Tracing the Shadow (7 page)

“Who is that man?” Klervie quavered.

“His name is Alois Visant.” Maman’s voice had dwindled to a whisper. “Never forget that name, Klervie. He is a cruel, vindictive man.”

“You are all condemned to burn at the stake. May God have mercy on your souls.”

“Come away, child. This is no place for you.” Maman caught Klervie up in her arms and began to carry her away as the crowd surged forward. Klervie saw the avid looks in their eyes. And then she smelled smoke. Maela battled on against the tide of people; Klervie clung to her, afraid they would both be crushed in the throng.

Maman was sick. She lay on the bed, sometimes plucking feebly at the dirty sheet, sometimes murmuring disjointed words or phrases that Klervie could not understand.

“The wards…why did the wards fail?”

Klervie anxiously patted Maman’s sweat-damp hand.

“Thirsty,” Maman whispered. There was still a little cold camomile tisane in the teapot from the night before. Klervie poured some into a bowl and brought it to Maman, biting her lower lip as she tried not to spill.

Maman drank a sip or two and then sank back, as if the effort had drained her.

“Does that make you feel better, Maman?” Klervie asked earnestly. Papa had told her to look after Maman and she was doing her best to obey his wishes.

Maman tried to stroke Klervie’s cheek but her hand dropped back limply onto the threadbare blanket. “You’re a good girl, Klervie,” she said, her voice so faint that Klervie had to lean in close to hear her. Her eyes closed. Klervie climbed up on the bed and snuggled up to her mother, seeking comfort. But soon she rolled away, seared by the fever heat that was burning through her mother’s body.

“What will become of us?” she heard Maman murmur.

Klervie awoke with a gnawing pain in her belly. A cloudy daylight lit the attic chamber. Klervie jumped off the bed and went to search in their bag of food. There was only a stale crust of bread left. The fire in the grate had burned itself out, and the scale-encrusted kettle had only a trickle of water inside.

“Maman, I’m hungry,” Klervie said.

There came no answer. Klervie went back to the bed and began to tug at Maman’s hand, which was lying limply over the side. Maman gave a dry little moan.

“I’m
hungry,
” Klervie insisted. “My tummy hurts.”

“Go…and ask…downstairs…”

Klervie shook her head. She was afraid of the old woman who had so grudgingly given them shelter. Her jaundiced eyes were cold and disapproving.

“What d’you mean, your mother’s sick?” The concierge dropped her broom. “I’m not having anyone sick in this hostelry; it’s bad for business. You’ll have to leave.” She clapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “Keep your distance, girl. And tell your mother to pack your bags.”

“I don’t think she’s well enough,” said Klervie in a small voice.

“Then I’ll call the carrier,” said the concierge, backing away. “Haven’t you got any family to go to? Didn’t your mother mention a sister?”

“Tante Lavéna?” Klervie shook her head doubtfully. “I d—don’t remember where she lives.”

“Then go out and find where. Go on.” She took up her broom and began to jab it at Klervie’s toes. “Be off with you. And don’t come back until you’ve found your auntie.”

Klervie hesitated, not wanting to leave Maman, yet frightened of the old woman and her broom.

She backed away. Then she turned and fled.

It was growing dark and Klervie was lost. She had wandered up and down the tree-lined avenues for hours, searching for Tante Lavéna’s house. She had asked but no one knew her aunt’s name. Now it was starting to rain. She crept into a doorway for shelter, sliding down with her back to the door, hugging her knees to her chest.

She was so sleepy…

When Klervie awoke, cold and stiff, it was night. The wet street gleamed in the light of a lantern.

The scent of cooking meat drifted on the damp breeze. Her empty stomach growled. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. The scent drew her, enticing her out of her hiding place and down a winding alley.

A man was sitting in an archway, hunched over a small brazier, slowly turning a spit on which were skewered two plump chickens, their skins a crisp golden brown. He looked up and saw her.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Klervie nodded. The unbearably mouthwatering smell of the roasting fowl, the dripping juices sizzling into the fire, drew her closer. The aching hollow in her empty belly made her want to moan. But there was something about the man’s eyes as he watched her that made her skin crawl.

“Come closer, little girl.” He beckoned, smiling at her. “I’ll bet you’d like to share a slice or two of this with me.” He produced a long loaf of fresh-baked crusty bread, and broke off a hunk. “Here!” He tossed it to her and she caught it. “Go on. Eat.”

Klervie could not help herself. She started to tear at the bread with her teeth, gulping it down. And oh, it tasted so good that it brought tears to her eyes.

“You’re a pretty one. What’s your mother doing, letting you roam around here so late?”

“Maman is sick.”

He touched her hair, running a curl between his greasy fingertips, and his touch made her shudder. “Hair like gold. This would fetch a good price at the wigmaker’s.”

Klervie shied abruptly away and he began to laugh. “Did I scare you, sweetheart? Don’t worry. I won’t cut your hair. You’re worth so much more to me
intact.
” Wrapping his hand in a filthy cloth, he took the skewer from over the glowing brazier and slid one of the roast fowl onto a battered metal dish. Then, a dull flash of steel in the gathering dusk, and he had begun to carve into the crackling brown skin with a keen-bladed knife. He stabbed the tip into a slice of white breast meat and offered it to Klervie. Klervie wavered.

“Take it,” he said, grinning. “It’s yours.”

“I have no money,” Klervie said in a small voice. The delicious smell of the roast fowl tormented her sore stomach.

“Tender breast meat…for a tender child.”

Klervie suddenly snatched at the meat and crammed it into her mouth, furiously chewing, swallowing as fast as she could, squeezing her eyes shut with the sheer pleasure of eating.

“How’d you like to stay with old Papa, then?” the man said. “You could snuggle up, nice and cozy, with me here.” He patted the sacks on which he was sitting. She saw that greedy glint in his eyes again.

“You’re not my papa.”

He shrugged and tore a leg off the fowl he’d been carving, chewing on it while the fat trickled down his chin.

“My papa’s dead.” Klervie took a step back.

“Where d’you think you’re off to? Aren’t you going to give old Papa a kiss?”

Klervie saw the firelight glinting on his greasy lips and stubbled cheeks. She took another step back. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed her. “Oh no, you don’t! You owe me!” The grease-smeared mouth pressed against hers, while his hand groped beneath her skirts.

Struggling and kicking, Klervie cast around with one hand for something, anything, to help her get away. Her fingers closed on the skewer, hot and slimy with fat and she jabbed it with all her strength into the man’s arm.

With a howl, he let go and she hurtled away as fast as she could, heart hammering in her chest as he came lumbering after her. “You’ve stabbed me, you ungrateful little bitch! Come back here! I’ll make you wish you’d never been born…”

Maman will be worried. Maman will fret. Maman will cry if I don’t get back to her soon…

It was not until afternoon the following day that Klervie at last found her way back to their lodgings. She had lost a shoe running to escape the horrible man. But she dared not stop to rest, for fear he’d find her, so she kept limping doggedly on through unfamiliar streets until dawn broke.

“
Klervie
…
Klervie…
”

She glanced up, certain that someone was calling her name. Shops were opening their shutters, water carts were clattering over the cobbles.

“Come quick, Klervie…
” The faint, urgent voice drew her onward, one stumbling step at a time. Was it Maman’s voice guiding her home? It sounded so familiar…

Weary and footsore, she tramped up the rickety stairs and opened the door to see the old woman rifling through their few possessions.

“Where’s Maman?” Klervie stared at the empty bed in disbelief. “What have you done with her?”

“Everything costs money, you know. Even a pauper’s grave. I had to pay the carter too. I’m not a charitable institution. Aha…what’s this?” Her fingers closed around Klervie’s book, hidden beneath the threadbare blanket, and tugged it out.

Klervie still did not, could not, understand what she was saying.

“Now, this…why ever didn’t your mother sell this?” She held it up to the light trickling in through the filthy panes, an avaricious gleam in her eyes. “It’d have fetched a good sum.”

“My book.”

Klervie started forward but the old woman turned on her, her yellowing teeth bared in a snarl. “
My
book now.”

Klervie took a step back.

“I’m owed. For the shroud, if nothing else.”

“Shroud?” Klervie repeated, still not understanding.

“Your mother’s dead, child. Dead and buried—by now.” She gave a harsh laugh. “If the body snatchers haven’t got hold of her first.”

“Dead?” Klervie felt as if all the air had been knocked from her body. Her head spun. She felt herself falling.

“God help us. Don’t say you’ve taken the sickness as well.” The concierge, clutching Klervie’s book, got to her feet and began to hurry toward the doorway.

The dust motes in the room shivered, caught in a sudden ray of light. Klervie blinked. The concierge stopped in midflight. The shadow of a woman shimmered in the dimness, pale as starlight.

“Maman…?” Klervie murmured. For it seemed to her as she crumpled to the dusty floor that her mother was at her side, standing protectively over her.

The concierge gave a screech of terror. The book dropped from her fingers as she made the sign against evil. Then she ran, with a strange hobbling, stumbling gait, as though all the daemons from the abyss were chasing her.

CHAPTER 6

Tinidor clip-clopped slowly over the cobbles. Captain Ruaud de Lanvaux noticed how passersby hastily made way for him, scrambling out of his path, as if one glance at his black uniform and the golden insignia of the Staff was enough to instill fear and respect. Even carters pulled their wagons to one side and the barouche-drivers stopped to let him pass.

Something must have happened in Lutèce while he was overseas, to provoke this deference. Had Grand Maistre Donatien instigated a purge of heretics? He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice the fleeing child—or her pursuers—until she was almost under Tinidor’s hooves.

He tugged hard on the reins and Tinidor reared up, iron-shod hooves pawing the air.

He saw the child glance up at the huge horse looming above her. Her knees buckled and she toppled into the gutter. Ruaud leaned forward to whisper soothing words in Tinidor’s ears. The warhorse gave a snort and, responding at last to his master’s voice, brought his front hooves down onto the cobblestones, narrowly missing the child’s emaciated body.

Ruaud swung hastily down from the saddle and glared at the cringing gutter thieves. One look at his face—and his hand gripping the hilt of his sword—and they took to their heels, abandoning their prey. Ruaud knelt beside the little girl, lifting her out of the foul-smelling water. His heart pained him to see how thin and frail the body was; he could feel her bones protruding through her filthy rags.

“Little sparrow,” he said softly, “are you hurt?”

The child’s fair lashes fluttered and eyes dull with hunger gazed at him from a dirt-smeared face. A soft moan issued from cracked lips.

He had encountered many such starving street children on campaign in the dry heat of Enhirre; they clustered around his men, begging for food and water. Their skins might have been darker, but that look of desperate hunger was the same. Ignoring the gathering curious crowd, he took out a little metal flask from his uniform jacket and, supporting the child’s head against his knee, poured a few drops into her mouth. All Guerriers carried a flask of well-watered wine in the desert. She spluttered.

“Sour,” she whispered.

What had the thieves been so keen to steal from her? Whatever was wrapped in the shreds of sacking, she still clung to it as if her life depended upon it.

“What have you there, child?” he asked, forcing gentleness into a voice more accustomed to shouting orders.

“My book.”

Ruaud caught a glimpse of the cover and saw to his surprise that it was a
Lives of the Holy Saints.
Had she stolen it? Or was the child from a devout family?

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Klervie.” Her eyes focused on his for a moment. They were startlingly blue and clear, like a rain-washed sky.

“And why are you out on your own, Klervie? Where’s your mother?”

The blue dulled again. She turned her head away. “Dead.”

“And your father?”

“Dead…”

“So who’s caring for you?” But he guessed the answer already. She was just another of the teeming city’s unnumbered orphans, cast out to fend for herself. She could hardly be more than five or six years in age.

“Come, little one.” He caught her up in his arms and settled her on Tinidor’s back, placing her little hands on the pommel. “Cling tight or you’ll fall off.” He climbed up behind her, taking Tinidor’s reins in one hand and gripping the drooping child firmly with the other.

What am I doing? I have duties to attend to at the Forteresse.

But wasn’t this a part of his calling? He had chosen to become a warrior in God’s cause, and that must surely involve defending the weak as well as protecting the shrines and holy places from desecration by unbelievers.

The child’s head, her fair hair twisted into dirty rat’s tails, drooped back against his chest. An odd and unfamiliar sensation flooded through him as he gazed down at her. In spite of her filthy state and unwashed smell, he felt he must protect this vulnerable child as if she were his own. When he became a Guerrier of the Commanderie, he had taken a vow of celibacy, abjuring all family ties and earthly distractions to dedicate his life to following the way of Saint Sergius. But for a moment, he knew what it was to cherish a little daughter.

Abbess Ermengarde looked at the sleeping waif in Captain de Lanvaux’s arms, then glanced briefly into his eyes before modestly lowering her gaze. But inside her breast, her heart had begun to flutter quite immodestly. Ruaud de Lanvaux had returned from the Holy Land with his skin tanned copper by the merciless desert sun, which only served to emphasize the piercing blue of his fair-lashed eyes. Tall and lean, the captain’s fine-chiseled features reminded her irresistibly of the warrior angels depicted in the jeweled stained glass of the convent chapel.

“Can you and your good sisters take this child, Abbess?” Ruaud was asking.

The Abbess blinked. Another orphan to care for? And one that looked so sickly…

“We are already full, I’m afraid—” she began.

“Would you take her in as a special favor for me?” The radiant blue eyes pierced hers. She wanted so much to say, “Yes, I’ll do anything for you, dear Captain,” except a mischievous little voice had begun to whisper at the back of her mind, “
Why does this urchin mean so much to him? Surely she couldn’t be his…
” But she felt herself blushing at such a scandalous and ignoble thought. Ruaud de Lanvaux’s reputation was blameless.

“And look.” He pointed to the book the child was clutching. “
Lives of the Holy Saints.
She’s from a devout family, that’s for sure.”

Or she’s filched it,
thought the Abbess. But then she was foolish enough to look up at the captain once more and found herself spellbound by his dazzling gaze. She felt as if the golden sunlight that warmed the white dome of the Holy Shrine in distant Enhirre was reflected in his eyes. “I’m sure that—for you—we can squeeze another one in,” she heard herself saying. For surely, if Captain de Lanvaux was so interested in the child, he would come often to the convent to visit her. And that idea appealed to the Abbess more than she could have possibly imagined.

A grave smile spread across his handsome features and the Abbess’s heart almost melted. Flustered, she forced herself to look back at the neglected child. “I don’t suppose she has a name…”

“She called herself Klervie.”

The Abbess tutted. “What kind of a name is that? Perhaps you would like to choose another name for her, Captain? One more suitable for a little acolyte of our dear Saint Azilia?” She could not help smiling coyly back at him, unable to restrain herself.

“She has blue eyes of a most remarkable color,” said the captain distantly.

“Not unlike yours, dear Captain…”

“I think ‘Celestine’ would make an excellent name for her.”

“Then I shall write that name down on our orphanage roll. Celestine. A heavenly name.”

“And I shall return to see how she is progressing.”

“Oh yes, Captain, please do,” said the Abbess, smiling even more warmly. “Please call whenever you wish.”

Captain de Lanvaux knelt beside the child and gently placed his hand on her fair head. “Till we meet again, little Celestine.”

Klervie could hear angels singing. Their clear, high voices spiraled around her like threads of silver light.

She opened her eyes. She could still hear the angels…although now they sounded much farther away.

“Am I dead?”

“Good gracious me, no.” A woman’s face appeared above hers, wrinkled and red-cheeked like a cherry. “In fact, you’re very much alive.” The woman leaned over her and felt her forehead. “The fever’s left you at last.”

“But I can hear angels singing…”

“That?” The woman straightened up, listening. Then she laughed. “That’s the Novices’ choir practicing their scales. Sister Noyale would be most amused to hear them called angels.”

“Novices?” echoed Klervie sleepily, not understanding.

“We have two choirs here. The Novices are the older girls, aged twelve to sixteen. The younger ones are called the Skylarks.”

“Where’s Maman?” Klervie asked, then remembered. The distant singing seemed to recede even farther as she recalled staring in shock at the empty bed, the concierge’s heartless words ringing in her ears.
Your mother’s dead, child. Dead and buried.
Tears welled in her eyes, tears of loss and rage at the unjustness of it all. Why had Maman abandoned her? She tried to hold the tears in until her shoulders shook with the effort.

“Whatever’s the matter,
ma petite
?” said the woman. Klervie heard kindness and exasperation mingled in her voice. How could she explain? She turned her face away. “Were you dreaming of your mother? Don’t grieve for her anymore; you’re part of a new family now, one with many sisters, young and old, like me. My name’s Kinnie, Sister Kinnie.”

Klervie gazed at her through her tears, uncomprehending.

“You’re so lucky to have such a good-hearted benefactor. Captain de Lanvaux brought you to us. Otherwise you would have starved on the streets, little one. Now you’re under good Saint Azilia’s protection. So dry your eyes.” Klervie took the handkerchief that Sister Kinnie gave her and mopped her face. “You’re still weak after the fever. We’ll have to build up your strength, Celestine.”

“Celestine?” echoed Klervie. She looked around to see who Sister Kinnie was speaking to.

“Every child who enters our convent is given a new name. Your benefactor named you Celestine. You will soon forget your old name.”

In the dusky moonlight, the picture engraved on the front of the book wavered, and in silvery, sinuous lines began to rise from the cover until a tall, slender female form hovered over Klervie, its hands clasped together as though in prayer, its luminous eyes gazing down on her.

“Who are you?” quavered Klervie who was now called Celestine. “Are you a h—holy saint?” She stumbled over the words she had heard the good sisters use.

“
I am the one your father bound to protect you.
”

“Papa?”

“
I am bound to this book, Klervie. I cannot break free. I can only help you through the book.
”

“You mustn’t call me Klervie anymore. They’ve changed my name to Celestine.” It was a pretty name, even if it felt like wearing borrowed clothes.

“
Celestine,
” echoed the spirit in a voice like a shimmer of clear raindrops.

“Are you really a Faie?” Celestine asked wonderingly. Faies could grant wishes, or so the tales Maman used to tell her said. And Celestine felt her heart swelling with the desire to make a wish. A wish so strong that her whole body trembled at the very thought of it.

Bring them back. Bring back my papa and maman.

“
I do not know the word ‘Faie.’ I know only that your father charged me to look after you.
”

“You cannot grant wishes?” The words were barely a whisper; her throat had tightened with the strain of trying not to cry. “Not even one?”

“
I am bound to the book,
” repeated the Faie, and its translucent eyes seemed to brim with tears, mirroring Celestine’s disappointment.

“Is this the new girl?”

“What a pale little mite she is.”

“What’s your name, mite?”

Celestine stared, mute with apprehension, at the gaggle of curious girls surrounding her bed. She wanted to pull the sheet up to cover her face but it was too late to hide.

“Give the poor child room to breathe!” called a woman, and Celestine recognized Sister Kinnie’s voice with relief. “She’s still recuperating.” Out of breath, Sister Kinnie came bustling up, shooing the girls away from Celestine’s bed so that she could sit next to her. “Now, girls, this is Celestine, our new little sister. I want you to teach her about our daily tasks. She’s well enough to move out of the Infirmary into Skylarks. So, Angelique, you will help her with her things; Rozenne and Katell, you will take her by the hand and bring her to the dormitory.”

“I’m Rozenne,” announced a brown-eyed girl, seizing Celestine’s right hand in a firm grip and marching her toward the door.

“Wait,” wailed a thin-faced girl with dark plaits. “Sister said me, too.”

“You’re too slow, Katell,” said Rozenne, laughing. “Keep up!” The other girls laughed too as Katell hastened after them, plaits flying like streamers.

But Celestine kept looking over her shoulder, anguished that she had been separated from her book.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Rozenne.

“My book.”

“
Your
book?” echoed Katell punctiliously. “Our book now. We share everything at Saint Azilia’s.”

“This old tome?” Angelique, tall and willowy, with curling hair the color of spring catkins, cast a disparaging glance at Celestine’s most prized possession. “It’s just a boring
Lives of the Holy Saints.
”

“My papa gave it to me.” Celestine was on the verge of tears again, yet felt ashamed to weep in front of the older girls.

“Don’t worry. We won’t take it if it means so much to you.”