Where was reason and the proper order of the universe? Abbot Luviar, a man of vision and passion, hung from the gallows with blowflies feasting on his bowels, while my worst injury from the day’s events, a deep burn on the back of my hand, had already scabbed over. And Brother Victor, a man of intelligence and reason, lay fighting for breath, while I was to parade as a royal advisor in a house run by spiders, feral cats, one mutilated mardane, four warriors…and, ah, yes, one prince who stole dead men’s eyes, brutalized children, and salvaged tortured monks.
Was fortune no gift of a harried goddess, but rather purest chance? Perhaps the Harrowers had guessed the truth, that the universe was naught but chaos, and mankind, fearing the impenetrable, uncaring powers of night and storm, had only imagined these kindly mockeries of ourselves that we called gods.
Luviar would have refused such a hopeless premise. Given voice from the grave, he would argue that a beneficent Creator had instilled in humankind the means to shape our own destiny. In the throes of such guilt as plagued me this night, I desired desperately to believe that. The abbot had given me the grace of his trust, and I had failed him. Now I had to find some way to make amends. My meager vow was all I could devise.
The clean clothes were plain, but fine—a silk shirt of spruce green, a pourpoint of blood-red brocade. I swiped at my hair to remove flakes of ash and splinters.
The mardane handed me the claret-hued cape and mask. So, ordinaries beyond Osriel’s household were to be present at this interview. This day had left me beyond surprise.
Voushanti guided me through the winding passages back to Prince Osriel’s chamber. Though night had fallen, I could see more of the house than I had in the morning’s confusion. Tiered candle rings veiled with cobwebs lit the domed foyer, a circular space cold and bare of any decoration save massive pillars, weighty arches, and a dozen elaborately carved doors. Two Evanori warriors guarded one pair of doors and swung them open immediately upon our arrival.
“His Grace awaits,” said Voushanti. “You are on trial here, pureblood.”
The mardane pivoted smartly, drew his sword, and took up a guard stance, face outward between the two warriors, leaving me to pass through the open doorway alone. His remarks but confirmed my own conclusions. Jullian’s presence, my oath not to run, the hidden identities of our day’s quarry—I had been on trial all day. How had Osriel known how to manipulate me so thoroughly? And to what purpose?
Myriad teardrop-shaped lamps of colored glass illuminated Prince Osriel’s chamber—a grand hall, hung with thick tapestries of dark reds, greens, and gold. Above the hanging lamps the high, barreled vault hosted lurid depictions of the netherworld—scenes of naked, writhing humans being herded by grinning gatzi toward a lake of fire. In one broad panel a triumphant Magrog, crowned with ram’s horns, presided over a charred desolation from his throne of human skulls.
My eyes could not linger on the fantastical paintings above my head. The focus of the great hall was a vaulted alcove to my right, where the impenetrable darkness of the morning had yielded to shifting shadows. In front of a curved screen of wrought gold sat an elaborately carved chair of squared oak, knobbed spires rising from its back. To either side of the chair, fire blazed in great brass bowls. The bowls rested on the backs of gray stone statues depicting chained slaves twice my height. The chair was occupied.
Considering the size of the chair, I estimated its occupant to be a person of a man’s moderate stature, though the voluminous folds of a hooded velvet gown, colored the same spruce green as my garb, left sex, size, and demeanor indeterminate. Yet that person’s presence was immense. No storm building over the river country, where the turbulent air of the mountains clashed with hot wind from the eastern deserts and the moisture of the Caurean Sea, could have such monumental force pent in its clouds as the power shivering the air about Osriel’s throne.
“My Lord Prince,” I said, “or at least so I presume.”
Even as I made my genuflection, touching my fingers to my forehead, I fought to control my fear. This house and its macabre trappings were designed to intimidate.
A slender, refined hand gestured me up. A man’s hand, bearing a single heavy ring of graven gold, almost too large for the finger that bore it.
“See, now, that I am a man of my word, Magnus Valentia.” The voice from under the velvet hood hinted at the first stirring vigor of the storm wind. His ringed finger pointed behind me.
I spun in place to discover a goggle-eyed, unscarred Jullian standing roughly in the place I’d left him that morning. He was unbound, his thin shoulders firmly in the grasp of a wary Brother Gildas. Rarely had I felt such a rush of relief and pleasure.
I had feared Gildas lost at Riie Doloure—the lighthouse Scholar, the hope of a kingdom rapidly destroying itself, my friend. The irony struck me that my need for nivat had likely saved him, removing him from the priory before the assault. And Jullian…
The boy’s anxious eyes searched, taking in my cloak and mask and the looming presence on the dais behind me. Then his clear gaze slid past the eyehole of my mask, met my own eyes, and as a nervous sparrow finds a branch to its liking, stayed a while. His face brightened. I smiled and nodded and breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, wishing he did not have to hear what I had to tell.
Reaffirming my vow to guard the lad and his cause, I turned so that I could both address the prince properly and assure myself that my two friends would not vanish in candle smoke. I crafted my words carefully, estimating what might be expected or permitted in this room, assessing what might be my master’s purpose, and cataloguing the news I wished to convey to the remaining members of the lighthouse cabal. “My lord, I appreciate your generosity in permitting me to share this fulfillment of our bargain. Were poor Brother Victor brought in to be released to his brothers as well, with the painful results of his ordeal at Riie Doloure well healed, then I could ask no better return for my submission.”
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.”