Flesh and Spirit (39 page)

Bia laughed uneasily. My mother drained another cup. Max raised his wine cup with one hand, and with a motion of the other drew from it a burst of colored sparks, swirling the flying particles into a glittering ring that hovered over his head.

“…and if the fanatics win the day and chaos reigns”—with a quick spread of all five digits, he dispersed his crown into a shower of color that tickled my nose—“then who is more likely to survive than a pureblood, who can terrify the fearful masses with a twiddle of his fingers?”

Fool
, I thought.
What do you know of survival?
Unless he had learned to conjure food from grass or wine from bare vines, neither finger tricks nor Cartamandua magic would fill his belly if these end times came to pass. He had seen war, but his royal contract would have assured that he had never gone hungry, never slept but coddled in furs, never lacked for clothes, servants, or gold enough to buy whatever he lacked. I looked around the table at my family, entrenched in this strange world I had so long refused, and of a sudden, felt older than all of them. They had no idea what they faced if the Harrowers had their way.

As if summoned by Max's cheerful bloodthirst, servants descended on us like a plague of silent gnats, carrying platters of roast duck that I knew would have skin like crisp bits of heaven, delicate fish sprinkled with rosemary and nuts, and plump vegetables golden with saffron.

Unable to partake, I closed my eyes and imagined myself away from this table. How fine it would be to be sitting in the light-bathed Gillarine refectory eating stewed parsnips, stolid Brother Cadeus scratching his nose as he droned some interminable lesson at the lectern, Brother Robierre kindly buttering old Abelard's bread, and Jullian and Gerard sitting on either side of me, grinning at each other around their soup spoons. Such a room needed no marble hearth to warm it. I had not thought I would ever miss the abbey so.

Which thoughts, of course, led me back to the nagging worry about Gerard. Had the boy ever been found? He'd not seemed at all a rebellious sort, but always performed his duties cheerfully. What would lure him from the security of Gillarine? Gildas had thought to send him to the dolmen with my provisions, but I'd told him not to. Deunor's fire…had he done it anyway? What if the boy had gotten lost or tripped and cracked his head on a stone in the night? No, no. Gildas would say something if he'd sent the boy into danger. And then my thoughts slipped further afield. How much more interesting this dinner would be were the members of the lighthouse cabal our guests—enigmatic Luviar, incisive Brother Gildas, the scholar-warrior Lord Stearc and his intelligent secretary Gram, and Elene…Elene in a woman's gown that clung to her ripe figure…

“…but I was surprised to hear of the Karish hierarch's move. After so many years of loyalty to Perryn, to turn on him so abruptly.”

Thalassa's comment snagged my attention. My eyes snapped open.

“The hierarch saw which way the wind was blowing,” said Max, gesturing to a serving girl to sauce his meat with fruit conserve from a red enamelware dish. “
Providential
that he would find the long-lost writ so soon after Prince Bayard trounced Perryn at Wroling, don't you think?”

Deunor's fire!
Eodward's writ of succession…

Thalassa waved away the servant trying to install frosted grapes on her plate. “The Sinduri meet at dawn to discuss the implications. Bayard's debt to this hierarch could alter the balance in favor of the Karish apostates. Though we've tried to remain neutral throughout—”

“You're saying Hierarch Eligius found Eodward's will?” I burst in, unable to withhold longer. All eyes turned to me.

“This Karish priest claims he's found Hierarch Angnecy's copy of the missing writ and that it names Bayard king,” said Thalassa, her tone unemotional. “Even if the document is authentic, one wonders at the timing.”

Tales said Eodward had made three copies of his will. One he had hidden in some place of safety where it would be revealed at his death. The other two he had entrusted to the two clergymen who had brought him back to Navronne, Sinduré Tobrecan and Hierarch Angnecy. But no verified copy had ever been brought forward. Angnecy had preceded Eodward in death, and his successors as Hierarch of Ardra had long professed ignorance of any such document. Tobrecan had died in Evanore in the same month as Eodward, and his copy had never surfaced. In the early days of the war, Prince Perryn had produced a writ that cited his own name as heir—purportedly Angnecy's copy. But the paper had been declared a forgery by three witnesses out of five. In any case, no one would accept it as valid without the confirmation of either of the other two copies.

Thalassa's ringed eyes, smoky and shadowed, met mine for the first time that evening. I'd have sworn I felt their heat drill through my skull. “As a result of the ‘astounding revelations' contained in this newfound writ, Hierarch Eligius has withdrawn his support for Perryn and turned him over to the Smith.” Her voice took on a more sober cast. “The implications are profound…as even you can well imagine.”

I recalled the abbot's warning: Once the succession was settled, Bayard's hammer would fall swiftly on those who had not supported him wholeheartedly. And Thalassa, who had tied herself to conspirators who insisted that the world's survival trumped the rivalries of princes or clergy, sat directly in that hammer's path. By allowing me to hear this news, she had—knowingly and deliberately—laid a weapon in my hand. Were I ever to find a way around her tongue-block, I might sell her secret, perhaps buy myself some consideration in royal circles. Was she so confident in her spellmaking? Or did she believe my new master would assure I had no such opportunity? Or was she telling me something altogether different?

Max brandished a fist-sized portion of duck on his knife. “Are you surprised at your Karish friends' perfidy, Valen?” He grinned at me. “Perhaps your sojourn in the abbey gave you a taste for adult intrigue instead of childish tantrums.”

“Valen remains eternally self-absorbed,” said Thalassa, reverting to her lighter tone, as if I were not present. “His head is empty, his most important concerns his belly and his male endowments.” She nodded to my mother as if to apologize for so indelicate a reference. “I doubt he holds to a single monkish virtue. Even if he knew aught of serious matters of the world, he'd not lift a finger to involve himself.”

Why was it that my sister's unrelenting barbs brought to mind the Abbot of Gillarine and his admonitions to obedience, his lessons about honor and the need to divert personal interest and loyalty to higher purpose? Lassa was a member of Luviar's circle—those who had committed their lives to the purpose that gods worth our honoring did not mandate terror or ignorance or unthinking subservience. I watched my elder sister as she picked at her meal and sparred with Max, and confessed that I did not know her as well as I thought I did.

“Never saw anyone so sly as that abbot.” Max devoured another bite of duck and distracted me from rethinking Thalassa's motives. “Luviar, is that his name? Prince Bayard was dreadfully unhappy to learn the fellow allowed Perryn to sneak off with the hierarch. The Karish eunuch will pay for that bit of chicanery. I'm not so happy with him either. Sullied my reputation with that little vanishing trick, he did. I'll find out how he hid the simpering snake in that monk-house if I must strip off his holy robes and dangle him over a bonfire to do it. If you know the secret, Valen, I might find it in my heart to pour that cup of wine down your throat! Tell me, little brother, have you ever had such a sober month since you gave up Matronn's tit?”

I shrugged. As Max leaned over and smacked a great kiss on Matronn's hollow cheek, I glanced at Thalassa to see her reaction to Max's talk of the abbot. Even considering Max's penchant for exaggeration, I found his words disturbing. But my sister ignored us all as she spooned honey from a dish and dribbled it on a piece of bread. She handed it across to my mother, who had eaten nothing all evening.

While Max preened and related grand tales of the victory at Wroling, I closed my eyes and tried to plan my next move. Which was, of course, entirely impossible. Every scheme died with the same thought: a lifetime contract with a stranger who could restrain me as he saw fit, who could decree that I would never again see the light of day, who could prevent me ever speaking to another human being if I did not track his enemies or poison his wife or work whatever other magic he required of me. I would live without recourse. Without protection. Bound.
Saints and angels, preserve me.
I dragged my ragged thoughts back to the present before I vomited in my empty plate.

“…and that was the very same Karish house where Valen was hiding?” said Bia. “What strange fortune!”

“If I'd only known,” said Max, cocking his head thoughtfully and narrowing his eyes at me. “I could have dragged him back here weeks ago. Were it anyone but Valen, I might wonder whether he was caught up with Luviar's treasonous games.”

“I've heard Bayard will take control of Palinur before morning,” said my father. “The Registry has advised us all to strengthen our house wards to fend off this Harrower rabble. Prince Osriel is expected in the city as well.” He tore at a dried fig with his teeth. He was relishing this occasion.

Max licked his fingers, smirking. “Did I mention Evanori gold? The Bastard Prince cannot squat atop such treasure any longer, playing his nasty little games and scaring children. He must acknowledge Bayard as his king or prepare to face his wrath.”

“Osriel is an abomination,” said Thalassa with disgust.

My mother, who had been emptying her wineglass with regularity and trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at me, shuddered and drew her mantle close. Her dull gaze flicked to me again. “Claudio,” she whispered, tilting her head toward my father, her kohl-ringed eyes sunken, her hollow cheeks paler than ever, “I've Seen this Osriel, who steals the souls of the dead. He craves the life of angels, but is forever barred from their realm.”

As happened every time my mother spoke the words “I've Seen” in just that way, the room took on a certain tomblike staleness, and the candle flames dimmed as though viewed through smoked glass. Creeping fingers tickled my spine, as they did whenever events recalled the doom of blood and water and ice she had once spoken for me.

Lassa laid down her knife and stared at my mother, as if to glean the wholeness of the vision with her own talent. Max shuddered and tossed another cup of wine down his gullet, averting his eyes.

My father alone remained exempt from the effects of my mother's pronouncements. Dabbing at his mouth with a square of linen, he savored Max's and Thalassa's reactions with the same gusto he chewed his meat. “Let Thalassa worry about the Bastard's soul,” he said. “Think. Osriel surely wishes to examine this purported writ of Eodward's will. Perhaps even challenge it. I've heard he possesses Tobrecan's copy, though he has never produced it. No wonder that, if Bayard's name is cited. It's likely long burned.” Patronn smiled with bloodless lips. “If Bayard can persuade Osriel the writ is sound and that alliance is in his best interest, the war is over. We shall all prosper, even—”

“Valen?” The throaty whisper came from the direction of the kitchen door, along with a sneaking giggle. “My boy come home? My good lad grown? Why hast thou kept this news from me, Claudio?”

“Raphus! Petro! Where are you?” bellowed my father, jumping to his feet. “Get the madman out of here!”

My grandfather hobbled quickly across the tile floor, astonishingly spry for a man of more than eighty summers. A green-and-yellow patterned robe flapped over stained tunic and loose trousers. Food was the most pleasant of the likely substances clotting his matted white hair and beard. A fetid stench preceded him.

My mother recoiled and clapped a lace handkerchief across her mouth and nose as he planted a kiss on her cheek. Max wrinkled his nose and sucked at his wine cup when my grandfather grabbed a wad of his hair and jiggled his head affectionately. Bia, rigid, stared down at her plate as if to pretend a madman wasn't patting her coiled braids. But even as he touched the others, his bright mad eyes fixed on me.

“Where hast thou been, boy? Hiding, I think. Good. Good. How old be thou, Valen? How old? Come now, tell me. Thou shouldst be close to the day.”

“Seven-and-twenty, Capatronn,” I said, bile in my mouth. “And how old are you? Too old to be living, I think. Too wicked to be living, certainly.”

He chortled gleefully and clapped his hands as he rounded the end of the table, his bare feet attempting a dance step. I stared at the libation bowl, the etched bronze glinting sharply in the candlelight. I sought the scent of wine instead of my grandfather's reek and tried to imagine it was dulling my senses…dulling memory, hatred, and revulsion.

“Wicked certainly. Yes. But I've told no secrets, and they've not found thee, have they, boy?”

My father charged through the door to the kitchen, still shouting for my grandfather's pureblood caretakers. The other servants who cowered in the shadows—ordinaries—were not permitted “adversarial contact” with any pureblood. Thus they could not wrestle my grandfather back to his room. Silos was nowhere to be seen.