Flight Into Darkness (27 page)

She sat opposite him, smoothing down her black uniform skirts.

“My dear child, it's been too long.”

“You look tired, Maistre,” she said. “Are you allowing yourself time to sleep? Are you remembering to eat?”

“Don't worry on my account; Alain Friard nags me if I neglect such necessities. No, tell me how you've been faring. This was a dangerous and delicate mission, capturing the Emperor's right-hand man and smuggling him out of Tielen.”

“It had its tricky moments, I confess. Linnaius is a very powerful magus. But I'm certain now that he isn't the magus who took Henri from me.”

Ruaud flinched, in spite of himself. “I thought as much.” He had never been able to confess his terrible secret to her: that he had inadvertently—in his haste to catch the magus who had stolen her lover's soul—trodden on the alchymical glass in which it was contained. Even after so many years, his heart still ached whenever the subject arose, wondering if had he not misplaced his feet in the darkness of that attic room, he could have saved the musician's life and changed the course of Celestine's fate.

“But he was difficult to subdue. In his attempt to escape, he nearly sank the ship we were traveling on.”

She had not once met his eyes as she spoke. She was withholding something. And he felt his heart ache even more as he remembered the allegation the sailors had made against her. He must warn her that she was in danger. He must protect her as far as he could without compromising his role as Grand Maistre.

“Is it true that you used one of his own alchymical compounds to subdue him?”

“Who told you?
Jagu?”

He had obviously hit a sensitive spot.

“It was remarked on by two of the crew.”

“There was no other way.” She looked at him at last, her gaze defiant.

“Celestine.” So it was true. He feared for her now. “For Sergius's
sake, what possessed you to do something so rash? Inquisitor Visant would condemn you as a sorceress if he came to hear of it.”

“And if we had all drowned and Linnaius escaped? What then?”

He reached out across the desk and took her hand in his, pressing it. “Promise me, my dear child, that you will never act so foolishly again. I could not bear it if you were to fall into the hands of the Inquisition.”

“You need not fear for me, dear Maistre. I'll be careful, I promise.” The words, spoken so sincerely and in her sweetest, most heartfelt tone, almost set his mind at rest. Yet there was still something…

“And have you tried to use the Vox?” she asked.

“The Vox?” he repeated, feeling a little stupid that he had no idea what she was talking about.

“It's a communication device. A Vox Aethyria.” She indicated the crystalline contraption. “This is how the Tielen generals exchange information over many hundreds of miles. It's one of their most closely guarded secrets. The one on your desk is almost certainly linked to another in the New Rossiyan Empire. Perhaps even to the Emperor himself.”

“Celestine, how do you know so much about this?”

“It was originally commissioned from the College of Thaumaturgy by our own government. The records are all in the Inquisition archive.” She spoke with such quiet authority that he felt ashamed of his ignorance. “But then the Inquisition intervened. Kaspar Linnaius escaped to Tielen with the plans and completed the work.” She still had not fully answered his question.

“But this is an alchymical device. If Visant could hear you now, he'd have you arrested for possessing forbidden knowledge.” His anxiety made his tone more harsh than he intended and he saw her blink, as though avoiding a blow. “How could you defend yourself if he put his interrogators to work on you?”

“There were papers and designs in Linnaius's study. It wouldn't take a genius to understand them.” Again that calm, self-possessed air; why was he so worried on her account? Was it that her story didn't quite convince him? He had known her since she was a little child, and he couldn't help but suspect that she was still withholding some vital piece of information from him.

“Maistre,” she said, leaning closer over the desk, “this Vox gives Francia an invaluable advantage over the Emperor. We have his magus
and we have his communications device. For the first time in many years we can do more than defend ourselves against the Tielens. Let the Vox be used as its original inventor intended: to protect our nation.”

Cleverly she had turned the conversation away from herself to the broader implications of the discovery. If this intelligence was true, then he must take the device to the king.

Jagu gazed at Celestine as she stood before the court in her black uniform robes, her golden hair drawn back under a simple linen coif, and thought how beautiful—and vulnerable—she looked. He no longer had any idea whether such thoughts were impure, only that he would run through fire rather than see her harmed.

“Celestine de Joyeuse,” said Inquisitor Visant, pronouncing each syllable of her name with exaggerated care. “You have shown great zeal in your quest to track down Kaspar Linnaius.”

Be careful.
Jagu leaned forward.
He's out to trap you.

“I acted only as any member of the Commanderie would in the circumstances,” replied Celestine coolly. “I was given my orders and I carried them out.”

Jagu relaxed a little. She had not fallen for Visant's first snare. But there would be more traps, and each one more subtle than the first.

Visant was consulting a sheaf of notes. “Considerable zeal,” he said at last, looking up. “I see from the ship's log that the ship bringing the prisoner to Francia nearly foundered in a sudden, violent storm. Can you explain to the court what happened?”

“Linnaius used his arts to summon a storm wind and blow us off course, back to Tielen.”

“You witnessed him performing this rite?”

“I did.”

Jagu tensed. He alone knew what Celestine had done to ensure that Kaspar Linnaius did not work his Dark Arts. If anyone else had observed what had happened in the cabin and whispered the truth to the Inquisitor, they were both doomed.

“And if the accused is so powerful a magus, why did he not succeed in his endeavor?”

“He was weak,” said Celestine with a little shrug. “The effort exhausted him. I saw his hand drop back and his eyes close. I believe he may have suffered some kind of stroke.”

“I see,” said Visant. “As a member of our order, you took certain vows?”

“Yes.”

Jagu closed his eyes, dreading the next question Visant would surely ask her.

“Including a vow to abjure the use of the Forbidden Arts?”

“Yes.”

Visant paused, as though going to ask another question, then suddenly turned away, returning to his desk. “I have no more questions for Guerrier de Joyeuse,” he said, then added, “at the present time.”

Ever since she left the courtroom, Celestine's mind had been in turmoil. She had been sure that she would feel nothing but satisfaction at having brought her father's betrayer to justice at last. Instead she found herself tormented by doubts and insecurities.

Did Linnaius work some kind of glamour on me?

The portrait he had created of her father had been so convincing that she had been able to think of little else. Had Hervé's relationship with Linnaius been in some way kin to her own with Maistre de Lanvaux? Suppose the old man had been telling the truth—and he had been as devastated by the execution of the mages as she?

She walked on through the streets, so wrapped up in her thoughts that she did not notice where her feet were taking her until she realized that she had—unconsciously—come to the Place du Trahoir.

There, in the center, stood the gibbet from which hung the twisted corpses of the condemned, executed that morning. Carrion crows gathered on top of the crossbar, waiting to peck and tear at the dead flesh. She shuddered, feeling the taste of bile in her mouth. In spite of the five years she had spent as a Guerrier, she had still not become hardened to the sight. Yet these were common criminals, convicted of robbery or murder. There had not been an Inquisition execution for heresy in a long while.

The exultant sense of triumph she had felt on the ship had seeped away. Confronted with the grim reality of the scaffold, she could only remember her father's bruised, bloodied face and his broken body. Surely it was just that the Magus should suffer the same punishment as his fellow magi?

But is this really what Papa would have wanted me to do?
A dull chill passed through her body as she stood staring up at the scaffold and its grisly contents.

I've become a creature of the Commanderie. I've poured all my frustration and fury into hunting down Kaspar Linnaius. And now I can't even be sure that he betrayed my father.

Have I made a terrible mistake?

“There were moments in the courtroom yesterday,” Ruaud de Lanvaux said, gazing intently at Celestine, “when I began to have doubts about your loyalty to our cause.”

Jagu felt his heart stutter a beat or two.

“I can assure you, Maistre, that you need have no worries on my account,” she said quietly.

“Is that so?” The Maistre still gazed at her, as though not entirely convinced, and Jagu's anxiety increased. “Well, I'm about to offer you the opportunity to prove yourself. I'm sending you both back to the monastery of Saint Sergius in Azhkendir. Your ship sails at dawn.”

“To Abbot Yephimy?” Jagu glanced at Celestine, expecting her to protest. But she was staring into the middle distance, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “But—but why?”

The Grand Maistre took out the Angelstone and held it up to the light. The purity of the crystal was sullied by swirls and surges of darkness, as if ink had leaked into clear water.

“They
are here,” he said. “In Francia.”

“They? There's more than one Drakhaoul at large?” The daylight in the Maistre's study seemed to lose its brightness as Jagu remembered the terrifying shadow they had seen in the Straits. “But who set them free? Who found a way to summon them?”

“I have no idea who unleashed them—or how. All I know is that we must arm ourselves against them. Before it is too late.”

“Too late?” Celestine repeated as if she had only just heard what the Maistre was telling them.

“You read the ancient warning for yourself in Azhkendir, didn't you? ‘Prince Nagazdiel must never be set free,’” Ruaud quoted from
The Life of the Blessed Sergius.
“‘For if his prison is breached, darkness will cover the world in perpetual night and he and his kindred will lay waste to the earth.’”

Jagu looked into Ruaud's eyes, hoping to catch a glimmer of reassurance there, but saw only stern resolve. “If we don't defeat the Drakhaouls, they will wreak havoc. That is their nature; they are angels of destruction. When we joined the Commanderie, we made a
vow—each and every one of us—to continue the work of our patron saint and protect Francia against the powers of darkness. If we can't find a way to stop them—then who can?”

“So you still intend to reforge Sergius's Staff?” Jagu said. It seemed a vain hope in the face of such a daunting threat.

A sigh escaped Ruaud's lips. “That,” he said, “is the king's plan.”

The sigh did not escape Jagu's notice. “Even though the abbot refused to hand over the golden crook?”

“I'm sending a detachment of Guerriers with you,” continued the Maistre, “to ensure that he doesn't refuse a second time. And as you'll be in the Drakhaon's lands, don't neglect to gather any intelligence that could be of use to us in the war to come.”

War?
Jagu looked blankly at the Maistre, not immediately understanding what he meant.

“We know so little about the Drakhaoul. But the Drakhaon's men, his
druzhina,
share a deep bond with their master: a bond sealed in blood. They'll defend him to the death.” Jagu nodded and Ruaud put a hand on his shoulder. “The Commanderie has to make a stand,” he said with a bleak smile, “a stand against the oncoming darkness.”

Andrei retired to his bedchamber in Belle Garde to reread his orders. King Enguerrand had awarded him his own command: the
Aquilon,
a fast frigate, standing by to take part in Francia's covert operation against the Emperor's navy. In order to reach Fenez-Tyr in time, he would have to leave straightaway. He paused as he passed the mirror to check that his uniform was correctly buttoned and saw another face gazing back at him from the shadows.

“Andrei,”
whispered a voice, soft as sleep. His Drakhaoul's shadow image was purple-hued like the dusk, yet its amethyst eyes were lit with an intense jewel-sharded brilliance that pierced him to the soul.
“You were born to rule Muscobar, Andrei. Your birthright was stolen from you by Eugene of Tielen. Let me help you take back the land that is rightfully yours.
” So it had already read his innermost thoughts; there would be no hiding anything from this daemon.

“But there's a price, isn't there?” The Drakhaoul was promising him what he had long dreamed of, saying the words he wanted to hear, recognizing his frustrated ambitions, but he was not fool enough to believe that such a prize would come free. “There's always a price.”

“In return, I only ask you to keep my presence a secret… until the time is right.”
Was there the hint of a smile in Adramelech's voice?

“The time is right for what?” Andrei asked, unable to quell his lingering suspicions.

“Your sister, Astasia, is expecting Eugene's child. A very special child. You'd want to see her safely delivered first, wouldn't you?”

“Astasia's
pregnant?”
Why hadn't she told him? Why was she keeping it a secret? “But this changes everything.”

“Until her child is born, you must be patient. Perhaps there are other dreams you wish to fulfill before then…”

He suddenly saw Celestine de Joyeuse's sweet face, her soft blue eyes gazing appealingly back at him, as they parted at Haeven. “Celestine?” he whispered, not realizing until now how much he had been thinking about her. His face burned as he guessed what Adramelech must have read in his most intimate thoughts.