Tracing the Shadow (34 page)

I will not give up on him!

She was sure that she had not consciously reached for the book…but suddenly she was sitting up in bed, holding it in both hands, gazing at the image of the Blessed Azilia.

“Help me, Faie.”

The image of the saint began to dissolve before her eyes and in a swirl of soft radiance, the Faie rose up from the book.

“
Why have you waited so long?
” Eyes as translucent as the morning’s cloudy light gazed down into hers. “
Do you wish me to reveal the secrets of your father’s grimoire to you?
”

“Is there a glamour that will make the Maistre fall in love with me?” There! She had said it aloud; she had admitted how desperate she was.

“
What do you mean by ‘love’?
” The Faie’s crystal-bright gaze was blank. It was an aethyr spirit; how could it understand the complexities of a mortal heart? Celestine struggled to think of a means to express her wish in a way the Faie could understand.

“Love means…to dream of another person all the time. To want to be with them. To want to be in their thoughts constantly—” She broke off. What was she saying? Was this really love? It sounded more like obsession.

“
To alter the heart and mind of another mortal is beyond my power. I can only gift you, Celestine.
”

“Only me?” Was there some way the Faie could make her irresistible to men? Or would that just attract hateful and boorish predators, like the Tielen count?

“
In the grimoire, there are recipes for alchymical compounds that you can concoct to subdue your enemies, but no love potions.
”

“Narcotics?
Poisons?
” Celestine was not sure that she was ready to be trusted with such dangerous knowledge.

“
There are recipes for spells that will draw the truth from an unwilling tongue.
” The Faie was no longer hovering in front of her, it had floated to her side, its long crystalline strands of hair falling like a shimmering veil over its pale, androgynous body. The book opened and the pages began to flip over, as if turned by an invisible hand. Celestine caught tantalizing glimpses of engravings and dark-inked pictures in the margins: herbs, strange fruit, and rare plants. “
But you must remember that not a single spell contained within these pages can be cast without cost to you. How much of your precious life essence can you afford to expend on so trivial a matter
?”

As if from very far away, Celestine heard the distant, insistent ringing of the chapel bell. “Oh no. I’m late!”

The Faie swirled about her and she felt its breath, like a soft breeze from another world, stirring her hair as it stared deep into her eyes. Iridescent shadows flitted across her vision, dazzling her.

The door opened and Angelique came in. “Still in bed, Celestine?” Celestine blinked. The Faie had vanished and she was clutching the
Lives of the Holy Saints
.

“Late night at the opera?” Angelique began to brush her hair for her, deftly winding and pinning it into a knot on the back of her head.

“Oh, Angelique, it was amazing—”

“You can tell me all about it later. We’ll have to sneak onto the back row of the choir stalls and hope that Mère Apolline doesn’t notice.”

Celestine heard men’s voices coming from the music room.

He must have visitors. Have I come at the wrong time? Or has he forgotten my lesson again and made other arrangements?

Before she could even begin to feel aggrieved, the music room door opened and a tall, black-uniformed young man appeared.

Celestine gulped back an involuntary cry of dismay. The sight of that uniform still stirred memories so disturbing that they drove all other thoughts from her mind. Instinctively, she flattened herself against the paneled wall as he came toward her.

“And Godspeed, Jagu,” called a familiar voice as the Maistre followed the Guerrier into the hall.

“Jagu?” she whispered, gazing up.

“Demoiselle Celestine?” He stopped abruptly, staring at her. He looked so different in his somber uniform jacket, his wild hair tamed and neatly trimmed to collar length.

“Cadet de Rustéphan is off on his first tour of duty overseas,” said the Maistre.

“Overseas? To Enhirre? But you only joined up a few weeks ago.”

“It’s part of our training, to guard the pilgrim route to Ondhessar.” He spoke as if he were on the parade ground, with no expression in his voice.

Celestine had heard stories of the dangers of military life in Enhirre: attacks from marauding desert tribesmen, sand fever, and dysentery. “But how will you keep up your music practice?”

“My question, too,” said Maistre de Joyeuse, and she saw from his eyes that he was not in jest.

“I’ve made my choice,” said Jagu, even more stiffly.

“When do you sail?” Celestine asked, trying to imagine how it must feel to be setting out into the unknown.

“My regiment leaves at dawn tomorrow. We travel by river to Fenez-Tyr, where we join our ship.” He clicked his heels together, military fashion, and saluted. “Excuse me. I mustn’t be late.”

“Jagu,” said the Maistre quietly. Jagu turned and suddenly all his rigid formality dropped away. He flung his arms around the Maistre, hugging him tightly as if he could not let him go.

“Thank you,” he said in a muffled voice. “Thank you for everything, Maistre.” Then he tore himself away, flinging open the door and hurrying down the path. The street door banged shut and he was gone.

Celestine found herself blinking away tears. “Come back safely,” she called after him. She was ashamed; Jagu had shown all the determination and resolution that she lacked. And then she felt the warm pressure of a hand on her shoulder. Surprised, she looked up and found herself gazing into the Maistre’s grey eyes.

“Tears for Jagu? And yet the pair of you did nothing but argue,” he said, and she could not be sure from his expression if he was gently teasing her.
His hand is on my shoulder. He is touching me, trying to comfort me.

“You’re not implying that
I
drove him away?” she said, dismayed; the thought had never occurred to her till then.

“No, no…Jagu has daemons of his own that he has to come to terms with. I just wish they weren’t driving him quite so far away.”

She had not realized until then how much the Maistre cared for his rebellious student. “How long have you known Jagu?”

“He’s been my student for six, seven years. Since he…” He went to close the front door and the blissful moment was over.

“Since?” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

“It’s not really my story to tell.” He began to walk toward the music room; automatically she followed him. “But his best friend was murdered by a magus. It was a bad business, one that their school tried to hush up.”

“A magus?” Celestine felt a little shiver go through her. “What was he called, this magus?”

“Jagu never knew his true name. The magus took the student’s identity to infiltrate the seminary.”

Could it have been Kaspar Linnaius?
The thought transfixed her.
Do Jagu and I share the same enemy?
All these months they had worked together…and neither had once spoken of their secret fears and ambitions. And now it was too late to ask him. He could be gone for many months; if fighting broke out, he might get wounded, even…

“He could be killed,” she said aloud.

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about Jagu.”

“I only meant that—he’s such a gifted musician—I wouldn’t want him to be hurt—” This was far worse than she had intended. Now the Maistre would think she was trying to hide her feelings for Jagu, and the more she protested to the contrary, the more he would believe it.

The Commanderie barque lay at anchor where the river was at its broadest, beyond the Forteresse. But as Celestine hurried along the quay, she saw a column of Guerriers marching out across the bridge, then taking the stone slipway down to the riverbank, where a couple of rowboats were waiting. River mist, light as thistledown, was rising off the water as the sun’s first light shone through the high clouds.

A group of women and children had gathered at the head of the slipway to wave the Guerriers farewell. Clutching her cloak close against the damp mist, she joined them, standing on tiptoes to try to spot Jagu.

As the Guerriers clambered into the boat, one turned around to gaze at the bank, and she recognized Jagu.

“Jagu!” she called out, frantically waving her handkerchief. Her hood fell back as the sun rose, dazzling her. “Godspeed, Jagu!”

Against the sun’s dazzle, she saw one of his fellow Guerriers nudge him and point to her. He saw her. He saluted, stiffly—and then the salute changed into a spontaneous, boyish wave.

As the boat was rowed away downriver, Celestine and the other women waved until it disappeared under the bridge. A sudden feeling of desolation overwhelmed her as she walked slowly back along the quay.

I suppose I’ve come to care for him as a friend. And it’s always sad to say farewell to a good and faithful friend…

Ruaud looked up from his dispatches to see Fabien d’Abrissard standing before him, shaking his head disapprovingly. He pointed his fingers at him, as if he were wielding a pistol. “I despair of you, Captain. You could be lying over your desk in a pool of blood…”

“To what do I owe the honor?” Ruaud asked, annoyed by Abrissard’s theatrical arrival. Abrissard sat on the edge of his desk.

“The king is concerned for your safety. He asked me to warn you if I, or my associates, become aware of any potential threats.”

Ruaud suddenly understood why Abrissard had come. “Someone has put a price on my head?”

“Someone very close to you.”

Ruaud knew that he had made enemies, but he had never, till this moment, imagined that anyone judged him enough of a nuisance to hire an assassin. He sat back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together in an effort to calm his racing thoughts. “Why me?” he said at last.

“Why? Aren’t you going to ask ‘who’?” Abrissard said, smiling.

“Should I feel flattered? I’m new to these palace political power games. I’m a simple soldier who’s dedicated his life to following the teachings of Saint Sergius.”

“The instant his majesty took you into his confidence and singled you out from your fellow ‘simple soldiers,’” said Abrissard, “you became a marked man.”

“So it
is
Donatien.” The instant Ruaud had said the Grand Maistre’s name, he felt a sense of revulsion. “I was his adjutant in Enhirre. I looked up to him. I told myself that I wanted to be like him one day. What went wrong? When did he lose his faith in me?”

CHAPTER 25

The Guerriers’ watch fires illumined the ramparts of the ancient citadel at Ondhessar. Jagu, his cloak wrapped tightly about him for warmth, stared out into the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. He had never seen the stars burn so brightly in Francia; the unexpected chill of the desert night added a frosty sparkle to their brilliance in an ink-black sky. When night came to the crimson sands of Enhirre, it came suddenly, brutally, as the red sun sank behind the dunes, sucking the dry heat out of the atmosphere.

For centuries, the Guerriers of the Commanderie had taken on the role of protectors of the shrines and pilgrim ways. But since the siege of Ondhessar, a band of warriors calling themselves the Scorpions had been attacking both pilgrims and Commanderie strongholds.

“All quiet, cadet?” said a soft voice.

Jagu jumped. Behind him stood Kilian Guyomard, a familiarly malicious glint in his pale eyes. “Did I startle you?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Just checking my men are all awake and alert. The Scorpions like to attack at night. And as it’s been a while since they last paid us a visit…”

Jagu leaned on the worn stone of the ramparts and scanned the black sands below that stretched far into the dark horizon.

“Nothing to report so far.”

“Only a sliver of moon again,” Kilian said, scanning the sky.

“Ideal conditions for a raid. According to Commander Konan.” The thought of a raid made Jagu’s stomach feel distinctly queasy.

“You and me, up here, kind of reminds me of our old hiding place on the chapel roof.”

“You, me…and Paol.”

“Who’d have thought it?” Kilian rested his arms on the rampart alongside him. The watch fire in the nearest brazier sputtered, spitting out sparks. “That we’d both serve in the Guerriers one day…” The glow illuminated his face and Jagu saw that his habitual mocking expression had faded. “I still dream about it, Jagu. Finding Paol’s body in the gardens. And you…half out of your mind. You were damned lucky that de Lanvaux took you away from Saint Argantel’s. God, how I envied you.”

“So…what was it like?” Jagu asked carefully. “After I left?”

“The facts got out, even though the masters tried to hush up the whole matter. Boys were removed by their parents.”

“But not you?”

“Ha!” Kilian let out a scornful laugh. “What did my father care? He was just thankful I wasn’t around to irritate him.”

Jagu could not remember Kilian ever speaking so frankly at school about his family. “Why did you irritate him so?”

Kilian gazed outward, not looking at Jagu. “He said once that I reminded him too much of my mother. She died when I was six. He remarried soon after, of course. My stepmother and I did not…get on. So a good seminary education seemed like a convenient way to dispose of me.”

Kilian, always joking and playing tricks, hiding his feelings of rejection and loss by acting the clown? “You played some pretty unpleasant pranks on me. I got beaten in your stead—more than once.”

Kilian shrugged, with a hint of his old insouciance. “You were just too easy to set up.”

“Too easy?” Jagu echoed, stung. Kilian laughed and hooked his arm familiarly around Jagu’s neck. “No hard feelings, then?”

Jagu shook his head. He could not stay angry at Kilian for long; in spite of all the torments he had inflicted on him, Jagu still felt an instinctive liking for him.

Kilian unhooked his arm and turned around, leaning back against the parapet. “I always wanted to ask you, but the masters wouldn’t let me see you, and then you were gone.”

“Ask me about what?” said Jagu. Was there some magic in the desert air that had caused Kilian to open up, or was it the camaraderie shared by brothers in arms, thrown together in a dangerous situation?

“Captain de Lanvaux fought the magus in the chapel. And you saw the duel. What was it like?”

“It was terrifying,” Jagu said bluntly. “I thought that I was going to die. That magus was so powerful. He conjured a hawk spirit, all shadow and flame—it looked as if it had burst from a pit of darkness—and he loosed it on the captain. But then the captain summoned one of the Heavenly Guardians.”

“He actually called down one of the Seven?” Kilian’s eyes shone in the starlight. “And you
saw
this?”

Jagu had not once spoken of this with anyone before, not even Henri de Joyeuse. “I saw him. Though he was so bright, I could hardly look at him. For one moment, the captain and the angel…they seemed to be one. His burning eyes…they seared the magus. He pierced him with a flaming spear. He was…magnificent.”

“But which of the Seven came? And how did he summon him?”

Jagu bowed his head. “He made me promise never to tell anyone.”

“So it’s true,” said Kilian, half to himself, triumphantly.

“What’s true?” Jagu wondered if he had said too much. Old friend Kilian might be, but Jagu had no desire to betray the captain’s confidence.

“Your mentor. Captain de Lanvaux.” Kilian’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s rumored to be the head of a secret elite company, specially trained to fight the Forbidden Arts. If we ever get out of this godforsaken desert alive, that’s what I’m aiming for—”

An ululating war cry rang out, so shrill and ferocious that it made Jagu flinch. Immediately, there followed a blast of ear-cracking explosions. The night flashed white as grenades burst in the courtyard below. Chips of stone sprayed everywhere.

“Attack! We’re under attack!” yelled a lookout. By the flickering watch fire, Jagu caught a glint of steel. Shadowy figures were running up the stair toward him and Kilian. Fear pierced him, like a cold blade, turning his limbs to ice.

This isn’t an exercise. This is real.

“Jagu, cover the tower.” Kilian grabbed his pistols and fired. One attacker fell. “How in Sergius’s name did they get in?”

Jagu had never seen action before. And now black-robed tribesmen were swarming along the battlements, scimitars drawn. His mind a blank, Jagu discharged both pistols at the foremost of the attackers. The man went down with a grunt, but the others swarmed on over him.
No time to reload.
As Jagu drew his saber, he felt a sudden debilitating tremor in his arms and legs. Damn it, he was shaking. Shaking with fear! Furious at his own weakness, he backed up until he felt the cold stone of the fort wall behind him and there was nowhere else to go.

The flash and crack of pistol shots lit the night again and another attacker went down, tumbling into the courtyard below. Hurtling toward Jagu came a young man wielding a scimitar. Instinct alone made Jagu parry the first blow, the clash of steel shooting firesparks into the dark. The force sent tingling shocks up through his wrist and arm, but there was no time to recover. Another fierce diagonal slice followed, then another, the steel whistling past his ear so close that he was sure the blade had shaved off slivers of flesh.

In the heat of the moment, all Jagu’s training seemed to have deserted him. This wildly slashing opponent was not observing the rules of saber-fighting that the cadets had been taught in the Forteresse Salle d’Armes. And from the fervent, crazed light in the young man’s eyes, Jagu saw the very real possibility of his own death.

You may be ready to sacrifice yourself, but I’m not.
Jagu knocked the scimitar askew with one swift, strong parry and carried his thrust forward with all his strength.

The shock as the tip of his blade pierced his attacker’s chest jarred his arm from wrist to shoulder. The momentum forced the blade through flesh and bone. Blood spurted. The scimitar dropped to the floor with a clang. The eyes lost their crazed expression, widening to a look of surprise. Jagu gripped his sword tightly, tugging it from the man’s body with both hands. As the blade came free, his attacker swayed on the edge of the parapet, then toppled over to crash onto the courtyard, many feet below. Jagu raised his hand to wipe the sticky wetness from his face, knowing it was his enemy’s blood.

Don’t drop your guard.
He crouched, back against the rampart wall, brandishing his sword, gazing wildly around, ready to skewer the next assailant.

“Clear! All clear!” came the cry from the lookout.

Was it over so soon? Automatically he obeyed orders to assemble in the courtyard while the roll was called.

The young Enhirran he had run through lay sprawled in a pool of inky blood, his sightless eyes reflecting the chill glitter of the stars overhead.

“First kill? Don’t feel too guilty,” said Kilian, coming up behind him. He was grimacing as he pressed the heel of his hand into his shoulder. “Just remind yourself that it might be you lying there instead.”

Jagu nodded, breathing hard. While his blood was still on fire, he could block out the reality of what he had done. “You’re hurt.” Jagu had spotted a dark, moist stain spreading beneath Kilian’s fingers.

“Just a scratch,” said Kilian dismissively. Then he staggered and Jagu caught hold of him. “All I know is it damn well hurts.”

“God’s teeth, that stings!”

Jagu came back into the infirmary just as the company surgeon was cleaning the scimitar slash on Kilian’s shoulder with clear spirit.

“Give me that,” said Kilian between gritted teeth. He seized the bottle from the surgeon with his sound hand and took a good gulp.

“You were lucky,” observed the surgeon as he began to stitch the wound. “Another inch or so farther down and—”

“Yes, yes,” said Kilian, irritably. “Anything further to report, cadet?”

Jagu stared at the surgeon’s needle and thread as it penetrated Kilian’s skin. His aching stomach began to churn. Clapping a hand to his mouth, he rushed to the latrines and was violently sick. Kneeling over the pit, wiping the slime from his mouth, he felt wretched and ashamed.

Am I made of stern enough stuff to be a soldier? If I’m sick every time there’s a skirmish, I’ll soon become the company laughingstock.

“What do we do with the bodies? In this heat…” Jagu did not finish; the thought of the smell of decomposition alone made his queasy stomach start to churn again. The desert sun was already burning fiercely and he dreaded hearing the telltale buzz of flies.

“Good question, cadet.” Kilian, his arm in a sling, walked up to the corpses, which lay, stiffening, under bloodstained blankets. “What do we know of our attackers?” He crouched down beside them and with his sound hand lifted a blanket, looking at the dead face beneath.

“Interesting,” he said. “See these marks?”

Jagu hesitated, then forced himself to take a look. This body was that of an older man, bearded, teeth showing beneath lips curled back in a slight rictus. In the morning light he could make out the pattern of a tiny intricate tattoo on the forehead.

“Where have you seen this before, Kilian?” he asked. Even though he could still taste the bile at the back of his throat, he made himself look again to be sure. “Don’t you recognize it?”

“The magus’s mark.”

Kilian proceeded to check the other two corpses. Jagu hung back, knowing that one was the young man he had killed. “Look at the face of your enemy,” Kilian insisted. “Ask yourself honestly: Would you rather be lying there in his place?”

Jagu said nothing. He was impressed by Kilian’s utter lack of squeamishness. But then, Kilian had seen action before.

“There’s another tribe mark here, on the right hand, see? On the index finger, leading to the wrist. Delicate work, like lace.” Kilian let go of the dead hand and replaced the blanket.

“Who
were
these men? And why did they attack us? What is their grudge?” Jagu burst out. “And why are they prepared to die?”

A raw scream rasped out across the courtyard; Jagu flinched.

“It sounds as if Commander Konan is interrogating a prisoner right now.”

The garrison commander was a seasoned Guerrier with many desert campaigns under his belt. Broad-shouldered as a bear, with a growling voice to match, Konan had served under Ruaud de Lanvaux, although Jagu had seen little of the captain’s inspiring qualities in his successor.

“Guerrier Guyomard and Cadet de Rustéphan reporting on the enemy dead, Commander,” said Kilian, obliged to salute with his left hand. “These raiders were not Scorpions. They all bear the same tattoo or tribe mark on their foreheads and right hand.”