Page 78 of The Familiar

Marius hurried into the silence. “With Teoda and Gracia gone the king will have few champions among whom to choose.”

“Then let us say he’ll have less opportunity for distraction.” Pérez turned to Luzia and leaned forward. “You must do all you can to show the king what you are capable of, little nun. Then he will decide if you or young Donadei are to be his champion. Or no one at all.”

Now Luzia saw. If the king rejected both her and the Prince of Olives, he would be rejecting Pérez as well. Pérez would never return to his ruler’s favor or be reinstated as secretary. That was why he was in this room with them, speaking to Luzia as if she mattered. His fate lay with a scullion and a farmer’s son.

“I will do all I can,” she said, “and pray God does the rest.”

“This is all any of us can ask.”

“Señor …” Luzia attempted, “is there nothing you can tell me of the final trial?”

“That will be dictated by the king’s whim. I am as much in the dark as you.”

Luzia doubted that, but there was nothing more to say.

Pérez rose and they all followed suit. Before he slipped through the door he said, “Pray tell me, Don Marius, where are Don Víctor and his wife?”

Santángel was most in a position to know, but no one asked him. No one even glanced his way.

“We haven’t seen them since before the trial began last night,” said Marius.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Pérez replied. “Don Víctor is like a cat. He will be seen when it suits him and not before.”

When he felt safe. When he could be certain of the torneo’s outcome. Víctor de Paredes was widening the distance between them, creating a path of escape should this all go horribly wrong.

But none of it would matter if she could show the king a true miracle, if she could make him believe in her. The keeping of his favor might prove a greater challenge, but Luzia would solve that riddle when she needed to. For now it was enough to hope.

Faith could be won. Curses could be broken.

CHAPTER 36

Santángel hadn’t been certain Víctor would return to La Casilla, but he sensed when his master was once more on the grounds, the hand on the leash, pulling him to heel. He found Víctor ensconced in his grand rooms overlooking the gardens. He’d timed his return to avoid any visit by Pérez, and long after the Inquisition’s dogs had fled. He was, after all, a very lucky man.

“So Teoda Halcón is a heretic,” Víctor said as Santángel entered. “What was her plan, do you think?” He’d tossed aside his shoes and was sipping jerez with his stockinged feet propped on a low table.

“Where is Doña Maria?”

“Back in the city. She was badly shaken.”

“And you?”

Víctor contemplated the amber liquid in his glass. “I knew no harm would come to me and mine.”

“There are limits to my influence, Víctor.”

“And yet my wife and I are unharmed, as is my champion.”

“I’m surprised to hear you call her that.” He didn’t want to hear Víctor speak of Luzia at all.

“I have not given up hope that this may all come right for us. The scullion performed well last night and the king’s problems haven’t changed. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve? Do you fear freedom so much?”

Before Santángel could think, his hand was on his dagger. But anger would do him no good. How many men had Santángel killed in service to this family, silently, easily, as if he were Death’s own hand? Yet every action he’d taken against a De Paredes had been thwarted. He had slipped poison into Jorge de Paredes’s cup. The man had sickened but then grown stronger, as if the poison were feeding him. He had attempted a more direct approach and simply stabbed Isidro de Paredes in the heart. The dagger had somehow not found purchase, slipping to the side. And the repercussions had been grim.

Isidro had locked him in a box underground, buried alive, left there to waste away. He didn’t know for how long. It should have made him angrier, should have made him want to seek revenge. But he had finally broken, as each De Paredes had assured him he would. It was less the punishment than the understanding that he had no recourse, that unless he was willing to take his own life, he was well and truly trapped. Ever after, Isidro had called him El Alacrán for his attempted betrayal, no matter that his sting had proved futile.

His other small rebellions had been equally worthless. He had tried to spoil business deals, deliberately choosing partners he thought most likely to betray his masters. Thieves became honest men without understanding why. He had chosen preposterous ventures that had no hope of success. Gold was struck and silver mined. Santángel could not best his own power.

What tack to take now? If he was wise, he’d tell Víctor of the third trial and nothing more. But he couldn’t let Luzia walk into what might be a trap, even if it was one of his own making.