Flight Into Darkness (55 page)

“Surely she's not going to ignore the chance of a royal pardon?” Kilian said lightly. “Can't you talk her round?”

“She's made a new life for herself. She's happy working at the Imperial Theater. Why make her go back to Francia?”

“And you?”

“I'm not coming back either.”

“You had such a promising career in the Commanderie, Jagu. Why are you throwing it all away? Did you lose your faith? Or”—and Kilian's eyes narrowed— “were you just not strong enough to resist the sins of the flesh?”

“That's a cheap shot, Kilian.”

“Well, you know me well enough by now.”

“And you should know me well enough to know that I've been through a great deal of soul-searching to reach this decision.”

“Well, if I can't persuade you, and your mind is made up…” Kilian shot him a wry, resigned smile. “How about a last drink together, then, before my ship leaves? A toast to old times?”

Jagu already felt guilty about turning his back on his comrades in arms. He wished that he could make Kilian understand that he had experienced a profound and life-changing revelation in the Cathedral of Saint Simeon. Perhaps, over a bottle of wine, he could make Kilian understand why he had chosen to turn his back on the Commanderie and dedicate his life to music.

“One last drink, then.”

The dockside tavern was full of sailors from Tielen; a merchantman had just arrived from Djihan-Djihar and the crew were pouring ale down their throats as if they had been at sea for months.

“What was it Abbé Houardon used to say to us?” Jagu touched his glass to Kilian's and took a mouthful of the robust red Smarnan wine. Kilian shrugged. “I can't have been paying attention…” “‘There are many ways of serving God, and each one of you must find his own path. It may take many years but you'll find it in the end.’ Well, it's taken me long enough, but I think I may have stumbled upon it here in Mirom.”

“Amen to that,” said Kilian dryly.

“In the cathedral. I heard the monks singing vespers. And—” “Don't tell me you're going to become a monk!” Kilian was smiling at him. “Though come to think of it, you might be rather well suited to a life of self-denial and mortification of the flesh.”

“Must you make everything into a joke?” Jagu set his glass down hard on the table, slopping some drops of wine over the top. “Must you sneer and belittle everything I do?” Maybe the wine had loosened his tongue, but he had not spoken so frankly to Kilian in a long while. He wanted to tell him about the composing. He wanted to be able to trust him like a true friend and confide in him, but Kilian seemed incapable of taking him seriously.

“There was a time when I was honest with you.” Kilian's face was hidden as he held his glass up to the lantern, studying the rich red glow. “Brutally honest.” His tone was light, careless, as if his words were of little consequence. “But you brushed me aside. Here, let me refill your glass.”

Jagu stared at Kilian. What time was he referring to? The alcohol must be clouding his brain, for he could not think clearly anymore. He looked down at his wineglass and saw through blurred vision that it was still half-full.

“No more wine, Kilian.” The words came out slurred. “I—I have to be going.” Jagu tried to stand up, staggered, lost his balance, and sat down again. The din of voices in the room had become the sound of a tide rushing to envelop him, dragging him down into darkness.

Kilian looked at Jagu lying slumped across the table. He put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. No response. He put his mouth close to Jagu's ear and said his name. Still no response. The drug he had slipped in Jagu's wine had worked to perfection.

“I'm sorry, old friend,” he said softly, letting his fingers drift over Jagu's black hair, “but I can't let her have you. Maistre Donatien was very insistent.”

He slid one arm under Jagu's and hefted him up. “Some help here!” he called out in Francian. “My friend's had a glass too many.” As he had hoped, a couple of Francian sailors soon appeared, grinning, and assisted him in dragging Jagu out onto the quay. After a few coins had exchanged hands, they carried him aboard the ship and laid him on the bunk in the little cabin Kilian had reserved, next to his own. No sooner had the sailors departed, than Kilian locked the cabin door and put the key in his pocket. Then he went up on deck to check with the captain as to when they were setting sail.

“The friend I brought on board,” Kilian said, choosing his words carefully, “needs to stay here, out of trouble. If he leaves the ship…

well, let's say that there are people out there looking for him who don't have his best interests at heart.” The captain looked at him, one brow skeptically raised. Kilian placed a fistful of gold coins on the table. “Keep him safe on board here, and there's more when we leave Mirom.”

Part IV

CHAPTER 1

Rieuk awoke from another incoherent nightmare to feel the ground shuddering.

A deep rumbling echoed through the Rift as though the whole dimension were about to collapse in on itself. Rieuk pressed his hands to his ears to try to block out the sound, but he still felt the vibrations shaking him until his bones shuddered.

A sere, cold wind came whipping through the trees. He covered his face with his arms to protect himself from the clouds of fine grit eddying around. The fitful wind swirled around him and blew away farther into the Rift. Rieuk slowly raised his head, sensing that he was no longer alone.

“Who's there?” he called out. Had Estael or one of the other magi come to search for him?

The arch of a great gateway glimmered, pale as if limned in starlight against the darkness. A tall figure stood in front of it, gazing around, as if it had just passed through the gate into the Rift.

A way out!

Yet even as Rieuk hurried toward it, the gateway shimmered and vanished.

The figure turned around.

Eyes—crimson as the fire at the heart of a ruby, yet dark as night at the core—scanned the darkness. Rieuk shrank back behind the trees. The creature that had come through the gateway was tall, powerfully built, with black hair streaked with flame-red streaming down its
back. Its body glittered dully, as though covered in scales of jet, and its fingers were tipped with sharp, curving talons.

A Drakhaoul?

“Azilis? Where are you?” The anguished question echoed around the Rift, a rumble of distant thunder. “Why can't I hear your voice anymore?”

A dark, disturbing aura was emanating from the stranger—powerful yet bitter, poisoned with despair. As Rieuk crouched, watching, the daemon walked away into the darkness, still calling forlornly, “My daughter? Where are you?”

It was only when the daemon had gone that he noticed another faint shimmer overhead; the ghost of the emerald moon had momentarily reappeared as the clouds of dust and shadow scudded past. And by its uncertain light, he saw at last what he had been searching for: the tall silhouette of the Emerald Tower in the far distance.

A soft light suffused Rieuk's dreams, leading him slowly back to consciousness. At first he just gazed at the white walls of his chamber, recognizing familiar objects: the jewel-bright wall hanging from the silk weavers of Tyriana; the crystals he had fashioned for his own amusement into the shapes of hawks; his books of lore, collected on his travels…

“Am I really back?” he asked aloud. “Or am I still dreaming?”

“So you're awake at last.” Lord Estael stood in the doorway.

“How—how long have I been away?”

Estael opened the shutters. The daylight seared Rieuk's sight; he turned his head away. He had become a creature of the night, forgetting how mercilessly strong the light of the Enhirran sun could be.

“We thought we'd lost you,” said Estael bluntly. “I sent Almiras in after you but when he could find no trace of Ormas, we thought you were gone too.”

Rieuk's time in the caves of aethyr crystal had already begun to seem like a dream; his recollection was becoming blurred and unreliable. “Was it days? Weeks?”

Estael hesitated. “Over three years.”

“Three years?” Rieuk grabbed Estael by the shoulder, pulling his face close to his own.
“Don't lie to me.”

“Time flows differently in the Rift,” Estael said contemptuously. “Why else would we have put Imri's body to rest in there? Have you learned nothing?”

Rieuk was too weak to keep his grip on Estael; his hand dropped back to his side. “But Imri was dead. For the living…”

“Only those with mage blood can survive that long in there; an ordinary mortal would have died.”

“I only had a bottle of water… a loaf of bread, cheese, dates…” Rieuk closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort of puzzling out what had happened to him. “How could I survive three years on such meager rations?”

“How long did it seem to you?” Estael's voice penetrated his stupor.

“A week, maybe two. It took me a while to locate the crystal cave. Then I couldn't find my way back; the whole landscape of the Rift had altered and I couldn't see the Emerald Tower any longer.” Against the darkness he saw again the terrifying shadow of the Drakhaoul stalking through the darkness. “Until
he
appeared.”

“He?” Estael bent over him. “You don't mean—”

“The Drakhaoul. He was searching for his daughter. He called her Azilis.”

“You saw Prince Nagazdiel in the Rift?” Estael's tone had become urgent, excited. “We must tell the Arkhan. This is… extraordinary.”

“The Arkhan?” Rieuk felt the old loathing rise up within him. “Are you still in thrall to that madman, Estael? Hasn't one of you had the guts to stand up to him? After all he's put you through?”

“Lord Estael!” Men's voices could be heard from outside the tower. Estael left his bedside while Rieuk drifted uneasily between sleep and consciousness.

“Rieuk Mordiern,” said a stern voice. He opened his eyes to see one of Sardion's captains standing over him. “The Arkhan has ordered me to bring you to him. Straightaway.”

CHAPTER 2

Kaspar Linnaius brought the sky craft slowly down, circling above the Swanholm estate, affording King Enguerrand a magnificent view of the Emperor's palace. But Enguerrand, still suffering from airsickness, was in no condition to appreciate the grandeur of his rival's home. Clutching the side of the craft for dear life, he closed his eyes and prayed for a safe landing while Aude held his other hand and whispered comforting words in his ear.

“Welcome to Swanholm!” The Emperor rose to greet Enguerrand with open arms.

Enguerrand, his knees trembling from the flight, tottered forward, and was surprised when Eugene embraced him heartily. “You're not well,” the Emperor said in concerned tones. “I'll have my personal physician attend you.”

“Forgive me.” As Eugene helped him into a chair, Enguerrand realized how grateful he felt. He caught hold of his hand and said, “Your imperial highness, I don't know how to begin to thank you—”

“Please, call me Eugene. We'll talk later when you've recovered from the journey.”

While Enguerrand and Aude were shown to their guest rooms and Gustave was making arrangements to summon Doctor Amandel, the Emperor took Linnaius through to his private apartments.