Chapter Thirteen

“Close your eyes,” Count Radamowsky intoned. “Let your breathing slow. The aetheric veil is only just beyond our sight.”

Carlo crossed his arms and watched from slitted eyes. In the darkness, lit only by flickering candles, Radamowsky’s smile looked nearly demonic. Carlo wasn’t surprised that Ignaz von Born had walked out with a snort of open disgust, only moments after entering the room. He couldn’t entirely explain why he hadn’t followed von Born’s example.

The seats in the music room had been arranged into a circle surrounding the alchemist. Radamowsky carried no props save his own expressive gestures and the deep, reverberating timbre of his voice—which, Carlo thought, made this already a far better show than most of the attempts he’d been forced to witness in various other courts in his career.

His narrowed gaze fell on Baroness von Steinbeck beside him—the mark of her dark eyelashes against her cheek, the slow, even breathing that moved her chest—and jerked away.

Shadows flickered across Radamowsky’s face.

“The aetheric veil draws closer now. Closer, closer—ah.”

Friedrich felt his way through blackness with one hand pressed against the wall. The chanting grew louder and louder, until it nearly deafened him.

His outstretched foot hit a closed door that emanated heat through its wooden bulk. He took a breath. When he finally found the handle of the door, after a fumbling search, it nearly burned him.

He turned it anyway . . . and walked straight into Hell.

“I call upon the ancient masters to help me raise the aetheric veil between the worlds of the spirit and the flesh,” Count Radamowsky declared. “I call upon them in the ancient tongues.”

Thick syllables rolled out of his lips. Some of it was very nearly Italian, Carlo thought—or Latin, at least—but the rest he could not identify. Yet his first instinct—to dismiss it as invented gibberish—faded as the words continued. They rolled out in order—in perfect order. They filled his head and resonated within it. They almost made sense. They meant something . . . if he could only see it . . .

His head tipped forward as the strength flooded out of the muscles in his neck. He couldn’t even find the will to be afraid.

Red flames shot up from the floor in all directions, filling the Bagatelle’s dance hall. Heat licked Friedrich’s face as he staggered back and stared, bewildered, into the inferno that had appeared in the middle of Prince Nikolaus’s pride and glory. On the ceiling above him, the familiar black-lacquered paintings of Chinese life overlooked a scene from a nightmare. Before him, black-robed figures mingled in the fire. The mirrors on the walls reflected the flames and multiplied them in dizzying profusion, until the room seemed to stretch out forever in a sea of red and black.

“Brother Friedrich, how good to see you.”

The familiar voice behind him was filled with devilish amusement. A firm hand on Friedrich’s back propelled him into the room.

Friedrich stumbled forward, flinging his hands out to protect his face from the leaping flames. He stopped himself just at the edge of the fire.

The dark-robed figure behind him swept forward into the heart of the flames, clapping his hands for attention.

“Brothers! Welcome all. Whether you found your way here from Eszterháza, Vienna, Salzburg, Pressburg, or somewhere very, very different . . .”

Friedrich blinked at the list and took a step too far.

Fire scalded his hands and raced up his neck. It covered his face, burning him, until he was weeping with the agony of it, crying out, begging incoherently—

A hand grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the flames. Ruthless hands beat at his clothing.

“Look, brothers! An initiate who did not follow our guidance. Brother Friedrich, did your invitation not clearly inform you where you would find a cloak of our order?”

Tears streamed down Friedrich’s raw face. “I didn’t—didn’t—”

“Didn’t want to? Didn’t even want to admit you are one of us, perhaps?” The voice hardened. “Look at this man, brothers. Allowed access into our mysteries, inclusion in our sacred rites—and he flaunts the contempt in which he holds us. What should we do with such a case as this?”

“Please,” Friedrich mumbled. “Please, I didn’t know—didn’t read—didn’t—”

Shouts echoed through the room, overwhelming his protests.

“Throw him into the flames!”

“Burn him!”

“Roast him!”

“Now, brothers.” The voice chuckled indulgently. “He is a sworn member of our order. We will show him the mercy of granting him one more chance. Brother Friedrich . . .” The hood swung toward him. Friedrich’s eyes were too blurred by tears to make out any more than the keen eyes within its shadow. “Brother Friedrich, do you repent the choice you made?”

“Yes,” Friedrich choked. “God, yes.” He repented everything —everything . . .

“You have one more moment of choice, Brother Friedrich,” the voice said. “It is your choice to make. I am certain—entirely certain—that we could find another cloak to shelter you. But only committed members of our Brotherhood may wear our cloaks. Are you committed to us, Brother Friedrich?”

“I—I—”

The hand around his collar shoved him back toward the leaping flames. “Are you a believing member of our Brotherhood or not?”

“I am!” Friedrich screamed.

“I am very glad to hear it.” Still, the firm grip held him, struggling, barely an inch away from the flames. “Brothers? Shall we grant him mercy and accept him back within our hearts?”

Mutters rose up within the crowd.

“Please,” Friedrich mumbled. “Please. Please!”

“Bring me a cloak,” the voice commanded. “Brother Friedrich has seen the error of his ways.”

A black-robed figure approached, holding a second cloak spread over his arms. But there was something terribly wrong in the way the figure walked—no, glided—through the flames.

It held out the spare cloak as it reached them.

Oh, God. Tears flooded Friedrich’s face once again, burning as they touched his scalded skin.

The figure’s feet did not touch the ground.

“You may open your eyes,” Count Radamowsky murmured.

Charlotte forced her heavy eyelids open with an effort. She couldn’t lift her head, but neither could she summon up the effort to worry about it.

Pale light shimmered around Count Radamowsky’s body.

“The first of my spirit guides, Nemenel, has joined us,” said Count Radamowsky. “Nemenel, my child, greet this audience.”

The pale light withdrew from Radamowsky’s body. It flattened into a long, streaming path of luminescence and floated across the open circle.

Gasps and sighs of appreciation sounded in the darkened room as Nemenel floated around the circle. Tears of wonder prickled at Charlotte’s eyes as she watched the stream of incandescent light approach her. She had never expected this summoning to work. She would never have imagined that it could be so beautiful.

Nemenel floated past Charlotte, hovering a moment before her chair. If Charlotte could have lifted her arms, she would have reached out. Such shimmering radiance—she yearned to feel it. But her arms remained stubbornly leaden, and Nemenel floated onward.

As the spirit reached Sophie’s chair, Count Radamowsky spoke.

“Nemenel, that is Frau von Höllner, who asked for tonight’s meeting. Will you greet her properly?”

Charlotte could only see the edges of Sophie’s face, suffused with fear and excitement. As the glowing light neared her, Sophie gasped. The light wrapped around her.

Charlotte could not even turn her head to look closer. She sat frozen, tormented by curiosity . . . and shameful envy. If only it could have been her . . .

A soft giggle escaped Sophie’s throat as the light pulled away. “She—she tickles!”

Radamowsky chuckled. “Bow to His Serene Highness, Nemenel.”

The glowing light floated high in the air and then dipped down, in a perfect caricature of a bow. Delighted laughter filled the room.

“She is precious,” Sophie said. “Oh, Niko . . .”

“Return to me, Nemenel,” Count Radamowsky said. As the light streamed back toward him, he raised his hands. “I thank you, gracious gentlemen and ladies, for your attendance. Now, if you will be so kind as to close your eyes once more, I—”

“Wait.” Prince Nikolaus’s voice rapped out, though he sat as frozen as all the rest of the onlookers.

Count Radamowsky turned to him. “Your Highness? Is something—”

“Summon another one, Radamowsky.” The Prince’s voice seemed edged with other meanings as he added, “Let my court see your most impressive work.”

“I don’t—”

“You know exactly the one I mean,” said Prince Nikolaus. “And I insist upon it.”

“Your cloak, Brother Friedrich.” The leader stepped back to make room for the black cloak to be tossed around Friedrich’s shoulders.

Friedrich moaned and backed away from the figure who held out the cloak. The specter.

“What, too proud to accept help when it is offered to you?” The leader of the group pushed him forward. “Or would you prefer to return to the flames?”

“No,” Friedrich mumbled.

He clamped his teeth together and stood quietly as the floating figure arranged the hooded cloak around him. Was it only his imagination that conjured up the sound of scraping bones?

The figure stepped back and flashed him a grin. Its shining white teeth were the only visible remnants of its face beneath the hood.

Before Friedrich could speak, the man behind him shoved him straight into the center of the flames.

“No!” Friedrich screamed and fought—then stopped.

Flames surrounded him, yet his skin remained cool beneath his cloak. Even his damaged face, protected within the billowing hood, felt only distant heat.

He laughed out loud in sheer relief, despite the pain. He wasn’t dead. It was beyond miraculous.

“You see, now, the advantages of your membership.” The leader of the Brotherhood raised his voice, speaking to the crowd at large. “We are men of reason here, untethered by the superstitious fears that hold back lesser beings. Unafraid to touch the deepest darkness in order to protect what belongs to us. Brothers, would any of you follow the weaklings’ way of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy and his brethren, who lick the hand of our Habsburg overlords even as it turns into a fist? The Empress may yet believe in compromise, but she won’t be able to rein in her hotheaded son forever. One day soon our young Emperor will take sole control—and what then? Will you bow your heads and wag your tails like obedient lapdogs while this so-called enlightened Emperor wrests away all the rights to property and pride that our ancestors won for us centuries ago? While he denies the very nobility of our blood and raises our own peasants above us?”

The answering, rage-filled cry shivered through Friedrich’s bones. Through the flames, he saw faces open in anger beneath dark hoods. In a few of them, he recognized the oldest aristocracy of the land. And in a few . . . He swallowed. Rotting, long-dead faces joined the living, here, on common ground.

The leader’s voice swelled. “We in this room wear cloaks of protection. The darkness we step through cannot harm us, for we are the chosen among mankind.” He stepped back, leaving Friedrich free to move. “Are you glad now to be wearing one of our cloaks, Brother Friedrich?”

“Yes,” Friedrich mumbled. His cheeks hurt even more when he spoke.

“Excellent. Brother . . .” The leader gestured to another black-robed figure, who hurried forward, both feet reassuringly solid upon the ground. “Take Brother Friedrich away and find salve to repair his face. We cannot have him too injured to perform his duties.”

“Duties?” Friedrich echoed faintly, as he turned to leave.

“Of course.” The leader’s smile echoed in his voice. “You are now one of the most highly valued members of our Brotherhood. And in only five days, you will be our shining star.”

“Your Highness . . .” The pale light that was Nemenel rippled and wrapped around Count Radamowsky’s straight figure as he spoke. “With great respect, I do not believe that would be a wise idea.”

“It is my idea, Radamowsky. And my command.”

Charlotte swallowed uneasily as she watched Nemenel’s nervous ripples. It was as though the pale spirit reflected her master’s disturbance.

“The other is not ready yet.”

“It has been tested, has it not?”

The Count darted a quick look at the listening circle. “Perhaps we might discuss this later, in private, when—”

“I wish to see your other summoning, and I will be most seriously displeased if you refuse me. Is that discussion enough for you?”

Count Radamowsky stared at him a moment in rigid silence. Then, abruptly, he nodded. “As you wish.”

His shoulders rose and fell in a sigh as he turned to speak to the circle as a whole. Charlotte could almost see the mantle of calm he assumed as he stretched his lips into an unconvincing smile.

“My noble audience! Might I beg you to prepare for an experience quite unlike any that you have ever felt before? In my latest researches, I have delved long and deep into the ancient texts of scientists and wise men. Clinging to the aetheric veil are many spirits like the gentle Nemenel. But they are not the only ones to migrate from the spirit world.” His voice deepened. “In the darker regions of the spirit world exist elementals of a different order. Only by the most powerful mastery can such creatures be summoned through the veil. And then only . . .” He flicked a glance back at the Prince. “Only with the greatest care and for the highest causes.”

Charlotte’s head twinged, fighting against the soothing rhythms of his voice. She misliked the sound of this new elemental. She wanted to leave—but she could barely even feel her legs any more, much less move them. She was trapped.

She glanced at Signor Morelli, on her left, and saw his forehead tense with effort. He, too, must be trying to move. Trying, and failing. Their common effort gave her no comfort.

“Gentlemen and ladies, please close your eyes.”

Radamowsky’s voice tolled out, rich and compelling, and, despite herself, Charlotte found her eyelids falling shut.

“I call upon it with the words of power. I call upon it with the words of compulsion.”

His voice changed, shaping words in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. They tolled through Charlotte’s head until they nearly deafened her. They started a nerve throbbing in her skull.

It seemed to go on for hours. The pain in Charlotte’s head intensified until it felt overwhelming, a red haze. Finally, the chant ended.

“You may open your eyes,” Count Radamowsky said.

The red pain in Charlotte’s head had vanished with the cessation of his chant. She opened her eyes warily.

A thick, roiling, dark gray mass of smoke wrapped around the alchemist’s waist. Count Radamowsky’s face looked strained and pale. Nemenel had flown up to the high ceiling, where she hovered, rippling convulsively.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present before you an elemental from far across the veil?”

There was no giggling or sighed appreciation now. A taut silence gripped the circle of chairs. Charlotte felt her heart beat quickly against her chest.

Deep within the dark smoke, two red eyes flashed open.

“Let it move around the circle, too,” Prince Nikolaus commanded.

No, Charlotte thought. If she could have moved, she would have run.

“Your Highness—”

“Niko?” Sophie’s voice wavered. “Perhaps—”

“Can you control the thing or not, Radamowsky?”

“I can.” The alchemist bit off the words.

“Then we have naught to fear. Let it loose.”

Count Radamowsky raised one arm. He began to chant softly as the elemental unwrapped itself from his waist. Slowly, it began to float around the circle.

Hisses and grunts of effort sounded as people fought to lean backward. As the gray, twisting smoke floated closer and closer to her, Charlotte’s chest stiffened into rigidity. She hardly dared even to breathe, for fear of attracting the thing’s attention. Even in the dim candlelight, she could see the shining beads of perspiration that stood out on the alchemist’s forehead as he chanted.

The gray fog floated slowly past Signor Morelli and paused before Charlotte. She held her breath, praying silently. Move on, move on, move on . . .

Its red eyes gazed straight into hers. She couldn’t restrain the gasp that tore itself from her mouth. The elemental uncoiled itself, slid closer—

The alchemist’s voice sharpened into urgency. The red eyes vanished. The smoky mass withdrew and floated on to the next seat.

Air flooded Charlotte’s chest until she nearly choked. She blinked rapidly, and found Signor Morelli staring at her with wide, dark eyes. She tried to smile at him in reassurance. She failed.

As the gray smoke floated the rest of the way around the circle, Charlotte turned her eyes up to the ceiling where Nemenel floated, a safe distance from the roiling gray mass. Charlotte wished she could join the spirit there.

Even as she watched, though, Nemenel began to float downward, toward the chanting alchemist, whose gaze was fixed on his second summoning. The mass of gray smoke passed Sophie, who did not ask to touch it. It passed the Prince, who gazed at it with hard satisfaction. It passed his niece and her companion—both of whom, Charlotte noted, for once in their lives neither giggled nor whispered. As Nemenel floated down, closer and closer to the Count, the gray smoke drifted up to the English traveler, Edmund Guernsey.

With a nearly audible sigh, Nemenel finally dropped onto the Radamowsky’s shoulder, wrapping lovingly around him. The alchemist jerked in surprise. His voice cut off in midchant.

Red eyes flashed open within the smoke as it shot forward, straight at Guernsey’s face.