Carol Berg - Flesh and Spirit

Gildas stiffened, shock and dismay carving their very sigils on his brow. “Victor alive…captive…here?”

“You must improve your bargaining, Magnus Valentia, and learn to discipline your loose tongue,” said the man in the chair, his voice sinuous as an adder, smooth and coiled with danger. “Here I’ve given you a gift—releasing the boy to his Karish friend, rather than setting him adrift in the sea of Palinur’s destruction as your ill-considered pact would have allowed—and you express your gratitude by sharing our private business with a stranger.”

Prince Osriel’s displeasure settled on my shoulders like an iron yoke. Yet no flaming bolts flew across the room to set me afire. No muting spells were triggered in my silken mask. After the magics of the day, I expected anything. So I pushed farther. A limited future gives a man certain advantages in such a game.

I bowed toward the prince again. “My apologies, lord. Clearly you knew of my association with the monks of Gillarine when you brought these two here. As our venture to rescue their brothers from Sila Diaglou’s clutches was so nobly wrought, I assumed that the fate of the two captives, certainly to the summary of one salvaged life and one grievous…most grievous…death, would not be hidden from them.”

Jullian’s face drained of blood. Gildas, now holding his emotions close, did not seem to notice, but the chalk-faced boy would surely have dropped to his knees had the monk not maintained such a firm grip on his shoulder.

The swirling shadows darkened, and thunder rumbled just at the edge of hearing. The prince waved one hand at the door. “Brother—Gildas, you called yourself?—please take your young charge and go, bearing with you my sincerest cautions as to the dangers of the streets. Charming as it is to encounter an actual Karish monk, my sorcerer and I have important business to attend, and it seems I must school him beforetime.”

Without voiced command, the outer doors swung open. Gildas, his dark brow knotted, inclined his head to the man in the chair. As he urged the shocked Jullian ahead of him, he glanced over his shoulder, pressed the backs of two fingers to one cheek, and jerked his head at me. The two fingers were the monks’ signing speech—an admonition to use thought before speaking. The jerk of his head and the granite set of his mouth were a more universal language—a promise that he would do what he could to set me free. Such a small gesture to put steel in a man’s spine. In my deepest heart, I blessed him.

As the doors swung shut, and I was left alone with the still figure in green draperies, all warmth fled that hall. I imagined frost rime spreading on the slave statues and ice spears growing on the corbels and brackets. The shadows deepened, as if their very substance had increased, as if all those who had ever stood in this hall had been sent away empty, their darkest thoughts and fears kept here as the price of their release. By the time my master spoke, I could scarce contain my shivering, though I mustered every shred of control I possessed to stop it. I was not afraid of him. Not anymore. What could he do to me that was worse than what I had brought upon myself?

“You tread a crumbling verge, pureblood,” he said ever so softly. “Do you think that because my bloodlines are impure, and my body less than perfect, my mind is also flawed?”

I clasped my hands behind my back. “Your Highness, my awe of your talents grows by the moment. To create a cloaking spell such as Mardane Voushanti wielded this morning at Riie Doloure is the work of a skilled sorcerer. To create this aura of terror”—I waved to encompass the hall, feeling proud that my hand did not tremble and my teeth did not chatter—“is the work of a masterful perception.”

I strolled to the foot of the dais, striving to prove that fear did not paralyze me—as much to myself as to him. “As I have not observed your physical imperfection for myself, I could not possibly judge it as a source of weakness, though you are clearly not the horned giant of rumor. And as you have surely been told, I take neither pride nor pleasure in my bloodlines, so I could hardly view another man as ‘lesser’ for not sharing them. If I were ever to sire children of my own, I would as soon throw them to wolves as submit them to the Pureblood Registry. What is it you wish from me, my lord? You seem to know a great deal about me, whereas I know naught of you but tales and the single fact that you dispatched me to save two good men from the gallows.” For what? That was the question whose answer was the key to the man in green.

A movement of his hand and the shadows parted, exposing the bronze-inlaid marble steps in front of him. “A brash mouth you have, Magnus Valentia. More sober-minded than I expected. I was told you were an ignorant buffoon who made jest of all things serious, including your own talents. But then again, this day’s events must sober even the most slack mind. Come closer and we’ll talk a bit about your friends. And, Magnus”—I shuddered at his particular enunciation of my name, as if he had catalogued every mote of my being and tethered it to his discipline—“always remove your mask when we are alone.”

I climbed the few steps to the dais, tugging the silk from my face and tucking it in the glove loop on my belt. Whatever Osriel’s game, subtlety played a far greater role than crass brutality.

Moments passed before the prince took up the conversation again. He propped his elbow on the wide arm of his chair and rested his chin on his hand. Relaxed, it appeared. The man seemed as changeable as sunlight in the river country. “Your friend, the Chancellor of Gillarine, fares as well as could be expected of a man who came within a heart’s thump of learning the truth of his god. His injuries have prevented my use of him, but they will heal, given time enough.”

I could not disguise my astonishment. “My lord, I thank—”

“Do not thank me,” he snapped, slamming his hand to the chair arm. “You cannot feel gratitude when you suspect I have unsavory motives for snatching the monk from the Ferryman’s slip. I prefer honesty from my servants, not mimed groveling, as if I were some simpleton to be swayed with pretense. Actions that counter my wishes reap my punishment. Not thoughts.”

The colored lamps swayed as if a wind teased them. Weakness raced through my veins and sinews. “Of course, my lord. I only—”

“What would be the pleasure in having bound servants if their thoughts did not resist my own?” Though the prince had not moved, and we were alone, these soft-spoken words emanated from the region of my shoulder, as if the hooded man crouched behind me, his pale lips not a finger’s breadth from my ear. “The delight of power is not commanding an army of sycophants, but rather bending one resilient mind beyond its comfortable boundaries.”

I suppressed a shudder. Refusing to look over my shoulder, I inclined my head to acknowledge his point—and to compose my expression. I could not allow him to see when his tricks unnerved me. “I appreciate your desire for honesty, my lord. Naturally, I am concerned for Brother Victor’s safety and future in the care of a powerful lord I know only from dread rumor. Nevertheless, I am grateful to hear news of his state. Accept my thanks or not, as you please.”

“Tell me about the lighthouse,” said the prince, reversing tone again as if he were two men at once hidden in his robes. This simple request might have been an inquiry about the weather beyond his walls. Yet it startled me out of measure.

That he might have discovered the existence of a collection assembled over so many years was not so unexpected. What other circumstance would send me on a chase for members of the cabal with Jullian held hostage? I did not believe in such weighty accidents of fate. But I did not expect so direct an assault or so prompt. My promise to keep Luviar’s secrets left me scrambling for a response. “The lighthouse, Lord Prince?”