Authors: Carol Berg
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction
The Soul Mirror (18 page)
Half an hour’s pondering left me no closer to the answer. Convinced I had seen what was to be seen in the book, I headed for my bedchamber. Restless feet drove me past my proper turning. My head felt like an overstuffed partridge.
The storm had broken at last, and a warm, steady rain confined my walk to interior rooms and sheltered promenades. It had been raining the last time I had visited my mother in Nivanne. She had huddled in the corner of her locked room as a steady drizzle splattered on her brother’s courtyards. Her dark hair, once as glossy as silk, straggled dull and limp. The eyes my father had compared to midnight oceans lit by stars stared wild and senseless from the smudged hollows of her face. For three days my once-beautiful mother had wheedled and begged me to take her away. But she could not remember my name or the violence she had done that caused me to beg her brothers to confine her. Three times she had come near leaving Montclaire in ash by setting fire to my father’s bed, his clothes, or his study.
From the palace towers, from the temple, and from the town clock tower in Merona, bells pealed the middle-night shift from evening to the night watch—twelve strikes—their varied timbres making a somber conversation tonight instead of their usual peaceful changes. Even so late, the palace hummed with activity. An army of footmen flitted through corridors and stairs, tending the lamps. Chambermaids, messengers, seamstresses, hairdressers, and visitors crowded the passageways and galleries leading to the ladies’ chambers. The passersby carried ewers, trays, or shoes, and information to be delivered with their services.
Lady Eleanor had breakfast with Dame Catrin. . . . Someone sent flowers to Lady Patrice. . . . They were arguing when I took Lady Collumet her tea. . . . The Baroness of Winternitz had three new gowns delivered. . . .
Lady Eleanor had breakfast with Dame Catrin. . . . Someone sent flowers to Lady Patrice. . . . They were arguing when I took Lady Collumet her tea. . . . The Baroness of Winternitz had three new gowns delivered. . . .
As of their own mind, my feet took me past the Presence Chamber and ballroom, and around one of the giant mechanical clocks the king had placed in the heart of every wing, its shining cogs and gear wheels a reminder of the rational world. Soon I strolled the Kings’ Portrait Gallery, spending a good while in front of my goodfather’s likeness, trying to read the familiar features for some clue that would explain my father’s long-buried resentments.
Before I knew it, I stood in the quiet passage that led to Lady Cecile’s apartments. A footman wearing the ducessa’s yellow badge stood at honors outside her door. He glanced my way. Curious.
My skin broke into a sweat. What was I doing here? I fled.
Back in my own room, I threw the red leather book on my bed. To solve a mystery, one needed clues. Cecile de Blasencourt had hinted she possessed more than just the book. But now she was dead, and I’d never know what she might have told me.
As distant thunder rumbled outside my window and a nearby drainpipe gurgled, conviction settled about me like a net about a fish: I needed to examine the ducessa’s room before it was stripped of her belongings. Yet I dared not be seen where I didn’t belong. What would I say to the guard, or to the lamplighters or servants or deadhouse attendants who might discover me there?
Anne the Upright, my sister and brother had called me—the elder sister who couldn’t tell a lie without instantly confessing it, who chastised them for picking locks or pilfering sweets or keys or wine. Lianelle or Ambrose, either one, could have managed this better than Anne the Recluse. Anne the Coward, who refused to sneak out after bedtime on Midsummer’s Eve, because she was terrified she might actually
see
faeries. That was in the days before science and reason had relieved me of my nighttime fears.
see
faeries. That was in the days before science and reason had relieved me of my nighttime fears.
Perhaps my little gifts will make you bold enough to venture out . . .
I fingered the key hung round my neck and envisioned my mother in her filthy shift, chewing her fingernails to the quick, staring into nothing.
Your mother’s condition precipitated . . . your sister dead . . .
Your mother’s condition precipitated . . . your sister dead . . .
Lianelle’s ivory case glared at me from the dressing table. I didn’t need to run naked through Vernase, but I did need to walk unseen through the unsleeping west wing of Castelle Escalon. Was it possible?
I dipped a fingertip into the gray powder. Was it merely my distaste for hypocritical practitioners that caused this horrid wriggling sensation in body and spirit? Or was it the “sorcery” itself—the unexplained forces of nature some few mages were able to harness, pretending them the outgrowths of their singular power?
If the world was built upon the rules of physics and mathematics as I believed, a pinch of this would do nothing except perhaps intoxicate me into dreaming whatever I wished. Yet Lianelle had known I was a skeptic, and yearned for me to believe as she did. Something about her trinkets’ making—whether one called the principles she had used magic or natural science—had gotten my sister murdered. No longer could I hide childish terrors behind science and reason.
I rang for Ella and asked her to fetch me wine. As I waited, I stowed the red book in the hidden drawer alongside Lianelle’s ring and pendants. Once Ella had left me a pitcher of wine and a pewter cup, I emptied a green glass vial of nettle tincture Melusina made for my autumn sneezing and rinsed it clean. A pinch of the gray powder went into the vial, followed by two spoons of wine as near as I could estimate. As I shook it, the opaque mixture cleared to amber.
I pulled out the glass stopper and sniffed the contents. Odorless—no trace of the wine’s bouquet. I let a drop fall from the slender glass rod back into the vial. Thin and watery. The next drop I let fall on my tongue. Tasteless.
Nothing happened.
Ridiculous. Did I truly expect my body to vanish?
I plugged the stopper back into the vial and slammed it onto the dressing table beside the key to the hidden drawer, and remembered . . .
The keyword is
aventura, my sister had written.
The keyword is
aventura, my sister had written.
If the world was as I believed, speaking a random Aljyssian word should not make a speck of difference in the effects of a potion. But I whispered, “
Aventura
,” and dispensed another droplet on my tongue.
Aventura
,” and dispensed another droplet on my tongue.
A frosty finger traced my spine. The outlines of the furnishings and walls smeared like watercolors. Then, as if I’d jumped from Sante Paolo’s Pillar, the bottom dropped out of my stomach.
I gripped the bedstead, and in the moment’s stillness objects realigned themselves. But at the same time the ever-present hissing and buzzing in my ears shaped itself into whispered words. Voices. From the passage. From outside the window. Through the walls. Louder and louder . . . from above, from below, inside, outside . . . quiet, angry, tearful, droning . . . and behind them all, like the reinforcing wall of troops behind a charging brigade, an onslaught of grief and terror, excitement, exaltation . . .
I slapped hands over ears to quiet the growing pandemonium.
It made no difference. Louder yet, innumerable streams of jumbled words and feelings flowed, boiled together until they became a mighty river of sound. Meanwhile tables and chairs stretched themselves and rebounded into proper shapes. Madness!
I stumbled to the door. No daemon throngs waited in the passage. Nauseated, I shoved open the casement. No unholy mob had gathered beneath my window. Clinging to the sill, I gulped the damp night air. Stupid to take secret potions, no matter who had made them. Trembling, terrified, I held out my hand. It was visible, of course.
How could I imagine such a thing could work? Sorcerers would tell me I had mixed it wrong or spoken the keyword too loud or too softly or that the stars were not properly aligned. Was this what had caused Lianelle’s death? Rampaging voices in her head? A physical world that refused to steady, that somehow forced her into a mistake in her magic working?
It was lunacy to call the individual strands in the snarl
voices
. I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the noise. Mental discipline, my mother’s family taught, was a matter of metred will. One step to suppress desire, another step to address each sense, controlling perceptions that might trigger desire. One step for each passion of the body, so that hunger, thirst, fear, or need might not drive one to yield. Summoning every practiced skill, I created an island of quiet in the torrent, a rock, a small fragment of reason. I clung to it, concentrated . . . until the babble receded to the edges of my mind.
voices
. I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the noise. Mental discipline, my mother’s family taught, was a matter of metred will. One step to suppress desire, another step to address each sense, controlling perceptions that might trigger desire. One step for each passion of the body, so that hunger, thirst, fear, or need might not drive one to yield. Summoning every practiced skill, I created an island of quiet in the torrent, a rock, a small fragment of reason. I clung to it, concentrated . . . until the babble receded to the edges of my mind.
Moving slowly, so that beds and chairs stayed in their shapes, I returned to the dressing table and the mirror that hung above it.
Stars and sky!
I blinked and squinted. I waved my hand before my face. My hand was visible . . . but only one. The actual hand. The mirror displayed no reflection. Even when I pressed cold fingers to the glass, only my bedchamber was visible.
Stars and sky!
I blinked and squinted. I waved my hand before my face. My hand was visible . . . but only one. The actual hand. The mirror displayed no reflection. Even when I pressed cold fingers to the glass, only my bedchamber was visible.
A knuckle pressed to my mouth, I throttled panic.
The world is rational
.
Men and women who study the properties of light and lenses and optical instruments could explain what I see or do not see. First principles . . .
The world is rational
.
Men and women who study the properties of light and lenses and optical instruments could explain what I see or do not see. First principles . . .
I looked again, closer, straining my eyes until they hurt. I glanced behind me and then back at the mirror. All right. It was not that I was invisible. What I saw in the mirror was not what existed directly behind me. Lianelle’s potion must have skewed my eyesight, just as it had afflicted my hearing. This was not magic but optics and alchemistry.
I rang for Ella.
The door opened. “Damoselle, did you need more—? Oh! S’pose not.”
I held motionless and silent as she straightened the bedclothes, blotted a spill of water beside the basin, then pulled the door open again.
“Ella,” I whispered.
She swung around and looked in my direction. But her glance passed through and over me, flicking away and darting about the room. “Damoselle?”
When I did not answer, she shivered and slammed the door. Ella had not tasted the potion.
Frost fingers traced my every bone.
Think, Anne.
Perhaps the mixing had caused light itself to bend. Without analyzing the absurdity of this reasoning, I stepped into the passage. A liveried footman stood outside Belinda’s door, a few metres down the corridor. A youngish man sporting a narrow mustache, he slouched against the wall, yawning and idly twisting one of the blue silk ribbons that dangled from his pouffed sleeves.
Perhaps the mixing had caused light itself to bend. Without analyzing the absurdity of this reasoning, I stepped into the passage. A liveried footman stood outside Belinda’s door, a few metres down the corridor. A youngish man sporting a narrow mustache, he slouched against the wall, yawning and idly twisting one of the blue silk ribbons that dangled from his pouffed sleeves.
I tiptoed down the passage, halting directly in his line of vision. He did not move or acknowledge me. I waved my hand. His eyes shifted up and down the corridor, but did not rest on me.
Halfway back toward my room, I turned and spoke quietly. “Footman.”
He immediately stood up straight and squinted up and down the corridor. At a loss, he spun and tapped on Belinda’s door.
I fled to my bedchamber and slammed the door. Madness yet hovered at the verge of my thoughts. But whatever this chance, I had to take it.
Each drop a quarter of an hour
. I retrieved the vial, removed the glass stopper, and dripped eight more drops on my tongue.
“Aventura.”
. I retrieved the vial, removed the glass stopper, and dripped eight more drops on my tongue.
“Aventura.”
I would have two hours.
LADY CECILE’S DOOR WAS NOT locked. The footman wearing the yellow badge was nowhere in sight. Exulting in my luck, I waited until a pair of chambermaids carrying clay pots of heated herbs passed by, then slipped through the door.
The ducessa’s chambers were dark, the hearths and lamps cold, and the draperies drawn. I’d not thought to bring a lamp, but had no difficulty seeing my way. A wash of pale blue light limned the familiar furnishings as with winter moonlight.
During our tutorial sessions, the sitting room had always been comfortably cluttered, with writing materials near to hand, extra shawls or light blankets left on the chairs, teacups, playing cards, books and papers, and spools of embroidery silk scattered here and there. Now it was perfectly tidy. Books were returned to the cupboard by the hearth, leaving no evidence of the ducessa’s choice of reading materials in her last days. Only blank sheets of paper lay on her writing table. No item of clothing or jewelry; no bit of needlework lay ready to hand. Even Belinda’s stack of Hematian letters was gone.
The bedchamber was the same. Silver brushes were lined up like armored soldiers on her dressing table. The bed was smooth. Clothes hung straight and still in her wardrobe. Nothing was left to indicate that anyone had actually lived in these rooms. Someone had been here before me.
Disappointment weighed my spirit and feet with lead. The strain of keeping the rampant voices at bay threatened to blind me.
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