In the Shadow of the Sun

by EM Castellan

  I linked my arm with Armand’s. “He’ll come with me. No one will miss him, and we’ll fetch a couple of guards to come with us.”

  “I’m standing right here,” Armand protested.

  “And I’m grateful for your help,” I replied.

  Before the fireworks ended and Philippe could object, I slipped through the crowd, my borrowed handkerchief against my nose and Armand in tow.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Anxiety rose in my throat, threatening to trigger a real coughing fit.

  “Let’s think,” Armand said. “If you want to assassinate the head of the king’s security during a party, where do you take him?”

  “This isn’t a joke!”

  I already regretted bringing him along. If Moreau was in mortal danger, I didn’t need a witty fop without magic to rescue him. I needed a magicien with a good grasp of the direness of the situation. I needed Louis. The frustration of my dependence on the king and my uselessness as a lone Source bit into my heart. What good was I alone? Philippe was right: I was only subjecting myself to danger, with no real plan to find Moreau or help him.

  “I’m not joking,” Armand said, dragging me back to the present. His tone was indeed more serious than I’d ever heard it. Gravel crunched underfoot as we hurried toward the castle, illuminated by the ongoing fireworks. “Moreau isn’t a man you take on lightly. So if one wants to kill him, where are they likely to do the deed?”

  “Not the château,” I said, thinking aloud. “Fouquet would never allow a murder to be committed under his own roof and risk exposure or scandal.”

  “Am I to understand that the Crown Magicien is the traitor in our midst, then?”

  Armand’s brows rose up in a question, and it occurred to me no one had told him what had happened since the attack on the royal family.

  “He is.”

  “Ha!” he said. “I was right, wasn’t I? He wants to kill the king to put his puppet on the throne? Or does he want to take the crown for himself?”

  “We’re not sure. He thinks Philippe a weakling—his words, not mine—but if he wants him on the throne as his puppet, he hasn’t approached him yet. So, likely the latter of your two options.”

  “Heavens.” His expression darkened again, the colors of the fireworks casting odd shapes on his features. “How do we stop the bastard?”

  I gestured at the magnificent castle and the awe-inspiring fireworks display. “As you can see, not easily. Especially if we can’t find Moreau.”

  We reached the marble staircase leading up to the château, and I signaled for a couple of musketeers to follow us. One was a young man, around Armand’s age, but the other looked middle-aged, with graying hair and a large mustache.

  “Your Highness?” He bowed.

  “Please, come with us,” I replied. “We’re looking for Monsieur Moreau.”

  “You don’t happen to have seen him lately, have you?” Armand asked pleasantly.

  The older soldier shook his head. “No, sir.”

  We climbed the stairs and crossed the deserted oval Grand Salon and entrance hall.

  “If he’s not here, then where?” Armand asked.

  I fiddled with my fan, going through our options. Moreau could be anywhere in the sprawling gardens, but since the last place he’d been seen was the front of the castle, I wondered if he’d made it to the park. We emerged onto the front steps, with the outbuildings that flanked the impressive forecourt stretching on both sides. The court’s carriages were stationed around the courtyard, waiting in line for their owners to return.

  “Let’s start with the stables,” I decided.

  I hurried down the stairs, Armand and the royal guards trailing after me. The tall brick-and-stone building stood quiet in the night, with most of the servants gone to admire the fireworks. Lit by torches, the stables were grand enough to hold all the courtiers’ mounts and to house Fouquet’s various carriages. A horse stamped its hooves as we walked in, and another shook his head, but most remained indifferent, munching on hay or casting us unimpressed looks.

  “You,” Armand told the older musketeer, “stay with Her Highness.” He nodded at the younger man. “Let’s split up and cover ground quickly.”

  Following his advice, we went our separate ways, our heels clacking on the flagstones. The smell of manure and hay filled the warm air, but with all the wooden doors flung open, breathing wasn’t too difficult. The old musketeer hot on my heels, I rushed along the stalls and peeked into each one in search of any sign or clue. I reached the far side of the stables, releasing a frustrated sigh. There was nothing there. Sweat slid along my back, heat flushed my cheeks, and my feet ached in my light footwear unsuited for such exertions, yet we were no closer to finding Moreau.

  “Sir!”

  The young musketeer’s call on the other side of the building flooded my stomach with ice, and I whirled around. Armand’s boots scraped the ground as he rushed to the guard’s side in one of the stalls.

  “Heavens!”

  His hollow tone, more than his curse, made my heart jolt with fear. My feet moved before my brain could question the decision.

  At first I was only aware of a dark mass slumped in the far corner of the empty stall. Then the young royal guard held up a torch, and details emerged from the shapeless shadow on the ground. An empty sheath. A torn cuff. Muddy boots. The musketeer bent down and his torchlight caught on a signet ring on a little finger. Blood marred the pallid hand.

  Armand let out a strangled sound. He stood with both hands over his mouth, his eyes wide in horror. In a strange state between disbelief and shock, I crouched and reached out to the figure on the ground. Rough fingers on my wrist stopped me.

  “Your Highness, don’t. The blood. Your dress.” I met the older musketeer’s pale blue gaze, which held such sadness and concern I didn’t flinch at the impropriety of his touch.

  “But he’s hurt,” I said. My voice sounded faraway and strange.

  “No, Your Highness,” the soldier said. “He’s dead.”

  Then it hit me. The blood covering the black clothes and pooling at our feet. The horrid smell of a slaughtered animal on a hot day. The odd angle of the head, with the face against the ground, hidden by a sticky curtain of hair.

  If you refuse, the Crown Magicien will kill everyone you ever cared about.

  I had refused.

  Moreau was dead.

  It was my fault.

  “No, Your Highness, it isn’t your fault.” I must have spoken aloud, for the old royal guard led me outside with the authoritative tone of a soldier and the gentleness of a father. “Now you need to breathe.”

  A wheezing sound filled my ear, and I realized it was my breaths, struggling to fill my lungs. I coughed, the old man’s arms keeping me upright.

  “I apologize, Your Highness. You should have never been subjected to this horrific spectacle—”

  “Get some help, man. I’ll take Her Highness back to the castle.”

  Armand’s hands replaced the old musketeer’s on my forearms. He was shaking, and his face stood out pale in the torchlight. He pulled me toward the château’s entrance, but I dug in my heels.

  “We … we can’t leave him. We can’t leave him alone. We can’t—”

  “He isn’t alone.” Armand guided me forward again. “The guards will take care of it all. You have to be with your family now.”

  He was right. Walking back to the castle and abandoning Moreau wrenched out a piece of my heart, but I couldn’t let his death amount to nothing. No one else could die, and Fouquet had to pay.

  By now the fireworks had ended, and the party had moved to a large marquee in the gardens. Courtiers mingled on the lawn among the gurgling fountains and priceless statues in the magic light of paper lanterns. Laughter echoed under the starry sky, the sound utterly peculiar to my buzzing ears. I needed to sit down. I needed a glass of wine. I needed to strangle the Crown Magicien.

  “Where have
you been? The lottery is about to start!” Louise, her cheeks red and her eyes bright, hurtled past with a flock of young ladies in her wake. “And there’s ice cream and cake!” They ran off amid shrieks of laughter, oblivious and joyful.

  I stared at their glittering silhouettes melting into the crowd. At least one person followed my advice to enjoy the party. I didn’t have the heart to go after her and ruin her night. Armand snatched a drink off a passing tray and gulped it down without a pause.

  “We need to find the king,” he said.

  He stopped another servant and plucked a second drink from a salver. While he drained his glass, I surveyed the reveling courtiers, my heartbeat settling and my resolution strengthening. It was late into the night, with everyone flushed with wine and dizzy with excitement. Despite this being his own turf, there might be a way to isolate Fouquet and arrest him now. Even without Moreau, we still had the musketeers and Louis’s magical skills.

  “Your Highness!”

  I turned at Athénaïs’s call, relieved by her appearance, until her anxious expression caught the light. She held out a folded paper.

  “A message for you, Your Highness. Olympe gave it to me. She said I couldn’t show it to anyone but you.”

  I kept a straight face, but my hands quivered as I opened the letter.

  “What is it?” Armand’s voice caught in his throat.

  Anger bloomed in my chest, and I crumpled the paper. “He wants me to meet him at the grotto.”

  “What? You can’t go!”

  I threw the message into a fountain, and marched toward the canal.

  “I don’t have a choice. He has Philippe.”

  CHAPTER XX

  Colorful paper lanterns lined the path along the canal, their magic light a bright glow in the warm night that led to the grotto at the far end of the gardens. With all the guests gathered around the marquee by the château, this area of the castle’s grounds was quiet, save for the occasional giggles and grunting noises that rose from behind trimmed bushes. Gravel bit into the soles of my shoes and sweat dampened my skin, but I didn’t slow my pace.

  “This is a terrible idea.” Armand jogged next to me, his panting echoing in the quiet night. “We need to fetch the guards. We need to speak with the king.”

  “No.” My resolve crystallized around me. “Fouquet said I should come alone, or he’ll hurt Philippe. You two shouldn’t even be here.” I gave Athénaïs a pointed look, as she kept pace with me. Her gaze fixed ahead, she purposely ignored me.

  “But we shouldn’t give into his demands,” Armand went on, intent on his train of thought. “If his goal is to force the king’s hand and take the throne by kidnapping the royal family, surely we ought to avoid you falling into his hands. Especially if he already has Philippe as he claims.”

  “He doesn’t want me because I’m a member of the royal family.” I heaved a sigh. I wished Armand wasn’t involved in all this, but one only had to say the name Philippe to ensure he never left. And in a way, I couldn’t blame him for his reaction, because I felt the same. “He wants me because I’m a Source.”

  “What?” He turned to Athénaïs. “Is this true? Why didn’t I know about this? Why don’t I get told anything?” He threw up his hands and let out a frustrated sound.

  “A lot has happened while you were in Paris,” I said. “Fouquet wants me to become his Source so he’ll seize power. And he’s not giving up until I accept. Even if it means hurting the people I care about.”

  Horror dawned on Armand’s features. “You mean he hasn’t just abducted Philippe? He might hurt him too?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Not if I can stop him.”

  “But Philippe is a prince of the blood!” Armand went on, as if he hadn’t heard my reply. “He’s the king’s heir! Fouquet can’t hurt him. He wouldn’t dare—”

  I gripped his arm to snap him out of his panic. “He would dare, because he has nothing to lose at this stage. But I am what he wants and I don’t think he’ll hurt Philippe if I give him what he demands. Now are you here to help, or to be in my way?”

  My harsh tone was enough to sober him up. He shook his head in disbelief, but his chest deflated. “I’m here to help.”

  I released him and took off again. We were halfway down the illuminated path to the grotto, and the gardens around us stood deserted now, the noise of the party receding in the distance. The magic light of the lanterns shone in the dark, immobile in the night air, a straight line toward the southern end of the park.

  “Still,” Armand said. “Shouldn’t we tell the king? Surely he’ll want to rescue his own brother and take down his Crown Magicien?”

  “Fouquet wants to kill the king,” I replied. “The only thing that has stopped him until now is that he can’t isolate Louis long enough to murder him. And you want to pit them against each other?”

  “Besides,” Athénaïs said, “Fouquet’s message to Her Highness specified she had to come alone. Who knows what he might do if the king were to get involved.”

  I gave her a tight smile, grateful for her support. As ever, she was quick to grasp the intricacies of the situation and react accordingly.

  “And even if most of the guests are far from sober by now,” I added, “someone would be bound to notice the king’s absence. People will assume I’ve taken ill, they’ll think Philippe is with you, and that Fouquet is dealing with the organization of the party. They won’t miss us, but they’d miss the king.”

  Armand fell quiet at this last argument, and for an instant the only sounds were our panting and crunching footsteps. The dark shape of the grotto appeared on the horizon at last, and I flicked through our options once we reached our destination.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Armand said, seemingly incapable of stopping talking. Maybe it was his way of dealing with his anxiety. “Murder and kidnapping and secret meetings with magiciens?” He gestured at the shrinking silhouette of the château. “We’re supposed to be getting drunk at the lottery now, winning jewels we’ll never wear and horses we’ll never ride while making fun of the old courtiers—”

  “Instead, you’re here,” Athénaïs interrupted, impatience creeping into her tone. “Being given the chance to do something meaningful. I thought you’d like to be a hero.”

  “I don’t mind being a hero, but I will mind being killed by a crazy dark magicien. La Fontaine has written a poem; I promised him I’d be here when he recites it tonight. And I was really looking forward to some ice cream.”

  “All in good time,” I replied. “First let’s rescue the heir to the throne of France.”

  * * *

  Le Nôtre’s elaborate grotto loomed before us in the dark, the paper lanterns on the ground casting elongated shadows onto the stonework, lending a strange liveliness to the sculptures.

  “What now?” Armand whispered.

  I gave a helpless shrug. Water sloshed in the large basin at our feet, and I let my gaze wander along the seven niches of the grotto, each housing a statue of a mythical deity, and flanked by two triangular alcoves where two river gods reclined. Those two niches supported staircases that led to a terrace above the grotto.

  “What’s up there?” Armand pointed at the ground rising behind the grotto.

  “A circular pool and another lawn,” Athénaïs replied in the same low tone. “During the tour someone said it’s the only place from which you can see the entire gardens and the castle.”

  I bit my lip, my eyes darting from the basin to the balustrade of the terrace. Baroque architecture and magic both relied on the same thing: illusion. In every château I had visited, the best viewpoint of the gardens was from the castle. But Vaux was different. From Fouquet’s majestic home, the layout of the gardens was an optical illusion. Le Nôtre’s clever design meant that one’s gaze could only embrace the entirety of the patterned landscape, with its slopes and drops, its cascades and ponds and large canal, when one stood at the far end of the gardens—at the vanishing point.

&nb
sp; An instinct tugged at my heart, which I didn’t question. Grabbing my skirts, I circled the basin, my reflection shimmering on it in the magic light, climbed the stairs, and walked up the sloping terrain of the southernmost end of Fouquet’s gardens. Armand and Athénaïs followed, and we all faced back, the vast expanse of the gardens stretched out before us.

  Armand darted nervous glances around. “No one’s there. This is the middle of nowhere. What do we do now?”

  “This isn’t the middle of nowhere.” I pointed at the marker of the grounds’ best viewpoint—a statue of Hercules that stared at the illuminated château in the distance. “This is the vanishing point. Point de fuite.”

  French was a language that loved double meaning. As it were, the expression for vanishing point also happened to mean “no escape.”

  The moment the words left my lips and their irony struck me, my magic flared as on that day with Louis at Versailles. Power surged through me, stealing my breath and rattling my limbs. I swayed, as something—no, someone—took hold of my magic and wrenched a thousand golden specks from my core. I grasped them with my mind and followed them down a black rabbit hole, my whole body tumbling forward.

  I hit a hard stone floor and fell to my knees, breathless and light-headed.

  “Your Highness. So pleased you could join us.”

  Wary and disoriented, I lifted my head, the shock of my fall still reverberating through my bones. My palms were scraped, my knees bruised beneath my layers of skirts, and my lungs constricted, but I was otherwise unharmed.

  I had landed in a vast cave. Water dripped from the high ceiling along the moss-covered walls and pooled on the uneven ground, while an unnatural blue fire burned in a corner without giving off any heat. Magic tingled my skin and permeated the unventilated atmosphere. Paper fireflies floated about, their wings rustling and their gold light brightening the large space. There was no door or passage anywhere that I could see.

  I coughed. “What is this place?”

  “We’re just behind the grotto, a few meters below where you were just a moment ago.”