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Chapter 74

  By the time Mirk returned to the City, the rain had stopped and the cold had lifted, leaving its streets full of deep, silent puddles rather than slush and ice. He was glad for it. If the cobbles had been slick, he’d have never made it back to the dormitory without falling on his face a half dozen times. Though the cold west wind had died, Mirk kept himself wrapped up tight in K'aekniv's old overcoat. He was far too short for it; it dragged through all the puddles. Er-Izat had insisted that he take it back with him when they'd parted ways at the Teleporters' hall, even if it ended up being fed to the shadows rather than returned to its original owner.

  Mirk found its bulk reassuring, the same as the smells that clung to it. Though it was buried beneath smoke and liquor and sweat, there was the faintest scent of feathers on it, a musty, sweet aroma that tickled his nose in a familiar way. It reminded him of riding on his father's shoulders long after he was old enough to walk from the front drive to the back garden on his own. Of dragging one of his sister's wings over himself during a long winter carriage ride in place of a proper blanket, to block out all the jostling and the cold.

  Even if they were both gone, he still had K'aekniv. K'aekniv who was always ready with a smack on the back or a hug, whichever the situation required, an island of honesty and plainness in a sea of people Mirk felt like he still only half-knew. The other healers and men of the Seventh poked fun at K’aekniv for his direct way of thinking and his lack of shame in letting his emotions show, both with tears and gales of laughter. Mirk appreciated it more than words could say. In a confusing world, K’aekniv was easy to understand.

  He was halfway tempted to seek out that comfort, to carry on around the ring road and backtrack to the Easterners' dormitory rather than cutting inward toward the center of the City and his own quarters. At the moment, Mirk wanted nothing more than reassurance, comfort, understanding.

  But there was work to be done, plans to be hatched and results to be discussed. That and Mirk knew full well that if he tried to avoid reporting in on what had happened with Er-Izat to Genesis for too long, the commander would come and find both of them in short order, no matter what tavern he and K'aekniv hid themselves in.

  There was no need to go looking for Genesis that night. He was right where Mirk expected him to be, once he'd trudged up the four flights of stairs to the quarters he shared with him: entrenched at his desk, buried in books and pieces of parchment. He'd tacked the pages of notes he'd taken that night up on the wall above the desk, underneath the arcane figures Samael had pried from Richard's mind. That was a sure sign the magic the commander was crafting was complex — with simple spells, Genesis could hold all the necessary ideas in his steel-trap memory without having to resort to the mundane rituals of notetaking and recordkeeping.

  "Sorry for disturbing you, messire," Mirk said as he pried his feet out of his good shoes. A shame to do so much walking in them, but no high-born man of means would be caught dead traipsing around the mage quarter in the wooden clogs favored at the infirmary, no matter how inclement the weather. "Would it be a bother if I turned on the magelights?"

  As always, Genesis was working only by the glow of that singular, blue-green magelight near the door. The commander waved a dismissive hand over one shoulder at him in assent, though he didn't yet turn away from his work. Mirk waved the brighter magelights on, shouldering off K'aekniv's bulky overcoat. As he considered what to do with it, Mirk caught sight of something new in their quarters: the portrait that'd been the centerpiece of that night's ruse, propped against the wall underneath the hooks where Mirk had been scolded into hanging his bag and cloak. "Oh! Has Niv already been by?"

  "...yes. He was on his way to…an establishment to get drunk at. I believe. A ceremonial matter after a successful mission."

  "That's too bad," Mirk said, settling for hanging up K'aekniv's overcoat first, then taking off his own cloak and draping it on top of the overcoat by its hood. "I would have liked to give him his coat back. It's really in good shape...only burned a little at the edges..."

  "There is nothing preventing you from accompanying him. As it were."

  Mirk sighed. "It'd be better if I didn't. They're all expecting me early at the infirmary tomorrow. I'll be there until midnight to make up for having to go to that ball the day after." His eyes lingered on the canvas-wrapped portrait. Mirk knew the sensible thing to do would be to leave it until morning and go straight to bed. After a pass through the bathroom, of course, though Mirk was certain Genesis had no plans on going to bed that night. Not when there was so much magic to be pondered over.

  "Methinks I'll make sure the portrait made it in one piece," Mirk said, mostly to himself, as he hefted it up off the ground, shuffling it to the left and leaning it carefully against one of Genesis's interminable rows of bookcases. "I don't plan on hanging it up, of course," he added. "It's nice to have, but I...well. Having grand-père staring at me all night would be a bit much."

  Genesis didn't comment. But he did finally quit his studies and turn to look at him just as Mirk finished undoing all the knots holding the canvas in place, letting both the ropes and the rough fabric fall away into a heap on the floor. There was no damage on the portrait from the rain or from being hauled across the mage quarter and the City. Up close, it was easier to see how much care had gone into the painting. The brushstrokes were so fine, and the blending of colors so subtle, that it was like looking at an image captured by a memorial stone, a projection, rather than a mundane work of oil. Jean-Luc's grin remained triumphant, confident, imbued with the air of a personal secret shared between himself and the viewer.

  "I do not recall Jean-Luc doing anything remarkable in Alsace," Genesis said.

  Mirk laughed. "The Abbess said he never could read a map well."

  "The...quality of his writing is consistently poor," Genesis said. "I suspect he never had an interest in pursuing education."

  "No, never," Mirk confirmed. "Maman said that Oncle Marc always came to her for help with his studies instead of ever trying withgrand-père. That's when he bothered to do them to begin with. She said that she learned more from his tutors than Oncle Marc ever did."

  "I see."

  Mirk turned with a shrug, offering Genesis a sheepish smile. "I suppose it must be a pattern among the men in my family."

  Genesis wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the portrait, his brow lowered, thinking. "I haven't neglected his journal. It is only not providing answers to any...useful questions. Not directly."

  "Oh?"

  "Unless the reason for the animosity between your grandfather and the Montignys is a continuing issue. I...appreciate that this is a delicate matter for you, however."

  Wincing, Mirk crossed his arms tightly over his chest, overcome by a sudden chill. "Is it just the Montignys? Seigneur d'Aumont isn't involved too, is he?"

  "No. He has spoken of d'Aumont, but mostly in passing. His evaluation of him was not…charitable. But he was not concerned with whatever dealings d'Aumont had with the mortals or the mages. The two individuals he appears to have had the strongest feelings toward among the mages were Serge Montigny and a certain Romain Rouzet."

  The cold grew worse at the mention of the two great mages. Suddenly, Mirk wished he hadn't taken off K'aekniv's overcoat. His gray suit seemed like a poor defense against whatever information Genesis had extracted from Jean-Luc’s journal. "I'm not sure the Montignys will ever be strong in the guilds again after everything that's happened. But Seigneur Rouzet is still on the Circle. He's Romain's oldest son, methinks."

  "Correct."

  "Was Romain...?"

  Genesis considered this for a time, slipping a hand into the topmost drawer of his desk. He pulled out the journal, opening it and paging through nearer to its end. There were many more slips of paper tucked in among its pages than when Mirk had last seen it. "Indirectly. The chain of events that led to their...ultimate disagreement is convoluted. And is colored by Jean-Luc's opinions. It is impossible to be certain that he is being truthful. I have noticed that, even in his private thoughts, Jean-Luc was more concerned with recording his...sentiments rather than facts."

  "That's how most people use diaries, methinks," Mirk said. "They're not like your...euh...ta..."

  "Ta'kakk."

  "Yes. But not in a bad way. Just different. When people want to write about magic, they write a grimoire. When they want to write about themselves and their feelings, they do what grand-père did. Even though it might have been more useful to us if he'd stuck to magic."

  Genesis found the page he was looking for, extracting a sheet of parchment from the journal and unfolding it. Even from a distance, the contrast between Jean-Luc's expansive and scrawling hand and Genesis's tidy notes and translations was striking. "I have...compiled a chain of events. If you would like to hear it."

  "Just...just give me a moment, please, messire."

  Mirk retreated to the bedroom, locking himself in and stripping off his fine gray suit. He left it in a heap atop the trunk at the foot end of the bed rather than folding it properly away. Instead, he pulled on a clean set of robes over his braies and chemise. But he wasn't quite finished. He wrapped himself up in his most careworn quilt as well, the very first he'd ever sewn under the tutelage of his mother and her closest maid. And poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle he had secreted away among his fine court suits.

  Genesis would undoubtedly have opinions about that, but he hoped the commander would have enough sense not to be too critical about it for once. He'd chosen to face his demons rather than running away to the tavern, after all. And it was only one glass, not the whole bottle. He shuffled back into the common room, where Genesis was still staring at the portrait of Jean-Luc, journal in hand.

  "Do you mind if I sit in your chair, messire? There, euh, isn't really anywhere else to sit."

  Genesis nodded. And though he made note of how he was huddled underneath a quilt and the glass clenched in his hand, he didn't comment on either of them.

  "Methinks maybe once all this is settled, I should think about buying something else," Mirk said as he sat down, curling up in the wide seat rather than dragging the ottoman close enough that his feet could reach it. "But I wouldn't want to buy anything without your advice, messire. I know I don't spend too much time here, but it'd be nice to have a second seat. Maybe a divan, or a chaise? I know you don't like visitors, but it just seems...hmm, sais pas. And I do feel a little bad about using your things all the time. It's your bed too, after all."

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  He was babbling. Genesis didn't acknowledge it directly, or perhaps didn't even notice. Either way, all he did was nod in response, waiting for Mirk to give word that he was ready to hear what Jean-Luc had to say about the Montignys and Rouzet. After taking a shallower sip than he would have liked from the glass, Mirk sighed. "Alors…what happened? Between grand-père and the Montignys."

  "It...concerned your grandmother, to a degree, I believe. Enora."

  Mirk nodded. No one had ever insinuated that the whole affair with the Montignys involved her, but hearing that it did wasn’t surprising. His mother and all of his aunts had always said that Enora was a difficult woman. A good one, a mother that they all cherished, but one that was hard to deal with nevertheless. At least compared to their indulgent, carefree father. Jean-Luc, of course, only spoke of her with the highest reverence. More reverantly than he spoke of God or any other authority, either earthly or from the unknowable beyond. "Yes, that was her name. Enora. She was a very...hmm, devoted woman. She was dedicated to the Church too, before she met grand-père. Her aunt was the last abbess before the one I knew."

  "Yes. Jean-Luc commented often on her...religious sentiments. This appears to have been part of the disagreements between her and the other mages. The majority of your fellow nobles appear to have been less concerned with genuine adherence to religious principles and more concerned with the...appearance of being sufficiently devoted."

  "Methinks that might be a little cynical, messire. It's...it's more like most people are willing to make allowances. From what maman said, grand-mère always insisted on true faith without exceptions."

  "Yes. This was a matter of...concern for Jean-Luc as well. From the earlier entries, he appears to have held no strong religious beliefs. This changed when he met Enora."

  A wistful smile crept across Mirk’s face as he stared across the room at the portrait of his grandfather, raising his glass to his lips. "Oh, yes. From what he said, he was a rake before he met grand-mère. But she showed him what good could come from having faith."

  "Jean-Luc appears to have persisted in his...skepticism on the benefits of holding any religious convictions. However, holding them did give him the benefit of Enora's approval. This was sufficient enough reason for him to pursue them."

  "I suppose she was as much a gift from God as anything else," Mirk said, shrugging. "Sometimes people need things they can touch to believe in, not just ideas."

  "...nevertheless." Genesis consulted his notes, to be certain he was speaking correctly. "Her beliefs brought her into conflict with Romain Rouzet in particular. You are aware that he had dealings with the Moonlit Land, yes?"

  Mirk nodded. "That's why Seigneur Rouzet has all those connections to House Rose, methinks."

  "As Jean-Luc described it...Romain was the first among the French mages to ascertain that the superstitions surrounding demons and the demonic realm were incorrect. Enora was of the opinion that the superstitions still contained a truthful aspect. Namely that demons are...naturally inclined toward sin and that dealing with them darkens one's soul."

  Mirk sighed, swirling the brandy in his glass. "Everyone has their prejudices, I suppose."

  "Jean Luc suspected both Romain Rouzet and Serge Montigny of being interested in necromancy. Not for the purpose of...resurrecting the dead, but for prolonging their own lives. Rouzet appeared to be of the belief that certain demonic houses had specialized knowledge in this area. Considering their...substantial lifespans.

  “Montigny associated with Rouzet in order to gain access to this information. Though Jean-Luc suspected he would have difficulty performing the necessary magic, owing to his...particular element and orientation. In Jean-Luc's words," Genesis paused, running one long, thin finger over a line in his notes, "the dark arts are best practiced by a dark mage."

  "Is that true?" Mirk asked.

  "That is irrelevant to the...present circumstances. In any case. As Montigny did not possess dark magic, he pursued other avenues to draw...the potential for extended life to himself. Namely a sort of...sexual magic practiced by certain kinds of demons."

  Genesis said the words with care and delicacy. But Mirk's heart still jumped up into his throat. He took a long drink from the glass of brandy to swallow it back down. "Is that how Serge...?"

  "I suspect that to be the case. Jean-Luc was not clear on this point. As you can imagine, these rumors offended Enora's morals, such as they were. Though Jean-Luc gives no indication of being concerned by this...interest of Montigny's. However, in the interests of keeping...sound relations among the nobility, Jean-Luc convinced Enora not to discuss her opinions on the matter with anyone. As long as these were rumors instead of evidenced fact, this agreement held.

  "The difficulty arose...when Enora made a social call to Montigny's sister. She was also a pious individual, according to Jean-Luc."

  Mirk nodded. "She joined the Little Sisters of Sainte-Blandine instead of marrying, just like grand-mère was going to."

  "Evidently, Enora found the woman afflicted with...some manner of delirium. She attempted to use a combination of her...ordered light magic and religious superstition to determine the cause of it, as the healers had been unsuccessful in identifying it. Instead she uncovered Serge Montigny in the midst of practicing a certain...ceremonial magic related to his interests that offended her. She called for the light guild's guard and had the sister taken away to the abbey of her order. And was determined to make a case to the guilds that Montigny’s practice of the…unholy arts, to use her words, was responsible for the illness."

  For once, Mirk was grateful for Genesis's unwillingness to be direct when it came to matters that he didn't quite understand. Mirk took another sip from the glass. He was quickly coming to regret that he hadn't brought the bottle with him. But it was too late to get up and retrieve it. "And then what happened?" Mirk prompted, when Genesis didn't continue straight away.

  "Serge Montigny was unwilling to be involved in this kind of scandal, according to Jean-Luc. He convinced one of the House Rose demons he had been working with to go to the abbey and murder his sister. Enora was there keeping vigil when the demon arrived. Both were killed."

  Mirk let out a deep, slow breath. No one in his family had ever spoken directly about how his grandmother had died. He'd always imagined it to be some sort of illness, too long and too painful to ever want to speak of. Or too sudden and unexpected to ever be explained. That she had been murdered, the same as the rest of his family, through the mechanizations of one man, made something inside him run cold. Setting the drink aside on the arm of the chair for a moment, Mirk drew the blanket more tightly around himself. "That's terrible," he mumbled, crossing himself reflexively before picking the glass back up.

  "Jean-Luc recorded in the journal that he never told any of his children what caused the death of their mother. Is this correct?"

  "It may be. My mother and aunts never spoke of it, anyway. They only said that grand-mère had died when Isabelle was very young. They...they had to find a wet nurse for her, since..."

  Genesis nodded to himself, turning over his page of notes. "Understandably, Jean-Luc was...angered by this. He made use of the staff's powers to seek revenge. He told it...he was willing to pay any price. That...since this demon and Serge Montigny had taken the most important thing in his life from him, he wished to...take the most important thing in their lives from them in response. He wished for them to suffer as he did. And the staff...in its own way...obliged. Jean-Luc was uncertain of what the staff took from each of them, once he managed to...locate them together. Or what it took from him to perform the magic. But, from that point forward, Serge Montigny began to age as quickly as a mortal. Aside from certain minor deviations"

  Mirk downed the rest of his drink in one desperate swallow. Genesis didn't have to tell him what the staff took from the demon Serge Montigny had been consorting with. Those words still haunted him at every turn, the same as the sound of drizzle hissing against stone and the feel of claws piercing his shoulders. More than a year had passed, but those scars hadn't ever faded. Though Mirk did his best to never look at them while he was bathing or dressing.

  He had been stripped. Searched, desperately, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, every inch of the finery his mother had wrapped him up in burned away, leaving him bare and shivering. Exposed. Powerless to do anything. The staff had gone rolling out of his hand when he'd fallen face-first on the cobbles, clattering off into the darkness of the alleyway and out of sight.

  She hadn't been able to find it. Not in the darkness, not on him. Which meant the power she sought had to be hidden inside of him. There for the taking. Because his terror, his confusion, the cold and the pain, left him unable to do anything other than cry. And submit.

  Be a man and give it back!

  Mirk tried to drink from the glass again, but it was already empty. And yet, the words kept echoing around and around inside his head. One glass of brandy, no matter how tall, wasn't enough to keep them away. Not that night. Not ever.

  I knew you'd come around. All men want it. Some of you just take more convincing.

  He didn't want it. He'd never want it. Not like that, not from her, not even if it meant freeing his family from the curse that'd haunted them since his grandmother had taken her stand. In that way, Mirk supposed he was no better than her. He still had the staff; he hadn't made amends, hadn't done nearly enough penance to make up for all the wrong that’d been done. But at least Enora, from all the things Jean-Luc had said, both in his journal and in person, had been a good woman. A holy woman. Firm in her faith and unyielding in her convictions. She had died rather than submitting to those of another.

  He hadn't put up a fight. And so he was alive, while she and the rest of his family, his mother and grandfather, his sister and father and all his aunts, were dead.

  Mirk didn't know if it was a blessing, a sign of God's divine plan for him, or just more evidence that he'd forsaken His word.

  At the very edge of his senses, Mirk became aware of a feeling of static. Of coldness. But rather than reminding him of lying in the middle of the street, freezing and bleeding and sobbing, it made him think of a salve. A balm. Something that made the cloud of memories that'd closed over his mind dissipate, just a little, offering him a way back to the present.

  He looked over his shoulder. Genesis had closed Jean-Luc's journal and risen to his feet, drawing over beside the wingback chair. But he kept a respectful distance, one of his confusing expressions on his face, teeth bared but eyebrows arched, his eyes flicking from side to side as he tried to remember what he should do in such a situation.

  A tired sigh, tinged with a bitter laugh, snuck past Mirk's lips. "It's...it's all right, Genesis. You didn't do anything wrong. I...it's better that I know. It helps. A little."

  "Would you...prefer to be left alone?"

  Mirk immediately shook his head, his gaze falling back on Jean-Luc's portrait across the room. "Methinks I'll sleep here, if you don't mind."

  He didn't hear Genesis move. But he felt his chaos draw closer, smelled the faint scent of all his cleaning potions as he came near. Mirk looked back up at him. He had his free hand raised, slightly, though he still hadn't settled on what to do with it.

  "It's fine, messire. I know you only want to help. But you shouldn't feel like you have to take care of me either. You were working."

  Genesis settled for resting his hand atop the crown of his head. For stroking his hair a few times, with that deliberate care of his, always cautious, always mindful, always a bit distant even when he was doing his best to be reassuring. The gesture was comforting in just the right way, pleasant, but not overwhelming. Some of the tension flowed out of Mirk's shoulders as he tucked the glass away in one corner of the chair's wide cushion and pressed himself into the opposite side, his head resting against one of its wings.

  "I...am in your debt," Genesis said, his voice dark and hissing, full of some emotion that Mirk would never be able to feel, never be able to pluck out of the ether and identify. Somehow, that was just right too. Just as Genesis was always careful never to press too hard on him with his body, he could never force his emotions on him, not even by accident.

  "It's not your fault, Genesis. But if you could think of somewhere I could put the painting, that'd help. Methinks it's too big for the trunk."

  "There is...space underneath the bed."

  Mirk mustered up a smile as he nodded his assent. "It won't even get dusty under there, knowing you."

  Genesis didn't reply. But he did cross the room to the painting, wrapping it carefully back up in the canvas it'd come in, using his hands for once instead of calling to the shadows. Trapping Er-Izat and studying his collar must have used more of his potential than it’d felt like. That or the commander was being prudent for once, reluctant to spend his magic on idle conveniences with the threat of Ravensdale and d'Aumont hanging over all of them. Genesis still had the painting wrapped back up in a quarter of the time it would have taken him.

  And then he crossed back out of sight with the painting in hand, heading to the bedroom. A tinge of guilt lanced through Mirk over how much better he felt without Jean-Luc grinning at him. Shoving the thought aside, he pulled the quilt up over his head and closed his eyes.

  He didn't hear Genesis return to his work, just like he hadn't heard him rise from his chair. But Mirk could still feel when he was near, that he was in the room with him rather than having hid himself in the bedroom or the bathroom to avoid his presence and his emotions, which had to make as little sense to Genesis as Genesis's did to him. It made Mirk smile again, just a little, as he willed himself to go to sleep.

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