Flight Into Darkness (17 page)

“Jagu.” Celestine clutched at Jagu's arm, pointing. “Look. What in God's name is that?”

Jagu raised the eyeglass he had been using to observe the Tielen fleet and focused it on the wreck of the fishing boat.

“Whatever it is, it's not of this world.” He swiftly passed her the glass.

“There were two men in the water. Now I see only one - and
that
abomination.”

The sailors had nearly reached the wreckage.

“The Angelstone,” she urged. “Check the Angelstone.”

Jagu pulled out the crystal pendant from inside his shirt. The clear

crystal had turned as dark as ink.

“A warrior daemon,” she whispered, “from the Realm of

Shadows. It's the Drakhaoul. “

CHAPTER 6

“Turn back!” yelled Jagu to the rowers, but they were too far away to hear his voice.

“If only Abbot Yephimy hadn't been so stubborn, we could have used Sergius's Staff.” Celestine could only stare at the dark-winged daemon, eaten up with frustration at their helplessness. And yet, even as she clutched the wet rail of the ship, the creature halted in midair.

It shuddered.

Suddenly, it let out a wailing cry, inhuman and desolate. Then it began to plummet toward the waves, losing its hold on its human burden.

“Can it sense the Angelstone?” Jagu leaned far out over the rail, straining to see what was happening.

“Be careful, Jagu!” Celestine grabbed hold of him, fearful that he might be swept overboard.

For a moment daemon and man disappeared below the surface. Then a whirlpool began to churn the waves. The sailors shouted out and cursed, gripping the sides of the rowboat as it was thrown sideways, almost capsizing. And out of the spinning water, Celestine saw a shadow rise, dark as smoke, and speed away, low across the waves.

The sailors gently laid the two fishermen down on the deck. Celestine went to help them but Jagu put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”

The younger of the two began to retch, spewing up a lungful of seawater. He forced himself to his knees, turning to the older man
who lay motionless beside him. Celestine watched in growing distress as he tried to revive him.

“Come on, Kuzko.” The fisherman laid his head against the other's chest, as if listening for a heartbeat. “Don't desert me now!”

The old sailor's head lolled back, mouth gaping.

She saw the fisherman lay him back down on the deck and gently close his eyes. One of the sailors came up and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Only then did the fisherman crouch beside the still body and weep.

Celestine opened the cabin door and took a long, appraising look at the young fisherman, who lay deep in exhausted sleep. In spite of his untidy black curling hair, rough beard, and skin dark-tanned by wind and sun, there was something about him that suggested he was no ordinary fisherman.

Jagu was busy discussing their itinerary with Captain Peillac. She felt a little guilty acting on her own initiative, without his approval, but she was certain that the young man's features were familiar.

“I
know
you,” she whispered. “We've met before. But when… and where…”

He began to mutter in his sleep, twisting and turning, as though in the grip of a nightmare. Mumbled words escaped his salt-dried lips.

“Drowning… I'm drowning!” He flailed wildly as though fighting to stay above the waves.

She caught hold of his hand. “You're safe now.”

He sat bolt upright. Eyes of dark violet-blue stared into hers. “I— I'm so sorry. I was dreaming.”

“It must have been quite a dream.” Gently, she released his hand.

He nodded, still staring at her. “I've seen you before. You sang in Mirom last winter. You're Celestine—”

“De Joyeuse. I'm flattered you remember me.”
I've seen eyes of that unique hue very recently. Can he be one of the Orlovs?

“Celestial in voice as well as in name,” he said. “How could I forget?”

“The daemon creature that attacked you,” she said, ignoring the compliment. “That would be enough to give anyone nightmares.”

“That was not what I was dreaming about. My ship went down in the Straits some months ago. The old man, Kuzko, rescued me. And now—” He choked on the words. “Now he's dead.”

“You don't talk like a common sailor.” She was looking at him curiously. “What's your name?”

“Andrei.”

“Andrei?” she said, her mind racing.
My ship went down in the Straits…

“Where are you bound?”

She made an effort to focus her thoughts. “Why, to Swanholm, to sing for Princess Karila's birthday at the request of the Emperor's wife, Astasia.”

“Astasia,” he repeated, pronouncing the name with affection, almost reverence. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said in Francian, “may I confide in you?”

“He says he's Andrei Orlov, Crown Prince of Muscobar?” Jagu stared at Celestine, his brows drawn close in a frown of disbelief. “How can you be sure he's not an impostor? Or out of his mind?”

Celestine had been expecting this reaction. She forced herself to count to ten before replying. “You met Prince Andrei last year in Mirom, at Count Velemir's reception, Jagu, didn't you? Before the Revolt?” Their cramped cabin was not the best place for such a discussion; the sea was still choppy and, seasoned travelers though they were, the creaking and pitching of the
Dame Blanche
made it difficult to talk about such a sensitive subject without raising their voices. “You have to admit that the likeness is remarkable.”

“The same Prince Andrei who went down with the
Sirin?”
Jagu crossed his arms defensively as he sometimes did when not wishing to admit that she might be right.

“Can't you see what a trump card has fallen into our hands?” she went on, trying to keep her voice low. “When Eugene forced Muscobar to capitulate, Andrei was believed to be dead. Now that he's alive, there's a rival for the throne. And if he allies himself with Francia, Eugene will find himself in a very tricky situation indeed.”

“And then there's the Drakhaoul.” Jagu pulled out the precious Angelstone and showed it to Celestine; the trickle of darkness that had polluted its clarity had disappeared. “Is it gone for good? Or could he summon it back and destroy us? We have to interrogate him, Celestine. The Maistre would expect nothing less.”

“Let's leave him to rest a little longer.” She put on her most appealing
tone, one that she knew Jagu could not refuse. “If we bombard him with questions when he's still in shock, we'll only make him more confused.” Although the prospect that Prince Andrei might be able to summon the daemon to his aid was deeply unsettling.

“Help me… Drakhaoul…”

The prisoner was dying. Wasted with fever, the brilliance of his blue eyes dimming, the young man suddenly murmured a few words, barely intelligible. And his jailer had been ordered to summon the Director of Arnskammar Asylum if he said anything, so he dutifully locked the door and set out to fetch his master. For some reason, it seemed that the Emperor had a personal interest in the prisoner.

He had just reached the courtyard when he sensed the sky darken overhead. Glancing up, he saw a stormcloud speeding toward the tower. He stopped, terrified. For he had glimpsed eyes in the whirling darkness, eyes that burned with the piercing blue of lightning.

The director came running into the courtyard.

“What in God's name—?” he began, then fell silent as both men stared at the top of the tower. The prisoner's cell was shrouded in shadow and little flashes of energy crackled and flickered about the conical roof.

A flash of dazzling light seared their eyes and the top of the tower exploded, shattered stones and tiles showering down into the courtyard. The jailer pulled his stunned master to the ground, covering his head with his hands. As he glanced fearfully up, he saw—or thought he saw—a great winged creature, blue as midnight, wheeling away through the cloud-veiled sky.

“No one could have survived such a lightning strike,” said the director, getting unsteadily to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes. The jagged ruins of the broken tower were silhouetted all too clearly against the clearing sky.

“But d—didn't you see it, Director?” the jailer stammered. “The winged creature… like a dragon…”

“A dragon?” The director gave him a stern look. “I have no idea what you're babbling about. I will inform the Emperor straightaway that the prisoner died when lightning struck his cell.”

“Captain Peillac has just informed me that we'll reach Tielen by dawn.” Jagu ducked as he entered Andrei's cabin to avoid hitting his head. He set down a bottle of red wine and proceeded to pour with a
steady hand. “So that gives us plenty of time to make the journey to Swanholm.” He handed both Celestine and Andrei a glass, then lifted his own in a toast. “To your miraculous survival, my lord Andrei.”

“Miraculous?” Andrei took a sip of the wine. “If you hadn't sent out your men to the rescue—”

“I was referring to the creature that plucked the old man from the waves,” Jagu said.

Andrei set his glass down. “You saw it, then?” A lost, sad look clouded his eyes.

“What was it, Andrei?” Celestine was gazing sympathetically at him. Jagu leaned back against the cabin wall; it was best to let her charm the facts from the young prince.

“It healed me. Whether it was a spirit that haunted the place where I was shipwrecked, or it sought me out for some purpose of its own, I don't know. All I know is it healed my body and restored my mind.”

“It healed you?” Celestine shot Jagu a swift, meaningful glance. “Did it ever reveal its purpose to you?”

“Not on Lapwing Spar, no. But in Mirom it spoke to me. It said, ‘You were born to rule. But it is too soon.’”

” ‘Born to rule,’” echoed Celestine. “And then it abandoned you?”

“I don't know why. For a moment I thought I heard a distant voice crying out for help.” Andrei gulped down his wine. “But it might have been Kuzko.” His voice faltered and Jagu refilled his glass. “Where was Eugene's war fleet going in such a hurry?”

“We asked ourselves the same question,” Jagu replied. “Who knows where Eugene's ambitions will lead him next?”

“Our countries have always been allies, Andrei,” Celestine said in Francian. “Your command of our language is excellent. We understand each other well, don't we? You've been deprived of your right to rule Muscobar by this new regime. Yet your family also claims descent from the Emperor Artamon. Had matters gone otherwise, you could have been Emperor of all Rossiya.”

“I could be Emperor?” Andrei said slowly. “But how? I have no country, no name, no troops at my disposal. The Muscobite army and navy have been absorbed into Eugene's forces.”

Celestine consulted Jagu with another glance. He nodded. Then she turned to Andrei and said, “We believe that our master, King Enguerrand, would be very interested in meeting you.”

* * * 

“I'm going to the council meeting,” said Enguerrand. “Alone. Without my mother.”

Ruaud de Lanvaux stared at his young protégé, astonished. “But with respect, sire, how can you keep her away?”

Enguerrand glanced round at Ruaud as Fragan, the king's valet, fussed about him, obsessively brushing his jacket and straightening his lace cravat. Ruaud caught a glint of a dark little smile behind Enguerrand's thick spectacle lenses. “I've contrived to send Maman on my behalf to open an orphanage. On the opposite side of the city.”

So Enguerrand was beginning to stand up to his domineering mother at last. Ruaud offered up a silent prayer of thanks as he followed him into the council chamber. The councillors rose with a scraping of chairs and bowed, waiting to sit until Enguerrand had taken his place at the head of the long table.

Chancellor Aiguillon, first minister of Francia, addressed the council.

“Your majesty, gentlemen of the council, we have received an impassioned plea for help from Smarna. Eugene's forces have imposed martial law.”

The councillors began to murmur among themselves. Ruaud was watching to see how Enguerrand would react to this disturbing news. He saw that the king's hands had tightened their grip on the arms of his chair until the knuckles were white.

“In view of the unstable situation,” Aiguillon went on, “I think it would be prudent, sire, to postpone your pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“Did my mother make that suggestion?” Enguerrand stared at Aiguillon and when he was a second or so late in replying, added, “Of course she did; your hesitation confirms it. But I tell you now, Aiguillon, that I will not let either my mother's overprotective nature or the Emperor's overweening ambitions interfere with my plans.”

Ruaud was surprised to hear how forcefully the young king had spoken. The whole council was listening attentively.

Enguerrand turned to Ruaud. “The Second Fleet is under orders to act as our escort, isn't that right, Grand Maistre?”

“Indeed so,” said Ruaud. “Your majesty will be traveling with an escort of twenty-five well-armed warships, under the command of Admiral Mercoeur.”

“I like this plan!” The Duc de Craon, Enguerrand's uncle,
thumped the table enthusiastically. “That will place our ships close to Smarna, should the need arise…”