Flight Into Darkness (13 page)

“What? It's still at large?” From Abbot Yephimy's look of dismay, Celestine knew they had him at a disadvantage.

“We believe so. And that is why the Grand Master of our order has commissioned the reforging of Sergius's Staff.”

“Sergius's Staff?” Yephimy repeated. “You have Sergius's Staff? But how? The Chronicles state that it was shattered in Sergius's last battle with the Drakhaoul.” He rose, staring at them with suspicion. “Exactly who are you, and what is this Commanderie?”

“We are Companions of the Order of Saint Sergius, Abbot,” said Jagu. “Our order is dedicated to the destruction of all daemonic influences in the world. As for the Staff, well, legend has it that Argantel, the founder of our order, fled Azhkendir with the shattered pieces and had it repaired in Francia. All the pieces save one: the crook, which we understand you keep here, in the shrine.”

“Lord Argantel was indeed Sergius's friend,” said Yephimy slowly. “But our Chronicles do not record what became of him. So. Show me this relic.”

Jagu placed his metal Staff on Yephimy's desk and unscrewed the top. He tipped the shaft gently and out slid the charred fragments, bound into a whole with bands of golden wire.

Yephimy put out one hand and touched them reverently. “These should be kept here, with the saint's bones. Have you come to return it to the shrine?”

“You misunderstand our intentions, Abbot,” said Jagu gravely. “We are on the trail of this daemon. We intend to use the Staff to destroy it.”

“Will you give us Sergius's golden crook?” Seeing the look of alarm in the abbot's eyes, Celestine put the question they had traveled hundreds of miles to ask. “So that we can defeat the daemon and send it back to the Realm of Shadows?”

Yephimy let out a sigh. “I cannot answer for my brothers without consulting them,” he said, “but I offer you the hospitality of the monastery while we discuss your proposition.”

Jagu placed his hand on the abbot's arm, staring intently into his face. “This matter is urgent. I beg you, Abbot, do not discuss it too long.”

Jagu and Celestine joined the monks for supper in the refectory, sitting with the abbot and the two beekeepers, Lyashko and old Osinin.

“We're self-sufficient here,” said the abbot, gesturing to the food on the tables. “Everything you eat has been grown and harvested here, from the beetroot soup to the goats’ cheese.”

“This bread tastes so good,” said Celestine, trying not to gulp it down too fast in her hunger.

“Try our special liqueur,” said Brother Lyashko, lifting a stoneware bottle. “It's made with honey and mountain herbs.”

“It's strong stuff for a young lad,” warned the abbot. “But you must take a bottle when you leave; a drop or two will warm you up on cold nights.”

“So the Clan Wars are finally at an end?” Jagu asked.

Yephimy nodded. “I never thought I would say it, but I give thanks to God for the Emperor's intervention. The Tielens have brought peace to our war-ravaged country at last. And now that the Drakhaoul is gone—”

“Did you see him in the forest?” asked Osinin suddenly as he slurped his soup. “You must have passed him on the pilgrim's route.”

“We saw no one,” said Celestine, wondering if Brother Beekeeper's wits were wandering.

“That old fellow who came here yesterday,” persisted Brother Osinin. “Spent all day doing research in the library. You remember,

Abbot? The one with the peculiar eyes. Gives you the chills when he looks at you. Colder than a winter blizzard.”

“Peculiar eyes?” Celestine was only half-listening, intent on mopping up the last of her soup with her bread.

“If you're referring to Magister Linnaius, Brother,” the abbot said pensively, “he left rather suddenly. I don't think he even came to bid me farewell.”

“Kaspar Linnaius was here?” Celestine was all attention. “Could you show us the books he was reading?”

A luminous blue dusk was settling over the monastery as Celestine and Jagu followed the abbot across the courtyard, and there was a crisp chill in the air. From the darkness of the forest came the distant, eerie hooting of owls.

Yephimy lit a lantern and led them past shelf after shelf of old leather-bound volumes to a little door at the far end, which he stooped to unlock with a key from a chain worn around his neck. “We keep our oldest, most precious manuscripts in here,” he said proudly.

Celestine stopped in the doorway to the little book room, sniffing. There was a hint of something lingering in the dusty air that reminded her of her father's study. She held up the lantern to illuminate the chained book lying open on the desk.

“The Glorious Life and Martyr's Death of the Blessed Serzhei of Kerjhenezh,”
said the abbot reverently. “This copy is hand-scribed; it dates from the time of Artamon.”

“But what's this?” Celestine held the lantern closer to the yellowed vellum pages; something glittered faintly in the glow. She gently touched it and brought her fingertips close to her face.

Jagu, looking over her shoulder, began to read by the flickering light. “‘Armed with the might of the Righteous Ones, Serzhei banished the Drakhaouls from Rossiya, and bound them in a place of torment for all eternity. Yet there was one who still defied him and all the hosts of heaven.’” He looked up. “The text is referring to the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir, isn't it, Abbot?”

The abbot nodded.

“I think that there was a secret text hidden on this page,” Celestine said, “and this pretty alchymical dust has been used by the Magus to reveal it.” She brushed the dust from her fingers onto the open volume but, to her disappointment, nothing happened. “So Linnaius
must have come here—on the Emperor's orders—to discover the place where Sergius imprisoned the remaining Drakhaouls.”

“The Magus is still close by.” Celestine rounded on Jagu as they crossed the courtyard. “Why can't we go after him?”

“Because he has a significant advantage over us,” said Jagu flatly, “in that he can fly. And we can't.”

“So you're just going to ignore the fact that he's—”

“Now just wait a moment.” Jagu caught hold of her by the arm. “What is our mission?” he said sternly.

“To destroy the Drakhaoul.”

“And our orders are—”

“To return directly. With or without the golden crook.” A sullen, almost rebellious look had appeared in her eyes.

“So you were just about to abandon the mission and go chasing off after Kaspar Linnaius?”

She pulled away from him and stood, staring at him defiantly. “We've never been this close to him before, Jagu. And you saw for yourself that he's been researching the history of the Drakhaouls. Even the abbot was shaken.”

He let out a sigh. Sometimes she could be so headstrong. “We've only a couple of days before the
Dame Blanche
sails from Arkhelskoye. There's no time left.”

“Have you forgotten?” She seized his left wrist and tugged back the sleeve, exposing the place where the magus had seared his mark on Jagu's wrist. “We made a pact together. In Saint Meriadec's. You vowed to hunt down the magus with me.” In the dying light her eyes had darkened to the deep blue of the dusk. It was all he could do to resist her: her pale face upraised, pleadingly, to his.

“But that was before the Drakhaoul was set loose. This is an unprecedented situation. We both made another vow before God, remember? To act as the Knights of the Commanderie used to in olden times and fight the forces of evil.”

“Fine.” She let go of his wrist. “Follow the old chivalrous code if you must. But I say that we're making a grave mistake in not investigating this matter further.”

The chanting of the monks of Kerjhenezh filled the whitewashed dome of the chapel with a dark sonority that sent little shivers through Jagu's whole body. The sound resonated to the very core of his being.
The ancient hymns to Saint Sergius exuded a raw, untrained energy that, though they had nothing of the refined beauty or complexity of the choral singing at Saint Meriadec's or the cathedral of Saint Eu-stache, spoke of the harsh truths of life and death. Many of the monks had beards as white as the snow on the jagged mountaintops beyond the forest, yet their voices were strong and deep-throated, filled with a vigor that belied their years. There was no organ to support them, just the occasional ringing of bronze-voiced bells.

Candles of ochre beeswax made from Brother Osinin's hives filled the dark Azhkendi night with light and gave off a musky, honeyed smoke, warming the cold air. Their flames gilded the fading colors of the frescoes depicting the life of the saint, making the gold leaf of his halo and the feathery wings of the guardian angels gleam.

This is just how it must have been in Sergius's time.
The soft glow of the candles dimmed, and Jagu blinked the tears away unashamedly. This was what he had been trying to explain to Celestine in the courtyard earlier. This was why he had joined the Commanderie in the first place; to be a warrior for good against the forces of evil.

Why didn't she understand?

Even here he could not stop thinking about her.

“Blessed Sergius, help me to learn to live with this temptation,” he prayed silently. “Show me how to be true to my vows.”

Had Sergius ever fallen in love? If so, then Argantel's chronicles of his friend's life left no mention of it. But Mhir, the patron saint of the Allegondan Commanderie, had given his life to save Azilis, the woman he loved.

Jagu thought that he had come to terms with his feelings for Celestine. Like all Guerriers, they had both taken a vow of celibacy when they joined the Commanderie. Yet the deeper they journeyed into Azhkendir, the more his willpower had begun to weaken. They had undertaken many missions for the Commanderie, yet this was the first on which they had been alone.

Is this a test? Is this what it really means to try to tread the same path as Saint Sergius? That without temptation to resist, there's no chance of growing spiritually stronger?

Or have I been deceiving myself all this time?

“This is excellent work, Kaspar.” The Emperor leafed through the information that Linnaius had extracted from the monastery library, his eyes alight. He had never lost the boyish enthusiasm that Linnaius
had found so engaging when he first began to work for the royal house of Tielen. But the Magus was far from happy about Eugene's obsession with summoning a Drakhaoul of his own. “Now that you have discovered the location of the Serpent Gate, what's to stop us going to search for it?”

“Eugene, please read again—with great attention—that page that I translated from Lord Argantel's
The Life of the Blessed Sergius.”

“Very well.” Eugene began to read aloud. “‘Prince Nagazdiel must never be set free. For if this prison is breached, the darkness will cover your world in perpetual night and he and his kindred will lay waste to the earth.

“‘And then the seraph spoke to Sergius, saying, “To that end, the Warriors of Heaven have put a seal on the Door to the Realm of Shadows, that can only be breached by a crime so horrible that none would dare to undertake it. For only by the sacrifice of the Emperor's children in that far-distant place can that Door ever be opened again and the dread Prince Nagazdiel released. And no mortal would dare stoop to such a base and inhuman act.”’ “He looked up at Linnaius. “Surely this is nothing more than one of those ancient prophecies that sound doom-laden, yet are merely a warning to the curious?” He laughed. “Even if they could break the cypher, who would go such lengths as to try to kidnap my daughter, Karila, and transport her thousands of leagues away to some obscure island that may—or may not—exist?”

Linnaius sighed. Eugene was right. The text had lain hidden for centuries; who else had the skills to decipher it, let alone make use of the information? Yet still he wished that Eugene would be content with what he had already achieved and not constantly yearn for more.

CHAPTER 4

“This mission has been a failure.” Celestine threw down her heavy pack. “We've traveled all this way only to return empty-handed.”

“Not entirely so.” Jagu held up the stoneware bottle Brother Beekeeper had given him as a parting gift.

“The monastery's life-preserving liqueur? Strong enough to strip paint, I'll wager.” They had endured bedbugs, inedible food, and all kinds of weather on their quest, only to be rewarded with a bottle of the local
eau-de-vie.

“It's disappointing that Abbot Yephimy was unwilling to part with Sergius's crook,” said Jagu distantly, “but not entirely unexpected.”

“Disappointing?”
Sometimes Jagu's refusal to show his feelings could be so irritating.

“Remember what the Maistre told us: Use every opportunity to record the lay of the land for future reference. Now that we know the monastery from the inside, we can plan our next move.”

“To steal the crook?” She was surprised that Jagu would even suggest such a thing.

“The monks have lived under the Drakhaoul's shadow for so long that they have become blind to its powers.” He took a sip from his water bottle. “They don't realize the danger they've set loose on the rest of the world in driving it from Lord Gavril's body.”