“Find Dargent,” the countess said. “The matter is urgent.”
Maria obeyed with alacrity. When she was gone, the countess picked up the letter and, lighting a candle on her desk, held the paper to the flame. Once the letter had caught fire, the countess dropped the burning paper onto a plate and waited until it was consumed, then ground up the ashes with a coffee spoon and dumped them into the silver coffeepot.
Dargent entered her room. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”
“I must speak with Stephano’s retainer, Benoit. He was here a short while ago. He may still be in the servants’ hall. If not, go to my son’s home and bring Benoit back here immediately. It is of the greatest importance that I communicate with him.”
Dargent bowed and departed.
The countess rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands and twisting the little ring.
Dargent traveled swiftly to Stephano’s house in the wyvern-drawn carriage kept by the countess for his exclusive use. Dargent was out the carriage door almost before the wyvern’s claws had scraped the pavement. He knew the countess. He had heard the quaver of fear in her voice.
He ran to the door and raised his hand to knock, then he froze on the door stoop. He had no need to knock. The door was open, ajar. Dargent had been to Stephano’s house many times, and he knew Benoit would not be so careless as to leave the entrance unlocked. Dargent drew his pistol. Cocking the hammer, he gave the door a shove.
He entered slowly and cautiously. He looked behind the door, saw no one there.
“Benoit?” he called.
No answer.
Dargent went to the kitchen, where he knew Benoit liked to reside, and found a scene of destruction. Cabinet doors gaped wide, their contents strewn all over the floor. A marble bust of King Alaric lay smashed on the floor. Sacks of flour had been slit open and dumped out. Barrels were split apart and chairs upended.
Dargent hastened through the kitchen to look out the rear door, but found no one there. He returned through the kitchen and went across the hall to Benoit’s room. The bed had been overturned, clothes pulled out of the wardrobe. Still holding the pistol, Dargent made his way stealthily up the stairs. He was fairly certain the searchers had completed their work and were gone, but he was not taking any chances.
The searchers had been thorough; he had to give them credit for that. They had taken the paintings from the wall to look behind them. They had broken into locked chests, removed papers and letters from the bureau. They had even gone through all the books, taking them down from the shelves, flipping through the leaves, and throwing them down on the floor when they were finished.
Now certain that he was alone, Dargent lowered his pistol and released the hammer. He wondered what the searchers had been looking for, wondered if they had found it.
Shaking his head, he called out again, “Benoit! Are you here? It’s Dargent! The countess sent me!”
There was always a chance the old man might be hiding in a closet, but, again, no answer. Dargent had not truly expected one. He went back into the kitchen and knelt down to examine the splatters he’d seen on the floor. He dipped his fingers in them.
Blood. Fresh blood.
Dargent sighed deeply. He guessed that the old man had returned from the palace to catch the searchers in the act. They had beaten him, then had either kidnapped him to see what he knew or they’d taken away the corpse. Leaving the house, Dargent told his carriage driver not to spare his whip.
The countess received the disturbing news regarding the ransacking of Stephano’s house and the disappearance of Benoit with a raised eyebrow and a deepening of the frown line on her forehead.
“Thank you for trying,” she said to Dargent. “You may go now.”
When he was gone and she was alone, the countess sank down in her chair. She tried to think what to do, how to warn Stephano that he was about to unwittingly cross swords with Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster, assassin, a man she considered the most dangerous man in all the world.
The countess had agents in Westfirth. She could alert them, tell them to find Stephano. She ruled that out. Sir Henry had his own agents in Westfirth and his agents knew her agents, just as her agents knew his. In using any agent to warn Stephano to keep away from Sir Henry, she might inadvertently lead Sir Henry right to him.
Yet, if she did not warn Stephano…
Night was falling. The servants came to light the candles. The countess sent them away. She preferred to sit alone in the darkness, her head resting on her hand. She would have to apprise His Majesty of the situation regarding Sir Henry Wallace or at least some part of the situation, the part she chose to tell. Alaric would be upset, but she knew how to handle him. He was not the problem that concerned her, deeply concerned her.
Closing her eyes, the countess brought Stephano’s face to mind; the face so like his father’s that her heart constricted with pain every time her son smiled.
“Julian, my love, my own dear love,” Cecile de Marjolaine whispered softly, “Be with our boy!”
Chapter Eleven
Man is imperfect and thus our understanding of God is imperfect. This lack is most evident in the understanding of God’s gift, Magic. We have learned to use magic for His glory, but I fear there are those who seek to use magic for His downfall. Beware the quiet night, when the dark voice whispers in your ear, for the magic in his voice is corruption.
– Writings of Saint Dennis
SIR ANDER MARTEL WAS KNIGHT PROTECTOR to Father Jacob Northrop, a priest representing that most mysterious and greatly feared order of the Church known as the Arcanum. As Knight Protector, Sir Ander had pledged before God to hold the life of this priest as a sacred trust, to lay down his own life in defense of the priest, to protect and shield him from all harm.
Far easier pledged than done, Sir Ander gloomily reflected as he removed the cuirass, marked with the emblem of the Knight Protectors, and enhanced with magical constructs, his helm and other accouterments before placing them in the yacht’s built-in storage locker. He kept his armor and his weapons close to hand. One never knew, when traveling with Father Jacob, when they would be needed.
Sir Ander flung himself down in a chair and tried to sleep, without success. Whenever he started to drift off into slumber, lulled by the gentle swaying of the airborne yacht, he saw again the horrific scenes of last night’s bloody debacle in the town of Capione and was jolted back into unpleasant wakefulness.
Sir Ander looked with envy and some bitterness at his companion, Father Jacob, who was sleeping quite soundly. The priest slept in the same position always, lying on his back, his hands resting on his chest, fingers clasped, his body completely relaxed.
Never mind that eleven soldiers had lost their lives last night, half a city block had been destroyed, and months of careful planning had literally gone up in flames. Never mind that the yacht, specially designed for a priest of the Arcanum, was now speeding through the night in reply to an urgent summons from the grand bishop. Father Jacob could still sleep soundly and even, to add insult to injury, snore.
“The mind is the ruler, the body is the subject,” Father Jacob often said. “When the mind tells the body it is time for sleep, the body should obey. The inability to fall asleep when and where you desire means your body is tyrannizing your mind; something I never permit.”
Sir Ander shifted about on the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He could have made up the yacht’s other bed, which was now a bench, but Sir Ander disliked lying down when the yacht was airborne. The swaying motion always made him feel slightly queasy.
He thrust out his long legs and settled himself in the chair, chin on his chest, and gave up the fight for sleep. He was once more in the flames and smoke of the battle last night, a battle they thought they had won, only to discover that even with all their careful plans, their quarry, a man known to his deluded followers as the Warlock, had managed to escape…
The soldiers who had survived the assault and finally fought their way into the coven’s hideout searched
