The Soul Mirror

by Carol Berg

  “If we’re to interpret these as parallel ideas, then not simply mortality,” said Ilario, touching the two symbols that corresponded to the skull, “but death. Because the bird is a phoenix, as we use in cult texts to represent the undeath of the Reborn, and the tree is the Temple representation of the Creator’s gift. Life.”

  “The others, though . . .” I stared at the links, the concentric circles, and the reflecting mirror, willing them to reveal their meaning. “The things my sister brought to spellwork told a story. And I think Dante’s magic works that way, as well. So what story do these tell? Opening, as in opening the rent in the Veil, must be created by water and undeath, and these links . . .”

  Symbols appeared in the center of each triangle. Inside the first appeared the same symbol of two concentric rings that appeared beside the second diagram. A dotted line connected the two symbols, as if the first fed the second. I considered the phoenix and the Cult of the Reborn, and recalled the earth and water set in the sorcerer’s ring and scattered across the Rotunda during Dante’s deadraising. In the night just past, Dante had arranged water and stone in his circle of magic, along with Duplais’ journal. And chains—links. They’re going to make me kill the self-righteous little prick.

  “This first diagram must be about Duplais. If they believe he is a Saint Reborn, it’s about killing him, chaining him to the mountain, as in his dream. The water? I don’t know. But Duplais’ death—or the undeath of a Saint Reborn—must rend the Veil, allowing the passage shown in the second diagram. Perhaps the symbol in the center of each triangle is the result, because each diagram is linked to the next.” In the center of the second diagram, two curved arrows were drawn head to tail. Passage in both directions. And centering the third, what I first thought to be an inkblot might actually represent a hole . . . a void . . . an emptiness. . . .

  “I’m thinking the concentric circles could be the lens,” said Ilario, crouching beside me. “Think of a spyglass collapsed. Portier told me that at the Exposition, Dante made the Rotunda into a lens, a larger version of Gaetana’s spyglass, through which one could see past the Veil. He said that those dreadful lights one sees floating inside the dome leak through the lens, like sun glints through an imperfect window.”

  Eager, I took up his chain of reasoning. “Assuming they’ve opened the way, then in this second diagram the principal practitioner would use the lens to facilitate a passage between the realms, an exchange symbolized by the opposing arrows. We know they plan to use necromancy, and so we raise the revenant . . .”

  “But someone would have to die to make it happen.” He tapped the skull. “And then what?”

  The second dotted line led from the symbol for air into the third diagram, where it looped about the vessel, the alchemical symbol of earth.

  All the bits and pieces I’d seen and heard fell into place. In the third diagram appeared the mirror—the nireal, the soul mirror that I believed brought vivid life to a revenant. I tapped the three spirals. “Air, the revenant spirit, given passage from beyond the Veil and provided a body made of earth”—I touched the empty vessel—“and instilled with a soul.” I touched the mirror. “And here is the tree of life.” They would be using fundamental things, Dante had said. Powerful evocations of life and death. “Soren, the ghost king, the revenant, would be brought here, where the second vessel waits beside the tree of life.”

  “Eugenie.” We spoke together.

  I was more and more appalled as I recalled Eugenie’s dreams, her flushed cheeks, her need. “They’ve been preparing her for what’s going to happen there at Voilline. Eugenie and Soren are to make a child . . .”

  . . . and the result was the blot, the emptiness, a gaping hole in the cosmos. Inversion. Chaos.

  Ilario upended the little table, sending the book to the floor and the page flying. “Burn the daemon book, and I’ll kill the cursed mage. Let’s be done with this madness.”

  My own impulses clamored the same. How was I to reconcile Duplais’ beliefs and Dante’s with the drives of Ilario’s good heart and the promptings of my own god? The Lord Reason insisted we stop this today and worry about the future later. To do otherwise required proceeding on faith, which I had so long disdained.

  And yet, Reason had—and still—proclaimed my father’s guilt. Intellect and logic gave me no other answer to the handwriting of the treacherous letters . . . the phrasing that so clearly echoed his own . . . the spare sentences, direct and clear and unambiguous. Lacking faith, I had betrayed him. But I had learned a different truth in the aether. My father’s voice proclaimed his innocence and I believed.

  “Yes, burn the page. But we can destroy neither book nor mage,” I said, “not yet. For one, the conspirators have Portier. My father and brother, too, I believe. They’re all dead—or worse—if we move now. And I’ve concluded that the Aspirant himself is a sorcerer. Even if we remove Dante, it’s possible he can proceed on his own. Secrecy . . . deception . . . is our only advantage, the only way we can be sure we destroy their threat.”

  “Then what, in the name of all saints, do we tell Philippe?” he snapped, kicking at the overturned table. “He’s not going to stand by and allow them to do this to Eugenie on Portier’s word or mine, and certainly not on yours.”

  “We’ll think of something. But first I have to return the book before Dante discovers it on me. It’s already far later than I’d planned. Please, I need to go now.” I hated lying to him, but if I told him our hope lay in a half-mad sorcerer who spoke in my head, he’d likely chain me up, too.

  We poked the banked fire to life, watched it consume the blood-marked page in flames of purple and green, and without further conversation, hurried through the wall panel and into the web of passages. Only when Ilario deposited me in a closet nearest my own room did he speak. “I’ll fetch you as soon as I’ve arranged an audience with Philippe,” he said. “You’ll take care as you return the book, damoselle? The mage will surely be watching.”

  “He’ll not see me. I promise.”

  As I turned to reinforce my lies eye to eye, the lamp illumined Ilario’s handsome face, perfectly composed and slightly foolish. Neither worry line nor whitened knuckle betrayed the man inside the fool.

  Deception lingered in my mouth like sour milk. I felt dirty and weak. Corrupt.

  I had just pulled open my bedchamber door when the blast of trumpets overwhelmed the soft gurgle of rain from the gargoyle spouts outside my window. A ripple shook the mindstorm, or perhaps it was my own shudder. It was difficult to tell the difference anymore. The King of Sabria had come home.

  CHAPTER 37

  26 OCET, MIDDAY

  “So you vouchsafed a return to duty, didyou, damoselle?” An annoyed Lady Patrice snagged me as I hurried into the royal apartments. “When I encouraged you to spend a few hours making yourself decent and ensuring your alertness, I had no intention of your using half a day.”

  “My apologies, my lady. I’m ready to sit with Queen Eugenie as long as needed.”

  The Book of Greater Rites was safely shelved in the royal library. My face and gown were clean. Negotiating the crowds flocking to the entry hall to witness Philippe’s arrival had taken more time than either task.

  “As matters stand”—the marquesa glanced over her shoulder toward the bedchamber, where two footmen blocked the passage—“you must turn right around and return to your own room. His Majesty is on his way here, and Ducessa Antonia has instructed that you are not to be present. Indeed, she insists that you are not to intrude yourself on the king at all in this mournful time. She deems it best you remain in your chambers.”

  Shock devised my retort. “How does the lady intend to enforce this rule? The king is my goodfather. He’s surely aware of my presence and is quite likely to summon me, don’t you think?” Especially as I’d asked Ilario to arrange a meeting.

  Not that I was looking forward to telling my goodfather that his wife was to be mated to a dead man in a rite to throw his kingdom into madne
ss. Convincing him to allow events to move forward without interference might get me hanged.

  “An audience is highly unlikely. The king does not allow your father’s name to be spoken in his presence. And it has been learned that it was not His Majesty’s order to summon you to Castelle Escalon. As Sonjeur de Duplais is conveniently not present to explain his reasons for acting on a false premise, it could be surmised that you falsified the summons yourself or in concert with him.”

  Or that I had arranged Duplais’ disappearance. I’d announced before witnesses that I was the last to see him. My arms prickled.

  “Come, let’s ensure you’ve left no personal item here.” Patrice propelled me into a cloakroom. “Anne, do not dispute this instruction. Antonia’s antipathy for you has reached a dangerous pass.” The lady had shed her imperious manner. “No one has challenged her authority so successfully in decades. Truly, I’ve never seen her so angry and . . . frantic. I fear for her reason.”

  “I’ll not hide from her.” But fear already nibbled at bravado.

  The marquesa’s voice came a whisper. “Antonia claims she mentioned to you that the queen’s smelling salts seemed to have no efficacy, and that she proposed suspending their use until Mage Dante could examine them. She whispers that you seemed nervous at this prospect, and only then caused the accident that broke the vial. The mage has analyzed the residue the servants collected, and Antonia reports that they were not aromatics at all, but something unknown.”

  Hot blood pounded in my hands, feet, and head. “I didn’t. I would never—”

  “I know that,” she said crisply. “Many of us know that and will speak to it when asked. Certainly Antonia herself cannot bear too close an investigation. But the truth might come too late for you.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Obey her directive and naught will come of this. Now go. The queen will not be harmed while I draw breath. I’ve enlisted Roussel to push this scheme to get Eugenie away from Castelle Escalon. Though he’s common, he has a respectful manner and intelligent approach. The king will listen to a man of science. The very air here is poison.”

  “Thank you. Honestly, lady, thank you. Did everyone on the queen’s watch hear this? Eleanor, Arabella . . . Lord Ilario?” Ilario had to know the danger before prompting the king to summon me.

  “She announced it to all the inner circle. In confidence, naturally.” Patrice’s sarcasm reflected my own feeling. Confidentiality did not exist at court. But at least Ilario had wind of Antonia’s intent.

  Though a seething morass inside, I left the royal apartments without further argument. If anyone breathed the words poison and Anne de Vernase in the king’s hearing, I would be dead before the day was out. The poisoned salts I’d saved from the broken vial were tucked away in my locked drawer, but they could more easily be deemed evidence against me than in my favor. I could prove nothing.

  IN MY BRIEF ABSENCE, A folded letter, sealed with an unfamiliar device, had been left on my bedchamber table. I ripped it open, sinking to the bed as I read.

  The Honorable Derwin de Scero-Gurmeddion will depart Castelle Escalon for Palazzo Gurmedd at seventh hour of the morning watch on 27 Ocet. He asserts his betrothal rights and commands his affianced bride, Anne de Vernase ney Cazar, prepare herself to accompany him. From this hour, she is to have no physical or verbal communication with any male unless in the presence of, and with the permission of, her betrothed husband. Appropriate garments for the barone’s maiden bride will be delivered beforetime.

  I flung open my window and gulped the sultry air, rejecting one panicked solution after another. Eventually, hands shaking like a palsied elder, I mixed an additional supply of Lianelle’s potion. I would become a ghost myself before submitting to the Honorable Derwin.

  With time and forceful discipline I gathered my wits. The timing of Derwin’s assertion of rights could be no accident. Antonia’s doing, certainly. Think, Anne. Duplais believed the conspirators needed me at Voilline. Dante had sworn to ensure my presence. Derwin was Antonia’s tool, and the ducessa would never jeopardize her triumph for spite. Rather, I should read this development as a good sign. Antonia was nervous. More chances for mistakes. My purpose here was to throw them off balance, and surely that was her own purpose—distraction, so I’d not suspect their true plan for me. Or, even more likely, Derwin had agreed to transport me to Voilline in return for Antonia’s connivance in my betrothal.

  The more I thought of it, the more it made sense. Keep the girl away from the king. Ship her through Castelle Escalon’s gates with her contracted husband. No one would question.

  My efforts did not reduce my dread at the events to come, or my revulsion at yielding to Derwin of Gurmeddion even for a few hours’ ride to Mont Voilline, but at least I could think again.

  I sat by my window, quieted my unruly thoughts, and opened myself to the aether. Friend?

  No response. No island of quiet. No solid anchor.

  I needed to tell Dante that Derwin was charged with transporting me. I needed to ask where he imagined we would find the breaking point in the Mondragon ritual. Even if we upended the Aspirant’s plan, might it not be too late for Duplais or Papa, Ambrose or Eugenie? Was Dante’s power enough to protect the innocent as well as thwart the wicked . . . and would he care? His method of protecting the innocent was to ravage minds. Indeed, I needed to hear my friend of the aether and be reassured I had not been a naive fool all those hours ago.

  I tried again. Searched. Listened. After a while, desperate and worried, I opened all barriers as I had never done. Swept up by the mindstorm, I hurtled through the anarchy of grief and anxiety, excitement and fear, one autumn leaf amid millions in the heart of a hurricane. Friend, are you here?

  A touch. Distant, faint. Not now . . .

  Both relieved and disappointed, exhausted from lack of sleep, I struggled to retreat from chaos and reassemble my defenses. One step to suppress desire, another for each sense . . . A brick at a time, I must rebuild the wall. Only on that afternoon, I could not. I buried my head in my pillows and let chaos drive me into storm-racked dreams.

  “DAMOSELLE. WAKE UP, DAMOSELLE. GRACIOUS, you’re all askew.” Ella’s insistent politeness dragged me out of a black stupor. I fought off sleep, blinking, focusing on the girl’s face swimming in the candlelight.

  “What’s the time?” I said, gripping her arm, overcome with a horrified certainty that it was seventh hour of the morning watch and Derwin of Gurmeddion had come to claim me.

  “It’s gone eleventh hour of the evening watch. I’ve brought a message from Heurot.”

  That meant Ilario! “Yes, yes, all right. Where is it?”

  “It’s not writ this time. Heurot says you’re to meet the gentleman in the portrait gallery at middle-night exactly. You’ll know which gallery, he says. And whatever you do, you mustn’t be seen. Though I’m not sure at all how you might do that. There’s the most awful two fellows out in the passage. None passes them that they don’t question and . . . ogle . . . in the crudest way. It’s enough to make me want a wash right there and then.”

  Derwin’s men. No mistaking.

  “Thank you, Ella. I’ll manage. The men in the passage . . . they didn’t know you were coming to me?”

  “I told them that all my ladies charge me to empty the slops jars before middle-night so they wouldn’t have nasty dreams in the late dark. Didn’t think they’d know the habits of a fine house.”

  “You are exceptional, Ella,” I said, hugging her with a fierce pride. “We could all do with fewer nasty dreams. And don’t worry. I’ll be all right with this.”

  With a sidewise grin, she dipped her knee and scurried away with my night jar.

  Refreshed by the sleep, veins coursing with excitement, I dressed carefully, donning the elegant brocade jacket Melusina had made for my last visit to Merona. The wardstone ring gleamed on my finger, and Lianelle’s nireal hung from my neck. Vials of the potion were tucked inside my bodice, in my skirt waist, and in the spall pouch tied to my belt.
The zahkri sheath on my thigh was snug; my rambunctious hair tidied. Lady Patrice, Lianelle, and my Cazar uncles would all approve my turnout.

  As the bells struck half past eleventh hour, I took exactly two drops of the potion. Thus the two ruffians in the passage had no one to ogle as I slipped past and began the long trek to the west wing. I kept to the public rooms of the palace. A quiet drizzle yet owned the skies, and I needed to present myself to my goodfather fairly, not a draggled mess. On this occasion, portrait gallery could only mean the Kings’ Gallery.

  Ilario was talking to the air when I arrived. Every few moments he would duck his head and whisper, “Damoselle? Damoselle?”

  I had mercy and called out softly. “Here, lord.”

  To his credit, he blew a long, slow exhale and scanned the gallery, only a bit wild in the eye. “Saints . . . come along, then.

  “Thought I’d never get the chance,” he said as soon as we’d entered his warren of closets and passages. “Philippe spent two hours with Geni and another interrogating the physician. Poor Roussel was a stammering wreck, but I think he came off well. Told Philippe this was not another miscarried child, but more likely a reaction to the strain of her position and the herbs she’d been taking to help with . . . you know . . . these things. Conceiving. Philippe approved the idea of sending her to the country. The rest of the night he’s spent with the Privy Council and then Lord Baldwin alone, and only just now run them off. He’s expecting us.” He—the King of Sabria.

  We ducked out of a niche behind a statue, darted across a wide passage, and into a storage room that contained one of his ubiquitous wall panels. “Believe me—he was not at all happy to hear about you being here. When I told him all you’d done for Geni, he didn’t quite boot me out. I didn’t say anything about the rest. Thought I’d leave that to you.”