Tracing the Shadow (6 page)

CHAPTER 5

A little crowd of villagers had gathered outside the cottage door. Among them Klervie recognized Hugues the baker and his wife, Gwenna, holding their daughter, Youna, her best friend, by the hand. The mayor, Messieur Brandin, stepped forward.

They’ve come to help us.
Overwhelmed by a rush of warm feelings, Klervie knelt on the window seat to wave to Youna. But Youna turned her head away.

Above them on the hill, Klervie saw the smoking and blackened ruins of the college. The acrid smell of burning tainted the freshness of the morning air.

“What can I do for you?” Maela stood beneath the broken timbers of the doorway, broom in hand.

Mayor Brandin cleared his throat. “We’re a peace-loving community, as you know, Madame de Maunoir. But in the light of last night’s events—”

“What the mayor is trying to say,” interrupted the butcher rudely, “is we don’t want you here anymore.” Murmurs of assent accompanied his words.

“We had no idea that your husband was involved in such horrible practices,” added Demoiselle Nazaire, the schoolteacher.

“We think it better that you and Klervie leave,” said the mayor, embarrassedly rubbing his chain of office with his handkerchief. “As soon as possible.”

“I see,” said Maela. Klervie recognized the stiff tone of voice that her mother used when she was annoyed. “And I don’t suppose it has occurred to a single one of you that Hervé might be innocent of these charges?”

“That’s irrelevant,” said Gwenna, her usual placid smile replaced by a pinched, disapproving look. “Heaven knows what foul and unnatural experiments your husband was conducting up at the college. You heard the explosion. Whatever he and the others were doing up there, it shouldn’t have been allowed.”

“The others?” Maela echoed. “What happened to the others?”

“All arrested and taken away to the capital, thank God,” said Demoiselle Nazaire primly. “All except one wretched soul, who burned to death in the fire. They say the body was so badly charred that—”

“They’ve taken Hervé to Lutèce? Then that’s where Klervie and I are going,” said Maela, jutting her chin high as she stared back at the schoolmistress. “I thought we had friends here. But now I see I was mistaken. Come, Klervie; we must pack our belongings.”

“Mewen?” Klervie scoured the cottage garden, calling in vain. “You bad cat! Why don’t you come?” She looked in all his favorite places: behind the geranium pots, in the herb patch, on the broken wall…

“Hurry up, Klervie.” Maman hurried toward her and grabbed her by the hand.

“I can’t find Mewen. I’m not leaving without Mewen.” Klervie stamped her foot.

“The carter’s waiting.” Maman dragged her up the garden path and lifted her onto the cart, climbing up beside her. The carter shook the reins and his horse ambled off down the lane toward the bridge across the Faou.

“Where are we going?”

Maman looked at her. Klervie saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and she hesitated before she spoke. “We’re following Papa. All the way to Lutèce. We’re going to see my sister, Lavéna.”

“Tante Lavéna?” Klervie could not remember her aunt. She had never left the village before, and everything she knew was receding far too fast as the cart jogged on along the tree-lined lane. Soon all she could see was the hill with the jagged, smoky ruins of the college.

“Why can’t Mewen come with us?” Klervie began to fidget. “Who will feed him? Who will give him his milk?”

“Lutèce is a big city,” Maman said. “Mewen is a country cat. He would hate the bustle and noise. He can’t come with us.”

But Klervie could not understand. “I want Mewen,” she said, and burst into tears.

“Maela,” said Tante Lavéna coldly. Klervie shrank close to Maman. “What are you doing here?”

Maman swallowed hard before she spoke. “We have nowhere else to go.”

“I can’t let you stay. I can’t risk it.”

“But why not? I’m your sister.” Maman sounded on the verge of tears again, and Klervie squeezed her hand sympathetically. She felt like crying herself; her feet ached from walking over the hard cobblestones and her throat was dry and tickly from breathing in the city dust.

“My sister, who married against our father’s wishes,” Tante Lavéna said. “Did you think we hadn’t heard the news of the arrest?” She was looking up and down the street, over their heads, as though afraid they were being observed. “If I’m seen letting you in, I’m sure to be reported. And I can’t risk tarnishing my husband’s reputation. He’s standing for councilor for our
quartier.
”

“The little one’s exhausted. Could you just give her a drink?”

“You don’t understand, do you, Maela?” said Tante Lavéna in vexed tones. “Your husband is accused of the most heinous of crimes. You’re the wife of a criminal.” And she shut the door in Maman’s face.

“Tante Lavéna?” Klervie piped up. Why had her auntie not asked them inside?

“There’s nothing for us here. Come, Klervie.” Maman picked up their case, slowly turned away from Tante Lavéna’s doorstep, and began to trudge back along the dusty street the way they had come. The afternoon sun burned hot onto the backs of their heads. Flies buzzed over a pile of stinking refuse lying in the gutter. Klervie was so weary now that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

“It smells bad,” Klervie said, trying not to cry. “I want to go home, Maman. I want Mewen.”

“My very own sister,” whispered Maman. She seemed not to have heard what Klervie had said. “Now what shall we do? What
shall
we do?” Klervie heard the despair in her mother’s voice and bit back her tears. They reached the end of the street and Maman’s pace almost slowed to a stop.

“Madame!”

Maela wearily raised her head. A pigtailed servant girl in a drab grey dress was hurrying toward them over the cobbles, waving frantically to attract their attention.

“You dropped this by our doorstep.” Breathless, the girl thrust a cloth purse at Maela. “My mistress told me to return it.”

“Your mistress?”

“Madame Lavéna Malestroit.” The girl bent over, touching her toes. “Ooh—I’ve got a stitch in my side.”

“That’s not your pur—” began Klervie, confused.

“Your mistress is very kind. Please send her my thanks.” Maela closed her fingers around the purse.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure.” The girl straightened up and ran back the way she had come. Maela stood gazing after her in silence.

“Maman?” Klervie tugged at her sleeve. “Maman, what’s wrong?”

But all Maman said, her voice choked, was, “Thank you, Lavéna.”

Day after day, Maman left Klervie in the care of the sour-faced concierge of their rented room. Klervie hated the old woman, who made her scour the battered, greasy pots and pans until the skin on her fingers was shriveled and sore. In return, she fed Klervie a bowl of watery soup for lunch with a few shreds of leek or mushy carrot tops floating in it, and a hunk of dry bread. The concierge’s apartment was dark and smelled of stale soup and mothballs. Klervie bore all this without complaining because Maman had told her she must be a good girl. Yet all the time she was aware of a nagging ache inside her that was not hunger.

She missed playing with Mewen. She missed stroking his soft fur and hearing him purr. But most of all she missed Papa.

Every day Maman returned looking more pale and exhausted than the day before. Klervie came to dread Maman’s going.

“Please don’t leave me.” She clung on to Maman’s dress, winding her fingers into the soft cloth.

“Klervie, I must go. It’s for your papa. You can’t come with me.”

“Why can’t I come with you? I want to see Papa.” The indefinable ache inside her found words. “More than
anything.
”

“He’s…” Maman hesitated. “He’s in prison, Klervie. He and the other magisters are all in prison.”

“But Papa is not a bad man!” Klervie burst out. “He’s not a thief.”

A sad smile briefly lit Maman’s dulled eyes. She smoothed Klervie’s hair with one gentle hand. “
Chérie,
your papa is a brilliant man. But he has made enemies. Powerful enemies. And I fear—” She broke off, biting her lip. “Well, we must stay strong. For Papa’s sake.”

“Wake up, Klervie.”

“Not yet,” murmured Klervie, burrowing under the blanket. But Maman gently pulled the blanket away, leaving Klervie blinking sleepily in the milky light of dawn.

“My darling child…this may be the last time you see your dearest papa. The last chance you have to say farewell to him.”

Klervie gazed into Maman’s tear-filled eyes, uncomprehending. “Farewell?” she echoed. “Are they sending him away again? To another prison?”

“No.” Maela drew Klervie tight, almost crushing her, so that Klervie could feel her mother’s whole body trembling with suppressed sobs. “To a place where he will finally be free.”

“Why are all these people here?” Klervie asked, clinging to Maman’s hand in the press as they were swept along in the cresting tide. But Maman did not answer, forcing her way grimly on.

Soldiers lined the street. All were garbed in the same plain black uniforms as those worn by the men who had raided the cottage and dragged Papa away. Pikes in hand, they formed a barrier between the surging crowd and the center of the street.

And then Klervie thought she could make out the distant thud of drums—a slow, solemn beat, coming steadily nearer.

The crowd suddenly began to shout and jeer. The roar of their voices terrified Klervie; she felt as if she were surrounded by wild beasts. “Why are they all so angry?”

“Pay them no heed.” Maela tugged at Klervie’s hand, pulling her onward through the press of people, toward the soldiers.

A wooden cart, drawn by four strong dray horses, was lumbering toward them, its wheels rattling over the cobbles. Soldiers armed with muskets marched in front, matching their slow pace to the ominous beat of the drummers.

Now Klervie could see that there were men on the cart, caged like animals behind metal bars. She heard Maela give a soft gasp.

“Hervé,” she whispered. “Oh Hervé, what have they done to you?”

Klervie screwed her eyes to a squint against the watery morning light. She could count five men on the cart and each one was slumped against the bars, as if barely able to stand.

Jostled to and fro by the crowd as it pressed forward to see the prisoners, Klervie almost lost hold of Maela.

Her mother was staring at one of the men. Bruises and blood-crusted cuts marred his face; one eye was half-closed with a swollen, purpled lid. And there seemed to be something wrong with his legs; he was supporting himself by pulling himself up by the bars.

“Maela,” he called, his voice gratingly hoarse. “Maela, what are you doing here? For God’s sake, take the child away.”

Only then did Klervie recognize this gaunt, haggard man as her own father. She reached out, trying to clutch the grimy, blood-streaked hand between her own.

“Papa?”

For a moment, the gaunt face softened. “Klervie, look after your mother. For my sake.” The fingers tried to extend farther to touch her hair but the effort seemed too great and she saw a grimace of pain twist his features.

“No communication with the prisoners.” A soldier grabbed Maela by the arm and tried to pull her away.

“A few minutes with my husband. I was promised. I sold my ring—my wedding ring—to pay for it.” Klervie heard Maela’s voice break as though her heart were breaking too. The soldier tugged at her arm, less gently this time.

“Let her go!” shrieked Klervie.

“We were betrayed,” said Papa. “Look, Maela. Everyone is here—all save one. Where is Kaspar Linnaius?”

“I can’t believe Magister Linnaius would do such a thing.” As the cart moved slowly on, Maela hurried alongside, Klervie following.

“We created a great invention together.” Papa’s bruised, swollen mouth twisted and contorted as he tried to enunciate the words. “An invention that would have made our fortunes. Yet here I am, condemned to die—and
where is Linnaius
?”

“He will come for us,” cried another magister in a faint, cracked voice. “He can twist the winds to his will. He will come. You’ll see.”

One by one, the learned scholars ascended the pyre: lean-faced, kindly Madoc, gazing bemusedly around as if walking in his sleep; softly spoken Goustan de Rhuys, who used to make Klervie laugh by mysteriously plucking little treasures from behind her ear or under her chin—a tiny finch, a spotted butterfly, a barley sugar; venerable, white-haired Magister Gonery, so frail and broken that he had to be carried by the soldiers.

“That one’s nothing but a boy,” a woman said as Deniel was dragged up by four Guerriers. “You’d think they’d have spared the lad. Look at him; he’s trembling so much he can hardly stand.”

“Call yourselves mages!” jeered a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you save yourselves?”

“Show us your magic tricks,” called out another mockingly.

“Magisters of Karantec.” A harsh voice rang out across the crowded square. A tall man in flowing robes had climbed up onto a platform. “You have been tried before God by His inquisitors and found guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts.”