Corambis (33 page)

Upon reaching Esmer, Murtagh handed me over to my sister and absented himself promptly into the arms of the Convocation, leaving me to Isobel’s disposing. I was put in the nursery, away at the top of Carey House where I would not disturb anyone if I screamed or raved or battered myself senseless against the walls. The rooms had not been used since Murtagh himself was a child; I smelled the lingering traces of cedar and lavender under the stronger scents of soap and wood oil and burnt dust from the fireplace.

Seemed like pleasant rooms, insofar as I could tell: ridiculously large for a single person, but were no drafts and the dormer windows, facing east, were each large enough for a window seat. For all that I scorned myself for it, I could not help being drawn to the warmth of the sun.

Isobel allotted me a single servant; his name was Springett, and he was Caloxan- born. His hands were gentle, and his voice polite. He had been, he told me, the body servant of the duke’s uncle Guy, who had died the previous winter at the unimaginably ancient age of ninety. Springett was accustomed, in other words, to the ser vice of invalids, and I was pricklingly grateful to him for not putting it so bluntly.

On Domenica morning, I was woken by Springett’s polite tap at the door. “What happens?” I said, hastily sitting up— as if that made me in any way less vulnerable. “Have I overslept? Is something wrong?”

“No, sir, not at all.” I identified the sounds of Springett setting down the shaving tackle and can of hot water. “But Mr. Julian will be coming in an hour to take you to church, and Her Grace said she thought you’d like breakfast first.”

“Mr. Julian?
Church?
”
“Yes, sir. Will you get up, then?”
“Have I any choice?”
“It is His Grace’s plea sure,” Springett said, so very neutrally that I knew

I did not.
“Very well,” I said and shoved back my bedcovers to stand. Julian Carey was the only son of Murtagh’s younger brother. The brother

and his wife having both died, he in the Insurgence, she in a carriage accident or somesuch, Julian had become the duke’s ward. He was sixteen and a student at the University of Esmer. Isobel had told me he was sullen, but since her barrenness made Julian the heir to the duchy, was foolish to imagine she would have any fondness for the boy.

But church? What in the name of all that was holy was Murtagh thinking?
I shaved and dressed myself, but had to trust my necktie to Springett. That at least had naught to do with my eyes— had never had the knack of a four- in- hand.
I said, feigning casualness, “What church enjoys the duke’s favor?”
“The Carey family has always attended Our Lady of Mirrors, sir.”
“Of course,” said I. Our Lady of Mirrors was the largest and most beautiful cathedral in Corambis. The Dragon Duke did nothing by halves.
The breakfast table was between the windows in the outer room. I sat down, found the teacup by its heat. I sipped, letting it scald the dry foulness of dreams out of my mouth. Then, gingerly, I found the rim of the plate, gingerly let my fingers skate toward the center, ready to pull back at the first hint of something sticky. Instead, they encountered dry toast, and I heaved a sigh of relief. That I could handle without fearing for my clothes.
I made the tea last as long as I could, so that I had not too many moments of empty idleness before a knock came, not at all like Springett’s polite tap.
“Come in,” I said and congratulated myself that my voice was steady; I even sounded as if I had some control over who entered this room.
The hinge squeaked.
I turned my head toward the door. After a moment, there being neither speech nor movement, I said, “Yes?”
A boy’s voice, very Corambin, very sulky: “I’m Julian Carey. Uncle Ferrand wants me to take you to church.”
“So I have been informed.” I stood up, moved away from chair and table, but stopped carefully in the middle of the room.
The boy’s breath huffed out. “What must I do?”
“Give me your arm. And warn me about stairs, uneven ground, things of that ilk.” I banished the memory of embarrassment in Lily- of- Mar Station on Mercoledy, when I had stumbled over the raised lip of a seating area and gone to my knees.
“All right.” He jingled slightly as he approached. Jewelry, or perhaps the mockery of soldier’s harness that Isobel said was in fashion now. Broadcloth beneath my fingers, a boy’s skinny, awkward arm. He smelt faintly of citrus; he was old enough to shave or he pretended he was. “We’d better go,” said he. “Uncle Ferrand will have kittens if we’re late.”
“Lead on,” said I.
Are the same hallway and stairs they were on Mercoledy, I snarled at myself. Thou didst manage then, so is no point in megrims now. My grip tightened on Julian Carey’s arm, but I did not clutch the bannister as it were my only hope of salvation. And I did not fall— though it was a near thing at the foot of the stairs, for Julian forgot to warn me.
He muttered apology; had he been a boy fostered to Rothmarlin, had I been Margrave of Rothmarlin still, we would have had words about courtesy and elocution, but he was not and I was not, and I most sincerely did not wish to be late to church.
In fairness, his guidance improved markedly thereafter. And I thought it was clever of Murtagh, the devious weasel, to have sent his nephew as my guide. He had assessed the Brightmore pride to a nicety, doubtless from too much experience: I might fear leaving Carey House to the extent that my heart was beating hard and fast against my ribs, but never to the extent of confessing my weakness to a sullen boy.
Seven steps down from Carey House’s front door, and we turned left. I heard horses in the street, the creaking of wagon frames, the stately wooden clatter of the wheels. Were persons on the sidewalk; I caught fragments of conversation as we walked, and was a small child howling in protest, though I could not tell what its grievance was.
Once we were past that disturbance, I dared ask, “Is far to Our Lady of Mirrors?”
“Only a couple of blocks,” said Julian, as one to whom this city was neither foreign nor frightening. I reminded myself not to cling to his arm like a shy debutante and straightened my spine. Almost immediately, however, my resolve was destroyed by an ugly, tangled interlude, a bewilderment of glancing blows and scents ranging from perfume to carbolic soap and chattering, indifferent voices and overlying it all a strange hollow howling— if it were a child protesting, the child was monstrous and ancient and most probably mad, and that which it protested was unbearable and irredeemable.
And then, just as suddenly, the throng was gone.
“Mr. Brightmore,” Julian said thinly, his voice barely polite, “you are bruising my arm.”
I dragged in a breath and forced my fingers to relax. “What . . . what
was
that?”
“What was what? Oh, the fathom station? Uncle Ferrand says Grandfather nearly quit the Convocation over that, having it so close to Carey House.”
“Fathom station,” I said blankly.
“You know, the fathom. The underground public railways. Don’t they have them in Caloxa?”
“Trains underground?” I could think of few things more horrifyingly unnatural— though it did most clearly explain the howling of that monstrous child. The Veddick’s child. “No, they do not.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a few paces, then asked, all a-sudden, “So what happened to your eyes anyway?”
“An accident,” I said, truthfully enough.
“You don’t look blind,” he said, deliberately offensive or naturally tactless. “Was it magic? Did a warlock do it?”
“There are no warlocks,” said I.
“Oh.” He sounded puzzled. “But that’s what the Insurgence was about, wasn’t it? Bringing the warlocks back?”
“Blessed Lady, no! We may have been fools, but were not
stupid
.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stiff with affront. Was silent after that until we came to Our Lady of Mirrors, where he warned me brusquely of stairs, a door; and then the damp incense- laden heat of the cathedral struck me in the face. Julian tugged me to the left and hissed in my ear, “Take off your shoes.”
Would be senseless squandering of breath to remind Julian that I had been brought up in religious orthodoxy just as much as he had. I knelt and removed my shoes and socks, tucking my socks into the toes of my shoes as I had been taught as a child.
When I stood up again, was no one near me. I could hear other people rustling and shifting. I waited a slow count of five before I said, “Julian?”
“There’s cubbies for the shoes,” said Julian’s voice, somewhere in front of me and about the level of my knees. “I was just putting mine away. I’d better get yours, too.”
“Please,” I said shortly and reminded myself that I could not be angry at Julian for not coddling me. He was not my nurse. Did not want one in any event.
Then he was back, citrus and broadcloth. “Let’s go.”
“Are we late?”
“No. Here’s the pool.”
The pool was heated, as I had heard the pool of Our Lady of Fallen Leaves in Wildar was. I was glad of the warmth lapping over the tops of my feet, glad this was not Our Lady of Marigolds with its icy, bitter water.
Julian forgot to warn me when we reached the far side of the pool; fortunately I felt the shift in his body and managed the step up without tripping. He was tense now, in a way he had not been either in Carey House or on the sidewalks of Esmer, and although he said we were not late, he was dragging at my arm as were nevertheless a terrible need for haste.
I planted my feet.
“Mr. Brightmore!” he protested.
“An we are not late,” I said pleasantly, “is no call for breaking my neck, and I would liefer not.”
“It’s perfectly safe! No stairs or anything!”
“Is still no reason to go at it like rabbits running downhill. Especially in a holy place.”
He was tugging at my arm, but I could not make sense of his desperation until a voice said from my right, “Hello there, Carey. Who’s your friend?”
“Oh. Um. Hello, Thrale.” Julian’s voice squeaked on the last word, rising to a childish treble. He coughed and said, “This is my aunt’s brother. I’m just going to find him a seat— I’ll be right back.”
This time, his jerk at my arm was vicious, and I did not, in sober truth, wish to explain myself to another stripling. I followed Julian’s guidance forward on cool, slightly slick flagstones, and only barely managed to bite back a yelp when he stopped and pushed me hard to my left. I staggered, and the hand that reached out for balance found the scrolled back of a bench. “There,” said Julian, “you’ll be fine.”
I reached for him— though what I would have done had I caught him, I knew not— but he was gone. Racing back to his friend Thrale, no doubt.
I took a deep breath and neither screamed nor blasphemed luridly— nor both. Slowly, praying that no one watched, I found the seat of the bench— smooth leather, soft with age— and settled myself on it. I was all right, I said to myself. Nor injured nor truly frighted, though the boy was a feckless mooncalf and should be taught better. I was in a great Corambin cathedral; no harm would come to me here.
Then that thought struck me as almost unbearably funny, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Was someone next to me on the bench— probably a row of persons, but I could only hear, feel, smell the one. A lady, smelling of attar of roses, dressed in something that sounded like silk when she moved.
At home, it would have been almost unforgivably rude not to turn and greet her; at home, I would have known her. I wondered if etiquette was the same in Esmer; then I wondered how she would respond to my Caloxan accent. I faced forward, said nothing, and distracted myself by wondering if Julian would return.
He had not by the time the ser vice started. The intended began without censing the points of the compass; I tried not to heave a sigh of relief. I might and did despise the Corambins for their slovenly Caddovian ways, but was no denying it made the worshippers’ role simpler and less strenuous— and I did not need to fear becoming disoriented and being unable to find my place on the bench.
I gave the intended but very poor attention. “Let your heart embrace forgiveness,” said the intended, but my heart was embracing anger and fear. I found myself hating the crowd of Corambins around me, hating them for having light when I was trapped in darkness, hating them for making me afraid without even having the decency to realize it.
As one would expect from the greatest cathedral of Esmer, the choir was all but unearthly; the countertenor soloist sounded like the voice of the stars. I wanted to stand up, to scream, to tell them they had no right to create such heartbreaking beauty when Gerard was dead, my country doomed to servitude, and myself alone and afraid. Selfish, yes, but so were they. They did not care that this serene harmony was built on blood and death and pain.
I sat, my nails digging into my palms, and said over my coraline in my mind. Intended Frant, Gerrard’s chaplain who had died at Subry, had once said to imagine each iteration of the coraline, each syllable of the meditation, as a pebble dropping into a clear pool, the ripples spreading of faith and love and tranquility, for yourself, for those for whom you prayed, for the world which was in such sore need. Did not quite dare to take the beads out of my pocket; I feared to reveal myself as an Eadian. I feared, and no number of prayers would change that.
The ser vice ended; the woman beside me stood up. Awkwardly, stumbling, hunched, I rose, shuffled to the end of the bench, and then stood, clutching the back in both hands as people brushed and jostled past me. The noise caught and echoed, showing me the vastness of the vault, and the press of bodies began to make me dizzy. I felt as if the floor was shifting beneath my feet; my head was too light, too large, my pulse pounding in my temples. I will not faint, I said grimly to myself, biting the inside of my lower lip hard enough that I tasted blood.
The throng thinned out; the echoes died away. Could not unclamp my fingers or straighten out of my ludicrous defensive hunch. One set of footsteps now, a soft slapping of bare feet against marble, echoing and wheeling through the unknowable space of the cathedral; I could not tell whence they came or where they were going, until a male voice said, frighteningly close, “Are you all right?”
Was not Julian’s voice, and I cursed him in my heart.
“I am fine, I thank you,” said I. But none of my muscles would release their burden of tension, and the words sounded as if they had been ground out between great meshing gears.
“Are you alone? Is there someone I can fetch?” A soft voice, young, either gentle or feigning so.
“No, thank you. Please. Am all right. I just . . .”
“You are white and shaking. And I do not know you. Are you of this dominion?”
Lady of Dark Mercies, do you hate me so much? “Are you the intended?”
“Yes. I . . . Oh. You’re blind. I beg your pardon. I did not realize.”
Each fresh humiliation was a knife slashing deeper and deeper across the vulnerable veins of the wrist. I only wished my meta phor were real enough to die of.
The intended said, “Please. Let me help you. I cannot have you taking root in the sacristal. The vestry would never let me hear the end of it.”
I was grateful for the joke, however ner vous and labored. I said, “I have become disoriented. If you will but guide me back to the pool . . .” I shall be not one whit better off than I am now.
“Of course. May I know your name?”
“Kay Brightmore,” I said.
There was only the slightest hesitation before he said, “Constant Godolphin,” and his voice revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“I am . . . I am a dependent of the Duke of Murtagh.” I could barely force the words out; I imagined my life’s blood running down the back of the bench, spreading in an ever wider pool across the cold, echoing floor.
“I will send a message to His Grace,” said the intended. “Or . . . I could walk with you back to Carey House if you would like.”
“You are very kind,” I said. “I do not like to bother His Grace unnecessarily.”
“Then we will do that,” said the intended. “I must fetch a coat. Are you all right to stay here for a moment?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said and heard his bare feet pad briskly away.
I stood and said the coraline, trying to imagine my body as the pool, my heart as the stone. Slowly I straightened my cramped shoulders; slowly my fingers released their punishing grip on the back of the bench.
In the stillness, I heard someone wading through the pool, and my heart stopped in my chest.
“Kay,” said Murtagh. “You have no idea how gratifying it is to find you here.”
“Your Grace,” I said through gritted teeth, my fingers digging into the bench back again.
“May I ask,” said he, coming closer, “
why
you are here?”
“I told Julian to go on without me,” I said savagely.
“Ah.” Was a long, chilly pause. “I will have a word with Julian. And I beg your pardon for asking a foolish question. Shall we go home?”