Chapter Four Vina #2
She made her way up marble steps. The corridors that greeted her were covered in white plaster and gold crenellations. As she passed through them, the plaster faded, drifting into dark stone draped in tapestries.
Only the White Hall remained steady and unchanged. Gold limned the walls. The curtains were red velvet, brocaded in golden unicorns and songbirds.
Vina entered and felt the familiar flagstones beneath her feet. She smelled the faint ever-present scent of rot on the air—the price of the Palace’s closeness to the Thames. Her thoughts turned to an Isle-shaping tale about sewage in the waters.
Not all tales were glamorous. Vina knew that very well.
The stench was, apparently, a constant source of distress to the poor servants charged with caring for the Palace.
The curtains were dusted daily with powdered damask-rose.
Rosewater was washed into the flagstones, and candles scented with rosemary and lavender burned sweetly in broad silver stands.
Those candles produced a smoke that gave the golden décor a hazy glow and made Vina’s eyes water.
The throne of the Eternal Queen, on a raised platform large enough to hold both the Queen and her beloved pet, was the one thing not covered in gold, and its austerity naturally drew the eye. The seat cushion was the only touch of luxury the old thing had. It was—as was so often the case—empty.
“Her Majesty is in Nonsuch,” said the royal Spymaster, naming one of the Queen’s array of pleasure palaces.
He was seated at the grand circular table that lay beneath the throne.
Papers surrounded him in a yellowing fan of parchment.
At their center lay a map of the Isle. There were gouges in the map—burns and ink stains, marking the places lost when the tales that kept them alive had died.
The map had changed since she’d last seen it.
A curvature of coastline to the south was obliterated, blurred with blood-black ink.
Vina remembered the loss she’d felt in the Tower—the wrenching sense of shoreline erased, a name slipping from her skull and out into nothingness.
The blurred ink stared back at her like an accusation.
No one on the Isle would know the name of that coastline ever again. No one would ever walk upon it. It had died with Soren and his tale.
“Stop gawping, Lavinia,” the Spymaster said. “Come closer.” The light from the torches bled gold across his pale face and hair.
Despite the silver of his hair and beard, his skin was unlined, his eyes clear. When he smiled—which was rarely—his teeth were white enough to hurt. There was a joke, among the knights and courtiers who orbited the Eternal Queen, that her Spymaster was similarly timeless.
Vina had once referred to him as an eternal pain in the arse, and she was fairly sure he knew. There was something particularly vicious about the way he tapped his bejeweled fingers on the table in front of him as she approached and bowed.
“What does Her Majesty desire from me?” Vina asked.
“She desires nothing from you, Lavinia,” said the Spymaster. “I, on the other hand, have questions.”
“Sir,” Vina acknowledged. She didn’t bother to grab a chair. He would have told her to sit if he’d wanted her to.
“Your quest went well, I take it.” His voice was neutral. “Was it worth disobeying orders?”
Vina tried not to wince. Well, she’d expected to be harangued.
“I apologize,” said Vina. “I should not have left the grounds, but I wanted to assist Matthias and Edmund. They did try to stop me.”
“Mm,” said the Spymaster. “And how successful was their quest, with your assistance?”
“The ink made it to the Tower safely,” said Vina.
“All of it, Lavinia?”
He already knew, then. No point in lying.
“We were waylaid,” Vina admitted. “I committed a bit of a gaffe, I’m afraid.”
“You do seem uniquely prone to them.”
“A woman stole a vial,” said Vina. “She trapped me in something like a fairy ring. It took a while to get me free, and by then there was no worth in chasing her.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “It was quite clumsy of me, really.”
“Tell me about this woman,” he said.
“There isn’t much to say,” Vina said apologetically. “I don’t remember much about her. She was young. Pretty.”
“Edmund claimed you flirted with her,” said the Spymaster.
“Ah,” said Vina. “I did that, yes.”
“And yet, in the midst of all your flirting, young Matthias informs me you ascertained that she was no fae, and worked out how to break the trap holding you,” the Spymaster noted.
“Did I?” Vina frowned. “I’m sorry to say it, sir, but I’m sure that was Matthias, not me.”
“One would almost believe that you’re pretending to be a clumsy idiot,” the Spymaster said dryly. “And yet I do have to wonder why you would choose humiliation at every turn.”
“Believe me, sir, if I could be anything but what I am, I would be,” Vina said with absolute sincerity.
The Spymaster gave her a thin-lipped smile.
“You went to see your father,” he said. “What did you discuss?”
Somewhere between truth and lie, Vina said, “He told me a friend of mine is dead. Not a close friend, I admit. But Soren is—was—a fellow incarnate. It shook me.”
“A sad business,” said the Spymaster, his expression unchanged.
“It is not news we wanted spread across all of Parliament, but I expect your father can be circumspect when he must be. But if I were you I’d be honest now.
I don’t believe you went to Westminster for a social call.
You went for information. He told you about the terrorist, didn’t he? ”
“Terrorist, sir?”
“What else would you call someone who imperils the safety of the Isle?” the Spymaster asked coolly.
Vina adjusted subtly, one foot to the other.
“He didn’t tell me himself,” said Vina. No need to get her father into trouble with the Crown. “But I heard elsewhere, sir. The archivists were—overwrought. A tale died when we arrived. They can’t be blamed.”
“They can indeed be blamed,” said the Spymaster. “But no matter. This is better. Come closer, Lavinia. No, closer than that,” he ordered, when she took two steps toward him, the table still between them.
She walked to stand beside him, uncomfortably close in her eyes. It was strange to be so near to him, and to be towering above him.
He didn’t look at all ill at ease.
“There are some who think the start of a tale imbues incarnates with a certain luminescence,” said the Spymaster.
“I do not mean light, in any prosaic sense. Theologians have called it a halo, a sanctity. A sign that your kind are imbued with power and purpose. An incarnate before their tale subsumes them is an empty vessel, only notable and worthy when their tale begins, marking them with the ink of meaning.”
There was probably a point to this. Vina listened attentively, hands clasped neatly behind her.
“But I don’t place trust in theologians and philosophers,” the Spymaster continued. “If there is something that needs to be ascertained, then I make sure I find the facts. Place your hand here. Palm up.”
The item he placed on her palm was some kind of compass, with a dial of feather and bone. It was cool on her skin—but the minute it touched her palm, its feathered needle began to glow, then hiss, as if the marrow inside it were cooking through. He lifted it from her palm and whisked it away.
“I see,” he said.
There was no need to confess. Vina did not need to be a lord of spies or a theologian to understand she’d been found out. She took back her hand.
“When I inform Her Majesty and the rest of the privy council that your witch has been found and then immediately misplaced…” He drummed his knuckles against the table.
“The Queen will not be happy. She expects newly discovered incarnates introduced to her promptly, as you well know. Parliament will be wroth. There are tales imperiled, Lavinia. Your tale cannot join them. Your witch must be found. If you could tell us where she is, that would be far better. Ideal, even.”
“I don’t know where my witch is, sir,” said Vina. That was nothing but the truth. “If I could find her I would.”
“You should have brought her in immediately.”
“She used magic to escape.”
“And you attempted to conceal her. Don’t deny it,” he said waspishly, when she opened her mouth to speak. “You’ve made plenty of errors in your time here, Lavinia, but this may be your most serious.”
Vina bowed her head and said nothing.
“The archivists are seeking out all stray incarnates,” said the Spymaster.
“When I inform them the witch of your tale has been seen by you—and has met you—they will set out to find her. No doubt they’ll take witch hunters with them.
” A slight derisive twitch to his mouth.
He didn’t think much of witch hunters. But then, who did?
“They rightly fear she’s a plum prize for a killer determined to destroy powerful tales.
But this killer is quick, and I fear what will be lost with the witch’s death. ”
The witch, not-Isadora, with her dark eyes and dark skin, her crown of fire—dead, murdered, by a hand that wasn’t Vina’s? What a strange thought.
It felt almost like… relief.
The Spymaster was still speaking, watching her as intently as a hawk.
“In the past, I might have given you a quest on Her Majesty’s behalf and urged you to seek the girl out. You, after all, are far more likely to find the witch swiftly than any puerile witch hunter with silver needles in his belt. But these are perilous times.
“Her Majesty does not bid you to undertake this quest,” said the Spymaster. “In fact, Her Majesty has ordered you to remain on State grounds. We cannot allow another incarnate to be placed at risk, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed Vina.
“But if the witch were to be returned to us without any fuss involving witch hunters, that would be… ideal.” He gave her a significant look, then returned to his papers. “You may go,” he said. “Remember your orders, Lavinia, or the Queen will be wroth.”
“Sir,” Vina acknowledged. She bowed and left the White Hall.
It was clear what she had to do.
Back to the barracks she went without detouring to the stables. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to her officially unsanctioned, but unofficially vital quest, so she’d have to leave her horse behind.
She changed into plain clothing—a hooded cloak over her shirt and trousers, bracers at her wrists, and strong boots fit for walking on her feet. Her sword and her bow were the only knightly things she’d take with her. She had no desire to be without them.
She left her room, making her way down one winding corridor.
“Vina,” said a voice.
Edmund was leaning against the door of his room, his sleep-shirt rumpled but his eyes alert. “Where are you going?”
Just her luck. Matthias would have been fine—he’d choose peace over any battle. Edmund was going to be pure piss and vinegar. Vina gestured at herself, encompassing her plain clothes, her hooded outer robe, and the pack at her shoulder. “On a quest.”
“You haven’t even got your armor.”
“An adventure, then. What does it matter, Eddie?”
He crossed his arms.
“You got us in some trouble,” said Edmund. “The Spymaster gave us so much shit for letting you out. How were we meant to know you’re on house arrest?”
“I didn’t think I was.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I thought it was more of a suggesti—never mind,” said Vina. “Forget you saw me.”
“Go back into your room,” Edmund said. “I mean it. House arrest’s got to mean something to you.”
“Oh, come on, really, Eddie? I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I promise you won’t get in any trouble this time.”
“That old goat Spymaster knows everything that happens here,” Edmund said. “You think he won’t know that I let you go?”
“I’ll tell him you put up a valiant fight,” Vina said, and started walking.
Edmund moved in front of her, barring her path.
“Seriously, Eddie, I need to go.”
He didn’t move.
“I swear, Vina. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Are you really going to stop me, Edmund Tallisker?” Vina asked softly. “You’re welcome to try.”
He was taller than Vina. But he quailed, just a little, at whatever he saw in Vina’s face.
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and kept on walking.
“Do you need someone to come with you?” Edmund said abruptly.
Vina stopped and turned to look back at him. He was staring sullenly at the ground.
“If it’s an ‘adventure,’ then—fine. Go. But if this is something more than that, if you’re in some trouble…” His jaw twitched. “Just tell me,” he said finally.
“Don’t worry about me,” Vina said. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Fine,” Edmund said. “Go. Fuck. Fine.”
He slammed back into his room. Vina winced, lifted her pack higher on her shoulder, and kept on walking.
London was smog and cobblestones, tall buildings, squat houses.
But London was also a park studded with trees, loamy-soiled and owl song–rich.
For Vina, made of tales of chivalry and blood, it was the part of London that welcomed her most easily, and sure enough that was the land that met her as she left the Palace. It opened to her like an exhalation.
Where to go now?
The witch could have gone anywhere. It should have been impossible to find her.
Even witch hunters struggled to find their maleficent prey.
Most incarnates were like Vina—discovered as children, soon after their first encounter with a ghost of their last self.
They were recorded in the royal archives, formally introduced to the Queen, and carefully molded toward their destinies.
The others turned up, inevitably, when their tales began. They just had to make do, stumbling into their tasks and roles at the calling of fate. They’d find each other when the tale demanded. That was natural.
But Vina couldn’t afford to wait for the witch to begin cursing the Isle, and for the Queen to give Vina her quest, and so forth until she and the witch were dead. There was too much at stake.
There among the trees, with the wind rustling through her short hair, her body strangely light without her armor and her sword heavy at her hip, Vina closed her eyes and listened to her heart.
The tale wanted them to be together. Knight and Witch, as they had been for a hundred or more lifetimes. It wouldn’t let her down. Show her to me, Vina said in her heart, or there’ll be no tale after this.
There was a tug under her breastbone. A faint scent of apples and golden wheat in her nose. There she is, the tale whispered. I’ll show you the way.
She heard sobbing.
Vina’s eyes snapped open.
A man kneeled on the path. He was golden-haired and broad. When he raised his head she saw eyes of the bluest blue and skin freckled gold with sunshine. There was blood on his cheek.
“Isadora,” he whispered. “Isadora, no, no.”
The wind blew, rustling the trees. Vina blinked, and her past life was gone.
There was a path in front of her. Vina drew her hood over her hair, and went to find her witch.