Master of restless shado.., p.17
Master of Restless Shadows, page 17
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“If this is what’s going to happen,” Inissa went on, “I won’t wear this costume even a minute longer. You can take your stupid play straight to the three hells!”
“Well said,” Sabella replied. “Believe me, I know your pain. Look how he’s having me parade around.”
“My darlings,” Jacinto said before either the captain or his men could get a word in. “If the clothes aren’t broken in, then you won’t look natural wearing them on stage—”
“I don’t care what I might look like on stage if a bunch of ruffians come beating down my door—”
“Wait!” Lord Vediya bolted upright, drawing all gazes to him. He swayed a moment, then went on. “I have . . . a solution . . . Naked! No costumes. Just . . . naked.” He pointed meaningfully at Jacinto and then leaned back on the bench with a crooked grin on his face.
Jacinto pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“Atreau, you might just have something—”
“Absolutely not!” Inissa shot Lord Vediya a murderous glare.
Captain Yago stared at the group of them with the expression of long suffering, then turned his attention to the two men who’d trailed Inissa downstairs. At the same time Narsi stole a glance farther back to see that Lady Hylanya, Kili and the three sailors had slipped out. Now only the brawny young Ollivar occupied a seat below the stairs.
Delight bloomed through Narsi’s chest and he forced himself to frown down at his kaweh cup to hide his face. Beside him Suelita gave a soft sigh and for just a moment he and she shared a quick smile.
“Did you find anything?” Captain Yago demanded of his men.
“Only this . . . woman,” the taller of the two replied.
“Do you seriously think that I am a Labaran noble?” Inissa turned her furious glower on the royal bishop’s men. “Did your mothers drop you on your heads as infants? Perhaps on a daily basis?” Then she spun on her heel back to round on Jacinto. “You had better sort this out!”
“Well, my dear, I don’t know what I can do,” Jacinto replied. “If you won’t wear a costume then all that’s left is to perform naked—”
“I mean that you should do something about these ruffians ransacking my rooms and accusing me of heresy and practicing witchcraft.”
“Oh, well, that’s obviously just foolishness.” Jacinto waved his right hand, beckoning the captain up from his seat and over to his side while he continued to smile at Inissa. “I’m certain that the good Captain Yago will offer you a most humble apology before he and his men take their leave.”
Inissa and the captain glowered at one another in silence, then Captain Yago performed a stiff bow and grumbled a low “My apologies for your inconvenience . . . madam.”
“You see. All is well.” Jacinto prodded the sprawling mass of red hair spilled across the table. “Well, nearly everything. I fear I may need to purchase a new hairpiece. But perhaps it’s for the best. I wasn’t all that impressed with this one. Not quite dramatic enough.”
Captain Yago stood there at the prince’s side while Jacinto paid him not the slightest attention and went on musing over what represented the best wigs for theater as opposed to those a prince might wear to disguise his identity while wooing a milkmaid. At last, Captain Yago made an awkward bow to the prince, then backed away.
The captain withdrew with his men and Narsi watched them mount their horses and ride away with a growing feeling of triumph. He wanted to crow in glee, or at least congratulate Lord Vediya and Inissa on their spectacular acting. But then he realized that he could do neither. For his own sake and those of all the people involved, he couldn’t say a word about this exploit. Not to anyone. Ever.
All at once, he wondered how many other escapades and ventures Lord Vediya had undertaken but never written or spoken of.
“Master Narsi needs . . . paid,” Lord Vediya stated, then he patted his own crotch. “Merrypox is gone but so’s my cash . . . Jacinto . . .” He pointed at the prince and then slumped back against the back of the bench.
“Yes, yes.” Jacinto in turn looked to Enevir, who quickly drew a coin purse from his pocket and counted out several gold coins, each nearly as thick as Narsi’s smallest finger. Two stallions stood rampant over the fine relief of the Sagrada crest. Enevir pushed the money past Lord Vediya to Narsi. He’d seen a coin of royal favor before but never laid his hands upon one, much less a stack of ten.
“We appreciate all you’ve done and thank you for your company and discretion.” Jacinto smiled at him. “But certainly I can’t keep you from your duties. Go with my thanks, dear Narsi.”
He was being dismissed.
Narsi collected the coins and hid them away in his medical satchel, alongside Lady Hylanya’s necklace. He guessed that he’d need to turn the necklace over later, but not in so public a space. Sabella and Suelita rose to let him leave the bench. For an instant Narsi wondered if Lord Vediya would come with him, or if he should invite him, but when he looked in Lord Vediya’s direction the man wouldn’t meet Narsi’s gaze.
Clearly, he was to be allowed into Lord Vediya’s social circle only while he provided a service. That stung a little. He rose from the table and offered his most formal bow to the prince before departing.
Chapter Thirteen
Late in the afternoon, four of the city guards under Ciceron’s command brought the captain’s decapitated body to the chapel. A flag emblazoned with the white stallion of the Sagrada kings served as his shroud and large brass censers rested on either side of his corpse, swathing his remains in veils of powerful incense. A midwife had already cleaned his flesh and rinsed him with wine and perfume.
While Fedeles and the guards looked on, Timoteo absolved Ciceron’s soul of earthly sins. Two youthful acolytes knelt, offering their prayers as protection for his journey through the Sorrowlands and into paradise. Little golden spells flickered throughout the chapel like the flutters of sparrows’ wings, but not one altered the captain’s death nor eased Fedeles’s sorrow. The shining blue rings of radiant blessings that hung over the pulpit might as well have been motes of dust for all the good they did.
Anger and sorrow churned through Fedeles as he silently cursed the monsters who’d harmed Ciceron and then recriminated himself for failing to protect the captain. An hour passed, bells rang out. The snarling stone beasts glaring down from the walls seemed to shift restlessly as shadows stretched through the chapel.
At the end of the ceremony, all of them marched in silence to the cold vault of the mansion’s private crypt. There the body would remain until Fedeles’s groundskeepers finished digging Ciceron’s grave. Dazed and exhausted, Fedeles took in the faces of the four city guards. He had seen them all numerous times before, but he could recall little about them at this moment. Two of them struggled to hold back their tears and the other two looked sick and miserable. Despite Timoteo’s pained expression, all of them swore on God’s balls that they would avenge their captain.
Fedeles thanked them each for their loyalty to their captain and gifted them with gold coins as they took their leave. The acolytes fled behind them. Timoteo returned to murmuring prayers into the clouds of intoxicatingly fragrant incense. Gaunt and white-haired and mouthing words into the air, he struck Fedeles as looking almost as much like a madman as a holy martyr.
Fedeles gazed down at the still body hidden beneath the silk shroud and then lay his hand on Ciceron’s chest as he’d done so many times before. Stripped of all his charm and swagger, he felt cold and stiff as a side of venison. All that now remained with Fedeles was a mere husk.
Ciceron’s wife had entrusted his remains to Fedeles’s care in return for the horses and carriages she’d required to pack up her children and household and flee for the security of her family home in the southern countryside. Ciceron’s latest mistress had accepted the endowment Fedeles settled upon her but had preferred not to see what indignities Ciceron’s handsome body had suffered at the hands of his killers.
Fedeles didn’t want to see either, and yet he found himself drawing back the shroud to touch Ciceron’s bare skin one last time. Fedeles didn’t delude himself into believing that their friendship had been anything approaching a romance, but he had cared for Ciceron. They’d made each other smile and done no one any harm in those moments.
Tears filled Fedeles’s eyes as he recalled the last time he’d caressed Ciceron’s back and felt the heat of the other man’s lips on him. They’d attended the opera that night and both laughed at the hapless lovers prancing and crooning across the stage. He couldn’t remember which opera it had been, nor did he recall what exactly Ciceron had said. Only that Ciceron had been a little drunk and hadn’t bothered to stifle his raucous laughter. Fedeles had felt awed by Ciceron’s confidence in his own nature and actions. He never seemed to question his own impulses or inclinations, the way Fedeles so constantly restrained himself. He’d been a free spirit and it had been a joy simply to watch him.
Fedeles thought suddenly that he should have cherished those moments instead of taking them for granted. Now he couldn’t clearly recall the eye color of the man he mourned. Nor did he recollect if it was black ale or red that Ciceron most enjoyed. He’d slept on his left side, hadn’t he?
Fedeles clutched Ciceron’s slack breast, trying to remember the sensation of Ciceron’s heart hammering beneath his fingers. He yearned so desperately to feel just a hint of that warmth once more. Something stirred deep within Fedeles. The skin beneath his hand seemed suddenly warmer. A feeling very like that of a faint pulse kicked against his palm. Fedeles spread his fingers, reaching out to capture more of that sensation of a living body.
“Fedeles!” Oasia’s voice broke him from his reverie. “Come away from him!”
All at once Fedeles realized that his shadow rolled out from his hands and wrapped itself around Ciceron’s corpse. A strange, half-formed curve of misty darkness curled beneath the shroud, where Ciceron’s head should have been. The cloth shuddered as if ragged breath fluttered up from beneath the folds.
Horror and revulsion flooded Fedeles. He jerked his hand back from Ciceron and commanded the shadow curse back to him. The shroud fell slack and Ciceron’s dead chest stilled.
Had he nearly allowed the monstrosity within him to infiltrate and corrupt Ciceron’s corpse?
Father Timoteo stood only a few feet away, wearing an expression that struck Fedeles as not nearly alarmed enough. Oasia strode toward him through the dark crypt. A curl of her black hair had come loose from the crown of braids and gold combs atop her head. Her green silk gown whispered against the flagstones as she sped to Fedeles’s side. Faint sparks of blue light lit her hands. Fedeles turned to her and allowed her to ring him in her arms and in a circle of restraining spells. The shadow in him twisted and writhed like a great worm wriggling through his guts, but then it grew sluggish and at last quieted.
Fedeles slumped a little in Oasia’s embrace.
“Never fear,” Oasia murmured. “I have you now.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Oh, I’m just happy to think that after six long years you still find me enchanting, my dearest husband.”
Fedeles managed a tired laugh.
Oasia was a cousin to him, and like most members of her family, she could have ruled over a coven of witches if she’d been born Labaran. She would have been celebrated, Fedeles thought.
But in Cadeleon, her survival required secrecy and guile. Her innate skill was condemned by the church and her sex made her a mere property. As a girl she’d only escaped her father’s grasp through marriage. When her first husband had threatened to annul their union—he’d not been able to share her bed, much less give her a child—she’d used his lover, Atreau, to become pregnant. That had not gone as she would have liked—not for her nor for her first husband or even Atreau—but her perilous situation had offered Fedeles an opportunity to secure his own position.
Oasia had not been all that happy about the arrangement at the beginning.
In fact the first night of their marriage she’d ensnared Fedeles in a web of blazing cerulean spells. She’d very nearly crushed the life from him when his murderous shadow burst out, coming only seconds from slitting Oasia’s throat. Oasia had released Fedeles at once to raise a shield of blue spells over herself. Haloed on wild blue magic and glaring at him, she had looked like some ancient goddess, and Fedeles had felt awed by her despite himself. He’d known then that the last thing he wanted was to destroy her.
Restraining his accursed shadow had left him shaking and sweating, but he’d eventually drawn it back across their bed. Even now he could remember Oasia’s confused expression when she realized that he would not harm her.
That night, in the midst of torn coverlets, spell-scorched pillows and drifting feathers, they’d reached their first of many understandings. Fedeles swore that he would never make an advance upon Oasia’s body. She in turn agreed not to practice magic against him. Then side by side they’d set to work returning the nuptial bed to some semblance of normalcy. What had begun as a cold truce had flourished over the years into a companionable marriage and something approaching friendship.
More than either Javier or Alizadeh, it was Oasia who had helped Fedeles to win a degree of control over the shadow curse. And she shared his adoration and fear for Sparanzo, as no other person could. She took no offense to men like Ciceron with whom Fedeles kept company from time to time. He in return only wished her happiness in her own affairs.
Now, Oasia squeezed his hand reassuringly. Fedeles kissed her forehead in return. Lilac perfume drifted from her dark hair.
“You can control the darkness, my dear,” Oasia whispered. “It’s yours and you are its master.”
It wasn’t the first time Oasia had tried to convince him of his inherent connection to the shadow curse, but Fedeles shook his head. He didn’t want that thing to be part of him—an extension of his soul, as Hylanya Radulf had insisted.
“I can’t—” Fedeles began, but he went silent as a figure darted into the crypt.
“My lady?” Oasia’s handmaid, Delfia, stepped into the dim chamber. The light from outside cast long shadows of Oasia’s other attendants, who waited just out of sight. “My lord!” Delfia curtsied the moment she met Fedeles’s gaze.
“What is it, my dear?” Oasia asked. Her expression remained impassive, but Fedeles recognized the annoyance in her voice. No doubt she had instructed her retinue not to interrupt them in the crypt. Fedeles felt glad for that. The fewer people who witnessed what he’d nearly done to Ciceron’s body the better. Fedeles stole a glance to Timoteo, but he remained absorbed in his prayers and rituals, freeing Ciceron’s soul from any lingering attachment to his flesh.
Delfia was one of the few people Oasia trusted, so Fedeles felt certain that even if she witnessed the shadow curse creep back into his body, she would tell no one. From her demeanor he guessed that she hadn’t seen anything. She seemed very like her calm, self-contained brother in her quiet manner as well as her natural poise. Fedeles found it pleasing to watch both of them—though recently observing Ariz had begun to rouse a restless longing in him that he’d thought long dead.
Fedeles suspected that even now some perverse corner of his heart still fluttered with the thrill of first love when he looked upon the even features and effortless grace that appeared to run in the Plunado family. Genimo, too, had possessed those traits, as well as a wicked sense of humor and tireless desire. Fedeles had loved and trusted him so completely that he’d had no defense against Genimo’s betrayal. There was a warning in that, Fedeles knew. Still he found his thoughts returning again and again to Master Ariz.
“Please forgive the intrusion, but a missive has arrived from Lady Elenna Ortez concerning that errand you just sent her on.” Delfia kept her head bowed as she approached Oasia. “You wanted them brought to you directly.”
“Yes. Thank you for remembering, Delfia.” Oasia extended her hand and Delfia passed her the letter. Oasia opened it, glancing over the delicate script quickly. In passing Fedeles noted the mention of a man and doves. Oasia folded the letter closed, then hid it away within the folds of her green silk dress. “My dear cousin is forever confiding court gossip, but this, I think, will require me to advise her immediately.”
Fedeles nodded. Pretty and just nineteen, Elenna was only one of numerous women whom his wife had assisted in delicate, private matters and who in return kept her informed. Atreau also maintained the same kinds of relationships—more than acquaintances but never just friends—though with an entirely different class of people. Neither Oasia nor Atreau would have thanked Fedeles for thinking them so similar, but he couldn’t help noting it. Despite their first disastrous encounter, the two of them were remarkably alike in character, if not bearing. Both masked their true capacities behind charm and flattery, and both could act with ruthless detachment. They were nearly identical in their estrangements from their families, they both wore perfumes that reminded them of the mothers they’d lost, and both seemed drawn to physical strength and heartfelt sincerity in their lovers.
At times it was almost funny that they could be so alike and yet detest one another so greatly. Though just now nothing struck Fedeles as all that amusing. Plumes of funerary incense drifted over him.
Neither of Oasia nor Atreau had been particularly fond of Ciceron. Oasia had chided Fedeles that he deserved a more faithful companion, while Atreau had disliked the captain’s capacity for violence. To Fedeles it seemed pointless to dissect a person into good and bad traits. To him the best and worst of Ciceron’s character had been aspects of the whole man: brutal to his enemies but lavish in his affection for his loved ones. Fedeles glanced to the shrouded body and felt sorrow coil around him.
“I had come to ask if you would like to walk with me. But . . .” Oasia paused and her dark eyes moved over him thoughtfully. “Will you be . . . comfortable, here alone?”
