Iav’s hypothesis was correct. Heritable minutiae are neither infinitely elastic nor divisible. Given the limited number possible stable corpuscular sets, it is plausible to infer that the decay of sorcery need not be inevitable and the tendency toward malignancies can be reversed by outbreeding with the clayborn. Not only did her limited experiments with wild crosses show no evidence of corruption, but the extra degree of motility provided by the exosomes enabled the emergence of novel phenomena. The most enticing possibility is the manifestation of a higher order of sorcery …
Isabelle felt as if she had entered a trance or a dream. It was no wonder the Temple had not included this fragment in the Instructions; it contradicted every belief they espoused. Sorcerers breeding with the clayborn produced abominations … and what was an abomination but a novel type of sorcery that its wielder did not know how to control? Something as unfamiliar and powerful as unbound sorcery could be terrifying, and people had a very difficult time distinguishing between frightful and evil.
The last line of text was broken.
… with the ability to transmute … on a scale hitherto deemed impossible … could lead to the salvation of … manifest in a single individual … that which was promised …
A single individual. This was what drove Kantelvar and his ilk, breeding sorcerers down through the centuries. Combining, back-breeding, narrowing all the bloodlines down to two.
Julio and I. The understanding of exactly what Kantelvar wanted of her stunned all other thought from her mind. My child. The Savior.
The door to her room opened with a soft swishing noise and Valérie said, urgently, “Highness. It’s time to go.”
Quaking with reaction, Isabelle shut the book. Yes. She needed to concentrate on other things, to clear her mind. She had been expecting politics to rule her life, not prophecy. She needed to talk to Jean-Claude about this.
Later. Right now she had a social duty to perform, a betrothed to meet, and a war to avert.
On her way out the door she said to Valérie, “If Jean-Claude comes back, ask him to wait for me. I need to talk to him.”
“Are you well, Highness?” Valérie asked. “You look pale.”
“Just nervous,” Isabelle said. “Going in front of all those people. I feel like a prize heifer at a county fair.” And that was the least of her worries.
*
The chaise rattled about halfway around the vast courtyard and dropped Jean-Claude off in front of the three-story edifice that was serving as Isabelle’s guest residence. He mounted the steps to the porch and met Valérie, who had come out to greet him.
“Jean-Claude, welcome,” she said. Her voice was husky from crying.
He doffed his battered hat to her. “Mademoiselle Valérie, good evening. Is Princess Isabelle here?”
“She’s gone up to the masque. She begs you to stay and wait for her.”
Jean-Claude grunted. “I will do better than that. I will meet her at the masque. There are people there I need to talk to.” Isabelle and Duque Diego chief amongst them.
She escorted him into the house. Her face, ordinarily rosy and cheerful, had a gray color and wore a pinched expression. Her hands were knotted together before her belly. “Have you caught the man who shot Vincent?”
“Not yet,” Jean-Claude said. “The investigation is less straightforward than I’d like.”
“When you do catch him, spit in his eye for me.” After a moment she added, “You may not have liked Vincent, but I did.”
Jean-Claude touched his hand to his heart. “You have my word, mademoiselle.” Vincent had been an ass, but he’d been an honest ass, and Jean-Claude could see why Valérie might find that attractive.
She nodded in satisfaction and her hands unclenched. “Builder keep.”
“Savior come.” Two servants helped him inside to one of the silent rooms—perhaps it was because of the noise of the city, but the Aragoths seemed to have a passion for quiet rooms—and poured him a steaming bath. The hot water stung like the Breaker’s own venom until the heat finally seeped deep enough inside him to start working on his muscles.
He was just starting to loosen up when the door opened and Adel padded in, bearing a basketful of drying cloths and pots of ointment. “Good evening, se?or musketeer. Are you enjoying your bath?”
“Indeed, madam,” Jean-Claude said. “A bit too much, I’m afraid, but I am almost finished.” He needed to get up, dry off, get dressed in a silly costume, and attend Isabelle at the masquerade.
He made to lever himself up, but Adel placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub. “Not so fast. La princesa gave me explicit orders that you were to be well cared for. I would not wish to earn her displeasure by sending you off to meet her looking like last week’s laundry.” Before he could protest, she dug strong thumbs into his shoulders, bringing painful heat to the knots therein. He gasped in agony very close to ecstasy.
“Mon dieu, woman, you have the hands of a saint.”
She kneaded his tired muscles like bread dough. “I certainly hope not. I would hate to have them wind up in some reliquary when I am finished with them.”
Jean-Claude laughed. “Fear not, good saint, your secret is safe with me. And I would love to endure your ministrations, but I really do have duties I must perform.”
“And what would you do at the masquerade, protect Princesa Isabelle from disingenuous conversation? No one is going to assault her in the king’s presence. Far better for you to take care of yourself now so that you are ready when she does need you.”
“I need to talk to people there.”
“The masquerade will be going on until dawn, and the longer you wait, the drunker your quarry will be.”
Jean-Claude grumbled at this logic primarily because it was irrefutable. He was exhausted. “Ten years ago, I would have just been hitting my stride at this time of night.”
“Hmmm … the trade-off of age is supposed to be energy for wisdom. One hopes you have not been shortchanged.”
“Did I mention you have the Breaker’s own tongue?”
She laughed. She rubbed his shoulders and then let him out of the tub, but only far enough to lie on a table where she could cover him in heated blankets and massage his aching back.
“You know, you really don’t have to take this trouble for me,” he said. The pleasure he took chopping the knees out from under the high and mighty was matched by his distaste for imposing himself on the humble.
“Tame your worries. It is my pleasure to ease the hurts of one who works so hard to protect Her Highness’s interests, though you will weary me if you do not relax.”
“My apologies, madam, but my mind cannot stop its tumbling.”
“Then speak of pleasant things. Tell me of your princess as one who knows her well.”
Jean-Claude released a long, slow breath. “Tell you of Isabelle? I do not have that much time. She is … wonderful.”
“She is certainly very clever.”