Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  “What can you see?” asked Père Judicael’s dry voice.

  Slowly, as Ruaud’s eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, he saw that he was standing at the center of a circle that had been painted on the black boards with a luminescent silvery substance. Unfamiliar sigils were painted in different sectors of the circle.

  “What does this mean?” he asked warily.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. If you were possessed by an evil spirit, it would have reacted quite violently to those signs by now. You are standing in the Circle of Galizur, one of the Seven Heavenly Guardians.” Père Judicael operated the lever again, letting a wan daylight back into the room.

  “Ah.” Ruaud was still not entirely convinced by the theatricality of this effect. “So you practice exorcism by angelography. Can you actually communicate with the angels?”

  Père Judicael pursed his thin lips as if Ruaud had suggested something blasphemous. “Only the Blessed Sergius was pure enough in heart to summon the Heavenly Guardians to his aid. The rest of us blemished mortals must manage as best we can.”

  “But you can invoke their protective powers?”

  Père Judicael only answered his question with another. “Are you prepared to undergo the ordeals that a trainee exorcist must endure?”

  “The king has given me an order; I’m duty-bound to obey.” Ruaud wondered exactly what the old priest meant by “ordeals.” “Besides, how can I expect my Guerriers to respect me as a leader if I haven’t undertaken the same training?”

  “Even though you may not emerge the same man that you are now?” The old man’s cormorant stare unsettled Ruaud even more than his ominous words.

  “I place my trust in God,” he answered simply. “He will guide me; He always has.”

  “You may be wondering why I’ve summoned you all here in secret,” said Grand Maistre Donatien. Ruaud took in a swift glance at the other members of the Commanderie assembled in Donatien’s rooms in the Forteresse: Inquisitor Visant; Lieutenant Konan; and Père Laorans. As they seated themselves around the table, he sensed that Donatien’s mood was far from welcoming.

  “It has been brought to my attention, Laorans,” continued Donatien, “that you made a singularly disturbing discovery in Ondhessar.”

  “Disturbing, Grand Maistre?” said Laorans, looking puzzled.

  Donatien let out a little sigh. “The Codex—or, indeed, codices, for I understand that there are more than one.”

  “Indeed, Maistre, this is the most significant collection of writings to fall into our hands in many centuries!” Laorans’s face lit up with a scholar’s enthusiasm, and Ruaud felt a sudden pang of alarm, sensing that Donatien was laying a trap.

  “How would you assess yourself as a scholar of Old Enhirran?” asked Inquisitor Visant smoothly.

  “I am accounted one of the best in the field,” said Laorans, modestly lowering his gaze.

  “Then how do you explain this?” Donatien pushed a folder into the center of the table.

  “Surely my translation is self-explanatory?”

  Ruaud saw Donatien exchange a glance with Visant. Then he leaned forward and said quietly, “Do I have to remind you of the Sacred Texts, as translated by the Blessed Sergius? ‘In the beginning, the Winged Guardians who watch over our world walked among mortals and taught us to obey Divine Law.’”

  “I take exception to your implication, Grand Maistre!” Laorans’s eyes lit with that same obstinate, obsessed expression Ruaud remembered from Ondhessar. “I learned the Sergian Texts by heart at Saint Argantel’s Seminary when I was ten years old.”

  “‘But some of the Guardians were proud and disobedient,’” continued Donatien relentlessly. “‘Their sin was to disobey Divine Will, the Will that forbade any union between them and the mortals in their care. Children were born of this union, mortal children with unnatural powers.’”

  “Yes, yes, I know the passage as well as you,” interrupted Laorans impatiently. “‘So the Divine Will spoke to Galizur, charging him to seek out these accursed children and destroy them. For if they are not stopped, they will use their powers to unravel the natural forces that bind the worlds together and become instruments of destruction.’”

  Visant opened an ancient illuminated copy of the Holy Texts, one of the Commanderie’s treasures, and pointed to a passage scribed in ink as red as fresh blood. “‘Great then was the woe of the transgressors as they were cast into that place of dust and shadows, there to repent their sin throughout all eternity.’”

  “So by your own admission you know that this Codex from Ondhessar is heretical!” declared Donatien triumphantly. “And yet you still continued with your translation?”

  “I considered it my duty as a scholar to do so.”

  “What if it got into the wrong hands? It could seed dissension throughout the whole quadrant!”

  “Forgive me, Grand Maistre,” broke in Konan’s deep rumble of a voice, “but you’ve lost me completely. Are you saying that the manuscript we found in the Shrine at Ondhessar is a fake? A forgery? Or worse?”

  Ruaud looked at his lieutenant, grateful that he had voiced one of the many questions that someone needed to ask.

  “This Codex undermines our most fundamental beliefs.” Donatien’s habitual amiable expression had gone, replaced by a look of grim determination.

  “Magic is forbidden, because the Divine Will forbade it,” said Visant. “Mortal man was never meant to wield magic.”

  “Why else does it tell us of the terrible punishments inflicted on the Guardians who transgressed? Yet this Ondhessar Codex says that those Fallen Guardians not only had forbidden congress with mortals, but they taught their children how to use their magical powers. It even asserts that the magi are none other than the children of the Fallen Guardians!” Donatien’s face had turned an angry red and he brought his fist down on the table. “This Codex is blasphemous! It goes against everything we believe. It goes against the Sacred Texts.” He turned on Laorans. “Your translation must be at fault.”

  “I agree, it is an obscure variant of Old Enhirran. Some of the characters are ambiguous. But the names—the names are undoubtedly the same.”

  “Then what we have here is nothing but an apocryphal text, written by an obscure, heretical sect. A sect that has been wiped from mortal memory because they practiced the Forbidden Arts.”

  “But, Maistre—,” began Laorans.

  “Didn’t you hear me? It’s not the true Word! We are faced with an impossible decision.” Donatien began to pace the narrow chamber, his hands behind his back. “Do we destroy it? Or, since you’ve blabbed the news to half the scholars in the quadrant that you’ve found an ancient sacred scripture dating from before Artamon’s reign, do we have to lie? Do we announce that it disintegrated before you could complete your translation?”

  “But is it truly blasphemous?”

  “Listen to yourself!” Donatien stopped and stared into Laorans’s face with a look so chilling that Laorans shrank away. “Already it’s made you begin to question your own faith. If these dangerous words were read by our congregations…”

  “I would never d—dare to question,” stammered Laorans. “But suppose—just suppose for one moment—that this is right, and the Sergian translation is the heretical version?”

  Laorans, you idiot. In the ensuing astonished silence, Ruaud felt as if the temperature in the room had plummeted.

  Visant recovered the first. “You may give thanks to God that only the four of us heard you say such a sinful thing. Men have gone to the stake for less. On what possible grounds, Laorans, do you base such a suggestion?”

  “I—I was merely hypothesizing. I never intended—”

  “We are carrying out Divine Will in eradicating the magi, the last few survivors of that accursed bloodline.”

  Laorans would not give in so easily. “Yet suppose that the children with angel blood in their veins were not accursed, but gifted? And that they were meant to use their gifts to help us, as this
Codex suggests?”

  “Gifts?” Visant pulled out a thick leather-bound folder and began to read aloud from it. “‘Nine years ago, incident reported in Vasconie—a young boy is said to have caused a rockslide, burying several of his companions. One pulled dead from the rubble; two others crippled for life. Villagers said that the boy was often shunned and taunted by his peers because of his “weird eyes.” Mother reported to have died in childbirth, “screaming in agony.”’ Or this one. ‘Forty-one years ago, province of Armel. Devastating flood washes away crops and livestock; little girl drowned. Older brother found weeping near local lake. “I was only trying to help end the drought. I never meant for anyone to be hurt.” Grieving father described son Goustan as, “different from my other children, especially his strange blue eyes.”’ And ‘Earthquake in Allegonde, twenty-two years back.’ Shall I go on?” He thrust the folder toward Père Laorans. “These are just some of the children born with ‘angel blood.’ How can you possibly suggest that such gifts are of benefit to mankind?”

  Donatien placed a gilded casket on the table and opened it. Inside, cushioned on ivory silk, lay fragments of wood, charred and ancient.

  “Sergius’s Staff?” said Ruaud, staring in wonder. This priceless relic of their patron saint was so fragile that it was kept hidden away and was rarely brought out, even by the senior members of the Commanderie.

  “Before you leave this chamber, I’m afraid I must ask you to take a vow on the Staff, gentlemen. A vow never to reveal—on pain of death—what we have discussed today.”

  “So you are suppressing my translation?” Laorans stared challengingly at Donatien.

  “When you became a Guerrier, you promised to obey me, as representative of Divine Will here on earth.”

  Ruaud caught Konan’s eye; the big man looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Believe me, Laorans, this grieves me almost beyond words.” Donatien’s tone had become softer, almost appeasing. “I’ve never had to impose my will on any of my fellow Guerriers before.”

  Laorans placed his hand on the casket. “I swear to you, Maistre, by Sergius’s Staff, never to reveal the results of my researches and translations.” The vow was made, but Ruaud had heard the suppressed rage in Laorans’s voice.

  “Now you, Captain.”

  Ruaud closed his eyes a moment in silent prayer. In making this vow, he was betraying the trust of one of his own men. Yet Donatien was his spiritual leader and commanding officer; he must obey him or face ignominious court-martial. He stretched out his hand and began, “I swear, by Sergius’s Staff…”

  “And now that I have your vow, Laorans, I have exciting news. I’m sending you to set up a new mission in Serindher.”

  “Serindher?” repeated Père Laorans dazedly.

  “You will leave Saint Argantel’s Seminary and lead a group of ten priests to spread our missionary work far beyond the western quadrant.”

  “And far enough away,” murmured Konan in Ruaud’s ear, “to cause no further trouble.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A chill wind gusted across the red sands as the sun sank and darkness sucked the vivid colors from the many towers—cream, rose pink, and orange by day, and now grey in night’s fast-creeping shadow. Nature had formed these strange slender cones and pillars from the living volcanic rock on the barren plain.

  Rieuk gazed at the valley below him.

  “Is this the place?” he said to Imri. “It’s so…desolate.”

  “The local tribesmen call them the Towers of the Ghaouls,” said Imri. “They believe that they’re inhabited by the wayward spirits of the desert. They say that as the sun sets, you can hear the song of the spirits that haunt the valley. They sing so sweetly to lure you inside, then they suck out your soul.”

  “Soul stealers?” said Rieuk. He shivered. The journey to Enhirre had taken many months, complicated by the hostilities between Francia and Tielen. But Rieuk had never been happier. He had never found anyone in Karantec who understood him as intimately as Imri. Every moment that he spent in his company, he learned of new wonders.

  “Watch your step,” Imri cautioned, setting off down the stony track. Rieuk followed, treading carefully in the twilight; it was a sheer drop to jumbled rocks and spiny bushes far below the winding path.

  Night had fallen by the time he reached the valley. He looked around. “Imri?” he called into the gloom.

  Suddenly he heard a rustle of movement. He turned, but too late. Someone threw a sack over his head; another tackled him, bringing him to the ground. Brigands! He struggled and kicked, shouting for Imri until a gag was thrust into his mouth and his cries were silenced.

  Rieuk stood, bound and blindfolded, listening helplessly as distant voices echoed about him. They seemed to be arguing.

  “Where is Kaspar Linnaius? You were sent to bring the wind mage back to answer for his crime.”

  “I ask your forgiveness, Lord Estael.” Rieuk recognized Imri’s soft, persuasive tones. “I was forced to cut short my mission. The Commanderie struck again, sending the Inquisition against the college at Karantec.”

  All the voices began to talk at once.

  “Imri.” This speaker was authoritative and stern; the others fell silent. “Was Linnaius taken?”

  “No, my lord. But we suspect that they used another Angelstone; we saw—and felt—its power.”

  “And where is Linnaius now?” demanded another. “With so few of the true blood left, we may even need his support. Not some pretty boy who caught your eye…”

  “This ‘pretty boy’ is a crystal mage.” Imri’s voice was tinged with quiet amusement. “He was Linnaius’s apprentice.”

  “A true-blood crystal mage?” said the first speaker, and Rieuk heard the others murmuring excitedly together. “Remove his blindfold. Cut his bonds.”

  A burnished gleam of torch flames smeared Rieuk’s vision; he blinked, trying to focus. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw that he was in the center of an ancient circular hall beneath a high dome. Around the walls, half in shadow, stood his interrogators, their features hidden beneath hawk masks of beaten metal.

  “He wishes to become one of us,” continued Imri. “With his powers, I believe he would be a great asset to the order. Look at his eyes. He’s a true elemental, like Linnaius. But his training has been neglected and he sorely needs our guidance.”

  One wearing a gilded mask approached Rieuk and, placing his hands on his shoulders, gazed deep into his eyes. “How do we know that you won’t betray us once you’ve learned our mysteries?” This scrutiny was so intense and invasive that Rieuk felt as if his mind had been stripped bare.

  “I’d give my life to protect Imri.”

  “I see.” The magus in the gilded mask went back to consult the others.

  “He wishes to become an Emissary.” Imri placed a protective arm around Rieuk’s shoulders.

  “Let the boy speak for himself.”

  “And I want to learn how to control my powers.” Rieuk heard a tremor in his voice and tried to steady it. He wished to show the magi that he was not afraid of them.

  Rieuk saw the magi silently consulting one another. What shall I do if they reject me? My life will be over. He felt Imri’s fingers tightening around his shoulder. Will they kill me now that I’ve witnessed their secret sanctuary? Or will they scour away the memories, and leave me wandering witless in the desert?

  The magus in the gilded mask brought out a crystal and placed it in Rieuk’s hands. “Show us what you can do.”

  Rieuk’s fingers were still numb from his bonds. He looked down at the crystal and saw that it was of the same delicate clarity as the one Linnaius had stolen from Ondhessar. “Is this…an aethyr crystal?” He held it to his forehead. “It’s so beautiful.” A faint, clear pulse throbbed from deep within him, matching the vibrations of the crystal. Slowly he lowered it, willing the single pulse to become two. A shudder ran through the crystal…and it split in half.

  Rieuk held out the divi
ded crystal in his outstretched hands.

  One by one, the magi began to remove their masks. Last of all, the magus with the gilded hawk mask revealed his features, and Rieuk saw a face that could have been sculpted out of rock by the harsh desert winds. Beneath strong iron-grey brows, the eyes of a fellow elemental magus stared piercingly at him, lighter than Imri’s, yet glinting with a faint sheen of fire. Imri gave Rieuk a little push forward and Rieuk went down on one knee before the magus.

  “Lord Estael, I commend Rieuk Mordiern to you.”

  “So now my protégé has taken on an apprentice of his own?”

  Rieuk glanced in surprise at Imri, who was looking at Lord Estael with an expression of gentle respect. “If I can teach Rieuk half as well as you taught me, dear lord, then I will truly have cause to feel content.”

  An hour ago, Rieuk had been tied and blindfolded, a prisoner of the magi of Ondhessar. Now he sat with them at supper, too dazed to eat or drink. They had removed their masks and he saw, around the table, eight other magi, some as venerable as Magister Gonery. Yet every magus had eyes that glittered with the same unnatural light as his own. He glimpsed the limpid blue of water, the rich golden brown of earth, and the flicker of fire. The only element absent was the strange, clear silver of a wind master; was Linnaius the only air magus still alive?

  “The news of the Commanderie’s attack on our brothers in Karantec is most disquieting,” said Lord Estael. “Did Imri tell you of the massacre here?”

  Rieuk shook his head. His mouth was still parched with fear and the burn of the harsh desert air. Imri filled Rieuk’s glass with wine. “Drink,” he whispered.

  “Enhirre suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of your countrymen. Many of our fellow magi were destroyed defending the citadel. We few survived the attack on Ondhessar. The Commanderie used their Angelstones against us—the one weapon in their defense that renders our own powers useless. Our stronghold is still under their control. But if you are truly a crystal mage, you may be able to help us take it back.”