The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (different e readers txt) 📕

Spring sunlight shone through the window at the end of a nave built of imported marble and gold-hued wood. In Seteris and Seste Ligante, that window would have depicted a peacock in full spread, but over the decades, local custom had adopted the dreamweaver birds of Vraszan in its place. Rainbows scattered across the walls and splashed across the mosaics embedded into the floor. The path of numinata started at the door with a simple Noctat, passed through Illi, and worked up the chain to end in the center of the nave at an intricate figure of Sebat.

Renata followed that path like any good Seterin would, feeling as if she were walking the path of a dream. She was several steps along before she realized the dreamweaver hues weren’t only coming from the window above; they were embedded into the stone. Some master inscriptor had laid out the numinata in pure prismatium.

I lost my mask, she thought irrationally. Where had her costume gone, and the mask Vargo had given her? Where had the Vraszenian clothes come from that she was wearing when she left the nightmare? Tess had puzzled over them as she packed them away, but neither of them could find an explanation.

An acolyte met her as she finished walking the path. “Alta Renata? Please wait in the meditation hall. Meda Fienola will see you as soon as she can.”

Fienola. It took her much too long to place the name. Tanaquis: the astrologer who was friends with the Traementis. She worked for Iridet, the Cinquerat’s religious seat.

Renata wasn’t the only one waiting. Several other people were there, faces she recognized from the Charterhouse: clerks, dignitaries, the courtesan who had depicted Nadežra in the pageant. None of the Vraszenians, though.

She knelt on the floor inside one of the Sebat numinata and tried to look like she was meditating, so no one would try to talk to her. Before the warm rainbow air could put her to sleep, the acolyte approached again and bowed deferentially. “Please come with me, Alta Renata.”

Scaperto Quientis was emerging from a side door that clearly led to some back chambers. He looked haggard, and his expression settled into even grimmer lines when he saw Renata. Does he blame me? she wondered as he passed without more than a nod. Not for the incident as a whole—she prayed to any deity listening that no one knew her role in that—but for Leato’s death. He’d only been in the Charterhouse at Renata’s invitation.

The hallway beyond was cool and lit by numinata. The acolyte led Renata into a small library where Tanaquis sat at a table, scribbling rapidly in a notebook in some of the worst handwriting she’d ever seen.

Dragging her attention from her notes, Tanaquis blinked owlishly at Renata. Her eyes widened and lips parted in a flash of surprise before battening down into concern. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Why didn’t you send word that you needed to rest? I could have delayed until later this afternoon.”

Renata had expected her interrogator to launch right into questioning, and faltered at the unexpected kindness. “I didn’t know the summons was from you.”

“I confess, I’d hoped to meet you again—but not under such circumstances. Please, sit down. And have some coffee.” Tanaquis poured before Renata could decline. “Have… have you seen Donaia at all?”

Renata’s breath caught. “No. I—I’m the one who invited Leato to the Charterhouse.” Her hand shook as she accepted the coffee, and the next words came out raw. “How can I show my face to her, after…”

“Oh dear. Now I’ve broken my chalk on it. I didn’t mean…” Tanaquis bent to catch her eyes. “None of this is your fault. Certainly not what happened to Leato. Donaia would never blame you, and you’re not under suspicion. I wish I could give you time to grieve with her, but Eret Simendis has asked me to lead the investigation, so I need to interview everyone as quickly as possible, to get a true sense of what happened. Can you tell me what you saw? It might help me find who is to blame.”

The hideous face of poisoned Ondrakja rose up in Ren’s mind. It wasn’t real, she thought. It couldn’t be. Ondrakja was dead. It was like Ivrina burning alive, Ren’s worst nightmares made manifest. Out loud she said, “I’ll do anything I can.”

“Thank you.” Tanaquis marshaled her pencil. “Why don’t we start with your arrival at the Charterhouse. Did you notice anything unusual?”

Mettore Indestor, looking at her as if he had the final piece he needed.

“No,” Renata said.

She kept to the simple truth, describing what she’d seen in the Charterhouse. “I’ve not had aža before, but I’d heard it was supposed to taste pleasant. What we drank—” She reached reflexively for her cup, to clear her palate of the memory, but put it down again when she smelled the coffee.

“And then?” Tanaquis prompted.

At least she didn’t have to hide her shudder. “I was in Seteris. With my mother.”

“Ah.” Tanaquis’s nod said she didn’t need further explanation: Letilia was nightmare enough. Then she paused. “You were there immediately?”

Ren’s heart was beating too fast. It was like trying to match Sedge’s lie to please Ondrakja. What had other people experienced? “Not immediately,” she said, hoping that was the right answer. “I was in the Charterhouse, but alone. When I walked outside, I was in Seteris.”

The little furrow wrinkling Tanaquis’s brow suggested that wasn’t what others had experienced. “Interesting. You changed location?”

Djek. “Yes,” she said, because she could hardly take it back.

Chewing on the end of her pencil, Tanaquis nodded, then scribbled something illegible in the margin of her notes. “We may come back to that. What happened next?”

The best lies were built from truth. “I was my mother’s servant,” Renata said, and began describing her life in Ganllech under Letilia. Her real experiences there paled into insignificance next to what she’d gone through the previous night, but it didn’t take much effort to infuse them with