“I believe those on the doomed island of Glasearrach were forced to find a way to do so, Your Grace. We are a tough species. I would be glad to tell everything I know about the Bottom Dwellers to the supreme council.”
“I will take you there on the morrow, Father,” said Drohmir. She cast an apologetic glance at Sir Ander. “Your Protector must stay behind. The duke knows you, Father. He does not know this knight.”
Sir Ander did not like leaving his charge to the care of the dragons. He could tell by the expression on Father Jacob’s face, however, that no amount of arguing would convince the priest to forgo making this journey.
Drohmir rose to her feet. “And now, I am certain you will want to return to your yacht before darkness falls. I will see you in the morning.”
Drohmir inclined her head, then moved through the empty palace, going back to listen to the music that drowned out the sounds of death.
Sir Ander and Father Jacob walked in silence back to the yacht. Father Jacob was undoubtedly thinking about all the information he’d gleaned. Sir Ander was trying to figure out how to convince the duchess to take both of them to this supreme council. The sun had set behind the mountains, filling the sky with bright shafts of gold and orange. They entered a thick stand of trees that surrounded the palace, following a faded old trail. A rustic bridge spanned a rushing stream.
“So you plan to attend the supreme council alone,” Sir Ander said.
“Don’t be upset my friend. So far as I know, a human has never before been invited to speak to the supreme council. The duke knows me. He can vouch for me. What will you do?”
“I am probably safest here,” said Sir Ander.
“The days will be long for you, I fear,” said Father Jacob.
Sir Ander laughed. “Days of peace and quiet with absolutely nothing to do. No one trying to kill me. No one talking to dead saints. Did you see that stream back there? Probably teeming with trout. I haven’t been fishing since—”
Sir Ander stopped dead and thrust out his arm, halting Father Jacob. They were still in the tree line, still in the shadows.
“What’s wrong?” Father Jacob asked.
The afterglow lit the sky. Evening mists lay in the field in which they had landed. Ahead of them was the yacht, parked in the open field. A faint glimmer of light shone from a back window, shining through a chink in the curtain.
As they watched, two men wearing the crimson robes of the monks of Saint Klee emerged from beneath the yacht, carrying the strongbox between them.
“Curse my arrogance!” Father Jacob said grimly. “I am not the only one who knew where to find the books on contramagic—”
“No time for that now, Father!” Sir Ander grabbed hold of the priest’s arm. “More monks will be watching the yacht. We have to run—”
“Too late,” said Father Jacob.
Magical light began to glow, shining around him. Sir Ander turned to see the monks of Saint Klee approaching, light shining from the monks’ hands. Father Jacob’s eyes rolled back in his head. He staggered and them slumped to the ground and lay there, unconscious.
Sir Ander reached for his pistol. A hand caught hold of his from behind. A strong, sinewy arm circled his neck. Sir Ander struggled to free himself. The hold on him tightened.
“Relax, Sir Knight,” said the monk. “I am not going to harm you. You will go to sleep. When you wake, you will be in the Citadel.”
The darkness came very fast.
35
For now, the Braffan High Council believes they have Rosia competely at their mercy and will force us to dance to their tune. If they ally with Sir Henry Wallace, they will find themselves dancing with the devil.
—Countess Cecile de Marjolaine
The Countess de Marjolaine sent a message to His Majesty requesting that she be permitted to see him on a matter of the most alarming nature. His Majesty had canceled his levee that day due to an attack of lumbago, which was keeping him bedridden. He had given orders that no one was to disturb him. The countess was certain that he would not refuse to see her, and she was right. The page returned with the message that the king would allot her a few moments of his time, but only if she came immediately.
The countess looked at herself in the mirror. She was no longer Alaric’s mistress, but he was flattered to think that she took care to dress to please him. She was wearing a new gown of black silk trimmed with rose-colored ribbons. The sleeves ended at the elbow in a cascade of lace. The hem of the skirt was gathered and held in place by silk rosebuds in a style that permitted the wearer to reveal her ankles. The very next morning, every lady in the court (except those with thick ankles) would be summoning her dressmaker to the palace.
Cecile added a lace cap with rose ribbons, and a necklace of rubies that had been a present from His Majesty. Upon arrival, while waiting to be admitted into His Majesty’s presence, Cecile asked a servant if Her Majesty was with the king. The servant reported that the queen was supervising the Princess Sophia’s deportment lessons. Cecile received this news with pleasure. Sophia’s deportment or lack thereof would occupy the queen for hours.
Cecile entered the royal bedchamber to find Alaric, clad in breeches and a shirt, lying facedown in bed with a cloth spread with powdered mustard, flour, and egg whites across his back. The heat from the mustard relieved the pain of the lumbago. The king’s physician and assistants hovered near.
“I am sorry to hear you are not well, Your Majesty,” said Cecile, with a deep curtsy.
“Damn lumbago. It is all the fault of that wretched stag we hunted yesterday,” Alaric complained. “We rode after the beast for an hour at least and lost it in the brambles. We woke this morning and could not move. Well, Countess, what is so important that you have to disturb us when we are in agony?”
“The matter is confidential, Your Majesty,” Cecile replied with a glance at the physician.
“Get out of here,” Alaric ordered, waving at the physician. “And take this stinking concoction off our back. It’s done nothing except burn off a layer of skin.”
The physician removed the pungent cloth. He and his assistants gathered up their ingredients and departed.
Alaric rolled over with a groan.
“Help me to a chair,” he said to Cecile, dropping the royal “we” as he generally did when the two of them were alone.
She assisted him to rise. Grimacing in pain, he hobbled to a chair and sank into it with a groan.
“I do not like growing old, Cecile,” Alaric said after he was settled. “We rode for hours when we were young and then made love all night. Do you remember?”
Cecile poured him a glass of wine and brought it to him. He eyed her approvingly.
“You’re still a damn fine-looking woman, Cecile. I wouldn’t mind taking you to my bed again.”
“Those days are past us, Your Majesty,” said Cecile.
“So they are,” he said, sighing. “So they are. Now what is so important that you drag me from my mustard plaster?”
“Several ships from the Freyan fleet are in Estara, Your Majesty.”
Alaric frowned. “Estara? What the devil are the bloody Freyans doing there?”
“They were attempting to sail through the Straits de Domcáido. The Estaran navy caught them and refused to allow them to pass. Neither side has fired at the other, at least not at last report. There can be no doubt, Your Majesty. The Freyans are going to try to take Braffa.” She would have liked to have added, “I told you so.”
Alaric was so incensed he forgot his pain and started to stand up. He fell back with a grimace and a muttered curse. “Are the Freyans going to invade?”
“They have no need to invade,” said Cecile bitterly. “With Travia threatening to blockade Braffa and Estara threatening to take Braffa by force, the Freyans can claim they are there to protect the Braffans from their enemies. The Braffans will hail Freya as a protector and invite them to stay.”
“Might as well ask the wolf to protect a lamb! Tha
t bastard Wallace is behind this. How long can the Estarans keep the Freyans bottled up in the Straits?”
“Until the first foggy morning in the Breath, Your Majesty. The ships might have already slipped through.”
“What are the Travians doing?”
“The Travians have asked us for help. Since they have no navy, they are hiring ships from the Guundaran.”
“How did we get into this mess? How did this happen?” Alaric demanded angrily.
Cecile would have liked to tell the king that it happened because he had panicked and ordered the Rosian fleet out of the region. If the Rosian navy had remained there in strength, the Freyans would not have dared send their ships. Cecile had to swallow the words, which would have only infuriated him.
“Your Majesty, what is done is done. You must consider what to do now.”
“What do you advise?”
“You should immediately order Prince Renaud to send the Braffan expeditionary force north to Caltreau, take half the northern fleet and set sail for Braffa. They should travel the northern route and show our Travian allies we are acting to counteract Freya’s aggression. The longer we can hide our movements from the Freyans and the Estarans, the better. You can’t conceal the fleet’s sailing from the grand bishop, but if we move quickly we can catch him off guard, before he has time to warn his Estaran friends.”
The king shifted in his chair, trying in vain to find relief from his back pain. He considered what she said, then made his decision.
“His Highness will sail with his flagship and two frigates. That is all. The remainder of the fleet stays to guard the palace.”
“But, Your Majesty, that is hardly enough—”
“I will not compromise my safety and the safety of the capital. I am going back to bed. Summon the physician on the way.”
Cecile left the audience mentally and physically drained. Returning to her chambers, she found the salon filled with people. Upon her entrance, everyone immediately jumped up and pushed their way forward, calling out her name, hoping to attract her notice. She swept past them, telling the viscount in a loud voice that she was not holding audience that day. She entered her office, shut the door, sat down at her desk, and rubbed her temples.
Her maid, Marie, appeared with hot tea. Marie had been with Cecile since she had first come to court at the age of sixteen and knew that after meeting with His Majesty, the countess would be in need of restorative refreshment.
“Thank you, Marie,” said Cecile gratefully.
Marie poured the tea and set out a dish of pound cake. She then stood waiting quietly, her hands clasped before her. The countess knew immediately something was wrong. Generally Marie glided silently in and silently out.
“What is it, Marie?” Cecile asked, drinking her tea.
“There is talk in the servants’ hall, my lady,” said Marie. “I thought you should know what was being said.”
“Please sit down,” said Cecile.
Marie hesitated, then sat on the edge of a chair.
“The talk is about the Princess Sophia, my lady, and Conte Lucello, the handsome young man with the limp. I wasn’t going to say anything to you, because I have no evidence, but I fear Her Highness may have been indiscreet. I say ‘may’ because this talk could be nothing but malicious gossip.”
“What have you heard?” Cecile asked, troubled.
“One of the gardeners claims he saw the two in the garden late at night. They were locked in an amorous embrace.”
Cecile was alarmed. “Do you place credence in this report?”
Marie considered. “The man is well known to exaggerate. But I have no doubt, my lady, that he did see something, though perhaps nothing more than the conte kissing the hand of the princess. Still…”
“You are right. This rumor could do serious harm. Has it reached Her Majesty, do you think?”
“Her Majesty is trying to arrange a marriage for the princess with some wealthy Travian prince. She would be furious if she heard this rumor. It is well known that the conte’s aunt, the Duquesa de Plata Niebla, is promoting the match between the conte and the princess, and she is working to keep the queen in ignorance.”
“Keeping Her Majesty in ignorance is not terribly difficult,” said Cecile drily. “Ignorance is her normal state of being. What do you hear about the Duchess of Plata Niebla?”
“She is very private, my lady. She keeps no servants. No one knows anything about her or her nephew. I did hear something very curious about her, however. She is rumored to walk about the palace late at night.”
Cecile shrugged. “She has a lover.”
“So one would presume, my lady. Yet the circumstances were odd. I heard this from one of the footman of Lord Amalfi. His lordship being unable to sleep, he roused his footman in the middle of the night and sent him to the kitchen to fetch hot milk. Being half asleep, the young man took a wrong turn and ended up in the lower regions of the palace. He came upon the duchess, wearing only a negligee. He was shocked, as you can imagine. He thought at first she might be sleepwalking and didn’t know whether to speak to her or not, for fear that her spirit might not find its way back to her body. He is a very superstitious young man, my lady.”
“I assume the duchess wasn’t sleepwalking,” said Cecile.
“No, my lady. She told him she had lost her way in the palace and asked him to show her how to return to her rooms. He did so, my lady, and that was an end to it.”
“She hasn’t been seen wandering about since?”
“Not that I know of, my lady.”
“How very odd,” said Cecile, frowning. “She wouldn’t be meeting a lover in the pantry. Thank you, Marie, for bringing this to my attention.”
Marie rose, curtsied, and departed. Cecile sat at the desk, twisting the small golden ring, and thinking about how best to handle this delicate situation.
It was not surprising to her that the duchess was promoting the match. Marrying her nephew to the princess would ensure her place at court for the rest of her life. Cecile knew better than to try to warn the queen to guard her daughter from the count. The queen would immediately tell the duchess and Cecile did not want to give the duchess reason to be aware that she knew what was afoot.
Unfortunately, she thought, telling Alaric was likewise useless. If he knew this young man was toying with his daughter, he would overreact, exile both the young man and the duchess, create a scandal where there was none. At least not yet. She felt this was her fault; that she should have been paying more attention to Sophia. If she had, the girl might have confided in her, and she could have interceded, counseled her.
Cecile sat down and wrote a charming note to the princess, inviting her to the music room at four of the clock. The noise of the pianoforte would effectively drown out a confidential discussion. She then summoned D’argent.
After that, she started to drink her tea, only to discover it had grown cold.
D’argent arrived within moments. Grave and composed, he bowed to her, took his seat, and drew out his notebook. Cecile regarded him with profound gratitude. No wild, erratic winds ever disturbed the man’s calm. She could trust him with her reputation, her life. More important, she could entrust to his care the lives of those she held dear.
“What word of Stephano?” she asked.
“I was about to come to your ladyship when I received your summons,” said D’argent. “Your son is in Bourlet at the family estate. I considered it useless to try to have him and Monsieur Rodrigo arrested there. The locals are extremely loyal to the memory of his father.”
“As they should be. Perhaps someday Stephano…” Cecile sighed and left the sentence unfinished. “He has no idea I am paying the taxes on the estate, does he?”
“No, my lady. I have arranged it so that the money appears to be coming out of his pension. Fortunately your son has no interest in accounting. He allows Monsieur Rodrigo to handle the finances. I suspect Monsieur Rodrigo is aware of the truth, but he knows better than to re
veal it.”
“Monsieur Rodrigo! I should like to wring that man’s neck!” Cecile said. “Yet, even without him, the master of the armory reports that work on duplicating the magically enhanced steel is progressing well. Keep the warrant active, however. Being arrested might teach my son and that clever friend of his a lesson. What is Stephano doing at the estate?”
“Training dragons, my lady.”
“What else?” Cecile murmured. “He is his father’s son.”
She sat for a moment in silence. Her memories were like the miniature she kept of Julian, hidden away in a dark recess to be taken out every so often and brought into the light.
D’argent, sensitive to his mistress’s moods, waited patiently. Rousing herself, Cecile made a small gesture with her hand as if waving away the past, and returned to the present.
“Have you heard anything from the inimitable Monsieur Dubois regarding the Duquesa de Plata Niebla?”
“I know only that Dubois made a journey to Capione,” D’argent replied. “He has not yet returned. I have left word at his lodgings that I am to be informed the moment he arrives.”
“Very good. Something strange regarding the duchess has come to light.” Cecile related the tale of the duchess’s midnight peregrinations.
D’argent listened with his customary attention. “That is, as you say, most unusual. I happen to know the young footman in question and he is a steady lad, though, as Mistress Marie says, given to an unfortunate belief in country superstitions.”
“I would like you to investigate this further, D’argent,” said Cecile. “My thought is that if the duchess made one foray to the lower parts of the castle, she will make others. She is a cold and calculating woman who does nothing without a reason.”
“My view of her exactly, my lady.”
“D’argent,” Cecile said, stopping him as he was going out the door. “Be careful.”
D’argent raised an eyebrow.
“There is something sinister about this woman,” Cecile continued. “When her lips smile, her eyes remain empty and dark.”
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