The Spirit Lens (52 page)

When young Ambrose passed by her, the girl remonstrated with him. The brother forcefully removed her hand from his back. No family could be so congenial as Edmond and the taverner described.

“You were speaking of the morning the conte left . . .” In search of something extraordinary. Her words had come right off the paper tucked in my shirt:
Something extraordinary happened when your servant went searching for your enemies. He found them. And then he discovered things . . .
What had Michel discovered about himself, and magic, and the truth of the world? About
unholy
magic?

The contessa’s vision melted from her children into a deep and somber reach. “I’ve received no letter since that day. Not a word. Not a scrap. I have walked this land, touched its living bones, felt the sunlight that clothes it, listened to the music of wind, star, and beast song. But the universe no longer speaks love’s name to me. I believe Michel found the answer to his great mystery and it killed him.”

She left the path and strode through the mead to the marshy borders of the lake, where her zahkri made short, vicious work of cutting an armful of reeds. As I yet stepped gingerly from one tussock to the next, she was already climbing the terraced slopes again, the muddy hem of her gauze skirts slapping wetly against her bare ankles.

Such certainty. Did it derive from her blood-born magic or from some aspect of her marriage, convincing her of that which caused her mortal grief? I was tempted to believe her. Yet logic and evidence declared Michel de Vernase and the Aspirant to be one and the same. And I did not wish him dead, but rather in my clutches, that I might call him to account for the horrors he had caused.

One thing was clear: Madeleine’s conviction explained both her willingness to entertain my questions and her lack of interest in pursuing Lianelle’s secrets. Her children’s future drove her. Forcing Lianelle to speak would not bring Michel de Vernase back to life, and antagonizing Philippe could make her children’s lives infinitely worse. Should treason be proved, Montclaire would surely be granted elsewhere, as Ambrose had guessed. And Philippe, as king, judge, and goodfather, would determine their very freedom, as well as marriage, occupation, and sustenance. Only Lianelle, if she remained subject to the Camarilla, might retain some choice in her fate, assuming she survived the Aspirant’s plots. This recalled a jarring note in the lady’s explanations.

I scrambled up a rock-walled terrace. “Why would you keep Lianelle from Seravain, lady? She is intelligent and gifted. As the daughter of a blood family, I would expect you to encourage her to develop her talents.”

“After the Blood Wars, my family renounced magic,” she said, snapping off leaves of thyme and rosemary as if they were an enemy’s limbs. “Sorcery and overreaching had driven many of our kinsmen to depravity, and my grandsires and grandmeres declared it would never happen again. They deliberately sapped the power in our blood and vowed our future generations to uphold their binding. Cazars do not train. We do not explore our talents. We do not use spellwork produced by others. Our abilities have dwindled near to extinction—except, as it happens, for Lianelle.”

I blinked in astonishment. “Then how in the name of Heaven did Lianelle end up at a collegia magica? A father who disdains magic. A mother who denies it, and whose family forbids even the
use
of it.”

She grimaced. “My daughter refuses to be bound by anyone’s vows. And you must understand, my husband did not so much despise the possibilities of magic as its current practice and its importance in a world ‘awakening to its own true nature,’ as he said it. But when Lianelle woke us one morning with light streaming from her fingertips and fifty of Aubine’s most beautiful moths captured in the beams, even Michel could not deny her. Nor could I. Her raw talent surpasses any in my family’s remembrance. Michel encouraged her desire to go to Seravain and explore it. But if your warnings are true, if the least harm comes to my child at that place”—she raised her arms skyward, and the breeze swirled her skirts as if her weakened blood called out with one last gasp—“by the blades of my ancestors, I will call down such a curse on his name that a thousand mil lennia will not see his shade at peace.”

Her cry of anguish echoed from lake and rock and hillside, and she threw down the green mass of herbs that her fist had crushed into a shapeless, scented glob. Clutching her bundle of reeds to her middle, she stormed straight up the hill.

The girl flew down to meet the distraught contessa. “I heard you cry out. What did he say?”

Lady Madeleine, her lips pressed tight, tried to wave off her concern, but the lady’s hand was trembling and her complexion flushed.

“Mama, did he hurt you?”

The contessa shook her head.

“At least come inside where it’s cooler.” The young woman’s voice was quiet without being whispery, and her demeanor seemed plain and un-elaborated, much like the rest of her. Her eyes darted only briefly my way, as she took the bundle of reeds under one arm and wrapped the other round her mother’s shaking shoulders. “Come along if you must.”

I almost missed the quiet invitation, and only after a moment did I realize it was addressed to me. “Damoselle,” I said. My quick bow was roundly ignored as the two ascended the path.

Though small and slender, like her mother, Anne de Vernase lacked her mother’s and brother’s earthy beauty, as well as their resonant energies. Curling wisps of straw-colored hair escaped a single tight braid. Pale skin freckled from the sun, eyes too large, and mouth too wide for a narrow face, she appeared unripe for seventeen, like a plum fallen too early from the tree. Walking any street or corridor in Sabria, she would never draw a second glance.

When we reached the terrace, the contessa shook off her daughter’s supportive arm. Anne tossed the reeds onto the bench. Interested in watching as much as hearing, I held back as the two spoke quietly, the girl in an earnest, persuasive posture, yet, in the end, disappointed. The contessa laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, then walked into the house.

Anne called to me across the terrace. “Come inside and finish your interrogation, sonjeur. But please, make it brief. My mother is feeling unwell, but refuses to retire until you and your companions have left Montclaire.”

I bowed again and followed her through a breezy arcade into an octagonal entry hall. Pale yellow walls rose three stories from the blue slate floor, framing open arches that led deeper into the expansive house. The curved arms of a great staircase embraced a gilt-edged mirror taller than two men. The mirror splashed color and sunlight on the unlikeliest of art-works below—a brass telescope with a barrel twice the length of my arm, and an exquisite planetary of silver-inlaid brass. In an odd, lively contrast, earthenware pots and copper urns of fresh flowers had been tucked into every nook and corner. Dante and Jacard were nowhere in sight.

The daughter hurried off toward the back of the house, while the contessa led me into a reception room. The afternoon breeze shifted filmy draperies. Sitting in a high-backed chair where the air from the courtyard could cool her, the contessa leaned her forehead wearily on her clenched fist. I’d never have judged Lady Madeleine fragile. Yet the sultry heat or perhaps the hour’s expense of emotion had left her looking drawn and ill. “What else would you have from us, sonjeur?”

Damoselle Anne returned and took a place behind her mother’s chair, laying a hand protectively on the lady’s shoulder. Though the girl’s fair skin was marked properly with the Cazar sign, she had violated the law by failing to expose it to me. Her right hand gripped the chair back, her knuckles entirely bloodless.

Lady Madeleine was a striking person in all ways, but, somehow, the girl intrigued me more. “My lady, may I address your daughter?”

The lady’s long fingers caressed the paler ones that rested on her shoulder. “I suppose you must.”

“Damoselle, as I’ve told your mother, I am here seeking information about your father’s activities. I will not lie to you. We’ve well-grounded suspicions that he may be involved in terrible crimes. But I am interested only in truth, in facts—those that may explain away evidence that we have, as well as those that may support it.”

“I don’t know anything that could help you.” This scarcely audible response reminded me of Lianelle, who, of course, had known a great deal.

“We all know more than we think, damoselle. Tell me, what interests did you and your father share?”

Her brows knitted, as if trying to fathom to what wicked purpose I could put such information. “Natural science,” she said at last, pushing several escaped curls behind her ear. “Languages. Foreign lands. Stories. Books.” She offered each topic slowly, as a small bite from a much larger feast—a private feast.

“Mathematics?” I asked, and she dipped her head.

“Medicine?” A negative shake.

“Sorcery?”

“No!” Genuine distaste here.

“Yet your sister studies sorcery. She summons animals. . . .”

“Drafi, our stable lad, can make horses follow him about like puppies. That doesn’t make it magic.”

“And your father’s belief?”

Not so quick to answer this time. Again I felt her running through the implications of anything she might say. “Papa believes we should explore what branches of learning fascinate us.”

“But does he believe magic to be trickery, ready to be unmasked by scientific advancement, or a true branch of learning, in the same vein as physics or alchemistry?”

“Papa believes—” A quick, tight breath hinted at deeper feeling. “How can I say what he believes? He’s gone away.” Not
He’s dead
.

“Damoselle, do you understand the concept of blood transference—an immoral, illicit, and dangerous practice used to enhance a mage’s power?”

“Yes. I’ve read histories of the Blood Wars.”

“Have you ever discussed this practice with your father?”

“Never. Why would we?” Brittle. Short. Out of breath. But not at all weak. Eliciting a reaction from the girl felt akin to pecking stone with a needle.

Hoping to nudge her off balance, I kept up the pace. “You studied with your father for many years, played verbal and logic games, practiced languages, wrote stories and mathematical proofs, I would guess, exchanged correspondence frequently when he was away.”

“Yes. All those things,” she said without a hint of boasting. But then, I didn’t think revealing her thoughts or feelings was Anne’s vice. An extraordinary mind must be hidden inside those solid walls.

“Damoselle Anne, have you received a letter from your father since the day he last departed Montclaire?”

Her complexion lost what color it held. “No.” So definite, yet so fast—too fast.

“And you’ve received no letter that could possibly be from him. For if you received a letter lacking a signature or seal . . .”

“He has not written to me. I would recognize his hand anywhere.”

“Certainly you would.” I pounced without hesitation. Holding my breath, I pulled out the unsigned note addressed to Edmond de Roble-Margeroux and passed it to the young lady. “Tell me, damoselle, is this your father’s hand?”

Her eyes scanned the note rapidly. The text contained naught to indict or condemn. Naught that should induce her to lie.

“WHEN WAS THIS WRITTEN?” SHE said, voice dropped to a whisper, which question told me the answer I needed to know.

“I’ve no way to ascertain that. Perhaps a year ago. Perhaps a month.” Let her reveal what she knew.

“Papa scribed it. To Edm—I suppose you know to whom it was written.” She hated slipping.

“Your father was young Edmond de Roble’s sponsor in the Guard.” One step, then another. For the first time, I felt as if matters were coming to a head.

Anne offered the paper to the contessa, who waved it away, covering her eyes with her hands.

“What does it mean?” The girl’s soft question did not sound as if she expected an answer.

“We’re not sure,” I said. But I did know, of course. It meant Michel de Vernase was alive.

Another question had arisen before this diversion, something about letters, but before I could recapture it, a ruddy-cheeked, comfortable sort of woman in a floury apron joined us. She set down a tray holding decanter and cups, and poured wine for the contessa. Lady Madeleine accepted it gratefully, inhaling the rich fragrance before she drank.

The serving woman straightened up, taking my measure with a disdain worthy of an empress. “I suppose you’re ‘the priggish aristo investigator, ’ ” she said. “Your mage insists you come to His Grace’s library right away.”