Tracing the Shadow (8 page)

The staircase wound endlessly upward and Celestine, still weak from fever, began to imagine that she would never reach the top. At last, breathless, her legs wobbling from the effort, she stumbled into the dormitory. Though the room was sparsely furnished with two rows of beds, light poured in through tall arched windows set beneath a high, sloping ceiling supported by thick wooden beams.

“The sisters call us the Skylarks, because we’re at the very top of the convent,” said Rozenne.

“Only the youngest novices sleep up here,” Angelique said. “When you’re twelve, you move to the Novices’ dormitory on the floor below.” She tossed her fair curls. “We Novices sing in the evenings as well as the mornings, so we’re not supposed to wake you little ones when we return. You need your sleep to grow.”

“This will be your bed,” said Rozenne kindly, “next to mine.” She took Celestine’s book from Angelique and laid it on the little bed. “Katell, fetch a sheet for Celestine’s bed.”

“How old are you?” Katell asked, suddenly swinging round on her heel to stick her face into Celestine’s. Startled, Celestine took a step back, screwing up her eyes, for Katell’s breath smelled strongly of licorice comfits.

“I’ll be six when the snows come,” Celestine said.

“You’re only a baby.” Rozenne stroked her hair. “I was six when I came here, two years ago.”

“I’m seven, but I’m half a head taller than Rozenne.” Katell fished in the pocket of her smock and brought out a couple of dusty comfits. “Here. You can have one. Sister Kinnie keeps a jar in the Infirmary. Sometimes she gives them as a reward.”

Celestine nodded her thanks and put the comfit in her mouth. The strong flavor made her tongue sting, but she hadn’t the heart to spit the gift out into her palm.

Katell twirled away down the dormitory toward a great armoire of dark-stained wood. Celestine trailed after her. As Katell tugged the door open, a faint odor of lavender and starch wafted out. Clean, folded sheets were piled high inside.

“Catch!” Katell tossed her one. Celestine reached up and caught it. Then she saw the painting on the wall. A lady gazed down on the dormitory with eyes of soft violet blue, her golden tresses falling about her shoulders, her slender fingers caressing the keys of a gilded portative organ.

“Oh,” breathed Celestine, gazing back. “She’s so pretty. Who is she?”

“Don’t you know? She’s Saint Azilia, silly,” said Katell scornfully.

“How could she know?” Rozenne put her hands protectively on Celestine’s shoulders, bending down to whisper in her ear. “She’s the saint of music. Our patron saint.”

Celestine nodded, still staring at the smiling lady.

“And here’s a clean smock for you.” Katell thrust a folded garment at her.

The smock was made of brown linen, like the ones Rozenne and Katell were wearing. Celestine stared at it in bewilderment, not knowing how to put it on over her shift.

“I’ll help you.” Rozenne pulled it over Celestine’s head and showed her how to tie the fastenings. “Oh dear. It’s rather too large for you, isn’t it? But you’ll grow.”

“Now you’re a Skylark too.” Katell grinned at her. “Don’t look so sad! You’re not going to cry, are you?”

A bell began to ring, a rapid succession of clangs that echoed around the white convent walls.

“Choir practice!” The girls scampered off, leaving Celestine standing, bemused, in the middle of the dormitory.

“Come on, Celestine!” Rozenne ran back and grabbed her by the hand. “Sister Noyale will scold us if we’re late.”

The high, vaulted ceiling of the chapel vanished into dim greyness far above Celestine’s head. She trotted along at Rozenne’s side, hearing the patter of their light footfalls magnified, echoing far into the shadows.

“You’re late,” said a stern female voice.

“Here’s the new Skylark, Sister Noyale.”

Celestine shuffled forward, trying not to trip over her smock. Sister Noyale towered above her.

“Sweet Azilia, she’s an infant! I’m not running a nursery here.” Celestine registered a strong yet handsome face, brown-skinned, with arching dark brows and eyes that flashed with annoyance. She also noticed a round mole like a beauty spot above Sister’s Noyale’s upper lip—and, fascinated, could not keep her eyes from straying back to it. “Whatever is the Abbess thinking of?”

Celestine shrank back. Sister Noyale scared her. She could sense that all the Skylarks were staring at her. She felt for the warmth of Rozenne’s hand and clutched it tightly.

“Sister Kinnie said—” began Rozenne.

“I don’t give a fig for what Sister Kinnie said. This choir is not for babes in arms.”

What the Skylarks dreaded the most, Celestine soon learned, was the moment when Sister Noyale would abandon her lectern to pace up and down along the rows of singers, hands clasped behind her back, coiffed head down, listening intently for wrong notes. Every time this happened, Celestine would feel her voice begin to dry from terror and her thin piping fade to a whisper.

Please don’t let it be me,
she prayed silently to Saint Azilia. For before long, the choirmistress would clap her hands and in the ensuing silence sharply call out one of the girls’ names. The offender would then be made to sing the last phrase on her own, her faults exposed for all to hear, her cheeks hot red with embarrassment. And when she had finished, if Sister Noyale was displeased, she would be made to repeat it until it was correct—or her fast-dripping tears made it impossible to continue. The thought of having to endure such public humiliation terrified Celestine. She knew Sister Noyale resented her presence in the choir. She suspected that she was waiting for the opportunity to catch her out.

There was so much music to learn by heart. There were chants for worship at daybreak, noontide devotions, twilight hymns, and solemn hymns for the watchnight services. Celestine was bewildered by the complexity of the words and often resorted to merely moving her lips, miming the verses that she could not begin to remember.

“The new girl is not ready, Kinnie,” she overheard Sister Noyale complaining. “Her voice is too thin, too underdeveloped to train yet. It will stand out from the rest, like a false coin jingled in with the gold.”

“As some of you are aware, Saint Azilia’s Day is approaching,” said Sister Noyale, eyeing each girl sternly in turn. “And to honor our patron saint, we invite guests to hear us sing. It’s the most important day of the year, so we must be note-perfect.”

A summer storm was brewing outside and little slivers of distant lightning lit the darkening chapel. Celestine was distracted. She hated storms. Rain and hail began to rattle on the chapel roof. As the rumble of thunder growled, the girls darted nervous glances at each other.

“I expect every Skylark to give me her full attention,” said Sister Noyale. She rapped on her lectern with her baton. “It’s just a heavy downpour, nothing more. Be thankful that you’re not working out in the kitchen gardens this afternoon. Back to ‘Protect Us, Blessed Azilia.’” She hummed a pitch. “Here’s your note. One, two, and…” The first note was almost drowned by a loud crack of thunder. Startled, Celestine looked around. The other girls had begun to sing, evidently more afraid of their choirmistress than the breaking storm.

She was acutely aware that Sister Noyale was on the prowl again and yet every time the thunder rumbled, panic overwhelmed her and the notes she was singing went wrong.

“Celestine!” Sister Noyale’s voice was sharp as a slap. “Stand out from the line, where I can see you. Repeat that last phrase.”

Celestine froze. She was paralyzed with fear. She felt Rozenne nudge her.

“Hurry up, child. Don’t keep me waiting!” Sister Noyale’s dark eyes reflected the flash of lightning that suddenly lit the aisle of the chapel.

Celestine stumbled forward onto the blue-and-ochre tiles. She opened her mouth…and thunder cracked right overhead. Several girls shrieked, clutching each other. The panes of stained glass rattled in their lead frames. Sister Noyale raised her eyes to heaven.

“Repeat it after me, Celestine.” Her voice was less harsh now, but Celestine heard the vexation in it. And as the choirmistress’s rich alto voice slowly demonstrated the melody, Celestine felt the tears well up. She hiccuped as she tried to sing, willing the tears away. She could feel a lump swelling in her throat, strangling the notes of the simple phrase so that all that came from her lips was a weak whisper that made her cringe with shame.

Sister Noyale let out an exasperated sigh. “How can I produce anything resembling a performance with such poor material? The Abbess expects me to work miracles. And the festival is only six days away.”

Celestine hung her head and her tears dripped onto the tiles. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Sorry is not good enough.” Sister Noyale’s hand cupped her chin, tipping her face up to hers. “Many important and noble visitors will come here on Saint Azilia’s Day. They expect to hear perfection. You may be the youngest Skylark, but I will treat you no differently than the rest. Go. And don’t come back until you are in control of yourself. I have no room for little crybabies in this choir.”

As Celestine fled into the torrential rain, the thunder still grumbled menacingly as the storm clouds moved away over the bay.

CHAPTER 7

“
Celestine.
” A pearl-white light began to glow in the empty dormitory. Celestine raised her head from the damp blanket and blinked. Her eyes felt raw and swollen from weeping. She had not wept so much since…but no, she could not even bear to think of that. It made her feel as if she were tumbling off the edge of a vertiginous cliff into a dark pit of shadows…

“
Celestine,
” said the soft, solicitous voice once more and Celestine saw the Faie slowly issuing from the book, rising to lean over her with eyes the tender blue of forget-me-nots. “
How can I help you?
”

Celestine shook her head and a hiccuping sob issued from her, the tight knot constricting her throat. “I c—can’t sing.”

The light radiating from the Faie’s gentle blue eyes felt like a caress. Celestine’s sobs stilled as she gazed uncertainly back. The Faie had taken the form of the Blessed Saint Azilia, with long tresses of pale gold.

“
Would you like to sing?
” asked the sweet, low voice.

Celestine nodded. To be able to sing as well as the other Skylarks was her heart’s desire. She wanted to make Sister Noyale gasp with admiration when she opened her lips. She wanted to make the other girls stare at her with envy. She wanted to be the best.

“
Then I will grant your wish.
”

Translucent fingers reached out to touch Celestine’s forehead, tracing the contours of her face and mouth, sliding downward to her throat. Celestine, kneeling up on her blanket, closed her eyes, feeling a soft tingling begin to pass through her body.

Celestine opened her eyes again and saw the Faie bending over her as Maman used to when she kissed her good night. Closer leaned the face until she felt the faint brush of Faie lips upon her own. Her tongue, mouth, and throat began to glow with a silvery warmth that slowly seeped through her whole body. She looked at herself in astonishment, seeing for a moment every limb, every finger softly glowing with the same cloudy radiance as the hovering Faie.

Then, as the glow began to dim, she saw the Faie slowly nod as though approving what it had done.

“
Use my gift well, Celestine.
”

Celestine could only nod in reply. She still felt as though she were filled with light. As the Faie faded back into the book, Celestine heard the sound of footsteps hastening up the stairs.

“Celestine!” Katell rushed in, plaits whirling wildly about her head, closely followed by Rozenne, then Koulmia, who had to stop to catch her breath. “Are you all right?”

“We—came as soon as we—could,” puffed Koulmia.

“You should take off your wet smock.” Rozenne fussed around her like a mother hen. “You’ll catch cold, and then you’ll have no voice at all for Saint Azilia’s Day.”

Celestine let Rozenne drag the damp smock over her head and rub her hair dry with a towel. She was still dazed by her encounter with the Faie, her throat and mouth still glowed with the warmth of the Faie’s kiss.

“That Sister Noyale is a horrid old woman.” Katell paced the dormitory, thin shoulders hunched, kicking angrily at anything in her path: discarded clogs, water jugs. “She should be punished for making our Celestine cry. We should put toads in her bed. We should sprinkle pepper in her porridge. We should…”

The thought of Sister Noyale lifting back the bedcovers to find slimy toads on the mattress, croaking and goggling at her, was irresistible. Celestine felt a little smile pushing at the corners of her mouth.

“Hush, Katell!” Rozenne placed a warning finger over her lips. “She might hear. And then she’d punish you.”

“I don’t care,” declared Katell, hands on her hips. She came over and grinned at Celestine. “That’s better.” She ruffled Celestine’s hair. “We’ll help you. We’ll teach you ourselves.”

Celestine smiled shyly back. Katell might seem a little rough-and-ready, but she had a good heart.

“Skylarks!” Angelique appeared in the dormitory and clapped her hands smartly. “What are you doing up here? You’re on kitchen duty today. Sister Kinnie is getting impatient. Put your aprons on—and run.”

The faint, sweet sound of singing drifted out across the courtyard from the chapel’s open door. In the scullery, Celestine lifted her head from the carrots she was scraping and listened.

Quietly she began to hum the notes of the chant to herself. And then Sister Noyale’s hurtful words returned to remind her of her inadequacy.

“
Her voice is too thin, too underdeveloped to train yet. It will stand out from the rest…
”

Yet the sound that was issuing from her lips was quite different from before. Although her voice was still soft, the notes flowed sweetly, her tone small but crystal-pure.

“So here you are!”

Celestine stopped and saw Katell, Rozenne, and Koulmia gawking at her.

Then Katell let out a whistle. “Who’d have thought that our teaching could make you into a songbird, Celestine? Sister Noyale—it’s time for you to retire!”

“Well done, little songbird.” Rozenne rushed forward to smother Celestine in a warm hug. “Have you been practicing down here, all by yourself?”

Celestine nodded.

“It’s just as I said,” went on Katell, developing her theme. “Sister Noyale terrified her so much that she could hardly produce a single note. How can we prove to her that Celestine can sing as well as the rest of us?”

“Sister Noyale still scares me.” Koulmia began to nibble at a peeled carrot. “But every time she starts to glare at me, I think of things I like. Honey cake on Saint Azilia’s Day,” she said dreamily, “and those rose petal creams that Sister Kinnie makes…”

Celestine looked inquiringly up at Rozenne.

“There’s always a special feast with treats for the singers after the service,” Rozenne said. “And the noble guests give gifts to the convent. If we’re lucky, they bring little treats for us, too…”

“Sugared almonds,” said Katell.

“Barley sugar,” added Rozenne.

“Marzipan.” Koulmia let out a sigh of longing.

Celestine had a sudden memory of Maman making marzipan in the little cottage kitchen, letting her mix the ground almonds into a thick sticky paste, then cut out little shapes. The recollection was so vivid that the sound of the girls’ chatter receded and she lost the sense of their conversation until she heard Koulmia saying, “And she has to perform to the noble guests. Do you think Celestine might be chosen?”

“Chosen?” echoed Celestine.

“Every year one of us is chosen to sing solo. And—”

“It has to be Angelique,” Rozenne said, her eyes softening as she clasped her hands together.

“Yes, we all know you have a crush on Angelique,” said Katell dryly. “But remember that she’s nearly sixteen. If she sings well enough, she’ll be sent away to join the convent choir in Lutèce. And then she’ll be gone for good.”

Rozenne’s dreamy expression changed to one of alarm. Then she hugged Celestine tightly again. “Don’t worry, Celestine. We won’t let them send you away.”

“They won’t choose any of us Skylarks,” Katell said scornfully. “Our voices aren’t ‘fully developed.’”

“Are those carrots ready yet?” called Sister Elena, bustling into the scullery, balancing an armful of cabbages. On seeing the half-scraped pile, she let out a cry of vexation. “Idle girls! There’s soup to be made and here you are, gossiping.” She snatched a half-eaten carrot out of Koulmia’s hand, tutting. “You’d better help little Celestine. And don’t you dare take another bite, Koulmia!”

The sound of the flowing water, echoing around the washhouse, made Celestine feel less self-conscious. She began to sing softly as she spread the wet aprons out on the worn stone slab and scrubbed away with the brush Sister Elena had given her. And the more vigorously she scrubbed, the louder she sang, forgetting that anyone might be passing by.

Wringing the surplus water from the linen just as Sister Elena had taught her, she put the clean apron in the wooden bucket and turned to fish in the water for the next. Then she saw the nuns standing on the opposite side of the washtub and watching her: Sister Kinnie, Sister Elena—and Sister Noyale, arms folded, all regarding her intently.

“I—I’m sorry.” Celestine hastily bowed her head, certain she had done something wrong, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

“You’ve been hiding something from us, Celestine,” said Sister Noyale severely. “You have a voice.”

“M—me?”

“Sing for us again. Here is your starting note.”

Celestine felt her knees begin to tremble. When she tried to take in a breath, it was as if a cord had tightened around her throat. She opened her mouth and a sad, whispering sound emerged. She tried to avoid Sister Noyale’s stern brown eyes, not wanting to see the disapproval and disappointment she sensed was there. And then, as she struggled to sing the first phrase of the hymn, the lapping echo of the water began to soothe her nerves. She breathed more easily and one phrase flowed smoothly into the next. Before she knew it, she had completed the final verse. She looked over the washtub to see Sister Noyale looking back at her, her lips pursed in a strange, unreadable expression.

“Our little Celestine can sing as sweetly as a nightingale!” said Sister Kinnie, beaming. “You must reinstate her, Sister Noyale.”

Prince Karl seated himself at Linnaius’s desk and examined the invention with keen attention, twiddling the knobs like an excited schoolboy. “So this is the finished Vox Aethyria, eh?”

Linnaius nodded, praying that the prince would not break anything.

“It looks too damned pretty to be part of a scientific experiment.”

“If you would be so good as to speak a few words into the voice receptor, highness…”

Karl cleared his throat, then said, a little awkwardly, “Eugene, this is your father. Can you hear me?” He waited. Linnaius waited. And then a faint but distinct voice replied, “I hear you, Father. Is the Magus there?”

“He’s standing right beside me.”

“Is he pleased? Is he smiling?” came back the young man’s reply. “He should be. This experiment is a success!”

Prince Karl glanced up at Linnaius. “My son is right; this Vox of yours is going to give us a significant advantage over our enemies.” He seized Linnaius’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Congratulations, Magus. How’d you feel about moving out of the university science faculty and establishing a laboratory all of your own?”

“Y—your highness is too kind.” Linnaius was not yet used to Karl’s spontaneous gestures of generosity; he had spent so much of his life fending for himself.

“It’s in Tielen’s interests to keep you working for us,” Karl said, laughing heartily. He cast a roll of papers down on Linnaius’s desk. “Take a look at these. They’re preliminary drawings by the architects I’ve commissioned to develop a little project of mine. I’d like your thoughts about the laboratory.”

An hour or so later, Linnaius was still sitting at his desk, studying the plans, when he heard a voice calling his name. The door opened and a tall young man appeared.

“That was so
exciting
!” His eyes sparkled with an infectious fervor. “Thank you so much, Magus, for letting me be the first to use the Vox!”

Linnaius looked at Karl’s son and could not help smiling back, in spite of himself. The young man’s passion for science was inspiring. Eugene was a frequent visitor at the faculty, always eager to learn. He was equally passionate about military history, and Linnaius noticed that he was wearing the grey uniform of a cadet at the Tielen Military Academy.

“So your highness has enrolled at the academy?”

“Today. So I won’t be able to call in quite so often while I complete my training. They’re sending us off into the wilds in the north on a survival exercise. It’s to toughen us up for future campaigns.”

“Take care, highness,” Linnaius heard himself saying. With surprise he realized that, in spite of his best resolve, he had come to care for the boy as if he were his own. Ambitious, cultured, with a keen intellect and an insatiable hunger for knowledge, Eugene resembled his father in many ways, not least in his ability to inspire those around him.
But I must not let myself grow too fond. Personal attachments are risky for a magus. Better to stay aloof, detached…

“Sleds, the frozen sea, making shelters out of compacted snow—I can’t wait!” Eugene stopped in front of the Vox, staring down at the glittering device. “But I’ve been meaning to ask you about these crystals, Magus. They’re unlike any gem I’ve ever seen before. What’s the secret?”

Linnaius hesitated. To tell Eugene the truth would be to admit that he was deficient in the skills it took to energize the aethyr crystals. But there was something in Eugene’s frank, open expression that required an honest answer. “I have to admit that I ‘borrowed’ these crystals from the Francian Commanderie. They’re aethyr crystals of a rare kind, only found in Enhirre.”

“No wonder you’re a wanted man in Francia!” said Eugene, breaking into delighted laughter. But then he reached for Linnaius’s hand and pressed it between his own. “You do realize that you must never go back to Francia? The Inquisition is hungry for your blood.”