Flight into Darkness

by Sarah Ash

  “Dear Maistre,” she whispered, “I can't believe you're gone. I can't believe that I'll never see your smile again… or hear your voice.” Tears began to stream down her face as memories came rushing back to her, memories from so long ago of a lost and desperate little child, suddenly swept up in the strong arms of a golden-haired knight and carried away on his charger to a white convent overlooking the sea.

  “You were my fairy-tale knight, Maistre. You rescued me, you were my protector and my mentor.” Gauzia's words sickened her. Found murdered in the chapel… blood everywhere… “A man in your position makes enemies. But who would strike you down when you were at prayer? Who would do such a cowardly thing?” Smarnan extremists, Tielen secret agents, even the monks of Saint Serzhei's shrine in Azhkendir; there were so many possibilities. “Forgive me, Maistre. I betrayed your trust in me. I didn't listen to your advice. If only I hadn't been so selfish, following my own desires, I could have stayed at your side. And then, maybe I could have saved your life…”

  The singing ceased; the service had come to an end. She wiped the tears from her eyes as the candle smoke went wisping upward into the darkness. “But it's too late. Now there's no one left in the Commanderie to protect me. I can never go back to Francia.”

  CHAPTER 13

  A day ago, wherever Andrei looked, all he could see was water. The sea had rushed in, flooding the whole coastline, sweeping away all traces of the village and the mission.

  This morning he looked down on a scene of disorder and devastation. The sea had retreated, leaving chaos in its wake. Fragments of broken boats lay beached among the ruins of the mission chapel. Strewn all along the bay were uprooted trees, the carcasses of animals and, Andrei saw to his sadness, drowned bodies, flung up by the relentless tide to lie like abandoned dolls amid the debris.

  He spent a grim morning helping the other men bury the dead. Most were strangers to the villagers; sailors or fishermen caught by the strength of the wave. As dusk was falling, the two priests, Laorans and Blaize, spoke the words of the Sergian funeral service over the mass grave, and the villagers went back up the hill to their encampment.

  Andrei lingered behind, sobered and sad. The sole survivor of a devastating storm at sea, he knew how fortunate he was to be still alive.

  “I've never seen anything like this in my whole life,” he admitted to Blaize. “Nor do I ever want to see it again.”

  “What else is there to do but rebuild?” Blaize said philosophically.

  It was difficult to get any rest in such crowded conditions; children whimpered and hungry babies wailed, but eventually sleep overtook Andrei. He woke to see Laorans crouched over the casket he had helped the priest rescue, carefully examining the contents by the light of the dying fire.

  “What's in the box, Abbé?”

  Laorans looked up at him, the flames glinting in his spectacle lenses. “Manuscripts. Ancient manuscripts whose contents are so contentious that they cost me my career in the Commanderie.”

  Intrigued, Andrei moved to sit down beside him. “What do they say?”

  “That the children of Azilis are blessed because of the angel blood that runs in their veins. That we should respect them for their gifts, which were bestowed to benefit mankind, and not persecute them.”

  “And who are these children of Azilis?”

  “The magi. Magus Kaspar Linnaius, for one.”

  “Heresy,” murmured Enguerrand.

  “Not according to these Holy Texts, which I discovered hidden in Azilis's shrine. My superiors thought they had destroyed them, but they burned the copy I'd made. I managed to smuggle the originals out of Francia,” Laorans said with a dry little chuckle. “They were far too valuable to be consigned to the flames.”

  “Are they religious texts?” Enguerrand propped himself up on one elbow on the other side of the fire.

  “I believe,” Laorans said, his voice intense, his eyes alight with the fanatical enthusiasm of the scholar, “that they predate those we use today by several centuries. I believe that they were suppressed by the early followers of Saint Sergius. We mustn't forget that Sergius was acting under the instructions of the Seven Heavenly Guardians, led by Galizur. And that by the time the priests of Ty Nagar discovered the Rift and learned how to summon the Drakhaouls through the Serpent Gate, they had been imprisoned in the Realm of Shadows for some considerable time.”

  “It's still heresy,” Enguerrand said severely. “Nagazdiel rebelled against the Divine Will.”

  “The Holy Texts we know were written by the followers of Galizur. But you, your majesty”—and Laorans gazed keenly at Enguerrand through the flames— “know so much better than I how angelic in nature Nilaihah was at heart.”

  Andrei saw Enguerrand flinch at the mention of his Drakhaoul. “Is it in the nature of an angel to commit murder?” Enguerrand said after a while in a distant voice. “Nilaihah made me kill Ruaud. Ruaud who was more like a father to me than my own father ever was.”

  Andrei felt a pang of sympathetic guilt. “And Adramelech made me kill my oldest friend.” The words were wrung out of him. It was the first time he had admitted it aloud.

  “Ah, you make my heart bleed.” The caustic tones set Andrei's nerves on edge as he saw Oskar sit up beyond the rising smoke. “So you killed a few people who got in your way? Learn to live with it.”

  “Father Blaize? You've not said a word.” Andrei turned to Laorans's companion, ignoring Oskar. “What do you think?”

  A distant look came into Blaize's eyes. “I found myself on a long sea voyage once with a young magus. In spite of the gulf between us, we got to know each other rather well. By the end of the voyage, I like to think that we had become friends.” He leaned forward to stoke the fire with fresh kindling. “He was injured. I nursed him back to health. Should I have just turned away and left him to die? That's what The Book of Galizur would have had me do. Perhaps I was wrong… and my actions have condemned me to eternal damnation.”

  “The Book of Galizur?” Enguerrand repeated in puzzled tones.

  Blaize and Laorans glanced at each other across the flames and began to laugh. “We've been away from the Commanderie for so long that we've grown used to calling the Holy Texts by that name to distinguish them from the texts I found in the Shrine.”

  “And what are they called?”

  “The Book of Azilis.”

  Once Enguerrand had begun to read The Book of Azilis, he could not stop. Too weak from fever to help the other men build shelters, he sat beneath a tamarind tree, devouring Laorans's translation. At first he feared he might be corrupted by what he was reading, but as he became more engrossed, his fears faded away.

  From time to time, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk, deep in thought. Being one with golden-eyed Nilaihah had given him new insight into the origins of the ancient and bitter war that had split the Guardians of Heaven. It was only natural, he supposed, that the victors had done all they could to eradicate all traces of their opponents.

  “How are you feeling, sire?”

  Enguerrand opened his eyes to see Abbé Laorans bending over him, his lined face crinkled into an expression of kindly concern. It was twilight and cooking fires had been lit in the clearing. “I—I'm confused,” he said. “I've begun to question everything I ever believed in.”

  “That's exactly how I felt!” The Abbé sat next to him. “But it all becomes much clearer when you reread the texts, I promise you.” His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm in the firelight.

  Enguerrand reached out and took the old priest's hand in his own. “I fear you've been very badly treated by the Commanderie,” he said. “How can I begin to make it up to you?”

  “So you believe, sire?” Laorans's voice quavered.

  “If I hadn't seen what lies beyond the Serpent Gate, then I might still doubt the authenticity of these texts. But now, it all makes sense. And if I ever get back to Francia, I promise you, Abbé, that I'll do all in my power to see The
Book of Galizur replaced by the wisdom of The Book of Azilis in all our schools and churches.”

  “You'll have quite a fight on your hands,” said Laorans, chuckling.

  “I'll be ready for them!” Enguerrand knew that he had changed since he had been host to Nilaihah; he had inherited something of his Drakhaoul's indomitable, determined nature. “And I'll have you at my side to support me.”

  Laorans shook his head. “I'm honored, sire, but I'm not sure I could leave my little flock, especially in these difficult times.”

  “Then at least let me make a copy. I'm no use to anyone until I've thrown off the last of this fever… but at least I could study the texts properly by copying them out.”

  “What an excellent idea!” Laorans straightened up. “I'm sure that in all the confusion I managed to save pens, ink, and paper somewhere. What good is a mission without a school, after all?”

  CHAPTER 14

  It had been but a few months since Kaspar Linnaius had last flown across the remote Azure Ocean, yet in that time, so much had changed.

  And I had not thought I would ever have to come this far again.

  He passed high above the Southern Fleet in full sail, as it headed on Eugene's orders toward the beleaguered Spice Islands to aid the islanders and spice traders. But, even though they were the swiftest ships in the quadrant, it would take them at least another four weeks to complete their journey.

  The calm sheen of the waters below—a deep, clear, glassy blue— was deceptive. Because, although his instincts told him that he was approaching the Spice Islands and that Ty Nagar, the fabled island of the Serpent God, lay farther beyond, he could see little below that he recognized. He had nothing to steer by, for the haze of drifting smoke from the fire cone that dominated Nagar's island was nowhere to be seen.

  “Is it possible that the island is gone?” he murmured aloud. He had heard tell of volcanic eruptions so violent that they had cracked islands apart and sunk them beneath the sea. “Perhaps the distortion caused by the destruction of the Serpent Gate triggered the disaster.”

  Certainly “disaster” was the only word to describe the desolate scenes below. The nutmeg groves and cinnamon plantations had been washed away, along with the topsoil; only a few stumps remained. Worst of all, he could see no signs of life: The lively villages and bustling little harbors where the Tielen spice clippers used to put in to collect their fragrant cargos had vanished, with only a trail of driftwood and tumbled stones to show they had ever been there.

  A terrified cry pierced Andrei's dreams. He sat up, groggy from sleep, to see others stirring around the embers of their fires. The sky was lightening toward the east although the little encampment was still shrouded in darkness.

  “Forgive me. Forgive me, Maistre!” The anguished cry came again. Andrei, recognizing the Francian tongue, made his way over to Enguerrand's shelter. Aude was struggling to restrain the young king, who was thrashing about wildly.

  “Don't look at me like that!” Enguerrand was staring fixedly into the darkness behind the shelter.

  “Enguerrand. Calm yourself.” Andrei knelt beside Enguerrand and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Nilaihah made me do it. I tried to stop him—but he overmastered me.” Enguerrand began to sob uncontrollably.

  “A nightmare, or is he delirious again?” Andrei said to Aude. But Aude was also staring into the shadowy glade behind them.

  “Andrei, look. There is someone there…”

  Andrei looked into the gloom and saw, with a sudden chill, that she was right. The figure of a man stood there, watching. He turned suddenly and disappeared among the slender palm trunks. Andrei gave a shout and went running after him. From the rustling sounds in the branches overhead, he could tell that the birds were beginning to wake; it must be near dawn. But the silent watcher had vanished into the night and Andrei soon abandoned his search.

  “Why?” Enguerrand was saying to Aude. “Why is his soul not at rest? Why has he come back to haunt me?”

  “Who did you think you saw?” Andrei sat down beside them.

  “Ruaud de Lanvaux.” Enguerrand turned to stare at him with sleep-starved eyes. “He tried to exorcise the daemon and I—no, Nilaihah—murdered him. His blood is on my conscience.”

  “A vengeful ghost?” Andrei was still skeptical.

  “Why don't we have Père Laorans say prayers for his soul?” Aude suggested and Andrei saw Enguerrand's anguished expression relax a little.

  “Oh yes, Aude, thank you…” The king lay back, evidently exhausted by his outburst. Aude met Andrei's eyes in the pale dawn-light.

  “He wasn't imagining it,” she said softly. “I saw the ghost too; and if it wasn't Maistre de Lanvaux, then it was a very clever spirit to copy his likeness so exactly.”

  Andrei said nothing, but he knew that for the practical Aude to have admitted that she had recognized the ghost, it could not have been a hallucination. As to what the ghost's appearance meant, however, he could not begin to imagine. It had left him with a chill, unsettled feeling, as if there were unforeseen consequences to the destruction of the Serpent Gate that were only now beginning to make themselves apparent.

  It was exhausting working in the late afternoon, even after the fiercest heat of the day had dissipated. But to build new huts, the islanders needed timber, so even the princes of Rossiya joined in with the tree-felling.

  Andrei stopped to wipe the dripping sweat from his eyes.

  “Slacking again, Orlov?” Oskar jeered. He had stripped to the waist and was swinging his axe with skill, expertly splitting the wood.

  “Mon père, look!” One of the little boys came hurtling past, screaming out at the top of his voice. “Look up. There's a man in a flying boat!”

  Andrei dropped his axe. Oskar shaded his eyes to gaze at the sky. Aude came running out of the hospital hut. There was nothing to be seen above the tops of the trees but a line of little white clouds, fine as thistledown.

  “Those children have vivid imaginations.” Andrei bent to pick up his axe, wishing that he had not been foolish enough to dare to hope. Oskar began to swing his axe again with renewed fury, chips of bark flying out at all angles.

  It must have been a half hour or so later when the village dogs started to yap excitedly.

  “Someone's coming,” said Oskar warningly to Andrei. Both men picked up their axes and went to the edge of the clearing. There had been rumors of pirates and Andrei was only too aware how vulnerable to attack the little community was.

  Walking slowly toward them came a white-haired man, his long wispy beard stirred by the first evening breeze off the sea.

  Andrei stared, then rubbed his eyes. Was it a mirage… or another revenant? The old man looked frail and walked with a halting gait, as if his bones ached, but he was no illusion.

  “Magus!” Andrei hailed him. He had never thought he would be so glad to see Kaspar Linnaius in his life.

  Linnaius stopped. He peered at Andrei. “Your highness is alive!” He nodded, approvingly. “This is good news indeed. Your sister has been sick with worry.”

  “So she sent you to look for me?” Andrei was greatly touched at the thought that Astasia still cared for him, in spite of the ordeal that he and his Drakhaoul had subjected her to.

  “The Emperor charged me to search for you all.”

  “And what provoked this sudden change of heart?” Oskar, his shirt slung over his bare shoulders, came over to Andrei's side.

  “You must be tired, Magus. Please come and rest in the shade.” Andrei led the way up the dirt track as the village children followed, curious to see the old man who had arrived in a flying boat, whispering and giggling, their dark eyes round with wonder.

  “They think we're dead?” Enguerrand raised his head from the pillow; Aude went to help him.

  “The first ships bringing aid from the west are still far off. And I've been searching for you for many days, going from island to island.”

  “So it was assumed that we
all drowned?”

  “Ty Nagar is gone.” Linnaius took a sip of his cinnamon tea. “From what I could see, a massive volcanic eruption split the island in two and sank it beneath the waves.”

  “How has my mother taken the news?” Enguerrand asked.

  “Your mother has invited your brother-in-law, Ilsevir, to succeed to the throne in your place. The coronation is probably taking place as we speak.”

  “What!” Enguerrand sat bolt upright. “How dare she!”

  “No one is more keen to see you restored to the throne of Francia than the Emperor,” Linnaius said diplomatically. “He is reluctant to recognize Ilsevir as joint ruler of Francia and Allegonde. He has a proposition to put to you—”

  “I will not get involved in the Emperor's political machinations! Does Eugene think I'm incapable of setting my own house in order?” Enguerrand, exhausted by his outburst, dropped back. “I insist that you take me straight back to Lutèce.”

  Linnaius sighed; he was weary of indulging these young princes and their petulant outbursts. He was tempted to remind Enguerrand that if it were not for the Emperor's intervention, there would be no hope of rescue for many weeks. “Would you prefer to wait for the Rossiyan fleet to arrive, majesty? They're still some way off and the journey back to Francia will take them at least five months.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was past midnight by the time Celestine reached her lodgings. She was greeted by her landlady's three black-and-white cats, who frisked about her skirts, purring and rubbing their heads against her hand when she bent to stroke them. The performance had gone well enough that evening, but Gauzia was becoming increasingly difficult, resorting to little scene-stealing tricks, conducting elaborate business behind her back as she was singing, provoking sniggers from some of the audience. She had even stooped so low as to encourage her clique of followers to chatter noisily during Celestine's first aria, leading to loud shushing, then shouts of disapproval from Celestine's staunchest admirers. Afterward, Grebin had summoned both women to his office and given them a stern lecture.