The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  “I’ve known my lady only these few short days, lord, but she impresses me as far stronger than anyone imagines.” It was not some casual soothing I offered, but a conclusion that had solidified over these terrible hours.

  “She must stop this,” he said, twisting one of the cushions into a knot. “No matter what the council says, no matter what she believes, Philippe will not displace her.”

  I busied myself plumping cushions that did not need it, straightening paintings, charms, and draperies that were perfectly arranged. “Have you witnessed what she does with Dante?” I said softly. “With the children?”

  He stretched out on his back and flung his arm over his face as if to sleep. “She’s told me she sees them,” he murmured. “The babes. I won’t participate.”

  “I spied on them last night after the mage worked the sorcery,” I said as I rearranged the cups and pitcher on the table nearest the divan, “and it was both terrible and wonderful to behold. Your sister smiled and played with four children. Whether or not they were what Dante claims, whether or not it was a perversion of the Creator’s will, her actions were as brave and painful as any I’ve witnessed. Who could put themselves through such grief for whimsy or stubbornness or fear? When she expresses her desire to ensure her children are not afraid in their journey through Ixtador, that is exactly what she intends. She does it for them. And so, I think that when she puts herself through this ordeal of conceiving”—I stared at the crowded bedside—“it is not for her position or duty to Sabria, but for simple love.”

  Though whether it was love for her present husband or her lost one, I was not sure.

  “Thank you.” It was the swordsman who had saved my life so many hours before who spoke gratitude. When Ilario jumped up and returned to the bedchamber, wringing his lace-wreathed hands as effusively as the ladies, that man vanished.

  I sent for warmed ginger clarrey. Few refreshments were so restorative as the peppery honeyed wine. When it arrived, I ventured Roussel’s smoking herbs long enough to share it out . . . and catch a glimpse of Eugenie.

  The queen might have been laid out for her funeral; she was profoundly still, dark hair fanned out across the white pillows, the green spirals painted on her temples and neck reminiscent of deadhouse sigils meant to keep daemons away. Yet her eyes fluttered behind closed lids, and her cheeks and lips displayed a rosy flush. From time to time she stirred, licking her lips or pressing her hand to her belly or her breasts. The physician hovered at her bedside with his tincture vials.

  I raised pitcher and cup. “Clarrey, sonjeur?”

  Roussel’s gaze met mine, and his grave expression softened. “That would be a m-mercy, damoselle. Let me clean up a b-bit.”

  Before stepping away, he suggested the ladies take the opportunity to release his patient from her restrictive garments and cleanse her in the ways a male physician could not. I followed him to the washing bowl, well away from the bedside and the hovering women. As he scrubbed his hands, I ventured a quiet question. “How fares my dear lady? She looks perfectly healthy, not even pale. And yet this blood . . .”

  “It’s almost stopped,” he said. “And her heart has slowed. Good news all.” After toweling his hands dry, he accepted the wine cup and took a long, grateful pull. “B-but she has developed a fever, causing this flush, and she does not wake. It may be a natural weakness from the ordeal. . . .”

  “Or?”

  He glanced sidewise at the renewed bustle of ladies and serving women at the bedside. “It may be a d-determined will to avoid hearing what I m-must tell her.”

  Aching sympathy filled my already stinging eyes. “Sweet spirits.”

  Roussel downed the rest of his clarrey and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “T-truthfully, damoselle, I’ve seen no evidence that she was with child. Certainly she is not carrying one now.”

  A rapid assault of five sneezes seemed particularly abrasive in the face of such sorrow. As I pulled out a kerchief and blotted my eyes, he cocked his head in concern. “Have you a d-dose of red eyebright for that problem ? I could formulate—”

  “My former housekeeper makes me a helpful tonic,” I said. “But later, when you’re available, I would like to consult you on another matter.” Every jar of my wounded arm now caused shooting agony, illustrating my friend’s warning.

  “Certainly,” said Roussel, with just enough eager sympathy to warm my heart. “Anything you need. Now I’d best get back, else he’ll step up. The man can crumble b-bones with a look.”

  Dante had occupied the window seat nearest his sorcerer’s ring. He observed the quiet bustle, seemingly without interest. Yet a thread of white vapor drifted from his staff. I kept my voice low.

  “What can he do, really?” I proffered my pitcher again. “He does not watch idly.”

  “I’ve never worked with magicians before. D-don’t believe in it any more than you do. Yet I’ve seen him soothe the queen’s headaches and nightmares by sitting at her bedside, never touching her. Somehow, using that cursed staff, he can birth flames or set the night whirling.” Roussel stroked his thick brush of a mustache and stared boldly back at the mage, scowling. “Such manipulations seem wondrous. Yet I don’t trust him.”

  “Nor do I!”

  Roussel’s own gaze roamed the bedchamber. Uneasy. “This day feels wholly askew, as if the p-planets have slipped out of alignment. I know that sounds foolish.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “These past few hours I’ve sensed the same. As if de Vouger’s principles, the forces that bind the universe, have been violated.” As if I walked that sloping floor in the ruined Bastionne Camarilla.

  Roussel whipped his head back to me, quickly smothering a trace of a smile. But naught could dim the spark in his gray eyes. “Exactly that.”

  The dowager queen’s red-haired harridan, Morgansa, arrived just then, dragging a wide-eyed boy who clutched an Aubini bell-pipe. Antonia bustled the lanky youth into a corner, tied a kerchief about his eyes, and gave him a quick muttering of instruction.

  Morgansa raised the lid of the incense burner above the queen’s bed. Smoke billowed across the room. My ensuing barrage of coughs and sneezes drew Antonia’s glare.

  With a sympathetic waggle of his eyebrows, Roussel passed me his cup and returned to the bedside. I retreated.

  As the deep flutelike tones of the bell-pipe rose in sleepy melody, Antonia and Morgansa arranged goblets of grapes and bundled willow withes about and under Eugenie’s sickbed. Aubini women placed such talismans in their bedchambers to ensure fertility.

  Though Antonia desired Eugenie to bear a male child, she did not welcome the proposal of the king and queen reconciled. The queen’s collapse—a reminder of miscarriage, even if it was not that at all—would ensure Eugenie remained home when her husband rode out in nine days’ time. And the ghostly Soren wandered these halls.

  Suspicion flowered like a night-blooming lily. Had Antonia caused this incident to keep Eugenie here? Surely only the pressure of time could prompt her to such an appalling risk.

  Time . . . fertility . . . I touched my hand where I’d felt the brush of Soren’s beard, the soft breath of a kiss, so near life. Surely it was madness to wonder whose child was at risk on that great bed.

  Roussel’s rumbling voice spoke a few undecipherable phrases, raising a hushed babble from the others in the bedchamber. Curiosity consumed me until Ilario was banished yet again.

  The chevalier dropped into a chair, elbows propped on his knees, head resting in his hands. “The bleeding is stopped. The good physician believes she will live if he can suppress this fever.”

  Impatience allowed me no time for kindness. “Tell me, lord, how did this sickness befall Her Majesty? She seemed well when you set out.”

  “As she climbed into the carriage, she stumbled,” he said. “Said she was dizzy. Wouldn’t hear of returning, though. Not half an hour into our tour of the lace warehouse, she asked to sit down. . . .”

  “The queen stumbled aft
er mentioning she planned to ride out with the king? After the argument with Lady Antonia?”

  His head lifted. “Yes.”

  “Think carefully, lord. Did she have anything to eat or drink on the way to the coach?”

  “I’d swear not. We sat in the salon courtyard awhile, as Antonia desired tea before setting off. The others had pastry. I tried to get Geni to eat, but she said her stomach was unsettled, the same as every day of late.”

  Recollection of the conversation as the party prepared to depart stilled my pulse. “Was she perhaps offered a pastille to suck on for her nausea?”

  He leapt to his feet. “Sante Ianne!”

  Never had I seen such a battle as ensued. The chevalier’s complexion darkened to the color of clay tiles. His chest heaved and fine mouth twisted in fury. But in the space of two eyeblinks, his long fingers uncurled, and a sighing exhale cooled his fair complexion. He snatched a willow wreath from beside the doorway and spun like a whirligig. Did I not know his secret, I’d have been assured he was the world’s greatest dolt.

  “A hex! That’s it! The holy saints can only provide when we give them opportunity to do so, and the same for the Souleater’s servants.”

  His exuberant vocalization drew horrified looks from the bedchamber.

  “Beloved dama! The saints have answered!” He darted through the doorway, lifted a shocked Antonia into the air, and spun her around. An awkward landing crushed the sputtering woman in his arms. Undaunted, he tugged and patted her gown and petticoats into some semblance of order, then dragged her back to the retiring room with him.

  “Blighted idiot!” Antonia was livid. No playacting was required for me to display mystification.

  “I am inspired!” Ilario bellowed, towering over the woman once he had her seated. “In part, certainly, because the gentle Damoselle Anne was here, and I could not but think of her despicable—please, please forgive me, dear young lady—her despicable sire, who has shown such vile intents toward my beloved sister. As I begged the Hero Saint Reborn to come to Geni’s aid, it struck me that we have not done our part to defend her from this desperado in the king’s absence. For surely the villain de Vernase has hexed Castelle Escalon! Which means our answer is simple. Once the king arrives, he must take Geni away.”

  “A hex, lackwit?”

  “Clearly,” said Ilario. “Once they are gone, the palace can be purged of this infection. Surely a battalion of mages will be required to aid Master Dante in the work.”

  Dante’s scorn produced a derisive snort from all the way across the bedchamber. Staff in hand, he left the room.

  No matter Antonia’s insults, Lord Baldwin and his secretary soon stood in the doorway alongside Lady Eleanor and a breathless, intensely interested Portier de Savin-Duplais. The ensuing discussion reviewed the dangers that impinged on Eugenie’s safety, from Roussel’s poisoning to the haunting of the Rotunda to the destruction of the Bastionne Camarilla, scarce two kilometres distant.

  Lord Baldwin, appalled by the tales, was inclined to agree with Ilario. He commanded Duplais to install the most secure precautions to ensure my father’s influence with daemonic hordes could not harm his sovereign’s queen. Two loyal attendants must sit with Her Majesty every moment of her recovery, he said, as well as a willing servant to taste every portion of her foods and medicines.

  “His Majesty will question your presence in this chamber, Damoselle de Vernase.” The well-spoken Baldwin raked me with his incisive gaze.

  “She must stay.” To my amazement, it was Antonia who jumped to my defense. “Eugenie gave specific instruction that Damoselle de Vernase attend her in this bedchamber. Many have heard this. Duplais? Ilario?”

  Both men acknowledged her accuracy. I was speechless. But then, she had already demonstrated her intentions of keeping me under her control, dead or otherwise.

  “Until she wakes to contradict them, my daughter will expect her wishes to be heeded. She has come to love and trust Anne, despite her initial uncertainties. And Anne’s husband has granted his permission for her to continue in her duties.”

  “Husband?” Baldwin and Ilario chimed together. Their gawking made me wish to crawl under a table.

  “Lacking certain minor formalities, yes. Damoselle Anne is betrothed to my son-in-law’s Commander of the Northern Passes.”

  “My goodfather’s consent is hardly a minor formality,” I said, but I didn’t think anyone heard.

  Baldwin recognized when argument was impossible. “Your will, of course, Your Grace,” he said, inclining his back, “as long as there are two in attendance at all times.”

  “If I may, my lords and ladies,” said Duplais, hands behind his back as if wholly unfazed at the discussion of poisonings and hauntings and incipient husbands. “Upon hearing of this dire event, I took the liberty of dispatching a palace messenger bird to His Majesty’s current sojourn at Castelle Dureme. I’ve been awaiting the king’s response.” He offered Philippe’s First Counselor a curling slip of paper.

  Antonia snatched it from Lord Baldwin’s hand. Her stretched forehead burnt so deep a scarlet, I thought the skin must char and split. She crumpled the slip, threw it on the floor, and returned to the bedchamber.

  Ilario retrieved it, read it, and passed it on to me.

  On my way. P. SV

  Castelle Dureme. For a determined rider, three days.

  CHAPTER 31

  24 OCET, LATE EVENING

  Throughout that night and the next day, Eugenie’s condition changed little. Though she remained fevered and insensible, she seemed ever on the verge of waking. We kept her comfortable, stroking her throat until she swallowed so we could feed her bread soaked in milk and Roussel’s medicines. At times she grew restless, trying to throw off the sheets and her bedgown, arching her back, and rubbing her breasts and nether regions. We bathed her face and limbs with cool water.

  An elderly serving woman—Prince Desmond’s old milk nurse, Mailine—came willingly out of her retirement to taste everything brought in for the queen. Mailine, a stick figure of a woman, dry as dust, spent her waking hours tatting lace with quick, capable hands. She sat in the doorward’s chamber and slept in the alcove.

  Duplais had made out a schedule for Antonia, Ilario, Eleanor, Patrice, himself, and me—two of us to be with the queen at all times. He had assigned either Ilario, himself, or me as one of each pairing, as we three were by far the youngest. Unfortunately it meant I was never alone with one of my allies. Likely that was his intent, which annoyed me to no end.

  On the first morning of our new arrangements, Duplais and I reviewed a small change in the schedule. “Are you well?” he murmured without lifting his eyes from the page. “A swordsman friend believed you might have suffered an injury yesterday.”

  “Well enough.” Which was wholly untrue. My arm felt like a smith was trying to heat and hammer it into a sword. But I wasn’t going to waste this time. “I’ve so much to tell you.”

  “Later. I promise.” Lady Patrice was bearing down on us. Duplais snatched up his paper. “I’ll have a new copy made for you and each of those named.”

  Though Physician Roussel was not named on Duplais’ schedule, he had not left Eugenie’s side throughout the long night and day. He displayed a gentle hand but grew increasingly exasperated with his own inability to cool the queen’s fever. None could have missed his sidewise glances at Dante, who drifted in and out at random times, offering naught that anyone could see.

  “She’ll wake when she’s ready,” said the mage on one of his visits, a pale white glow from his staff illuminating the sleeping lady. “Perhaps she’s fed up with all this aristo nattering and enjoys her fevered dreaming. I’d estimate she’ll sleep until . . . the Souleater’s Return.” Somehow in his mouth the common phrasing of world’s end took on a dread reality.

  By nightfall Lady Patrice insisted Roussel retire for a few hours, lest he exact more harm than good on his charge. Though I myself had caught only a few hours of sleep in a chair, I added
my voice to hers. “Physician Roussel could stretch out on a couch in the salon, could he not, my lady? There he would be instantly accessible.”

  With only a slight disapproving sniff, the marquesa agreed. After extracting our sworn oaths that we would summon him if we detected the slightest change for better or worse, the physician latched his satchel, looped its strap over his shoulder, and withdrew.

  HOURS LATER, DEEP IN THE night watch, Patrice and I relinquished our oaths, our linen cloths, and our bedside stools to Ilario and Lady Antonia. Pinched lips painted a startling red, garments stiff and regal, Antonia would have better suited a throne room than a sickroom. She kissed me on each cheek. “So devoted you are, caeri. My daughter will be so grateful when she wakes.”

  I’d scarce left the bedchamber when Ilario came pelting after me. “Damoselle, your kerchief !”

  He passed me a square of lacework that would cost Bernard’s wages for a year. “It’s not—”

  I was halfway through my denial when I realized that a tightly folded scrap of paper had been deposited into my hand along with the linen.

  “This is Her Majesty’s,” I said, returning the kerchief while slipping the pellet-sized wad into my pocket. He bowed and returned to the bedchamber.

  I lagged behind Lady Patrice, long enough to step into a lamp-lit closet and unfold the scrap of paper. A dry, dusty pellet fell into my hand. The strong, unelaborated script on the paper was the same as on the bedchamber schedule. Duplais’.

  A mild dosage of common hypericum can cause dizziness and confusion. Not bleeding or fever.

  Recalling Ilario’s exuberant dance with Antonia and its untidy ending, I supposed the chevalier had palmed one of the medicaments. So much for my assumptions. Perhaps the hemorrhage was nature’s work after all. Or perhaps only one pastille had been laced with some devilish compound.

  Confused and uncertain I hurried tiredly down the passage in Patrice’s wake, supporting my painful left arm in my right. I hoped I was so spry as the brisk marquesa when I was in my eighth decade, if not so mean-spirited.