Chapitre Quatre

La Salle Cachée

Leon

"What a thrilling match!"

Magnus nodded to Leon as he folded up his polo uniform. "It was, wasn't it?"

Leon leaned against his wardrobe. "Did you see how horribly inept Burke was today?"

Magnus frowned and shook his head. "You should not speak that way about another athlete. You're a sportsman after all."

"Oh..." Leon scratched the back of his head and looked down. "Terribly sorry...I..."

"You weren't wrong. Just wrong to speak it," said Magnus with a smile. "We owe much of our victory to Burke's poor riding. I do hope he practices. Challenging opponents improve the game." Magnus slipped his shirt over his torso, covering the spattering of scars. Each scar told a fascinating story of war. Leon often begged that his friend regale him with the tales. Magnus' life was one truly lived, unlike the mere existence Leon had always known

"Always looking for a challenge, eh?" asked Leon, chuckling.

Magnus patted him on the shoulder. "Without a good challenge we can never improve ourselves. Those moments that push us to our limits, they make us stronger."

If that was true, Magnus must have had a life full of such moments. The man was a little shorter than Leon, but nearly twice the mass. Leon wondered, at times, how it was that Magnus' horse was able to bear down like lightning with such a thunderous brute on her back.

"How was the masquerade?" Magnus asked, turning to lace up his boots.

Leon rolled his eyes. "It was a party, Magnus. The conversation was deceptive and the music was broken up with acts of cold-blooded murder – more of the galas we've grown to love."

"I heard you also saw a little excitement between songs," Magnus seemed to taunt.

Had rumors already spread of his dance with Beatrice? Could anyone have deduced his hidden emotions from the flush in his cheeks? No, he'd best not assume that.

"How do you mean?" Leon fumbled to ask.

"An assassin targeted you," Magnus lightly scoffed at his absentmindedness.

"How did you know about that?"

"My father's agents were coordinating with Fitzroy," said Magnus, standing up again and stretching out. "He was telling Marc all about what happened, and I overheard."

"Eavesdropping on your brother?" said Leon, folding his arm and raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you're better at Le Jeu Fatal than you thought."

"I was merely concerned because I heard your name," said Magnus, frowning. "Tell me, is it true?"

Leon sighed. "Yes, it's true. The assassin nearly succeeded, too. My father was furious with Fitzroy that the killer ever got that close."

Magnus spat out, "If Lucien doesn't want his family threatened he ought not to host any 'parties!'" Magnus covered his mouth, as if just now wishing he could take back his words. "I'm sorry! Leon, I'm sorry! That was unworthy."

Leon shook his head. "No, it's a fair point."

"Still, it's not my place to speak ill of your father." Magnus placed both hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "It's just...you're my best friend, Leon. Whenever I tell you stories of the things I've done in foreign lands you always look at me as a hero. Not a lot of people do, really. The Salian nobility generally consider soldiers to be, at best, brutish but necessary. Others say we're a dying relic of a more savage age."

"Soldiers are the only ones keeping us safe from the barbarians outside our borders!" said Leon.

Magnus smiled and nodded. "It's that very mentality that makes you my friend." He picked up his bag from Leon's bed and slung it over his shoulder. "I couldn't stand the thought of losing you."

"You're not going to lose me," said Leon. "I'll stay out of my father's games as much as I can."

Magnus clasped both of Leon's forearms. "You're a friend I hold in the deepest places in my heart. Neither the comfort of women, the blood of my brother, or even the loyalty of my brothers in arms can challenge our kinship."

"I feel the same, Magnus," said Leon. "You're my hero, really. I only wish I could be more like you."

The two of them stared in silence at each other a few moments, both smiling. Leon's mind was filled with thoughts for which he knew no words.

Magnus let go of Leon, cleared his throat, and said, "Considering your high spirits, I hope you'll excuse a request I have."

Leon chuckled. "Oh? Was that all just flattery then? Trying to butter me up?"

Magnus laughed. "There's a servant here in your home, I believe her name is Maylin?"

"Ah, yes," said Leon. "The far-eastern girl. What nation is that again? Shu?"

"She's very beautiful," said Magnus. "And so different from the girls here in Salia. I was wondering if you might introduce us?"

Leon smiled and nodded. "Of course I can."

As Magnus and Maylin paced the parlor and took some time to become acquainted, Leon gave them their privacy.

In the foyer, Leon looked up at all of the portraits of his forefathers hanging on the walls. Every Duke Renart who'd ever lived gazed back down at him. So many were brave cavaliers, or steadfast soldiers in days long past. Whatever would they think of the way the Empire operated now? What would they think of Leon's father and his schemes?

"Ah, there you are."

At first Leon thought he might have imagined his father's voice, but the sound of footsteps on the tiles told him that he had, indeed, heard Duke Lucien's approach. Leon turned to face him as he approached with Beatrice in tow.

Beatrice. Leon caught himself looking her over for a moment and admiring her, before he jerked his eyes away. Ever since the night of the ball he'd been unable to banish those thoughts.

"Yes, here I am," said Leon, flatly.

"Good game today, my boy," said Lucien. "Your mother and I were most impressed."

Beatrice smiled and nodded. "It was very exciting, if not a bit one-sided."

Oh, that enchanting smile of hers. Her white teeth the perfect complement to her ruby red lips. That mole just above her lip adding an extra allure.

"You must have spent so much time practicing," said Lucien.

Leon rubbed his temples, already irritated. Did his father truly expect him to believe he'd come just to congratulate him? "What is it you want?" Leon asked.

"Right to the point, then," said Lucien, the smile never leaving his face. "I've arranged for you to meet with Lady Corina one week from today. You will accompany her to a ballet."

"I detest ballet," said Leon.

"Aside from your sports is there anything you don't detest?" asked Lucien, still grinning widely to hide his frustration from the servants and bodyguards looking on. Beatrice giggled, clearly trying to treat his comment as a joke rather than an expression of displeasure. "In any event, Duke Armand informs me that Corina enjoys the ballet. You might find it prudent to do something nice for her, something she enjoys. Once you're married you'll find yourself compromising plenty to keep her happy."

Leon groaned. "Very well. If it will please my future wife, I'll do it." Just thinking about it, though, made him sick. This poor girl. Was he to feign attraction to her and interest in what she had to say until they were wed when neither of them could escape thereafter? True, he didn't know for sure that he wouldn't enjoy her company, but he had a sneaking suspicion. Already he thought it might serve his own ends for him to make a right ass of himself at the ballet to ensure that she would certainly not be interested either.

"Splendid!" said Beatrice, clapping her hands together. "And don't worry, your father and I will be there, too."

"We'll keep some distance so that the two of you may speak privately, but we will be there. As will a few other guests."

A few other guests. Lucien meant Fitzroy's agents, that much was obvious. Was it that Lucien expected someone to strike at Leon while they attended the ballet? Or was it that Lucien had a few targets of his own that night?

"Now, remember," said Beatrice, raising a finger, "The Armand family is a devout one. Corina will expect you to show great piety."

It was all Leon could do to keep from laughing. Sure, he believed in Lyr and attended church now and then, but he was anything but a model Lyrist. If he wanted out of this arranged marriage all he'd have to do is fail to hide his ignorance of the Sacred Hymns. Or, better yet, express his controversial view that the way the Church treated the Witch-Born was abhorrent.

"Thank you," said Leon, flatly.

Both his father and stepmother left, walking out to the gardens behind the manor. Again, Leon caught himself staring at Beatrice and the way her hips swayed as she walked.

He rubbed his eyes and slumped into one of the settees in the foyer. The arched ceiling spread out before him, reminding him that he was too small to control his own fate.

Footsteps nearby. Leon glanced up from the settee to see Lucilla walking by, a stack of papers in her hands.

"Lucilla," he said, sitting up.

"Lord Leon," said Lucilla, curtseying to him. "What may I do for you?"

He looked over the lines on Lucilla's young face. For one only in her twenties life had clearly aged her. Stress hung on her brow and at the corners of her eyes. Even a few gray hairs slipped into her braid. The life of a diplomat must have been far more difficult than it seemed.

"Do you ever..." Leon began, struggling for the right words, "Do you sometimes wish your station in life were different?"

"Everyone does," said Lucilla. "Trust me, it's my job to speak with people in all stations of life. Everyone, from the lowly merchant trying to gain noble favors to the Empress herself wishes that their lives were different."

"Truly?"

"Truly." Lucilla shifted the weight of the papers, which were clearly getting heavier as she stood there. "So, next time you feel like cursing your stars, remember that someone somewhere wishes fate had treated him as kindly as it has treated you."

Leon reclined on the settee again, realizing just as his head touched the throw pillow just how true her proverb was. How many struggling merchants couldn't afford even a moment to recline on the couch and think about life? Did the Empress have any moments to herself like this?

"Excuse me," said Lucilla, hurrying away. Even she had no time for comfort.

Leon thought on his father's scheme. Was marriage to Corina truly such a horrible fate? Cecile said that Corina was a beautiful young woman. From what he had heard of her, she was a learned woman too. At least he wouldn't be marrying a fool. Perhaps he could have lovely conversations with this girl. He wasn't a terribly pious man, but perhaps he needed only to be educated, then he'd be zealous for the faith.

Besides, marriage to Corina might help to take his mind off the forbidden fruit he so craved.

"Relaxed?" Magnus asked as he came upon Leon.

Leon pushed off the settee and rose to his feet. "Relaxed enough. What happened to Maylin? Weren't you two...?"

"A gentleman does not kiss and tell," said Magnus.

Leon felt a pang of guilt at Magnus' words. Had he not, himself, boasted to Beatrice just the other night of the servant he'd bedded? He had so much to learn from Magnus. Leon chuckled. "You're a better man than I."

"That's true," said Magnus, smirking. "What news? I only find you lying down, staring at the ceiling when you're worried about something."

"My father wants me to marry Duke Armand's eldest daughter," Leon said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Lady Corina?" asked Magnus. "What do you think of her?"

"I've never met her, but apparently, I'm going to. At a ballet, no less."

Magnus laughed. "A ballet? Oh, you'll have so much fun, I'm sure!"

Leon gave Magnus a playful punch in the chest and laughed along.

Magnus' laugh soon faded, and his smile slowly drifted away. "Arranged marriage. It's ridiculous sometimes, isn't it?"

"You don't have to tell me," said Leon.

"I mean, you're asking two people who barely know each other, might never even get along, to spend the rest of their lives together. And for what? For gain?" Magnus' fist tightened at the thought. "The clans outside of Salia's borders marry for love, and we call them 'barbarians.' As if our way is more civilized."

Leon patted Magnus on the shoulder. "If you're thinking of starting a revolution just don't do it without me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Magnus, smiling. "The voice of one soldier isn't going to change the way the Empire thinks. Anyway, I'll be leaving now. Thank you for hosting the game today."

"You're welcome. See you next time."

Once Magnus had left, Leon spent much of the rest of the day wandering around the mansion, pondering everything that was happening. An attempt on his life that had nearly succeeded, Andre blackmailing noble women with their affairs, Cecile toying with many suitors, and then the matter of Leon's own impending betrothal to a stranger. At times, he felt his father was a spider, weaving webs and tangling his prey up in silk, not caring if he wrapped up his own offspring as the bait.

The mansion was so vast that there were areas he'd not visited in years. Then there were those areas that only his father's agents had seen. Secret passages in the walls, between the floors, behind bookcases and through wardrobes. As a child, he had longed to explore them himself. At present, no amount of curiosity diluted the disdain he had for the Game and the things that perpetuated it.

Every now and then Leon would hear what sounded like tapping or footsteps coming from below him, and he'd wonder what Fitzroy's spies were up to now. Sometimes he'd look at a painting on the wall and could swear the eyes were actually following him. Had he not known about Fitzroy's friends he might have thought the mansion haunted.

Leon wandered further and further into parts of the mansion he'd only used as daring hiding spots as a lad. Long hallways, far from any windows or outside facing doors. Mirrors, instead, lined the walls to make the hallways seem larger.

Then the mirrors disappeared. As did the candles, lamps, and any other light source. The air seemed stale, cobwebs lined the ceiling, and Leon started to get the feeling that he wasn't supposed to be there. He certainly had never explored so deeply before. Surely, precious few had.

Verboten corridors seemed only to beckon him.

The only sounds were his own footsteps, his own breath, and the beat of his heart. A beat that grew louder and louder in his ears, above all other tones, as he slipped away into the shadows of those halls.

Then a voice. Muffled, behind a wall. He couldn't make out what it said, but he realized soon that it was his father's.

What was Duke Lucien up to? What plots was he hatching in such a secluded part of the Renart home?

Leon had to know. He slowed his steps and followed the sound of his father's voice.

Light up ahead. A strip of light under a doorway. The movement of shadows. That's where his father was, he was sure of it.

Leon crept up to the door and reached for the handle.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and yelped. He rounded and threw out his fists in a flurry of blows that hit nothing but air.

The assassin danced just out of arm's reach. "Calm yourself, my lord!" he whispered.

"Fitzroy!" Leon said, bending down and leaning on his own knees as he caught his breath. "It's just you, thank Lyr!"

Fitzroy shook his head. "You shouldn't be here right now. Surely you have studies to attend to?"

"I hear my father's voice in there," whispered Leon, pointing to the door. "What room is that?"

"Edmund's," said Fitzroy.

"Edmund?" Leon repeated. He'd heard of his father's ward only a few times. On occasion he wondered if his name was not some sort of code word that Fitzroy and his father exchanged.

"Yes, Edmund," said Fitzroy. "The boy is very sick, and it's catching. Your father is immune, having already overcome the disease in his youth, but you-"

Duke Lucien's voice from within the room cut Fitzroy off. "Let him in. It's time he learned the truth anyway."

"Are you certain?" Fitzroy asked, speaking at full volume to respond, but his gaze remained fixed on Leon.

"I am," Lucien said through the door. "Do it."

Fitzroy took a deep breath and produced a skeleton key from his coat pocket. "Very well, but I'm not responsible for how he reacts." Fitzroy unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Leon blinked once or twice to adjust to the light pouring from the room, then gasped to behold what lay before him.