Free The Spirit Lens by Carol Berg Page A

success,” said Ilario, his breath shaking. “But more than anything in the world, my sister desires her mother’s comforting hands and our father’s shoulder on which to weep. She yearns to hear that her dead children are not frightened as they assay the trials of Ixtador.”
    The mage stiffened. “Necromancy?” he said in hushed fury. “She’s mad. You’re all mad. Even if it’s possible—and naught’s certain of that—lest you’ve forgotten, mucking with the dead is frowned upon. If the Temple were to get wind of this . . . gods . . . the tetrarchs might slap a queen’s wrists, but they’ll hang the sorry practitioner in the temple square by his thumbs as fodder for rats and ravens.”
    “We’re aware of that,” I said, intestines clenching at thoughts of both the crime and the punishment.
    The Camarilla discouraged deadraising; many said because they no longer knew how to do it. But the Temple claimed that to breach the Veil between life and death was to violate creation itself. Ixtador was our penalty for the depredations of the Blood Wars, including transference and necromancy. Did we transgress again, the tetrarchs and prophets implied we would be barred from Heaven everlastingly. No matter how pallid one’s private convictions, the sway of public sentiment kept deadraising a dangerous activity.
    “I’d not want you to mistake the possible complications, Master. But we’re not asking you to practice necromancy, only to hint that you could. That you might. To demonstrate skills that suggest you are capable. The queen’s mages claim they are unable to satisfy her wishes for these very reasons you name. But we must wonder if a spyglass that seems to focus in Ixtador, and a mule whose very existence speaks of unholy practice, indicate that they are, in fact, attempting such wickedness. This is the way for you to get close to the queen and her mages and find out what we need to know.”
    Eyes closed, Dante crossed his arms over his bent head as if to smother the curiosity that—I hoped—would drive him to find answers. Ilario kept mercifully quiet. An owl flapped away from a nearby oak, the rushing spread of wings near stopping my heart.
    At last the mage clasped his walking stick and tapped its heel on the packed dirt. “So, peacock,” he said, “have you ever seen your little sister playing with this naughty glass?”
    “This is insupportable.” Ilario waved his arms weakly, his protest lackluster beside Dante’s resonant conviction. I kept silent, giving him no permission to back away.
    The chevalier heaved a suffering sigh. “Her Majesty does not include me in her mages’ rituals. It is a great kindness , for she knows they frighten me. I’ve never seen her or anyone else using that foul implement. I suppose I could ask her. . . .”
    My chest constricted. “No, no, best avoid any appearance of interest in such activities. Forget about the spyglass altogether when in her presence. Your caution is the best help you can give . . . along with your gift of a new mage, who will help dismiss these foul suspicions. Agreed?”
    I waited until Ilario flicked his hand to acknowledge my warning before turning to our new partner. “Master, unless you suggest something better, I propose that Lord Ilario present you to the queen seven days hence. You will say what is necessary to secure employment in her household. Once you are assigned chambers in the palace, I will arrange for the spyglass, the arrow, and the coin to be delivered to you there.” I tapped a forefinger on my journal. “Time is critical. Tomorrow is the first day of Qat. We’ve sixty-one days.”
    “What of you, student?” said Dante. “If a brutish sorcerer is to be made into a courtier, and a peacock into an informant, where is your place in Castelle Escalon? No one will say anything useful in the hearing of a king’s kinsman.”
    I smoothed the pages of my journal and closed it, happy no one had ever deciphered its