Flight Into Darkness (16 page)

Astasia glanced at her husband as the recital continued, but Eugene was staring beyond Celestine with a distant, slightly frowning expression. She could sense he was not enjoying himself. She had hoped that the visit of one of the most celebrated musicians of the day might change his opinion of the art and might even give them something to discuss together. Eugene had already confessed to her that he had no ear for music. Give him a rousing military march to whistle and he was happy. This was too subtle, too refined for his tastes. And then the artistry of Celestine's singing overwhelmed all other thoughts, and the music—wild, soulful, and free—possessed her.

During the applause, she saw Gustave, her husband's secretary, appear and make his way toward them. He whispered something to the Emperor she could not catch.

“Ah,” said Eugene. He nodded and leaned toward Astasia. “Forgive me. Some official business I must attend to.” He rose—and the rest of the audience rose too. Court etiquette. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, “you have enchanted us with your delightful voice. Please do not think me rude; state affairs intrude upon my pleasure and I must attend to them.”

“Your imperial highness honors me.” The singer sank into another deep curtsy as Eugene left the room with Gustave at his side.

The recital continued, but Astasia could no longer concentrate on the music or surrender to its spell. She knew it must be a matter of some import to have drawn Eugene away from such a prestigious gathering.

“So there's a revolt in Smarna?” Eugene cast the message Gustave had brought him on the desk beside the Vox Aethyria. Several of his secretaries in the communications room flinched.

“So it seems, imperial highness,” Gustave said tactfully.

“I should never have put Armfeld in charge of the citadel in Colchise,” Eugene muttered to himself. He had anticipated that Azhkendir would resist the Tielen invasion, but Smarna was proving the most rebellious of all his conquests. He would have to act swiftly to put down the rebellion before it got out of hand and spread throughout the whole country. He sighed. “There's nothing for it but to send in the Southern Fleet. Gustave, get me Admiral Janssen.”

“And I thought you might want to read this.” Gustave passed him a letter. Eugene took it, wondering what new dilemma it might contain. But as he swiftly skimmed the contents, he found himself at a loss for words. For it came from Baltzar, the Director of Arnskammar Asylum, and informed him that the prisoner, Gavril Nagarian, had fallen grievously sick of the typhus and was not expected by the prison physician to survive. His hand dropped to his side, still holding the letter. He knew that he should feel glad that the enemy who had destroyed so many of his soldiers and disfigured him was at death's door, yet he felt nothing but an unexpected and inexplicable sense of… regret. To die in prison of typhus fever seemed an ignoble end for such a redoubtable enemy.

If only we could have had the chance to meet again in battle…

“Highness.” Gustave was addressing him from his seat at the Vox Aethyria. “Admiral Janssen is awaiting your orders.”

CHAPTER 5

The instant Celestine closed the door of the dressing room and laid down the bouquet, the smiling mask she had somehow managed to sustain cracked.

Why did “October Seas” affect me so? I've sung it many times since Henri's death.

One hand rose shakily to cover her face, as if to hold the shattered pieces in place.

Did anyone notice?

Since she had left the music room, flashes of memory from the song's first performance kept returning to increase her distress: Count Velemir presenting her to Andrei Orlov; Prince Andrei's sulky expression transforming to a smile of dazzling warmth as he kissed her hand. And Henri glancing up at her from the fortepiano with such a look of pride and pleasure that it had made her heart melt.

How difficult to accept that all three were dead: the suave and charming count, slain by Gavril Nagarian; Prince Andrei drowned at sea in a freak storm; and Henri, her beloved Henri, destroyed by a soul-stealing magus.

We never said good-bye, Henri. If I could just see you one last time, talk to you one last time, then maybe I could move on…

But necromancy was one of the Forbidden Arts. And as an agent of the Commanderie she had sworn to eradicate all such practices.

The door opened and she whipped around, forcing a defensive smile. Jagu came in, the sheet music under one arm.

“It's only you, Jagu.” Relieved, she sank onto a chair.

“Only
me? Who were you hoping to see?”

“So”—she made herself concentrate on their present situation— “have you found out why the Emperor left in such a hurry?”

“The palace is buzzing with rumors.” Jagu poured them both a glass of mineral water from the crystal jug that had been provided for the two performers. “One name I heard mentioned several times was ‘Smarna.’”

“But not Francia.” Celestine sipped the water. “Let's pray that—” A little tapping on the door interrupted her. She glanced question-ingly at Jagu. “Come in.”

A stout, grey-haired lady-in-waiting appeared in the doorway.

“I've come from her imperial majesty,” she said in their own tongue. Celestine rose, recognizing her as the Empress's chaperone.

“Countess Eupraxia.” She curtsied. “Please come in.”

“The Empress would like to… speak with you, Demoiselle.” The countess's plump cheeks were red and her full bosom heaved, as if she had run all the way through the palace. “If you would be so good as to accompany me…”

A private audience? Celestine glanced at Jagu and he gave a brief nod of assent. “I am honored to accept the Empress's invitation,” she said and followed the countess out into the lofty, echoing corridor.

“You sang so beautifully,” Empress Astasia said, smiling warmly at Celestine. “I felt utterly transported.”

“Your imperial highness is too kind.”
With velvety eyes that appealing, I wonder if the Emperor can refuse her anything.
Celestine was reminded of her first royal patron and friend, Princess Adèle, now married to Ilsevir of Allegonde. Was this imperial audience merely a gesture of appreciation… or did the Empress have an ulterior motive in inviting her?

“Please, come and sit beside me,” said Astasia in Francian, gesturing to the blue-and-white-striped sofa.

“Your highness speaks our tongue like a native,” Celestine said. “I had a Francian nursemaid, didn't I, Praxia?” “Indeed you did,” said the countess, nodding fondly. “Would you like some tea, Demoiselle de Joyeuse?” Celestine nodded. “That would be most agreeable. Thank you.” While sipping a cup of strong tea sweetened in the local fashion with jam (“the damson is delicious”), Astasia suddenly turned to Celestine and said, “I have a request to make. I do hope you'll be able
to accept. You see, Karila, my little stepdaughter, hasn't been very well. She doesn't have a strong constitution. And her eighth birthday is very soon.” From the look of sadness that clouded the brilliance of Astasia's eyes, Celestine realized that, unlike some stepmothers, she genuinely cared for the little girl.

“I wondered if you would consider giving a recital for Karila at the Palace of Swanholm? There's to a be a masked ball there soon—a Tielen custom, my husband tells me—to celebrate the midsummer solstice.”

It did not escape Celestine's notice that Astasia blushed when she said “my husband.” Was theirs a love match? There was a difference of some sixteen years between Eugene and Astasia, yet all the court gossip throughout the quadrant had regarded the partnership as merely a marriage of convenience and political necessity. She could not help wondering how the young Empress felt about her husband's terrible injuries; perhaps she had nursed him back to health after he was burned by the Drakhaoul…

“Thank you; it would be an honor to sing for the little princess,” Celestine said, carefully setting down her empty teacup on its delicate saucer. Her mind began to whirl with the possibilities such an invitation presented.

As Celestine and Countess Eupraxia left the Empress's rooms, they passed a portrait, half-draped in black. Celestine stopped, recognizing the charming, confident smile and distinctive violet-blue eyes.

“Isn't that a portrait of the Empress's late brother, Prince Andrei?” she asked.

“It is.” The countess's eyes filled with tears. “It's many months now, but she's still not over his loss, none of us are. Such a tragedy…”

Celestine nodded, caught up in a vivid memory of the first time she had been presented to Andrei. His ready, infectious smile had instantly dispelled her nerves, putting her completely at her ease.

“Lost at sea,” said the countess, dabbing her eyes, “in a terrible storm in the Straits. Such a waste. That dear, dear boy…”

And yet, Celestine wondered but did not dare say aloud as she followed Eupraxia to her waiting carriage, would Eugene have found it so easy to conquer Muscobar if Andrei were still alive?

“We've been invited to perform at Swanholm Palace,” Celestine told Jagu as the ambassador's carriage jogged back toward the embassy.
“Swanholm,
Jagu!”

“Well, that's a great compliment, but I can hardly see why you're
so excited.” Jagu looked distinctly unenthusiastic. “A journey to Tielen and back is going to take at least six weeks out of our schedule. What about our concerts in Allegonde? And suppose the Maistre wants us back in Francia?”

She stamped her foot on the floor of the carriage, exasperated. “Who else resides at Swanholm? In the laboratories especially designed for him by Prince Karl? The Tielen Royal Artificier, no less,
Kaspar Linnaius.
We'll be able to spy on him firsthand. No one from the Commanderie has ever managed to get so close.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

He still seemed less than interested, so she folded her arms and stared out at the dark streets of Mirom, offended.

After a while he said with a sigh, “We can't just take matters into our own hands, Celestine. If you act rashly at the Emperor's court in Swanholm, you could spark off a diplomatic incident, and that's the last thing we need. We must get word to the Maistre and await his instructions.”

“Fine! And while we sit around for days waiting for the Maistre's reply, we'll be losing valuable time. It's the
Magus,
Jagu.”

“And that's precisely the reason we need to proceed with caution. The man is very dangerous. You know that better than most.”

It was her turn to sigh. Why must Jagu be so insistent on following the correct protocol at all times? “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “We'll ask the ambassador to ensure that our message is sent by the swiftest diplomatic post available.”

The trunks were packed and Celestine was waiting with Jagu in the hall of the embassy for their carriage to arrive. Claude suddenly appeared, walking stiffly as usual, carrying a folded paper on a silver tray.

“The ambassador sends his apologies that he is unable to bid you farewell in person.” He bowed, presenting the tray. “He's been called away on urgent business. But he left you this note.”

Jagu opened the letter and Celestine peeped over his shoulder to read it:

Stay vigilant. I've yet to discover the reason why the Emperor left your recital so suddenly. His people are keeping something secret. Remember: Once you're in Tielen, you'll be on your own. I'll give you the name of one or two trustworthy contacts. If I've played my cards right, I'll be invited to the Dievona Ball at Swanholm. But until then, be on your guard…

The broad mouth of the Nieva was filled with warships. A great fleet of the New Rossiyan navy was under full sail, making for the Straits.

As the
Dame Blanche
followed in their wake, Jagu and Celestine went up onto the observation deck to take a closer look.

“There's the
Rogned
again,” Jagu said, following the fleet with an eyeglass borrowed from Captain Peillac. “Where are they heading, I wonder?”

Celestine leaned out over the rail, straining to see. The wild salty wind whipped her hair into her eyes. “Not for Francia, I hope!”

“Hard to tell. But what a formidable sight they make. Each man-o'-war bristling with cannons…”

“Is that a fishing boat out there?” Celestine leaned out even farther. “It's being blown into the path of the fleet! The fishermen haven't a chance!”

The sound of rending timbers carried on the fierce gusting wind. With it came frantic shouts for help. Two men were in the water, threshing and bobbing in the wake of one vast warship as another bore down upon them.

“They'll be crushed!” Celestine turned to the ship's master to appeal for help, but Captain Peillac had already summoned up a rescue party and the sailors were lowering a rowboat into the churning waves.

And then a feeling of dread overwhelmed her, as if she had been swept overboard into the dark tide. She began to shiver uncontrollably. As she helplessly watched the drowning men, the sea around them began to spin like a waterspout, funneling upward.
Wings.
Something was rising from the waves on great, beating wings that were blue-black as a starlit night.