me.”

  “You’ve shared this information with Duplais?” His head popped up, and the question rang short and sharp as a pistol shot.

  “Certainly not!” My response returned equally sharp. “Duplais brought Mage Dante to my home. My mother began her decline that very day. I don’t trust him.”

  “Ever-righteous Duplais in league with malfeasors? That I simply cannot grasp. He was my secretary, you know. A stiff little pup of a man, but he’s got the intellect of an encyclopaedia and the perceptions of a Saint Reborn, which I once thought—Well, never mind that. And he has the patience of a rock with anyone but a lackwit chevalier whose inane babbling drives him to head pounding. He’d never do something so dastardly wicked. Why, he alone uncovered the transference plot and prosecuted the trait—” His complexion bloomed scarlet yet again.

  “It’s all right, my lord.” I hadn’t meant to involve my mother’s plight, but if it drove him to protect his sister and find someone trustworthy to help her, it would be worth the risk. “I know it’s difficult to reconcile Sonjeur de Duplais’ behavior. I’ve wrestled with that myself. But a person so ruthless in the pursuit of answers might be led to compromise his integrity for what he considers righteous. I cannot, will not, trust him.”

  “None could blame you, damoselle. Certainly not. But what shall we do with this dreadful artifact? Someone should look at it. Parse it for clues.”

  “I think it had best be taken far from the queen.”

  “Ah, most delightfully sensible. What if I had my valet fetch it from some location you specify and dispatch it to my house in the country? I’ll tell him it’s a token from a young lady. We would have it out of the way, while yet keeping it under our eyes, so to speak. I could locate a reliable person to examine it.”

  That sounded as good as anything. I’d send it somewhere myself, save for the surety that Duplais inspected my outgoing packets as well as those incoming. I told Lord Ilario where his valet could find the wrapped bracelet. “Please keep in mind, lord, that the threat is more than just this one thing. Those responsible are still here.”

  “I’ll take your caution most sincerely to mind. If I could but persuade Geni to listen to you . . . But she tolerates my meddling only so far. In some matters, her stubbornness rivals even Portier’s.”

  He bent his head and rubbed his neck, such an image of humble dejection, I wanted to pat his head. Such an odd person. Far more thoughtful than anyone would guess. And the phoenix ring . . . no wonder he incessantly invoked the saints awaiting. He must adhere to the Cult of the Reborn. I certainly wished I could garner assistance from the Cult’s hero saints.

  “My lord, I must confess something of my own.”

  His head popped up again, all frowning attention. “How so?”

  “I came in this morning apurpose to speak with you.” Though he did not change positions on the bench, I felt the distance between us stretch. The subtle movement bade me continue quickly. “Please, do not imagine this a tit for tat. Can you do nothing for my personal situation, I would not change my testimony or my warning or my sincere concern for Her Majesty’s health and safety. Your devotion to your sister gives me hope that you might heed a sister’s plight.”

  “Go on.”

  “My brother has been the king’s hostage since he was fifteen. . . .”

  The chevalier listened gravely, and when I was done, leapt to his feet, slapped one hand on his sword hilt, and the other on his heart. “Damoselle de Vernase, no Knight of Sabria could fail to apply his talents to such a tragic lapse of mercy. King Philippe, while just and sober in his necessity to confine a traitor’s son, could not have meant to punish his goodchildren in so severe a fashion. Alas, his noble person is preparing to defend Sabria from these wildman uprisings out of Aroth, else I’d present this petition to him directly. But I swear to you on my honored father’s head that before the sun sets on this day, you shall clasp your brother to your heart.”

  CHAPTER 14

  SOLA PASSIERT, LATE AFTERNOON

  Lord Ilario was as good as his word. Lady Antonia dismissed the queen’s household at third hour. By the time I reached my bedchamber, a footman awaited me in the passage.

  “With Chevalier de Sylvae’s compliments,” he said, extending a rolled parchment tied in blue ribbon.

  To the Warder of Spindle Prison, Greetings:

  By order of Eugenie de Sylvae y Savin-Journia, Queen Regent of Sabria in the absence of Philippe King, the visitation restrictions imposed on Ambrose de Vernase, detainee of Spindle Prison, are hereby abrogated to the sole benefit of Anne de Vernase ney Cazar for the period of four hours, to begin at fifth hour of the afternoon watch. Such temporary abrogation shall be construed as neither a reversal of judgment nor mitigation of the detainee’s designation as a Danger and Risk of Collusion with a Known Traitor to the Crown of Sabria, and shall in no manner affect any other restriction, privilege, or regulation imposed by the Warder in the fulfillment of his charge.

  “The chevalier says that a mount and an escort will await you at the stables at fourth hour. Will there be anything else, damoselle?”

  “Tell the chevalier—” My heart had swollen to the size of Mont Siris. “Convey to him my most profound gratitude and humble appreciation.”

  “As you say, damoselle. Divine grace.”

  Joy and excitement winged my feet. Trepidation sped my hands. I could not move fast enough. I changed into riding clothes. Pulled out the few shirts of Papa’s I’d brought, thinking they might fit a young man of nineteen. Saints’ mercy, he would have grown so much. Of course, they might have provided him new clothes. He was a hostage, not a prisoner.

  He’d written so rarely—a few times the first year when he was so angry, twice in the second, once in each of the last two, each scarce more than a scribble, and nothing of his circumstances. He was alive. He tried to keep fit. He heard no news. He valued my frequent letters.

  Stars and planets, I should take him paper and ink, sticks of plummet for drawing or if he should run out of ink, and I mustn’t forget the books I’d brought for him.

  Your spirit is a maelstrom.

  Startled, I glanced up from the cloth bag I’d stuffed with clothes and books to see who had come in. Not Ella. Her voice was . . .

  Until you learn—and are ready—to initiate and respond, it is your upheaval that allows me to forge this link that binds us.

  Father Creator!

  You have an immense gift. Do you understand that? You are not mad. Not cursed. Not evil. Quiet. Careful, as if tiptoeing through glass. Do not fear your gift. Do not fear me.

  And then he was gone. I knew it as certainly as if someone had stepped out of my bedchamber and closed the door behind.

  I hadn’t taken any of the potion. This was not a lonely girl’s longing for her family, nor some hysteria induced by a magical concoction. A man, a stranger to me, yet most assuredly the one I’d heard before, had been as close to me as my own thoughts. A genie, trapped inside me instead of a lamp. The image raised a smile. Not mad. Not cursed. A gift, he said. Though . . . had my mother heard voices?

  The bells pealed the third quarter of the hour. No time to consider mystery or madness.

  I spun wildly. What else should I take? Stupid not to have given it more thought.

  The vial of Lianelle’s potion sat on the corner of the dressing table, glaring, obvious. To provide a Spindle detainee magic of any kind was surely forbidden. I could pass it off as a family tonic, and yet what if the warder had some way to detect spelled artifacts? Perhaps the powder unmixed . . . a small amount . . .

  I cut a scrap of cloth from a clean shift
, wrapped up a pinch of the powder, and stuffed it in my shoe. Then I rang for Ella. The blessed girl was quick.

  “I need a small flask of wine,” I said. “Sealed properly, as from the vineyard. Bring it to me at the stables by the fourth-hour bells, and I’ll provide for your children’s children until world’s end.”

  “Won’t pass on that.” A grin set her freckles glowing. As she ran, I heard her laughing. “Must’ve got the favor you wanted.”

  “MAY I SEE THE QUEEN’S warrant, damoselle?”

  No alchemist could have transformed my heart to lead so efficiently as did the sight of Savin-Duplais awaiting me in the stableyard. The requirement to notify him had never crossed my mind.

  “I’ve scarce met the chevalier,” I said, “so I never expected this favor. And then the time was so short.” How had Duplais learned of my journey so quickly?

  “I’ll speak to Her Majesty to clarify the situation,” he said, stiff as granite. “Naturally, I cannot contravene her will as written.”

  As my heart and fists unclenched, he pocketed the warrant and waved to a man in Chevalier de Sylvae’s spring green livery. The footman led two horses forward. To my delight, one was Ladyslipper. To my chagrin, the other was Duplais’ favored gelding.

  Duplais took the reins. “Assist the lady up, if you would. You may inform the chevalier that I’ve relieved you of escort duty.”

  I should have expected this. Had propriety allowed, the man would surely have moved into my bedchamber. It was not going to be easy to shake him off once I set out to find Papa. That was exactly what he waited for.

  As I settled into the saddle, Ella pelted across the stableyard. “My children’s children, damoselle.” Duplais looked on, puzzled, as she pressed the wine flask into my hand.

  “I’ll not forget.”

  Only fourteen days had passed since Duplais and I had entered the royal city, yet it seemed a lifetime. The flag-draped Plas Royale teemed with citizens and soldiers, as it was Transfer Day, when a fresh complement of the Guard Royale relieved that posted at Castelle Escalon. Two full gardias, more than a thousand men, were parading up and down the boulevard.

  “I’ll be able to get transport at the docks, yes?” I said, feeling precious time slide past as we pressed through the mob. “Is it a particular boat that serves the Spindle?”

  “A Spindle shallop will be waiting, as long as we’re there before sunset. Come, let’s get out of this.” Duplais shouted and bullied his way to the edge of the crowd, taking us into a side lane.

  “Did it not cross your mind that leaving the palace grounds could be dangerous?” he said, directing me into a quieter lane.

  “I would risk a great deal to see my brother, sonjeur.” Bathed in full afternoon sunlight, the city did not oppress me as before. But as we descended toward Riverside, I did keep a wary eye out for rats and sinkholes.

  “You’re carrying no contraband?”

  “I’m carrying only the same items you put at risk at Vradeu’s Crossing—no valuables at all.”

  That reaped a sharp glance and thinned lips. “Be sure of that.”

  Something in the day had him worried. His eyes never stopped scanning the shop fronts, the passersby, the road before and behind us. Yet it struck me that if he feared some assault, he might have insisted Lord Ilario’s burly servant accompany us. Were Captain de Santo and his black-cloaked friend lurking along our route?

  Once we crossed into the lower city, it was not soldiers but snarls of wagons and pack mules hauling goods from the harbor to upper city that drove us off the main road and into the heart of Riverside. It was as if the sun had set three hours early, the tangle of steep, muddy lanes so narrow that the upper stories of the houses came near touching. Quartieres blocked almost every side lane. Many tenement rows were interrupted by blackened gaps where rills of yellow and purple flames burned untended. In some cases the houses on either side were half charred, the raw edges still smoking as if being eaten away by invisible flame. Unnatural flame.

  “What’s happened here?” I said.

  “Your father happened,” said Duplais. “Dante happened. Ride faster. Come sunset, we could be equally beset. Come sunset of Sola Passiert, the possibilities are worse.” Sola Passiert—when night overbalances day.

  It was a relief to emerge from Riverside’s gloom into the afternoon bustle at the harbor. The river sparkled like diamond-dusted satin. A swarm of small boats threaded their way through anchored barges and fishing vessels to a newly anchored caravel like ants to a discarded bun, each hoping to be the first to glean news or scoop up rare finds, to sell spirits, limes, or luck charms to returning seamen, to deliver letters and collect harbor fees.

  But as soon as I spied the forbidding finger of black stone rising from a rock in the deepest channel of the river, all other concerns dropped away. Ambrose . . . my exuberant, never-still-a-moment brother. Saints have mercy.

  Duplais paid a tallyman’s lad to watch our horses, and we trudged down to the waterfront on planks laid across the muddy banks. Gulls swooped and screeched or marched around the mud flats, pecking at mussels and crabs. Black posts flanked one of the docks, where a dark-skinned man with a pistol at his belt lounged in a small boat, picking his teeth. His eyes sat atop his face as if the Pantokrator had near forgotten to put them there. “Summat thinks to visit the Spindle?”

  “I am escorting the lady to visit a prisoner,” said Duplais. “We carry the queen’s warrant.”

  “Warrant don’t mean fishbones to me,” said the rower, stretching his shoulders. “I’m just Scago the ferryman. Come aboard.”

  As he goaded the little boat through the slopping current, Scago grumbled of unstable tide flows, tricky rocks, and unnatural fogs that had tormented river men of late. I did not heed his chatter. The Spindle demanded my full attention, huge and dismal, a blight on the day.

  The black granite had been smoothed and glazed, and barred slot windows had been inserted into the featureless stone. Elsewise, one might have thought the tower sprouted naturally from its rugged base. The gray-green water of the Ley chopped and frothed against the ugly lump of black rock. Barely enough mass extended from the base of the tower to allow the waterbirds a gathering place.

  The sole entry to the Spindle lay beyond an iron gate anchored in giant rock pillars that protruded from the water. The gate, the first of three, so I’d read, clanked upward when Scago blew a whistle in a stuttering pattern. The pattern changed by the day, he told us.

  With a few heaves of the ferryman’s powerful shoulders, we lurched beneath the weedy, dripping gate only to face a second at least six stories high, its bars wrought with outlines of monstrous beasts bound with chains. The first gate groaned, scraped, and plunged into the water behind us. Ambrose had been brought here at night. In chains. Hearing that dreadful sound must have felt like the end of the world.

  As our boat bobbed in the slurping channel between the gates, growing dread gnawed my spirit. The murky water stank of sewage. And my ears itched and buzzed, as if I stood in the heart of a great city—as if the effects of Lianelle’s potion were just wearing off. “Magic . . .”

  Duplais’ head jerked around. I’d not meant to speak it aloud.

  “Aye,” said Scago, feathering his oars to maintain our position. “Spindle were enchanted before the Blood Wars, when sorcerers ruled. You’ll see nae spit of rust on gates, locks, or bars. And none’s been able to escape the wards, save the Treacher’s whore four year ago. None knows how that was done. Magic, likely. Magic’s comin’ back, you know. World’s changing. All can see it. Maybe the Spindle won’t hold no more. Or maybe it’ll be locked forever and none’ll ever go free.”

  World’s changing. I drew my thin cloak tighter. The “Treacher’s whore” was Maura ney Billard, my father’s dupe. I glanced over my shoulder at Duplais. For once his stony face was staring at something . . . or someone . . . a long way from me.

  “I’ll see your warrant.” A short, smiling, round-cheeked man gree
ted us from the far side of the second gate. “I am Pognole, Warder of Spindle Prison.”

  Warder Pognole appeared sturdy as a rock fortress himself; almost as broad as he was tall, his head bald and leathery, his garments of padded canvas and leather sewn with steel plates. His thighs might have been more of the granite pillars. He could likely bend the iron bars of his gates without losing his smile. I prayed my face revealed no smuggler’s guilt.

  Scago eased the boat to the gate so Duplais could pass the royal warrant through the bars.

  Pognole glanced up sharply from the document. “Damoselle de Vernase! Indeed! And come to the Spindle of your own will. Bravely done. And who might you be, sonjeur?”

  “Portier de Savin-Duplais, administrator of Her Majesty’s household, sent to supervise Damoselle de Vernase.”

  The warder’s glance scanned the warrant again. “Alas, you needs must remain out here.”

  “But I am required—”

  “You’re not Named.” The warder rolled the page and stuck it in a pouch slung from his belt, opposite a plain, battered sword. “Don’t matter who you are. I’ve a method here. Those not Named in the warrant don’t enter. Out the boat and onto the bench, or I’ll have Scago tip you out.”

  The bench was a slimy wooden platform bolted to the gatehouse wall some ten centimetres above the wavelets. The only way to get anywhere from the bench was to climb a sheer stone wall or swim through the palm-width gaps between the bars of the gates.

  Duplais, red-faced, seethed as he clambered from boat to bench. But he didn’t bother to launch into bombast or otherwise assert privilege. No one with a mind would believe that useful. Warder Pognole could crack his spine like a dry stick.