The Spirit Lens

by Carol Berg

  My royal cousin had insisted that Ilario was trustworthy and that his close bond with his half sister could help us discover the truth. I could accept that, but playing nursemaid to the fop would test a saint’s patience. “You must attend, Chevalier. It is your duty as a Knight of Sabria, your sister’s champion, one might say.”

  “Oh. Quite right.” He jumped to his feet and inhaled until his bony ribs threatened to pop the buttons on his gold waistcoat. “You understand, Portier, Eugenie could not have done this thing—conspired. It is not in her nature.”

  I had never seen him so somber when he wasn’t frighted out of his wits or reeling drunk. Thus I found myself believing him—which was entirely foolish so early on. I had vowed to withhold judgment in all these matters until evidence led me to the truth.

  “I understand, Chevalier. We do this for her safety as well as His Majesty’s . . . and Sabria’s.” I didn’t think a reminder of our larger purposes would go amiss. Uncounted thousands of Sabria’s people had died in the Blood Wars, the flower of her nobility, the most powerful of her magical families. A second orgy of death and ruin would destroy us all.

  THE EVENING HAD COOLED. SCENTS of thyme, lavender, and waking earth rose in the spring damp, and the soft rasping twitter of tree crickets engulfed the trees. Ilario steeled his courage by clutching his spalls—the shards of onyx and jade he carried to remind him of the ancestors he held sacred: surely including the father he shared with Queen Eugenie, and her mother, who had so generously taken her husband’s bastard infant into her home and raised him as her own.

  We found the stone bench empty when we reached the glade. I whirled in a full circle, relieved when the lamplight caught a band of silver near the font. “Master! I feared you’d left us.”

  The dark figure hunched on the ground raised his eyes. Ilario promptly dropped his pouch, scattering his spalls across the rocks.

  Dante’s lip curled. “I was relishing the quiet.”

  His collection retrieved, the lord sank to the end of the stone bench farthest from the mage. I took the other end of the bench, which set me between them, a position I feared might become familiar. As I set down the lamp and pulled out my journal, I searched for the right words to launch our odd collaboration.

  “So we are to be spies,” I said. “No matter how distasteful the word, I suppose we must accustom ourselves to it. Michel de Vernase made a public show of his investigation. The king refuses to believe his disappearance coincidence, which is why we must work in secret.”

  “In secret?” said Dante, scornfully. “With one of us the guilty queen’s pet?”

  “A fair question,” I said, laying a hand on Ilario’s arm to prevent him drawing his sword. “We are investigating treason, with all its heavy consequences. But His Majesty believes entirely in Lord Ilario’s sincere determination to keep our secrets unshared. I choose to accept the king’s word.”

  Though the pooled lamplight showed Dante’s face impassive, his restless energies roiled the deepening night. I hastened onward, opening my journal to the notes I had made thus far, my eyes automatically deciphering my encoded script.

  “So to our case and our plan. As far as the king knows, Michel learned very little. The assault on King Philippe occurred at Castelle Escalon. The assailant, who was never identified, wore royal livery. The evidence of his scars and bruises named him a mule used to feed a mage’s power. Thus, we know he was of the blood. He wore no mage collar, and unfortunately, de Vernase reported his handmark obscured by scars. So we are hunting a mage with talent and knowledge enough to work transference and the . . . complex . . . spyglass spells.”

  Dante stirred from his contemplative posture. “Hired by the shadow queen?”

  “The queen’s suggestion to the guard captain that he persuade the king to wrestle and thus divest himself of armor might only be a wife’s concern for her husband’s amusement. We shall not be privy to the personal disagreements between their majesties that feed the king’s disturbance. However, the queen does support two household mages, and it only makes sense to investigate them first.” I deferred to Ilario, tapping his knee when he failed to take my cue. “Chevalier?”

  “Orviene is pleasant enough,” he said, avoiding the mage’s heated gaze, “though a bit oily to my taste, always smarming after ladies above his station. But Gaetana is frightful. Women so large are surely an aberration of Father Creator, and she glares at me quite as much as you do.”

  “Orviene has an indifferent reputation at Seravain,” I said, trying to add more pertinent information, “competent, reasonable, pleasant enough. He has never achieved a master’s rank. Gaetana has. She is reputed to be quite brilliant, but left teaching years ago, as she is more interested in research than students. Neither ever instructed me. They’ve resided in the queen’s household since the mortal illness of the infant Prince Desmond seven years ago. Gaetana returns frequently to Seravain for study and research. She is polite but never familiar, and, alas, it has never been my habit to pry into what mages study in my library.”

  “These two have apprentices, I presume,” said Dante.

  “Several, who seem to change quite often . . .”

  “Only Adept Fedrigo and Adept Jacard have been at court more than a year,” said Ilario. “Fedrigo is quite gentleman-like and ever helpful. I don’t know Jacard, as he is presently loaned out to some friend of my foster mother’s. The rest scurry about like ants, fetching and sweeping, or they disappear into the mages’ laboratorium for days at a time, only to reappear unkempt and entirely too exhausted to do a man a favor.”

  I dipped my head in acknowledgement and continued. “Neither the king nor Lord Ilario knows of any other mage with access to the queen’s household, and both have expressed a feeling that Orviene and Gaetana have . . . insinuated . . . themselves between the queen and her family. Unfortunately, the lady made it known to her husband, and thus to Michel de Vernase, that no one in her household would be available for questioning. Without more specific evidence linking her to the assault, the king is unwilling to contradict her in the matter.”

  Dante shrugged and drew his walking stick across his lap. “Dancing about tender feelings will never get you answers. Did these mages inquire about the spyglass? Hunt for it?”

  “Not that we know—which means very little. Evidently, Michel de Vernase never made any secret of his disdain for sorcery or his belief that a sorcerer planned the attack on the king. He tried to interrogate the Camarilla prefects without prior negotiation—a violation of the Concord de Praesta—and when refused, took his inquiries to Seravain. With such—”

  “The conte quite insulted poor Fedrigo,” blurted Ilario. “Called him a ‘trickster taking advantage of his station’ just because he makes these excellent charms for Eugenie’s friends.”

  “With such a bullheaded approach,” I concluded, “I doubt the conte could have learned the door warden’s name at Seravain. No one directed him to my library, I can tell you.”

  “But if no one saw the mule use the spyglass, why was it there at all?” said Dante.

  A good question that pricked not a hint of an answer in my mind. “The larger problem,” I said, “is that even if the queen allows her mages to be questioned, they’re not going to tell me—or any interrogator—the kind of information we seek. They’ll deny knowing the assassin. They’ll deny building instruments that show us the demesnes of the dead. They will most certainly deny any knowledge of transference or other prohibited practices. Thus we need someone to join their little consilium and learn what they’re about. Only a person of their own rank might have a chance to observe their practices and judge if they are capable of the sorcery we’ve seen.”

  I paused, awaiting the explosion. It came quietly, but with intensity that near knocked me off the stone bench.

  “You want me to pose as a court mage?” said Dante, blowing a derisive breath. “I thought you had a semblance of mind, Portier. My reputation is fairly earned. I’ve no manners. I know
naught of bowing or titles or mouthing pleasantries to fools. You see my finest garments.” He spread his arms, his grotesque hand purple in the lamplight. “Hardly what’s expected of a queen’s puppet.”

  “A certain distance might work to your advantage, Master.” I dropped my eyes that he might not think me staring at his ropelike scars. “And with your permission, of course, we can teach you whatever you need to know of court life, can we not, Chevalier?”

  Ilario hunched his shoulders without even a sidewise glance at Dante. “I’ll loan my tailor and my barber, but . . . some tasks are impossible.”

  Dante hoisted himself up with his stick and strode back toward the path and the house. Before I could decide whether to chase him down, he halted, spun in place, and jabbed a finger toward Ilario. “Dress me like this strutting cock, and I still could not get near them. Do I walk up to the gate and apply for the position of queen’s assassin?”

  “I made you an offer three days ago,” said Ilario, dabbing at his nose with a lace kerchief. “You scoffed.”

  “And in which layer of lies was this offer couched?”

  “Please, Master. Please, Chevalier!” How was I to harness these two most irritating men, both of whom outranked me? “We are charged with our kingdom’s safety. Philippe has reason to believe another attempt at murder will be made on the twenty-fifth day of Cinq—the anniversary of last year’s attempt, which happens also to be the seventh anniversary of his infant son’s death—which happens to be one-and-sixty days from this. Each of you has a unique gift to bring to the task.”

  “Give me the demonish glass, and I’ll divine its use,” said Dante, “perhaps even something of its maker. Give me the coin and the arrow. Such mysteries intrigue me. But do not expect me to pretend I care for an aristo’s domestic troubles. I’m as like to spit on him and be done with the matter. And it’s sure I’ll end up prisoned myself anyway, when the Camarilla gets wind of my heretical opinions. Find another plan.”

  I reached for patience. “Lord Ilario . . . graces . . . society throughout Castelle Escalon and the royal city. As he mentioned at our first meeting, his half sister has set herself the charge to support magical scholarship in rivalry to the king’s support of the new sciences. It would be only natural for the chevalier to bring her a new talent he has encountered. He can secure you a position—”

  “Pursuing magics that ‘many people might consider unsavory’? Those were your words, were they not, Chevalier?” snapped the mage. “So tell me, what are these unsavory wishes your mistress might ask me to indulge? Transference, perhaps? Enough to set me up as scapegoat for this crime?”

  “Certainly not,” I said. “Lord, you must explain.”

  No matter his pique, no matter his care for the queen’s reputation, Ilario could not hide this last piece of our puzzle. Neither could he pass it off with his usual foolery. “My lady has suffered an overburden of griefs in her life: our beloved parents lost to fire not a year after her too-early marriage; an adored husband, the late king, fallen in battle; her own child dead before his first birthday, a daughter stillborn, and two more miscarried. She seeks . . . solace.”

  “Surely these two jackleg mages can concoct a sleeping draught. Or is it illusions she wants?”

  Dante’s brutal frankness drove Ilario to his feet and into the night beyond the pool of lamplight. “Portier, this is most unseemly. I’ll not discuss a gracious lady with a damnable rogue.”

  “Mage Dante is our partner in this endeavor, lord chevalier, and has sworn to keep private all he hears. If you don’t tell him all, then I must, else we’ll never lift this cloud of suspicion from your royal sister. Better this come from one who can tell us her true mind . . . gently.”

  Evidently, Michel de Vernase had disdained Ilario, never bothering to interview him. And until Philippe himself had spoken to the chevalier, he did not comprehend the nature and intensity of his wife’s unhealthy yearnings.

  “They’ve tried illusions with varying success,” said Ilario, his breath shaking. “But more than anything in the world, my sister desires her mother’s comforting hands and our father’s shoulder on which to weep. She yearns to hear that her dead children are not frightened as they assay the trials of Ixtador.”

  The mage stiffened. “Necromancy?” he said in hushed fury. “She’s mad. You’re all mad. Even if it’s possible—and naught’s certain of that—lest you’ve forgotten, mucking with the dead is frowned upon. If the Temple were to get wind of this . . . gods . . . the tetrarchs might slap a queen’s wrists, but they’ll hang the sorry practitioner in the temple square by his thumbs as fodder for rats and ravens.”

  “We’re aware of that,” I said, intestines clenching at thoughts of both the crime and the punishment.

  The Camarilla discouraged deadraising; many said because they no longer knew how to do it. But the Temple claimed that to breach the Veil between life and death was to violate creation itself. Ixtador was our penalty for the depredations of the Blood Wars, including transference and necromancy. Did we transgress again, the tetrarchs and prophets implied we would be barred from Heaven everlastingly. No matter how pallid one’s private convictions, the sway of public sentiment kept deadraising a dangerous activity.

  “I’d not want you to mistake the possible complications, Master. But we’re not asking you to practice necromancy, only to hint that you could. That you might. To demonstrate skills that suggest you are capable. The queen’s mages claim they are unable to satisfy her wishes for these very reasons you name. But we must wonder if a spyglass that seems to focus in Ixtador, and a mule whose very existence speaks of unholy practice, indicate that they are, in fact, attempting such wickedness. This is the way for you to get close to the queen and her mages and find out what we need to know.”

  Eyes closed, Dante crossed his arms over his bent head as if to smother the curiosity that—I hoped—would drive him to find answers. Ilario kept mercifully quiet. An owl flapped away from a nearby oak, the rushing spread of wings near stopping my heart.

  At last the mage clasped his walking stick and tapped its heel on the packed dirt. “So, peacock,” he said, “have you ever seen your little sister playing with this naughty glass?”

  “This is insupportable.” Ilario waved his arms weakly, his protest lackluster beside Dante’s resonant conviction. I kept silent, giving him no permission to back away.

  The chevalier heaved a suffering sigh. “Her Majesty does not include me in her mages’ rituals. It is a great kindness, for she knows they frighten me. I’ve never seen her or anyone else using that foul implement. I suppose I could ask her. . . .”

  My chest constricted. “No, no, best avoid any appearance of interest in such activities. Forget about the spyglass altogether when in her presence. Your caution is the best help you can give . . . along with your gift of a new mage, who will help dismiss these foul suspicions. Agreed?”

  I waited until Ilario flicked his hand to acknowledge my warning before turning to our new partner. “Master, unless you suggest something better, I propose that Lord Ilario present you to the queen seven days hence. You will say what is necessary to secure employment in her household. Once you are assigned chambers in the palace, I will arrange for the spyglass, the arrow, and the coin to be delivered to you there.” I tapped a forefinger on my journal. “Time is critical. Tomorrow is the first day of Qat. We’ve sixty-one days.”

  “What of you, student?” said Dante. “If a brutish sorcerer is to be made into a courtier, and a peacock into an informant, where is your place in Castelle Escalon? No one will say anything useful in the hearing of a king’s kinsman.”

  I smoothed the pages of my journal and closed it, happy no one had ever deciphered its encoding. My future likely held a potful of frustrations to express outside the public eye. “Once Lord Ilario has secured your position at court, I shall follow you to Castelle Escalon, where I intend to have a flaming public row with my royal cousin and take on a dismal, unhappy palace job of my own
just to flout him. Everyone will pity me and believe I am dreadfully abused, and, I hope, divulge all manner of useful things.”

  “What job?” For the first, and likely last, time, Ilario and Dante spoke in unison.

  “Lord Ilario’s private secretary. It was the worst thing I could think of.”

  For the first, and likely last, time, the three of us together burst out laughing.

  ON THE NEXT MORNING, I stood in the cool, sheltered carriageway with Lady Susanna and her son, Edmond, who had arrived sometime in the night. The tall, sleepy-headed young officer indeed reflected his handsome and intelligent mother.

  After worrying at the problem for a fruitless hour, I had solicited my hostess’s assistance in preparing Dante for his introduction at court. “He and Ilario get along like a wildcat and a magpie,” I said. “The chevalier insists I see to it, but I’ve business that can’t wait.”

  “I’ll gladly do what I can,” said the lady.

  “Let me take it on,” said Edmond. “I’ve been tasked with the very same duty for young officers promoted in the field. And, begging your pardon, my most refined and gracious mother”—he beamed at Lady Susanna—“some men don’t appreciate a lady’s introducing them to forks and serviettes and chamberpots. As it happens I’ve supply dispatches need delivering in Merona. The mage and I could stay on in our town house. I’ll not embarrass the fellow . . . nor you nor Papa, either.”

  Shadows dimmed Lady Susanna’s smile, and her dark eyes darted from her son to me. “I don’t think . . . Perhaps this is too private a matter. You’ve duties here, Edmond.”

  But to me it sounded ideal. Edmond de Roble exuded his mother’s serenity in a stalwart, soldierly package. “If you’re willing, Greville, it could save several lives at once. I’ll introduce—”

  A bellow exploded from the inner courtyard. The three of us raced through the vine-covered gate to find Ilario flattened to the brick wall like a lizard caught between the blooming bougainvillea and honeysuckle. The tip of Dante’s white staff was pressed to the chevalier’s throat, in vivid illustration of our dilemma.