A Dark Radiance

By E.M. Prazeman

Every mile brings Lord Jester Lark closer to Cathret’s battlelines, and almost certain recapture. Every moment risks discovery by enemy sacred beings, and enslavement to the Trokellestrai. But Lark’s greatest fear is that what’s left of him will never find the love that haunts his hopes, a love that may no longer wait for him on the islands he yearns to call home once again.

The final book to the twin trilogies The Lord Jester's Legacy and The Poisoned Past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wyrd Goat Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370717415

E.M. Prazeman

EM Prazeman is, of course, a pseudonym. The person behind the Mask Trilogy is a Czech refugee from the '68 invasion living in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, indulging an ancestral love for writing, painting and gardening. EM has studied mathematics and engineering, judo and karate, and isn't a bad shot. But can't throw knives worth a damn.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

A Dark Radiance

Book Three of The Poisoned Past

EM Prazeman

Copyright © 2017 by Wyrd Goat Press, LLC

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Chapter One

Lark’s hands trembled as he drew on the elbow-length fighting gloves. He put on Phillipe’s spare hat, and risked a look in the large oval mirror to adjust the angle and make sure the feathers lay just-so. The tattoo around his right eye that extended from his brow to below his cheek contained a lacy diamond design, mostly open. The design on the outside of his eye had darker, thicker whorls that suggested the curled tail feathers of the Meriduan sacred bird. Below his eye, a double border along the top of his cheek framed, For Justice Eternal in Service in Old Hasle.

As a child, he wouldn’t have seen the harm, and might have even approved of the sentiment. But the jester he’d become understood how it threatened his freedom. In service to Justice the ideal, or the man?

It seemed unlikely that Ambrose would want his brother to influence Lark through the mask, but since Lark didn’t know what would have been the content of the writing on the other side of his face had Ambrose finished it, he couldn’t know for certain. One thing he did know: if Ambrose had finished his design, Lark would have been bound to him, and there would be no going home.

If Ambrose recaptured him, he’d never be free.

Reflected behind him, Phillipe Tundrelle, Lark’s protector, looked on with a solemn, concerned gaze. Arrayed in a lavish coat, vest, frilled shirt, gloves, rings, and a silver-edged twilight blue neckerchief, Phillipe outshone Lark as a peacock shamed a cowbird. It was deliberate, as Lark was to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

Lark wore mostly silvery gray with notes of black, subdued gold and a little sapphire. Because he displayed his colors openly, even though he wouldn’t be wearing a mask, he hoped he could maintain a sense of himself as a jester to his lord and master, Baron President Rohn Evan. He needed that steadiness and surety, and he hoped it might offset the penumbral mask’s influence.

Even the subtle nods to his identity risked everything, and then of course there was the tattoo on his face. He would be in a flashy coach, riding on a main road, for anyone to notice, recognize, and call alarm. His breakfast sat, undigested, in his churning gut. He couldn’t stop thinking about how exposed he’d be.

Beside Phillipe, Lark seemed shorter than he’d thought of himself lately, and more pale, and more frail. The tall, wiry lord had an air of quickness and strength in his long-limbed, narrow frame, and a command of himself adorned by a confident good humor. His striking, long face might have looked absurd or strange if the proportions hadn’t been so perfect. In daylight, his eyes were as blue as cobalt glass. Now, within the relatively dim corner where the mirror stood, and with only the barest hint of morning light coming in through the manor’s windows, those eyes seemed as dark as deep waters.

Are you ready, then, lord jester? Phillipe asked.

They were all waiting for him outside in the carriage. Phillipe had wanted it that way, so that they could leave immediately after exiting the manor house.

Lark looked away from the mirror, glad that he wouldn’t have to see the penumbral mask again for hours. He didn’t want to be the man in the mirror. He wanted to be the man he’d been in Perida before he’d been taken from the islands. I’ll have to be stronger and smarter than that man, or anyone I’ve been before, if we’re all to survive the next few days. Still, I’m not the boy I once was. I have the strength.

I’m more than the man in the mirror. I’m ready.

Though it was barely after dawn, the Dressure family and servants had assembled outside their manor to see them off. The pale cambric gowns and soft overdresses on the ladies and the spring green and lilac waistcoats the gentlemen wore with their morning suits, paired with the pure whites the servants wore, made everyone seem wan, though they all presented smiles. It was the first day in the month of Rushes, exactly two months since his abduction on the holiest of holy days, the first of Sooner. Another minor holy day would occur this month: the summer solstice. He knew there was no possibility of celebrating it in Perida at Hevether Hall. It was silly to want it, but the thought that he wouldn’t be home when the hall would be decorated with bright orange torch ginger flowers, sunset colored gardenias that he’d only ever seen on the Meriduan islands, and blushing plumeria … it depressed him.

He hoped he’d be at sea by the solstice, anyway. He smiled to think that they’d all have a special dinner on Dainty to celebrate, and dancing, and probably a fruit salad spiked with copious quantities of rum.

He’d gotten to know the Dressures a little over the past pair and a half of days, but mostly the Dressures had courted Justice, who towered among them now, dressed in silver and white finery. He wore his silver mask, but he couldn’t hide his regal lineage, with his brindle hair peeking from beneath his scarf, his stature, and when he looked directly at someone, the unnatural glint of periwinkle in his eyes.

Six sacred guards waited patiently on horseback near the elaborate, gilded coach with its team of eight, three in front of the team and three behind the carriage itself. The travel party also had a pair of footmen on loan from the Dressure household that would help them on the road and care for the horses during their travels.

A beautiful black horse, Lark assumed it was Phillipe’s, was tied to something like a metal fishing pole attached to the back of the coach. The pole and the end of the lead strung through it would be in easy reach of the footmen when they sat on the covered but otherwise exposed seats at the coach’s back.

The Dressure family nodded to Lark each in turn and spoke polite well-wishes as he made his way toward the carriage. Meanwhile they gave Phillipe the illusion of privacy while he said goodbye to his teary-eyed lover, Lady Belling. The Lady Dressure clung to Just’s hand a bit longer than was strictly proper, which gave Lark time to hurry to the coach ahead of Just and Phillipe.

Lark climbed the slick metal steps, picked a spot on the leather bench, and sat down among the others. Behave, he told Cock. I mean it.

Cockatrice laughed. His impressive lengths of blond hair draped over his front, lending his elegance a luxurious, wanton edge. He didn’t bear his red, white, and silver half mask, but Lark was sure it waited inside his vest pocket.

Laura, in a simple red and white gown and a large feathered hat with red and white plumes, sat opposite Cockatrice, with Decklen in drab clothes beside her. As always, she kept her coppery-brown hair hidden beneath a white scarf, which would have made her seem austere if it weren’t for her ready smiles and adorable freckles.

Decklen looked like a man who lived in seclusion in remote woods somewhere, with his beard and shoulder-length hair left mostly unbound. His smile to Lark held a playful edge, a softer reflection of his famous sire’s keen wit. There was plenty of room for a third on the bench with them, but Lark sat close beside Cock and pressed against him to make room for Phillipe. Move over, Lark told Cock.

You’re going to sit between me and your little lordling like a school marm? An impishness lit Cock’s wickedly green eyes.

Cockatrice would be bored, which meant he’d certainly keep himself entertained by tormenting everyone in the coach. It was going to be a long ride. Lark had to admit that even though it might result in a duel between Cock and Phillipe, which might end one or both of their lives, he’d be disappointed if Cock didn’t get a few barbs in. That selfish impulse didn’t sit well with him. You’ll have plenty to do at the next house, Lark told him.

So, you wouldn’t mind if I entertained myself there.

I only ask that you don’t hurt anyone. Lark stopped himself from qualifying his words with anything about self-defense right before Phillipe stepped in and sat with a hard glare cast toward Cockatrice.

What’s that? Phillipe asked.

The Lord Jester has requested that I don’t torture or kill anyone, as if I would be so rude as to ruin what I hope will be a lovely evening. Cock preened and pretended hurt.

Laura watched Cock with a cold expression on her face. Her hands flexed on her gown just barely enough to shift the fabric, apparently not enough for Cock to notice. Could she use her ability as a Hand to hurt someone?

Justice Entrent, rank unknown but clearly of royal blood, three times Stricken, and unnaturally magnificent, joined them and sat beside Decklen, who looked to be of average height only compared to Justice’s unusual height.

But where Justice in his silver finery appeared the noble epitome of what man could aspire to, Decklen in his dull if well-made woolen clothing had the bold, earthy carriage of his sire, Gutter. A sharp and terrible intelligence glittered in Decklen’s blue eyes, which were grayer than Phillipe’s. He had a relaxed way about carrying his weapons that made it clear that killing was neither difficult nor particularly interesting.

At least their journey would be comfortable. They had plenty of foot room and space for four to a bench with only three of them to a side.

Justice rapped the roof of their plush conveyance. It had more head room than most, but his fist reached easily without him having to stand up. With a mild jerk, the carriage started forward and they were on their way to the Sangrim estate.

With Just’s presence, Cock wilted and, with a self-suffering sigh, gazed out one of the six large windows that afforded them a beautiful view of the countryside. Laura visibly relaxed.

Lark wanted to relax, but his guts slithered and tightened inside like a knot of snakes. He would travel on a major road, in daylight, with no disguise, surrounded by windows through which anyone could see him and his unique mask. By now everyone in Cathret not only knew he’d escaped the Celestial Citadel, but that he bore the mask that Ambrose had tattooed on his face. On top of that, Decklen had an unmistakable resemblance to Gutter, who, despite being dead, was also being sought in Cathret. No one believed Gutter was dead, and Decklen appeared to be the easiest way to get to Gutter.

Decklan’s gaze met Lark’s. His offered grin seemed a bit wan. I wouldn’t worry overmuch, he said, in Hasle. The Church is at war with itself, and we’re valuable to both sides.

There are at least three sides. Justice also spoke in Hasle, though it wasn’t his native language. He had a strange accent reminiscent of Old Hasle. And of those three of which I’ve heard, I have influence within two at best, or more assuredly, one.

You have more influence than you know, Laura said. Her Hasle was imperfect and heavily accented by Cathretan but Lark understood her well enough.

Cock made a scoffing noise. Declares the woman who has not seen the outside world in how many years? His Hasle had a formal pretense to it that Lark had only heard among priests. He’s only being honest, unless you intend to flatter him, in which case I apologize for the objection. He reached into his vest and drew out a silver case.

If you wish to smoke, you can do it outside, Justice informed him.

Phillipe smiled, a smug satisfaction giving teeth to his expression.

Cockatrice arched his brows and put the silver case away. If you like. Would anyone like to join me? He opened the door, apparently unconcerned that the carriage moved at a healthy pace. Lark?

Don’t be ridiculous, Laura said, reverting to Cathretan. Close the door! The sound of their native language didn’t relieve the sense that he was an outsider among these people. The Church’s culture and use of Hasle as a sacred language made it seem more foreign than Decklen, the only actual foreigner among them.

Lark imagined himself out there with Cock, free of the carriage, free of everything. They could run, and hide, and live by their wits unencumbered by nuns and sacred guards and politics.

That wasn’t fair. Just, Laura, Decklen and the sacred guards were good people, unlike Cock. And though he didn’t know Phillipe well, the idea of going forward without Phillipe made him feel lonely and desolate.

Lark? Cock’s voice promised dark and almost irresistible mischief. He stepped onto the trim at the base of the door, let it swing out with him, and neatly grabbed onto the rail that caged their luggage behind the driver. Perhaps another time, then. He nudged the door closed as he worked his way past, and then disappeared around the corner to the back. He did it all so smoothly that it looked practiced, like a dance.

Lark grabbed the door handle and latched it shut.

Decklen chuckled. I like him.

Phillipe made a face. You wouldn’t point that out unless you knew it was opprobrious. Are we taking sides now in regard to that grotesque abomination?

Opprobrious. That’s a fine word. You were educated in Vyenne, I assume? Decklen’s grin reminded Lark too much of Gutter, who neatly sliced up a person’s dignity with words alone.

The last people Lark thought would argue would be Decklen, who’d seemed mild up until now, and Phillipe, who had enjoyed a good relationship with Decklen’s father, or so Lark had assumed. Phillipe had told Lark that he and Decklen had spent two summers and the winter between together in their youth. It occurred to him that they might not have been friends during those times.

Gentlemen, Lark said. We aren’t even off the Dressure estate. I hope we’re not going to argue all the way.

Yes, let’s not, Decklen said. Lark, why aren’t you wearing a mask? I understand that I have no right to ask, especially considering that you aren’t the only one who’s recognizable to those who might be hunting us, but you must admit that the tattoo is quite a bit more distinctive than my resemblance to my infamous sire.

I’ll protect you both, Just said.

But wouldn’t it be easier to protect us if he was a bit less obvious? I’m not complaining. I’m curious.

Phillipe nodded to this with special emphasis, though he’d accepted Lark’s decision as if he’d understood.

Lark realized that he was clenching his teeth and forced himself to relax.

Lark and I spoke last night, Just told him. He needs to be himself for a while.

Lark didn’t like Just speaking for him, though he agreed with his words completely.

But why not wait until we cross the border? Decklen asked.

Justice drew his arms in close and gripped his own wrist across his belly, as if to protect his gut and make himself smaller. He lowered his chin and his gaze retreated inward.

Lark suspect that Just was thinking about the sacred being Daprai, or something worse. Daprai had almost been too much for them. The Trokellestrai which was immensely larger … they’d never defeat it, not with a hundred Stricken, and they had only the four of them.

By the time we cross the border, Justice said. Our souls need to be strong enough to face whatever comes for us, assuming we reach the border before we’re attacked. He spoke in a way that Lark had yet to master, his voice without inflection and lacking emotion.

For the moment, they were safe from enemy sacred beings, but as soon as they left Amiavale, that would change. Lark, who couldn’t see into the All like Justice could, would have to take his cues from Justice to know when he could and when he could not speak aloud while they traveled.

Perhaps a new mask, something simple, Decklen began.

Lark once again forced himself to relax. Masks are never simple. I’ve borne more than I’ve wanted to in my few years as a jester, and seen quite a few others, enough to know that even ash and blood smeared on a man’s face can alter him. I’m sensitive to them. I can’t even wear rouge on my mouth without changing how people see me, and how I see them. I don’t really want to find out what I’ve become, but I have to know myself. I need to know who I am now so I can know as well as I can what I’m capable of, and what I can’t do. And I want to know before I die, or if I’m lucky enough to live, to know who I am before I go home.

Luck. He wouldn’t have much, if any, during his twenty-first year. If he’d have any luck at all, it would be the kind that would destroy him.

§

As they drew closer to the first town where they’d change horses, the uneasy feelings inside Lark grew into nauseating tension. He shifted constantly in his seat. His restlessness finally woke Phillipe from the deep sleep he’d fallen into. How anyone could have slept in the first place, Lark couldn’t say for certain. The carriage was more comfortable than most that he’d ridden in, but the muddy, stony road from Amiavale toward Glass Lake was rough, to say the least.

Phillipe closed the curtains on one side of the carriage, while Laura closed the others.

It looks suspicious to close all the curtains. Most travelers want to see the road, and their destination.

What if Ambrose has declared Justice an outlaw too? Then our plans will fail, and we’ll all be imprisoned. Ambrose would not only have Lark, but he’d have his brother within his power, and Laura and Decklen too. Worst of all, they’d be trapped within the Trokellestrai’s domain.

There was no better road that would lead them away from the heart of the Trokellestrai’s influence, which was of far more concern than the Church or whatever noble families might be hunting them with private guards. Phillipe and Decklen had agreed that traveling cross-country would be too slow and too dangerous. With the war going on and with every skilled tracker not involved in that war in pursuit, there was far too great a chance that they’d meet a skilled blood scout. Decklen had assured him that they would never see that blood scout before he, or perhaps she, killed them all.

The carriage slowed, and then stopped.

It rocked as the footmen, and presumably Cockatrice, unless he’d hopped off and abandoned them, stepped off the back of the carriage. Lark wished he could look out and see who might be approaching them. He heard voices extending welcome, but nothing specific.

As previously agreed, he, Phillipe and Decklen remained seated while Justice and Laura stood. Justice stooped to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. The door opened. Justice stepped out first, and then handed her out. Men greeted them with voices tinged in awe, Cockatrice began introductions, and the door shut without incident.

See, Phillipe told them. They’ll be so busy bowing and gaping at His Grace, they won’t care one wit about us.

Cockatrice was out there with them. Lark hoped he wouldn’t kill anyone.

I think I’ll go out and stretch, Phillipe said.

But we agreed, Lark began to protest.

I know. Phillipe, to his surprise, took his hand and patted it gently. But they’re going to change the horses and I have to mind mine. He’s a bit … well, he needs minding. It’s one of those details that one doesn’t consider until one is in the midst of action. I’m sure Lord Kelleisen understands.

Decklen nodded solemnly. We’ll be all right.

Bar the door after me. Phillipe went out. Lark and Decklen reached for the small metal bar at the same time. Lark yielded and sat back while Decklen secured it. Decklen checked the other bar and then stretched his legs. He rubbed his knees and winced.

Lark’s ass was sore from sitting on what he’d formerly considered more than adequate padding beneath the leather. He stood, taking off his hat so he could straighten his back.

Must be nice to be of usual height, Decklen remarked softly.

It was kind of him to avoid calling Lark short, though it was unnecessary. It didn’t bother him as much as it used to when he was young. On rare occasion.

Lark rolled his shoulders and the vertebrae at the base of his neck crackled. It felt deliciously luxurious to stand after what he guessed was at least three if not four hours of jostling on his ass. He bent over his legs to stretch his hamstrings and spine, and closed his eyes. He would have liked to stretch his legs more thoroughly, but his fine clothes, which had been quickly tailored from an existing set at the Dressure household, weren’t proper jester’s clothes and so they were more confining than he was used to.

What was my sire like? Decklen asked suddenly.

Gutter. Lark straightened back up and set one hand on his rapier, the other on his pistol, trying to sum up the complicated feelings he had for a man who had been in turn a savior, a father, a cruel taskmaster, adversary, ally, co-conspirator, and perhaps at times even a friend. He was the greatest man I’ve ever known, and I wish I’d known him before … He suffered greatly, Decklen. He suffered and he died badly and I hope I haven’t disappointed him, even as I wish I could bring him back so that I could slap his face and scream obscenities at him. He hadn’t meant to be so honest, but Decklen deserved honesty. Or did he? I have to be careful. He’s Gzem’s son, but he’s also Gutter’s, which might make him a bit untrustworthy, and Sroh’s, which means he might be more noble-minded than I expect.

Your voice reveals no one close by but I must warn you again to be cautious. Lark especially, but both of you. Medronei’s voice in Lark’s mind entered gently enough that it didn’t startle him, though he’d all but forgotten that the sacred being would accompany them.

Lark was tired, but that was no excuse. He didn’t dare apologize.

Sorry. Decklen bowed his head briefly, disguising some emotion that seemed more grave than sorrowful. He leaned forward, propping his weight on his elbows onto his knees. Most of the time I’m glad I didn’t see much of him, but other times I envy you.

You, envy me? An unexpected jealousy made him feel cold. Decklen had both his parents, he was noble, and he grew up in a place like Saphir. He must have had a blissful childhood. And then it occurred to Lark that Decklen might have even more than that. Are you married? he gestured, using the unspoken language Gutter had taught Lark. And, bound to jester? He ought to know if Decklen might have someone other than his parents wandering around Cathret trying to help him. That’s the excuse he told himself, anyway, though he wanted to know to better picture the life Decklen had ahead of him if they escaped.

Are you propositioning me? Decklen’s eyes gleamed and his cheeks dimpled in a smile.

Lark blushed, his jealousy cast aside, and a nervous laugh escaped him. He shook his head.

I have a wife, and a child, and I have a jester who I’m sure is frantic, Decklen whispered. And yes, I’ve written them all. The dimples vanished. Of course, I’ve been writing everyone all along, but my letters went nowhere. I wonder if that was the Mother’s doing, or Just’s, or if they were intercepted. I don’t like the idea of any of those possibilities.

So Decklen had a family to support, and they, like Lark’s own household, would be afraid for him. I must get him home. Lark prepared himself to keep his voice low, then thought better of it and decided to gesture, since Decklen seemed adept at it. Tell me about Just, Lark gestured.

Decklen drew in a long breath and blew it out through pursed lips. He’s intelligent, but you already know that. He’s very studious and meditative. I don’t think he has a priest’s training, though I can’t really say why I think that. I suppose it’s because he’s rather beyond all that. He never speaks of his family, except his brother, which gives me the impression that he’s been raised by people charged with his care rather than blood relations.

Raised at Sanctuary? Lark gestured. He wasn’t sure why Decklen spoke aloud. Maybe he found gesturing too awkward, or it might be that he didn’t take Medronei’s warning seriously, or thought himself beneath the notice of sacred beings. For all Lark knew, Decklen’s voice might not be as noticeable in the All as Lark’s own. If it had been, Lark expected that Medronei would have warned them again.

Decklen slowly nodded in a way that made Lark think that he wasn’t sure. I believe they both were raised there.

Who sent them there? Lark asked.

Decklen stood up with a groan, ducking so his head wouldn’t brush the ceiling. I wasn’t there for long enough to gain his or anyone else’s confidence. I do believe it had to be by royal, or at least ducal order.

Not by Church’s orders? That surprised him, and his surprise showed in his hands.

Decklen shook his head. They’re noble, obviously. The Church can be charged to protect them, but to have total control of them without noble decree? That wouldn’t happen. At least, I don’t think it could. Perhaps things are different in Cathret.

A great deal was different about the Cathretan Church. Secret sons? Lark asked.

Of Michael’s? I’ve thought about that.

That’s enough talk of emotional things, Decklen. I’ll warn you if I notice anything, and Wendryl and I will protect you, but if you persist in using your voice, you may attract the attention of someone beyond our ability to detect. Medronei’s voice insinuated itself carefully into Lark’s mind, as if he was aware that he could bring harm. Lark had never met a sacred being as attentive as Medronei that hadn’t also been intrusive. Although Lark couldn’t bring himself to think of Medronei as a servant, the sacred being’s manner and forms of address made him think of him as the perfect secretary.

No. He’s more like someone like Phillipe. Once made, the comparison fit so perfectly that Lark couldn’t think of the being in any other way. I have to be careful. I don’t know what Medronei wants from either of us.

Sorry. Decklen let out a sigh and his gaze focused into Lark’s eyes with such open trust that it made Lark want to flinch his own gaze away. I’m not very good at subduing my passions.

That implied … Is it the emotion? he gestured. He’d somewhat known that, but he’d had no one to ask directly about it.

So it seems. All this is new to me. He gestured around his own head.

Lark sensed the impending protest from Medronei just before it resonated through his mind.

Speaking of souls and the sacred isn’t safe here. Please. Stop.

Wish I had lunch and ale, Decklen gestured. The coach jerked a bit as the footmen began unharnessing the horses, and they both sat down.

Book to read, Lark answered.

Decklen made the gesture for reading, rubbed his belly, then held his head and gestured the word for ill. I get sick when I read during travel, Decklen gestured. He offered Lark a smile. Wish we met sooner. I feel like we’re old friends.

Same, Lark replied. Decklen seemed like he would have made an excellent friend. It wasn’t only because they both had the gift, or curse, though Lark couldn’t say what it was about Decklen that drew him. It wasn’t his resemblance to Gutter, either. He felt comfortable with the man, and a closeness, as if they’d always known each other. Rather than comfort him, a loneliness tightened in his throat and plunged into his belly. Friends? He could hardly afford them and even if he made them here, whether things went badly or as well as possible, he’d probably never see them again.

Lark couldn’t speak of it, though he wanted to bare his soul, and to commiserate if Decklen felt the same way. It was too emotional for him, and he’d give them away. Besides, he couldn’t allow himself to trust too readily, not even Gzem’s son. It was a bad impulse.

Someone rapped on the door’s window. Careful to only expose his unadorned eye, Lark parted a curtain and peered out. It was Phillipe. He unbarred the door.

Phillipe came in. He barred the door and settled beside Lark with a sigh. They’ll bring some food for you. His Grace has been mobbed with worshippers. If he wanted to, he could start a new political movement right here, and it would sweep across the country. It might even end the war.

Or start a new one, Lark gestured. War of brothers.

Phillipe shrugged. I’m grateful that I don’t have to fuss with all that. Being a seventh son in an insignificant county in the southeast has its advantages. He took off his hat and leaned back into the seat. I hope you don’t mind if I have a nap. We’ll be here a while.

You always sleep, Decklen remarked in gestures.

It helps pass the time. Phillipe sank lower and stretched his legs, propping his feet on the seat across from him. And I’ll be awake while the rest of you are comfortable in your beds. Someone has to keep watch. He yawned, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hat. In moments, his breathing smoothed into sounds of restful contentment.

They’d been in the carriage unmolested for long enough that Lark began to believe they’d be all right, at least from the villagers. You play cards? Lark asked.

I love cards! Decklen gestured enthusiastically.

They didn’t have a deck. Lark nudged Phillipe. Phillipe sighed and pulled his hat off to glare balefully at Lark. My lord, he gestured as politely as possible. Could you bring us a deck of cards?

Phillipe made a grumbling noise deep in his throat.

Please? Long journey, can’t talk safely, Lark gestured, pointing to Decklen and himself.

If you gamble then that creature will also want to play, Phillipe said with a scowl.

He meant Cockatrice, of course. Don’t call him that. Lark scowled back as he gestured. So, what if he plays?

Phillipe glared at him. Lark realized that he was prodding a dangerous stranger, one sworn to protect him but a stranger nonetheless.

The glare eased and he relented with a smile. Oh, very well. He worked his way onto the seat, stood, stooping, and opened the door. If you promise not to gamble with favors or anything else of that nature.

Lark’s breath caught at the thought of owing Cockatrice a favor. It thrilled him even as it frightened him. I won’t.

You either, Phillipe said, thrusting his pointer finger toward Decklen before he went out and shut the door behind him.

He’s shrewish when tired. Or is he like that always? Decklen gestured.

No idea, Lark admitted. But he’s not wrong. I have to be careful with Trace.

"I thought my jester kept questionable company." Decklen said under his breath and let out a short laugh. What do you owe him? Did he save your life?

My freedom, and now I give him his, Lark answered.

Decklen looked puzzled. He’s free. He can go.

Don’t tell him that, Lark warned. Don’t remind him. Trapped by reputation.

Undeserved?

Lark shook his head. His heart began to race as he remembered Trace in the cell at the Sanctuary, pale and ice cold, his life slipping away, and then he remembered that night that they’d fucked like glorious enemies, and the way Trace had baited Lark’s captors on the way to the Celestial Citadel. Cock, a Trace. Cockatrice, the infamous highwayman, decried as a murderer and rapist, had become a surrogate jester for the Church and adopted the name Trace. That surrogacy in and of itself was an abomination, something that the Church didn’t admit to. It was supposed to use sacred guards for any bloody work it might need, and anything more nefarious than that was supposed to be beneath the Church’s so-called moral purity.

Cock had tortured and interrogated prisoners, and Lark didn’t like to think of what else he might have done for the Church.

But Cock had helped Lark escape. And aside from a skilled verbal interrogation and the bit of roughing up that Cock had done to Lark, the other vile things Cock had supposedly done were only rumor and reputation.

Lark wondered if he was as much a mystery to Cock. They were both changeable, Lark because his mask was unstable, and Cockatrice because he’d trained himself to be. Or perhaps the fact that Lark’s soul was in tatters made him changeable, unpredictable, and dangerous. Cockatrice had been forced to adapt to his own shredded soul, what little of it he owned, to keep his sanity.

If he was in fact sane.

I seem to have a habit of keeping company with madmen. But then, I’ve become one, so perhaps that’s only to be expected.

Can he be trusted? Decklen asked softly. He might have asked with gestures but if so Lark had missed it.

Lark didn’t want to answer.

You care about him, Decklen gestured.

My friend, Lark gestured.

Lover?

Decklen was born and raised in Saphir, so he wouldn’t hold it against Lark, but Lark found it difficult to admit nonetheless. Because I know it’s different with Cock, he thought to himself. It’s as violent as it’s passionate, and when I was with him, I was unfaithful to Verai. He shook his head, though it felt like a lie.

They sat in frustrated silence until at last Phillipe arrived with the cards. Once they started playing, Lark completely lost himself in the game, as Decklen proved to be a challenging opponent in travass, a game that was helped if one had the capacity to count cards and properly understood odds.

When everyone returned to the carriage and they began moving forward once more, he’d all but forgotten that they were in danger. He ate a quick meal of roasted chicken, cranberry sauce and soft cheese stuffed inside a tender crust of bread, drank wine straight from the bottle, and got back to the game. To his surprise Cockatrice didn’t join in, but instead watched with an introspective expression, his gaze often gently resting on Lark.

Hours later, when the daylight began to fail, they lit the small lanterns that hung at the corners within the carriage. The dim light made the pupils of Decklen’s eyes large as he focused on his cards. Everyone’s eyes, in fact, seemed unearthly in the light, as if they could see into the All.

In a moment of inattention, Lark reached over and stroked Cock’s thigh. The reaction between them felt like a rope had wrapped tight around his hand and bound it to the powerful muscle that clenched beneath his grip. Lark snatched his hand away but Cock grabbed him by the wrist and gazed at him, questioning. Lark had no answers for him.

Though no one made a sound, Phillipe woke and sat up. Hmm?

Cock let go of Lark’s wrist with a sly smile. Perhaps we’ll renegotiate the terms of our friendship.

Sorry, Lark mouthed, and then he shook his head slowly, wondering if Cock would react the same way as if Lark had said no.

What’s this? Phillipe asked.

Your loss, Cock said dismissively to Lark, ignoring Phillipe completely.

Justice, whose head had sagged so that his chin was tucked tight to his chest, lifted his head and opened his eyes with a deep breath. He parted the curtains to look out into the darkness, his silver mask catching the lamplight in mysterious ways. I think I see lights.

All of them looked out the windows, Lark crowding over Phillipe to see. Phillipe blew out the lantern nearest him and soon they had all the interior lanterns out. Sure enough, beyond the glow of the carriage’s outer driving lanterns, the unmistakable shine of gas lanterns burned like large stars amid the darkness.

What city is that? Laura asked.

Harkin on the Green, if I’m not mistaken, Justice told them.

If Justice felt safe to speak, maybe it would be all right for Lark to speak as well, as it had been at the Dressure estate. Are we safe here? His chest tightened and he had trouble taking in full breaths.

Justice put a hand on Lark’s shoulder. All will be well.

It must be so relaxing, having no one intent on torturing you to death, Cockatrice remarked smoothly, and then he seemed to remember himself. Not to imply that your trials are as nothing, my lord.

What was that about? Did Cock still want to work his way into Just’s good graces? It wasn’t like him to apologize to anyone for anything. Everyone else noticed, too. Lark wondered if Cockatrice was blushing. He could almost feel that fair skin burning red in the darkness.

I felt your point, lord jester, Justice said, and it was well struck. But I hope you can trust that I wouldn’t expose Lark or Decklen to danger. We’ll be careful.

Medronei hadn’t said anything against them speaking aloud, and even when they had been warned and spoke, nothing bad had happened. Still, Lark felt exposed and vulnerable. Though he pitied Feather at times, now he envied her ability to See. He wanted very much to look for himself and decide if it was safe to speak.

The city was almost as well lit as Seven Churches by the Sea. The wide, paved streets made smooth curves through the riverside city as they traveled past a great many inns and taverns still open for business. The other buildings held shops of all sorts, including a large bookshop right next door to a maker of stringed instruments. Lark had never been one to shop for pleasure, but now he longed to with a yearning that surprised him. The shops weren’t open, of course, but he wanted to ask the driver to stop anyway.

They passed over several bridges, some quite large. This city is known as the City of Bridges, Just told them as they crossed yet another one.

What river is it? Lark asked.

The Snake. It eventually flows into the Trossmare.

Just’s words summoned Lark’s memories of sailing up the Trossmare as a captive. It seemed a terribly long time ago that he’d been abducted and taken to the Celestial Citadel. He’d been younger then, not as measured by weeks but by number of scars on his body and soul.

The driver stopped briefly to ask for directions from a private guard that stood near one of the taverns. A few blocks later they turned up a road that began to circle around and up a hillside. They passed through a gate and entered a large garden. The uphill side of the road had a tall stone wall overhung by fringe trees, their white blooms nearly spent but still bright enough to reflect the light from the driver’s lanterns. Their dropped petals shone like snow on the ground.

Up they went until the land leveled and the road passed through a vast green cropped tightly by sheep. An artificial lake dominated the center. He couldn’t make out whatever fountain might be at its center, but whatever it was, the waterworks had been turned off. Swans floated on the water, their ghostly forms serene against the darkness. They made Lark think of the Swan Bridge in Seven Churches, and he remembered how Obsidian had been shot and died near that bridge. Strange, how echoes of my past return to me now. Or maybe I’m just seeing meaning that isn’t there.

It’s still my twenty-first year. He had no doubt that something supernatural and grim had influenced the course of his life in the past few months. Would it continue to do him harm?

The road passed through a wide gateway surrounded by a vast hedge that bordered the far end of the grounds around the lake. There they entered a different sort of garden, a knotwork of hedges and flowerbeds with a round pond at its center. The road took them straight to the center of that knotwork, around the pond until they’d made a ninety-degree turn, and then led straight to the front of the house, which to Lark’s alarm, had a number of other coaches in front of it.

Unlike many manors of this stature, this one had no steps leading to the main entryway. Instead it had an extensive colonnade, its columns overgrown with ivy. In the center of it, instead of yet another column, the house had an archway framing a door that echoed the same curves and lines as the arch. Large oil-filled urns burned and smoked near that entrance, but more modern, brighter gas lamps lit the doorway itself.

Their coach stopped.

Is there a party? Laura asked.

I’ll see what’s happening, Just told them.

Phillipe got up before Just could, getting in his way. Your Grace, you’ll cause a riot. Lord Jester Trace and I will go. Phillipe glanced toward Laura. And Sister Laura, if she wishes.

Me? She closed her eyes a moment, then nodded. All right.

Trace – and Cock had clearly become Trace in the way he held himself with such control, and how he observed everyone as if they were scientific specimens – stood. Shall we?

Phillipe went out first so that he could hand Laura down, and Trace followed. The footmen had gotten down and were on their way to the side of the house, no doubt to talk to the grooms that would see to their horses.

It’s the social season, Lark murmured to himself in realization. Such socializing seemed callous and disrespectful of those who suffered the worst of the war, and yet, even as he thought that, he knew that these kinds of events were vital if there was to be any hope of ending the war. Jesters and nobles would decide the war’s end and costs at these events, and debate their way to peace.

They were about to be pushed into a political situation that might become as dangerous as the threat from the sacred beings in the All.

I’m not dressed for a party, Decklen said.

Just rubbed his hands over his thighs. I wouldn’t know how to behave at a party.

But you’re so poised, Your Grace, Decklen protested. You were fine at all the family meals we took with the Dressures.

I feel awkward when I dance, being so tall, and I don’t know how to … socialize.

It’s harder to socialize at a dinner than a dance, Decklen assured him.

It’s true, Lark told him. Why was Just worried about something so trivial? On an open floor, there aren’t so many rules. Anyway –

I think there are as many, if not more, Just argued, interrupting him. At dinner, one can remain silent or speak when spoken to. In a large gathering, I think I might be tempted to hide somewhere, but of course I can’t hide. I’m too tall, and my hair, and my eyes … it was uncomfortable enough at the waystation. At a party, it will be worse. He adjusted his silver mask. It was probably the longest he’d worn it in a single stretch of time. It had to be heavy.

It hadn’t occurred to Lark that height might be a bother. I don’t know what happened at the waystation, but it won’t be worse. People won’t trap you.

Won’t they?

They won’t, Lark told him. "If you start to step forward, they’re obliged to step back to make way. If you turn aside and say excuse me, they have to step away to give you room to leave. No one’s allowed to touch you unless it’s a lady and she’s somewhat familiar with you. You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t get