Tracing the Shadow (27 page)

“Who
is
that man?” Celestine whispered, still unable to take her eyes off him.

“One you don’t want to have to do business with. That’s Haute Inquisitor Alois Visant.”

“Inquisitor?” she repeated mechanically.

“The head of the Francian Inquisition.” Was that man talking with Captain de Lanvaux, exchanging the customary pleasantries, the ruthless mind who had hunted down and destroyed her father? She wondered why he looked so ordinary; his hair was chestnut with the slightest shading of grey about the temples, his expression thoughtful as he conversed, giving little hint of his—

“Celestine?”

“What?” She started to find that Maistre de Joyeuse was gazing at her with concern.

“You were far away then. Very far.”

“Forgive me, Maistre. I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Had she revealed too much? Trying to change the subject, she said the first thing that entered her mind. “What herbs are in your aunt’s remedy? I feel much better now.”

“My aunt’s restorative drops?” He was smiling again. “Mostly brandy.”

Rough hands seize her and bind her to the stake. The ropes cut into her flesh as she tries to struggle free. A hooded figure stands before her pyre. “Burn her,” he orders the soldiers and they set flaming brands to the logs on which her bare feet rest.

“No,” she whispers. Fire—such a cruel, horrible death. As the flames lick at her skin and the smoke stings her throat, she sees her executioner’s face, his cold eyes reflecting the light of the flames
.

Haut Inquisitor Visant.

All morning, Celestine went about her daily tasks in a daze, haunted by her dream. Last night’s glimpse of Inquisitor Visant had brought home to her that she knew so little of the events that had led to her father’s downfall. When Gauzia left for vocal training with Dame Elmire, Celestine could wait no longer. She took out the book and said, “Help me, Faie.”

“
How can I help you?
” Each word pierced her brain like a shard of crystal. Glimmering light was emanating from beneath the protective cloth in which she had concealed the book.

“I was only a little child when the Inquisition took my father. I didn’t really understand what was happening. Do you know why he was executed?”

The Faie, still in its guise of Saint Azilia, emerged from the cover until it towered above her, eyes luminous with concern, hands raised as though to bless. “
Lock the door
.”

Celestine checked the corridor; there was no one about. And when she turned around again she no longer saw the sweet face of Saint Azilia smiling at her. A slender form, translucent as running water, gazed at her with wild, haunted eyes, faceted like glittering crystal.

“
I have a message for you. A message I was charged not to give you until you asked me.
”

The Faie’s form rippled and began to take on a new identity. Brownish fairly short hair, a little untidy, a firm jaw, an endearingly slightly snubbed nose, two warm and smiling eyes the blue-grey of slate…a face that she had not seen in over ten years.

“Papa.” She sank to her knees before the beloved likeness.

“
Klervie.
” Even the voice was his, not as deep or sensitively nuanced as Maistre de Joyeuse’s, but warm in affection and good humor.

“
Dearest Klervie. If you are receiving this message now, it will be because my worst suspicions will have been proved true. I pray this will not be the case. I have bound this aethyrial spirit to protect and guard you until you are old enough and skilled enough to set it free. You have my blood in your veins, which means that you are different from other children. You were not born an elemental magus, like Kaspar Linnaius or Rieuk Mordiern, for which I thank God, but you do have a gift.
”

“I have a gift?” she murmured.

“
Listen carefully, child. The book to which I have bound the spirit is a book of magic. My grimoire. But however tempted you feel to use the glamours and spells concealed in its pages, I beg you to consider the consequences. Every time you use one, it will deprive you of some of that essential life force that the magi call the Essence. If you must resort to such desperate measures, do it only when your life depends on it. There is always a price to be paid for the use of magic, and you have not been trained how to conserve your strength.
”

Spells? Glamours? Celestine’s mind was dizzied with the possibilities of this information. She could not take her eyes from this semblance of her father’s face, trying to seal every detail in her memory. And then she heard footsteps on the stair. “Someone’s coming!” But the Faie was still relaying her father’s message and Celestine was desperate not to miss a single word.

“
I’m sealing this message in the book because I fear I have been betrayed. Kaspar Linnaius and I have been developing a secret device, the Vox Aethyria, which transmits the human voice through the aethyr.
”

“Kaspar Linnaius,” Celestine repeated. And her memory cruelly catapulted her back again into the Place du Trahoir, that terrible day that she had never managed to blot from her mind.

“
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 betrayed you, Papa.” She vaguely remembered the older magus; he had always seemed forbidding and cold, never bringing her little treats, like Magister de Rhuys, or even smiling at her. Tears began to stream down her face. “Linnaius betrayed you to the Inquisition and stole your invention.”

Someone rattled the door handle. “Celestine?” It was Gauzia, her voice shrill and petulant. “Why is the door locked? What are you doing in there?”

“
Never forget that you are Klervie de Maunoir. But never tell another living soul. That name alone is enough to have you arrested by the Inquisition.
” Hervé’s image began to shimmer, to fragment and dissolve as the rattling at the door handle grew more frantic.

“Don’t go, Papa. Please don’t go,” whispered Celestine, reaching forward to try to embrace the fast-vanishing illusion. But her arms closed on empty air as the Faie faded swiftly into the book and became Saint Azilia once more.

“Celestine!” shrilled Gauzia petulantly. “If you don’t open this door at once, I’ll—”

Celestine opened the door.

“What were you doing?” Gauzia pushed in past her, looking around suspiciously, raising the bedcovers, opening the armoire door and peering inside. She turned on Celestine accusingly. “Was someone else in here? I thought I could hear voices.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gauzia.” Celestine glanced away, not wanting to let Gauzia see that she had been crying. “I was learning song words, saying them out loud.” She was still stunned by the Faie’s revelation about the book.
My father left me his grimoire. A book of magic. And I have inherited a gift, his gift to use the glamours and spells inside…

Gauzia came closer. “There’s something different about you.”

“My hair.” Celestine cast around for her handkerchief.

“Have you been crying?”

“So what is so urgent that you had to break the door down to tell me?”

“It seems,” Gauzia’s hazel eyes were bright with a self-satisfied gleam, “that my performance last night found favor with quite a few people. Influential people.”

“And?” Celestine only half heard what Gauzia was telling her. She wanted only to see her father again, to hear his voice instead of Gauzia’s boasting.

“I’ve been asked to perform at a reception at the Muscobar Embassy. Many foreign dignitaries will be there. If they like my singing…” Gauzia spun around, clasping her hands together. “This could be my chance, Celestine, my chance to escape the convent at last.”

Celestine began to understand why Gauzia was so excited. Celestine had never considered until this moment that she would ever be asked to use her talents except in the service of the church.

“Who made the invitation?”

“Why, the Muscobite ambassador, no less. A very handsome man, a count. I was presented to him after the concert.” Gauzia sank to her knees by Celestine’s bed. “And it gets better. I told him, ‘But I’ve nothing suitable to wear, I can’t possibly perform in this nun’s habit.’ And he said, ‘We’ll have a dressmaker visit you. Choose whatever style and color you like. And shoes to match.’”

Dresses and shoes meant little to Celestine except as a means to an end. She understood only that Gauzia had sung in public and been offered this extraordinary opportunity.

“And it’s all thanks to Maistre de Joyeuse. I couldn’t be more grateful. Do you think I should ask for a green gown, to match my eyes? Some people say it’s an unlucky color…”

As Celestine lay awake with her thoughts, watching the moonlight fade, the clock of Saint Meriadec’s struck two in the morning. She could not help repeating one name again and again.
Kaspar Linnaius
: the one magus to escape death at the stake. Memories, hazed by years of healing forgetfulness, began to flicker through her mind. Papa at work in his study, so intent he did not notice she was standing in the doorway, until she called his name. “Not now, Klervie, Papa’s busy…” Sometimes there had been others there. The green-eyed young man who liked to play with Mewen, teasing him with a feather tied to a piece of string. And then she shivered. The older magus with eyes so cold that they gleamed like a wintry sky.

Then there was Papa’s book, filled with forbidden knowledge. The Inquisition had burned everything in the magisters’ library. Only this book remained.

Do I really have a gift? The gift to wield magic?
The Inquisition had called it a Forbidden Art. If anyone else were to discover the secrets hidden inside the book…And yet now that she knew she had the key to unlock its hidden contents, this thought was dangerously attractive. She would never achieve anything if she was obliged to spend the rest of her days singing psalms with the Sisters of Charity. The answers lay beyond these safe convent walls, maybe far beyond the shores of Francia. But how was she, a young woman alone and without income or influence, to travel abroad?

Had Gauzia given her the clue?

Autumn had come early to Lutèce, bringing winds and sharp spatters of cold rain. Celestine went to and from the Conservatoire alone all week. Gauzia and Maistre de Joyeuse were busy rehearsing together for the recital at the Muscobar Embassy. Every time Celestine heard them, her heart was twisted with jealous anguish. Gauzia’s voice seemed to have bloomed; even Celestine had to admit that her richly burnished contralto was a pleasure to listen to. Her technique had improved too, and she could sing a long, arcing phrase without skimping or snatching a little breath.

And then, the night before the concert, Celestine woke in the night to hear Gauzia sneezing. By morning, Gauzia was running a slight fever.

“It’s only a head cold,” she insisted, but Celestine could see the desperation in her eyes and hear the thick, clogged rasp of catarrh in her throat.

At Celestine’s request, Angelique brought some linctus from the infirmary and a hot camomile tisane laced with honey.

“I’ll be fine,” Gauzia said again and again as she sipped the tisane. But the hoarseness in her voice was all too apparent. “You’ll see.”

“Will you turn the pages for me, Demoiselle?” the Maistre asked Celestine.

“Me?” Celestine was a little uncertain about this task; she did not want to risk turning in the wrong place and upsetting him.

“Don’t worry; I’ll nod so you know exactly when.” He was smiling at her. “Shall we begin with a few vocal exercises, Demoiselle Gauzia?” He played a broken chord for Gauzia to pitch her first note, but Gauzia did not start to sing; she was surreptitiously trying to clear her throat, one hand covering her mouth. Maistre de Joyeuse played the broken chord again and Celestine saw Gauzia swallow hard before opening her mouth to sing. The notes that issued from her throat did not display the usual strong, well-rounded tone, but were far from the husky sound Celestine had expected.

But Gauzia was only ten bars or so into her first chanson when she broke down, one hand to her throat.

“Henri, this girl is sick!” pronounced Dame Elmire, marching in. “I could hear her coughing from two floors up. I forbid you to allow her to perform.”

Gauzia let out a hoarse wail of protest, then lapsed into another bout of coughing.

“You should be in bed, young lady,” said Dame Elmire. “Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll give you a hot drink to soothe your throat. Then you’re going back to the convent in the carriage.” And before Gauzia could protest again, Dame Elmire took her firmly by the arm and marched her out of the music room.

Celestine rose from her seat beside the Maistre. “I’d better go to her.”

He caught hold of her by the hand. “Can you take her place, Celestine?”

“Me?” Her first reaction was one of panic. “I can’t sing Gauzia’s songs!”

“We’ll change the program. We’ll choose a repertoire better suited to your voice. Who will know?”

“B—but it’s tonight.” The panic increased. “All those important people will be listening.”

“And I’ll be there to accompany you. What is there to fear?” He grinned at her, a disarming, friendly grin.

“But you said that my voice isn’t ready.”

He leaned closer to her. “Here’s your chance to prove me wrong.”

Her eyes widened. What was he implying?

“And I’ve nothing to wear.”

“What about Gauzia’s dress?”

“That won’t be at all suitable!” pronounced a disapproving voice from the doorway. Dame Elmire had reappeared, glowering sternly at her nephew. “Green is definitely
not
Celestine’s color. Not too mention the fact that Gauzia is rather more well developed than Celestine, and there’s no time to take in the gown.”

Celestine felt herself blushing again, mortified that Dame Elmire should have pointed out such a fact in front of the Maistre.