by Carol Berg
I did not respond to this probing. Caution had not completely deserted me. But now I had engaged him, I desperately wanted to know more. That first time, I’d heard my father, too.
And so I ventured a step. You say only we two can do this, but I hear many, some very clearly.
Yes, the mindstorm. You hear the strong emotions of thousands. I do, as well. And yes, sometimes they are shaped in words—spoken or unspoken—and sometimes in feeling only. But none is directed at us. They just exist. The aether is the medium of souls. The mindstorm itself fluctuates like the weather—sometimes violent, sometimes serene, surging, fading. We cannot control who we hear any more than we can control the clouds and rain.
But if I picked out one voice from all these thousands, someone sorrowing or in pain, I could speak to him like this. . . .
Alas, no. We witness. We speak. But unless the other shares the gift, we cannot be heard. That’s why it’s named a curse.
Not even someone familiar . . . family . . . friends?
The negative response came before he spoke it. Only the gift makes it possible to hear the voices of the mindstorm. Familiarity . . . acquaintance . . . plays no part. Nor have I discovered anything to suggest the gift runs in families, as magical talent does.
He didn’t know everything about it. I had heard my father’s voice. That could not be coincidence. So it’s a form of magic?
No. Everything I’ve read and heard insists they occur together, feeding and enriching each other, but the tangle curse is a separate—and extremely rare—gift. Or curse, as you may see it; I’ve questioned that often enough since my own gift’s waking.
But I’ve no— I cut off my protest. This was getting much too intimate.
You don’t have to tell me anything. And you shouldn’t. You’ve no reason to trust me.
Questions whirred like a plague of gnats.
“Damoselle Anne . . .”
Alarmed, I blurted, I thought you couldn’t know!
Yet even as his puzzlement reflected through me, I recognized the one who’d spoken my name was not the one inside—the speaker who existed in the medium of souls.
A terrible imagining swelled then, obscuring all else, as if one gnat from the swarm had grown to the monstrous proportions shown by an opticum lens. Great Heaven, are you dead?
Reflected shock . . . and then a wry amusement. No, not dead. Just buried in a place I’d rather not be.
“Damoselle Anne!”
The snapped address wrenched my eyes open. Senses registered the noisy clatter of knives and plates, the babble of five hundred tongues, the sawing cadence of a string consort. I felt as might a fish leaving the cool, peaceful depths of the ocean to breach the surface of a bustling harbor.
Directly in my line of sight was an oval of fine, crosshatched wrinkles caked with powder and rouge, and framed by tight curls of hennaed hair. Yellow eyes peered down at me as if I were a blotch on the floor.
“Dame Morgansa! So sorry. I was . . . meditating.” I sat up straighter and tucked my hands under my crossed arms, shaking off the encounter that already seemed as remote as dream stories.
“You’re bidden to attend. Come now.”
Derwin glared at me from one side of the waiting woman, his beard glistening with duck fat. He licked his lips. “Snooty little trollop, ben’t she? ’Twould be pleasureful, I’m thinking, to bend her. Tell your mistress.”
Other faces turned our way as I left the disgusting lord behind. But their attention quickly reverted to the end of the hall. Afternoon sunlight beamed through the clerestory, transmuted to arrows of jeweled fire that fell upon the guests. A troupe of male singers behind the head table spun a transcendent elegy, so lovely that it surely traveled those jeweled beams straight to the Pantokrator’s Heaven.
As I followed Morgansa through a side door, empty seats glared from the head table. Eugenie’s. Antonia’s. From his corner Duplais stared at me, eyes narrowed in speculation.
“What does your mistress need of me?” I asked Morgansa, as we threaded a swarm of hurrying servants carrying trays of meat, salads, and cheeses.
“ ’Tis Her Majesty bids you. She wishes a lady to attend her. The ladies-in-waiting are required to maintain the feast, and the other maids are encumbered with family duties. That leaves you.” One would have thought Morgansa herself an empress, forced to treat with a barbarian.
Fraught with misgivings, I followed Morgansa down a short passage bristling with guards. Without waiting for an answer to her tap, we entered a small chamber, luxuriously appointed with damask couches, ebony tables and chairs, and even a narrow bed. From the music lapping at an inner door, I assumed this a retiring room behind the dais.
Flushed and breathing rapidly, Queen Eugenie sat stiffly upright on a padded chair so large it would have swallowed my father. Lady Antonia dabbed at the queen’s forehead with a towel. Chevalier Ilario stood a few steps away, fidgeting with his hat.
“Here’s the girl as you requested, Majesty,” said Morgansa, sinking into a curtsy so obsequious, she could scarce untangle herself from it. “May I supply anything else for your comfort? A cushion? A soothing ice? A comfit?” Her weedy whining set my teeth on edge.
“No, thank you,” said Eugenie softly. She caught her foster mother’s arm in mid-dab and pressed it away. “Dearest dama, now Anne is here, you must return to my guests. I’m only a touch dizzy. After so long a rite at the deadhouse, I’m sure I drank my wine too quickly. But I’ll not have Cecile’s feast founder because of my weak head. Only your hand is firm enough to keep the ship righted and on course.”
Antonia could have filled a ship’s sails with her pained sigh. “But, caeri . . .”
“Please, dama. A royal presence is needed to supply proper honor.”
“All right. Certainly. But you must sleep for a while. If anything should happen . . . as with the physician last night . . . this choice will haunt us both.” The lady dithered, arranging Eugenie’s garments, smoothing her hair, pressing the towel into her hand.
“My fair knight will protect me,” said Eugenie, reaching out her hand to Lord Ilario. “All will be well.”
My cheeks blazed.
Antonia curtsied in a sinuous motion, then turned to go, casting such a damning glare my way that my hand flew to my heart as if to make certain it remained in place. She commanded Morgansa to “supervise the chamber service,” and slipped through the door, onto the dais.
The door snicked shut, silencing the singing. Eugenie immediately dispatched Morgansa to fetch a vial of smelling salts from her bedside table. Curiosity superseded apprehension. What was going on?
The answer came as soon as the scowling waiting woman had gone. The queen sagged in her chair. Lord Ilario had his arms around her before she could topple onto the floor. “Damoselle, if you would assist . . .”
Together we assisted Eugenie to the bed. Her skin burned through her clothing. I arranged the pillows under her head and fetched a shawl from one of the chairs to cover her when she began to shiver. “I’ll be all right,” she whispered, all strength departed from her voice. “I just feel so strange. I could not bear anyone to see . . . to start up the rumors yet again.”
“Geni . . .” The chevalier was truly distressed.
“Fetch me some of Roussel’s shellblade tisane, sweet brother. You know how it invigorates me. Honestly, I’ll be well if I can but rest a little. Anne will sit with me, and we’ll talk until you’re back. I’m so happy you suggested her.”
With a helpless glance, the chevalier hurried off.
“Surely you are more than just dizzy with wine, my lady. Someone with medical knowledge should see to you.” Though who that might be, I didn’t know. “Let me raise your feet a bit.” I knelt at her bedside and tucked another cushion under her feet.
“There, you see, this is exactly why I’ve summoned you. Intelligent, perceptive, and kind.” Her hot hand stilled my own. “Your mother’s grace lives in you, Anne, and you need no further training i
n trivialities. I’ve a favor to ask.”
“Whatever you need, my lady.”
“For a little over two months”—her cheeks took on an even deeper scarlet—“since the king’s last visit to Castelle Escalon, I’ve been subject to certain fevers and weaknesses. Though the sensations are . . . different . . . from the past, and my physician doubts, I believe I may be with child again. A blessing unexpected. But, you see, I cannot allow anyone to know. Not until we’re sure. Perhaps not until the saints have blessed us fully with a healthy—” She breathed deep and steadied herself.
“Divine grace succor you, lady.” Eugenie had suffered one child dead in infancy, one stillborn, and two more lost before carried to term.
“I need a female companion, someone quiet and trustworthy, who understands the difficulties of my position. The other maids of honor are sweet and devoted and so very dedicated to doing their best for their families. But they are quite . . . inexperienced.” It seemed almost painful for her to cast such slight aspersion. “As for my dear ladies-in-waiting, truly, with my goodmother as she is, who needs more mothering? If you’ll pardon my callousness, it helps that you are not in comfortable communication with my husband. He, in particular, must not know of this until I tell him myself. Another failure and he’ll—Well, I cannot bear thought of the consequence.”
But I already knew. The king’s counselors, including my father, had long pressured Philippe to set Eugenie aside so that he might ensure an heir of his blood. At least in part it must explain the wedge that divided them. “I understand the need for discretion, lady.”
“Ilario suggested you. Though few take his opinions seriously, my brother is an exceptional judge of character.”
I bowed my head that she might not read my curiosity. If she worried over my goodfather’s loyalty, then why in the name of the Creator did she dally with another man? Political marriages naturally spawned more fractured vows and adulterous intrigues than pairings founded in mutual desire and affection. That was one reason Papa had promised I’d never be subject to such an alliance. Yet both he and my mother had believed Philippe and Eugenie to have discovered such affection despite their entirely unpromising circumstances.
“Would you accept this charge, Anne? I know my favor will subject you to more gossip, and of all people, I’m aware of the harm gossip can do. To bring Sabria a healthy heir, I need a companion I can trust. But the choice is yours. I’ll think no ill if you refuse.”
“Certainly I will, my lady. I am deeply honored.” Astounded, to be exact. Yet the more I was around her, the more I came to think that Eugenie de Sylvae’s difficulty was not so much a weak mind or a careless attitude toward evil, as I had once believed, but a heart that imbued every person’s behavior with the fairest possible motives.
“I’ll need you to—”
A sharp rap on the door halted her thought. “Come.”
I jumped up and retreated.
“Majesty, I could not wallow abed when I heard rumor of your illness.” Sallow complected, hair askew, and clothes rumpled, Physician Roussel dropped to his knees at Eugenie’s bedside.
“Ganet! How is it you’re out of your sickbed?” said Eugenie, sitting bolt upright.
“I’m of robust constitution, Your Grace, and my illness denotes no element of contagion. How could I stay away when I hear you’ve collapsed in front of your court?”
“It was only a moment’s weakness—this same devouring fever. Distressful, but nothing different from the other occasions.”
“I should judge that, lady. Please . . .”
Sighing, she allowed him to take her hand in his broad one. Tracing the lines, he examined her palm, then curled his steady fingers around her wrist. After a moment’s quiet, listening with his eyes closed, he brushed back her dark hair and pressed fingers to her temples, and then to her slender neck and her ankles. A twirl of his hand, and she stuck out her tongue for him to inspect. His steady thumbs lifted her eyelids. The brisk examination done, he withdrew his hands, sat back on his heels, and rubbed his head tiredly, causing his hair to stand even more on end.
“I see no change. We’ll do a more thorough examination tomorrow, Majesty. Drink the shellblade tisane and sleep.”
Eugenie laid a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Ganet. Now, before you scurry back to your lonely chambers to recover fully from this illness, I would like to introduce you to my dear handmaid, Anne de Vernase. Anne, this is my tireless, faithful—and wretchedly shy—physician, Ganet de Roussel.”
He leapt to his feet and bowed. Whether his color or mine more nearly reflected the crimson velvet of the chamber’s furnishing, I could not judge without a mirror glass.
“Physician, I cannot tell you how glad I am—”
“Damoselle! I am so gratified to see that—”
Our words tangled in the air, yet somehow communicated enough of our sentiments that guilt and apology were unneeded. My relief felt unbounded; he blamed me no more than I did him.
“Madame, I have made the lady’s acquaintance briefly. I feared—Last I saw, she was enjoying a couchine. Needless to explain, I am immensely gratified she did not choose the spoiled one that felled me and the poor kitchen girl.”
Perhaps it was only that I was watching exceptionally closely, but when Roussel caught my eye, he gave the slightest shake to his head. Warning me off the topic? If anyone, a scientific man should be able to distinguish the different effects of spoilage and true poisons.
Eugenie demanded a thorough explanation. And no matter the physician’s dismissal of the incident as lamentable happenstance, she picked up at once on the sinister implications. “Rumor ever natters of dread conspiracies in Merona, and it is impossible to sort any crumb of truth from it. But a young woman dead? And the two of you at such risk? Ganet, report this to Lord Baldwin at once. His duty as my husband’s First Counselor is to ensure the safety of this house. And both of you promise me you’ll take more care. Anne, consider well the added risks of serving me so intimately.”
“I am honored and pleased to serve you, Your Grace. No further consideration is necessary.”
I WAS PLEASED, I THOUGHT, late that night as I closed Eugenie’s bed curtains. Not merely for the selfish reason that I might learn more of Dante and Duplais and the murderous Antonia by orbiting the perilous sun that was Eugenie de Sylvae, but because the lady herself, open-hearted, loyal, and kind, deserved to have some ally beyond her foolish brother. Though Lord Ilario was not, perhaps, as inept as he appeared. The chevalier had gotten me into the Spindle within hours. And a single day after expressing his wish that Eugenie might listen to my warnings, I was her new maid of the bedchamber.
I finished tidying the room and tiptoed into the passage.
Lady Antonia had near split her skin when Eugenie informed her that I was to assume her bedchamber service. Antonia herself would take up Lady Cecile’s duties, training the maids of honor. A good thing I was already wary of the woman.
I paused at the door to Doorward Viggio’s chamber. Soft footsteps padded through the quiet apartments behind me. Thinking it might be Eugenie needing something, I retraced my steps.
Indeed she was up again and wearing the deep blue bedgown that flowed around her in elegant simplicity and set off her fair skin and dark hair. But she was not alone. The glow of the watch candle I’d left on her dressing table illuminated a romantic tableau, as a bearded man in voluminous scarlet sleeves kissed her hand. His out-of-fashion blue velvet chamarre fell to his knees, its lappets and hem banded richly with pearls. The elegant gentleman, the same I’d seen before, must have slipped up the servants’ stair.
Embarrassed, I retreated quickly. Her friends were her business.
FOUR CHAMBERMAIDS AND A FOOTMAN Stood in a whispering huddle at the corner of the passage where my bedchamber lay. Furtive glances my way seemed to intensify their murmuring. I almost reversed course rather than pass them by. But I was done with cowering. “Divine grace,” I said, exposing my hand as I passed.
Some choked the proper response. Two girls bobbed their knees. None looked at me.
Gratefully, I pulled the bedchamber door closed behind me and sank to the bed. Heart and mind whirled with the strange and terrible day just past: poisoning and death, the wonders of this tangle curse and the strange intimacy with a person I had never seen, the vile prospects of alliance with Derwin of Gurmeddion, the intrigue of my new position, the pleasant prospect of getting to know Ganet de Roussel, and my deep and abiding fear for my brother.
I pulled off the falcon’s head ring and tucked it away for the night with the potion vial. As the voices I’d held at bay—the mindstorm, my mysterious correspondent had called it—faded into the more familiar, subtle disturbance beyond my senses, I found myself sorely tempted to seek out the one who lived in the aether, where the unseen energies of life are expended. It was not so much that I could lay out the puzzle of poisons and pregnant queens, magical heresy, and ancient rivalries, but to hear a voice without suspicions, without connection to the tangled mysteries of Castelle Escalon, a person who could speak only truth and took such joy in sharing his strange gift.
Common sense scolded. Why would I believe his insistence that he could not lie?
No reason any sensible person would admit. But I did.
A booming staccato on my door propelled me to my feet. Before I could do more, the door burst open to a sour-mouthed, gray-haired fellow wearing a gray academic gown. Beside him stood a tall figure draped in flowing black robes. An enveloping green hood left only a raptor’s nose and pair of seedlike eyes exposed to view. A mage’s silver collar encircled his neck.
The gray-haired man waved a rolled parchment and shoved a heavy garment of dark wool into my arms. “Anne de Vernase ney Cazar, the Camarilla Magica summons thee to Witness in a matter of Treason and Sorcery.”
CHAPTER 18