The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) (43 page)

Treel entered Vane’s thoughts little more
that day. What Vane did consider, when his mind wandered from debating what
measures might be needed to protect his wife and child, was Treel’s description
of life in prison. Men maintained their dignity in Rexson’s jails. They
practiced their trades or earned money with hard labor.

More astounding than Treel’s account of
how he passed his days were the accounts Ursa gave her sister, and what lacked
from them: no mention of debasement or abuse. In Vane’s visits with Ursa before
sentence was signed, the dread of rape had hung so strongly about the woman her
air was suffocating. Had her fears been realized, she would have turned to
August. She knew how close August was to the king and queen, and even if Ursa
suspected the royals wouldn’t lift a hand against the guilty party, she would
want August to know what went on behind the walls of her beloved monarchs’
jails. But Ursa spoke nothing of that sort.

Vane thought back to Podrar’s prison with
its stone walls so clean they glistened, the rugs without a speck of dirt. Poor
nutrition had not caused Treel’s weight loss. Perhaps guilt was to blame, for
besides Treel, all the prisoners Vane had glimpsed looked well fed, and none
was beaten. What must the contrast have been when his uncle held power? He saw Zalski’s
prisoners with more black and blue to their skin than natural shading. He
imagined someone in those correctable conditions subject also to the summer
heat no one could control, sweating as Treel had, and for no greater crime than
stealing food so not to starve. The thought made Vane want to reach for
August’s pail.

Better not to ponder life beneath Zalski’s
rule. Better still to forget his blood relation to the man. Black spot on
Vane’s heart be damned, Zacry had always been right. Zalski was no part of
Vane’s life, and had no place in what Vane had set out to do with the Magic
Council.

* * *

Mid-June brought with it a welcome and
continued silence from Amison in all matters concerning the Duke of Ingleton,
blooming iris in Oakdowns’s garden, cloud cover to lessen the previous week’s
heat, and the first official meeting of the Magic Council. August, a week over
the worst of her nausea, was surprised when she glanced out the bedroom window
the morning of the council’s session to find no protesters. Vane was not.

“Why come here?” he said. “Here there’s
only me. At the Palace they can make a show for all of us.”

“Be careful,” August told him.

“I’m pulling the old carriage and
transport trick again, I’ll be fine. I’m much more worried about Francie and
her inactive magic.”

“Gratton won’t let anything happen to
her,” assured August.

“He and his crew arrested two or three
teenagers the other day trying to burn her aunt’s store, you know.”

August grabbed Vane’s arm. “You never
told me that! Neither did Bennie.”

“I didn’t want to frighten you.”

She asked, “Or make me jealous that you
follow Francie’s life?”

“Rexson mentioned the attempted arson,
and without prompting. I haven’t asked about or seen Francie since we all met
with the queen and Mason Greller.” He paused. “Would you feel more comfortable
if you met her?”

“I would not. That would just be cruel to
the woman.” August paused, trying to find a way to explain herself. “I trust
you, Val. You know I do, though I’ll admit I’m aware how easily you could come
and go from here if you wanted.”

“I’d never….”

“I know that. And from what you’ve told
me, Francie wouldn’t try to weasel her way between us, but that doesn’t mean
she’s not head over heels for you, because you’re just so amazing it seems
absurd she wouldn’t be. She applied for the council hoping you’d do the same,
and as for me, well, I know just how lucky I am to have you. I don’t want to
rub that in her face, unless she comes on to you. If she comes on to you, you
invite her over for dinner, you understand?”

“August, she wanted to retract her
application.”

“And you
wouldn’t let her.”

“For the same reason I thought you should
visit your sister, nothing more than that. She needs this council to find
peace. What she did to me and Teena has been eating at her for a decade…. You
said you were all right with this.”

August sighed, shutting her eyes to
gather herself. “I did. And I am, I really am.”

“There’ll be four other people with us,
if that makes you feel better.” He kissed her on the forehead and asked, “What
are your plans for the day?”

“I might take a book out to the garden.”

“Wish I could do
that.”

“Give Zacry my best. And tell him to kiss
those darling babies for me. I tell you, I’ll be happy if ours is half as
precious as either one of his.”

When Vane did get to the Palace and made
his way to the library, where the council was scheduled to meet, he found
Gratton outside the room and Francie the lone council member inside. She had a
steeled and somber air about her, and was staring resolutely at a shelf of
books.

“Should I call you Ingleton, like when we
met the queen?”

“I suppose so.”

Zacry entered a moment later, and then
Johann, and Hart and Casandra Quin accompanied by the king. Everyone took seats
around a chestnut table placed in the library for the meeting, and Rexson
explained why he had chosen each new councilor. He detailed at length his
vision for the council, gave concrete figures to describe its budget, and after
a full hour, he left. The next order of business was to select the council
spokesman, the person who would serve as their mouthpiece before the crown and
press. Casandra suggested Zacry, as the idea for the council had been inspired
by his research, but he refused the nomination. He lacked access to the king.

“Ingleton, then,” said Johann. “If it’s
accessibility to the royals we’re after, he’s the obvious choice.” Vane could
not deny that. “What say you, Ingleton?”

Just
what I need, a spokesman position to draw more attention
.

“If that’s what the group wants, I’ll do
it.”

Hart protested, “Isn’t he a bit
controversial a figure to hawk our efforts to the press?”

“The most respected councils are the
councils of nobility,” Casandra noted. “Always have been. I’m not sure Ingleton
as spokesman wouldn’t send a powerful statement of validity.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said
Francie. She turned to Vane and spoke with apology in her tone, as though she
had grazed his sleeve and read his reluctance to take the spokesmanship despite
being seated across the table. “It’s indisputable, what Casandra says. And
you’re the only one of us who could possibly know the king well enough to adapt
our proposals to His Majesty’s way of thinking.”

“I’ll do it,” Vane repeated. “Is that
decided then?” Everyone nodded, although Hart’s nod was hesitant. It was
official; Vane became spokesman. They then appointed Johann council secretary
and moved on to discuss the budget, to determine how many and what kinds of
projects they might undertake.

Meanwhile, August had changed her plans
for the day. Vane had warned her not to leave Oakdowns, since the king’s custom
was to make public which of his councils met when, which meant the
Podrar Bugle
had noted every day for the
past week and a half that the Magic Council’s first session was set for that
afternoon. But August felt restless, growing more and more frightened of her
pregnancy becoming public knowledge. She needed to talk to someone
besides Vane about the baby, someone
who was not Vane’s aunt, and the unexpected balminess of the day, combined with
a blessed lapse in her nausea and the lack of any sort of crowd at the manor’s
gate, proved too tempting to resist. She ordered her horse saddled and rode to
Bendelof’s, praying the woman might be home.

Bendelof had tea in her kettle and bread
in the oven. She was baking to distract herself from what, by now, had become
unwavering belief in her sterility. She had seen one midwife the previous week
and a second the day before, and neither’s opinion had been hopeful, though
they admitted they could not prove her infertile. They had recommended certain
herbs, which Bennie deemed ludicrous, and the first had suggested a
fortuneteller, perhaps (ironically enough) one who read the crystal ball rather
than cards. Bennie, though, was religious at heart, not superstitious; she
thought fortunetellers ridiculous and fraudulent, especially after her stint
masquerading as one. She went to the Temple instead, first railing at the Giver
for spurning her devotion, then begging to understand what purpose taking
children from her could possibly serve. Bennie hoped prayer might steel her
spirit, and to a degree it had, but she still felt broken, without direction,
and the sensation terrified her. She felt seventeen again, blind and captive in
Zalski’s tower.

“I’m sorry to just drop in like this,”
said August, as she joined her hostess in the kitchen. She wasn’t, though; just
to be with Bennie, standing in a building not overrun with servants, had calmed
August a great deal. To stare up at the barn painting above the stove made her
feel comfortable.

“Oh, nonsense! You’re always welcome, you
know that. Anyway, it’s a Tuesday. We usually see each other then, just had
that break while you got over the flu.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you
about,” said August. “I didn’t really have the flu.”

Bennie set cups on the table and poured
the tea; she did so with a concerned look. “Are you ill? Have the doctors said
it’s something serious?”

August dunked a sugar cube in her cup.
“It wasn’t the flu. It was morning sickness.” Bennie dropped her cube on the
table, and the duchess added, “I’m almost three months along.”

Bennie’s arm was shaking, so she put down
the sugar spoon.

Don’t
envy her. Come on, that accomplishes nothing.

“Congratulations.” Bennie wiped a tear
from her eye, sure August would think it a tear of joy, and hugged her guest.
“You’ll be a wonderful mother, just wonderful. Such a blessing…. Gracious,
August! Gracious, who knows?”

“No one but Val, and that’s the trouble.
I’ll be showing soon. We can’t hide it much longer, and with him being, well,
him being what he is, it won’t be pleasant when the news gets out.”

“No, it probably won’t.” Bennie bit her
lip, pushing her tea away. “It won’t be pleasant at all, but August, it’ll all
be worth it in the end. I’ve never been so sure of anything as that. When that
baby looks up at you, maybe with Laskenay’s ice blue eyes…. Could you go
somewhere else for a while, do you think? Until the murmurs die down?
Fontferry, under a different name, or Traigland?”

“I don’t want to flee like that. I feel
like they win if I flee. But all the same, I don’t want to deal with the hate,
and when I think of the king’s boys and what they went through, and that
someone could hurt my child, because the baby’s sure to be a sorcerer like Val
is…. Maybe it would be best to leave, or to send the baby off when it comes, if
only for a year. But I, I don’t know that I could
send my child off, not without going with it. I know Val’s mother
did that, but I’m not Laskenay. I’m not that strong. Every time I look at her
portrait in the sitting room I wonder what she would have thought of me….”

“You know,” said Bennie, “Gracia’s
reminded me quite a bit of Laskenay the few times I’ve met her: her elegance,
her overpowering air. Gracia’s more confident, I’d say, but Laskenay was just
as resolved. She never doubted what needed to be done, only her ability to do
it. They’re similar, those women, and you know the queen adores you…. Have you
discussed this with your husband, about the baby?”

“We haven’t gotten that far. We’ve been
trying to determine how and when to break the news, and to whom, and in what
order. The king…. Bennie, he won’t be thrilled by the timing.”

“He’ll be overjoyed for you,” Bendelof
assured her.

August was not convinced. She picked up
her tea, trying not to shake, and as she raised it to her lips someone battered
the front door. A heavy foot kicked the wood; the girl was so startled she
bobbled her cup and burned her hands with hot liquid.

“No….” said Bendelof, paling.

Another kick, and they heard the door
splinter in the entrance hall. August tapped the crystal around her neck three
times in a panic. Her alarm would do no good—Vane thought she was at
home—but she tapped the gem, and it glowed blue. Bendelof fumbled for a
knife, and she and August sprinted to the living room, to the back door in its
far wall, but someone was already there, an elegantly dressed man who kicked in
the exit as the women approached. They shrank away as he entered, only to find
three men at their backs who had come in the front and carried crossbows.

August gaped at the nobleman who had
entered through the back door. She recognized him before Bendelof did, knew the
handsome curves of his face devoid of wrinkles though he neared fifty years of
age. His graying hair and beard were as meticulously groomed as always.

“Yangerton,” she sputtered.