Chapter 14 #2
Dunois blew his nose, then poured wine for himself and Comminges, his neighbor. “We do not know what powers the korriganed wield. There are only legends to guide us. A splash of uncanny water might be only the beginning.”
“That man Moreau might know what powers,” said Montauban, “if he had not lost his memory.”
“Was not forgetfulness once commonly accepted as one of the powers of the korriganed?” said Comminges.
Anne broke in, sharply. “Whatever nature of creature they are, whatever powers they wield, the chronicles do say that a korrigan cannot bear forged iron or the touch of a crucifix. We have all those in plenty. I am not afraid of the korriganed.” Her voice dropped.
“My intentions have not changed. We delay any talk of my betrothal to France until we have word that Maximilien of Austria has crossed the border, and then we escape the castle and ride fast to meet him. Calyx will consult the Guild on this question of the korriganed. Is there anything else we can do? Maréchal?”—this was to De Rieux.
“Have you enough men to double the guard on the wall?”
He bowed his head. “We do. I shall.”
Anne said, “And guards on my chambers too. We will be wary, but I will not tremble at shadows, gentlemen. Our salvation is near; my true husband is coming.”
But as she spoke, a rattling knock boomed on the chamber door and the fire in the grate leaped up, sparking.
Everyone turned.
After the first, startled pause, Madeleine moved from the dais to the door, but Anne shot her brother a look. He put a hand on Madeleine’s elbow, staying her, then threw open the door himself.
He instantly recoiled, and every man at the table stumbled to his feet, rigid or crying out.
A woman lurched into the chamber. Her skin was on fire.
Flames wreathed her body, crackled in her hair, split her skin.
Her mouth opened on a soundless scream, as though her throat had been scorched to silence.
The lady threw herself into the room, flames billowing, then crumpled to the floor and vanished.
She’d appeared for only a handful of heartbeats.
Chapel and chamber and now here, Anne thought, dazed.
“Anaon.” Montauban’s gasp echoed Anne’s thoughts. His mother was Breton by birth. “Why here?”
Before anyone could speak, someone below screamed out, “Fire!”
Instantly the guards spilled into the room, maids-of-honor swarmed around her. Everyone ran for the door, pushing Anne before them. She half-fell into the winding staircase. De Rieux kept her from tumbling down.
What was happening? The castle was built of stone, and its tapestries were woolen, which only smolders.
The burning lady was the merest ghost. But the scream of fire came again, louder, somewhere below.
For a breath it seemed to Anne that she was back in her chamber during the siege of Nantes.
The castle seemed to have filled with the same sticky atmosphere of terror, the shielded lights and swinging shadows.
De Rieux was shouting, telling her she must get out.
But Anne slowed her steps, trying to think.
“Where is my sister? Where is Hawiz? Go and find them. Bring them into the courtyard.” The staircase smelled like gunpowder.
Almost she thought her arm was bleeding.
She had to touch it to make sure it was not.
“Fire!” screamed a dozen voices. What was happening?
She had seen no fire. Who was screaming?
Her heart in her throat, Anne came stumbling into the courtyard at the same time that Marguerite burst out into the night from a different staircase, surrounded by her guard, her anxious entourage carrying hastily snatched-up coffers.
The lady of France was still wearing her beautiful court-dress.
Anne turned back to the chateau and saw with horror that its windows were starred with fire, stark in the strong moonlight.
Strong moonlight? The moon was a crescent this night.
Her whole mind was a haze of fear. “Where is my sister?” she demanded of them all. “De Rieux?” He was already charging toward the castle door, while Comminges tried to hold him back, bidding him be prudent.
He had just reached the doorway when a new group emerged. Anne’s wild thoughts turned to a soundless cry of relief; Louis was carrying Isabeau. Behind them ran the child Elesbed, clutching her yellow cat and scowling.
The chateau had emptied, and a vast crowd milled now in the courtyard, jostling.
Louis did not set Isabeau down until he’d put her safe beside Anne, beyond the churning bodies.
Anne did not know what sound of sobbing relief she made when Isabeau put her arms round her.
They clutched each other. Isabeau whispered, “I’m sorry. ”
“Why?” said Anne, but just then Henri came running wildly out of the chateau.
“I can’t find Isabeau. We can’t find the fire,” he said, his eyes showing white like a frightened horse’s.
“There is only a smell of smoke and awful shadows…” His eye fell on Isabeau.
“Oh, thank God.” In three strides he was beside them; he and Orléans made a wall against the crowd.
The moonlight—such bright moonlight. Where was it coming from? “Thank you for bringing out my sister,” she managed to say to Orléans.
He bowed silently in answer. He wore only his shirt and hose, his long, dark hair tangled.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Certainly,” she said, making her voice brisk, wondering what he’d read in her face. She blinked the moonlight from her eyes. New cries rose from the courtyard and they both looked round.
The wash of moonlight was gone. The fires had winked out in the windows of the chateau above. It lay as empty and quiet as before.
All Anne’s limbs went cold. Is this the retort of the korrigan-king, when I said I would not tremble at shadows? Does he watch us now unseen?
Louis and Henri certainly thought so. They’d paired up, the way knights did in combat, each covering the other’s weaker side, searching for danger in the courtyard. De Rieux had his sword, though he was well past his prime, and he too searched the courtyard, white-faced.
Marguerite approached her without fanfare.
She must have seen the fires vanish, Anne thought with despair.
Marguerite said, “We can instantly rejoin the army under La Trémoille and they will escort us to the border. It is not safe here for you or your sister. We can leave tonight.” She really did look uneasy.
“May we take counsel in the morning, please?” said Anne, forcing her voice to smallness. “I will post guards—many guards—but I am so weary now. And so is my sister.”
Isabeau leaned on Anne, shivering. Elesbed’s cat sat bristling on the child’s shoulder, hissing at anyone who came near.
Anne remembered the look on Julien Moreau’s face when he told her his history.
Lost for two hundred years, she thought with sinking fear.
Lost to all he loves. And not a single memory to show for it.
This is malice beyond my ken, and it has come here to my father’s castle and demanded my hand in marriage.
In the black hour of Matins, on the night of the fire that was not, Marguerite of France was awakened by the sound of stealthy movement and the smell of a renewed fire in her bedchamber.
She was restless after that evening, and when she heard the noise, she pushed back the hinged doors of her bed, her heart beating fast. With a wrench of terror she saw an unfamiliar head silhouetted.
Then she recognized him and said in outrage, “I will call the guard.”
Julien Moreau whispered, “I had no other way to come to you unseen. I am sorry. You did wish to speak to me in private?” He did not rise from his chair.
“Villain. How did you get in here?”
“Does it matter? I came to help you. I am a child of France, after all.”
“How can you help me?”
“In more ways than you know, my lady. I escaped my gaolers to come to you.”
She weighed that, startled. “Do they know you have come?”
“They will never know I left.”
At that she put her stockinged feet on the floor, wrapped a mantle around herself, and went to the fire. She watched his face carefully. “How much do you really remember of your own history?”
He hesitated, smiled just a little, and then gave her his answer like the fairest of secrets. “Everything.”
She reached out and turned his face so she could see his expression in the firelight. His skin was cool. “Who, then, is the king of the korriganed?”
He raised his eyes to hers, his gaze unveiled, sharp with a delicate cunning. She dropped her hand abruptly. He said, “I myself, if anyone.”
His eyes were yellow in the firelight. Was it his time in the Lost Lands that put that color in them?
She seized the iron fire tool, but he put out a hand and touched it.
He was not burned. “No,” he said. “I am a man, to be sure. I can say the ‘Our Father,’ if you like, or touch the chrism, or any iron you like. I am not a korrigan. I was a diviner in the court of Philip the Fair.”
“Explain, then.”
“My mirror was stolen.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “No matter. The korriganed had nothing more to teach me and I wearied in their dreamlike country. I have come out because I wished once more to hear the speech of men, and lend my power to a worthy cause. And what better cause than this? I am a loyal son of France.” A brief sadness.
“I didn’t know so much time had passed.”
“You wish to help us?” She was still wary. “Were you responsible for what happened today? The—the barrel in Nantes and the contretemps tonight?”
A flick of three fingers dismissed the question.
“Flummery tricks, no more. I could not do anything else without my mirror. But I have regained it this night, and so I came to you, my lady. No one will know I was here.” He lifted a small, exquisite mirror in one hand.
It was the size of his palm. The back was jeweled with some kind of red flower. He caressed it with a tender hand.