Lightborn. Part 11

"But where-does one stop, Lord Vladimer?" she said, in anguish, knowing the futility of asking for consolation of this man, especially.

There was a silence, several heartbeats long. "One does not stop, Lady Telmaine," he said, in a much quieter voice. "I suppose being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d in a n.o.ble family is not unlike being a woman," he mused, ignoring her indrawn breath of affront. "Every aspiration beyond silence and obscurity is a threat. If I'd had sufficient cunning or good counsel, I should have played the half-wit-as a lady is obliged to play the lightwit-and saved myself much trial. Fortunately for me, Seja.n.u.s ignored his counselors and treated me as a brother and an ally instead of a shame and would-be usurper. In answer to your question, I will not stop while there is a threat to his standing and state remaining."

"I-can't do that," she whispered.

"Can't you? You already have abandoned conventional morals on behalf of your husband, your daughters, and Ishmael di Studier. The state and I are merely incidental beneficiaries. Love, Lady Telmaine, is not the tender emotion portrayed by the sentimental literature. Whether they speak its name or not, it brings people to dare, and do, what they would consider unthinkable. I suggest, my lady, that you visit your daughters, and remind yourself."

Telmaine As the carriage made its sharp turn into the long side driveway to the ducal palace, Telmaine's unhappy mood deepened. In bitter rebellion at the use Vladimer had made of her, she had taken him at his word-let him manage his own safety-and had asked a carriage to be brought to drive her to her sister's house.

It had not been a relaxing visit, between Merivan's questions and her brother-in-law's inability to promise her that Balthasar's safety could be a.s.sured. "It's a dangerous game your husband's been drawn into," he said. "Even without the more-fantastic elements. He's traveling with a known fugitive, and you say it was willingly."

"Lord Vladimer asked him," she stressed.

"In the absence of a warrant," he said, "the arrest can be challenged. I warn you of two things: a warrant could be easily obtained, and it will not protect Balthasar from coming to immediate harm." He sat, tapping his lip lightly. "I will arrange for one of my representatives and two of my agents to proceed to the Borders first thing tomorrow." He smiled. "It may also prevent Balthasar's idealism from leading him into further jeopardy."

If the price of Bal's safety was that Theophile judged him naive and incapable of fending for himself, she would gladly pay that price. Outside the courtroom, Theophile judged with tolerance.

And the children . . . she had thought a brief visit to their own home would cheer them up-it had certainly cheered her to review the earthshakingly ordinary matters of meals and domestic supplies in preparation for their eventual return. She had thought the children could collect any little treasures they wanted for their stay at Merivan's. But she had not considered how the children would react to leaving again and how the crying and shrieking-Amerdale had evidently adopted this new tactic from Merivan's next youngest-would affect her shattered nerves. Bal would be upset she had shouted at them. She was upset she had shouted at them.

. . . Curse Vladimer, she thought, huddling in abject misery in the corner of the coach.

If she were a different woman, she would retire to her room indisposed. Though if she were a different woman, she would not have let them put her in this impossible position. And she was not, she realized, going to have even a moment's reprieve. Kingsley was skulking in the hall outside her room. Oh, Sole G.o.d, what now? She unclenched her mage sense to sweep it over the household, relieved to find Vladimer's and the archduke's distinctive vitalities unchanged.

"Can't stay long," Kingsley said as soon as she closed the door behind them. "Wanted to let you know there's maybe trouble simmering. Lord V.'s none too well, and he and Blondell had a knock-down-drag-out of an argument, there in Lord V.'s bedroom. Staff said they've never had anything like it before. Someone said they'd heard Blondell shouting about *treason,' and you can imagine how the whispers're spreading. And there's gossip about what happened in the summerhouse, come back with some of the summerhouse staff; they're talking about ensorcellment. People are starting to repeat old gossip about Lord V., and about his influence on the archduke."

"Lord Vladimer," Telmaine said tartly, "is not overly concerned with gossip or reputation." His own or other people's.

"They've never had ensorcellment to cast against him, m'lady," Kip said somberly. "Last time I crossed paths with Blondell, he was wearing an ugly great amulet against magic. Maybe that was the quarrel, over the rumors of ensorcellment." He shook his head slightly, qualifying the speculation. "When I come by more, I'll let you know."

Alone, she sat and nibbled the finger of her glove. An amulet against magic-could there be such a thing? Was it a talisman itself, or a fake? She must avoid Casamir Blondell, either way. As for the argument, Vladimer could provoke even a follower of one of the contemplative disciplines. But gossip was a poison she understood. Even though Vladimer's seemed a reputation apart, the archduke must eventually take heed. Was this merely a whispering campaign, taking advantage of Vladimer's indisposition? Or could Mycene and Kalamay suspect that Vladimer knew about their guns? Was that the treason Blondell alluded to?

The memory of how she had learned of those gun emplacements brought her to her feet to shake off uncomfortable recollection. She wished she had been better able to use the information to force Vladimer to protect Balthasar and Anarys. Or even-should she have gone directly to Mycene? But how, then, might she plausibly have come by the knowledge? Vladimer was the only one she could tell, because he already knew. She could only wish to be better at blackmail, and that-she did not desire.

But if she could not depend upon Vladimer to protect Balthasar, her children, or even herself, if he did not judge it in his own interests, she must thank him for the lesson in realities, and make her own arrangements.

Resolute now, she called her maid to her, satisfied herself that her dress provided the best possible compromise between appropriateness and un.o.btrusiveness, and set out to follow the route Lord Vladimer had taken her to Floria White Hand's prison. Blessedly, she met no one on the way, and blessedly, too, the little interview room was empty. For a heartbeat she thought, from the silence, that Floria was gone-liberated, surrendered, or melted away as her lights failed. Then she brushed the familiar vitality and the familiar taint.

"Mistress Floria?" she hissed.

"Lady Telmaine," said the other, with distinct relief. "Is anyone with you?"

"No," she said. "I came-Balthasar would-he would expect me to ensure your well-being." Having more or less decided why she was here, she still did not know how she should explain it. "Are you well?"

She expected the woman to deride her social airs, but all Floria did was sigh. "Has the prince asked for my surrender?"

Telmaine's hands closed to fists in her lacy sleeves. She would have said she had no desire to know what the other woman was thinking, ever. Now she was appalled at the temptation to fling a defining question at her and sweep from her mind the true answer.

"Not yet," Telmaine said, instead. "But the sun has yet to rise."

Floria said, "Maybe you can help me. The skylight is closed, and the door to the outside courtyard locked behind me when I came in. The lights I have with me will need recharged, sometime in the next twenty-four hours."

She did not want to admit that she was here without Vladimer's knowledge or leave. "You would be best to speak to one of Lord Vladimer's servants."

There was a silence, in which Telmaine realized that Floria preferred not to reveal her vulnerability to anyone else.

"When do you expect Balthasar back?" Floria said.

She subdued the reflex to tell the woman that was none of her business; why else had she come here except to hope for an ally?

"Oh, spare me, Telmaine," Floria uncharacteristically snapped, misreading her silence. "You Darkborn think marriage means that you possess each other body and soul, and Bal's friendship with me is tantamount to infidelity. Balthasar has been my friend from the time he was barely old enough to lisp his first questions through the paper wall, long before he even met you."

"Balthasar's questions got him into this," Telmaine said bitterly, wifely loyalty or no.

"You mean Tercelle Amberley's children," Floria said, her voice moving toward the screen. "I had forgotten-did Strumh.e.l.ler find Florilinde? Is she safe? Bal sent me a letter, but I had only just received it before all this."

Letter, she thought-but it could not be the letter now in Vladimer's custody. That "I had forgotten" outraged her. "Florilinde is safe. A young colleague of Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's located her, and I got her back." Foolish, reckless, to claim so, she knew immediately, but she knew that the Lightborn woman regarded Darkborn women as willfully enfeebled and pa.s.sive. She waited for Floria to say, in disbelief, "How?" but the Lightborn woman only said, "Good."

A silence, and then she heard Floria begin pacing. She bit her lip. She was aware how much Vladimer had withheld the first time they spoke, and had he dealt fairly with Telmaine, she would have continued to observe his wishes. But he had used her unconscionably, as bait and tether on the Broomes, and as spy upon the dukes. He might argue it was necessary, but she suspected he also believed that it was his right to use her so. He would use her, and Balthasar, and Ishmael, to shame and destruction if he chose.

Telmaine was as much a novice at spymasters' games as she was at magic, but she must find a way to protect herself and her own, even from Vladimer. And even if Floria was a prisoner now, and possibly even ensorcelled, she was also a veteran of the intrigues of the Lightborn court.

She said, slowly, "Mistress White Hand, the reason Balthasar is not here now is because two nights ago, Balthasar and Baron Strumh.e.l.ler saved Lord Vladimer from dying from an ensorcellment set"-what was the correct verb?-"by a Shadowborn mage."

"A Shadowborn mage?" Floria said, disbelieving.

"I was there when Baron Strumh.e.l.ler killed him." And had nearly vomited at the shattered skull and spilled brain matter, but she let that pa.s.s unsaid. "When we first faced him, he was wearing the form of Lysander Hearne."

"Balthasar's brother?"

How much had Balthasar confided to Floria about Lysander's cruelties? "I never knew Lysander Hearne, but the man I met resembled Balthasar, in appearance, at least." She had taken his voice for Balthasar's-or one of their voices for Balthasar's-when first she heard it. "But the dead body did not resemble Lysander in the least. Baron Strumh.e.l.ler said that he must be some kind of shape changer."

She could hear agitated breathing from beyond the paper wall. "What are you saying?"

"Maybe it was one of them who took your guise, and carried the talisman to the prince."

"That's impossible. The prince holds-held the contracts of a dozen mages of fifth rank and higher, to guard his person and secure his work. They sensed nothing. Telmaine, I swear, by your G.o.ds or mine, I would never have done anything to harm my prince. My family has been in the services of the princes for ten generations."

Two weeks ago, she would have accepted-even welcomed-Floria's guilt, a.s.suming the worst of a functionary of the corrupt Lightborn court. But then, two weeks ago, she would not have imagined that a mage could be falsely charged, and that the gossip and headlines, however outrageous, might not contain some truth.

"Baron Strumh.e.l.ler was arrested on charges of murder and sorcery, our enemy's doing."

"Strumh.e.l.ler is just a first-rank mage, Telmaine. He kept Balthasar alive, yes, but as for sensing what the Temple Vigilance could not-"

"While he was in prison, a guard tried to poison him, and a prisoner tried to knife him. He barely escaped alive"-though his narrowest escape had nothing to do with Shadowborn. "Surely that suggests something to you. That is where Balthasar has gone, south to help him prepare the Borders for an invasion that Vladimer thinks is coming."

There was a brief silence, in which, no doubt, the Lightborn woman weighed up her own prejudices. "Telmaine," she said, with audible reluctance. "I think I know what the talisman was. A trinket box Balthasar gave me, years ago."

"Balthasar! How dare you-"

"Telmaine, for the Mother's sake-he was seven years old! It was taken from my house-I think by someone who came in through Balthasar's and cut through the paper wall. But I'm-it's possible I myself took it to the prince, though my memory-and I do not know why . . . ," she finished, forlornly.

Though she did not want to, she could not help but soften toward that tone. "This is what I know. . . ." Once again she recounted the events that had brought her here and Balthasar to an uncertain fate in the Borders, ascribing anything that she could not attribute to coincidence to Ishmael's magic. To her relief Floria was too preoccupied with the intent and powers of the Shadowborn to question her in detail about how she had survived the burning warehouse; unlike the superintendent and dukes, Floria would not defer to feminine delicacy of feeling.

"I've heard no rumor that there was magic behind the Rivermarch fire," Floria said. "And no mage should take it on-such an atrocity, even against Darkborn, would attract Temple retribution."

"Is it possible," Telmaine said slowly, ignoring that "even," "that only certain mages can sense Shadowborn magic?" Vladimer had essentially asked the same of the Broomes.

"A low-ranked mage like Strumh.e.l.ler able to sense what Temple mages cannot?" Floria said skeptically. "Though from what you say, he sounds underranked."

If nothing else, she should keep Floria from speculating about Ishmael's capabilities. "Maybe," Telmaine said, "maybe because Lightborn left the Borders so long ago, the-familiarity was lost. Your mages no longer know what Shadowborn magic feels like." Though she had needed no prior familiarity and no training to sense and be revolted by it.

"Telmaine," Floria said, "you do not understand very much about magic."

That, Telmaine thought, was too much. She rose, in a rustle of silks and lace. "No," she said, coolly. "I don't suppose I do."

"At the same time," Floria said, apparently unhearing, "it could explain the Temple's inaction. It could explain why-why n.o.body sensed the delivery of a talisman to the prince's quarters." Her voice quickening. "It could explain why no one sensed a shape-shifter, if it were a shape-shifter, or an ensorcellment if it were-Mother of All," Floria breathed. "It fits. It fits better than any other explanation I've been able to think of. Telmaine, is there notepaper on your side? If I write a letter, will you see it reaches its destination?"

The unfamiliar verb, "see," distracted her briefly. "It can't be an hour to sunrise," she protested.

"Couriers come and go between the houses of state at all hours of day and night. You have only to find the daylight postbag and get the letter slipped in. It will only be readable to my-to Lightborn."

She thought rebelliously that she had not come here to make herself Floria's tool instead of Vladimer's, but for her own purposes and for Balthasar's sake. "He loves you," she blurted, a challenge she had been longing to fling at the other woman for years. "Balthasar loves you."

Floria did not deny it, saying impatiently, "And I love him, Telmaine, but that does not change anything in your and his relationship. I wish you understood that."

She wished she understood it as Floria did, because for her it mattered, painfully so. "I came to ask you to help me to protect him. Duke Mycene-" But she could not tell Floria what she feared from that quarter, because she could not tell Floria how she had learned it. "Ferdenzil Mycene-Tercelle Amberley's betrothed-has Balthasar prisoner, because Balthasar was traveling in Ishmael's-Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's-company. I'm frightened for Bal. We have to find out who the Shadowborn are, what they intend, before Balthasar-or our children"-or, sweet Imogene, Ishmael himself-"get further hurt."

"I do understand," Floria said, sounding beleaguered. "My own life hangs on this, too. Let me write the letter."

"Who is it to?" Telmaine said, in a tone she used to children and servants, one that implied no yielding in the question.

"To a friend of mine-the mage I spoke of."

Telmaine trapped the question, Is he your lover? between her teeth. Aside from the impropriety-at least asked of another Darkborn-the answer was truly none of her business. She collected some paper-trying not to think of singed edges and smoke-and slipped it into the pa.s.se-muraille that served as a conduit for more than words between the two rooms. She sat tensely listening to the faint scratching of nib on page. Occasionally, Floria asked for confirmation or clarification of a detail; she had Balthasar's gift for listening well. Eventually the scratching ceased, and Telmaine could hear her blowing softly to dry the last of the ink. Balthasar's exercise of writing with ink had fascinated their children, and his closing ritual of blowing on the apparently unmarked sheet of paper had always set them giggling.

She heard Floria open and close the small door. "I've addressed it," she said. "Thank you, Telmaine."

There seemed not much more to be said, Telmaine thought with relief, going forward to retrieve the letter, a smooth folded sheet quite blank to her fingers. She bade the woman good night, realizing the infelicity even as she said it.

"Telmaine, I know you'll think this presumptuous of me, but I'm surprised-at the courage and initiative you are showing through this. Bal always said there was more to you than the society lady."

"You're right," Telmaine said, "it is presumptuous, but-a lady learns to take compliments as intended. Good-day, Mistress Floria." She slipped into the vestibule, feeling oddly satisfied. Admiration from a rival was always gratifying. She tucked Floria's letter carefully up her sleeve before stepping out into the corridor. Kingsley would surely be able to find out where the daylight post was collected, and she would simply tell him-ah!-that Lord Vladimer had finally released her husband's letters, and she had chosen to send this one on.

She had taken the first measured strides toward the corner-a lady, taking a walk-when around the corner and straight into her came Casamir Blondell. Her skirts and his quilted jacket cushioned the impact, but they sprang apart with guilty vigor. Her sonn caught his dismay; she was certain his did hers. Their apologies washed against each other, all my fault, needed a walk, not paying attention. She checked herself first; of course it was proper that he should apologize to her. But what was he doing here? Surrept.i.tiously, she probed for the letter in her sleeve, confirming it hidden.

"Dear me," she said, "I thought this part of the palace was less used. I might as well take my const.i.tutional in Bolingbroke concourse."

He bowed to her, submitting to her rebuke. "Perhaps," he said, a little brusquely, "I might escort m'lady back to her rooms."

"Of course," she said, graciously; what else could she do, aside from wonder how to prevent him from reporting this encounter to Vladimer? Working in Lord Vladimer's service, Blondell had surely met bribes far beyond her purse, and refused those of any significance; Vladimer would not have tolerated him otherwise. Should she appeal to his sympathies? But how, without stirring his suspicions? She would simply have to hope that her air of innocence, and his reported quarrel with Lord Vladimer, would be enough for this to pa.s.s unremarked.

Unless he knew about Floria White Hand, and was appalled to find Telmaine so close? Then he would be thinking as hard as she, wondering how he might find out what she knew and why she was here, without arousing her suspicions. If so, he had the sympathy of a fellow sufferer.

At least she now knew that Blondell's amulet was nothing to fear, since she had been as close to it as a decent woman could come. It was a medallion at least four inches across, solid metal with an ornate knotted border and with several large symbols cast in relief upon the flat face. Whatever they were, neither they nor the metal itself had any potency that she could sense, either to detect or to repel her.

So all she need do now was divest herself of Floria White Hand's letter in the direction of the postbag, and polish a plausible account of their conversation for Vladimer, in case. She could, she thought, tell mostly the truth. She would omit only the letter.

Six.

Fejelis ". . . What?" Fejelis greeted his reflection in the mirror. "Not dead yet?"

"Not funny yet, either," Tam said sourly, propping himself in the open doorway to Fejelis's dressing room.

Fejelis lifted the prince's caul from its stand, his smile falling away. Its stiff supporting mesh still contained the shape of his father's skull. A few hairs, the color of winter gra.s.s, quivered in the gem- encrusted rim. "I'll need to get this fitted," he said quietly, turning it in his hands to study the arcs and swirls of gold filigree and cobalt blue and indigo stones. The largest gems had been sold first, the gold wire last, in his great-grandfather's time; the caul was, in short, a fake.

Its fit was close, closer than he had expected, just a little pressure on the temples, a little looseness on the forehead, his skull slightly broader than his father's. The face that stared back at him, framed in gilt wire and blue gla.s.s, had a likeness disconcerting even in his own eyes.

Tam, by his huffed-out breath, also saw it.

". . . Have you anything to report?" Fejelis said.

"There were no attempts on the lights overnight," Tam said.

"And Mistress White Hand?"

"At the archducal palace." A fleeting hesitation. "Quite safe."

". . . They'll say her flight implies her guilt," Fejelis noted. ". . . But I didn't like the report I had of Captain Beaudry's actions." He lifted off the caul and set it aside, binding his hair back into a tight knot at the nape of his neck.

"Will you ask for her surrender?"

". . . I have no choice," Fejelis said. ". . . The manner of my father's death is too evocative. I think I shall leave it a few hours yet, see what transpires."

Over a red vest, he drew on a red jacket with stiff breast panels and sheer sides and sleeves, embroidered with swirls in deep blue st.i.tches and blue semiprecious stones. It was merely the latest of a succession of princely mourning jackets pa.s.sed down the generations. He returned the caul to his head, checked its fit with a glance, and turned quickly away from the mirror.

". . . Why is it, do you suppose, that the Darkborn do not practice deposition, yet are not burdened by senile and incompetent rulers?"

Without answering, the mage handed him the sash. He tied it around his waist, set the knot, and bloused the fabric. Stretched and twisted to ensure he could move freely, and turned to face Tam. ". . . Shall I pa.s.s?"

He watched the mage consider, and reject a cautionary word. "Yes."

". . . Then I propose we venture forth. If we wait for them to summon the courage to knock, we shall get no breakfast."