Flight Into Darkness (35 page)

“If it were that simple, he would have done so many years ago. But Azilis is still joined by a bond of blood to another master…or should I say, mistress?” Anagini's slanted eyes glinted.

“Do you mean Celestine de Joyeuse?”

“Magus! Come quickly!” A man's voice came floating through the mists. It was Chinua, his Khitaran shaman guide. “We must go!”

His voice jolted Linnaius back to more urgent concerns. “Eugene,” he said, remembering. “The Emperor needs me. The Empire is under attack.”

“Go, then,” said Anagini, drawing the billowing mists around her like a cloak, “but don't forget, dear Kaspar, that if you neglect your part of our bargain, your powers will begin to evaporate as swiftly as the mists rising from the springs … and then what use will you be to your beloved emperor?”

The translucent waters swirled and Linnaius found himself alone, blinking, as Chinua, his shaman guide, appeared in a narrow gap in the craggy rocks surrounding the springs.

“Chinua,” Linnaius said, wading out of the hot waters into the bitter chill of the mountain air, “I need a boat.”

A sea fog was blowing in across Lapwing Spar as the sailors rowed Andrei and Celestine ashore and visibility was rapidly decreasing. Celestine could just make out a ramshackle little cottage perched on the edge of the dunes.

“Tikhon? Is it really you?” Old Irina appeared, surrounded by crooning chickens. She stared at Andrei through rheumy eyes. Then
she flung wide her arms and hugged him. “My boy. My boy's come back to me!”

“Irina, this is Celestine,” said Andrei, returning the hug. “Could she keep you company for a few days? Until I return to collect her?”

Irina peered at Celestine and nodded. “Well, you're a pretty one and no mistake. Come in and have some tea, both of you.”

Andrei hesitated. “I wish I could stay longer, but my ship's waiting.”

Celestine hugged her shawl to her, shivering in the damp as the fog rolled across the dunes. She looked uncertainly at the drab little fisherman's cottage. Andrei took her in his arms and kissed her. “Just for a few days,” he said, then set out over the sands to the waiting row-boat.

She stood, waving forlornly to him, until the fog swallowed the little boat up and he was lost to view.

I can't stay here,
she thought as she walked back up the dunes.
I have to get to Mirom.

Back on board, Vassian came up to Andrei in a state of some agitation. “Those two Francians, they're either dead drunk or ill.”

Andrei went below to look. The officers lay on their bunks and did not respond to slaps or cold compresses, except with the faintest of groans.

He had only done as Celestine had bidden him; a draft, she had said, that would make them sleep for a day and a night. She had given him her pearl-and-diamond ring, which concealed a fine white powder within the bezel and, when no one was looking, he had added it to their wine, for a toast “to Francia and confusion to all her enemies.”

Surely she wouldn't have made him poison her captors—would she?

CHAPTER 23

Ruaud knelt in the desecrated chapel in darkness. A shimmer of moonlight shone in through the gaping void of the ruined rose window, starkly illuminating the destruction wreaked by the Drakhaouls.

He clasped his hands together but he could not pray. The familiar comforting words that he had repeated day after day since he became a Guerrier had deserted him.

Ruaud pressed his hands to his temples, trying to erase the terrifying images imprinted in his mind…

“Maistre.”

Ruaud raised his head. Enguerrand stood in the chapel doorway.

“So you couldn't sleep either.” He knelt before Ruaud, his head bent. “I'm corrupted,” he said, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “Tell me how I can rid myself of this curse.”

Ruaud gazed down at Enguerrand's abject posture and knew that he was utterly at a loss. The king was begging him for consolation— and he had none to give. The Drakhaouls had defeated him.

“It told me it was my guardian angel.” Enguerrand choked on the words. “And I believed it. How could I have been so gullible? It was just using me to steal the Tears of Artamon. And now the Drakhaouls plan to open the Serpent Gate and set Prince Nagazdiel free.” He raised his head and Ruaud saw with alarm that his eyes glittered in the dark, flecked with the same gold as those of the Drakhaoul that possessed him. “Help me, Ruaud!” He reached out, clutching Ruaud's hand in his own.

Ruaud pulled out the Angelstone from around his neck; in the gloom, the thread of gold that had deceived him burned brightly. The other threads—blue, scarlet, green, and violet—had faded. The Drakhaouls must have taken the precious rubies far away. “We must move fast, before the other daemons return,” he said, determined that there was only one possible course of action. “There isn't much time.”

“What do you intend?” the king asked nervously.

“To hold an exorcism.”

CHAPTER 24

The first stones of the Chapel of Saint Meriadec were said to have been laid by Lord Argantel in the time of Artamon the Great. So when Ruaud told the king that the ancient chapel was deemed the most suitable place for the exorcism to take place, Enguerrand readily agreed.

Standing guard over the Holy Texts towered two massive stone guardian angels, one with an upraised sword, the other, lion-maned, holding the keys to the Realm of Shadows. Enguerrand had known their names from childhood: Dahariel and Nasargiel. And as he lay prostrate in front of the altar, he tried to keep calm by reciting the Holy Texts. But the waves of panic kept rising up, and, the more he muttered, the more apprehensive he became.
Suppose the exorcism doesn't work? Will the Drakhaoul manifest itself again? Will it force me to attack the venerable priests and exorcists gathered here to help me?

Nilaihah had been silent for the last hours. But he feared that the daemon would not leave him without a terrible struggle. And in that struggle, it might rend him apart. He had read of such horrific ceremonies in the secret annals of the Commanderie.

Blood spattering the tiles, shreds of flesh, brain, and bone defiling the sanctuary…

Kneeling on the worn tiles, Enguerrand squeezed his eyes shut and begged the Heavenly Guardians to forgive and protect him.

“Make me clean again. I will do anything you ask!”

He could hear the murmur of voices and the steady tread of the exorcists
approaching. One by one, the candles in the aisles were extinguished until only those on the altar still burned. Shadows filled the chapel, and in the pale light of the last candles, the worn statues seemed to take on a life of their own, as though the winged warriors were hovering in the aisles, ready to do combat with his daemon.

The exorcists, robed in black, their faces masked and hooded, stood on either side of him.

“Are you ready, majesty?” Enguerrand recognized Ruaud's voice.

“Yes,” whispered Enguerrand, terrified.

The ceremony began with a low, intoned chant. Enguerrand squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pray. But he could hear a faint whispering that was growing more and more insistent, superimposing itself over the exorcists’ measured chanting. And try as he might, he could not blot it out.

“Stop!” he cried. Instantly, he was seized by two of the priests and slammed down onto the hard tiles.

“Don't listen to his cries,” urged Ruaud de Lanvaux, “it's the daemon talking.”

“No! It's me, your king, Enguerrand. And I order you to stop this ceremony at once!” He struggled to break free but the priests were the stronger and held him down.

“Take no notice. No matter what blandishments he uses, ignore him.”

But Enguerrand could hear the Drakhaouls calling to Nilaihah.

Nilaihah… it's time to open the Serpent Gate and set Prince Nagazdiel free. Come, join us.

Enguerrand went limp in the grip of the exorcists.

“At last,”
answered Nilaihah.

Energy was flooding through Enguerrand's body; it sparkled through his veins and sinews, as though his blood had been transmuted to liquid gold.

“It's time,”
repeated Nilaihah, his voice echoing like a great bell through Enguerrand's mind,
“for our final transformation.”

Ruaud paused in the chanting of the ritual of exorcism and looked at the king. He lay utterly still, unresisting. Was it having some effect at last? Ruaud hoped so with all his heart. He took up a bottle of holy water and began to sprinkle it over Enguerrand's limp body.

“Begone, daemon. In the name of Dahariel and Nasargiel, I command you: Return to the Realm of Shadows!” He raised the
ceremonial spear of the Dragonslayer, tipped with gold, and held it above the king.

Enguerrand's body began to twitch.

“It's working.” Ruaud invoked more of the Heavenly Warriors. “In the name of Galizur, of Taliahad, and Sehibiel of the Second Heaven, I banish you!” His voice rose, full of confidence, strong in the knowledge that he had the power to drive the Drakhaoul from Enguerrand's body.

But an extraordinary change was taking place. The king's hair was growing, the short-cropped locks lengthening before his eyes, writhing and curling like serpents, golden and black.

“Hold him down!” Ruaud ordered the priests restraining the king. Unnerved, he continued to recite the rite, stumbling over the words.

“Enough!” cried Enguerrand. He flexed his arms and, with one sudden gesture, hurled both the priests right across the chapel. Then he leaped to his feet and stared at Ruaud.

The candles blew out.

Enguerrand's eyes glittered in the darkness. His whole body glittered, as though powdered in stardust.

Shocked, Ruaud took a step back, holding tight to the book. The stunned exorcists lay groaning in the shadows. All was darkness and confusion in the chapel—except for the light that emanated from the daemon's gilded skin.

For the daemon was beautiful. It had transformed Enguerrand to a creature of unearthly splendor. No longer in dragon-form, it towered above Ruaud, golden-feathered wings furled behind its powerful shoulders.

“A—angel?” stammered Ruaud.

“Do not call me angel. Never call me by that name again!”
Enguerrand reached out and seized the book of exorcism from Ruaud's hands. He cast it on the floor and flicked one taloned finger at it. A little dart of golden fire sizzled out and the priceless ancient book flared up, then subsided into a pile of cinders.

“Majesty!” Ruaud stared in dismay at the remains of the burned book. With both book and Sergius's Staff destroyed, he knew himself defeated; he had no resources left.

“We are Nilaihah,”
answered the daemon.
“You will address us as such.”
The voice was still Enguerrand's, but enriched and distorted by the Drakhaoul.

“Where is Enguerrand?” Ruaud demanded. “What have you done with him?”

“Enguerrand is no longer under your influence, priest. And you believed you were powerful enough to control me?”
Nilaihah threw back his golden head and laughed.

That cruel, contemptuous laughter was more than Ruaud could bear. He had dedicated his life to Enguerrand's education; he had worked hard to shape the young man's beliefs and attitudes, he had cared for him as if he had been his own son. And now to hear his protégé deliberately mocking him—

The Enguerrand he knew was obviously dead. This daemon that dared to masquerade as an angel had inhabited his body. And there was only one way to drive it out. He must kill the king—or what was left of him. Without a mortal body to inhabit, the Drakhaoul would be forced to flee; it would be vulnerable.

Yet in destroying Enguerrand, he knew he was signing his own death warrant. But there was no time to consider, Nilaihah was advancing upon him, golden eyes ablaze in the gloom. Ruaud seized the ceremonial spear of the Dragonslayer. With all his strength, he thrust it at the daemon.

Nilaihah gave a howling cry as the spear pierced his breast. He clutched the shaft with both hands, and tugged.

Out came the spear and the daemon's gilded blood leaked out with it, dripping onto the tiled floor, where it sizzled and steamed.