Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

  “Your mother writes that he was on his way to visit the Commanderie mission in Serindher when a tidal wave struck, devastating the whole area.”

  “Visiting a mission?” Adèle's eyes filled with tears. “That's so like my little brother,” she said, trying to sound brave. “Poor Maman. First Aubrey, now Enguerrand. I must go to her.”

  “You'll go nowhere until the doctors have pronounced you fit to travel.” Ilsevir came and sat at her bedside. “It's a long and tiring journey to Francia. And the mountain passes are still treacherous with snow. Write to your mother; she'll understand. Besides…” He looked down, not meeting her gaze. There must be something else that he was not telling her.

  “How can they be so sure he's dead?” All manner of possibilities passed through her mind. Enguerrand might be lying in some islander's hut, rambling in fever, not even remembering his own name. “He might have been shipwrecked on one of the islands. Have they searched thoroughly?”

  “This arrived from the First Minister of Francia.” Ilsevir placed a letter in her hands; it was ornately scribed and weighted with the seal of the Francian government. “He is formally requesting our presence in Lutèce as soon as you are well enough to make the journey. It seems that as Enguerrand has left no heirs, the crown passes to you, my dearest—and to me. From now on, we'll have to divide our time equally between Allegonde and Francia. But how will the people of Francia feel about an Allegondan—”

  “You're not listening to me, Ilsevir!” Adèle seized hold of his hand. “He may not be dead. We must send ships to join the search.”

  “But of course.” He squeezed her hand in his own. “You're very hot,” he said anxiously. “The doctors warned me not to overburden you. You must rest.”

  “How can I rest when you've told me such terrible news?” Adèle cried. Sometimes Ilsevir could be so insensitive. “My only brother—”

  There came a discreet tap at the door. She broke off, remembering that there was no real privacy to be found in the palace, not even when she was ill. “Come in,” she said, trying to compose herself. A lady-in-waiting appeared, eyes demurely lowered, and said to Ilsevir, “If you please, highness, Captain nel Ghislain is here with an urgent dispatch.”

  “Urgent?” Ilsevir let go of her hand. “Tell him I'll see him in my study straightaway.” He seemed almost relieved to have an excuse to take his leave.

  Adèle sighed. She had no liking for Girim nel Ghislain or his Rosecoeurs, and his influence over her husband seemed to grow stronger by the day. “Ilsevir,” she said, speaking from the heart, “what is it about Girim nel Ghislain that appeals to you so much?”

  Ilsevir stopped, halfway to the door and turned around. “He is a man of true vision.” His eyes were shining. “His time in the desert at Ondhessar has made him an inspiration to us all. You should hear him speak about the revelation he experienced when he first entered the shrine of the Eternal Singer. I could bring him to talk to you—”

  Adèle sank back on her pillows. The prospect was repellent. “No,” she said faintly, turning away from Ilsevir to gaze out at the frozen gardens. She heard him pause a moment, then hurry away, his heels tapping over the highly polished floor.

  Ghislain wields too much influence over you, Ilsevir. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. And if Enguerrand is dead, who else can I turn to?

  Girim went down on one knee as Prince Ilsevir entered the study. “Your majesty,” he said respectfully, “may I offer my congratulations?”

  “News travels fast!” Ilsevir was looking perplexed. “How did—” Girim held out the secret letter that had been sent to him by Hugues Donatien, watching as the prince scanned the contents.

  “‘… Invaluable opportunity… unite the Allegondan and Francian Commanderies … purge Francia of the insidious and corrupting influences still rife in the universities and colleges…’” Ilsevir looked up. His reaction would be crucial to the success of Girim's plans. “But this is inspired!” Ilsevir's face was transfigured by a beatific smile. “Maistre Donatien is right; God has given me this chance to make the western quadrant a better place.”

  Girim nodded.

  “Give me your blessing.” Ilsevir knelt before Girim, who extended his hand so that the Rosecoeurs’ most eminent patron could kiss the ruby ring he wore as head of the Allegondan Commanderie.

  Girim went under cover of darkness to take one last look at the Ondhessar statue before leaving Bel'Esstar as escort to the royal party.

  Since the chapel had reopened, the faithful of Bel'Esstar had been arriving in hundreds to pray, with queues stretching out into the street. But not before the original Ondhessar statue had been removed in the dead of night by a squad of Girim's most trustworthy Rosecoeurs and deposited in the cellars of the Bel'Esstar Commanderie.

  Lifting the cloths covering her, he let out a cry of revulsion and stepped back. The whole statue had turned the grey of mold, and the end of the nose, the fingertips, and the toes had began to crumble away. The patches of discoloration had deepened to blotches of black.

  Is this a sign of your displeasure?

  The priceless image of Elesstar was decaying before his eyes. And he, a hardened Guerrier, who had seen the most harrowing sights in battle, found himself unable to look at the corrupted image of his beloved saint. Hastily, he threw back the covers, hiding her.

  Thank God I had the duplicate made just in time.

  CHAPTER 12

  The sound of strings and woodwinds tuning up wafted backstage as Celestine hurried toward the dressing rooms, her arms filled with billowing, gauzy dresses. She was amazed to see that so many dancers were obliged to change in such a tiny room. The girls crowded around two cracked mirrors, applying their eye liner and rouge as best they could. In the corridor, others sat on the floor to lace up the ribbons on their dance pumps. The room exuded a powerful odor of warm female bodies, perfume, and powder. As she stood at the entrance, many hands reached out and grabbed the costumes from her.

  Yet, on her way back to the wardrobe room, she heard the strains of music from the stage and found herself drawn into the wings to listen. The orchestra had begun the overture and the enchanting melody she had heard backstage soared into the empty auditorium on violins and sweet-toned flutes. Hands clasped tightly together, she stood there, almost forgetting to breathe as the music swept her away. And as the overture finished, the singers of the chorus pushed past her, making their way onto the stage.

  A sharp tap on the shoulder rudely shattered the enchantment. She turned to see Grebin glaring at her.

  “What are you doing idling here, Maela?” he hissed as the chorus broke into song. “There're latrines to be cleaned.”

  All Celestine's delight in the music was soured. Her rightful place was there, with the singers. For a moment she wavered, indignant at the injustice of her circumstances—then she remembered that she was a nobody, without even a place to sleep.

  “Soon he'll change,” whispered the Faie. “Soon he'll be begging us to sing for him.” It was only as Celestine was hefting the heavy bucket of water along the narrow passageway back from the pump that the Faie's comment struck her as odd. Us.

  She pushed up her sleeves and set to work. Yet as she dragged the mop to and fro across the floor, the melody returned to haunt her. There was no one around to hear. She began to hum and then to sing, wordlessly, because she had not been able to make out the lyrics. Her voice was weak from lack of practice so she matched each pass of the mop to each phrase, hearing the notes echo around the tiled room until she had gained control of her breathing. Finally, as she poured the dirty water away down the open drain, she pushed her voice far into its upper register, thrilling into top notes that rang out, clear and exhilarating as an icy wind.

  She picked up the mop and bucket and turned to see Grebin standing in the doorway, staring at her.

  “I'm—I'm sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her head as a blush of embarrassment spread across her face. “I'll get on with my chores.” She wa
s sure he would dock her pay for wasting time—or even give her the sack.

  “Tell me I was hallucinating. Tell me that wasn't you singing, was it, Maela?”

  “I won't do it again, I promise.” She tried to hurry past him but he caught hold of her by the arm, jutting his face into hers. She shrank away, fearing what was coming next.

  “Not so fast, young lady. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  “Lutèce.” That, at least, wasn't a lie. “I sang in a church choir.”

  “Come with me.” Grebin began to pull her along the passageway, the bucket clanking noisily as she hurried to keep up with him.

  He opened the door to a rehearsal room. “Put that bucket down,” he ordered, “and show me what you can do.”

  When Celestine finished singing, she saw Grebin push back his wig to scratch his shiny forehead. His face was screwed up into such a comically perplexed expression that it almost made her want to burst out laughing. She felt charged with excitement, as light-headed as if she had been sipping wine.

  “So you have a voice, Maela Cassard. But you've never sung in opera?”

  She shook her head. That was true; her career as an agent of Ruaud de Lanvaux had taken her into many embassy drawing rooms and concert halls, but always as a recitalist. It would have been impossible to combine the world of the opera house with the Commanderie's strict tenets.

  “And you'd never heard Rusalka's Kiss until you came here?”

  “I don't know the words. But I learned the aria listening to the rehearsals.”

  “A quick study too.” He seized a book that had been left open on the music stand and thrust it into her hands. “This will be our next production. A romantic comedy, A Spring Elopement, another favorite of the Grand Duchess.”

  Celestine tried to hide an involuntary shiver. Gauzia had made her name in the very same work, in the role of Lise, the scheming soubrette. She looked down at the score and saw that Grebin had opened it at the first appearance of the heroine, Mariella.

  “Read this.”

  Sight-read the aria? Celestine felt her stomach begin to flutter with nerves. The delicate pattern of black notes seemed to blur, one into another. She was being tested. If she failed to impress Grebin, she might as well give up.

  Grebin struck her starting note on the keyboard and stood back, waiting.

  Celestine reminded herself of Dame Elmire's advice and drew in a calming slow breath, exhaling before attacking the first phrase. The aria was lighthearted, like Mariella herself, a froth of high trills and runs. It was unlike the art songs Celestine was accustomed to singing. Yet, after ten bars or so, she began to enjoy herself. As she turned the page, she heard the accompaniment supporting her and, glancing up, saw that a gaunt, grey-haired repetiteur had slipped onto the fortepiano stool and was playing along with her. This was turning into a performance—and she knew that she must not lose concentration for even half a beat or she would fall behind and disgrace herself.

  The final run of the aria rose dizzily high; she braced herself, knowing that if she failed to reach and hold that top note, she would fail the audition.

  As she let her voice float upward, she felt the Faie helping her, filling her lungs with air, brightening the tone until she reached the top. The note bloomed, then sparkled like a flower of crystal. Celestine looked up to see startled faces staring at her; people had crowded in at the open doorway. After a few seconds, someone began to applaud.

  “Bravo!” another cried. Grebin's ill-fitting wig had slipped over one eyebrow; he tugged it off and stuffed in his pocket.

  “We must talk, Demoiselle Cassard,” he said, steering her out of the practice room through the curious throng, toward his office.

  “So you learned to sing like that in a church choir?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “I was a pupil of Elmire Sorel in Francia,” Celestine said demurely.

  “Elmire Sorel?” Grebin was looking at her with new respect. “I heard her sing here at the Imperial Theater years ago; such a wonderful voice, such fire and passion…” And then the moment of nostalgia passed and he was once again his brusque, businesslike self, leaning forward across his desk to stare at her suspiciously. “Something doesn't add up here. A young woman with a talent like yours reduced to sweeping floors?”

  “I told you, I've never sung in opera. I sang in a—”

  “Church choir.” He finished her sentence. “My dear demoiselle, you are hiding something—but what right do I have to pry into your personal affairs? Perhaps you caught a young priest's eye and had to flee a scandal… Whatever the reason, I'd like to offer you a contract with the Imperial Theater.”

  Celestine's heart began to beat faster. Is my luck turning at last?

  “Your voice is a joy to listen to. But as you have no theatrical training, I can't put you directly into a leading role. So I'm proposing that you join the chorus as a soprano, and I'll review your progress after a month. Does that sound acceptable?”

  “What would the salary be?”

  “Comfortable enough for you to buy some clothes more suited to your new situation,” Grebin said, looking disapprovingly at her worn dress.

  Celestine found lodgings in a little boardinghouse four streets away from the theater. The furnishings were shabby and the pinch-faced landlady insisted that she pay a month's rent in advance, leaving no money for the new clothes Grebin had so pointedly suggested. Yet the room, tucked under the snow-laden eaves, was snug; the rising warmth from the woodstove on the floor below was a luxury. And the landlady's three cats took an instant liking to her, running out to greet her whenever she returned home.

  Grebin set her to understudy the role of Mariella. The celebrated soprano, Anna Krylova, was suffering from a heavy cold, he told her, so she must be prepared to take her place.

  And indeed, when Celestine arrived at the Imperial Theater on the day rehearsals were due to begin, Grebin rushed up to her in a panic. “La Krylova's taken to her bed,” he said, “and the physicians say that her lungs are inflamed. It's serious. She won't be able to sing for weeks. You'll have to take her place. Don't let me down, Maela.”

  “That voice!” a woman cried out from the wings. “I know that voice!”

  Celestine half turned to see a familiar face staring at her from the wings. Exquisitely painted to bring out the liquid green of her bold hazel eyes and the fullness of her lips, her auburn hair artfully curled and arranged, there stood Gauzia de Saint-Désirat.

  She mustn't recognize me! Hearing her entry from the repetiteur at the fortepiano, Celestine picked up her cue only to stop again as Gauzia stalked onto the stage, grandly holding up one gloved hand to halt the music.

  Celestine stood, eyes lowered, as Gauzia walked around her, hearing the swish of her ermine-trimmed cloak over the boards.

  “What's your name?”

  Celestine raised her head. “Maela Cassard,” she said quietly. Grebin came hurrying out onto the stage.

  “Is there a problem, Diva?” he asked anxiously, glancing from one to the other. All around the theater, Celestine realized that everyone from the lowliest stagehand to the most senior chorus member had stopped what they were doing, sensing a storm crackling in the air.

  “Ma-e-la Ca-ssard,” Gauzia repeated, overemphasizing each syllable. Celestine forced herself to maintain her self-composure—yet the sudden appearance of her onetime fellow student and rival had reawakened a host of painful memories.

  “Anna Krylova is suffering from a severe inflammation of the lungs,” Grebin began to explain. “Maela has been understudying the role of Mariella and she'll be taking Krylova's place.”

  “I see.” Gauzia stopped suddenly in front of Celestine and stared boldly into her face. “Hair can be dyed and skin darkened with walnut juice. But I know of no way to change eyes from blue to brown.” She shrugged. “It must be coincidence.”

  “We'll break for a quarter of an hour,” announced the conductor to the soloists assembled in the re
hearsal room. “Thank you, Diva, that was truly delightful.” Everyone broke into applause; Celestine joined in as Gauzia smiled graciously at her admirers. Yet the instant the conductor had left the room, the smile vanished and she turned on Celestine.

  “Manager Grebin tells me that you studied with Dame Elmire in Lutèce.” Gauzia's penetrating stare. “I studied with Elmire Sorel for several years, and yet I never once saw you among her pupils. I think I would have remembered a voice as distinctive as yours…”

  “I believe I may be two or three years your senior, Diva,” said Celestine. She's trying to trick me. Has she guessed? She's trying to make me give myself away.

  “And you never sang in opera in Lutèce?”

  “I sang in a church choir.”

  “Oh, really? So you won't have heard the news?”

  “What news?” Celestine said warily.

  “About the murder.”

  Celestine shook her head.

  “So shocking that anyone should be murdered in church. But particularly shocking in this case. It was just before the darkness.” Gauzia was obviously relishing telling the tale, lowering her voice to increase the dramatic effect. “The Grand Maistre of the Commanderie was found dying in the Chapel of Saint Meriadec. There was blood everywhere.”

  Celestine sat, rigid with shock, unable to speak. The Maistre was dead? “That's terrible news,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. I mustn't cry. Why would Maela Cassard cry over the death of a stranger?

  As soon as the rehearsal was over, Celestine put on her hooded cloak and set out through the snow to the Cathedral of Saint Simeon. There she handed to the grey-bearded sacristan the coins she had been saving to pay for her supper, and bought candles.

  The monks were chanting vespers, and, as she walked through the gloom of the nave to the side chapel dedicated to Saint Serzhei, their deep voices seemed to her to be singing a threnody for Ruaud. The little chapel was already ablaze with candles, like a lantern in a dark night. She knelt to light her memorial candles and placed them one by one beneath the saint's icon, reciting under her breath the words of the Francian service for the dead.