“‘Those lads’ had nothing to do with this,” Dubois interrupted testily. “The constructs are contramagic, Master Engineer.”
Master Henri drew back to regard the three with dark suspicion. “Whatever you gentlemen and lady are plotting, I will not be involved. I bid you good night—”
“We are not plotting anything, Master Henri!” said Cecile sharply. “We are trying to foil a plot. Monsieur Dubois—who is, by the way, an agent of the grand bishop—found this crystal shard underneath the lift tank. Inspect the tank to make certain everything is as it should be.”
Master Henri was clearly loath to have anything to do with them or their green glowing crystal. The Countess de Marjolaine was a powerful force in the kingdom, however, and he could not very well refuse to obey her command. Master Henri activated the lights that hung from the ceiling, filling the chamber with a bright glow, and began to inspect the lift tank. The constructs he cast caused the magical constructs on the tank to glow with blue light.
“All appears to be in order, my lady,” he said coldly.
“Check the bottom of the tank,” said Dubois.
Master Henri cast him a glance of deep suspicion, but he did as he was told. Flattening himself on his back on the floor, he edged his way beneath the tank. There was silence, then they heard him gasp. Cecile and Dubois and D’argent exchanged glances. Master Henri wriggled his way from underneath the tank. His face behind the black beard was pale.
“Some of the constructs on the bottom of the tank are gone, my lady,” he said, sounding dazed. “Others are eroding. Even as I watched, I saw a construct vanish before my eyes!”
“Can you stop the destruction?” Cecile asked urgently.
“I can’t stop it, my lady, because I don’t know the cause,” said Master Henri in helpless tones.
“Check the other tanks,” said Dubois.
Master Henri dashed off. Cecile looked down at the crystal in her hand. She looked at Dubois and D’argent.
“This was a bomb,” she said quietly.
Master Henri returned. He was haggard and distraught. “I checked three tanks. The magic is failing on each of them. I have to assume the same is happening with the rest of the lift tanks.”
“You and your engineers can replace the magic that is being destroyed,” Cecile said. “How long will that take?”
Master Henri regarded her steadily.
“My lady, you don’t understand. The magical constructs were put in place when the lift tanks were built. We would have to remove every tank and start over from the beginning. The work would take months. Maybe a year.”
Cecile’s throat constricted. D’argent was pale and grave. Dubois shook his head and asked the question they were all thinking.
“And what happens, Monsieur Henri, when the magic on the tanks fails? Is the palace in imminent danger of falling out of the sky?”
Master Henri swallowed and glanced about in confusion.
“I … I don’t know, Monsieur,” he said. “Such a catastrophe has never been contemplated—”
“Contemplate it,” said Cecile.
“My lady, I must evaluate the situation…”
“Master Henri, six hundred people live and work in the palace!”
“I know, my lady,” he said unhappily. “This has all been so sudden. The liquid Breath in the lift tanks will continue to work until the constructs are gone and perhaps a short time after that. Many of the constructs are still in place. I have no way of knowing how fast that green magic will do its devil work. All I know is that I can’t stop it.”
“We are talking about evacuating six hundred people!” Cecile said, shaken. “All of them panic-stricken.”
“Worse than that, my lady,” D’argent added in grim tones. “The palace floats above Mirror Lake. If the palace were to fall out of the sky, it would crash into the lake. The water would overflow the banks and flood the city. We will have to evacuate all of Evreux.”
“If there was time…,” Cecile murmured.
“As I said, my lady, the liquid in the tanks will remain viable, though unstable.” Master Henri was thoughtful. “It might be possible to lower the palace slowly. I will know more after we have investigated.”
“Report to me the moment you know anything,” said Cecile.
“Report to you, my lady?” Master Henri was uneasy. “His Majesty—”
“Should not be troubled with this business until we have more information. When I know what our options are, I will inform His Majesty. The decision, of course, will be his. Master Henry”—Cecile fixed him with a look—“you will tell only your engineers about this. No one else. And you will swear them to secrecy. On pain of death.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Master Henri.
“If anyone else discovers this, I vow to God I will have every single one of you hanged.”
Master Henri swallowed. “I understand, my lady.” He bowed and hurried away to alert his engineers.
“We know now what Eiddwen has been doing down here at night. Sabotaging the lift tanks” said D’argent. “The question is: What do we do with her?”
“She has no way of knowing we have discovered her plot,” said Cecile.
“But she must be planning to leave the palace soon,” D’argent pointed out. “Before it crashes to the ground.”
“Leave Mistress Eiddwen to me,” said Dubois, opening his coat to reveal the concealed pistol. “I have full authority to arrest her. The question is: What do I do with her?”
“Before we do anything with her, there is something important we must consider,” Cecile said. “The Sunset Palace is the most visible symbol of the strength of the monarchy. If we evacuate the palace and lower it to the ground, the people of Rosia will want to know why. And we have no answers. His Majesty will be made to look weak, vulnerable.”
“And think of the ensuing chaos,” said D’argent. “Even if it is lowered slowly, the palace will fall into the lake. Thousands of people will be forced to flee their homes. Where will they go? Who will care for them? The evacuation alone could plunge the country into turmoil.”
“After the disaster with the Crystal Market, rumors are already spreading that magic is failing. Those will grow stronger,” said Dubois. “You are right, Countess. This would create a crisis of faith that could destroy our church and our country. We cannot evacuate the palace. And yet we can’t wait for the palace to plummet from the heavens. Our only option is to find a way to counter the contramagic. And only the duchess can do that.”
“Bring Eiddwen to my chamber,” said Cecile. “Be discreet, Monsieur Dubois. No one must see you. There is a back entrance to my rooms that leads to a closet. My maid will meet you in the passageway.”
Dubois nodded and hastened off.
“My lady, from what we hear, this woman is a murderess many times over,” said D’argent. “She is extremely dangerous. We can’t keep her locked in your bedroom.”
“An excellent point, D’argent, and one I had considered. Go to the Mother House of the Knight Protectors. Ask for a knight called Sir Conal O’Hairt. Tell him I am in urgent need of his assistance. Say that Sir Ander recommended him. Make haste. We have not a moment to spare.”
“I leave now, my lady,” said D’argent.
“And yet we may already be too late,” Cecile said softly.
37
We do everything in our power to keep our children from harm, yet we let them fall in love with impunity.
—Anonymous
Cecile made her way up the stairs and through the servants’ passages to her chambers. She did not want to meet anyone on the way. The time was now evening. In the palace, the noble lords and ladies would be dressing in their finery, looking forward to dining with friends or His Majesty, who was fond of entertaining. Later there would be dancing, and flirting, for the young. Their elders would sit down to cards and gossip; governesses would be supervising their young charges, feeding and sending them to bed. Nursemaids would be rocking cradle
s and singing lullabies.
Cecile tried not to imagine what would happen if the Sunset Palace, this enormous structure of marble and granite, glass and wood and magic, were to suddenly plunge to the ground. No one could survive. In one horrific moment, the country of Rosia would be left without a king, without ministers. Foreign nations would lose their ambassadors. Entire noble families would be wiped out. The disaster was too terrible even to contemplate.
Cecile would have to tell the king tonight, but she needed as much information as she could gather in order to advise him. Alaric was never at his best during a crisis. He tended to dither, decide one way and then another. This would be worse. He would most likely refuse to believe this tale of contramagic bombs and, to be honest, who could blame him? She would need to provide proof. He would need to hear the report of the master engineer, which meant Master Henri had better have answers. And Eiddwen had to be removed, handed over to the Knight Protectors who could keep her safe while they sent for the Arcanum inquisitors to force her to talk.
Cecile slipped into her chambers. She summoned Marie, telling her to keep watch in the passageway for Monsieur Dubois.
Marie knew better than to ask questions. “A note arrived for you, my lady. I believe it is from the Princess Sophia. You will find it on your desk.”
Marie left to take up watch in the passageway. Cecile went through to her office. The viscount was gone, thank God. She vaguely recalled giving him permission to leave early to attend a musical evening. Cecile picked up the note and was about to set it aside, thinking it was only a response to the note she had sent earlier, when something about the handwriting caused her to examine the note with more attention.
Sophia’s handwriting was as neat as that of a clerk. She wrote slowly, forming every letter perfectly. The princess had not learned to read or write until only a few years ago. The queen herself was illiterate, believing that a girl needed to know only one thing and that was how to catch a husband. Cecile had taught Sophia, much to her mother’s ire. The king sided with Cecile, saying his daughter would grow up to be an educated woman. The princess was quite proud of her accomplishment and she took great care when she wrote anything.
The letter should have been addressed formally, “Countess Cecile de Marjolaine,” but the envelope had only one word and that was illegible. It might have been “Countess” or “Cecile” or a confused combination of both. Cecile turned over the envelope. The back was smeared with sealing wax that had dripped all over the envelope. The hand holding the wax had been trembling.
Filled with foreboding, Cecile seized the letter opener, sliced through the envelope, and tore out the letter. She scanned it swiftly, then sank back in her chair. The letter fell from her hand. Cecile felt suffocated, unable to catch her breath. The room seemed to be tilting. She closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe. Once the room settled back into place, Cecile picked up the letter and read it again.
My dearest friend,
I am not supposed to be telling you this, for Lucello warned me to keep our secret, but I am so filled with joy that I had to tell someone. Lucello has asked me to be his wife. I know that Papa would forbid our marriage, but I cannot live without Lucello. I adore him with all my heart and therefore I have agreed to elope with him. We are going to the dragon duchies. I know nothing about this, but Lucello says we can be married there, since the law is different or something.
I fear you will be angry with me, Countess, but please don’t be. There is a good reason I am running away. Lucello told me that his aunt, the duchess, found out that Papa has agreed to my marriage with that horrid Travian prince. Lucello told me stories about the prince, how he has the pox and he beats his wives. I would sooner die.
You must tell Papa, Countess. You will know what to say. He will be furious, but I hope in time he will forgive me and welcome Lucello as his son.
Countess, you understand what it is to be in love. Wish me joy!
The letter was signed simply, “Sophia.” There were two postscripts:
1. The duchess goes with us as chaperone. We are to hire a post chaise so that no one will know us. I am to disguise myself with a veil! So romantic!
2. I am taking Bandit. He cried when he thought I was going somewhere without him and I can’t bear to leave him behind.
Cecile sat with the letter in her hands. Her fingers were so cold she could no longer feel them. Her own youthful folly and indiscretion came back to her. So many lives forever shattered, destroyed. Her husband’s cruel death at the hands of a jealous king. A bastard son who had always hated and despised her.
“If only, if only, if only I had paid more attention! If only I had talked to Sophia, warned her. My fault,” Cecile said in a choked voice. “This is my fault. And now, what is to be done?”
She dropped the letter and sprang to her feet, running to the door with the idea that there might yet be time to stop them. She flung the door open, only to find Dubois standing on the other side. One look at his expression and she knew all was lost.
“The duchess is gone and her nephew with her,” Dubois reported, entering and shutting the door behind him. “She has escaped us!”
“That is not the worst of it.” Cecile picked up the letter and showed it to him.
Dubois read it. He looked at her, aghast.
“This is terrible!”
“Beyond terrible,” said Cecile. “Think of the scandal. Sophia’s reputation—”
“‘Scandal’!” Dubois repeated. “‘Reputation’! Consider what this means, Countess! Eiddwen and Lucello are cold-blooded, ruthless, sadistic killers who deal in blood magic. God knows what they mean to do with the princess! If we are lucky, Eiddwen plans to merely use her as a hostage, for the duchess must know that we would eventually find out what she had done and come after her. If not, and they contemplate some unholy rite—”
Dubois shuddered. He laid the letter down on the desk. “You must tell the king to call out the guard—”
“No!” Cecile said firmly. “You discount the scandal, but I cannot. Sophia’s life will not be ruined as was mine. We cannot tell the king. He will need all his wits about him to deal with the contramagic crisis. This terrible news would destroy him. He would be able to think of nothing else.”
Dubois was grave. He knew the king by reputation, knew that she was right in what she said.
“There is only one thing to be done. I will go in pursuit of the princess,” said Cecile.
“You, my lady!” Dubois gasped. “You can’t be serious! The danger, the risk is too great!”
“Sophia trusts me. She will listen to me.”
“My lady, no, you must think this through—”
“I have, monsieur. As you say, Eiddwen may be using the princess as a hostage. If you send an army, Eiddwen might harm her.”
Cecile sat down at her desk and began to write. At last she could think calmly, make plans with a clear mind. The room was silent except for the ticking of a small clock on the mantelpiece. Dubois roamed about, fiddling with his hat, twirling it in his hand, dropping it twice. Cecile paid him no heed. She wrote two letters, both of them short, and enclosed both in envelopes, sealing and stamping them with the sealing ring that bore her insignia, the bee. One letter she handed to Dubois, the other she tucked into the bosom of her gown.
“Once you have Master Henri’s report, take this letter to His Majesty,” she said.
Dubois gave a dry cough. “His Majesty would not admit me to the royal presence…”
Cecile smiled. “Grand Bishop de Montagne is in the palace. He was at the levee and he remained to meet with the king’s ministers. Once you know the extent of the peril, go to Montagne, tell him everything. He will accompany you to the king. The grand bishop and I have been on opposite sides of a good many conflicts, but I respect his intelligence, as I respect yours, Monsieur Dubois. With God’s help, you both will be able to advise His Majesty in this crisis.”
Dubois made a little bobbing bow to acknowledge the
compliment.
“I have written to His Majesty that due to the danger, I have taken Sophia with me to my country estate. We have left quietly, so as not to start a panic.”
Dubois considered this, and nodded to indicate his approval. “Though I still do not like the idea of you pursuing these murderers alone, my lady.”
“I will not be alone. Ah, here is D’argent and Sir Conal. Welcome, Sir Knight. Thank you for coming so swiftly.”
“Countess de Marjolaine,” said Sir Conal with a deep bow. “I am honored to be of service.”
Cecile had never met Sir Conal O’Hairt, but she had heard her friend Sir Ander speak highly of him, once telling her that if she ever required help she could turn to Sir Conal. He was a short man with curly hair and the sunburned, leathery skin of one who spends a great deal of time outdoors. He had broad shoulders, muscular arms and a thick neck, with the look of a Trundler about him, which would explain his name. Cecile was surprised and concerned to observe that he walked with the aid of a cane.
Sir Conal saw the direction of her glance. “Knee goes out on me sometimes, milady. Nothing I can’t handle.”
He was not apologetic, merely explanatory. His light blue eyes met her gaze without flinching. He stood calmly under her scrutiny: respectful, but not intimidated; a man who knew his own worth; an honest man, loyal and courageous, or he would not have been chosen to be a Knight Protector. Sir Ander had said she could trust him. Cecile felt she would have trusted Sir Conal even without her friend’s recommendation.
“What has gone wrong, my lady?” D’argent asked, alarmed. “Where is the prisoner?”
“Monsieur Dubois will explain while I change my clothes. I won’t be long. Are you armed, Sir Conal?”
“I am, milady.” Sir Conal pulled aside his cloak to indicate the baldric he wore, with its loops for pistols. He was also carrying his sword at his side.
“Excellent. You and I will be making a journey. We will need to travel fast and light. A young woman has been persuaded to make an elopement. I have reason to believe her seducer and his accomplice are bound for the dragon duchies. I must stop them for the sake of this young woman’s reputation. I would like you to accompany me. They are traveling by post chaise. What is the fastest way we can catch up with them?”
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