“We told him what you told us about this priest of yours and his strange theories.”
“What did Montagne say?”
“That Father Jacob was a lunatic,” Alaric said angrily. “The grand bishop was furious. He knew all about your meeting with Father Jacob. He said he was dismayed to hear that you had not only listened to such heretical talk, but that you were spreading it. He said I was to warn you to look to your soul. You know I cannot protect you from the wrath of the church!”
What Cecile knew was that if she were accused of heresy, the king would be the first to throw a blazing torch onto the oil-soaked wood. She watched the water running in rivulets down the windowpane and thought about leaving the palace, returning to her estate. Leave behind the intrigue, the spying, the lying and pandering, the flattery, the false smiles and polite mouthings. She would retire with her books, her music, her memories …
But that would mean leaving her beloved country in the hands of fools.
Cecile gave considered approval. “You played the matter most cleverly, Your Majesty. I congratulate you on your triumph.”
Alaric eyed her narrowly. He quite obviously had no idea what she meant, but he didn’t want to say so. He waited for her to tell him what triumph he had gained and how he had gained it.
“Montagne is angry because he is afraid, Your Majesty,” said Cecile. “He is afraid because the arrow you loosed struck too near the mark.”
The sonata ended. They both fell silent until Sophia began playing a waltz.
“Hmmmm,” Alaric muttered, frowning, noncommittal, but glad to hear more.
“You know Montagne. He is generally cool and reserved. The very fact that he forgot himself and began hurling threats means you touched a raw nerve. Your Majesty realizes that if it could be proven the grand bishop has completely mishandled the church’s governance of magic, the crown would be justified in taking control.”
Alaric drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose. He was the absolute monarch of Rosia. His navy ruled the world. He held the power of life and death over his subjects. He controlled everything except the one thing he wanted, the single most powerful force in the kingdom—magic. Centuries ago, during the Sunlit Empire, magic had belonged to Rosia’s kings. Then came the Dark Ages. In a desperate effort to save his kingdom from chaos and civil unrest, King Armond Tiernay gave the church control over magic. King Alaric daily cursed this weak ancestor of his. He had always longed to take the magic back.
“We would need proof of the church’s mismanagement,” said Alaric. “Something other than a lunatic Freyan priest with a hole in his skull.”
“What if the grand bishop had been warned months ago that the Crystal Market was in danger of collapse and he chose to conceal the warning rather than admit the church had made mistakes?”
Alaric’s eyes glittered. “Is that true? Can that be proven?”
“I will need time. We must move slowly and deliberately, build an ironclad case. Above all, we must move in secret. I need not tell Your Majesty that what we are doing is very dangerous. If any hint should reach His Eminence—”
“You may rely upon us,” said Alaric, and in this if in nothing else, Cecile knew she could trust him.
Alaric would never jeopardize his chance of achieving his dearest wish, his heart’s desire. He departed for the memorial service in such a good mood he was forced to temper his joy to suit the sadness of the occasion.
Cecile was alone with the princess, a rare occasion they both enjoyed. Sophia was fifteen, with a slender build, chestnut hair, and a soft, winsome face. She was generally surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, whose companionship she might have enjoyed had these ladies been close to her own age or of her own choosing. They had all been selected by her mother, however, and although they flattered and petted her, Sophia was smart enough to know they were spying on her for her mother. Consequently, she viewed them more as prison guards than companions. This day, the ladies-in-waiting had all been given leave to be with their families.
“You played the waltz well, Your Highness,” said the Countess, coming over to sit beside the princess. “I would say you must have practiced it a great deal lately.”
Sophia blushed and lowered her eyes.
“The waltz has become my favorite,” she said shyly.
“Ah, and is there a reason for this?” asked the countess.
“I have been longing to tell you!” Sophia said, her eyes lighting. They dimmed a moment later, filling with tears. “I feel so guilty, though. I should not be playing waltzes or thinking of … of dances when so many have died.”
“Come, my dear, we will speak of this matter of the waltz quietly together in your room,” said the countess.
The two left the grand salon and walked to the princess’s chambers. They were greeted by a flop-eared, brown-eyed spaniel that tumbled about at the feet of the princess, tangling himself in the hem of her skirts and begging to be picked up. Sophia lifted the dog and kissed him on the nose. He licked her face and snuggled in her arms.
“Ah, I heard someone found Bandit,” said Cecile. “He seems quite recovered from his ordeal.”
“It started when he chased the Duchess of Waverly’s cat. You know the one she named Alfonso, that horrid white fluffy beast she makes her servant carry around on a silk pillow. The duchess was extremely upset. I can’t think why. She should be glad Bandit gave that fat, lazy cat some exercise. Anyway, Alfonso ran down I don’t know how many flights of stairs to the bottom of the palace. Bandit never gave up the pursuit,” Sophia added proudly. “Spaniels are hunting dogs, you know. I wish I’d seen the chase.
“One of the servants caught Alfonso, but Bandit got away. Where do you think they found him? He was in the kitchen pantry!” Sophia laughed and nuzzled the dog with her chin. “Such a smart dog! Cook discovered him on top of a table in the larder. He’d eaten an orange pudding and some of a roast goose when she caught him. Of course, he was hungry after all that running, poor dear.”
Cecile began to laugh. Sophia was delighted.
“See, Bandit, you have made the countess laugh. She is so solemn and serious all the time. We almost never see her happy. And now, with your new collar, you will never be lost again!” Sophia cuddled the dog.
“I would keep him away from Alfonso,” said Cecile.
“Indeed I will. Dreadful beast. Look where he scratched Bandit on his poor nose!” Sophia exhibited the dog. “I cannot thank you enough for the magical collar, Countess. You must tell me how it works.”
Sophia held up Bandit to show off the collar. The countess duly admired the new dog collar, which was made of leather set with a diamond, one of a pair cut from a single stone.
A crafter had placed constructs in the two diamonds, connecting the jewels. The crafter set one diamond in the collar and mounted the other onto a silver compass. The next time Bandit got lost, the servant who took care of him would channel magical energy into the compass and the unique connection between the two halves of the diamonds and constructs would point the compass toward the collar.
Cecile explained how the collar worked. Sophia tested it by making Bandit “hide” in the wardrobe, where he began to chew on one of her shoes. She scolded him by giving him sweetmeats and then she and Cecile sat down to an elegant luncheon, which included neither orange pudding nor roast goose.
The princess’s chambers were decorated in shades of rose and mauve, with white moldings trimmed by gold gilt. The rooms were filled with every luxury. Fine paintings hung on the walls, including one done of Bandit in a white neck ruff that the spaniel had eaten while sitting for his portrait. Crystal lamps gave off a rosy glow. A fire burning in the grate took the edge off the rainy damp.
After they had finished dining, Sophia sat down on the floor to play with Bandit. The countess took a turn about the room. As Cecile drew near the fire, she noticed a new miniature placed in a prominent position on the mantelpiece.
“What is this?” she asked,
lifting it.
Sophia glanced up. She made a face. “Prince Dieder Oertker of Travia. He wants to marry me. Mama says he’s very rich, but I think he’s very fat. Here, Bandit. We will show the countess your new trick. Fetch your ball and you shall have a sugarplum.”
Sophia rolled the ball. Bandit watched the ball roll past him, yawned, and scratched at the new collar. Sophia laughingly crawled after the ball herself to show him what he was supposed to do.
“We will try this again,” said Sophia, feeding the dog a sugarplum as a reward for not behaving.
Cecile watched the princess romping with the little dog and looked from the girl to the miniature. The artist had painted an extremely flattering portrait, but he could do little to alter the round, corpulent face and full, flabby lips. Cecile knew Prince Dieder, a scrofulous reprobate, whose vices were the sort people spoke of in whispers. He was old enough to be Sophia’s grandfather.
Prince Dieder was said to be desperate for an heir, his only son having died of smallpox. The prince had married two young wives in recent years trying to produce a new heir and buried both women; rumor had it they had died of his brutal treatment.
Royal marriages were not meant to be love matches. This marriage was attractive from both a monetary standpoint—the prince was fabulously wealthy—as well as a political one. The wedding would more firmly establish ties between the royal families of Rosia and Travia.
Cecile resolved to mention what she knew of the prince to King Alaric. He had thus far refused to arrange a marriage for his daughter, seemingly unwilling to give her up, despite the queen badgering him about it. Sophia was certainly old enough to wed, and relations with Travia had been strained since he had pulled the royal navy from Braffa, leaving Travia in a weakened position. Add to this the fact that the royal coffers were almost empty after the huge expenditures made to refit the naval ships to use the liquid form of the Breath and she feared Alaric might be persuaded to make the deal.
“Impossible,” Cecile murmured. “She is still a child.”
She placed the miniature on the mantelpiece facedown and asked the princess to tell her the story of the waltz. Sophia curled up on a divan, her dress gathered around her ankles. Bandit slept in her lap.
“A fortnight ago, before I was so ill, I was with my ladies-in-waiting in the salon. Lady Angelina and I were playing duets when Lucello … I mean the conte”—Sophia blushingly corrected herself—“came into the room.”
“The conte?” Cecile asked.
“The Conte Osinni,” said Sophia. “The nephew of the Duquesa de Plata Niebla. You must have seen him at court. He is so handsome and elegant, with beautiful manners. He does have a slight limp. He was wounded in some battle or other. He was an officer and says the wound was minor, but I know he must have done something very heroic. What was I saying?”
“This handsome Conte Osinni came into the room.”
“Oh, yes, Lucello … I mean the Conte Osinni stopped and stared about in confusion. He is new to the palace, you see, and he’d gotten hopelessly lost. He apologized and started to leave, but Lady Angelina whispered to me that she heard he played the pianoforte beautifully. I could not find the courage to invite him to play for us, but he overheard and he offered. My ladies longed to hear him and so I permitted it.
“He looked through my music and found the waltz and said he knew this must be one of my favorites. He sat down on the bench beside me. I was going to move, but he asked me to stay and turn the pages for him. I was still going to move, but Lady Angelina pushed me down and my other ladies were all laughing. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t move a muscle.
“He played and looked at me the entire time. His eyes are deep brown and he has black eyelashes and his hair is chestnut and smooth. He has elegant hands with long, tapered fingers. His smile is lovely, warm and yet melancholy. I see the shadow of some secret sorrow in his eyes.”
Sophia went on to talk about the Conte Osinni and the impromptu concert and how he had played not only the waltz, but more pieces as well. Sophia had at last found courage to turn the pages and once his hand had brushed hers, quite by accident. He had made a lovely apology, so her ladies told her.
Cecile listened and thought to herself that she had been wrong. Sophia was not a child. She had emerged from the silken cocoon of childhood, but her wings were still delicate, too fragile to fly. She was basking in the sunshine of a young man’s smile, warming herself in a glorious state of infatuation.
Cecile made a mental note to find out what she could about this handsome count. Thus far, her agents could tell her nothing about the Duquesa de Plata Niebla except that she appeared to be what she claimed to be.
Sophia continued talking about the count: what he said, how he said it, what he was wearing, how he wore it. Cecile was only half-listening. She let Sophia chatter happily. Her thoughts turned to other, more serious matters.
D’argent had managed to smuggle Monsieur Moreau onto a ship bound for the Aligoes Islands. D’argent had located the architect’s reports and removed them from the office only moments before the church officials arrived with an order from the grand bishop to seize all documents, arrest everyone, and close down the business. D’argent was currently engaged in copying the reports. He would provide her with a set and send one to Father Jacob.
Cecile’s spies had been at work in Freya, reporting that Sir Henry was spending an inordinate amount of time at a naval shipyard. They could not find out what he was doing, for the shipyard was heavily guarded. Cecile had no doubt that he was using the formula for the magically enhanced steel to armor a sailing vessel. If that proved successful, he would armor the entire Freyan fleet. For the moment, she could do nothing to stop him.
Thinking of Sir Henry turned her thoughts to Stephano. She had still not heard from him. She reminded herself time and again of Sir Ander’s encouraging words. She would not let herself think that Stephano might be dead and yet she couldn’t help herself. When Sophia jumped up and began to waltz with Bandit for a partner, Cecile was thankful for the distraction.
She watched the princess whirl about the room, holding Bandit around the middle. His ears flying, he barked wildly. Cecile was glad to see Sophia well and happy. King Alaric had told her that this last illness had been extremely bad. She had been in terrible pain, half out of her mind. She kept pleading with her healers to “make the drumming stop.” The Duquesa de Plata Niebla had given her a dose of some herbal concoction, which had caused Sophia to fall into an exhausted sleep.
Cecile supposed she should say a word of caution to Sophia for dreaming too much of this handsome count, whom no one seemed to know. Cecile’s gaze went to the mantelpiece, to the miniature of the corpulent old prince. Hopefully Sophia would not be forced to marry him, but she would be bartered off to some man someday.
When she was married her days of waltzing, of turning pages for handsome young men, and even of romping with her little dog would be over. Such days, bright with sunshine, were fleeting and, once gone, would never come again.
Let her at least have these moments of innocence and joy to look back upon, Cecile thought. She kept silent on the subject of the count and enjoyed watching Sophia waltz.
* * *
The Duquesa de Plata Niebla accompanied the royal party to the cathedral. She was heavily veiled, so that no one would notice that while everyone else was weeping, her eyes were quite dry. She sat through the service and tried to keep from dozing off. When the service finally ended, the people filed out of the church to discover the rain had ceased. The sun came out, which the archbishop termed God’s blessing. The king and queen entered the royal carriage to return to the palace. Members of the court followed in their own carriages. The mourning period would last thirty days. During that time parties, balls, galas, celebrations of any kind were prohibited out of respect. The theaters were closed, as were the opera houses.
The halls of the palace were empty as the noble lords and ladies went immediately to their rooms and
shut their doors. The queen had wanted Eiddwen to remain with her, to discuss the service and gossip about what everyone had been wearing. Eiddwen had work to do and she managed to escape the queen, saying that she was so overcome with grief she needed to be by herself.
Once locked safely in her own chambers, Eiddwen poured herself a glass of champagne and raised the glass in a silent toast.
“To Xavier and the success of your grand experiment.”
Xavier Meehan XIV, the ruler of the Bottom Dwellers, had proven that the plan to slowly choke off the Voice of God in the world Above would work. The plan had been the dream of his grandfather; his father had developed the means to make the dream a reality; and the son had turned the dream into a nightmare for those in the world Above.
On the sunken island of Glasearrach, at the bottom of the world, men and women sat in a sacred circle, beating their drums and chanting the sacred chants that were slowly breaking down every magical construct in every church, ship, dwelling, and palace in the world.
Eiddwen had never seen the drums. She had heard them described by Xavier during one of the few brief times he had spent Above, and by Brother Paul and others. She longed to see them. She could imagine them—a hundred drummers seated in a circle in the sacred temple.
The drummers beat drums inscribed with ancient constructs designed to channel contramagic. They chanted the words to blood magic rituals, the only magic known to be able to control the contramagic. The drumming created a resonance in the Breath that spread the effect of the contramagic to the world Above. This effect was slower, more gradual than the green fire weapons, for it was spread over a large area. The shattering of the Crystal Market was proof that the voices of those Below could silence the Voice of God Above.
The large drums were made of wood covered in human skin taken from sacrifices in blood magic rituals. Priests skilled in the heinous art burned contramagic constructs onto the skin and then flayed it off the bones while the victims screamed in agony. Blood magic gained its strength through pain and terror.
Storm Riders Page 27