Flight Into Darkness (22 page)

“Sacrilege,” Ruaud muttered under his breath. “The Rosecoeurs had no business taking her away.”

“What did you say, Ruaud?”

“So has it been worth such a grueling journey, sire?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Enguerrand turned to face him, unwinding the spectacle wires from around his ears to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Of all the holy shrines that we've visited in the past weeks, this is by far the most affecting of all. There are too many peddlers and souvenir sellers crowding the other places. But here it feels as if time has stopped. We could climb the stairs and find ourselves back in Azilis's day…”

Ruaud had a sudden, disturbing flash of memory.

Père Laorans… the cache of dusty, hidden manuscripts… the lost texts pronounced as heretical by Donatien, leading to Laorans's banishment to found a mission in distant Serindher.

“Are you still alive, Laorans?” Ruaud murmured. It had been a long while since the order had received a report from the mission.

“What is it, Maistre?”

“I was just remembering an old friend, sire.”

“Did he die at your side in the battle for the fortress?”

Ruaud shook his head slowly. “No, though many brave Guerriers never saw Francia again. But in some ways, it might have been better if he… ” He left the sentence unfinished. Laorans's discovery had brought an untimely end to a promising career in the Commanderie. Though banished to the tropical heat of distant Serindher for his heresy, he had continued to serve the order faithfully.

What became of those ancient manuscripts, I wonder? Did Donatien really burn them? Or are they still locked away in some vault in the Commanderie?

Enguerrand awoke next morning with a fever. Ruaud took one look at him, shivering and white-faced, and knew that the pilgrimage was at an end. He paid the landlord of the inn a considerable sum of money on condition that he agree to entertain no other guests but the Francians. He sent a courier on ahead to warn the captain of the flagship, which was waiting at the port of Tyriana, and went to attend to the king.

As Ruaud approached the king's bed to administer a fever draft from the medical supplies he had brought, anticipating just such an occurrence, Enguerrand caught hold of him by the hand, his fingers hot and clammy.

“Whatever happens, my mother
must not know
of this. She was against the pilgrimage in the first place. She will never let me go again…”

“Don't forget that, as much respect as you have for your mother, you came of age last year. She may seek to influence you, but—”

“She'll say that I was irresponsible, to leave Francia for so many months…”

“You're in constant communication with the First Minister. Don't you trust him?”

“Of course I trust Aiguillon. But I know my mother's methods. She'll do everything she can to undermine his authority…”

Ruaud heard these last words in silence. Enguerrand was all too aware of his mother's ambitions; Aliénor was unwilling to relinquish her hold over her son, or the government of Francia.

But when, by nightfall, the fever was so high that Enguerrand's teeth chattered together, Ruaud consulted the innkeeper, who sent out for a physician.

The physician shook back the hood of his cape. Ruaud saw a dark-skinned young man, scarcely older than the king himself, his eyes concealed behind thick-lensed spectacles.

“Aren't you rather young?” Ruaud demanded.

“I served a six-year apprenticeship before I started to practice.” The young man's command of the common tongue was impeccable, tinged only with a slight Enhirran accent. “But if you prefer, I could send for my master? Only he's in Tyriana, so it would take him several days to get here.”

“No, that won't be necessary.” Enguerrand needed physic immediately. Ruaud led the young physician to the king's bedside and watched closely as he checked Enguerrand's pulse.

“May I examine him further?”

Ruaud nodded. The physician pulled back the loose sheet and probed with his fingertips, feeling behind and below Enguerrand's jaw, then moving down to gently press on his stomach below the rib cage. Each time, Enguerrand winced.

“There are swellings here, and here…” The physician slowly shook his dark head.

“And that's bad because… ?”

“The glands are infected. We call this red sand fever. It can kill, if not treated correctly.”

“His life is in danger?”

“Give him six drops of this tincture every two hours.” He handed Ruaud a slender phial containing a viscous dark fluid. “And keep him cool. It's important to bring his fever down as soon as possible.”

“Six drops,” Ruaud muttered.

As the physician turned to leave, Enguerrand's hand moved and caught hold of his sleeve. Ruaud saw the king gather all his strength to smile at the young man.

“Thank you for coming all this way. You and your people have been… so kind and welcoming to me,” he whispered.

Oranir's hands were shaking uncontrollably as he left the inn; he tried to conceal them in the sleeves of his robe. He had seen the friendly warmth of Enguerrand's smile and his courage had failed him. He remembered how bitterly Rieuk had railed at the crimes Sardion had forced him to commit in the name of vengeance. There was no honor in killing a sick man with poison.

I can't do it.
He clenched his fists.
I won't.

Halfway down the street, he turned and ran back, hoping he was not too late.

Ruaud was measuring out the drops into a glass when he heard footsteps approaching. He looked up to see the physician, his face flushed, in the doorway.

“Have you administered the drops?” he asked breathlessly.

“I was just about to. What's wrong?”

“I gave you the wrong phial. Please forgive my carelessness, my lord. Please let me make it up to you.”

Ruaud, puzzled, took the second phial the young man held out. “Why, what's in the other one?”

The physician gave him an enigmatic look. “Throw the contents down the drain, my lord. You might kill a few rats.” And without another word, he pulled up his hood and vanished into the night.

“You ungrateful boy.” Sardion struck Oranir, the harsh blow sending him reeling. “You had Enguerrand of Francia in your power, and you showed him mercy. I should have you tortured for this. I should have you stripped of your Emissary!”

Oranir, dazed, wiped the blood from his cut lip.

“It is not your place to disobey my orders. It is not your place to decide who lives, who dies.” He summoned the guards at the entrance. “Take this piece of filth to the dungeons and lock him away. I don't want to look on his treacherous face again.”

The next day, the courier came from Tyriana with a folder full of official dispatches. Ruaud sat by the king's bedside, reading through them with a sense of increasing disquiet. One, from Admiral
Romorantin, informed his majesty that the Armel fleet was making for the Straits in preparation for the planned attack on the Tielen dockyards, where the remainder of the Emperor's warships were being repaired.

Ruaud glanced at the sleeping king. Why had Enguerrand fallen sick at the very moment that they were about to make such a decisive move against their enemy? For once, although he hated to admit it, Aliénor had been right. Enguerrand should have postponed the pilgrimage. Francia had never been in a stronger position to assert herself against the Emperor.

Ruaud broke the seal on the final dispatch and saw to his surprise that it came from the First Minister of Smarna.

To his royal majesty, Enguerrand of Francia.

The unexpected arrival of your majesty's fleet on maneuvers off our shores has unnerved our Tielen oppressors. On behalf of the council, I beg you not to delay any further. We are ready to strike back at the invaders—and will make our move as soon as you are ready.

  Nina Vashteli

This was a God-sent opportunity; Francia's war fleets were positioned in exactly the right place to attack the Emperor where his forces were at their weakest—and Enguerrand lay gravely ill.

“Of all times, why must it be now?” Ruaud muttered.

Enguerrand must have heard him, for a voice asked drowsily from the gauze-draped bed, “What's wrong?”

“Majesty!” Ruaud raised the gauzes and saw that the king's skin was no longer pearled with sweat. His breathing seemed easier too and the hectic flush was fading from his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Not… quite awake yet.” Enguerrand blinked owlishly, fumbling for his glasses; Ruaud pressed them into his hand. “Why were you sighing just now? Is it bad news?”

“On the contrary, sire, it could be very good news for Francia.” Ruaud poured Enguerrand a glass of boiled water and helped him drink a sip or two. “Smarna has asked for our help.”

“Then we must go to their aid.” Enguerrand lay back on the pillows. “Tell Admiral Mercoeur to make straight for Colchise and give the Smarnans whatever help they need to drive out the Emperor's forces. We'll follow directly behind.”

Ruaud stared at Enguerrand. Such decisive words! He pressed his fingers to the young man's wrist, checking his pulse, but the beat was firm and steady.

Enguerrand opened his eyes again. “You feared the fever was talking, didn't you?” he said, a little smile on his cracked lips. “But I feel quite clearheaded again. If you draw up the letter to Admiral Mercoeur, I'll sign and seal it.”

As soon as the letter had been dispatched to Admiral Mercoeur, Ruaud returned to the king's bedside to find that Enguerrand was sleeping peacefully. Ruaud vowed to give the physician a generous reward, but the young man never returned to collect his payment, and as soon as Enguerrand was well enough, the royal party set out—not for Francia, as they had originally planned, but for their new ally, Smarna.

Time had no meaning in the Rift. Rieuk had no idea how long he had been trying to find his way out… and yet he was determined not to give up.

He had fashioned a new Lodestar, but it was of little use if he couldn't leave the Rift. Had Sardion sent the other magi in to search for him? The thought tormented him; he could have been stumbling on, while they called for him, just out of earshot.

Sometimes, exhausted, he collapsed to the ground and slept. But sleep was as much a torment as waking. In his dreams, phantoms arose out of the swirling dust and shadows.

Have I died and gone to hell?
He could not remember dying. He could not recall falling sick, or being attacked.

Suppose Lord Estael has had my dying body entombed in aethyr crystal to preserve it, as he did with Imri, and trapped my soul in a soul glass?

Suddenly he felt sick and chill. He crouched shivering, his arms hugging his knees to his chest. Was it possible for a disembodied soul to feel the cold? Or any kind of physical sensation?

Time has no meaning in the Rift.

He felt no need or desire for food or water. That fact in itself was enough to make him question if he was trapped in an eternal sleep.
What is sustaining my life here? No mortal man could have survived for so long in here.

But I'm not wholly mortal. I have angel blood in my veins… even if it is the cursed blood of a fallen angel.

Yet the magi were not immortal. Imri had died, just as Hervé, Gonery, and the others before him…

“Ormas?” He put his hand to his breast, but felt only a faint tremor of response; his hawk was still deep in sleep.

The haoma trees are dead and the smoke hawks have gone deeper into the Rift.

In his more lucid moments, Rieuk made himself repeat over and over everything he had ever learned as an apprentice at the College of Thaumaturgy: alchymical compounds, glamours, the constellations, even elemental magic. He recited the names of the places he had visited, country by country, trying to keep the images alive and vivid in his mind. Trying, above all, to preserve some sense of who Rieuk Mordiern was. He even sang to himself some of the old songs of Vasconie, learned by rote with the other children at the village school before… before…

The light of the emerald moon was so faint that it hardly cast enough light for him to see where he was going. He had carved signs on the thick, ridged trunks of the ancient cedars to mark his path. Yet no matter which way he went, he never found the marked trees again, almost as if the bark had erased all trace of his presence.

CHAPTER 10

Swanholm glimmered in the summer dusk, like a palace of enchantments from a fairy tale. Strings of pearlescent lanterns were festooned over every bower and alley, glowing like luminous spider-webs heavy with dew. Strains of dance music drifted out from the ballroom, where all the doors and windows had been opened to let in the balmy night air. Yet Celestine felt so jittery as she flitted through the torchlit courtyard that her hands were trembling. She knew she was being foolish, acting on impulse, without proper backup. But it was a chance not to be missed. And she had the advantage of surprise.

Exchanging places with the Empress had proved no more difficult than a game of charades, even though she knew that discovery carried considerable risks. She had even managed to reunite Andrei and Astasia at the very moment the fireworks display took place, when the guests’ attentions were diverted. Yet as she waited in the shadowed archway by the door that led to the Magus's laboratory, she felt nothing but apprehension. But she had been waiting so many years for this opportunity. She would not back down just because she was afraid.