Masks and Shadows (20 page)

His head tipped forward as the strength flooded out of the muscles in his neck. He couldn't even find the will to be afraid.

Red flames shot up from the floor in all directions, filling the Bagatelle's dance hall. Heat licked Friedrich's face as he staggered back and stared, bewildered, into the inferno that had appeared in the middle of Prince Nikolaus's pride and glory. On the ceiling above him, the familiar black-lacquered paintings of Chinese life overlooked a scene from a nightmare. Before him, black-robed figures mingled in the fire. The mirrors on the walls reflected the flames and multiplied them in dizzying profusion, until the room seemed to stretch out forever in a sea of red and black.

“Brother Friedrich, how good to see you.”

The familiar voice behind him was filled with devilish amusement. A firm hand on Friedrich's back propelled him into the room.

Friedrich stumbled forward, flinging his hands out to protect his face from the leaping flames. He stopped himself just at the edge of the fire.

The dark-robed figure behind him swept forward into the heart of the flames, clapping his hands for attention.

“Brothers! Welcome all. Whether you found your way here from Eszterháza, Vienna, Salzburg, Pressburg, or somewhere very, very different . . .”

Friedrich blinked at the list and took a step too far.

Fire scalded his hands and raced up his neck. It covered his face, burning him, until he was weeping with the agony of it, crying out, begging incoherently—

A hand grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the flames. Ruthless hands beat at his clothing.

“Look, brothers! An initiate who did not follow our guidance. Brother Friedrich, did your invitation not clearly inform you where you would find a cloak of our order?”

Tears streamed down Friedrich's raw face. “I didn't—didn't—”

“Didn't want to? Didn't even want to admit you are one of us, perhaps?” The voice hardened. “Look at this man, brothers. Allowed access into our mysteries, inclusion in our sacred rites—and he flaunts the contempt in which he holds us. What should we do with such a case as this?”

“Please,” Friedrich mumbled. “Please, I didn't know—didn't read—didn't—”

Shouts echoed through the room, overwhelming his protests.

“Throw him into the flames!”

“Burn him!”

“Roast him!”

“Now, brothers.” The voice chuckled indulgently. “He is a sworn member of our order. We will show him the mercy of granting him one more chance. Brother Friedrich . . .” The hood swung toward him. Friedrich's eyes were too blurred by tears to make out any more than the keen eyes within its shadow. “Brother Friedrich, do you repent the choice you made?”

“Yes,” Friedrich choked. “God, yes.” He repented everything —everything . . .

“You have one more moment of choice, Brother Friedrich,” the voice said. “It is your choice to make. I am certain—entirely certain—that we could find another cloak to shelter you. But only committed members of our Brotherhood may wear our cloaks. Are you committed to us, Brother Friedrich?”

“I—I—”

The hand around his collar shoved him back toward the leaping flames. “Are you a believing member of our Brotherhood or not?”

“I am!” Friedrich screamed.

“I am very glad to hear it.” Still, the firm grip held him, struggling, barely an inch away from the flames. “Brothers? Shall we grant him mercy and accept him back within our hearts?”

Mutters rose up within the crowd.

“Please,” Friedrich mumbled. “Please. Please!”

“Bring me a cloak,” the voice commanded. “Brother Friedrich has seen the error of his ways.”

A black-robed figure approached, holding a second cloak spread over his arms. But there was something terribly wrong in the way the figure walked—no, glided—through the flames.

It held out the spare cloak as it reached them.

Oh, God
. Tears flooded Friedrich's face once again, burning as they touched his scalded skin.

The figure's feet did not touch the ground.

“You may open your eyes,” Count Radamowsky murmured.

Charlotte forced her heavy eyelids open with an effort. She couldn't lift her head, but neither could she summon up the effort to worry about it.

Pale light shimmered around Count Radamowsky's body.

“The first of my spirit guides, Nemenel, has joined us,” said Count Radamowsky. “Nemenel, my child, greet this audience.”

The pale light withdrew from Radamowsky's body. It flattened into a long, streaming path of luminescence and floated across the open circle.

Gasps and sighs of appreciation sounded in the darkened room as Nemenel floated around the circle. Tears of wonder prickled at Charlotte's eyes as she watched the stream of incandescent light approach her. She had never expected this summoning to work. She would never have imagined that it could be so beautiful.

Nemenel floated past Charlotte, hovering a moment before her chair. If Charlotte could have lifted her arms, she would have reached out. Such shimmering radiance—she yearned to feel it. But her arms remained stubbornly leaden, and Nemenel floated onward.

As the spirit reached Sophie's chair, Count Radamowsky spoke.

“Nemenel, that is Frau von Höllner, who asked for tonight's meeting. Will you greet her properly?”

Charlotte could only see the edges of Sophie's face, suffused with fear and excitement. As the glowing light neared her, Sophie gasped. The light wrapped around her.

Charlotte could not even turn her head to look closer. She sat frozen, tormented by curiosity . . . and shameful envy. If only it could have been her . . .

A soft giggle escaped Sophie's throat as the light pulled away. “She—she tickles!”

Radamowsky chuckled. “Bow to His Serene Highness, Nemenel.”

The glowing light floated high in the air and then dipped down, in a perfect caricature of a bow. Delighted laughter filled the room.

“She is precious,” Sophie said. “Oh, Niko . . .”

“Return to me, Nemenel,” Count Radamowsky said. As the light streamed back toward him, he raised his hands. “I thank you, gracious gentlemen and ladies, for your attendance. Now, if you will be so kind as to close your eyes once more, I—”

“Wait.” Prince Nikolaus's voice rapped out, though he sat as frozen as all the rest of the onlookers.

Count Radamowsky turned to him. “Your Highness? Is something—”

“Summon another one, Radamowsky.” The Prince's voice seemed edged with other meanings as he added, “Let my court see your most impressive work.”

“I don't—”

“You know exactly the one I mean,” said Prince Nikolaus. “And I insist upon it.”

“Your cloak, Brother Friedrich.” The leader stepped back to make room for the black cloak to be tossed around Friedrich's shoulders.

Friedrich moaned and backed away from the figure who held out the cloak.
The specter
.

“What, too proud to accept help when it is offered to you?” The leader of the group pushed him forward. “Or would you prefer to return to the flames?”

“No,” Friedrich mumbled.

He clamped his teeth together and stood quietly as the floating figure arranged the hooded cloak around him. Was it only his imagination that conjured up the sound of scraping bones?

The figure stepped back and flashed him a grin. Its shining white teeth were the only visible remnants of its face beneath the hood.

Before Friedrich could speak, the man behind him shoved him straight into the center of the flames.

“No!” Friedrich screamed and fought—then stopped.

Flames surrounded him, yet his skin remained cool beneath his cloak. Even his damaged face, protected within the billowing hood, felt only distant heat.

He laughed out loud in sheer relief, despite the pain. He wasn't dead. It was beyond miraculous.

“You see, now, the advantages of your membership.” The leader of the Brotherhood raised his voice, speaking to the crowd at large. “We are men of reason here, untethered by the superstitious fears that hold back lesser beings. Unafraid to touch the deepest darkness in order to protect what belongs to us. Brothers, would any of you follow the weaklings' way of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy and his brethren, who lick the hand of our Habsburg overlords even as it turns into a fist? The Empress may yet believe in compromise, but she won't be able to rein in her hotheaded son forever. One day soon our young Emperor will take sole control—and what then? Will you bow your heads and wag your tails like obedient lapdogs while this so-called enlightened Emperor wrests away all the rights to property and pride that our ancestors won for us centuries ago? While he denies the very nobility of our blood and raises our own peasants above us?”

The answering, rage-filled cry shivered through Friedrich's bones. Through the flames, he saw faces open in anger beneath dark hoods. In a few of them, he recognized the oldest aristocracy of the land. And in a few . . . He swallowed. Rotting, long-dead faces joined the living, here, on common ground.

The leader's voice swelled. “We in this room wear cloaks of protection. The darkness we step through cannot harm us, for we are the chosen among mankind.” He stepped back, leaving Friedrich free to move. “Are you glad now to be wearing one of our cloaks, Brother Friedrich?”

“Yes,” Friedrich mumbled. His cheeks hurt even more when he spoke.

“Excellent. Brother . . .” The leader gestured to another black-robed figure, who hurried forward, both feet reassuringly solid upon the ground. “Take Brother Friedrich away and find salve to repair his face. We cannot have him too injured to perform his duties.”

“Duties?” Friedrich echoed faintly, as he turned to leave.

“Of course.” The leader's smile echoed in his voice. “You are now one of the most highly valued members of our Brotherhood. And in only five days, you will be our shining star.”

“Your Highness . . .” The pale light that was Nemenel rippled and wrapped around Count Radamowsky's straight figure as he spoke. “With great respect, I do not believe that would be a wise idea.”