Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

  “What brings me to this godforsaken country?” Kilian threw his wet coat down. “Since you failed so spectacularly in your mission to persuade the monks of Kerjhenezh to part with their sacred treasure, I'm here to ensure that the Staff is safely returned to the Forteresse.”

  Celestine opened her mouth to make a sharp retort but then thought better of it; she sensed that Kilian would have liked nothing better than to revel in her discomfort.

  “Any chance of a drop of aquavit? I'm frozen.” Kilian went over to the grate to warm his hands at the blaze. She poured a glass and handed it to him. He took a sip and nodded. “Ahh; that's better. Did you know that our agents have just learned of an intriguing turn of events? Lord Nagarian has escaped from Arnskammar Asylum.” He took another slow sip.

  Celestine caught Jagu's startled glance. “Does that mean that the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir has returned to protect its first master?” she said. “Was that where it was going when we saw it in the Straits?”

  “Who knows?” replied Kilian with a wry smile. “Except that Arnskammar is supposed to be impregnable. No one has ever escaped from there before—and lived to tell the tale. Imagine the Emperor's expression when he was told the news…”

  She left the two old school friends to reminisce and went to check on their royal guest, who was receiving the attentions of the local barber.

  The barber had washed and cut Andrei's wild, salt-stiffened tangle of dark hair and was trimming his beard to an elegant style suitable for a man-about-town.

  “The barber's done a good job,” she said as Andrei looked critically at his reflection in a hand glass. “You look quite respectable now.”

  “Though I hear the nobles of the imperial court are going cleanshaven these days, like the Emperor.”

  “But the beard helps to preserve your anonymity,” she reminded him.

  He suddenly put the mirror down and got up, pacing the room like a caged animal. “All this waiting around is making me restless.”

  “Jagu's still occupied with the ambassador's business,” she said. “Perhaps you could escort me about town?” It was important to keep Andrei busy in case, in his frustration, he did something rash and spoiled their plans. “With all these foreign sailors in port, I confess I'm a little nervous to venture out alone.” How odd that false declaration sounded to her ears; hadn't she just traveled to Azhkendir and back disguised as a boy? She was glad that Jagu was not present to hear her play the role of the defenseless woman.

  “I'm glad to be of use,” Andrei said eagerly.

  *#x00A0;*#x00A0;*#x00A0;

  “Spring comes so much later in the north,” Celestine said to Andrei, as the cherry blossom petals came fluttering down, blanketing the street with a covering of delicate pink snow. The squall had finally blown away and thin, misty clouds were parting to reveal blue sky behind.

  A stroll was just the excuse she needed to draw more information from Andrei. Something in his story had been troubling her. “That spirit we saw. It was terrifying. A daemon.” She chose her words with care; at present he knew her only as a singer, not as a member of an elite team of exorcists. “Yet you say it healed you of your injuries and restored your memory. That doesn't seem like the action of an evil spirit.”

  “It gave me courage. Confidence in myself.” He stopped, gazing up into the clearing sky as if unconsciously searching for a lingering trace of its presence. “When it made itself a… a part of me, I felt so strong. As if I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. Now that it's gone, I feel… empty.”

  He could almost be describing what she had experienced when the Faie had left her body to return to the book. She looked at him with fresh sympathy. He had been possessed by the Drakhaoul, a daemon spirit that had wreaked unimaginable destruction, and yet it had used him kindly. Was there some kinship between the Faie and the Drakhaouls?

  “Forgive me for unburdening myself to you. I've had so much on my mind since…” Andrei glanced at her, with the hint of an intimate smile.

  His eyes are so warm when he smiles. “You must have been so lonely, all those long months after your memories returned.” It was difficult not to feel sympathy for his current predicament.

  “Not so lonely as when I returned to Mirom and walked the streets of my home as a stranger. It's a very peculiar sensation to stand in front of your own memorial and see your name engraved there with the dates of your short, insignificant life beside those of your dead friends and crewmates…” The haunted look had clouded his eyes again. “I felt like a ghost.”

  “Well, will you look over there!” Kilian nudged Jagu, pointing across the square. “Isn't that your charming partner?” Jagu looked and saw Celestine walking along the gravel path beneath the cherry trees with Andrei Orlov, one hand resting on his arm. The two seemed absorbed in their conversation, Celestine's golden head raised so that she could gaze attentively up at him.

  “They seem to be getting on rather well, wouldn't you say?” There was an all-too-familiar hint of malice in Kilian's words. Jagu decided to ignore the sly dig, designed, he knew, to provoke him.

  “Our orders are to gain as much information from him as possible. Celestine has a talent for putting people at their ease…” How lame it sounded. He couldn't even convince himself. “I'm content just to be with her. Near her. I don't ask for more.”

  “Such admirable self-restraint. Such a noble lack of self-interest. Most people would say that you're deluding yourself.”

  What possible satisfaction could Kilian get out of goading him, like this? Jagu wondered. “Must you always see things from your own peculiarly warped perspective?”

  “Only a damned fool would let himself be tormented day after day by a love that can never be fulfilled.”

  Was there more of an edge to Kilian's words than usual? Or did they seem sharper because of the raw wind off the Straits that suddenly stirred the cherry branches, dislodging the last tender blossoms?

  “What, precisely, do you mean by—” Jagu began, but Kilian interrupted him.

  “My ship leaves tomorrow on the dawn tide. I need those reports for the Maistre from you both—even if you have to stay up into the small hours to complete them.”

  Jagu went down to the docks in the dark before dawn to see Kilian off. It seemed odd to be handing Sergius's Staff into his care after so many months. It had made him feel strangely secure, as if the saint's presence had been protecting and guiding them.

  “I fear the Maistre will be disappointed,” Jagu said as they approached the harbor.

  “Did you really think those old monks would give up their sacred treasure to a rival order?”

  Jagu shook his head.

  “It was a valuable reconnaissance mission. You mapped the coastline. You found the pilgrim trails through the forest to the monastery. Now we know what we're up against.” There was no hint of jesting in Kilian's tone anymore.

  “So we're not giving up?”

  “It's the king's will,” Kilian said. “Enguerrand has some grand project in mind. You may find yourself on the way back to Azhkendir very soon.”

  Jagu groaned. “I don't think I could endure the smell of herring again.”

  As they walked on, a crowd of Tielen sailors went hurrying past, moving in the direction of the naval dockyards.

  “Something's up,” said Kilian.

  “Kilian! Jagu!” Celestine came running after them. “Have you heard the news? There's been a big sea battle off the coast of Smarna. It sounds as if Eugene's Southern Fleet has suffered a significant defeat.”

  “But the Smarnans have only a handful of warships,” said Jagu. “How could so few overcome such a powerful navy?”

  “Who knows?” said Kilian. “As long as they don't fire on my ship home, I couldn't give a damn. And here she is, the Azénor.” He stopped alongside the three-master, which was bustling with crewmen, making ready for the crossing to Francia.

  “Godspeed, then, and an uneventful voyage.” Jagu gave Kilian a hug and plac
ed the metal Staff in his hands. “And take good care of the Staff.”

  “You know you can rely on me,” said Kilian.

  “Tell the Maistre,” added Celestine, “that we're going after the big fish, as he instructed; we may need extra support.”

  “By all the saints, you're formidable when you set your mind on something, Celestine. I'd hate to be on the opposing side!” Kilian feigned a shudder, a teasing light glinting in his green eyes.

  “My Southern Fleet has been attacked by the Drakhaoul of Azh kendir.” Eugene paced the Magus's laboratory, his hands clasped behind his back. Linnaius said nothing; it was best, he had learned from experience, to let the Emperor vent his rage first before offering any kind of counsel. “What will Lord Gavril attack next? Swanholm? We must make our move now, Linnaius.” Eugene stopped and stabbed his finger at the chart that lay open on the table. “We must go to Ty Nagar and find this legendary Serpent Gate. I will summon a Drakhaoul of my own.”

  “Are you certain this is the only solution?” Bringing a second Drakhaoul into the world seemed to Linnaius too drastic a response.

  “Why wait any longer? I have the key, the Eye of Nagar.” “But if you succeed in opening the Serpent Gate, can you be certain that only one Drakhaoul will come to your call?”

  Eugene looked up at him, a gleam in his eyes. “I can't. But should such a thing happen, I shall be relying on you, Kaspar, to close the Serpent Gate before the others can escape.”

  Linnaius had suspected that might be the case. “We're talking of prodigiously powerful daemons here. I've never attempted anything this dangerous before.”

  “The only way to fight fire is with fire,” said Eugene stubbornly. “And the only way to defend the empire is to set free my ancestor's Drakhaoul, the Drakhaoul of Helmar.”

  “But the other five? ‘Seven, they were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction,’” Linnaius quoted from the ancient curse he had uncovered in the monastery library in Azhkendir. “If they are all let loose through the Serpent Gate, they could bring about the end of the world.”

  “As I said before”—and Eugene placed one hand on Linnaius's shoulder— “I have complete confidence in you to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring.”

  “I appreciate the compliment, Eugene, but we are about to open a gate that leads to the Realm of Shadows. Even if it's only for a few brief seconds, we must prevent even the smallest trickle of darkness from leaking through into our world. Who knows what nameless horrors lurk near the Gate, waiting for just such an opportunity?”

  “Where's your sense of adventure?” Eugene burst into laughter. “A search for a fabled island far beyond Serindher; an Emperor's rubies; it's the stuff of legends, Kaspar. How soon can we leave?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Celestine's little entourage took rooms at an inn in the village of Helmargård, which lay close to the Swanholm estate. The construction of the palace had attracted many craftsmen to the area and they in turn had brought their families, so that what had once been a huddle of farm cottages around a wooden church had grown into a bustling and prosperous small town.

  It had been Celestine's inspiration to invent the role of concert manager for Andrei, and Ambassador d'Abrissard supplied the necessary papers for “Mr. Tikhon.” The concert manager's first task was to send a letter informing the palace majordomo that Celestine de Joyeuse had arrived at the Empress's request and was awaiting further instructions. But when Celestine saw how poor his skills were, she composed the note herself, adding—at his request—an enigmatic postscript in Francian which she hoped would pique Astasia's curiosity.

  The reply, which came promptly, was delivered by a neatly dressed flunkey wearing the blue-and-grey livery of the House of Tielen.

  I regret to inform you that Princess Karila has been taken ill

  and so the birthday recital may have to be canceled. However, her

  imperial highness, while aware that you have postponed engagements

  abroad at her request, would not wish you to have been

  inconvenienced. She requests that you visit the palace at your

  earliest convenience to discuss rescheduling the concert.

  Lovisa, Countess of Aspelin

  * * *

  The carriage began the long, winding descent into the valley, and Celestine let out a little gasp of delight as she caught her first glimpse of Eugene's palace. From the limpid waters of the lake in the landscaped park, to the geometrical designs of the formal gardens set out in the Francian style, all had been executed to impress. Even the carriage drive had been cleverly designed to reveal Swanholm's splendors to the visitor from different perspectives. But it was the facade of the central building, with its two subtly asymmetrical wings, that impressed her the most. Clean lines, the sheen of steel-grey slate tiles, and the many windows offsetting the soft pallor of the stone, with little ornamentation save the tall pillars supporting the magnificent portico, each one as smooth and slender as the birch trees in the surrounding woodlands.

  And yet all this elegance conceals a malevolent and dangerous canker: the Magus's laboratory. Is he here, I wonder? Can I sense his presence? Or… can he sense mine? The thought sent a little frisson through her. But then why should he suspect? He has no reason to know that I am on his trail…or even that I'm still alive. I have the advantage of surprise.

  “Don't do anything rash,” Jagu had said to her before she left the inn. He had stopped her, one hand on her arm. The concerned look in his eyes had startled her.

  “Don't worry, Jagu, this is merely a reconnaissance mission.”

  “So you're the Francian singer.” Eyes the frosty blue of an ice-bound lake stared suspiciously at Celestine. “My name is Lovisa. Please follow me to the music room.”

  Celestine curtsied. She had not missed the note of disapproval in the way the Countess of Aspelin pronounced the word “Francian.”

  Alone, Celestine explored the music room. The fortepiano boasted a pretty marquetry case decorated with ornate clefs intertwined in a pattern of songbirds and lyres. When she tested a few keys and played a little run of notes, she discovered that the instrument was not just attractive to look at, it was also in tune.

  The doors opened and Empress Astasia came in, accompanied by the countess. Celestine sank into a deep curtsy.

  “Welcome to Swanholm, Demoiselle,” Astasia said, smiling warmly.

  “I am so sorry to hear of your stepdaughter's indisposition, highness. Would you prefer to cancel the recital?”

  “After you have taken the trouble to alter your schedule to travel all this way? No, I won't hear of it.” Astasia turned to her lady-in-waiting. “You can leave us now, Countess,” she said pointedly.

  As soon as they were alone, Astasia hurried over to Celestine. “You said you had something to impart to me,” she said softly. “Something of personal significance.”

  Celestine nodded.

  “I have little skill at the keyboard,” said Astasia, “but if I were to attempt to accompany you, perhaps you could tell me the news you bring between verses?”

  This was going better than Celestine could have hoped; her message must have piqued the young empress's curiosity. “An ingenious conceit, highness.” She lifted a book of songs from the top of the fortepiano and began to leaf through the pages. “Do you know ‘The Waterfall’?”

  Astasia settled herself on the seat and took a look at the music. She pulled a wry face. “Too hard.”

  “This one is just right. ‘Summer Evenings.’ A beautiful melody, a deceptively simple accompaniment. And in my native tongue, which is not so familiar to the Tielens, I believe,” Celestine added mischievously.

  “I've never played this one before,” Astasia stared at the notes, biting her lower lip as she concentrated, “so not too fast, Demoiselle, I beg you.”

  “In summer… when the swallows swoop overhead…” Celestine began. “Empress,” she sang, fitting the words to the melody, “your brother is alive.”

&nb
sp; Astasia stopped playing abruptly. “Alive?” Celestine saw her violet eyes brimming with tears. “Where is he? In Francia? How is he?” She clutched Celestine's hands in her own. “And how do you know?”

  “He is in remarkably good health, all things considered,” Celestine said, touched by Astasia's response. “After his ship was wrecked, he was washed ashore nearly dead and was nursed back to health by an old fisherman.”

  “My poor Andrei.” Astasia let Celestine's hands drop. “He must think that we abandoned him.” She looked utterly stricken at the thought.

  Celestine could not help but feel sorry for her. “Your brother finds himself in a very difficult situation. Your husband has taken the throne of Muscobar that was rightly his. If he were to come forward now, what would the Emperor do?”

  “I'm sure Eugene would welcome him to court,” Astasia said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “For my sake.”

  “Think again, imperial highness. Some dissident elements might see your brother as a significant rival to your husband's authority.” With Andrei and Jagu, Celestine had very carefully rehearsed what she should say. “His reappearance could cause considerable damage to the stability of the empire.”

  “But Andrei would never do anything to hurt me,” protested Astasia.

  “The consequences could be disastrous,” said Celestine firmly. “He was very reluctant to have me tell you the news—let alone your parents—for fear it would place you all in an impossible situation.”

  “So where will he go?”

  “His wish,” Celestine said, “is to see you once more, then to begin a new life. Far away from Muscobar.”

  “H-how far?” Astasia stammered.

  “I have a letter for you.” Celestine slid finger and thumb into her décolletage and discreetly extracted a thin sliver of folded paper from beneath her lace fichu.

  Astasia opened the letter and read it; Celestine saw her wipe away a stray tear as she handed it back. “I daren't keep this, in case anyone was to find it. Especially Countess Lovisa.”