“You’re too much the gentleman to leave me here wounded in the company of four corpses,” I said, struggling to recapture some semblance of equanimity. “And if you go, you’ll never know what gave you away.”
“Damn and blast,” he grumbled. He removed his hat and unwound the scarf. But he refused to engage in conversation until he’d seen me settled more comfortably on his folded cloak, stuffed the four dead men in the notch, and bathed my lacerated arm and ankle in some vile-smelling liquid from a silver flask. He would have poured it down my throat as well, but I vigorously refused. My fit of explosive sneezing finally convinced him I couldn’t tolerate it.
He propped his backside on a rock and folded his arms across his chest. Damp locks of pale hair had fallen into his face, and his soulful gaze made me feel like patting him on his head. “Damoselle, I must beg you . . .”
“Your secret is safe, Lord Ilario. On my honor and by the life you saved.” One more sneeze. “And, truly, you just need to tie your hair up better.”
“You are the damndest . . .” He mopped blood and sweat from his face with a kerchief so plain and rough the public Ilario de Sylvae would not use it to wipe his shoes. “Here I thought Portier was the world’s most surprising person, a scrap of a librarian with the constitution of a dragon. And then a maiden who scarce reaches my elbow comes along and leaves one man dead, one bloodied, one frighted out of his boots, and another about to explode like a badly stuffed musket. A sweeping boy could have cleaned up the lot. I knew you’d be good for Geni . . . watch after her . . . but this is extraordinary.”
His boot poked at the zahkri’s scarlet tithe splattered across the rocks. “You’re not going to tell me who got away, are you?” He forestalled my apology with a raised hand. “It’s all right. Portier doesn’t tell me half what he knows. Says it’s for my own protection. I’m delighted the both of you consider that a worthwhile cause.”
“It was not my brother,” I said. “I’ve no idea where he is, and I’m terrified at what might be happening to him. And I would happily tell you many things, but I’ve got to get back, or Lady Eleanor will set the Guard Royale after me.”
“Oh, your brother from the Spindle. Never occurred to me.” He carefully brushed dust from his hat. “And you must never cross the ducessa. She could dredge up stories so scandalous about the Pantokrator he’d not allow his divine self into Heaven.”
Such silliness took on an entirely different cast when spoken by a swordsman who could dispatch three ruffians in three minutes without disarranging his black tunic—a serious man of gentle manners, dry wit, and expert sword, not a self-indulgent fool. Hardly innocent, as his own half sister believed, yet noble in the finest sense of the word. No playwright had ever benefitted from so skilled an actor.
His humor prodded me to smile. “First, thank you. And thank Duplais for sending you.”
“For sending—?” He rolled his eyes. “All right, I see I’m pinched between two of a kind. So have you ferreted out all
his
deepest secrets in your short time at court? Have you begun to assess his inerrant perception of righteousness? Now,
that’s
a study.”
Inerrant perception of right—
That was Cult lore. Did Duplais subscribe to the Cult of the Reborn, too? I’d never have thought it. “We’ve talked a little. Can you pass him a message?”
“If you say it’s important. He does try to save me back for his most critical needs.” The chevalier’s grin blossomed like sunrise, disarming the grandiose words—which I had no doubt were true. No informant could be so valuable as the queen’s own brother. And no lady’s champion could be better placed. Yet the least hint that Ilario de Sylvae had a gram of intellect, and he was a dead man. Lady Antonia could never allow a man of sense so near Eugenie.
“The Aspirant is here at Castelle Escalon.”
“God of all.” The chevalier’s pleasant face took on a stillness and sobriety that banished the last remnants of Castelle Escalon’s court fool. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I spied him last night, masked, of course, speaking with Mage Dante. He’s indeed a big man like my father. But his voice is not Papa’s, even purposefully disguised. And Dante doesn’t know his identity, either. They’re the unfriendliest of allies.”
Ilario kicked at a boulder. “I’ll tell him.”
“And ask Duplais who might have been guesting with his mentor at Seravain at the time of my sister’s death. A big man, too. Maybe a sorcerer, but not a collared mage. Not wealthy, but with the taste for it. Impoverished nobility or an academician, perhaps. One who rides in the colors of Delourre.”
“That fits no one
I
know.”
“The next piece is for both of you. Lord, your foster mother intends to rule Sabria again, as she did when Soren was a boy.”
“Not surprising. There are many good reasons I live as I do. Even Geni, who sees ill in no one, has become uneasy with Antonia of late. I did appreciate your warning about her, when you knew so little of me. Be aware, Antonia has many, many friends and allies. Far more than my sister.”
“If the queen births a healthy son, Antonia will see both king and queen dead within the hour.”
Ilario waved a dismissive hand. “She’d never dirty her own hands. We keep watch—”
“She murdered Cecile de Blasencourt. I heard her admit to it. And she was shocked when I turned up alive after Roussel and the kitchen girl ate the poisoned couchine. Perhaps in the past some personal principle stayed her hand. But no more. Not now she’s so close.”
His fair skin grayed. “Saints defend! Why would they want you dead? ”
“I don’t think the
conspirators
do. They could have killed me in the Bastionne . . . and ten times since. Lady Antonia strikes out on her own, and I don’t think her partners like it. They see her as a necessary irritation.”
To see his fair brow so smudged with dirt and blood was odd enough, but not half so much as seeing the sincere worry.
“And one more thing.” I inhaled a great breath, not believing what I was to speak. “Do you know that Mage Dante raises King Soren from the dead?”
“Pssh, tush.” Lord Ilario waved a hand and grimaced indulgently. Only the expression quickly faded and his hand fell to his side. “You believe this. You’ve seen.”
“I’ve seen him three times, lord, or someone amazingly like him, even to his sword and mode of dress. I spoke with him last night in the Rotunda gardens. Your sister receives him in her game rooms.”
And in her bedchamber.
“He is not a living human person.”
Ilario paced three steps beyond me, then whirled back again, his hand stilled in midmovement as he raked his hair. “I’ve assumed the deadraising was but foolery, a screen to hide the traitors’ real magic. I’ve never even—You’ve
spoken
to Soren de Maslin? You’re sure?”
“We exchanged words, yes.”
“Soren. Saints’ glory, Geni . . .” His whispered invocation of his sister’s name expressed a deep and private anguish that I had no time to probe. Passing along my information must take priority.
“Lord, you must tell Duplais: Dante’s deadraising is no feint. He’s perfecting it so it can be part of the rite. Tell him that exactly: part of the rite. He’s making a device that contains”—I felt a fool to say it—“the essence of a soul.”
Ilario did not laugh. “I’ll tell him. Soren, of all the god-blasted, cowardly sons of the Souleater. My sister worshiped the arrogant shitheel.”
I COULD NOT AFFORD THESE fits of the shakes. For the tenth time since arriving at the queen’s bedchamber, I pressed my back to the wall of the wardrobe room and relived the sensations of the morning: the zahkri splitting skin, penetrating rubbery flesh, and grinding on bone, warm blood spilling over my hands, the raging tide of molten anger that had flowed through my veins and sinews. Creator’s mercy, I’d killed a man.
My uncles had hung raw meat on spikes and ropes to give me practice with the knife, but nothing had prepared me for savaging living flesh. Rage . . . fear . . . had changed me into another person entirely.
I must remain alert. When the four attackers failed to return, someone would be thrown off balance. They’d want to know what I’d learned, who had helped me. They’d try something else.
I cradled my left arm, its hasty bandaging concealed under long sleeves, over my roiling gut. Saints sustain Guerin through his injury and speed him to safety.
Fortunately, the queen slept until almost midday. I could scarce rouse her for her first appointment, an excursion to a lace merchant’s warehouse with Lord Ilario and a few of her ladies. Even then, her manner was like a spring sky, hazy and changeable, all fragile layers of unfocused light and ephemeral cloud. Her brow creased as she stepped around the sorcerer’s circle, now bare of spellmaking objects, and picked up the stuffed doll that had fallen beside her screen. She set it on a high shelf, displaying only a passing sorrow, not the despair of the Rotunda. As if yet dream wrapped, she glided across the bedchamber, pausing in the middle of the floor for a long while to stare at her hand. With a fleeting smile and a long sigh, she touched her breast.
My own fingers clenched. Did she feel the brush of a soft beard and a ghostly kiss?
“Are you well this morning, my lady?” I said, a harsh and barren intrusion, as she curled up on the blue divan and closed her eyes.
“I’ve a plaguey headache,” she said, her drowsy smile tamping down any concern. “But elsewise quite well. I’m so hungry.”
Her odd behavior was likely a reaction to the sleeping draughts she’d been given. I needed to consult Roussel about the effects of such potions on a pregnancy. The smile’s origin, however . . . My cheeks heated. Were such activities possible with a revenant? Imagination took me where life never had.
I blinked myself back to the present and set out the tonics she took each morning. “Perhaps tea will rid you of the annoyance. Shall I add the red tincture? Or would you prefer the peppermint elixir first?”
Though I had ensured their innocence, my ring could not tell me whether continuing or stopping them better served Eugenie’s health. At the least, Antonia’s interests required delivery of a healthy child. We had many months ahead to worry about murder.
“Nothing but the shellblade tisane.”
Roussel’s tisane. That seemed a good thing. Perhaps she was more certain about her friends and enemies than she seemed. The living ones, at the least.
I brought the tea and began brushing her hair. My wounded arm ached and stung.
Caution and mercy forbade questioning her too abruptly about the events of the previous night, so I began obliquely. “The salon is abuzz with the news of the king’s homecoming.”
“This is
not
Philippe’s home.” Her languor vanished as if I had slapped her. “His heart is in his mountains. Air so thin one cannot breathe. Sun so brilliant it blinds the eye to softer lights. Winter so deep that only the strongest can survive. Summers so perfect, so incomparably rare and glorious, the heart shatters when they end so soon. Few can thrive in such rarified climes.”
I offered no rebuttal. No matter my linguistic fluency, the heart’s dialect remained a mystery to me. “Shall you accompany him on his progress ? The stay in Journia should not be very long.”
The simplest circuit touching all ten demesnes major should take two to three months. To sit with the demesne lords, review defenses, and hear reports and complaints must stretch the time near double. Surely the king would not leave his wife alone so long.
“He’ll wish to visit the northern demesnes before winter closes the roads, and be on campaign by spring, so he’ll have no time to drag women along. And, of course, if I am—” Hope and regret warred in her, all ghost dreams left behind. “It’s easier for him to travel with his men. A small party. Fast. He loves riding out in autumn.” But what and whom did
she
love?
“Autumn is a glorious time to travel,” I offered. “You might find it refreshing to get away from Merona, no matter your condition. Clean air and new sights. Adventure. Though no one appreciated home more than my mother, she claimed that travel enriched her blood, providing delights to dream on for years to come. And she rode horseback . . . scandalously astride . . . every day she carried my brother and sister. Some said Ambrose rode as if he’d been born on a horse—”
A flashing vision of split flesh, welling blood, and broken teeth, bared in pain, brought on another fit of the shakes and a shooting pain through my wounded arm. Eugenie, mistaking my silence for grief, drew my trembling hand over her shoulder and laid her silken cheek on it. “Shhh. We are a dismal pair, are we not, Anne? We could both use some distraction to give us happier dreams.”
“True, lady.” Our conversation fell into more mundane channels as I helped her dress. She painted chevrons of indigo beside her eyes. I had scarce pinned her sky blue mantle at her shoulders when a trumpeting tenor from the doorway brought a smile to her face.
“Morning, morning, morning! Dearest Geni, much as I treasure your company on a visit to Dame de Froid’s banquet of lace—” Chevalier Ilario breezed into the room in a flash of yellow satin. “Ah, Damoselle de Vernase! My wish of divine grace must surely set your mind to visit to Dame de Froid’s with us. Your natural charms could only be enhanced by a discreetly pinned fall of silk filet or perhaps a ruffle of reticella. But honestly, Geni, the hour!”