“So you and Imogene are of one mind?” Eleanor asked.
“Enough!” Oliver roared, and the gray mist trembled around him again. He shot the last fireball at another of the martials and the unlucky man crumpled. Two more misty globes replaced them.
Eleanor’s chest was tight with panic. The martials were proving useless. Her eyes fell on the Horn in front of her, and a ridiculous idea leapt into her mind. So ridiculous it just might work.
She picked up the Horn. “No, Oliver, it’s not enough! What did you give Imogene to make her commit treason? It couldn’t have been your cock, you pitiful, impotent, sorry excuse for a man! You limp-dick, treacherous, hypocritical—”
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Oliver screamed, and both fireballs shot at Eleanor’s face.
She lifted the Horn, just as she’d seen the jousting magician lift his shield last fall, and both fireballs struck the Fire-iron lump with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet. They shot back in Oliver’s direction. He ducked, but not fast enough. One struck his right arm, and the wall of protective mist blinked out.
The martials surged forward, but Oliver recovered quickly. He clambered onto the Council table, clutching at his useless arm with the other one. He stumbled down the table, and the remaining Council members tipped over backwards in their seats in an effort to get out of his way. He looked frantically at the door, the windows, the ceiling. A stray fireball struck the punchbowl and it shattered. Glass and dark water spewed out over the table. Oliver’s boot struck the water and shot out from under him. He seemed to float for a second, and Eleanor caught the surprise and dismay on his face. He landed on the table, or at least that’s what should have happened.
There was no expected whack of man against wood. When Oliver’s back touched the table the sheen of murky water bubbled and hissed. The magician screamed, and Eleanor winced at the pain in that one keening note. Gray mist whipped around Oliver’s head and he sunk slowly into the thin layer of water. He disappeared, a rock thrown into a choppy sea.
Two hours later, once the carnage was cleared and the Council Hall returned to its usual pristine and polished state, Eleanor sat at the table with Gregory, Dorian, and the king. Casper held the Horn in his hand. He seemed in no hurry to return it to its pedestal in the hidden chamber.
Perhaps he will keep it under his pillow, thought Eleanor.
The king called for four glasses of whiskey and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I’m not sure where to begin. Eleanor, when you came to me…honestly…I assumed Oliver would easily prove you wrong. I still can’t believe…”
Eleanor pitied the king, for he could not have looked more flummoxed had someone shown him irrefutable evidence that the sun would not rise tomorrow. The king lifted his whiskey glass. Dorian and Gregory started talking at once.
“Your Majesty I’m sorry I should have recommended more martials—”
“Father I had no idea—”
“Horns and fire, gentlemen. Hold your tongues, for once, both of you. My words are for my daughter-in-law, and her alone.”
It seemed to Eleanor that the air had left the room with Ezra Oliver. She swallowed, and waited for his wrath.
“Oliver is gone. Alive, dead, as of now we don’t know.” King Casper’s bushy brows came together and he jabbed one finger in Eleanor’s direction. “But if not for your diligence, and your keen observations, we would never have recognized his guilt. The wolf would still be among us.”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open, as did her husband’s and Dorian’s. They resembled a school of beached fish. The king continued.
“I’ve lived with Oliver so long I look his loyalty and his power for granted. I’ve been in his office a thousand times, and I’ve never paid one shred of attention to his books, let alone some potted plant. And goading him with his own arrogance…and sending his own magic back in his face….limp-dick…” The king chuckled. “The Oracle’s faith in you was well justified, Eleanor.” The king raised his glass, and Eleanor raised hers with him. Dorian and Gregory joined them, and she drained her glass as swiftly as either.
“You will make a fine mother to my grandchildren. Let us hope for a brother for Leticia soon, shall we?” Eleanor’s jaw clenched. She should have known King Casper would compliment her in one breath and cut her with the next.
“There is one last thing, and then we must all rest, for there is much work to be done,” said the king, as he set his empty glass on the table. “It’s about the Horn itself. I see no damage, but I wonder about this.” He picked up the piece of Fire-iron and pointed at the white hair.
“It was there when Roffi handed it over,” said Dorian.
“It’s firmly attached. Here’s the end.” He gripped the unicorn hair in his thick fingers. “Perhaps if I just—” He yanked hard, and the hair unwound, spinning the Horn on the desk.
The Horn shattered with a sharp crack. It covered the Council table with shards of Fire-iron. A tiny unicorn’s horn, about the size of a man’s finger, lay in the middle of the sparkling pile.
For a moment no one spoke. The king put his forehead on his hands. “Oh, dear HighGod above us. What have I done?”
“Vigor,” said Gregory.
He stood and left the Council Hall. Dorian and Eleanor left next, followed by the king, and made for the unicorn barn on the north side of the palace.
Eleanor did not know what she expected. Teardrop might charge her, or run from her, or worse yet, not recognize her. She only knew what her history books said, and what King Casper’s terrified reaction told her. Without the Horn, the bond between the Desmarais kings and the unicorns would almost certainly be broken.
Teardrop’s paddock was on the near side of the barn. Dorian, Gregory, and the king passed her and went on their own worried ways. Eleanor stopped at the gate. The mare stood at the back of the enclosure, near the stall door. Eleanor slipped under the fence rail. “Teardrop?”
Teardrop raised her head. Her liquid eyes took Eleanor in, but she said nothing. Eleanor came closer, and still the silence. “Teardrop?” she whispered.
The mare lowered her head. “Do you think me so small-minded?” she said. A fat tear slid down her muzzle.
“I—”
“No old dead thing could cleave me to you.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Eleanor, abashed. “I should have known.”
She slid her arms around the mare’s neck. When they were both composed, Eleanor asked a question. “Why, if the Horn had no power, have the unicorns protected it all these years?”
Teardrop answered as if it were obvious. “Because the kings asked us to protect it.”
CHAPTER 30
You Will Be Fortunate In Love
Eleanor sat beside the watching pool, waiting to be acknowledged. Nothing ever changed in this cavern. Even the blankets wrapped around Hazelbeth looked the same. By her third visit Eleanor’s sense of urgency overcame her sense of wonder.
Rosemary, of course, was as peaceful as ever. Eleanor resisted the urge to start the conversation herself. Hazelbeth finally turned in their direction.
“Rosemary,” she said, “and Eleanor Desmarais. How good to see you.”
They exchanged greetings, but when Rosemary seemed inclined to linger over pleasantries Eleanor took advantage of the first pause in the conversation.
“Hazelbeth,” she said. “If I may be blunt—”
“Why ask, dear?” said Rosemary.
Eleanor shushed her. “I cannot thank you enough for your assistance during the recent catastrophe—”
“Thank yourself, child,” said Hazelbeth, with her usual lack of enthusiasm.
“You are too generous, and I’m afraid I must ask for your help once again. The king himself seeks your counsel. Pray, can you tell me if Ezra Oliver lives?”
The Oracle’s rheumy eyes closed, and Eleanor feared she had fallen asleep. “I have known of Ezra Oliver for many years,” the old witch said, “but I have never met him. He does not hold with
my magic.”
“Don’t magicians have oracles?” Eleanor asked.
“Not many,” said Hazelbeth. She opened her eyes. “I am not precise enough for them. My magic is too philosophical.”
“Magicians prefer the hard and fast,” added Rosemary.
“Not an uncommon trait among men,” Eleanor said.
“I know he has great power. I have watched for centuries, and I have not seen his equal.” The lines in Hazelbeth’s brow deepened to small canyons, and she shook her head. “No matter. I cannot imagine he survived. I believe the water swallowed Oliver into his own vision. No witch or magician has ever been able to transfer a living body from one place to another. Some have tried, and all have died or disappeared forever. The pressure…the pain…if the water took him he is dead or as good as.”
“Praise HighGod.” Eleanor inhaled and her air-starved lungs thanked her. It seemed she’d been holding her breath since Oliver vanished into the table. “Please, one last question. I’m sure my stepmother, Imogene Brice, was party to Oliver’s plan. Can the pool tell you anything about her?”
“No. I sense someone involved, but your revelation of Oliver’s treachery did not destroy his protective spellwork. The identity of his accomplice is nothing but a haze.”
“Oh,” said Eleanor, deflating. “I cannot put their association from my mind. It must have had something to do with Sylvia…perhaps offing the poor old duke once I lost my head and position. Sylvia has certainly put herself in Gregory’s path at every opportunity…but one detail bothers me. How would it benefit Imogene to be rid of me, gain a crown for Sylvia, and then have the Desmarais replaced by the Svelyan king?”
Eleanor had spent several sleepless nights concocting answers and then discarding them. She rambled on, hardly hearing herself.
“Imogene has hidden herself away in my father’s house, even though she always stays with Sylvia in the duke’s rooms at Eclatant. She claims ill health, but Margaret visited her and said she has no obvious ailment.”
“Did Margaret ask after her opinion on Oliver’s demise?” asked Rosemary.
“She did. Imogene said we were all misled by him, but nothing else.” When Eleanor repeated Margaret’s message something in it tickled the corner of her mind, but Hazelbeth’s abrupt change of topic distracted her.
“I am sorry I disappoint you,” said Hazelbeth. “Perhaps I have other news that will be heartening.”
“Other news?”
“Yes. I have always watched for signs that could point to you. You are, as much as anyone can be, dear to me.”
Eleanor took it as a compliment. “Thank you.”
“I have seen that you will be fortunate in love.”
It was the last thing Eleanor expected to hear. She chose her words carefully. “It is, I regret, difficult for me to see the truth in that prediction. Can you tell me more?”
“No. That is all. Unfortunately, I cannot offer more clarity, but keep it close to you.”
“Do you—”
“Hmmm,” said Hazelbeth. “Close.”
Eleanor realized that was all the answer she would get.
Imogene’s new maid flittered around Eleanor’s head like a thirsty mosquito. She poured tea, set out cakes, and curtsied until Eleanor was certain the woman’s knees would give out. Eleanor sipped her tea and glanced around the sitting room of her father’s house. The past year and a half had wrought many changes. If HighGod had plunked her down in this room in a dream she would not have recognized it. She sat on a Fire-iron chair so intricately carved it would have been very much at home in King Casper’s receiving room. The rest of the new furniture matched the chair’s opulence, as did the elegant wallcoverings and two floor-to-ceiling tapestries. A painting of Sylvia and the Duke of Harveston hung above the fireplace, and Imogene herself glared down from opposite wall.
The Imogene in the portrait looked much livelier than the wretch sitting across from her. She had not seen Imogene since the Awakening Ball six weeks ago. The changes in her stepmother would have been alarming had Eleanor any concern for the woman’s wellbeing. Her collarbones were like tree roots marring what had once been a smooth path toward her enviable cleavage, but even those treasured assets had suffered over the past month. The bodice of her golden gown sagged dejectedly. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her hair had not seen a washing in at least a week. She looked all of her near forty years and then some.
“Missus Brice,” said Eleanor. “You look like a horse that’s been ridden too hard.”
“How kind of you to say so, Your Highness.”
Eleanor handed her teacup to the maid. “No wonder. The last few weeks have been trying for us all. Do tell, how have you been getting on without your friend Mister Oliver?”
Imogene stiffened, and Eleanor swore she noticed a tick underneath her stepmother’s right eye. “He was no friend of mine.”
“Leave us,” Eleanor said to the maid. The startled woman dropped one last clumsy curtsy and fled with her overly sweetened tea and frilly cakes. Eleanor turned back to her stepmother and tossed all caution and niceties to the wind. “I know you were involved. Admit it.”
Imogene’s nostrils flared. “I’ll do no such thing. You have no proof.”
“Yes, you are fortunate. Both accomplices dead yet here you sit.”
“I have no accomplices as I am innocent of your claims!”
Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “Banishment does provide endless hours of idle time, Mother Imogene, and you were often in my thoughts. Of course you have never born me good will, but I wondered. Would you go to such lengths, and put yourself at such risk, to satisfy an old grudge?”
Imogene’s formerly glorious chest puffed out. “You can’t possibly think I harbor those old feelings. I’m a woman of my own renown these days. The mother of a duchess.”
“Yes! A duchess!” Eleanor said with a smile. “But have you not always truly longed for a princess? I think so! So Mister Oliver promised he’d push Sylvia on Gregory once you were rid of me. I’m sure it all made sense to you. You get a crown, and he gets an ally close to it. You lied to Margaret about Mister Roffi’s intentions to get him into my rooms…easy that…the heart of one daughter is worth sacrificing for the success of the other…and then stoked a raging fire under the gossip kettles!”
“Mister Roffi lied to me—I never—”
“Bah, you gave him ample time to take the lay of the land, plant a thousand stolen trinkets, and supposedly seduce me.” Eleanor propped her feet on Imogene’s fancy Fire-iron table and laughed. “Besides, your own words gave you away. We were all misled by him. All of us.”
Eleanor waited for Imogene to speak, and when she got no reply Eleanor spoke for her. “I think Oliver lied to you. You didn’t know he would give the Horn to Roffi. I can imagine you, this whole time, thinking Roffi quite the fool for believing Oliver would turn it over. No, no, just a little ruse to get rid of Eleanor, then back on its pedestal it goes once Eleanor and Roffi have taken the blame. Who would believe a foreigner and a devil-eyed former chambermaid over the king’s Chief Magician? Oliver used you just as he used Christopher, and me, and King Casper’s trust. All in the name of the Svelyan king’s wild goose chase.”
Imogene set her teacup down so hard the brown liquid leapt out of the cup and sprayed across the table. “I would never willingly endanger the Bond. I had no intention—” Her eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut in a white line. They sat in stiff silence for a while, and Eleanor was reminded of a long ago carriage ride across Maliana, and a dozen street urchins begging for the Godsmen’s mercy.
“I thought so,” Eleanor said. She stood up. “You’re right. There’s no proof. I have my suspicions and eight years of living under your roof. I have your own daughter’s warnings. Your neglected daughter.” She thought of her own dear Leticia, only a few weeks in the world and so adored. “I pity you, incapable of loving anyone but yourself. And Sylvia, when it suits your purposes.”
Imogene�
�s dull eyes came into sharp focus, and an old fear stirred in Eleanor’s stomach.
“You’d say that to me,” Imogene said. “You, who robbed me of my one true love.”
Eleanor’s confusion must have shown on her face, because Imogene stood. She leaned forward, until her breasts were before Eleanor’s nose. With shaking hands, Imogene pulled a piece of tattered, yellowing lace from her bodice. She dangled it in front of Eleanor’s widening eyes.
The pattern. Two intertwined roses. The same pattern that graced Imogene’s ugly statue in the front hall. A piece of ripped lace…
Eleanor finally found her voice. “Robin.”
“Yes,” said Imogene. “My sweet Robin. You took him from me.”
“I don’t understand…how…” She shook her head. “You were so cruel to him.”
“You stupid girl. I had to be cruel to him. How else could I keep him with me, in my service? Drag him from house to house for five years? No widow comes to her new husband with a groom. Could I be kind to him, sing him songs, sew him shirts…show the world how I loved him with every breath in my body? Could he speak to me outwardly of his own love…a man from Meggett Fringe who couldn’t even write his own name?”
And it all made sense. Imogene rising at dawn to wake Robin…his patience at her horrendous treatment of him…his rage…no, despair, as he sliced away at her nightgown that afternoon. And here, in front of Eleanor’s face, hung the remnants of that sadness. In a bit of lace and a simple, beloved carving.
“But why did he leave?”
“Your father dismissed him. After you blathered away about what you’d seen.”
“No—I never meant for him to go. Father just told me to stay away from him—”
“You think Cyril would explain his plans to a ten-year-old child? He knew…when you told him…the groom, in hysterics, in the mistress’s bedroom? He knew what was between us. He threw Robin out with nothing but the clothes on his back, so Robin joined the army. He said he’d come back. Earn money. We’d run away. Me and him and my girls…” Eleanor could not believe it, but tears ran down Imogene’s face. “But he was killed. By a dragon, during the first transfer he worked at the Mines. His sergeant said he did it for the extra pay…”
The Cracked Slipper Page 33