The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  Such a small volume could be tucked anywhere. Fate could not be so cruel as to dictate he’d taken it with him wherever he’d gone so late.

  I riffled through stacks of papers in his cupboards, shifted polished wood cases, unstacked the piled herb boxes, hating the thought of abandoning the search. But my gut was tightening. He could return at any time. Foolish to imagine I would walk straight to the book, as if the stain of Lianelle’s death might leave it incandescent.

  Frustrated, I returned to the center of the room and circled slowly, hunting for some corner I had missed. The odd blue light that limned the world while I was under the influence of the potion sketched out a faint rectangular shape in the end wall opposite the windows. Another doorway. How had I failed to notice it on my earlier visits?

  Amid a fusillade of nerves, I halted just inside, astonished. What would I expect to find in a mage’s bedchamber? Corpses? Spiders? Vats of blood or boiling oil? Certainly not a bare closet, an ascetic’s cell. Narrow bed. Battered clothes chest. A writing table holding ink bottles, stacked papers, a pen case. An old leather satchel resting on the floor beside it. The only oddity a bare knife blade protruding horizontally from the desktop—a wickedly dangerous position.

  I was stooping to examine litter on the floor below the blade when a booming crash from the other room stood me up straight, nearly causing me to impale myself.

  Get out. Get out. Every sensible bone in my body screamed at me in warning. I crept to the doorway, hugged the wall, and peered into the great chamber.

  The cloaked and hooded mage propped his staff just inside the doorway. Its support relinquished, he paused to readjust a large bundle laid across his shoulders. Hooking the wide-open door with his foot, he nudged it closed behind him. For a moment, he sagged backward, resting the shapeless burden against the oak panels. His breath grated hard enough that I could hear it from these six or eight metres distant.

  The bundle’s burdensome weight was confirmed when he rolled it off his back and dropped it inside the amber ring. The muffled clank of metal shivered the wood floor. Not a corpse, then.

  He dropped to his knees, yanked open the mouth of the large canvas bag, and extracted a length of heavy chain, tangled and gleaming dully in the darting moonlight. And then another length. And another. Five or six in all.

  Bag emptied, the mage climbed wearily to his feet, picked a few items from his shelves, and set them around the heaped chains within the circle. I could identify only a few: a knife, a copper bowl, a small skull . . .

  Needles pricked my spine.

  From his cloak he pulled a flask that he emptied into the bowl, a flat tin containing chips of stone that he mounded across the circle from the bowl of water, and a flat rectangular object—a bound book of some kind, both too large and too thin to be the Book of Greater Rites. He laid the book atop the chains. When all was arranged, he abandoned the circle and headed straight for me.

  Blood-pulse galloping, I drew back from the opening and pressed my back to the wall. He passed so close I could smell the outdoors on him—sweat-damped wool, horse, the smoke of autumn fires.

  After only a few steps, he halted and swung around to peer into the dark behind him. My heart near stopped. I dared not even blink.

  “Gods and daemons,” he muttered, ripping off his cloak and throwing it atop the clothes chest. “Lunatic.” A leather jerkin scudded across the floor, and the man sat heavily on the bed, not five steps from me.

  Even as I dreaded it, my nose began to itch. No matter my bare feet or the thin wool gown I’d worn apurpose to be quiet, if I so much as twitched, he would hear it. And I was well within his reach.

  His forearms rested on his knees. His head sagged. Whatever his thoughts as he contemplated his boots, they did nothing for his temper. He rose abruptly and left the little bedchamber, kicking a toppled basket out of his way so hard its contents—thin branches, it appeared—scattered all the way to the embedded circle.

  It required my every discipline to remain still. And indeed Dante returned almost immediately with a lit taper that he jammed into a holder on the writing desk. Its light scarce spread beyond the few papers on the desk, but it showed me something unexpected. His hands, still clad in his ever-present black leather gloves, were trembling.

  Did his tremors rise from fatigue, anger, or something worse? If Dante was afraid of what he was about to do, I wanted to be well away. Let him choose sleep now. Saints, please.

  He bent over the clothes chest and fumbled with his cloak. When he turned around, his hand clutched a small book. Unmistakably the one I sought.

  Patience. Patience. I could almost reach out and touch it.

  He tossed the little codex on the writing table and peeled off his gloves. The sight shocked me cold. I had never seen Dante without gloves and now I knew why. His left hand was wide, with long, strong fingers. But the right was a purple-scarred ruin, constricted into a rigid claw.

  Memories bombarded me. Of those few hours ago when he supported Eugenie without using his curled fingers. Of him grabbing me so oddly in the Bastionne Camarilla, his back to my face so that his powerful upper arm clamped my right arm still, while his capable left hand pierced my finger. Of the way he so often crossed his arms across his chest, his staff tucked into the crook of his right arm. He never ate with the household and I’d always assumed it was merely his distaste for noble company.

  Was it shame that caused him to hide its ugliness? Or a fear of appearing weak? Some would denounce such deformity as a mark of the Fallen—the Souleater and his kin who refused to bow to the Pantokrator at the Creation. A month ago I would have scoffed at such tales.

  His unscarred hand thumbed the pages of the little book, then slammed it shut and dropped it into the satchel on the floor. He strode into the great chamber and retrieved his staff. This time he did not return to the bedroom, but to the sorcerer’s ring. A wave of the staff and a mumble of words and the broad ring began to pulse with light, birthing low flames that snapped and hissed.

  Blessing the kindly fates, I reached into the satchel to retrieve their gift. A razor knife scoured my hand. I yanked it back, biting my lips to keep from screaming. No blood. No wounding. But the mindstorm surged against the barriers in my head and wriggling worms curled in my abdomen.

  All right, then. I plunged my hand in again. Fire surged up the bone from hand to elbow. I could not bear it long enough to grab the book. But I gritted my teeth and went straight back to it. This third time, when I pulled the little book from the satchel, I almost dropped it for the agony in my fingers. The smallest one and the one next it felt broken, and the healing wounds from the black cords stung as if packed with brine.

  Dante remained outside the fiery ring, his forehead resting on the white wood of his staff. The air felt tremulous, unstable, a withering quiet. . . .

  Jaw clenched, book clutched to my breast, I edged through the doorway. I had witnessed the intensity of the mage’s concentration as he worked. That should obscure any telltale of my presence. I picked my way through the scattered branches. Past the worktables and cupboards. As I crept behind the mage and angled toward the door, the flames gave me a good look at the object Dante had placed atop the chains. A well-worn brown folio, cloth bound. No one who knew Duplais would fail to recognize his journal, which made the story of this enchantment—Holy gods!

  The firelight shivered. Ruthless, I reined in fear and anger. The book was all. Take an extra step or two past the opening and I could crack the door only slightly, slip through, and be away with my prize.

  But as I reached for the latch, a boiling fury erupted all around me.

  Dante hurled his staff across the room. The stick struck one of his worktables, setting off a noisy cascade of toppling boxes and shattering glass. Roaring, he crumpled the emptied bag and lobbed it at the hearth. White flames exploded around and through it, illuminating the dirty canvas and consuming it almost as one.

  His rage made his display at the Arothi reception
seem but a mime. Though the violence was not directed at me, its pressure drove me backward until my back slammed against the bookshelves and my head jostled the little painting on the wall. The lighthouse. So small. So lovely. The artifact that did not fit in this daemon’s den.

  The mage scooped up the scattered branches and launched them at the hearth, followed by stones from a broken urn that clattered like hailstones against the marble mantelpiece. Stray missiles flew into the flames, causing them to blaze high in bloody scarlet.

  The moon’s light dimmed as my head filled with black fire. Molten iron flowed in my veins, scorched my heart, seared the raw edges of mind and feeling with words and images of grief and loss: Blighted days . . . harsh duty . . . blistering fate . . . plans wholly awry . . . too far . . . too deep . . . Something incomparably rare . . . the fragile roots ripped out . . . every blessed thing in this life twisted to murder and blood, darkness and death . . . Oh, gods, too cruel a death . . . for the past, for a fancy, for a whim . . . This selfish hunger for something of order, of beauty, of light and worth to fill these caverns and pits of midnight . . . tainting the gift . . . squandering the glory . . . for what?

  The burden of anguish, of terror, anger, despair, and regret swelled huge in my skull, and I did not understand why, because fear had wiped my thoughts clear of anything but escape. Only I dared not move lest the madman discover my presence and turn on me.

  He flung up his arms, and I tried to melt into the wall because surely his rage would bring the plastered ceiling down on our heads, and the roaring came louder as he wrapped his arms over his head and bent near double.

  Pain tore through my gut. Paralyzed my chest. . . . Must not feel this . . . Necessity will leave me a husk . . . feeling it will leave me dead . . . Nonsensical thoughts.

  Why didn’t the entirety of Merona wake to his bellowing?

  The flames on the circle hissed softly and went out. The mountain of ash in the hearth slumped with a soft plop. My ears registered the sounds clearly. The chamber was quiet, the mage huddled—soundless—around his gut. Yet the grief and anger raged on, and blocking my ears did no good . . .

  . . . because all of it was inside me. None of these thoughts or feelings was mine. They echoed from the lonely chaos of the mindstorm. That voice . . .

  As a flight of arrows strikes close targets one upon the next upon the next, so images and phrases raised from memory slammed my reason in rapid succession:

  A mutilated hand . . . the perils of untended wounds . . . don’t cripple yourself . . . a lesson recalled when sharpening pens . . . and a knife blade protruding from a desk with shavings on the floor beneath.

  Night-blooming plants and uncanonical magic . . . All Dante cares about is magic . . . his extraordinary gift.

  My work does not go well of late. Answers elude me. And in a different voice, a different venue: the nireal working eludes me.

  He has no understanding of people. . . . I’ve no experience of exemplary marriage. . . . Nor any understanding of family, of jests, or of whimsy.

  The blast of malevolent fury that had driven me to huddle in a corner that first night in the throes of magic and scream into the mindstorm . . . the same night a quiet, passionate voice had spoken to me, Gods, there has been no one ever. . . . Trust me.

  Light . . . seeing . . . that’s the finest pleasure . . . these uncovered windows . . . I detest the dark . . . and a hunger for something of order, of beauty, of light and worth to fill these caverns and pits of midnight. And the single item in these daemons’ chambers that spoke of something beyond magic—the delicate watercolor of a lighthouse . . .

  Dante. I screamed the name into the aether. His head snapped up.

  Magic was all about seeing. And at last I saw my friend of the mind.

  CHAPTER 34

  26 OCET, BEFORE DAWN

  I wrenched open the door and fled Dante’s chamber, revulsion and denial boiling out of me unchecked, unguarded. To think of him inside me . . . the monster who had broken my mother, who had raped my brother’s mind . . . the madman who challenged the boundaries of Heaven, toying with dead souls and feeding on grief. I felt filthy. Violated. I had told him things I’d shared with no one else in the world.

  I pelted through the corridors of the east wing, careening through the ragged arch onto my hidden balcony just in time to vomit over the rail. Then I backed into the corner and gripped my rattled head with shaking hands. Be calm, girl, I said. Think. Get the mindstorm under control.

  Shock and terror had smashed my barriers to dust. Nothing could have been hidden from him in that moment.

  Not since that first night of chaos had I struggled so to build the barriers that kept me from madness. One by one I tried shoving the clamoring voices, the fretting ones, the laughing, the fearful, aside. But it was like herding snakes or building a wall of leaves in a gale. Creator’s fire, of all things in the world, I had a strong mind. Knowing him now, knowing the danger, I could not allow him to destroy it.

  I tried again. This time I didn’t search for that quiet island I had clung to these past days. As on the first night of this madness, I carved out my own.

  Think, Anne. I couldn’t hide on the balcony. I needed to separate myself from the Book of Greater Rites and tell someone where to find it. Ilario’s man had left the piled rubble in appropriate disarray when he’d removed the ugly dream charm. Had that been Dante’s idea, too—to evoke dreams of a woman’s burning parents? Despicable.

  My shaking hands slid the book under the stones and shoved the chunks of plaster, splintered wood, and rotted molding around to disguise it. Now . . . a message to Ilario. He must find someone trustworthy to translate the book or destroy the wretched thing. If I could spark fire as Dante could, I’d burn it here and now. Yet Lianelle had given her life to preserve what it could tell us.

  I abandoned the balcony as quickly as I’d come. Ilario would be with the queen for hours yet. The good physician would certainly pass a message for me, but Ilario had been sent to fetch him, and Roussel, ever diligent in his care, would stay with Eugenie through the morning. That left Heurot, which meant I needed Ella.

  Brushing off my gown, I took out for my bedchamber, nodding to a sleepy chambermaid carrying tea, and a slouching footman posted at the clock. The girl dipped her head. The footman stiffened his back. So the potion had worn off. Good.

  Duplais’ stool at the corner of the passage remained ominously vacant. “Angels guard you,” I murmured, trailing my hand along the planed curve of the seat. “And if you are what your chevalier friend believes, this would be a fine time to show us.”

  I rang for Ella, but it would take her a little time. As I waited, I splashed my face and dusty hands with the cooled water from the pitcher. Then I transferred a few items from my hidden drawer into a large kerchief: the copper shield bracelet, Lianelle’s nireals, Lady Cecile’s book, and the scrap of paper from her drawer that I did not yet understand. They needed to go to Ilario with my message.

  I set out paper and ink and began sharpening a pen. Steadying my shaking hands, I shaved the curve into the tine. Inevitably I recalled the blade embedded in Dante’s writing table. He had devised a serviceable method for a man with only one usable hand to do this simple task, but a dangerous one, requiring one to be ever vigilant. He could not do just anything with his magic.

  We must speak. I’ll not harm you. His words struck like javelins sent straight to the mark. Staggering in their strength, but devoid of emotion.

  Words before actions. That surprised me. Perhaps he’d not yet discovered his book missing. Perhaps he thought I was stupid.

  To prolong this contact was the last thing I wanted, yet I needed time. Why would I believe anything you say? You told me you were a teacher. I felt no warning of untruth.

  You told me you were plain, dull, poor, and had no family connection likely to lure a desirable suitor. I felt no warning of untruth. Obviously, from your frame of reference, you did not lie, yet many would dispute you
r statements.

  It’s not the same— No, I would not be drawn into argument. Already my hands betrayed me, warming at the mere sensation of his speaking. As if he’d touched them.

  I was revolted. What could he possibly have to say to me?

  Safety was no longer an issue. If he wished me dead, he’d not hesitate to strike. Once I had passed on my bundle of evidence and the book, I would have done what I could to satisfy Lianelle’s purpose. Perhaps I could buy time for Ilario to get it away from Merona. And, indeed, curiosity would not be denied.

  Face-to-face only, I said. I needed to see him, hear his true voice. In one hour. In a public room. Whatever his plan, I should have a witness, be it a sweeping girl or a kitchen boy.

  There followed a moment’s withdrawal, one of those intervals we used to reshape our words to keep them true. To hide what we would not tell. To protect secrets. Father Creator, such secrets he had been hiding!

  Yet why bother with reshaping if he could manipulate my perceptions? The things I had learned of my friend could not be truth. Not when that person was Dante.

  Face-to-face, then, he said. In one hour. But I cannot allow my allies to see us together, any more than you can allow your queen or her courtiers to see you treating with me. Choose a place we’ll be private, and swear you’ll not reveal our meeting to anyone. I say again, I will not harm you.

  Could he detect my own lies? He might just have made a lucky guess that night we quizzed each other. But he hadn’t hesitated even for a moment. I’d best keep to the truth.

  One more mistake would not make this greatest of follies worse, yet I would not yield all of his conditions. The summerhouse in the heart of the maze, I said. And I promise to tell no one of our meeting before it occurs. You’ll have to convince me not to do so afterward. As to harm, I don’t believe you.