Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

” Used his Drakhaoul?” echoed Jagu.

  “This Drakhaoul merges with his master to take on the form of a powerful dragon that breathes poisoned fire. Its breath is lethal. The secret dispatch our agents intercepted described how hundreds of men—and weapons—had been reduced to ashes.”

  “A dragon?” Kilian said, his voice dry with sarcasm. “Oh, come now, Maistre, are we really to believe the old legend? Weren't we taught at the seminary, Jagu, that the name ‘Drakhaoul’ is nothing but a metaphor for the forces of evil?”

  “It is our duty, as Saint Sergius's disciples, to take up our patron saint's fight against the Drakhaoul,” said the king earnestly, ignoring Kilian's cynical comment. Celestine saw that Enguerrand's eyes shone as he spoke. She was touched by his fervor although she wondered what they could possibly do against a daemon powerful enough to decimate a whole army.

  “With respect, sire,” said Jagu, “if even Sergius was not strong enough to defeat the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir, what can we do?”

  Ruaud undid the top buttons of his cloak and habit and drew out a crystal on a gilded chain.

  “The Angelstone?” said Jagu. The other members of the squad drew nearer to look. Celestine saw that its clear facets were marred by a trace of midnight shadow, deep within.

  “This crystal has been in the Commanderie's keeping since Saint Sergius's time,” said the Maistre.

  “Does it mean that the Drakhaoul is close by?” Celestine asked uneasily.

  “No,” said Jagu. “The stone goes dark when a daemon is near.”

  “We need to learn a great deal more about the daemon before we make our move,” continued Ruaud, tucking the crystal out of sight beneath his robes, “and so we're planning to—” He broke off as footsteps could be heard on the spiral stair. Captain Friard appeared, breathless, his brown hair speckled with melting snow.

  “I beg your majesty's pardon,” he said, holding out a sealed dispatch, “but I was told to deliver this to you without delay.”

  “It's from Ambassador d'Abrissard in Mirom,” said Enguerrand in puzzled tones. He broke the seal and moved closer to one of the burning torches to read. Celestine watched his face as he read and saw a puzzled frown appear that changed all too soon to a look of bemused anger.

  “What is it, sire?” Ruaud asked. Enguerrand thrust the letter into his hands.

  “It seems that Eugene of Tielen is indestructible. In spite of his injuries, he has not only taken Azhkendir, but Muscobar as well—and annexed Smarna. He has seized the five rubies known as the Tears of Artamon and declared himself Emperor!”

  Celestine glanced at Jagu.

  “This doesn't bode well for Francia,” he said softly. “Will it be our turn next?”

  “You mean war?” Just saying the word aloud made Celestine feel disquieted. “Could it come to that?” For as long as she could remember, Francia had maintained an uneasy peace with Tielen, and she hated the thought of the bloodshed and heartbreak that war would inevitably bring.

  “We must call the council together at once, Ruaud,” said Enguerrand, hurrying toward the stair; Ruaud and Alain Friard followed.

  “So even a Drakhaoul can't stop Eugene's ambitions,” said Kilian wryly.

  “Which begs the question,” said Celestine, drawing her cloak closer to her as the snow-laden chill seeped into the crypt, “where is the Drakhaoul now? And what does the king intend us to do about it?”

  “I'm off for a glass of mulled wine at the Pomme de Pin,” Kilian called back, as he walked toward the spiral stair. “Anyone care to join me?”

  “Sorry—I'm late for guard duty at the Forteresse.” Jagu sped ahead, two steps at a time.

  “You'll come, won't you, Viaud?” Kilian dragged Philippe Viaud after him.

  Celestine followed them slowly, waiting until their footfalls had faded away and she was alone in the church with her memories. She never left Saint Meriadec's without lighting a candle for the soul of the man who had been the Maistre de Chapelle there, and the one most dear to her in the whole world.

  She put a coin in the box and took out a candle of smooth white wax. In the grey sleety light filtering through the arched window, the little chapel dedicated to the saint was bright with votive candles and after she had added her single flame, she knelt awhile, watching it burn.

  “Can it be six years since I last sang for you here, dearest Henri?” she whispered, seeing the shadow of his beloved face looking up from his music stand, smiling at her with those soft, warm grey eyes, as his expressive hands sustained and shaped the choir's tempo, nodding to her to begin. “Six years since that magus stole your soul.” The chapel seemed to grow darker as the bitterness of her grief returned. “Yet I still miss you so …”

  She stayed there, lost in memories of her dead love, until she heard the door open and a cold, wintry blast announced the arrival of the sacristan to make ready for vespers.

  The salon de musique, like many of the public rooms in the Palace of Plaisaunces, had not been redecorated since the time of King Enguer-rand's grandfather, and the dark oak paneling and heavy painted beams, coupled with the leaded lozenges of yellowing glass in the narrow windows, gave the whole chamber a dreary and oppressive air.

  Jagu dragged the fortepiano closer to a window, so that what little daylight was penetrating the thick glass could illuminate his music.

  As Celestine handed Jagu the new song she had brought to rehearse, she could not shake off the ominous feeling that had haunted her since their secret meeting with the king a few days ago. “To think that a daemon with the power to destroy a whole army so swiftly, so ruthlessly, is at large.” She couldn't help shuddering, as she imagined the devastation the Drakhaoul could wreak if it attacked Francia. “A creature of destruction so powerful that its breath could reduce hundreds of living beings to ashes…”

  “And the Tielens, with all their advanced military weaponry, were no match for it.” Jagu propped the music up on the fortepiano, turning down the corners of the pages to facilitate a quick turn. He looked up at her, a little frown shadowing his face. “Yet, Eugene has triumphed, against all the odds. He must have found a way to defeat the Drakhaoul.”

  Celestine gave a dry little laugh. “I don't know who to be more afraid of: the Drakhaoul or the new Emperor!”

  “Perhaps we'll learn more tonight.” Jagu turned back to the new piece. “What's this? ‘O, Mon Amou’?”

  “It's in the Provençan dialect. I've been practicing it all night.”

  They had been invited to give a recital before Duke Raimon de Provença on one of his rare visits to the capital, and Celestine had gone to some pains to seek out a song from his native province. She and Jagu had learned early on in their performing careers that thoughtful little touches like that pleased their patrons and could help smooth the way to good diplomatic relations. And what better way to collect useful information as secret agents of the Commanderie than by mingling with their distinguished audiences and listening discreetly? Over the last six years, such missions had taken them from Allegonde to Tourmalise, even to Mirom, to perform before the Grand Duke and Duchess of Muscobar.

  Jagu peered at the music, leaning so close in the poor light as he sight-read the introduction that his nose almost grazed the paper, while she went through her customary vocal exercises to warm her voice.

  The door suddenly opened and Celestine broke off in midarpeggio to see that Ruaud de Lanvaux had let himself in and was leaning on a long metal staff.

  “What brings you here, Maistre?”

  “I was about to send for you when I heard such delightful sounds issuing from this room that I guessed you were already in the palace.” He spoke lightly enough but she saw from his grave expression that this was not just a social visit.

  “I've just come from the council.” He approached the fortepiano so that the three of them could speak quietly together. “His majesty is sending you to Azhkendir, Jagu, to Saint Serzhei's Monastery. He wants the monks to lend us the saint's golden crook, th
e one the Blessed Sergius used to defeat the Drakhaouls.”

  “The king intends to challenge the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir?” Shy, bookish Enguerrand setting out to confront this daemon of darkness? Celestine was touched that he should dare to envisage such a feat—yet, at the same time, her heart was filled with misgivings. And when she looked at Ruaud, she saw her fears mirrored in his eyes.

  “Isn't Azhkendir completely cut off by ice at this time of year?” Jagu, ever practical, had already begun to think of potential hazards in the plan.

  “By the time you've completed the sea journey up the coast of Mus-cobar, the thaw should have set in. And as proof to the monks of our good faith, you will take this with you.” Ruaud placed the staff on the top of the fortepiano and began to unscrew the head. Tipping it, he carefully removed a long, charred piece of wood, so ancient and brittle that it had been reinforced with golden wire. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Saint Sergius's Staff.” Jagu spoke the words with reverence. “But what makes you think the monks in Azhkendir will agree to the king's request, even when they see this, the Commanderie's most precious relic?”

  “I visited the monastery myself some ten years ago. I believe that Abbot Yephimy will take our request seriously when he sees the Staff.”

  “You gave a talk to us at Saint Azilia's about your experiences in Azhkendir.” Celestine could not help smiling at the memory. All the girls were sighing over him for weeks; they thought him so good-looking in his Commanderie uniform…

  “And the Commanderie trusts me to take care of the Staff?” Jagu sounded doubtful.

  “We're sending one of the squad along with you. Viaud, probably.”

  “Why not me?” Celestine rounded on the Maistre. She was hurt that he had not even considered her.

  “It's a monastery,” Jagu said. “Women aren't permitted. Besides, it's too dangerous.”

  “More dangerous than protecting Princess Adèle from those magi-assassins in Bel'Esstar?” He had injured her pride and she wasn't going to let him get away with it so easily. “I don't remember Philippe Viaud being of much use on that occasion.”

  She saw Jagu shoot a look of mute appeal at the Maistre, who affected not to notice, leaning across the fortepiano to place the metal staff firmly in Jagu's hands. “Papers and passports are being prepared for you, and we'll let you know soon about your partner. Report to my office in the morning; we've booked passage for you on a merchant ship sailing to Arkhelskoye tomorrow.” He turned to leave, pausing at the door to say, “And take care; Azhkendir is a dangerous and uncivilized country.”

  Ruaud finished decrypting the latest intelligence from the ambassador in Muscobar and sat back in his chair to reread his work.

  “‘Eugene of Tielen has claimed the right, by ancient law, to be crowned Emperor because he has gathered together the five ancient rubies, known as the Tears of Artamon, from the surrounding kingdoms that he has conquered: Khitari, Azhkendir, Smarna, and Muscobar. And as no one has dared to claim this right since the death of Artamon the Great centuries ago, there seems to be no legal reason to stop him reestablishing the old empire under the name of New Rossiya.

  “‘The night before the Emperor's coronation, an extraordinary phenomenon was witnessed throughout Muscobar. Five shafts of crimson light were seen emanating from the palace. Official sources at the palace said that they were fireworks to celebrate the completion of the imperial crown. But, having seen these mysterious lights myself, I can only state that I have never seen fireworks that burned so long or with such intense color that the night skies were bathed in red, like blood. Could it be a new alchymical weapon that the Tielens are testing? I feel most uneasy at the prospect.’”

  Armed with this ominous news, Ruaud went in search of the king.

  “His majesty is closeted with his mother,” the guards on the doors to the king's private apartments told him, “and she says that no one is to be admitted.”

  She. Ruaud ground his teeth in frustration. For how much longer was Queen Aliénor going to try to keep control over her son's life? “Then would you be so good as to tell his majesty that I've come on an urgent matter of state that requires his immediate attention?” He placed strong emphasis on the last words.

  One of the guards disappeared into the apartments while Ruaud paced the antechamber, aware that the others were watching him curiously. After a while, the doors opened again.

  “His majesty will see you now, Grand Maistre.”

  Ruaud strode in to find Enguerrand seated beside his mother; on the table in front of them were placed several portrait miniatures which, Ruaud noted, were all of young women. Aliénor glanced up and gave Ruaud a stare so forbidding that it took all his nerve not to glance away. But he had learned long ago not to allow her to browbeat him; if he stood his ground patiently enough, she would eventually retreat.

  “You're interrupting a very important family discussion, Maistre de Lanvaux,” she said in a voice of ice. “This state business had better be as urgent as you implied.”

  “Mother.” Enguerrand glared at her.

  “What could possibly be more important than drawing up a list of potential brides for you? What about Astasia Orlova of Muscobar?”

  “That young lady is already taken,” said Ruaud, “by the Emperor Eugene. She was crowned Empress in Mirom at what was, by our ambassador's account, an impressive ceremony.”

  Aliénor's plucked eyebrows shot up but she carried on, undaunted. “I've always thought that Esclairmonde de Provença, my cousin Raimon's elder daughter, would make an excellent choice.”

  “I'm not ready to get married yet,” said Enguerrand.

  “Or there's her younger sister Aude—”

  “Mother!”

  “This really is most inconvenient. We shall continue our discussion after dinner tonight, Enguerrand.” Aliénor rose at last and swept out of the chamber.

  “I'm sorry.” The flushed look of embarrassment on Enguerrand's face was revealing; the king had not yet learned to hide his feelings very successfully.

  “I imagine that her majesty is merely anxious to see you happily settled,” Ruaud said, unable to stop himself from adding, “with a bride who will give Francia a healthy heir to the throne.”

  The flush deepened. “The urgent state business?” Enguerrand said, swiftly changing the subject.

  Ruaud repressed a little smile as he handed the decrypted letter to the king. Enguerrand was learning fast. “It's from Fabien d'Abrissard, our ambassador to the New Rossiyan Empire.”

  Enguerrand looked up. “These Tears of Artamon—what do we know about them, Ruaud?”

  Ruaud had asked Père Judicael to research the ancient history of Artamon's reign. “It seems that the Emperor Artamon's sons fought so bitterly over the succession that his empire was divided into five and the ruby in the emperor's crown was also divided into five, and one fifth given to each of the princes.”

  “So Eugene's claim is legitimate?”

  “So it seems.”

  “But if anyone else were to seize the rubies, his claim to the throne would be equally valid?”

  “That might prove difficult, sire,” said Ruaud, smiling openly at his pupil's line of reasoning. Enguerrand was beginning to think like a statesman. “But technically, legally, yes.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “Pilgrims?” The Rossiyan officer looked up from the travelers’ papers to see a dark-haired priest and his servant—a fair-haired youth, pretty as a girl. “You've come a long way, Père Jagu. All the way from Francia! And you've got an arduous journey ahead of you. I hope you're both used to roughing it.” He let out a brusque laugh as he stamped their passports. “Don't expect a warm welcome from the locals, either. They don't like foreigners—and they don't hide their feelings!” He handed the papers back. “Can't blame ‘em, I suppose. They didn't ask to be part of the new empire. But be on your guard.” He stared pointedly at the youth, who had not said a word, although his blue eyes had widened at the warning. �
��There're robbers… and worse… out there in the wilds.”

  “What a wretched place,” Celestine muttered to Jagu as they set out, Jagu leaning on his sturdy metal staff. Dilapidated warehouses and wooden sheds lined the quay; every building they passed was weather-battered, with peeling paint, exuding a reek of damp and rotting timber.

  “What can you expect? It's completely cut off by the ice all winter.”

  But just around the end of the quay, they found themselves caught up in a surging tide of people.

  “Fish market,” said Celestine as they passed fishwives, hoarsely crying out their wares. The stink of pickled herrings was making her eyes water. Jostled by traders, she was soon separated from Jagu, confused by the babble of voices in different tongues, mingled with the raucous screaming of seagulls overhead.

  Jagu grabbed hold of her by one arm and pulled her into the doorway of a tavern. “Wishing you hadn't volunteered to come?”

  “It's a little late for that. You know how important this mission is to me. And ever since the news leaked out about Lord Gavril's arrest—”

  “Be careful what you say here.”

  She glowered up at him. “With the New Rossiyan Army in control, the Drakhaon's imprisonment isn't exactly a secret anymore.”

  All the inns surrounding the harbor at Arkhelskoye were filled with merchants and sailors. Jagu and Celestine tramped from one to another, only to be turned away every time.

  “What did you expect, Father?” said the landlady of the last hostelry on the quay as she poured out ale for her noisy customers. “Once the thaw comes, this place is overrun. Now with the Tielens here as well…” She raised her eyes heavenward. “You could try the Osprey's Nest. Take the cliff path from the northern end of the harbor. Better hurry; looks as if sea fog's setting in. You don't want to miss your step; it's a long drop to the rocks down below,” she added, wheezing with laughter at her own joke.

  Celestine looked up at Jagu. He shrugged, as if to say, What choice do we have?