“No.” Julio stared grimly at the water. “I won’t chance taking you with me. It’s too much of a risk. Breaching through water is like … it’s like melting, dissolving. It takes everything I have to hold myself together. After your bodyguard stabbed me, I couldn’t even gather my sorcery; my espejismo was diluted. I was lost in the Argentwash for days and very nearly starved to death before Kantelvar returned, pulled me out, and locked me in that cell.”
Julio flexed his right arm, the one Jean-Claude had stabbed. “I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to make the passage now, but I do know it would be harder to take a passenger with me. I won’t risk losing my grip on you and dissolving you through the Argentwash.”
“But I have to be there,” Isabelle protested. Then suspicion bloomed in Isabelle’s mind. “Unless you plan to keep me isolated from my allies.”
He gave her an offended look. “I cannot very well use you as a hostage given that my departure necessitates giving you care and control of my helpless body. The first thing I will do upon arrival in San Augustus is send a ship to pick both of us up and return us to civilization. In the meantime, how may I prove myself to your people?”
Isabelle reined in her distrust. She was the one who had made the overture of Célestial aid to him, after all. She had little choice but to rely on him.
She said, “Contact my musketeer; his name is Jean-Claude. I’m afraid he’s the one who stabbed you. Tell him what I told you. He will relay it to du Blain.” Kantelvar said he’d had Jean-Claude killed. Not dead, she prayed. Please. Kantelvar had underestimated Jean-Claude before; he could have done it again.
Julio said, “Given his proven animosity toward me, how should I recommend myself to him?”
“Tell him … I am safe, sound, secure, and several synonyms starting with ‘S.’”
Julio’s eyebrows quirked up. “That’s a very long password.”
“More like a private language, but he will understand it.” Please let him be alive. “And someone has to find Marie, my handmaid—”
Julio looked exasperated. “I will not have time to locate everyone of your household. Approaching the Célestial embassy makes sense but—”
“Marie is my family,” Isabelle snapped, “and Kantelvar damned her worse than anyone. She’s spent twelve years as a bloodhollow, and now she’s been left to rot in a cellar beneath the old Temple in the citadel with no one to look after her.”
Julio backed away from her as if she were spitting fire. “I’ll inform your ambassador; he should be able to send someone to fetch her.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle said. “May the saints smile upon your venture.”
Julio crooked the unscarred corner of his mouth. The left side on his true form. “I am only doing the duty that was given to me, perhaps salvaging my honor. You are the one who serves a greater vision.”
“Peace only seems like a great vision because the prizes of war are so small.”
Julio nodded and held his hand out, palm up. “Builder keep you.”
She floated her spark-hand over his, palm down. “Until the Savior comes.”
Julio sat down with his legs folded under him on the lip of the pool. He bent and reached for the surface of the pool. The very tip of one finger brushed the surface of the water, bending it without causing so much as a ripple. At first, nothing seemed to be happening, but after perhaps a hundred heartbeats, the air grew tight and the glimmers of light on the pool warped and stretched toward Julio’s reflection. Isabelle felt herself being pulled in that direction as well. Loose wisps of her hair and folds of cloth yearned toward Julio as if the direction of “down” had subtly altered and Julio were literally the center of the world.
Something snapped, the world rocked back into its ordinary shape, and the tension in the air disappeared. Isabelle wobbled, but recovered her balance in time to see Julio’s reflection stand up in the pool. He bowed to her, and she curtsied to him. Then, with a fishlike flicker, his espejismo vanished into the deep. His physical body slumped backward and sprawled on the floor.
Julio’s sudden absence seemed to suck the air from Isabelle’s lungs. Had she done the right thing? There was no use for such a doubt. It was hard to admit it, but her part in this mad improvisation was done. The final act must be completed by others. As much as she hated conflict, she ought to be thankful. So why did she feel so empty?
CHAPTER
Twenty-one
The royal carriage rattled down the cobbled streets of San Augustus toward the Naval Orrery, wherein lay records of every ship that entered or departed the sky harbor, including, Jean-Claude fervently prayed, the one that had stolen Isabelle away. I will find you, he swore, even if I have to storm the Halls of Torment.
With only four people in its cabin, the carriage should have been quite spacious, but the guards at Jean-Claude’s sides pressed him close and kept his arms pinned even though his hands were tied behind his back. Across from him, Felix’s anger had grown so massive that it practically needed its own seat. In a way this was good, because angry people did not think clearly.
“It’s not your fault you didn’t know about Thornscar,” Jean-Claude said by way of keeping the fire stoked. “I’m sure you were doing the best you could, but you had so many other things to worry about. Missing that little detail hardly matters.”
“Silence,” Felix snapped, “or I will have you gagged.”
Jean-Claude stared out the coach’s windows. The city’s normal bustle was all but gone. The rivers of people who normally flooded the streets had dwindled to a mere trickle. City guards, soldiers, and mercenaries in every type of uniform hurried toward fortified rallying points, hauling loads of supplies. A few units had formed up in swift columns, making some preemptive tactical moves, seizing high ground, and setting up ambush points. It wouldn’t be long until two such groups found each other and decided to dispute some advantageous position. Sooner or later, some nervous soldier was going to decide to shoot first. And then we will find out if it’s possible to set off just one keg of powder in a magazine.
The people had not been told the king’s death was imminent, but they knew. They knew the instant all military leaves had been canceled and all storehouses had been shuttered. The city held its breath as if, by some sympathetic magic, it might delay Carlemmo’s last exhalation.
“Have they closed the gates?” Jean-Claude asked.
“Shut up,” Felix said.
“If the gates are shut, all these people will be trapped in here when the fighting starts.”
“There will be no fighting. Príncipe Julio’s claim to the throne is irrefutable.”
“That’s Margareta talking. You’ve been fighting your whole life, and you know Alejandro’s supporters will never give in without bloodshed.”
Felix’s eyes narrowed. “You know nothing of me.”
Jean-Claude considered the man’s odd appearance. “One of your parents was Skaladin. Your mother, I imagine. That makes you a mixed-blood sorcerer. By Temple law, you should have been given to the sky when you were born, but you were your father’s only son.”
Felix’s dagger moved so quickly that Jean-Claude barely had time to flinch before the blade scored a bloody line along his left cheek just under his eye.