Flight Into Darkness (42 page)

“Priests?” Andrei was still suspicious.

“Missionaries.” Père Blaize came over, carrying a small wooden casket, and Andrei saw that he was much younger than the abbé, although the sun had bleached his golden hair almost as white as Oskar's. “News travels slowly from island to island, but as soon as we heard of shipwrecked travelers from the western quadrant, we set out to see if we could help.” He gave Andrei a broad, friendly smile that almost disarmed the last of his suspicions.

“You're Francians!” Aude appeared at the door of the hut, her wan face suddenly bright with hope. She lapsed into her native tongue, speaking so rapidly that Andrei had trouble keeping up with her. “You must help my cousin. He's very sick.”

“Don't worry, Demoiselle,” said Père Blaize, smiling reassuringly at her, “I've spent years studying the local diseases.”

“Please, come in.” Andrei stood aside to let the missionaries enter the hut.

Andrei and Aude stood watching as Père Blaize knelt by Enguerrand's pallet and placed his hand on the king's brow, then
took his pulse and raised one of his eyelids. Enguerrand seemed barely conscious, murmuring some incoherent words as the priest examined him. Andrei saw Aude bite her underlip in her agitation.
She really cares for Enguerrand, in spite of the ordeal he's subjected her to.

“What is your name?” Blaize asked his patient. Enguerrand muttered a few disjointed syllables.

“He's delirious. He doesn't even remember his own name,” Aude whispered to Andrei, but just as Andrei was inwardly debating the wisdom of revealing their true identities, she blurted out, “He's called Enguerrand.”

“Well, Enguerrand, can you hear me?” said Père Blaize. “I'm going to give you some physic to try to bring down your fever. It'll taste bitter, but you must drink the whole draft, or it won't work. It's made from the bark of a tree that grows in these islands.” He opened his coffer and took out phials of a cloudy liquid.

While Aude watched anxiously, Andrei turned to Abbé Laorans.

“How long did it take you to get here, Abbé?”

“The news reached us ten days ago. We set out straightaway and, thanks to calm seas and a good wind, here we are.”

“Abbé, could I speak to you in private?”

“By all means.” Abbé Laorans followed him out into the heat.

“Damned proselytizers,” said a drawling voice. Andrei looked round to see Oskar leaning against the side of the hut, arms folded.

“There's no need for that, Alvborg. These good men have come a long way to help us.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that they have. What better way to notch up a few more converts on their heavenly slates?”

“Please excuse his rudeness.” Andrei had become accustomed to Oskar's constant cynicism. “We've been through a… a traumatic experience. None of us has quite recovered yet.”

“Indeed,” said Laorans, looking keenly at Andrei. “Strange occurrences have been reported in these waters. First, the darkness. Then the unexplained lights in the sky. The islanders spoke to us of winged daemons and dragons. But then, they're very superstitious at the best of times.”

Andrei nodded, not wanting to be drawn out on the subject.

Père Blaize came out from the hut. “He's sleeping. My suggestion is that we wait for his fever to break, then take you all to the mission. But he's too ill to be moved yet.”

“Do you think he'll pull through?”

“It's difficult to tell at this stage.” Blaize looked grave. “His constitution has been weakened, maybe due to an earlier bout of fever in childhood. I've seen similar cases in Enhirre and Djihan-Djihar. A relapse can prove fatal. But tell me, can you explain the strange marks on his skin and nails? I thought at first they might be a rash or discoloration caused by the fever, although I've never seen it on any other patient before.”

The telltale stains left on Enguerrand's body by Nilaihah's presence, the streaks of gold in his dark hair, the unearthly glitter in his eyes, were fading slowly. But Andrei found that he had instinctively clenched his fists, hiding his own nails, which were still a dark violet, the last traces left by his Drakhaoul, Adramelech.

“Could you take us back with you to Serindher?” Andrei asked suddenly. “That young man you've been tending is Enguerrand of Francia. There will be ships coming to search for him and Lady Aude. But I fear they'll never find him if we stay here.”

“Gobain's youngest son, eh?” Abbé Laorans said, chuckling. “What an honor for our mission, Blaize: our first royal patron.”

CHAPTER 8

A rumbling, like distant thunder, broke the silence of the sleeping mission.

Andrei clutched at his head. Stabs of pain, each one a spear shaft of lightning, pierced his brain. Beside him, Enguerrand moaned and moved restlessly in fevered sleep. A hissed curse came from outside and, staggering to the doorway, Andrei saw Oskar, one hand pressed to his temples, collapse to his knees in the sand. And as another lightning shaft needled through his head, Andrei sensed the other two react at the same moment.

Aude started up. “What ever's wrong, Andrei? Shall I get help?”

Andrei managed to nod before the lightning crackled through his mind again and, helpless to withstand it, he crumpled to the floor, doubled up. Why, as he squeezed his eyes tight shut against its fury, did he see the form of a winged warrior, dazzlingly bright, etched in light against the black of his closed lids?

Hallucinating… must be hallucinating. All the Drakhaouls are gone from this world. I saw them go.

“How are you feeling?”

Andrei looked up dazedly and saw Père Blaize gazing down at him.

“Groggy.” Andrei pushed himself up on one elbow, blinking in the daylight. “What happened?”

“We rather hoped you'd tell us.” Blaize grinned at him. “All three of you passed out. Before that, Aude heard you muttering about lightning and spears.”

“A tropical storm?” Andrei couldn't remember. “There was rumbling, like thunder…”

“The skies were clear last night. But now…” The grin faded. “Can you come with me? I'd like you to take a look.”

Leaving Oskar and Enguerrand still sleeping, Andrei followed Blaize out of the mission and onto the shore. The sky seemed overcast and as they looked out across the sea toward the distant Spice Islands, Andrei saw what looked like thick grey clouds on the horizon.

“Does that look like a storm to you?”

“It looks like… smoke.” Andrei turned to Blaize. “You don't think—”

“Distant rumbling. Smoke. A volcanic eruption.” Blaize looked at him, his habitually cheerful expression erased.

“Ty Nagar? But it's far from here. Surely…”

“It's not so much the eruption, it's what might follow in its wake. You're a sailor, you must have heard that tidal waves can occur after a major eruption. We have to warn the villagers. And evacuate the mission.”

Andrei heard voices coming from the shore. Several fishermen came running up the beach to Père Blaize, all gabbling at once and pointing toward the sea. After they had exchanged a few words in Serindhan, the fishermen hurried off toward the village.

Blaize looked at Andrei. “We have to get everyone to higher ground.”

The straggling procession wound upward through the jungle; mothers clutching babies and wailing toddlers, older children herding ragged goats, carrying cooking pots and sacks of rice. There had been no time to do anything but ring the chapel bell to summon everyone and gather up the essentials for survival.

Aude had offered to help Blaize with the mission orphans, and even though she knew only a few words in Serindhan, she soon charmed the little ones into an attentive group. They set off up the hill, clinging to her hands. Oskar, after much grumbling, hoisted Enguerrand up and followed the children.

“Is everyone out of the mission?” Blaize called to Andrei. “Where's Laorans?”

“Isn't he with you?” Andrei scanned the gaggle of white-robed
mission helpers but could see no sign of Laorans's distinctive snowy hair. “I'll check the chapel. You go on ahead with the others.”

Andrei flung open the chapel door and ran down the aisle, calling out for Laorans.

He found him kneeling behind the altar. At first Andrei thought the old priest was praying but as he came nearer, he saw that he was struggling to lift out some object hidden beneath one of the floor tiles.

“Ah, Andrei,” he said blinking at him. “Could you give me a hand?”

“We've got to go, Abbé. Any moment now, a tidal wave will hit our shores.” Andrei had almost drowned in the Straits and the terror of the approaching flood gave an edge to his voice.

“This won't take a moment. And with your strength, you'll lift it out with no trouble.”

“Listen.” A horrible stillness had settled over the deserted village. Hadn't the fishermen warned that the tide would be sucked out before the wave came roaring in?

“You go on, then, my boy. I'll follow.”

What sacred treasure was so precious the old man couldn't bear to leave it behind? The mission funds? Andrei knelt down and felt in the cavity, his fingers closing around a metal casket. He tugged hard, and at last it came out.

“Well done!” Laorans clapped his hands together in his delight. But another sound, a faint roar, could now be heard.

“Can you run, Abbé?”

Laorans opened a side door to the rear of the altar and beckoned him through.

Andrei tucked the dusty box under his arm and hurried after him.

“There's a little path up through the trees.” Laorans had to raise his voice to be heard above the sound of the incoming water. Andrei knew that he should not look back, but just put his head down and run. Yet some inner compulsion made him glance over his shoulder as the roaring grew louder. The ruthless tide had already reached the mission and he saw it smash against the white walls of the chapel, the force of the impact setting the bell clanging before the water rose to submerge it.

Ahead, Laorans stumbled over a tree root, falling headlong.

“Come on, Abbé!” Andrei heaved him up again, half-dragging him on up the hill. The relentless rushing sound of the deadly tide grew ever nearer. If they didn't make it to the top of the hill, they would be swept away. And the water was flooding in faster than Andrei could run…

“Reports are only now coming in,” announced Chancellor Aiguillon to the somber-faced ministers, “of a violent volcanic eruption in the Spice Islands a few weeks ago, followed by a tidal wave that has devastated the coastline of Serindher and wrecked many ships.”

Alain Friard glanced at the Queen Mother in the ensuing shocked silence but Aliénor's face was expressionless. At length she asked, “Is this another ruse of the Emperor's, designed to undermine Francia?”

“That was my first assumption,” said Aiguillon. “But after extensive inquiries, I fear that the information is correct. I understand that several Tielen spice ships have been wrecked in the disaster, severely affecting Tielen trade.”

“So Enguerrand may be dead?” Every word was clipped and precise. “And Aude with him?”

“We fear so, majesty. As well as Andrei Orlov and Count Alvborg.”

Friard waited in trepidation for the queen to show some reaction to the tragic news. But Aliénor was made of sterner stuff; she had outlived her husband and elder son and although her face had paled, Friard noticed that her ringed hands gripped the arms of her chair. “I will not give up hope until I have proof positive that my son is dead. But Francia must have a king. The quadrant is still unstable and unscrupulous leaders may try to take advantage of our situation. We will write to our daughter, Adèle, in Bel'Esstar.”

Chancellor Aiguillon cleared his throat embarrassedly. “May I remind you, majesty, that if it were possible for a woman to legally rule Francia, then we would not hesitate to invite you to rule in your son's stead. But…”

Aliénor fixed him with a look so withering that Friard winced inwardly. “You have no need to remind me, Chancellor Aiguillon. Adèle's husband, Ilsevir, is the next in line to the throne by marriage.”

“Francia and Allegonde united? Surely Raimon of Provença has a stronger claim by blood to the throne. And he is a native Francian.”

“Are you daring to suggest that his right supersedes Adèle's?” The
queen's voice was chill with disdain. “Surely Gobain's daughter outranks his cousin?”

“But the people, majesty, may not be ready to accept an Allegondan as ruler.”

“Joint ruler,” corrected Maistre Donatien quietly.

“Suppose Raimon opposes the idea?” persisted Chancellor Aiguillon. “He could so easily stir up the Provençans. And he doted upon Aude. If he blames Enguerrand for her death, who knows what madness his grief might drive him to?”

CHAPTER 9