Isabelle gasped in amazement. She hadn’t known there was anything that could hurt a sorcerer through their bloodshadow.
Guillaume rounded on Kantelvar. “You bastard!” His bloodshadow flowed forward but came up short when he found himself staring at the cage of glittering sparks that danced around the hedgehog tip of Kantelvar’s staff.
Kantelvar said, “In point of fact, my parentage is of no consequence to my position, but if you want a discussion of bastardy, let us begin with the wretched sow drooling on your father’s floor. The thing that calls itself Lady Arnette was not sired by the Duc du Troisville. This would be of no great consequence if her mother had found another Sanguinaire with whom to dabble, but instead she lowered herself to rut with a mere cook.”
Arnette, still quaking, sputtered, “You lie!”
“Evidence can be provided, sworn testimony and physical proofs. The political complications would be messy and expensive for everyone involved. Now, does anyone want me to continue?”
Silence welled up, thick as tar, until Father wheezed, “Guillaume. Take your wife. Go.”
Guillaume whirled on his father. “You cannot let this stand!”
“Get out,” rasped the comte. “Try to sire some piglets on that great sow of yours, or get a swineherd to show you how.”
Isabelle’s heart fired with vindictive glee as Guillaume’s face darkened to the color of a turnip. True, his humiliation did not aid her at all, but even had she been waiting her turn on the gallows she would have grinned as her brother tried to help his bride out the door without actually touching her.
“Now to the matter of concessions,” the comte said to Kantelvar. “You lied to me when you bargained for Isabelle. You said your plans for her were of little consequence, and now I find she is to be a Blessed Queen. You have bargained in bad faith, and a bargain in bad faith is no bargain at all.”
“I said,” Kantelvar enunciated, “my plans for Princess Isabelle were of little consequence to you.”
“I am about to be related to el rey de Aragoth, a matter of great consequence.”
“This is the man to whom you referred as, I quote, ‘a lack-witted, spineless scrap of lady’s ribbon whose sole contribution to history will be the remarkable ignominy and brevity of his rule.’”
“Do not spin word webs at me, you old spider,” Father snarled, leaning forward with such force that he nearly fell out of his chair. “Let me make myself plain. You will not have Isabelle unless I have satisfaction. She belongs to me!”
“What is it you want?” Isabelle asked, since nobody else seemed about to.
“Shriving,” Father said, not even bothering to level a curse at her. To Kantelvar he said, “Rid me of this!” With obvious effort he lifted his hand and let it fall on the arm of his chair and the bloodshadow draped there. “I know it can be done.”
Isabelle followed the comte’s calculation. Losing the bloodshadow would cost him much, but not so much as his life.
“The bloodshadow is a gift from the Builder,” Kantelvar said flatly. “Even if I could separate it from you without killing you, which I cannot, to destroy it would be heresy of the greatest order.”
The comte snorted. “Compared to the obscenity you are planning, I think not.”
“Regardless, it cannot be done,” Kantelvar said.
“Then I shall keep my daughter,” Father said. “Let Aragoth burn.”
Don Divelo said, “Your Excellency, be reasonable. You ask the impossible.”
Isabelle was not quite so sure of that. If Kantelvar could revivify Marie, why not remove a Sanguinaire’s bloodshadow? Of course, the ability to perform one miracle did not imply the ability to perform another.
Kantelvar made a mollifying gesture. “Pay him no heed, Don Divelo. As I said, he is powerless.” From somewhere in his voluminous robe he produced a large scroll stamped with the Great Seal of l’Empire Céleste. “Comte Narcisse des Zephyrs, your lord and master, His Imperial Majesty le Roi de Tonnerre, Leon XIV, hereby grants his permission for Princess Isabelle des Zephyrs de l’Empire Céleste to marry Príncipe Julio de Aragoth and commands you to give her all aid and support … should she accept this mission.”
Then he turned to Isabelle. “Highness, do you accept?”
Isabelle felt dizzy; she hadn’t anticipated Grand Leon, but of course her imperial cousin must have been party to this contract. She took a deep breath—for time, for courage—and sought for clues. There were many ways Grand Leon could have phrased this proclamation. He could have ordered her to go on pain of death. He could have taken her away from her father and made her his own ward. Instead he gave her permission. True, an imperial permission was just one eyelash short of a command. It was not expected to be refused … but it could be. And he’d called it a mission, an adventure with purpose, sanctioned by the crown.
In a strange sort of way, across time and distance, a man she’d never met seemed to be asking, “Are you brave enough? Do you dare?”
Answers had consequences.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I do.”
CHAPTER
Five
Isabelle stood beside one of the cushioned wing chairs next to the big bay windows in the hub-ward sitting room that had become her de facto audience chamber. For two days she’d received a constant stream of … she wanted to call them petitioners, but none of them were actually asking her for favors. Well-wishers, she supposed. They were mostly her father’s subordinate lords, guild leaders, and military officers, none of whom would have attended her funeral if she’d died before her betrothal.
Now every last one of them insisted on performing some minor service for her in the hopes that she would remember them as she ascended to the lofty social altitude of an Aragothic princesa, or possibly, hopefully, queen. There was no guarantee that King Carlemmo would actually appoint Príncipe Julio his heir once he married, or that the succession would not be the subject of armed debate. Yet even if she ended up as a reserve princesa with no real authority, she would have unfettered access to those who did, an advantage even the loftiest ambassador could not match.
So now everybody wanted a share of her. It was a bitter irony that she’d only become someone worth knowing at home when she was on the verge of being shipped away forever. Still, she gained nothing by spurning her various supplicants. A noblewoman’s primary function, aside from bearing heirs for her noble husband, was being connected to other nobles, and the contacts she cultivated here would serve as her currency for investment in the Aragothic court.
Isabelle smiled up at her current supplicant, a stout nobleman with a vein-webbed nose and watery eyes. He had just given her a an exquisite jewelry box of polished blackthorn wood.
Isabelle inspected it dutifully. “Thank you, Lord Antionne. I’m afraid I don’t have any jewelry to go in it.”