by Sarah Ash
Just another ordinary day in a provincial cathedral city…
Jagu gazed warily around the empty chapel. Since Paol’s funeral, he had been unable to make himself come here, not even to play the organ. A shaft of rain-washed sunlight pierced the somber stained glass, highlighting the fine carvings on the altar that Père Albin had taught the boys to identify: Sergius’s crook; Mhir’s rose; seven stars for the seven Heavenly Guardians.
“Protect me,” he whispered to Saint Argantel.
“Over here!” He caught sight of the apparition slipping through the arch to the little spiral stair that led up to the organ loft, and the disused room that had become the boys’ secret hideout. No one else would have thought to look there; the priests’ embroidered ceremonial robes were kept locked in the vestry below. Jagu followed up the narrow winding stair in time to see Paol beckoning him on.
As he opened the door, a voice said, “So there you are, Jagu.”
Jagu stopped abruptly on the threshold.
A bespectacled stranger rose from the table piled with dog-eared psalm books and broken-backed missals. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Jagu turned on his heel and darted for the stair, but the stranger, taller and stronger, made a lunge for him, catching hold of him by the wrist. Jagu struggled, trying to kick him in the shins. The stranger caught hold of his other wrist and pinned him against the wall, hands above his head. Piles of prayer books cascaded to the floor, sending up clouds of dust.
A slow smile spread across the stranger’s features. Jagu recognized that knowing, chilling smile; he had seen it before in the seminary gardens. And in that moment, he knew that behind that smile lurked the grinning face of death—his own.
The headmaster’s study brought back memories of Ruaud’s own schooldays: the faint taste of chalk dust in the air, the brackish smell of ink, the pile of half-marked essays on the desk.
Ruaud sneezed violently and searched in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“Captain, I’ve kept you waiting and you’re still in wet clothes.” Abbé Houardon hurried in. “Whatever must you think?”
“It’s nothing.” Ruaud blew his nose vigorously. His head felt heavy and his nose still tickled; he suspected he might have caught a summer cold.
“The weather can be treacherous up on the moors. I take it you came that way?”
“Next time, I’m traveling by ship,” Ruaud said ruefully.
“You must have a hot drink to warm you. You’re in Armel now and we’re famous for our cider. The kitchen will heat you up some punch; nothing better for driving out the damp.”
A shadow briefly fell across the single source of daylight, an arched window set high in the far wall. The great hawk with smoke-flecked wings flew through the dirt-filmed glass to alight on the magus’s shoulder.
“So he’s arrived,” murmured the magus. One hand gripped Jagu by the throat. “Downstairs, Jagu.”
“D—downstairs?” Jagu managed, half-choked.
“A clever ruse of the Commanderie’s, concealing their Angelstones under the protective eye of their founder.” The magus forced Jagu down the narrow stairs, keeping such a tight grip on his shoulder that escape seemed impossible.
“W—what are you going to do with me?”
The magus’s fingers stroked Jagu’s cheek. “If only there were some other way…” To Jagu’s surprise there seemed to be a note of regret in his voice. The magus took off his thick-lensed spectacles and gazed at Jagu. “You see, I can’t touch the Angelstones. They drain me of my powers. So you will act as my shield and bring them to me.”
Such astonishingly green eyes… Jagu forgot to struggle as he gazed back, entranced. It was as if he were slowly drowning in deep, jade waters. The magus’s face began to blur, as if glimpsed from far beneath a rippled surface.
“So the boy who witnessed the murder is still here?” Ruaud took a mouthful of the hot cider punch and felt its warmth soothe his sore throat. “Why not send him home to his family to recover from the shock?”
“We felt he might be more vulnerable away from the seminary. Here, at least, he has the protection of his friends and teachers. Besides, he insisted he wanted to help you with your inquiry as much as he could.”
The clock on the mantelpiece struck four.
“Jagu’s late.” Abbé Houardon checked the time on his fob watch. “I told Emilion, our head prefect, to find him and send him up here so that you could interview him. Where’s he got to, I wonder?”
Ruaud set down his mug. “Jagu’s the witness?”
“And our organ scholar. He’s probably practicing in the chapel and lost track of the time.”
“Let’s go and find him, then.” Ruaud took up his leather travel bag containing Judicael’s exorcism equipment.
“You don’t think—”
“I don’t want to take the risk.”
“Wait, Captain.” The headmaster stopped him. “Did your superiors ever tell you of Saint Argantel’s Angelstones?”
“I’ve heard the legend.” Ruaud was impatient to make sure the boy was safe.
“It’s no legend. Since the magus attacked Paol, I took the precaution of removing one from the altar.” He pulled a chain from around his neck and handed it to Ruaud; on the end was a crystal in the shape of a tear. “Do you see that black streak at the heart? It means that the magus is still nearby.”
“Thanks.” Ruaud swiftly hung the chain around his neck and hurried out of the door. There had been something else in the legend of the Angelstones…
One thought and one thought alone dominated Jagu’s mind as he walked toward the altar. He had no doubt that once the magus had used him as his “shield,” he would kill him.
I must get away from him.
The school chapel, which had once been his quiet, safe haven, was filled with distorted shadows and strange, sinister rustlings.
“Seven stars,” said the magus.
Jagu was eyeing the side door. The magus might not be aware that there was another exit from the chapel. A quick dash past the altar and he could be free.
The magus extended one hand toward the altar. Jagu became aware of a faint vibration that slowly began to increase in intensity. The tiled floor beneath his feet trembled.
“Look at the altar, Jagu,” ordered the magus. “Memorize the sequence.”
The carvings had begun to glow; first Sergius’s crook, then Mhir’s rose, lastly each of the Seven Stars in turn.
“Go. You must touch each carving, following the sequence.”
Jagu hesitated.
The mark on Jagu’s wrist throbbed with a sudden searing pain. Jagu cried out.
“Do it!”
Jagu knelt down and, his wrist still throbbing, pressed the carvings, murmuring the holy names under his breath in the desperate hope that one of the Heavenly Guardians might hear and protect him. “Galizur; Sehibiel; Taliahad; Ardarel…”
The vibrations were growing stronger still. A little door opened in the altar.
The magus clicked his fingers and a second door opened.
“There is a box inside. Take it out.” The magus’s eyes were shut, one hand pressed to his eyelids, as if he were in a deep trance.
How can he know? Can he see through stone? Jagu’s fingers closed around the smooth wood of a little casket. He drew it out and held it up to show what he had found.
The magus gave a gasp and went down on one knee. “Stand aside. Stand back.”
Whatever’s in this box is powerful enough to make him weak. Jagu felt the wood of the casket trembling violently in his fingers; the hinges burst and the lid fell off, revealing three dazzling crystals within. Angelstones. Each one was humming at a different pitch. Jagu, with his accurate ear, could have named the pitches if the vibrations were not so powerful.
“Put the box—on the altar.”
Jagu hesitated.
“On the altar!”
Jagu felt the mark on his wrist burning with such agonizing intensity that
he almost dropped the box onto the altar stone. The humming grew louder still. He stepped back and felt the magus’s arm clasp him, holding him pressed against his body like a shield.
“Hold still,” the magus murmured in his ear. The resonance from the stones was setting off other vibrations; the organ pipes began to tremble in sympathy and the stained glass rattled until Jagu felt his ears would burst with the sound.
Then the box exploded in a burst of light and crystal shards.
“What in Sergius’s name was that?” Abbé Houardon stopped, gazing at the heavens. “A lightning strike?”
Ruaud set off swiftly across the courtyard, making for the chapel, the headmaster following close behind. The sky had darkened. Ruaud felt a sick, strange feeling overwhelm him. Looking up, he saw a great flock of ragged-winged crows, black as storm, swirling around the chapel spire. Even as he raised his head, the cloud of crows came swooping down toward him, scattering jet feathers like blackened leaves.
“Take cover!” yelled Houardon, running for a doorway.
“It’s a diversion. Stand your ground.” Ruaud clenched his fists and strode on toward the chapel door as the crows came diving down to mob him, their raucous cawing and screeching making his ears ache. Maddened eyes, red with rage, glinted in the whirling featherstorm. He was taking a considerable risk, calling the magus’s bluff in this way—but if his guess was right, the birds were nothing but a delaying tactic, designed to distract and confuse.
Sharp beaks stabbed at his head and neck. These birds were no illusion! Ruaud broke into a run. A trickle of blood dripped from a graze on his head, into his left eye. The malignant will driving this storm cloud of birds was more powerful than anything he had encountered before.
Overhead, the crows wheeled and turned, gathering for another onslaught.
Ruaud dashed the last few yards, one arm raised to protect his head, the other hand clutching his leather bag. He tugged hard at the chapel door handle—but it was shut fast and would not open. The magus had made sure that all the doors were locked.
“Side door!” shouted Houardon, gesticulating and pointing. Ruaud hurried along the wall of the chapel to the little porch that probably led into the vestry. Blood was still dripping across his eyes; he dashed the back of his hand across his forehead, the fingers coming away wet and smeared with crimson. The ragged phalanx of crows swept down again as he wrestled with the vestry door. When that also refused to open, he drew out his pistol, hastily primed it, and, aiming at the lock, fired just as the first of the attacking crows flew into his face.
His aim was good; the wood sizzled as the ball passed through the mechanism. And the crows, startled by the loud report, scattered in confusion. Ruaud took advantage of this and tugged the door open. He had intended that ball for the magus. Now he would have to reload. He leaned back against the door, breathing hard, scanning the dim chapel for signs of movement.
“Let me be in time,” he muttered. “Let the boy still be alive.”
The silence inside the chapel was more disconcerting than the frenzied onslaught of the crows outside. Ruaud delved into his bag for Judicael’s standard tool: the pistol shot impregnated with holy water. As he hastily loaded shot and powder, he scanned the shadowed aisles of the chapel, aware that the next attack could come from anywhere.
It was an act of reckless audacity that this magus had dared to wield the Forbidden Arts on sanctified ground. But to use innocent and vulnerable children to accomplish his dark designs was unforgivable.
Saint Argantel’s reminded Ruaud of the chapel at the school he had attended: plain lime-washed walls, simple columns, wooden pews scuffed by the booted feet of countless little boys, and a lingering stale smell of snuffed candlewicks that even the most pungent incense could not quite dispel.
“Come out, Magus!” he called, hearing the echo of his voice return to him. “Let the boy go and I’ll spare your life.”
There was no reply.
Am I too late? Has he already escaped, using the crows to cover his flight?
Ruaud moved out into the main aisle of the chapel, checking out every angle of the building for any hint of movement. And he knew that he was being watched.
Then he saw the altar. The ancient stone had cracked in two. And powdering the altar steps was a fine covering of glittering shards, as if someone had scattered crushed ice everywhere. At the same time, he heard someone cry out a warning. Wheeling about, he caught a glimmer of green eyes in the gloom, and a creature of smoke and flame came darting toward him.
Instinctively, his hands closed around the Angelstone to protect it. But a shaft of light issued from between his fingers, piercing the gloom with its brightness.
Jagu saw the Guerrier standing there, alone and vulnerable to the magus’s attack. “Look out!” he shouted. The magus tightened his grip around Jagu’s throat before the second word was out. And he loosed his familiar, sending it hurtling toward the Guerrier.
But as Jagu watched, helpless, he saw a white light unfurl around the Guerrier, as if great wings had sprouted from his shoulders. For a moment Jagu saw another figure superimposed—a tall, winged warrior whose silver hair crackled like lightning. With one powerful thrust, he loosed a dazzling spear toward the magus’s familiar. The shadow creature swerved, but not before the brilliant spear shaft had grazed one black wing tip.
The magus cried out and loosed his hold on Jagu. Jagu sagged, going down on one knee, clutching his bruised throat. When he got unsteadily to his feet again, the brilliant light had dimmed, and the magus was gone.
As Ruaud’s dazzled eyes adjusted to the dimness, the boy came uncertainly toward him. Ruaud saw at once that, in spite of all that he had undergone, he was making a brave effort to control his fear. He was tall for his age, with long hair as black as jet and thick-lashed eyes too dark against his pale skin. Some pale-skinned people flushed red with fright, but this boy’s pallor only seemed to have increased, lending him a poignant look of fragility.
“Jagu.” Ruaud spoke his name quietly as if gentling a startled colt. “You’re safe now.”
Jagu nodded. “The soul-glass,” he said stiltedly. “I have to find it. And set Paol free.”
Jagu was never sure afterward if he had really heard Paol’s voice calling to him from the little music room, or if chance had led him to search there.
But with the captain following close behind, he hurried up the spiral stair. This was where Paol’s ghost had led him; the magus must have concealed the glass somewhere among the piles of old hymn books. The magus had fled; surely the soul-glass was of no importance to him anymore.
“What are you looking for?” asked the captain, wiping a smear of blood from a gash in his cheek.
“I don’t know what a soul-glass looks like,” admitted Jagu. And then he felt a faint breath, as though a dusty shadow had slipped past him. “Paol?” he said, feeling the goose bumps rise on his chilled skin. Was that his ghost in the corner, pointing with one hand, faint as a skeletal leaf?
“There it is.” On the top shelf, wedged between a stained vase and an old tin of brass polish, stood a delicate phial fashioned in the shape of a flower. As the captain reached up to take it, Jagu saw the cloudy swirl of an evanescent substance within the glass.
“Can so precious a thing as a mortal soul be contained in this little glass?” said the captain wonderingly. He passed it to Jagu, who held it carefully in his cupped hands a moment.
“Good-bye, Paol,” he said. “Now you’re free.” Then he pulled the glass stopper out and the pale, hazy essence within melted away into the air. Paol’s sad, insubstantial figure wavered, dwindled…and was gone.
“I saw the angel.” Jagu was gazing at Ruaud with solemn adulation in his dark eyes.
“Angel?”
“The angel you summoned to defeat the magus. He was so…so beautiful. And so powerful.”
Had the ordeal affected the boy’s wits? Or had he, in that one transcendent moment, been a conduit for an angelic power? No
w his whole body ached and the wounds on his face and neck were stinging. But he still felt an echo of that golden brilliance deep within his heart. He looked at the last remaining Angelstone and saw that the dark streak had almost disappeared in its clear crystal heart.
“Thank you,” said Jagu faintly. He began to sag; Ruaud caught him before he hit the floor.
Ruaud went up to his guest room after sharing a measure or two of the local apple brandy with the headmaster. Time to start packing; he would have to leave at dawn the next day. He was not relishing breaking the news to Maistre Donatien that the last remaining Angelstones had been destroyed. Although one thought troubled him. Why didn’t Donatien tell me the stones were here? Doesn’t he trust me? What other vital secrets is he keeping from us younger officers?
The cathedral clock had just finished striking midnight when there came a polite tap at his door. Ruaud opened it and saw Jagu standing there.
“Why, Jagu—shouldn’t you be resting?”
The boy gave a little shrug. “I couldn’t sleep.” Ruaud noticed that the strain was beginning to show; the fine skin beneath the boy’s eyes was stained with bruises of fatigue. He had been through a terrible ordeal; Ruaud was only surprised that, as yet, he showed no other signs of damage.
“How can I help you?”
“Are you leaving so soon?”
“Duty calls me back to Lutèce.” Ruaud turned back to his packing.
Jagu came farther into the room. “I want to train to be like you, Captain. If I come to Lutèce, can I join the Commanderie and learn to fight too? I’m not afraid of hard work. Please take me with you.”
There was an air of sensitivity about him—but also, Ruaud realized, an underlying strength. He had suffered, but the ordeal had not broken him. A weaker personality would have been crushed by this encounter with the powers of the dark, but Jagu de Rustéphan was obviously made of stronger stuff.