Tracing the Shadow (39 page)

The Inquisition archives were housed in an unremarkable building on the right bank of the river, overlooking the Forteresse.

“I want you to research the magi,” the captain had instructed her. “Find out everything you can, so that you are well armed against them, in case they strike in Bel’Esstar.”

Celestine stood on the steps, waiting for her knock to be answered. She was dressed in regulation black, her new uniform, especially adapted by the military tailors, with a long riding skirt instead of the usual breeches worn by the men. They had even sewn on little gold buttons with the emblem of Sergius’s crook. The irony of the situation did not escape her; a quarter of a mile away lay the Place du Trahoir, where her father had been executed.

Eventually the door opened and the Archivist appeared.

“What do you want?” he asked, peering at her over his pince-nez. “I’m very busy.”

“I’ve come to do some research,” she said. “For the Commanderie.”

“A woman? In the Commanderie?” He clicked his tongue in disgust.

“Here is my letter of introduction, signed by Captain de Lanvaux.”

The Archivist scanned the letter. “Well, your papers seem to be in order. You’d better follow me.” Shaking his head disapprovingly, he led her into the archives. As they passed stack after stack of meticulously ordered black-bound volumes, each one with the year and title tooled in silver, she felt a strange, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “The trial of the heretics from the College of Thaumaturgy…” He muttered to himself as he searched along the shelves, stopping at last to pull out a thick volume.

“You’ll find what you need in here. These records are very expensive to produce. Please treat them with care.”

The sick feeling grew more acute as she turned the pages. The records of the trials were meticulously hand-scribed and arranged in date order, so she soon came upon the one she was looking for. There was her father’s name, Magister Hervé de Maunoir, written alongside the other alchymists accused of heresy and practicing the Forbidden Arts: Goustan de Rhuys; Deniel; Gonery. Some dispassionate secretary had sat in court noting down every question posed by the Inquisitors, every halting response given by men whose limbs had been twisted in the Inquisition’s torture chambers until they could hardly stand upright.

The words blurred before her eyes; she hastily wiped away tears, glancing around to check that the Archivist was not spying on her.

What
was
their crime? To have studied the science of alchymy in a country where free thought was held to be dangerous? Again and again, the Inquisitors referred to the magisters’ experiments as “heretical” and “going against the natural order.” And one name recurred: Kaspar Linnaius.

“What are you doing here?” A soberly dressed man stood staring down at her.

She forced her most detached expression as she snapped the book shut. He must have moved as stealthily as a cat for her not to have noticed him.

“Research. For Captain de Lanvaux.”

The Inquisitor gazed coldly at her. “A young woman? Since when have women been members of the Commanderie?”

“I am one of his special agents,” she said coolly. “And you are?”

“Haute Inquisitor Visant,” he said, equally coolly. Now she recognized him—and now she knew that he was the one who had engineered the fall of the College. “I see you’ve been researching the trial of the magi of Karantec. May I ask why?”

“The captain has asked me to find out all I can about Kaspar Linnaius.”

“And what makes you think, Demoiselle, that you will succeed where so many experienced Inquisitors have failed?” The suggestion of a sneer passed across his otherwise expressionless face. “No one is more eager than I to bring Magus Linnaius to justice. But he’s snug and safe under the protection of Prince Eugene. No one can touch him in Tielen!”

“Tielen?” Celestine repeated the name rather more forcefully than she should.
At last I have a lead to pursue.
Then she noticed the curious way Visant was looking at her and forced herself to master her feelings. This was the man who had tried and condemned her father to death; she must never let her guard slip in his presence again.

“Then we will just have to find a way to tempt him out,” she said levelly.

A carriage was waiting outside the Maistre’s house. Celestine hesitated as she turned the corner, recognizing it as Aurélie Carnelian’s. So the lovers had returned from Tourmalise.

“Shall I see you at rehearsals tomorrow, Henri?” Celestine drew back, hearing Aurélie’s rich voice floating across the garden. Hastily, she hid in a recessed archway in the garden wall.

“I’m not sure what my plans are yet.” The Maistre appeared at the garden gate, ushering the diva through. Celestine shrank into the archway, wishing she could make herself invisible. But the two seemed too involved in their own conversation to notice that she was there.

“Don’t leave your work in the hands of that new repetiteur; he doesn’t understand the way you compose. He mangles the rhythms.” Was there a forced brightness in the diva’s tone?

“But I have commissions to complete. I can’t attend every single rehearsal, Aurélie.”

“Must you work so hard? We’ve only been back a couple of hours.” Aurélie wound her arms around the Maistre and, pulling his face down to hers, kissed him. Celestine turned her head away. She could not bear to watch. When she dared to look round again, she saw that Aurélie was leaning out of the coach window, kissing her fingers to the Maistre, as the carriage rolled away. He stood watching until it turned the corner of the street. Then he turned and went back inside.

So that’s the way it is between them. I made the right decision. At least once I’m on my way to Allegonde, I won’t have to watch them sighing over each other all the time. It’s time to break the news.

“The Commanderie?” The utter bewilderment in the Maistre’s eyes almost undid her. “First I lose Jagu, now you? What hold does Ruaud de Lanvaux have over you both?” An unfamiliar note of anger sharpened his tone.

“Captain de Lanvaux rescued me from the streets when I was sick and starving,” she said defiantly. What right had the Maistre to interfere in her life when he was having an affair with Aurélie?

“But you’re a woman.”

“There’s a special unit within the Commanderie that the captain is in charge of. A secret unit, employing both men and women.”

“Secret?” The Maistre made an exclamation of disgust. “There’s too much secrecy with the Commanderie these days. It smacks of something underhanded. Already in Allegonde they’re telling artists how to think, what to write…”

“I owe him. I owe him my life. I would have died if he hadn’t—”

“And me? Do you owe me nothing?”

Celestine stared at him. “Of c—course I do,” she began. “Without you, I’d never have become a singer, or made a career, I’d probably have taken my vows, so I’m very grateful, thank you—”

“I’m not asking for gratitude.” He moved nearer to her, looking at her so intently that she began to back away.

“Then what?”

He stopped, shaking his head. “I have no right.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “They will say that I took advantage of you. And yet, I can’t help myself—”

“Maistre?” she said softly.

“Don’t you understand, Celestine? It’s a torment to be with you; it’s a torment to be away from you.”

“Torment?” she echoed.
Am I hearing you aright? Aren’t you Aurélie’s lover?
And then, before she knew what was happening, he had caught her in his arms, crushing her close to him.

“You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmured into her hair. Celestine, pressed tight against his body, felt his heart beating fast close to hers as his lips touched hers, kissing her gently at first, then more urgently. This was what she had dreamed of for so long, and now that it was happening, she felt dizzy and confused with the suddenness of it.

“No, no, this is all wrong,” she cried, pushing him away. “What about Aurélie?”

“Aurélie?” His grey eyes had grown dark, unreadable.

“Don’t think you can just win me over with sweet words. You’ve just come back from her villa in Tourmalise. She told me you were lovers.”

“Aurélie told you that? I see.” He looked utterly deflated. “I had no idea she was quite so manipulative.”

“Well? Is it true?” Though she longed to let him hold her again, she had not known until now that she was so proud. She would not be second-best to Aurélie Carnelian.

“We were lovers,” he said gravely, “but it didn’t work out. Our dreams were too different. We wanted different things. And then I met you.”

What about those intimate looks exchanged with Aurélie, those lingering caresses…had they all been merely habit?

“You were so young. I tried to throw myself into my work to forget you. But it didn’t work. I just couldn’t stop myself from wanting you.”

Tears blurred her eyes. She willed herself not to cry. If she cried, he would put his arms around her again and this time she would have no willpower to resist him. “But I saw you tonight,” she said haltingly. “You were kissing her. Please don’t pretend it was just a friendly farewell.”

He turned away, hands raised in a helpless little gesture. “I’ve been a fool. How can I prove to you that she means nothing to me anymore?”

“Nothing, Maistre?” Celestine’s heart was racing too fast; she was out of her depth and drowning fast. She wanted to believe that he no longer loved Aurélie…but was he just telling her what she wanted to hear? How could he be so sure?

“What else did she tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She was backing away from him, even though each step was harder than the last. Every instinct made her want to feel his arms around her again, to feel that potent beating of his heart so close to her own, and to know it was throbbing so fast because of her.

“
Celestine!
I love you. Don’t leave me.”

She could still hear him calling her name as she left the house, and the despair in his voice almost undid her. But she forced herself to keep on walking.

CHAPTER 29

“Demoiselle?” A Guerrier came running toward Celestine across the rain-swept courtyard of the Forteresse. “I’m Alain Friard. Captain de Lanvaux has asked me to be your instructor in weapons skills. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Lieutenant Friard flashed her a friendly, apologetic grin. His face was framed by a fringe of damp brown hair that he kept shaking out of his eyes, reminding her irresistibly of a wet dog. “Terrible weather for midsummer,” he called back over his shoulder as he set off. Celestine gathered up her skirts and followed him out into the rain. She hoped that she would not disprove the captain’s faith in her.

He led her through a tall archway into a side courtyard and stopped outside a plain door.

“Forget that I’m a woman, Lieutenant.” She had been rehearsing this speech all the way to the Forteresse. “Don’t treat me any differently than you would treat any other cadet.”

“W—with respect, Demoiselle, that hardly seems appropriate.” Lieutenant Friard’s eyes betrayed how confounded he was. She sensed that if he could have invented any excuse to wriggle out of this task, he would have seized it. What made him stand his ground, stuttering and flustered? Loyalty to Ruaud de Lanvaux?

“I think there must be a reason the captain chose you to instruct me,” she said, less harshly this time.

“I’d do anything for the captain,” he said, and then blushed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that instructing you—” He gulped. “That just didn’t come out the way I intended, Demoiselle…”

“Shall we make a start?” She was sure that once he was on familiar ground, he would forget his nervousness.

“Oh yes, yes, of course.” He opened the door, revealing a long, bare hall. “This is one of our firing ranges, with targets set up for small arms. To handle a pistol successfully, you first need to understand how it works.” Pistols were laid out on a table near the door. “Here we have powder, which must be kept dry at all times, and shot, which comes in different sizes…”

As Celestine had suspected, Lieutenant Friard lost his earlier self-consciousness when demonstrating his expertise in handling weapons. He made her pick up one pistol after another, testing the weight, showing her how to balance and aim with a steady hand. He assessed which model and type best suited her. He showed her how to load and prepare to fire. He warned her that firing even the lightest of pistols would involve some recoil.

“Don’t worry; I’m stronger than I look,” she said, seeing him eyeing her slender wrists uncertainly. “I grew up in a convent, so I have strong muscles from doing laundry, gardening, mopping floors.”

The first targets that he set up for her were tin plates, hooked on the far wall. She obediently copied him, priming the pan, inserting the ball, but when it came to squeezing the trigger, the deafeningly loud crack of the report bruised her ears and her shot went wide.

Disappointed, she lowered the pistol, the acrid fumes of the burned powder making her nostrils twitch. “I missed.”

“You flinched as you fired.”

She felt ashamed. “It was so…loud.” She waited for the inevitable reprimand.

“You’re a singer. You have sensitive hearing.” He passed her two little pads of wool. “Put these in your ears. It will help protect them by deadening the sound.”

She looked at him, surprised. “That’s so thoughtful. Thank you.”

Yet still her shots went wide. Forgetting his earlier inhibitions, he stood close to her, adjusting her arm position, balancing her wrist, getting her to fix her line of fire more accurately, until she managed to graze the edge of one of the target plates.

“At last!” she cried, astonished that such a little achievement should mean so much to her. And then she heard men’s voices outside.

“Here come the new cadets,” said Friard.

“Must I stop now? I was just beginning to make progress.”

“May I suggest you put a warm poultice on your wrist tonight? And you may need to bind it.”

She glared at him, hating the fact that he was probably right; her right arm was throbbing and her hand had developed a tremor from supporting the weight of the pistol.
I will not give in to this weakness; I will become stronger!
“Same time tomorrow, Lieutenant?”

He nodded. The door burst open and half a dozen cadets came in; on seeing her, they stopped in astonishment, nudging each other to let her pass. She wondered what they would whisper about her when she had gone…and whether they would tease Lieutenant Friard mercilessly about his new pupil.

When Ruaud arrived for his evening tutorial with Enguerrand, the young king’s study was empty. Turning round, bemused, Ruaud wondered if he had mistaken the time—and saw one of the great tapestries twitch. Instinctively, he reached for the hilt of his sword.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself.”

Enguerrand appeared. “Ssh,” he whispered, beckoning.

Ruaud hesitated, and then joined Enguerrand, wondering what he was doing. A concealed door was ajar, like the one he had discovered in his own study, and he could just catch a distant murmur of voices.

Is this palace riddled with secret passages?

“So Prince Eugene is building a second war fleet? Do we know what he intends to do with it?”

“My mother,” mouthed Enguerrand silently, but Ruaud had already recognized Aliénor’s clipped tones.

“Our agents suspect that he plans to finish what his father, Karl, began. And invade Francia.” It was Donatien speaking, without a doubt.

“Then we must act to protect Francia. And if that means uniting with Allegonde, then so be it. I can see no alternative in the circumstances. Adèle must marry Ilsevir.”

“Ilsevir has been secretly initiated into the Order of the Rosecoeur. He will do whatever the Master of the Order tells him is best. And as the Master and I have been in close communication…”

Ruaud could hardly believe what he was overhearing.

“We must face the truth, and that is that Enguerrand is unsuited to rule. He’s sickly. Weak.” Ruaud heard Enguerrand’s sharp intake of breath at his mother’s blunt words. “Sooner or later, Tielen will take advantage of that weakness. I will do anything in my power to prevent that happening. If it means making Enguerrand abdicate in favor of Ilsevir, then so be it. You have my blessing to go ahead with the negotiations…”

The voices faded away as the speakers left the room.

“I know my mother has never believed in me.” Enguerrand had clenched both fists; Ruaud could see that he was making a heroic effort not to cry. “But to plan to give my throne away—isn’t that treason?”

“What do you think, Celestine?” Princess Adèle came out from behind the lacquered Khitari screen and turned slowly around, her ladies-in-waiting holding up the long train of ivory lace.

“You look…ravishing,” said Celestine, awed. “If Prince Ilsevir doesn’t fall in love with you when he sees you, then…”

“But will I fall in love with him?” Adèle’s expression was pensive as she smoothed down the billowing folds of creamy lace. “We only met a few weeks ago. He’s practically a stranger. Imagine marrying a man you know no better than…”

“Then may you have many happy years together, to get to know each other well,” said one of her ladies, wiping away a tear. “Your dear mother, Aliénor…”

Adèle shot Celestine a little look that said
You see what I have to put up with?

The midnight summons was terse:

“Captain de Lanvaux—come to the king’s apartments at once.”

Ruaud, half-asleep, tugged on his uniform and followed the officer of the king’s bodyguard, who had been sent to fetch him, through the hushed and darkened palace toward the royal apartments. As they drew near, Ruaud became aware of a stir of movement: servants silently hurrying along the dimly lit corridors. Something was far from right in Plaisaunces.

As they reached the king’s rooms, the soldiers on guard immediately opened the doors to admit him. To his surprise, he saw the queen in the antechamber, in a velvet robe de chambre, her greying hair loosely twisted in a single plait, as if she had just been woken from sleep. Aliénor was usually so careful about her appearance.

“Enguerrand has been taken ill. Very ill.”

This news caught him completely off guard. “Ill? But his majesty seemed well enough earlier today. A little abstracted, maybe…” Although, as Ruaud thought back to Enguerrand’s tutorial this morning, he remembered that the king had looked pale and dull-eyed, as if he had slept badly, and had stumbled in his translation more than a few times. “What do the physicians say?”

“He has a high fever. He’s delirious.” Aliénor was twisting the cord of her robe between her fingers; even though her tone of voice was flat and controlled, Ruaud saw that she was genuinely anxious about her youngest child.

“Is it that serious?” Adèle came running in, also in her robe de chambre. “Serious enough to postpone the wedding?”

“It’s far too late to do that, I’m afraid. Besides”—and Ruaud saw the queen bite her lip before continuing—“if the worst were to happen, it’s vital that Francia has a strong ally.”

“What are you saying, Maman?” Adèle glanced at Ruaud, as though desperately seeking his support. “I can’t leave Enguerrand if he’s that sick! I won’t go. You can’t make me.” She began to sob.

“Control yourself, Adèle.” Aliénor looked coldly at her daughter. “This is no time for hysterical outbursts. You will go to Bel’Esstar, and that’s an end to it. I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”

Ruaud wished that there were some way he could alleviate the princess’s worries. It wasn’t surprising that she was so distraught; already facing the prospect of marriage to a virtual stranger with whom she had little in common, her brother’s illness must seem catastrophic.

“But if my brother isn’t there to give me away?”

“Your uncle Josselin is quite capable of performing that role. It’s more important that the wedding goes ahead, under the circumstances.”

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” Gauzia’s eyes flashed with a cold, contemptuous light. “Coming between two lovers. Breaking up a long and happy relationship.” She flung down a broadsheet on Celestine’s bed. The headline read: “Diva Storms out of
Balkaris
at Opera House.” “You’ve ruined the Maistre’s opera.”

“What
are
you talking about, Gauzia?” Celestine was taken aback at the vehemence of Gauzia’s outburst. She picked up the
Gazette
and read: “‘The Divine Aurélie has walked out of
Balkaris,
accusing her fiancé, Henri de Joyeuse, of carrying on a secret affair with his ward, convent-educated orphan Celestine.’” The paper dropped from Celestine’s hands.

“It’s the talk of the Opera House. By tonight it’ll be the talk of Lutèce. You and the Maistre. Poor Aurélie is utterly distraught.”

“Now wait a moment—” began Celestine indignantly, but Gauzia was in full flow and would not be silenced.

“It’s always the quiet ones. I’d never have thought of you as a troublemaker.” She advanced on Celestine, thrusting her face close to hers. “You sly, devious little minx. Stealing him away from Aurélie. Carrying on with him behind her back.”

“What?” Someone must have been spreading malicious rumors, and Celestine had a good idea who it might be.

“Just how long have you and the Maistre been at it?”

Celestine gasped. The unfairness of the allegation took her breath away. Before she knew what she was doing, she had lifted her hand and slapped Gauzia, hard. “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you slander the Maistre? When you know nothing. Nothing at all!”

Gauzia, one hand clasped to her reddening cheek, stared at Celestine. Suddenly tears began to spill from her eyes. “You hit me. You
hit
me!”

Celestine stared back, horrified at what she had done. “Oh, Gauzia, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to—”

“Don’t come near me.” Gauzia backed away, still weeping. “Don’t ever come near me again. I’m going back to the Opera. At least I know now who my true friends are.” She turned and fled; Celestine heard her sobbing as she ran down the stairs.

Celestine was shaking as she picked up the
Gazette
and scanned the column again. How long would it be before Aurélie spread the slanderous gossip around the whole city?

“
I can put an end to your career before it’s even begun.
”

Celestine paused in her packing for the journey to Allegonde and picked up the precious book to place it in the little trunk. “At least I’m starting out on my journey to trace Kaspar Linnaius,” she told the Faie, and found herself wiping away a tear that had strayed unbidden down her cheek. “But leaving the Maistre is hard, so hard, I don’t think I can bear it…”

Someone tapped at the door; imagining it to be Dame Elmire, she said, “Come in,” without looking up. When she raised her head from the open trunk, she saw Henri de Joyeuse standing there.

“Maistre,” she said, wishing that the mere sight of him did not make her heart ache so.

“How can I apologize for what has happened?”

“The
Gazette
?” She gave a little shrug, feigning indifference. “What’s done is done.”