Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

“Sit down and rest, Lieutenant,” said the Guerrier. “You're not yet recovered from your wounds.”

  But Jagu knew he could not rest until he was certain that Celestine was safe. “My mission here is over.” He mopped his face. “When is the next ship back home?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Aude de Provença was only a slip of a girl, but Enguerrand had felt an instant connection to her when she was presented to him at court. Aliénor had invited several eligible young noblewomen to a summer soiree at the palace and Aude was an afterthought, eclipsed by the beauty of her elder sister Esclairmonde. But Enguerrand had infuriated his mother by escaping the formal dancing to go and eat ices with Aude in the gardens, like two naughty children hiding from the adults. Her wit and mischievous manner had endeared her to Enguerrand, making him forget his troubles for a while.

  A few days later, he found himself passing by the Hotel de Provença on the way back from visiting a charity hospital. The temptation to see if Aude was at home was too great to resist. He was king, after all…

  The steward, skillfully hiding his surprise at the unexpected visit, welcomed him. “Please follow me, sire.”

  “That wool is for your embroidery, Aude!” A woman's voice, stiff with displeasure, could be heard as they crossed the hall.

  Enguerrand was shown into a firelit salon, where he saw Aude teasing a tortoiseshell kitten with a length of wool, laughing delightedly as it skidded across the polished floorboards, while her governess looked on, tapping her foot in annoyance.

  “His majesty, the king,” announced the steward.

  “Forgive us, sire.” The governess dropped into a deep curtsy. “Had we known you were coming, we would have prepared—”

  “No, it's entirely my fault for making an impromptu visit,” said Enguerrand hastily.

  “If you've come to see my sister Esclairmonde, then I'm afraid your journey has been wasted, sire,” Aude said, pertly bobbing a curtsy. “She and Maman have gone to visit an orphanage today. They're doing ‘charitable works.’”

  “No matter,” Enguerrand said, gazing at her, “it was you I came to see.”

  “Me?” she said, her brown eyes widening. And then she burst into laughter. “Why me? Everyone adores Esclairmonde; she's so beautiful and sweet-natured. Unlike me. I speak my mind. I just don't seem to be able to help myself.”

  Enchanted, Enguerrand found himself laughing too.

  The governess coughed pointedly. “May we offer you some refreshment, sire?”

  “Thank you.”

  But the moment the salon door opened to admit a servant carrying in a silver tray, the kitten decided to make good its escape and shot between his legs.

  “Minette!” Aude shrieked and ran off after it as the servant valiantly tried to right himself and save the sliding contents of the tray.

  “I'm so sorry, sire.” The governess's face had turned a dark red in embarrassment.

  “Demoiselle Aude is very young; such high spirits are only natural,” said Enguerrand.

  “Very young?” said an offended voice. Aude reappeared, carrying the wriggling kitten. “I'm fifteen, nearly sixteen.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Just because I'm not tall for my age, people forget.”

  It was Enguerrand's turn to blush. “I beg your pardon, Demoiselle. I didn't intend to offend you…”

  She shrugged it aside with an ingenuous little grin and held the struggling kitten up for him to stroke. “Do you have any favorite pets, sire?”

  “Pets?” Enguerrand had spent most of his life studying. “My brother Aubrey kept hunting hounds, great hairy brutes; I was always a little afraid of them, I confess. But cats…” As he put out his hand to pat the kitten, it twisted away with a yowling cry of fear and ran off to hide beneath one of the chairs. “Oh,” he said, hurt. “I don't usually have that effect on animals…”

  “Minette can tell that you're… different,” Aude whispered confidentially to Enguerrand.

  “Different?” Enguerrand stared at Aude in dismay. Was she clairvoyant?

  “He's dazzlingly bright,” she said, staring into his eyes, “the spirit within you.”

  He caught hold of her hands, gripping them hard in his own. “You can see him?”

  “He used to be a poet,” she said, suddenly sad and distant, “but they forced him to become a warrior. And since then he's been angry, so angry because his true nature is a peaceful one…”

  “Aude,” Enguerrand said, his voice trembling, “I never knew that till now.”

  The governess coughed loudly and he hastily let go of Aude's hands. “The duchess's carriage has returned.”

  “If only we could talk for longer.” He wanted Aude to tell him more about the daemon that had possessed him.

  “We will return for you, my child.” Enguerrand had not spoken out loud; the words had come from Nilaihah. He saw Aude's eyes widen and knew that she had heard Nilaihah's voice. But at that moment, the duchess and Esclairmonde appeared in the salon and their intimate conversation was brought to an abrupt conclusion.

  “There you are at last, Captain Friard!” came a tetchy voice.

  Friard looked up from checking the next day's duty roster to see Père Judicael hobbling into the guardroom. “How can I help you, mon père?” It was rare for the old exorcist to venture out of the library these days.

  “That sigil; I knew I'd seen it before. But it took me days to trace it.” Judicael placed a little book into his hands and collapsed onto a chair, out of breath. “Guess what the binding's made of?” he said, wheezing.

  “I have no idea. Kidskin?” The more Friard stared at the book, the more it seemed to give off an unsettling, peculiar aura. “Pigskin?”

  “Human skin. Those occult signs are tattooed onto the victim's back before the flaying takes place.”

  Friard almost dropped the book. It had an unpleasant, greasy feel to it. It made him wonder whether the skin had been peeled from the unfortunate victim when dead… or still alive.

  “I've marked the place,” said Judicael.

  Friard overcame his revulsion and opened the book. There, above an intricate engraving, was the sigil he had seen before, this time drawn in faded brown ink. Friard peered more closely, seeing that the woodcut portrayed tier upon tier of stylized, winged angels. Closer inspection still showed that many wielded spears and fiery swords and, tumbling down from the highest tier of heaven, fell one of their number. A little inscription had been scratched on the woodcut in the same brownish ink.

  “Do you recognize the language?” Judicael asked.

  “It looks like a variant of ancient Djihari,” Friard said, scratching his head. “Is that word ‘fall’?”

  “‘The fall of the angel Nith-Haiah, one of Seven.’”

  “Nith-Haiah?” repeated Friard, staring at the sigil.

  “Written in human blood.”

  “How could I have been so stupid? ‘Th’ and ‘l’ are interchangeable in ancient Djihari,” Friard muttered. “So Nilaihah is Nith-Haiah. The blood-sigil is the sign of the apostate.” The king's “angel” was one of the rebels. He thrust the book back into Père Judicael's hands. “I must warn the Grand Maistre straightaway.”

  Ruaud stared at his king. Enguerrand looked like a young saint in his pure white robes, and the Grand Maistre felt a catch in his throat as he gazed at his protégé. There was a radiance about the king, as he placed the Tears of Artamon on the altar; his eyes gleamed gold and a faint glimmer seemed to encircle his head, like a halo.

  “Will the Drakhaon come, do you think, Ruaud?” Enguerrand asked. And the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear and his vulnerability.

  Ruaud came closer to Enguerrand. “If you have the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of this venture…”

  Enguerrand gave him an affronted look.

  “There would be no dishonor in abandoning the attempt,” Ruaud said gently.

  “I won't abandon my duty.” There was a stubborn glint in Enguerrand's eyes. “I'm no coward, Ruaud
. I have my guardian to guide and protect me.”

  The summer daylight outside the chapel began to fade. Clouds must be rolling up fast, Ruaud thought, feeling the hairs prickle on his body; thunderstorms were common at this time of year. A fitful wind began to gust outside, high about the chapel spires.

  The great door suddenly banged open. All the candleflames guttered wildly and went out.

  “Is he here already?” Ruaud swung around. A man stood in the doorway. Even in the dim light, Ruaud could see that his skin glittered as though jeweled with iridescent scales and his wild dark hair tumbled about his shoulders.

  “I am here,” said the Drakhaon. He began to walk down the aisle toward Enguerrand, who took a step back. “Well?” he said. “You promised that my druzhina would be released. Where are they?”

  “Your reign of terror is over, Drakhaoul!” cried Enguerrand. He raised the gold-tipped Staff high, brandishing it like a hunting spear, ready for the kill. “Daemon, I command you to leave this man's body!” The golden crook gleamed like a crescent moon as the daylight faded from the chapel.

  “I call upon my guardian angel to help me. Nilaihah, work through me—and draw out this daemon.”

  “Nilaihah?” echoed Gavril Nagarian.

  The rose window splintered into a million shards of colored glass. Through the deadly rain of splinters burst two daemon-dragons, one scarlet as flame, the other dark as purple twilight.

  Enguerrand turned, wielding the Staff, pointing it at them with trembling hands.

  The scarlet Drakhaoul snatched the Staff from him, snapping it in half as if it were matchwood. The other breathed a little burst of violet flame. The golden crook melted into a puddle of liquid metal.

  Enguerrand collapsed.

  Disjointed words issued from his mouth as he cowered on the floor. “Why—did you—to your Chosen One? Am I—unworthy?”

  Ruaud started out toward him but stopped as the king's body began to twitch and thrash about as though he were in the throes of a violent epileptic fit. A fine gilded mist arose, spinning around him, until the air glittered.

  In the king's place, a third daemon-dragon crouched, armored with burnished scales as resplendent as the morning sun. “Why was I—so deceived?” it cried and its voice was Enguerrand's. “Save the Tears, Ruaud!”

  Ruaud started out toward the altar, only to see the scarlet Drakhaoul seize the casket in its talons, hissing a warning at him that seared the air.

  “Wait!” cried Gavril Nagarian. “Why should you take charge of the Tears, Sahariel?”

  “Because, dear brother,” came back the mocking reply, “we don't trust you.” And the scarlet and purple Drakhaouls rose into the air and flew out through the ruined window.

  “No!” Before Ruaud's astonished eyes, Gavril Nagarian transformed in a dark whirlwind into his dragon form, leaping into flight after them, the gust from the beating of his great wings sending Ruaud sprawling.

  Fists thudded against the barred wooden doors of the chapel; muffled voices clamored to be let in.

  Ruaud de Lanvaux pushed himself to his feet. There was no sign of the Drakhaouls—or the Tears of Artamon. Broken glass and fragments of stone were scattered everywhere. The Commanderie chapel was cracked open to the sky, a great, jagged hole gaping where the magnificent rose window had been.

  And sprawled on the floor, unmoving, lay Enguerrand.

  “Sire,” Ruaud called. “Sire, are you unharmed?” Little remained of Enguerrand's white robes; they had been shredded to tatters, leaving the king nearly naked. Yet he could see no bruises or wounds on the king's body.

  What would he do if the daemon had killed the king? And how would he explain it to Aliénor? She would blame him. She would have him and his closest advisers executed in the most prolonged and painful way she could devise.

  Loud, rhythmic thuds made the locked doors shudder on their hinges. He guessed that his Guerriers must be trying to force them open.

  The king let out a soft moan.

  “Sire?” Ruaud helped the king to sit up. “Thank God you're alive.” He took off his jacket and slipped it around the king's shoulders. Enguerrand was shivering uncontrollably; he seemed in a state of shock.

  The doors crashed open and armed Guerriers came rushing in.

  “Maistre, the king?” Alain Friard appeared.

  “The king is unharmed.”

  “Thank God. Because that name you gave me, Nilaihah, it belongs to one of the Fallen. Père Judicael only just—”

  “Alain, go make sure that no one has been injured in the attack.” Ruaud could not bear to hear any more.

  “Maistre.” Friard saluted and hurried away.

  “The Staff.” Enguerrand's voice was a barely more than a whisper. He was staring fixedly at the scattered splinters.

  “It was just wood and metal.” Ruaud felt a deep sense of disillusionment pervading his soul. “And we were arrogant fools to think that any of us was pure enough to inherit Sergius's powers.”

  All he heard in response from Enguerrand was a muffled sob.

  CHAPTER 22

  Steam hissed on the surface of the luminous waters. A haze of shifting mist almost obscured the surrounding rocks, which were streaked with white and jade from the healing minerals bubbling up from the hot springs.

  Kaspar Linnaius rose gasping, water streaming down his face. He blinked and found that his failing sight had cleared.

  A woman was watching him through serpentine eyes, her long locks of hair flowing down over her shoulders like waterweed.

  “Lady Anagini,” he said, bowing his head. “Thank you. You've restored me a second time.”

  “Don't thank me yet,” she said. “I have not yet told you what price I must exact from you.”

  Linnaius bowed again, waiting to hear the guardian's will.

  “And, as I warned you before, these are not the springs of eternal youth, no matter what the local legends may say. You've lived a long life, even for one with mage blood. I can never give you back your youth, Kaspar.”

  “I am content with this,” Linnaius said stoically. “I only ask that you give me long enough to aid my master, Eugene.”

  “This is the first time that I've ever heard you express such a selfless wish,” she said, floating toward him. One dripping finger gently stroked his cheek. Was she smiling? “Has your cold heart begun to melt at last?”

  He did not know how to answer such a question. “So, lady, what is your fee this time?”

  Her jade-flecked eyes narrowed. “You committed a crime, many years ago, Kaspar, when you stole a certain crystal from Azilis's Shrine in Ondhessar. And since that crime was committed, the barriers between the mortal world and the Ways Beyond have begun to disintegrate. Your powers—and mine—have already begun to diminish.”

  “You want me to put the crystal back?”

  “I want you to find the aethyr spirit it contained: she who kept the balance between the worlds. The Eternal Singer: Azilis.”

  Linnaius's lost memories were returning to him. Rieuk Mordiern, his green eyes burning with hatred and defiance as he gazed up at him, over the dying body of his lover, his young face twisted with grief and incomprehension. Rieuk, the last living crystal magus.

  “Surely only the one who set her free can put her back?”

  “If it were that simple, he would have done so many years ago. But Azilis is still joined by a bond of blood to another master…or should I say, mistress?” Anagini's slanted eyes glinted.

  “Do you mean Celestine de Joyeuse?”

  “Magus! Come quickly!” A man's voice came floating through the mists. It was Chinua, his Khitaran shaman guide. “We must go!”

  His voice jolted Linnaius back to more urgent concerns. “Eugene,” he said, remembering. “The Emperor needs me. The Empire is under attack.”

  “Go, then,” said Anagini, drawing the billowing mists around her like a cloak, “but don't forget, dear Kaspar, that if you neglect your part of our bargain, your powers will
begin to evaporate as swiftly as the mists rising from the springs … and then what use will you be to your beloved emperor?”

  The translucent waters swirled and Linnaius found himself alone, blinking, as Chinua, his shaman guide, appeared in a narrow gap in the craggy rocks surrounding the springs.

  “Chinua,” Linnaius said, wading out of the hot waters into the bitter chill of the mountain air, “I need a boat.”

  A sea fog was blowing in across Lapwing Spar as the sailors rowed Andrei and Celestine ashore and visibility was rapidly decreasing. Celestine could just make out a ramshackle little cottage perched on the edge of the dunes.

  “Tikhon? Is it really you?” Old Irina appeared, surrounded by crooning chickens. She stared at Andrei through rheumy eyes. Then she flung wide her arms and hugged him. “My boy. My boy's come back to me!”

  “Irina, this is Celestine,” said Andrei, returning the hug. “Could she keep you company for a few days? Until I return to collect her?”

  Irina peered at Celestine and nodded. “Well, you're a pretty one and no mistake. Come in and have some tea, both of you.”

  Andrei hesitated. “I wish I could stay longer, but my ship's waiting.”

  Celestine hugged her shawl to her, shivering in the damp as the fog rolled across the dunes. She looked uncertainly at the drab little fisherman's cottage. Andrei took her in his arms and kissed her. “Just for a few days,” he said, then set out over the sands to the waiting row-boat.

  She stood, waving forlornly to him, until the fog swallowed the little boat up and he was lost to view.

  I can't stay here, she thought as she walked back up the dunes. I have to get to Mirom.

  Back on board, Vassian came up to Andrei in a state of some agitation. “Those two Francians, they're either dead drunk or ill.”

  Andrei went below to look. The officers lay on their bunks and did not respond to slaps or cold compresses, except with the faintest of groans.

  He had only done as Celestine had bidden him; a draft, she had said, that would make them sleep for a day and a night. She had given him her pearl-and-diamond ring, which concealed a fine white powder within the bezel and, when no one was looking, he had added it to their wine, for a toast “to Francia and confusion to all her enemies.”