Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

  “How have you done this, Faie?” she asked, amazed. “Is it permanent? Can you change me back?”

  “Does it displease you? I was remembering how I…” The Faie's soft voice trailed away.

  “How you looked?” Celestine was wondering what the Faie meant. “Was that you in my dream, Faie? Did you show me your memories?”

  “But that was a long, long time ago…”

  Celestine went back to the gazebo. There was no one about yet, not even a gardener, but she judged it wise to collect her little bag of possessions and move on.

  If only I had something else to sell. She had pawned all her jewelry but one piece to pay for her passage to Mirom. Her fingers closed around the last remaining item, which she had pinned to her dress: the jet mourning brooch given to her by Princess Adèle.

  But it's my lucky charm. I can't pawn this, it's too precious.

  The sky craft skimmed on above the Azure Ocean toward the western quadrant. The last smudges of darkness leaking from the Realm of Shadows had cleared, leaving the sky a radiant blue once more.

  Kaspar Linnaius summoned the calmest, gentlest winds to bear his precious cargo back to Muscobar, and he concentrated his mind on weaving one breeze smoothly with another to steer them home. Beside him sat the Emperor, one arm around his daughter, Karila, his baby son, Rostevan, clasped close in the crook of his other arm. Like her brother, Karila had fallen into an exhausted sleep, her tousled fair head pillowed against her father's broad chest. Linnaius assumed that Eugene was also asleep; his bruised face was pale and his head drooping. But after a while, Linnaius became aware that the Emperor's blue-grey eyes were fixed on him, keen as a wintry sky.

  “You came to our rescue again, Kaspar,” he said, his voice slurred with weariness. “How can I ever begin to thank you?”

  “These last years that I've spent in your service have been the happiest of my life.” Linnaius busied himself with adjusting the tiller. Never easy with expressing his feelings, this was proving even more difficult to say than he had anticipated. “But I have unfinished business that I must attend to urgently. I do not know how long it will take me… or indeed if I will ever return.”

  A long silence followed. Linnaius glanced up, wondering if Eugene had even heard him. And then a sigh escaped the Emperor's lips. Eugene was smiling at him—a sad, regretful smile. “I've been so fortunate to have you at my side all these years, old friend,” he said. “But I've always known that this day would come, sooner or later. Go and with my blessing. God knows, I'll miss you…” His gaze shifted from Linnaius's face, staring beyond him into the vastness of the sky above and beyond. “And remember, there will always be a place at my court for you if ever you choose to return.”

  Linnaius bowed his head in thanks. Eugene's words had moved him more deeply than he cared to admit.

  What is the matter with me? Why do I have so little control over my emotions since I returned from the Jade Springs? This is a weakness I can ill afford, when there is so much to be done.

  The craft dipped suddenly and he forced himself to concentrate on the weaving of the soft, southern breezes with the fresh, lively winds that had begun to blow from the east as they flew on toward Muscobar. He was struggling to maintain control. Since boyhood he had been able to summon the translucent dragons of the air, the fierce and wayward wouivres, and bend them to his will. Now they were resisting him. It was taking all his energy to keep the craft aloft.

  “Your powers—and mine—have begun to diminish.” Anagini's warning thrummed repetitively on, like a melody that would not leave his brain.

  I'll become a street singer. Celestine had been walking the pavements of Mirom all day and she was exhausted. It's that or sell my body. And who would pay good money for such a sweaty, unwashed piece of flesh as I?

  There were prostitutes in plenty in Mirom; Celestine could not help but notice the ragged girls with hollow cheeks and dead eyes haunting the taverns by the quays, rouged and painted like dolls. Here, in the more prosperous quarters of the city, there were courtesans, immaculately dressed, flaunting their charms more discreetly as they strolled in the vaulted shopping arcades.

  Do I have the courage to do what they do? Could I endure the intimate caresses of a stranger? The touch of a man's hands on my

  body? She shuddered. She had heard that men who paid for sexual favors often used their women badly, beating and tying them up, forcing them to perform obscene acts …

  Celestine stared down at herself; she looked like a vagrant. Her only dress was stained and filthy from tramping the streets of the city, the hem caked with mud, and her shoes were scuffed and worn.

  “If only you could be like the faie in the fairy tales and wave a magic wand to change my rags into elegant clothes,” she said silently to the Faie. “And I could really do with a bath.” The Muscobites favored communal bathing and Mirom had many luxurious public baths for men and women. “But cleanliness comes at a price here, and I don't have a sou to my name.”

  A carriage rattled by, splashing her with puddle water.

  “Hey!” she cried, shaking her fist in vain as the driver continued, impervious. A gilded crest on the rear of the carriage caught the sun; it was the emblem of the Francian ambassador.

  “Fabien d'Abrissard.” She tried to squeeze the water from her dress. He wouldn't even recognize me…

  She sank down on a doorstep, weak with hunger and despair.

  Is it time to stop running? To go back to Francia and throw myself on the Commanderie's mercy?

  For the fifth time that day Celestine passed the impressive pillared facade of the Imperial Theater. Built in the days of Grand Duke Alexei's father and renowned throughout the quadrant for its lavish productions of opera and ballet, the theater now displayed the gilded swan of Tielen entwined with the double-headed sea eagles of Muscobar. Around the back, the vast building was far less imposing—a brick shell stretching to the edge of a huddle of tenement buildings. And the artists’ entrance was such an insignificant little door that Celestine passed by it twice without even noticing it.

  She steeled herself and was about to knock when she heard raised voices inside. A stout woman stormed out, shouting furiously back over her shoulder in the Muscobite tongue and shaking her clenched fist. From within, a man's voice answered, equally heatedly. The woman turned and stamped away, muttering and shaking her head. Celestine understood well enough what must have happened. Is this my chance?

  She put her head around the door and gazed down the passageway; like so many theaters, the backstage area was shabby, with peeling paint and bare floorboards.

  “What do you want?” a surly voice demanded in the common tongue. Celestine saw a balding little man peering at her over the top of his half-rimmed spectacles.

  “Work,” she said, giving him her most appealing smile. “I'm a singer.”

  “I'm not hiring.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Get out.”

  “At least let me sing for you—” Celestine tried to hide the desperation in her voice.

  “Didn't you hear me? Unless you're good with a mop and a broom, I'm not interested.”

  “I'm good with a mop.” The woman who'd just walked out must have been a cleaner. “I grew up in a convent. I know how to work hard.” She was so desperate that she no longer cared what she did as long as she had enough money to keep from starving or selling her body.

  “You don't look very robust.” He walked around her, staring at her critically. “You're thin as a lathe.”

  “I'm stronger than I look.”

  “What's your name? You're not a Muscobite, are you?”

  “Maela. Maela Cassard.”

  “Francian, eh? What's a nice Francian girl like you doing so far from home?”

  Celestine cast down her gaze, saying nothing.

  “There was a man involved, don't tell me. And now he's left you? Well, I'm the stage manager here, my name's Grebin, and I don't stand for any goings-on backstage. So don't start making eyes at
the stagehands, d'you understand me?”

  Celestine nodded.

  “I'll give you a week's trial. Starting now.”

  “Thank you!” Tears of gratitude filled Celestine's eyes.

  The man grunted. “Save your thanks. You haven't seen what you'll be cleaning yet. Follow me.”

  Celestine hurried after him along a dark passageway, passing the dressing rooms. She caught glimpses of gaudy costumes hanging on rails and breathed in the stale-sweet smell of old powder and greasepaint. From farther in came the hollow sound of sawing and hammering; stagehands were at work on a vast canvas flat, painting a woodland scene. They glanced up as she passed by and one wolf-whistled.

  “Get on with your work!” snapped the little man. As the passageway wound onward, a new smell made Celestine wrinkle her nose in disgust.

  “Latrines,” he announced, unlatching a door. Celestine took a step back, her eyes watering from the foul odor. “And when you've finished here, you're to sweep out the dressing rooms. Then report back to me so that I can inspect what you've done.”

  “I'll need clean water. And rags. A mop and bucket.”

  “You can draw water from the hand pump outside the stage door.” He unlocked a cupboard and drew out a battered tin pail and a filthy mop. She stared at them in disbelief.

  “Surely you can't expect me to make your theater clean with that.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized they were far too cheeky for a cleaning girl.

  “Still want the job?” He dangled the pail before her.

  She nodded.

  “Then get to work!”

  CHAPTER 6

  “A letter has arrived for you from the Emperor, your majesty.”

  Queen Aliénor extended one hand to take the letter from her equerry, aware that all the ministers’ eyes were fixed upon her. She broke the imperial seal and scanned the neat secretarial hand, signed by the Emperor with a strong flourish. Well schooled as she was in maintaining her composure, she found it hard to disguise her bewilderment.

  “Well! This is either the most ridiculous attempt to deceive us or…” She found herself at a loss for words and passed the letter to Chancellor Aiguillon, who took it and, adjusting his monocle, read it aloud to the ministers.

  “‘I feel it is my duty to inform your majesty that your son Enguerrand is currently in the Spice Islands, in company with Lady Aude de Provença and Prince Andrei Orlov.’”

  “The—the Spice Islands?” Josselin de Craon broke the astounded silence. “But that's impossible. Enguerrand and Aude were here, in Lutèce, only a few days ago. The Spice Islands are not even in the same quadrant!”

  “It can take the swiftest spice clipper up to six months to reach the Spice Islands,” put in Admiral de Romorantin.

  “Is it possible that those priests spoke the truth?” Aliénor heard herself musing aloud. “That a Drakhaoul abducted my son and Aude?”

  “With respect, majesty, the Emperor only mentions Prince Andrei, not Lord Gavril,” murmured Aiguillon.

  “Admiral, do we have any ships in the area?” Aliénor ignored him. “How long will it take to send a message to them?”

  “As much as a week, depending on—”

  “Then see to it without delay!” And she swept out of the council chamber, determined not to let the councillors see how worried she was about her son.

  Aliénor rose as Hugues Donatien entered the room. Her heart swelled at the sight of him. It's been too long, dear Hugues. Why didn't I bring you back before now? He had been banished for six years, yet the mountain air of Saint Bernez Monastery had tanned his skin, lending him a look of rugged good health. She had stayed in constant communication with him, sending secret couriers who had ingeniously managed to evade Ruaud de Lanvaux's agents. But she had sorely missed Donatien's reassuring presence and wise counsel. In spite of her concerns about Enguerrand, she felt as if all would be well again, with Donatien at her side.

  “Welcome back, Grand Maistre,” she said and heard her voice tremble as if she were a giddy schoolgirl. She held out her hand and he went down on one knee to kiss it, pressing it with such a firm and comforting grip in his own that all her concerns began to melt away.

  “It's good to see you, your majesty,” he said and his grey eyes were filled with warmth.

  “Your banishment was a grave error on the part of Maistre de Lanvaux,” she said, giving Captain Friard a cold and meaningful glance. “You may all leave us now. Maistre Donatien and I have much to discuss.” When her ladies and Friard had withdrawn, she let the formal tone drop and went to sit by the crackling log fire, beckoning Donatien to join her. “Plaisaunces is so drafty in winter, Hugues. Besides, I think we're less likely to be overheard over here.”

  “We've had blizzards up in the mountains. This seems positively warm by comparison.” He sat down beside her. “So, still no news of Enguerrand?”

  She shook her head. “That upstart Eugene sent us a letter informing us that Enguerrand is alive. In the Spice Islands. And Aude de Provença is with him. Since then, nothing. It's the other side of the world, six months’ journey by sea. How did they get there so swiftly, Hugues? And why did they run away? Did he seduce her? Were they eloping? The girl's only fifteen! It'll cause a scandal if it gets out. But how could Eugene know such a thing?” There was so much that didn't make any sense at all. “And you can't believe the terrible rumors that Ruaud's faction is promulgating, implicating my son in his murder! As if Enguerrand were capable of such a thing.”

  Hugues Donatien laid his hand on hers. “Dearest Aliénor, please don't worry. I'm only sorry that you've had to bear this burden alone.” His eyes were grave and his tone so sympathetic that she had to bite her lip not to cry. And she had not once allowed herself the luxury of tears throughout this crisis.

  “But is it a Tielen plot? Have they kidnapped Enguerrand? Or has he just run away from his responsibilities? Ruaud filled his head with all kind of nonsense. The boy was obsessed with the idea that he was Saint Sergius's successor!”

  “If this is some contrivance of the Emperor's, designed to destabilize Francia, then we will just have to show Eugene that we are not so easily undermined. There is another heir to the throne. Your daughter.”

  “Adèle?”

  “Ilsevir of Allegonde and Adèle could rule together,” Donatien corrected her gently. “Just think what a strong front Allegonde and Francia united would present to counteract Eugene's hunger for power.”

  Aliénor hesitated. “An Allegondan prince on the throne of Francia? Wouldn't that stir up resentment among the nobles? Especially my cousin Raimon? We don't want a home-grown rebellion on top of our other concerns.”

  Donatien smiled at her, his grey eyes crinkling up into a comforting expression. “But Ilsevir is the ideal man to calm the nobles’ concerns. He's cultured. He's pious. He will make an excellent king.”

  Jagu's fingers moved deftly over the yellowed keys of the organ at Saint Meriadec's. His feet pressed the deep bass notes, building the final bars of Jolivert's “Chromatic Prelude” into a terrifying climax. He knew that if he pulled open certain stops at this moment, he could make the old stones and wooden pews resonate with the thunderous power of the last chords. He had no doubt that Jolivert had been possessed by some daemonic vision of hell when he wrote this furious turbulence of notes. As he practiced its fiendishly difficult chromatic runs, the dark harmonies brought back the terror he had felt when the skies over Lutèce turned black as night…

  He hit a wrong note, then another. Mustn't let my mind drift.

  Don't lose concentration for a second here, Henri de Joyeuse had warned him once as his swift-moving fingers got all knotted up and a horrible sound like the braying of a herd of donkeys issued from the pipes. “If you don't prepare for this sequence, with your thumb passing underneath the third and fourth fingers…pfft! Donkeys!” And he had given Jagu a swift smile as he leaned forward to mark the music with the new fingering…

  “More air!” Jagu
called down to the two bellows boys and heard them groan in response as he attacked the final passage yet again. Only when he tackled a task as challenging as that could he try to lose himself in the music and forget about Celestine. Though Saint Meriadec's was filled with memories; the first time they had ever met was here on a wet autumn afternoon. He had been seventeen, daring to play this prelude with all the brash confidence of youth… and she had been in the choir, a novice from the Sisters of Charity. He had never heard a voice so sweet, so clear as hers. From up in the organ loft, it had sounded to him as if a young angel were singing in the dim recesses of the old church…

  His fingers slipped again and lost the momentum of the sequence of cascading runs.

  “Damn!”

  “Swearing in church, Lieutenant?” came a mocking voice from down below. “You'll have to do penance to atone for your sin.”

  “Kilian?” Jagu swung his legs over the narrow bench and peered down into the church to see Kilian's pale green eyes glinting up at him from the gloom. He heard sniggering from the bellows boys.

  “Practice time's over,” Kilian called up. “Friard's summoned us to the Forteresse. Urgently.”

  “Urgently?” Jagu pushed in the stops and pulled the wooden cover over the manuals. He wasn't due back until six o'clock. He hurried down the spiral stair and tossed the bellows boys a coin each. “You're off duty early today, boys.” As they scampered away, he hurried after Kilian, who was already halfway down the nave. “So what's this all about?”

  “We're to be sent back to Ondhessar.” Kilian set off down the avenue at a brisk pace, his military greatcoat swinging open as he walked.

  “What?” For a brief second, Jagu took the bait.