by Glenda Larke
Now, when she opened the note, she found her assumption had been wrong. It wasn’t from Yan. It was Sister Genet Bitterling’s writing. Her handmaiden had been gone for almost two sennights, and this was the only time she’d heard from her since she’d left. Not that such an absence was unusual; the woman was constantly disappearing, saying she was on Pontifect Fritillary’s business. To her court ladies, Mathilda explained Genet’s absences as convent retreats.
Your Grace, she read, I request an audience urgently on the Pontifect’s business. Your obedient servant, Sister Genet Bitterling.
She snorted. Genet was neither her servant, nor particularly obedient. Mathilda had few illusions about the nun’s loyalties; they lay with the previous Pontificate, not with the Lowmeer Regality. There was something unusual about the wording. A subtle lack of deference, perhaps? Yes, that was it. Although, she had to admit, a reverence for those above her was always noticeably absent from Genet’s character.
She pulled the bell rope. The door opened almost immediately and the same footman returned. “Who gave this to you?” she asked.
“Sister Genet, Your Grace.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the chapel, I believe, Your Grace.”
“Fetch her.”
While she waited, she stood looking out of the window over the garden – the same window through which she had pushed Aureen to her death.
She came here from time to time. Her penance for Aureen’s death, perhaps. She cared not one whit about Regal Vilmar Vollendorn, murderer of babies – but Aureen? Aureen had been an innocent whose death was necessary. The woman had known too much about the birth of the twins, and if she had been questioned she might possibly – probably? – have spilled those secrets.
Mathilda’s guilt stemmed from the reality that she would never know for sure if the maid’s death had been necessary, and thus she needed to remember her, to stand there at the window and feel regret, as if the act of mourning her victim meant she wasn’t entirely a monster.
Still, being in that room alone made her uncomfortable. The view out of the window nagged at her like a sore tooth. It was a punishment. She pondered on the oddity that the death of a mere servant should be the one thing in life she regretted. All the rest she could justify, be proud of – but Aureen’s death? That besmirched her. Her conscience would have rested easy if she could have been sure that Aureen had threatened her son’s safety.
“Your Grace?”
She turned to see Genet in the doorway, inclining her head in greeting.
“Come in, Sister. Close the door. It’s been a long time without word from you. Have you seen Fritillary Reedling? What news do you bring?”
The wretched woman didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she asked, “Are we likely to be disturbed?”
For a moment Mathilda was tempted to scold her for presumption, but something in the woman’s tone made her change her mind, and she rang for the footman yet again, to tell him they did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.
“Now what is it?” she asked when he had gone. “You have news from Pontifect Fritillary?”
“Not exactly. I am Pontifect Fritillary Reedling.”
The words dropped into the stillness of the room like a stone into the mirror surface of a pond, sending out ripples to shatter the reflection. The words changed everything; the ripples they created broke Mathilda’s peace into a thousand clanging pieces.
She stared at the nun.
Her tone was not Genet’s. Her shoulders no longer slumped. Her skin might have been crinkled with age, but the years seemed to have fallen away from both her stance and her voice. From under the shelter of her wimple, her eyes met Mathilda’s gaze with unflinching, critical perusal.
A cascade of emotions raged through her. The impudent harpy had been living in the castle on and off for months, deceiving her? Fury predominant, she raised her hand to slap that smug face.
A slight smile twitched at the corner of Fritillary’s lips, daring her, and Mathilda was reminded that this woman had once wielded a power greater than any mere monarch. She dropped her hand, feeling a smidgen of admiration.
There was no question of the truth of what the woman said; she saw it all now. Where else was there a safer place to hide than under everyone’s nose? Preceded by two other handmaidens, who would question a third? No one looked at a nun. In particular, no one questioned a sister of the Order of the Veil. By the time “Genet” had arrived, most people thought Fritillary Reedling was dead. Few people in Lowmeer had ever seen her in person anyway, except for Prime Mulhafen, and he must have been in on the deception from the beginning.
Oh yes, the impudent hag had chosen a hiding place well.
“Consign you to a choiceless hell,” she said. “How dare you deceive me! Regal Vilmar would have beheaded you for less. And so could I, if I wanted.”
Fritillary smiled. “You could, I’m sure. If you were very silly. But I think perhaps you have never been that.”
“Why did you not tell me? Why did you not trust me? I am the Regala and the Regent!”
Fritillary raised an eyebrow, and said, “Exactly.”
Had the woman just said that she wasn’t trustworthy because she was royal? The insult left her speechless.
“We have too much to discuss to waste time in argument, my dear. I have news to impart.”
“What news? From whom?” Va, how she wanted to wring the woman’s scrawny neck!
“From the hidden shrines, sent via the oak roots and the streams.”
She pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak, and nodded.
Without asking if she could sit, Fritillary took a chair next to her and continued. “But first, let me say this. I have decided that it is time to uncover the rest of the shrines here in Lowmeer. Lord Herelt Deremer has confirmed that the land is clear of sorcerers.”
“I hate being beholden to that man for anything.”
“I sympathise. I should warn you though, some of the shrine keepers and many of those with witcheries have agreed to be part of my fighting force elsewhere.”
“But shrine keepers never leave their shrines for more than an hour or two, surely?” she asked when she had gathered her wits long enough to reply. “What if they die?”
“Then the unseen guardians will choose another, as they have to do anyway, from time to time. Shrine keepers may be long-lived, but they are far from immortal! Shrines will not be safe here while there is sorcery elsewhere. They understand the necessity. You should too.”
Galls, but the woman was insolent. “Go on.”
“The rest of my news is just as… unsettling. It appears that Lord Juster Dornbeck has returned from the Summer Seas. He is about to lift the siege of Gromwell Holdfast. Perhaps he already has. He has Saker Rampion and Sorrel Redwing with him. So your daughter is safely back in Ardrone. All that is the good news.”
She dragged in a breath, incapable of speech.
“Unfortunately,” Fritillary continued, “there is also bad news. I have had unsettling word from Proctor Gerelda and Peregrine Clary. It seems that the Princess Bealina and your nephew Prince Garred are in Valerian Fox’s hands in Vavala.”
Poor, silly Ryce! He couldn’t even take care of his own heir. She sat motionless, trying to assess the implications of that.
Fritillary gave her no time. “Your Grace will, of course, be anxious to know more about your daughter. Her name is Piper. She is well. However, she is also a sorcerer.”
She stared at Fritillary, her fears crowding in and her stomach churning. She whispered, “How can anyone possibly know that? That boy Peregrine couldn’t say that much about Prince-regal Karel! That’s all supposition. It must be.”
She read something in Fritillary Reedling’s eye that spoke of pity and a touch of contempt. The ugly old termagant!
“My dear,” the Pontifect said in an infuriatingly patronising voice, “I think you had better admit the truth so that we can move on
from there and deal with the consequences.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your Grace, there can be no shame. Prime Valerian Fox seduced you into his bed, that much is now clear. It is the only thing that can explain why both your children bear the mark of sorcery. Certainly neither Regal Vilmar nor Saker would have fathered a sorcerer.”
She knew her cheeks had flooded with colour. Fig on them all! “No one has said Prince-regal Karel is a sorcerer. Someone gave him the black smutch, that’s all. And that’s probably exactly what happened to my daughter too. In fact, it must have been my maid, Aureen. She’s the only person besides Sorrel and myself who touched both babies. She committed suicide later. Threw herself out of this very window in the middle of the night. None of us could work out why. If she’d been coerced by a sorcerer into doing something terrible, like infecting my babies, that would explain it! She couldn’t live with her crime.”
Heat spread from her neck into her face. The lie was audacious, but Fritillary had never met Aureen and didn’t know what an innocent simpleton the maid had been.
Please Va, grant that she believes the flush to be a sign of righteous anger, not an admission of guilt.
She sat straight in her chair and met the Pontifect’s gaze, unflinching.
“No.” Fritillary’s negation of the idea was as flatly emphatic as her look. “Your Grace, we know that Fox bedded you. You as good as told Sorrel Redwing that. Fox is the father of the twins. Acknowledge that, and we can move on. No one is blaming you. You were helpless under his coercion. You were raped, in effect.”
That flap-mouthed Shenat witch! After all I did for her! Damn her to beggary – I saved her life!
She tried desperately to keep her expression impassive. If Fritillary was willing to accept that interpretation – coercion, not part of a plan to wriggle out of her unwanted marriage – then at least she could hold her head high. But that fawning bitch, Sorrel. She must have told Saker…
Pox on’t. Denial was not going to be believable.
Capitulating, she allowed a tear to slip down her cheek. “I was so alone. I didn’t know what to do. He was the Prime! I was powerless in his hands. I prayed so hard that I would not have his child; why did Va not answer my prayers?”
There was the faintest flicker in Fritillary’s eyes which could have meant anything at all. She placed a hand over Mathilda’s. “Who knows the mind of the Creator? It is not ours to question. But rest assured, no one is going to blame you. In fact, no one else is going to realise. Content yourself with the knowledge that this man will fail, and that those who bring about his humiliation will be those he hurt most – you, me, Saker, Prince Ryce.”
Mathilda couldn’t move, couldn’t for a moment even speak. Her thoughts tangled, jumping from one possible consequence to another.
“What we have to decide now is where we go from here,” Fritillary was saying. “We cannot have Lowmeer ruled by a sorcerer.”
“He’s a baby. A child! You’ve seen him, you’ve played with him, you know! How you can think that he – that he—?” Her terror was so intense her hands began to shake. He was a prince. He deserved to rule. Besides, without him – without the regency – she would have nothing. Worse than nothing. If the Lowmians found out she had tricked Vilmar into acknowledging another man’s son as her own… Dear oak. She was dead.
“We know that the only way to become a sorcerer is to be born to one,” Fritillary said, as if she was explaining something to a child. “The twins are Fox’s children, Mathilda. And we have to deal with that calmly.”
“How can I be calm about the murder of a child? Because that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? You want to kill my son!”
“I don’t. Remember to whom you’re talking, Your Grace. How can I – as the true Pontifect of Va-faith – justify the murder of a child, any child? This country has already gone down that road once and it will not happen again. Fortunately, Saker has intimated that he and Sorrel may have something which can buy us some time.”
“Go on.” In her panic, she could barely articulate the words. Saker knows of this too?
“I don’t know the details. I haven’t yet talked to Saker. He sent a coded message and much of what it said was obscured by his need to keep matters private. I think he’s saying that they have brought back some kind of witchery from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere, which has proven to be effective against sorcery over there. So do not give up hope; Prince-regal Karel might indeed be a sorcerer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a way to change that.”
Dare she hope?
I will not let anyone harm him. Ever.
Fritillary did not wait for her to answer. “True, he is not Regal Vilmar’s heir. He has no legal right to inherit the Basalt Throne.”
“I am royal,” she snapped. “Karel comes of a royal line. The House of Betany is as ancient as the Vollendorns!”
The woman raised both eyebrows, then leaned back in her chair. “Listen to me carefully, Your Grace. I don’t really care if Prince-regal Karel comes from a royal line. I don’t particularly care if he comes from the Vollendorn family, or from a long line of Sprot butchers or Rog sprat-catchers. The Vollendorns are one of the most horrible murderous regimes the hemisphere has ever seen. We are all well rid of them.”
“What – what are you trying to say?”
“The only thing that really counts is the suppression of any sorcerous elements in Prince-regal Karel. Saker appears to think this is possible with Va-forsaken witchery. So, we watch him like a hawk as he grows up. We educate him to be a fine upright young man who will inherit the Basalt Throne when reaching his majority. If we can do that, you can continue to be his Regent in the meantime. I would prefer that solution. The alternative could be unrest and a civil war erupting between rival families, a mass of warring estates fighting like dogs over a bone, because there wouldn’t be a clear line of inheritance. And you would be the first casualty.”
Fritillary stared at her, a hard implacable gaze.
Fob it, she’s a woman who’s been just as powerful as any monarch. Don’t underestimate her. She chose her words carefully. “Very well. But all three of you – you, Saker and Sorrel – will hold a secret that could cause great upheaval if it was ever known. It is also a secret that begs for blackmail. So I will say this, just the once, to you. I will not be blackmailed. There is nothing more important to me than to see my son on the Basalt Throne. If needs be, I will destroy you all to achieve that end. Do not thwart me, Fritillary Reedling. Because there would be a price, not one you would want to pay.”
The confounded woman’s expression did not change. “I’ll remember that. But you should also remember that Saker, Sorrel and I hold the only hope that Prince-regal Karel possesses to be a man not tainted and twisted by sorcery. Destroy us, you also destroy him and possibly Lowmeer as well, because he will be another Valerian Fox.”
Mathilda stood up abruptly. “This conversation is at an end. You may go.”
However, when Fritillary was already at the door, Mathilda halted her. “Sir Herelt Deremer – that day you were both here, did he know who you were?”
“We’ve known each other for thirty years,” Fritillary said.
“I loathe being made a fool of,” she said. “You’ll pay for that. Both of you.”
Fritillary Reedling emerged on to the street in front of Ustgrind Castle and halted a moment to relax the tension in her muscles. Va-damn, but that uppercrust hellion was going to give them all problems in the future!
She sighed as she crossed the market square. Her assertions to Mathilda had been emphatic, but she was not certain of their truth. She had exaggerated Saker’s confidence that he and Sorrel possessed the means to halt the development of sorcery within the twins. Only time would tell. The thought of being dependent on Va-forsaken magic made her shudder anyway. Was it to be trusted? She had no idea. Would it last? She had no idea of that either. Too many questions, too few answers.
Barden was
waiting for her on the corner of the marketplace when she emerged from the castle. “You look as if you have been hit by a charging bull.”
“A good analogy,” she said, “although the bull is actually a rampaging cow with very sharp horns and a mother’s rage to protect her calf. However, I’ve done my best and now we have work to do. We’re returning to Vavala, Barden. This is where we begin our real war.”
25
Aftermath
Saker leaped to his feet.
The transition from eagle’s brain into his own body and mind was shockingly abrupt, roiling his stomach and jerking his heart into an erratic pounding.
He snatched up the crossbow and quarrels he’d brought from the ship, yelling at Juster and Prince Ryce, “Attack now!”
“What was the explosion?” Ryce asked. They were all on their feet and fully armed, ready to advance.
“Gunpowder kegs, near the bridge. Sorrel’s there, hurt.”
He didn’t wait for a response, but as he turned and ran he heard Juster shouting, “Don’t blow up any more gunpowder! We need it!” And then, “You, sailors, get after him. Go on, run!”
The bird’s-eye view of the shortest route to where he’d seen Sorrel was impressed into his memory. A mile, he estimated. He hurled himself at the terrain, taking a straight line by leaping rocks and tearing through bushes. It had been only seconds to fly back; now he was returning on foot. His last glimpse of Sorrel, still unmoving, told him to expect the worst. When he spared a glance behind him, it was to see the two tars given the task of following him falling farther and farther behind. He was vaguely aware of gunfire echoing and the battle cries of attackers hell-bent on slaughtering the Grey Lancers.
When he hurtled across the rise overlooking the bridge and the burning encampment, Sorrel was still where he’d last seen her, unmoving. A Grey Lancer, skin and clothes black with ash, was bending over her, trying to prise the dagger from her hand.