Authors: Carol Berg
“My lord?” My gaze remained focused on the prince. We had rehearsed this introduction for hours, devising the precise words so that any assent on Perryn’s part would, by crown law, allow Bastien to convene a formal inquest.
“Your grandsire was contracted to a king. How is it possible you are contracted to this Bastien?” said Fallon. “Is the Registry now giving away its sorcerers to peasants and tradesmen?”
“The Registry only recently extended my contract an additional three years,” I said. My tongue did not even sting.
“A matter of justice that touches my royal person?” Perryn’s gloved finger massaged his lower lip. I could imagine him riffling through his secrets and indiscretions.
The ducessa flew through the doors with a salver laden with flagon, pitcher, cups, and a bowl, handling the burden as deftly as a serving girl.
Perryn brightened and waved her to hurry. “Come, come, dear lady, bring the wine. We’ve a new diversion. And, Fallon, find us stools that we may sit and hear out Remeni’s bound master. I’ll wager he tells us that justice demands Lucian paint my likeness when I become king. Proceed, noble Bastien de Caton.”
Only one who knew how to read expressions behind a mask could have noticed the predatory gleam behind Bastien’s wiry red-brown thatch. Perryn’s mocking consent would but hone Bastien’s waiting knife.
Bastien rose from his genuflection and waited politely until the young noble had brought three stools and wiped the dust from the seats. Fallon did not take the third stool, but remained standing beside his lord. Protocol forbade me sit, but I would not have done so anyway. Better I stay to one side, halfway between Bastien and the others, ready to defend my master if need be.
Once the prince and the lady were settled with wine cups and entwined arms, Bastien uncovered his pendant. The bronze hammer of his office shone in the torchlight.
“Your Grace Perryn, Duc of Ardra, Prince of Navronne, by your consent, witnessed by these men present, and with the power granted me by the Crown of Navronne, do I, Bastien de Caton, Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur, here convene an inquest into the untimely death of a girl child known as Fleure, found strangled in the vicinity of the hirudo Palinur and Necropolis Caton.”
He turned to me. “With the lawful capacity of my office—and forgoing any control or duress implied by my contract for your service—I do summon thee, Lucian de Remeni-Masson, to give witness in this matter, thy truth verified by the grace of the gods’ favor born in thy blood.”
I nodded.
Then he turned to the young noble. “With the lawful capacity of my office I do summon thee, Fallon de Tremayne, to give truthful witness in this matter, any perjury to be punished with all force of law.”
Yes, Fallon could tell us of his stepmother’s daughter, who had been suckled by the same wet nurse as Perryn’s own children. Perhaps not Fleure’s friend at all. Was it possible a prince would cuckold his
consiliar prime
? This one surely might.
And then back to Perryn. “Out of respect for your interests in this matter, Your Grace, I have not summoned every possible witness to this inquest. We can do so afterward, if you please. But a few additional witnesses will be arriving shortly, summoned upon the chance of this hearing.”
Perryn looked puzzled; Fallon, disbelieving. The ducessa, however, bloomed with a slightly bloodthirsty excitement that disgusted me. “A strangled girl? How intriguing! Tell us more.”
Bastien needed no encouragement to proceed apace. He must get his case flowing before Perryn realized what was happening.
“Step forward, Fallon de Tremayne. I wish you to identify the subject of this portrait.”
“My lord prince?” Fallon, increasingly wary, looked to Perryn.
“As he bids.” Perryn, brow creased, eyes narrow with uncertainty, waved him forward.
Fallon took the rolled parchment from Bastien and spread it open. “Why do you have a portrait of Ysabel? And this—?” His head jerked up, steel-hard eyes riveted on Perryn. Then they shifted to Bastien. “Where did this come from?”
It seemed as if the world gave a great sigh. The lily child had a name.
“Ysabel,” said Bastien, with polite interest. “And who might she be? Recall that the law obliges you to answer to the best of your knowledge.”
“She is born of my father’s wife.” Each word was broken ice.
Like a beggar’s pustule, my hatred for both the Duc de Tremayne and this prince swelled and burst all in that moment. I had not wanted to believe the connection.
Naive and stupid, Lucian. Was Pontia not enough to teach of the world’s savagery? Was the second fire here in Palinur not enough? Were the lessons of Necropolis Caton not enough?
No wonder the elder Tremayne wanted to tear out Fleure’s pale, shining hair, so like that of the master who cuckolded him. No wonder the child feared the devil lord so. Whether or not she knew of her mother’s fault, she would recognize her erstwhile father’s spite. Had he violated Ysabel in his own house before abandoning her to debauchery?
“You speak of his current wife, Annitra de Rosine, who is not your own mother?” said Bastien. His self-discipline was worthy of a pureblood. I wanted to spit fire.
“The whore, yes. But the child is innocent . . . and
safely
housed, cared for—”
“That will be all, lord.”
Bastien took the portrait from Fallon’s hands and showed it to the prince. All color faded from Perryn’s cheeks save the flush of wine. He chewed a fingernail like a nursery child and looked away.
As for Fallon, his narrowed eyes peered at Bastien and me as if we were messengers from the netherworld. I’d swear he had not suspected his liege of fathering Ysabel. Nor had he the least clue that the child was dead or how. And he cared.
“
Domé
Remeni, step forward.” Bastien passed me the portrait. “The Writ of Balance requires you to validate your blood heritage, if you please.”
I crouched down and drew a circle in the dust on the floor. Bastien had wanted to see the prince’s reaction if a void spell emptied a hole in front of him. But Perryn had lived near pureblood magics all his life and would not be so impressed as Bastien. On a whim, I invoked my aerogen spell, scooping the dust from my circle and tossing it into the air. The torchlight colored the enchanted particles with every hue of flame as they showered us like a rain of stars.
The ducessa’s face lit with delight. Fallon blinked, which I considered a success. Perhaps it did not instill Perryn with awe, as Bastien wished, but Ysabel would have liked it.
Bastien released a great breath. “Sufficient. Now,
domé
, tell us of this artwork.”
And so I began my tale. “Some half year since, on the first day of my contract with the Coroner of the Twelve Districts, the body of a child was brought to the necropolis. A beggar child, by the look of her, she had been found in a ditch below the inner ramparts of Palinur. . . .”
Imitating Bastien, I sped onward, giving no opportunity for interruption. “. . . and I released the power of my blood and began to draw her. As Prince Perryn himself has spoken today, my grandsire believed that I inherited not only the gift of true portraiture from my Masson lineage, but his own bloodline magic of envisioning the connections of history. Within me these two bents have merged, and so the work of my hand and my visionary investigations can produce truth that is beyond the evidence of my eye alone. By the gift of the gods that resides in me, I swear that this portrait is the result solely of my magic. . . .”
I had just shown them the second portrait depicting Fleure—Ysabel—with dark hair and a blood-stained shift, when the grand doors opened.
Our guide and doorward, Hugh de Orrin, announced the arrival of a new guest.
Like a whirlwind of silk draperies, High Priestess Irinyi swept into the Repository, a rolled page clutched in one hand. She lifted the veil covering hair and face, and her painted eyes took in our unusual surroundings before settling on Prince Perryn.
I stepped backward, hoping that between the wavering shadow, my new growth of beard, and the different mask, my identity would remain concealed for the moment.
“Your Grace,” she said, bending slightly in deference as she would to none but a king—or a prospective one. “What a pleasure to meet you at last. Your summons was at one so gracious and so mysterious, I hardly knew what to think.”
Her gaze swept across the rest of us. I merited no attention. Nor did Bastien. More surprising, Fallon’s face elicited no recognition, either. The ducessa, however, received a scornful twist of the priestess’s thin lips.
“Why have you brought me here, Your Grace? I was given to believe that certain other members of your household would join us in a
private
meeting.”
Perryn waved her off with a mirthless laugh. “I’m as mystified as you, priestess. Strange magics. Portraits of dead girls. Witnesses popping in and out. You’ll not imagine who is this roguish fellow!”
Bastien bent in a modest acknowledgment of her rank, but did not lower his eyes. “Sinduria! Greetings of your divine mistress.”
Her nostrils flared in distaste. “Who are you to address a high priestess of Arrosa?”
Bastien touched his pendant. “I am the Coroner of the Twelve Districts of Palinur, conducting an inquest sanctioned by the Prince of Navronne. It is my lawful summons has brought you here to lay before your prince and these varied witnesses the parchment you carry. . . .” He repeated his warning against perjury and held out his hand for the document—the one I had tried and failed to steal, the one Garen had bled for.
Eyes narrowed to slits, Irinyi stepped backward, clutching the scroll to her breast. “You’ve no right to temple privacies.”
“Lord prince, perhaps you could remind her?” said Bastien.
Perryn wagged a finger for Bastien to do the explaining. The finger flew back to his teeth. He would have no fingernails left by the end of this.
Bastien continued. “My authority is direct from Caedmon’s Writ, Sinduria. Matters of murder transcend petty privacies, whether those of a temple or the royal household.”
“Murder?” Was a trace of fear mingled with her shock?
“Aye. Murder. Even purebloods must open their secrets to a murder inquiry that falls within my jurisdiction. Surrender the document, Sinduria, else I shall step out and ask one of our prince’s lancers to bring fetters suitable for a noble lady.”
Her glare flayed Bastien and Perryn equally as she flung the scroll at Bastien and turned to go.
“Alas, priestess,” said Bastien. “You are not dismissed.” We could not have her running tales to the Duc de Tremayne.
“Surely the accursed Writ does not permit this cur to dictate my comings and goings.” Irinyi spun in place, her hand flying to her waist.
“’Ware, Coroner,” I snapped. “Dagger!”
Irinyi’s hand jerked away from the hidden sheath, and the blaze of her fury focused on me. “Who is this pureb—?”
As if Magrog’s own dagger had pierced her soul, she froze. “You,” she whispered. “Sneaking, lying, weaseling . . . murderer.”
“Your testimony is not yet complete, Sinduria.” Bastien’s insistence could not quite drown her accusation, certainly not its bitter echoes in my own soul. “Tell us of this document.”
“I’ll tell you nothing.”
Bastien remained cool. “Then perhaps another witness can explain what this page will tell us.
Domé
, would you continue your tale?”
“My master may, of course, command me to undertake any task he sees necessary to forward his business,” I said. “I began by locating the place the child’s corpus was found at the base of the eastern rampart of the Elder Wall. Magic revealed the girl child did not die there. . . .”
With Bastien’s help, I had carefully rehearsed my tale of unraveling Fleure’s murder, eliminating all mention of the Cicerons who found her. Nor did I announce my conviction that the high priestess was complicit in debauching children. Though my suspicions of Irinyi had long become certainties, I had no proof. Bastien insisted that it was better to bring a solid case against one, and then see how the pieces fell together. It was a rule difficult to swallow.
“I agreed to sign a document to relinquish all connection with this
false child, to forgo contact, interest, comfort, discipline, education, leaving all parental duties to the temple. The high priestess has brought a document like to the one she had me sign. But this particular document will be the one used to consign Ysabel de Tremayne, known as Fleure, to the Temple of Arrosa. Of course the signature itself cannot reveal the murderer, unless the one who delivered the child and the one who slew her are the same. I needed to investigate how children were used in the temple. And so I spoke with the high priestess of my particular circumstances, and she offered me the solace of the goddess’s devotions. . . .”
I spoke in a measured pace, making sure I did not take the listeners too far into the Pools of the Gods’ Chosen until Orrin announced our next expected arrival.
“Varouna!” Irinyi’s wrath came near shoving the soft young woman in pink ruffles back out the door she’d just entered. “You will not—”
“Silence, priestess,” said Perryn, straightening on his stool. “Let this shocking testimony continue.”
Bastien’s gaze met mine and unspoken words flew between us. Perryn had at last decided his roles in this scripting.
Noble adjudicator
.
Horrified prince
. Would
indignant father
follow?
“Step forward, Mistress Varouna,” said Bastien, and, as with the rest of us, he called her to witness under pain of the law. “You serve at the temple of divine Arrosa, do you not?”
“Yes.” If it had been possible, the woman would have split her fearful gaze equally between Bastien, the prince, and Irinyi, who’d taken possession of the empty stool.
“What services do you perform there?”
“I . . . I care for the temple’s younger charges . . . initiates . . . bath girls . . . serving girls, sweepers. I see to their prayers and that they eat properly and wash themselves. I teach them manners.”
Even as she spewed these commonalities, I wanted to scream at the vile woman.
Do you black their hair? Do you remove their undergarments when you bring them to tend naked men?