Flight Into Darkness (12 page)

“A day's journey inland,” Jagu said as they tramped over the wet sand. The tide was going out, exposing a wide expanse of sandy beach, filled with little tidal streams, runnels, and rock pools. Gulls skimmed low over the shore. The air smelled of sea salt, mingled with the slightly sulfurous tang of mud.

“If only we had horses. We'll never reach the monastery before dark; it's already well past midday.” Celestine pointed to the pale sun which was no longer directly overhead.

“Then we'll just have to find one of these pilgrims’ shelters before nightfall.”

The ancient forest of Kerjhenezh covered most of the eastern corner of Azhkendir, extending as far as the foothills of the snow-covered Kharzhgyll Mountains, the natural border between the Drakhaon's lands and the khanate of Khitari, now all united as part of Eugene's empire. New spring leaves on the thick-girthed oaks were only just beginning to unfurl, but the heavy branches of the firs—larch, pine, and cedar—kept the Pilgrims’ Road well shaded and the sandy ground underfoot soft with a carpet of dried needles.

Jagu pointed to the faded white symbol of Sergius's crook daubed on the knotted trunk of a tall pine. “Ironic, isn't it? The very reason for our journey is going to show us the way.” Celestine heard the faint, warning call of a bird, answered by another, farther off. She had been troubled by a strange sensation ever since they parted company with

Chaikin. From time to time she shivered, even though she was not cold or feverish.

A current of silvery translucence snakes through the air…

The green branches overhead stirred, moved by a freak gust of wind.

She stopped, hugging her arms to her, suddenly chilled to the depths of her soul.

“Celestine?” Jagu, realizing that she was no longer walking beside him, turned and saw her standing, gazing up into the cloudy sky.

“What is
he
doing here?” she said, as if talking to herself.

“He? Who do you mean?” Jagu looked upward. All he could see above the interwoven branches of shaggy fir was the milky pallor of the cloud-veiled sky.

“Didn't you feel it?” Her eyes had a distant, unfocused look. “It was the Magus.”

CHAPTER 3

“The Magus?” Jagu hastily pushed back his sleeve, checking the mark on his left wrist. “Are you sure?” He showed her; the sigil could only faintly be detected, like a pearlescent tattoo against the blue veins marking his pulse point. “If it's a magus, then it's not the one who did this to me.”

“Why is Kaspar Linnaius in Azhkendir?” Celestine asked, kicking a pinecone out of her path. “Is he here on the Emperor's business? Or on some affair of his own?” She felt on edge now.

In a little clearing, they found the first shrine to the saint—a worn stone plinth, overgrown with ivy. Jagu bent down to clear away some of the clinging strands. Faint letters could just be made out, surmounted by the sign of the crook pointing the way to the monastery. The only sound was the twittering of birds and the occasional feathery flutter of wings as they flitted across the glade.

“Doesn't it strike you as ironic that Saint Sergius is venerated here,” Jagu said, straightening up, “even though his murderer, the Drakhaoul, has lived on for centuries in the ruling house? How can the Azhkendis reconcile the two, the saint and the daemon?”

While he was speaking, Celestine noticed that a strange stillness had fallen over the green glade.

“The birds have stopped singing. Is someone watching us?”

“Show yourself!” Jagu drew his pistol. Back to back, heel to heel, they slowly turned around, checking for any sign of movement among the lichen-blotched trunks. But if anyone was shadowing them, he kept well hidden. She heard him let out a slow breath. “This
is only the first of the shrines; there are four more to go before we reach the monastery.”

“If we're going to reach the pilgrims’ shelter before nightfall, we'd better make a move.” Celestine was tired and her feet were hot and sore, but the knowledge that Kaspar Linnaius was close by gave her new determination to keep going. As they left the glade, she noticed Jagu glancing back over his shoulder. Had the Magus been shadowing them?

They stopped by the mossy banks of a forest stream to catch fish for supper. Celestine had learned on earlier missions that Jagu's stillness and quick eye made him a good fisherman.

“That's not a trick you learned at the seminary,” she said, watching him dispatch the slippery, struggling char with an expertly judged blow to the head.

“My elder brother Markiz taught me,” he said, laying it beside his two earlier catches.

“How many brothers do you have?” He so rarely spoke of his family that she couldn't resist the chance to tease out some information about his early life.

“Markiz took over the family estate when my father died three years ago. Léonor is a notary in Kemper. And I…”

“You showed an early gift for music, so your father sent you to a seminary.”

He pulled a face. “My father never really understood,” he said curtly, getting to his feet. “Time to go.” He pointed to the sky. “We have to find the pilgrims’ shelter before dusk.”

The daylight was fading; glints of gold from the setting sun filtered through the branches. In the twilight, Celestine tripped on a knotted tree root.

“Ow!” She hopped to lean against a mossy trunk, nursing her stubbed toe.

“Watch where you place your feet. If you trip and sprain your ankle, I'm not going to carry you.”

Why did Jagu always have to be so self-righteous? She glared at him. “It's getting a little hard to see my feet, or hadn't you noticed? It'll soon be dark. And then what do we do?”

“If we don't reach the pilgrims’ shelter, we'll just have to make camp here.”

She pulled a face. “Oh, wonderful! And be prey to all those ravenous wolves and boar Chaikin warned us about?”

“I'll light a fire.” Jagu glowered back at her. “We're not exactly short of kindling.”

“Then we might as well shout to any local brigands, ‘Here we are, why don't you come and rob us?’”

He said nothing to her taunt, continuing along the path. She set off resignedly after him, dragging her sore foot.

“Smells of damp.” Celestine sniffed as they investigated the shelter.

“It's been a while since any pilgrims stayed here.” Jagu straightened up from the ash-stained hearthstone.

“Perhaps we're the first this year.”

“At least there's a well with clean water. And a roof of sorts over our heads.”

Having grown up in Saint Azilia's Convent, Celestine was accustomed to making do with such basic comforts. She wondered whether sleeping in drafty dormitories and rising before dawn each day to do backbreaking chores had toughened her, making her even better suited to enduring the hardships of life on the road than seminary-educated Jagu.

While Jagu laid and lit a fire, she drew water from the ancient well. By the time she was lugging the battered bucket back across the clearing to the shelter, it was dark and a spatter of sparks shot up into the darkening glade.

“Azhkendir, Saint Sergius's birthplace.” Jagu leaned back, gazing into the flames. “Just think; this is the same forest in which he grew up. He might even have fished in the same stream. I wonder what made him decide to dedicate his life to God…”

Celestine glanced at him; he seemed to be unaware that she was watching him, lost in his own thoughts. His dark eyes burned, not just with the reflection of the firelight but with an inner passion. She had rarely known Jagu to speak of his beliefs; he had only told her that he had turned his back on a career in music and entered the Commanderie after Maistre de Lanvaux had saved him from a soul-stealing. But hearing him talk made her realize how little he ever revealed of himself to anyone, even to her, keeping so much bottled up inside.

“I found most of the texts that they made us study at the seminary boring… or difficult to understand. But when we read Argantel's
Life of the Blessed Sergius,
everything changed. It was inspiring. And when Maistre de Lanvaux rescued me from the magus”—he looked up at her through the leaping flames— “I remember thinking,
‘This
is what Sergius must have been like. This desperate show of courage in the face of impossible odds.’”

“I wish I could have seen the Maistre in action,” she said fondly. Jagu had never really spoken of his encounter with the magus before; all she knew was that it had left him scarred and wary. But Ruaud de Lanvaux was a bond they shared; he had rescued both of them from certain death: she, a starving, orphaned child, he, a schoolboy marked as a magus's prey.

“Careful, you'll burn your tongue,” warned Jagu, handing Celestine the spitted fish, hot from the flames.

She was so hungry by then that she didn't care. The white flesh of the char, silvery skin crisped and charred by the fire, tasted delicious. She licked her sticky fingers when there was nothing left but bones and looked up to see him watching her. There was a rare hint of a grin on his face.

“What?”

“I was just thinking what your adoring public would think if they could see their idol now: hair hacked short, wiping the grease from her lips with the back of her hand.”

“Is it so different from Gauzia playing a breeches role in an opera?” Celestine hadn't given Gauzia much thought till then; circumstances had driven the two girls very far apart—Gauzia to a prestigious career in opera, Celestine to a new life as a secret agent of the Commanderie.

She and Jagu rarely spoke of Henri de Joyeuse, even though it was he who had first brought them together. The truth was that neither had ever fully recovered from his death six years ago. But if Jagu had lost a beloved teacher and mentor, Celestine had lost her first and only love. The best way to keep his memory alive in their hearts was to ensure that his music was played wherever their Commanderie work took them. To the musical world they were renowned as interpreters of his songs—and under this guise they had traveled throughout the western quadrant, giving concerts while at the same time
gaining valuable information to feed back to the Commanderie about foreign affairs. Celestine had learned very early how to use her looks to charm all manner of secrets from smitten diplomats and politicians. And thus far no one had ever suspected her of spying for Francia. Thus far…

The sound of distant bells ringing could be heard, oddly sweet on the morning air.

Through the thinning tree trunks ahead, Celestine could see whitewashed walls. A few minutes later, she and Jagu emerged in a sun-dappled apple orchard where bees droned in the pink and white blossoms. At the far end, Celestine spotted two monks, one old, one young, tending beehives.

“At last,” she said. “This must be it.” Her blisters were throbbing and she could no longer help limping. The thought that there would be clean water and medicinal salves to soothe her aching feet was the one thing that kept her going.

“Wait.” Jagu checked her, one hand on her shoulder. “Let's make certain…” He pulled out the Angelstone and held it up to the light. “No change,” he said and concealed it beneath his shirt again.

I could have told you as much, Jagu. But you still don't trust my powers…

The young monk, hearing voices, looked up and came hurrying through the trees to greet them.

“Good day to you, brothers. It's early in the year for pilgrims,” he said, grinning at them. “My name's Lyashko. Have you come far?”

“From Francia. My name is Jagu and this is my servant, Celestin.”

“Francia!” echoed Brother Lyashko. “Do you hear that, Brother Beekeeper?”

The elder monk came hobbling over and peered at them shortsightedly. “Run on ahead, Lyashko, and tell Abbot Yephimy.”

Lyashko set off at a run toward the white walls of the monastery.

“Welcome to Saint Sergius, my brothers,” rang out a strong, vibrant voice.

Celestine saw a tall, broad-shouldered priest striding vigorously toward them, arms wide open. His brown hair and long beard were streaked with iron grey, but he bore himself more like a soldier than a monk.

“We are members of the Francian Commanderie, Abbot,” said Jagu. “Is there anywhere more private that we could talk?”

Celestine noted that the abbot gave her a long, appraising glance as they entered the silent cloisters and knew that he had seen through her disguise; Yephimy was obviously not some doddery old country priest. It was not going to be easy to persuade him to part with the monastery's precious relic, no matter how noble the cause.

“Now, what is all this really about?” he asked, ushering them into his study.

“The leader of our order has been monitoring the disquieting growth of daemonic activity in this part of the world,” said Jagu. “We have been sent to investigate.”

“Ah,” said Yephimy, folding his hands together. “The Drakhaoul.”

“Is that its Azhkendi name?” Celestine asked, testing him.

Yephimy frowned at her. “It never revealed its true name. However, your leader will be pleased to learn that the daemon has been cast out from Lord Gavril's body.”

“Cast out, maybe, but not destroyed,” said Jagu. “Members of our order tracked it along the Straits. We believe it may have gone to ground in Muscobar.”