Tracing the Shadow (16 page)

CHAPTER 12

Jagu’s eyes kept straying from the mathematical problem he was supposed to be solving to the classroom window. It had rained all morning but since midday the clouds had dispersed and now the sun shone in a sky of fresh-washed blue. But what drew Jagu’s attention was the dark bird that had soared past the window for the third time. As he watched, it disappeared amid the snowy dusting of blossom that had appeared overnight on the trees in the walled garden.
Surely it couldn’t be the Magus’s familiar…?

“Rustéphan!” Jagu started and saw Père Albin towering over his desk. “Would you kindly stand up and repeat to the class what I just said?”

Jagu had not heard a word. Paol whispered, “Measure the angle—”

Père Albin’s cane thwacked down on Paol’s desk, making him let out a startled yelp. “Is
your
name Rustéphan?”

“N—no, mon père.”

“If I want to hear your voice, Paol de Lannion, I’ll be sure to ask you.
Rustéphan?
” Père Albin rolled the “r,” like a mastiff growling. He patted the end of the cane on his palm. “I’m waiting.”

Jagu looked the hated Père Albin in the eyes. He would not be intimidated by the choleric old man. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear, mon père.”

“As I suspected! Daydreaming again. You know what happens to boys who daydream in my lessons?”

“Show me.” It was an order, even though Henri de Joyeuse’s voice was quiet. Jagu reluctantly obeyed. Joyeuse gently took his hands in his own to examine them more closely and Jagu heard him softly draw in his breath between his teeth.

“And what crime did you commit to earn this barbarous punishment?”

Jagu could not meet Joyeuse’s eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention in class.”

There was a silence. “I see,” Joyeuse said eventually. “And the master who did this to you?”

“Père Albin.” Jagu raised his head, realizing what Joyeuse intended. “But please…please don’t take it any further.”

“Because he’ll only make your life more miserable if I do?” Joyeuse’s pleasant expression had hardened into a look of stern determination. “I can’t allow a master to subject you to such abuse and ruin your prospects as a musician in the name of classroom discipline.”

Over the past months, Jagu had forced himself to endure Père Albin’s punishments in silence, hiding his misery, even from his friends. Now he realized that he had an ally, a protector who was prepared to stand up to the sour-tempered old master, and he was not at all sure how he felt about it. He had never understood why Père Albin had taken such a dislike to him. He had needed a great deal of willpower to arm himself against Père Albin and he feared that Joyeuse’s kindly words might erode his defenses. He stared at the worn floorboards, studying each knothole, not knowing what to say.

“You have a God-given gift for music, Jagu,” Joyeuse said, almost as if reading his thoughts, “and in the years to come you will encounter more people, like Père Albin, who are jealous of that gift, who resent you for it. Such people are to be pitied rather than despised.”

“B—but you’re leaving,” Jagu blurted out.

“And when I’ve gone, it will all be just the same as before?” A mysterious smile had appeared on the musician’s face. “I’ve already spoken with Abbé Houardon and he has agreed to allow you an extra hour a day to practice. It will mean extra duties substituting for old Père Isidore at matins and vespers in chapel, of course. But I don’t believe you will find that so disagreeable, will you?”

Jagu felt as if a sudden shaft of brilliant sunlight had illuminated the music room, brightening every dusty corner. He gazed up at Maistre de Joyeuse. “You did that for me? Thank you, Maistre.” His voice came out huskily and to his embarrassment he found that his eyes had filled with tears. He had never wept once when Père Albin was caning him, not even when the pain was so intense that he had bitten his lip till it bled to stop himself from crying out. But now he felt that if he began to weep, he would never stop.

And then he felt the lightest touch on his cheek, wiping away the single stray tear that had begun to trickle down. “If ever you need a recommendation, Jagu, I have many friends at the conservatoire of music in Lutèce. I’m not asking you to rush this decision. Practice diligently. And if you still want to make music, whether it be in a few months or a few years, contact me.” The musician’s gentle fingers tipped Jagu’s chin upward until the soft grey eyes gazed intently into his. “Promise me that you will.”

Jagu nodded, still fighting back the tears. This unexpected kindness had undone him utterly.

“And now I must bid farewell to
my
old form master.” Henri de Joyeuse was already at the door; he glanced back over his shoulder and Jagu saw the ghost of a mischievous grin. “Of course, back then, he wasn’t headmaster, and his hair hadn’t turned grey. But we were all in awe of him, even the senior students.”

“Abbé Houardon was
your
form teacher?” Jagu tried to imagine Henri at the same age as himself; had he been small and studious, like Paol, or a rebel like Kilian?

“Till we meet again.” With a salute of the hand and a smile, Henri de Joyeuse was gone. Jagu, his emotions in disarray, stood in the center of the room, not knowing what to do. Then he noticed the little pile of music on the lid of the fortepiano. Maistre de Joyeuse had forgotten it; he would have to run after him.

A note addressed to “Jagu de Rustéphan” lay on top of the pile. With swollen, clumsy fingers, he opened it and read:

“Dear Jagu,

“These pieces are for you. The first is a book of chorale preludes that I composed for the organ at Saint Meriadec. The second is Marais’s
Variations on a Ground Bass.
Both are challenging works. I have marked the fingering, expression and phrasing for you. Take your time in learning them. And when you have mastered them, come and play them to me in Lutèce.

“Your friend, Henri de Joyeuse.”

“His own compositions?” Jagu took up the chorale preludes and leafed through them eagerly. At a first glance he could see that they were far more difficult than anything he had ever played before. Learning them would take weeks of practice; reaching performance standard might take years. But he relished a challenge. He clutched the precious book tightly to him.

“Thank you, Maistre,” he whispered to the empty room.

“Lannion? Where’s Rustéphan?” demanded Emilion as a slender, fair-haired boy appeared in the vestry. “He’s missed his chapel duty again.”

“He, um, asked me to deputize for him.” Paol de Lannion had a distinctly distracted air. “He’s having a music lesson with Maistre de Joyeuse.”

“There’s quite enough to be done for Saint Argantel’s Day, without you little squirts skipping duties. You’ll have to do, I suppose. Tell him to see me later. He’s not getting off so lightly.” And Emilion turned to the altar, bowing respectfully, before removing the candlesticks and the jeweled Golden Crook. “Come here, Lannion. All these will have to be polished. What are you waiting for?”

He turned round and saw that Paol was tottering on the first step of the altar. One hand was clutched to his shirt collar as if he was finding it difficult to breathe.

“What
now
?” Emilion said impatiently. The boy began to back away. His eyes had a haunted look. “Look, Lannion,” he said, a little less fiercely, “just do the candlesticks, will you? There’s polish and dusters in the vestry.”

The boy nodded dumbly, slowly retreating, one unsteady step at a time.

“
Angelstones, master…
” Rieuk clutched at the ancient Serindhan malus tree to support himself as Ormas caught a tremor of the stones’ latent power. “
They’re here, hidden in the altar.
”

Rieuk concentrated again and looked around the chapel through Paol’s shortsighted eyes. He could sense the strong, clear wave of energy emanating from the Angelstones, slowly draining Ormas of his strength.

“
This one is too weak to support me.
”

The bright flame of the boy’s life essence was fading; separated from his soul, his heart would not be able to sustain the Emissary’s presence much longer.

Rieuk knew that his plan was going awry. He had detected the location of the Angelstones but Ormas was not able to approach them without being affected. And with the union between Emissary and Paol failing so fast, he would have to find some other means to extract the stones and destroy them.

“Ormas. Bring the boy Paol to me in the garden. We need to find someone older to get the stones. Someone stronger.”

Jagu could not sleep.

A trickle of moonlight leaked in through the high dormitory window, illuminating Paol’s empty bed. Paol should have been back by now. It was only chapel duty, after all. And it was odd that neither Père Albin nor the senior monitor patrolling on dormitory duty had noticed his absence. Had they caught Paol trying to sneak back in and hauled him down to the headmaster’s study to be punished? Jagu felt guilty now, for letting Paol cover for him while he spent time with Maistre de Joyeuse. He crept over to Kilian’s bed and shook him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” Kilian mumbled.

“Paol’s not back.”

“What?” Kilian, still half-asleep, sat up, blinking at Jagu. “Where’s he got to?”

“I’m going to go look for him.”

“Wait. I’ll come with you.” Kilian grabbed his breeches from the end of the bed and started to pull them on; Jagu did the same. Holding their shoes, they tiptoed to the door and quietly let themselves out.

“I’ll scout round outside,” said Jagu.

“I’ll check the library,” said Kilian. “The little swot may have forgotten what time it is. You know how he loves to read.”

“Meet me back here in a quarter of an hour,” Jagu called over his shoulder as Kilian sped away. Jagu took the back stair, which led out into the quad. Lights were burning in the masters’ study windows; he inched along the wall before risking a quick look inside through the lozenge-paned glass. Père Albin was marking the essays they had handed in earlier, frowning as he scribbled critical comments in the margins. He could hear two of the senior masters discussing the bishop’s recent sermon.

Howls of laughter erupted from the opposite side of the quad, where the older students were housed. Jagu and his friends often wondered how the seniors amused themselves in their rare free time. Had they sent Paol out on an errand?

Jagu slipped silently across to the seniors’ dormitory and stood on tiptoe to look in.

“And if any one of you wastrels has failed to gain full marks in the translation paper,” one of the seniors was imitating Père Albin’s choleric manner and the others were doubled up with laughter, “I shall take pleasure in applying the cane with more than my usual enthusiasm. You, boy! Yes, you, bend over…” Jagu could smell liquor fumes and spotted a couple of empty wine bottles on a desk. But there was no sign of Paol.

And then he heard a cry, distant and high-pitched, from the direction of the garden. It could have been a hunting owl, or its terrified prey…

Jagu sped from the quad, tearing along the path, scuffing up gravel as he ran.