by Sarah Ash
“And Imri, my lord? I’ve fulfilled my part of the agreement.”
“Imri,” Lord Estael repeated distantly. He seemed preoccupied, as though some other matter was absorbing his attention.
“Has anything happened? Is the soul-glass still intact?” He could not bear to think that his all efforts might have been in vain.
“Come with me.”
Rieuk followed Lord Estael to the top of the Rift Tower. As he climbed the winding stair, he suddenly sensed Ormas’s heart start to beat more rapidly. Rieuk pressed one hand to his tattooed skin, feeling the excited throb beneath his breastbone.
“Will you let me go to greet them, Master? It’s so long since I flew with my kin.”
“How could I deny you?” Rieuk said, smiling in spite of the sadness he felt on returning to the place where Imri had first revealed the mysteries of the Rift to him.
He reached the top and as he came out into the misty verdant light, Ormas gave a triumphant cry and burst from his breast, darting off over the shadowed trees, Almiras following in his wake.
Rieuk leaned on the wall and gazed down on the vast forest that stretched into the distant horizon. The only sound was that of the breeze stirring the boughs of the fir trees. He wished that, like Ormas, he could fly free and unconstrained, leaving behind the burden of grief and duty that weighed so heavily on him.
“There’s a revivifying quality in the air of the Rift,” said Lord Estael, gazing out after his shadow hawk. “Yet, look closely, Rieuk. Do you notice anything different?”
“Different?” Rieuk had been away for so long that he could not be sure if his memories of the Rift were reliable. “The emerald moon looks a little hazy tonight. The light is not so intense, perhaps, as I remember.” But when I was with you, Imri, I experienced everything so much more intensely… He raised his head to stare at the unfamiliar constellations glittering faintly above. “And the stars are not so bright.”
The shrill, wild cries of shadow hawks broke the silence of the moonlit night and Rieuk recognized Ormas and Almiras. A flock had come swooping down to feed on the oozing sap of the Haoma tree.
“Night after night, the order has been monitoring the Rift. At first we thought it might be a temporary anomaly, but if you study our charts, Rieuk, you will see that we are observing a distinct change. The emerald moon is waning. The Rift is slowly closing.”
“But what of Imri?” Rieuk stared at Lord Estael, aghast. “If the Rift closes before…” His voice trailed away as the unthinkable implications sank in.
The light in Lord Estael’s eyes was bleak as a wintry sky. “I cannot say. This situation is new to us.”
“And what of Tabris, Ormas, Almiras—”
“Our Emissaries draw their strength from the Rift. And if our Emissaries grow weaker, so will we. We have never found ourselves in such a perilous situation before.”
This revelation had set Rieuk’s thoughts spinning. He had risked so much to destroy the Angelstones, strengthened by the belief that the magi would be invulnerable once it was done. It had never occurred to him that their powers could be diminishing for quite another reason. “But why is this happening, Lord Estael?”
“Azilis.”
“How could it be Azilis?”
“We first observed the changes after Kaspar Linnaius stole the Lodestar. We hoped that it was a temporary abnormality. Since then, matters have been deteriorating.” Lord Estael slowly shook his head. “It seems that her presence alone was powerful enough to keep the Rift between our world and the Ways Beyond open. But now…”
“Master…” Ormas was calling to him. “My kin are leaving. The Haoma tree is dying. They must fly farther in to search for another. What should I do?”
“Come back to me now, Ormas.” Rieuk tried to quell the panic in his voice. If Ormas abandoned him, he would be utterly alone. He turned to Lord Estael. “Did you hear? The Haoma tree is dying. The shadow hawks are leaving.”
“This is worse than I feared.” Lord Estael leaned far out and Almiras fluttered down to perch on his forearm. Rieuk anxiously scanned the sky for a sight of Ormas. At last he spotted three hawks skimming in a breathtaking aerial dance across the luminous disc of the moon. What if Ormas doesn’t want to return?
“Is it possible, Rieuk, that the book in which your magister sealed Azilis was not destroyed when the college fell?”
Rieuk was still watching Ormas, and Lord Estael’s question startled him. “You mean that all this while we’ve assumed she’s free, and she’s still trapped in Hervé’s book?”
“Just suppose that your magister hid the book in a safe place? Or smuggled it out of Karantec before the Inquisition struck? Someone in his family might have it in their possession now and be keeping it safe from the Inquisition.”
“His family?” Little Klervie playing with her fat grey tabby cat on the doorstep, soft-voiced Madame de Maunoir bringing him homemade lemonade when he was working late for her husband…it had never once occurred to Rieuk that the book might have survived the Inquisition’s brutal purge.
“I want you to go back to Francia, Rieuk, and look for any clues you can unearth. If there’s the slightest chance that you can track her—”
“Go back?” To return to Francia meant assuming another false identity, living on the edge, constantly in fear of the Inquisition. He had done terrible things in Kemper and all in the belief that it was for Imri. And now Lord Estael was telling him that it was not enough, and Imri’s immortal soul was in peril.
“Wouldn’t it be better to try to restore Imri now?” He heard the desperation in his own voice. “Before the Rift closes any farther?”
“We are proposing to undertake a very risky and delicate operation.” Lord Estael’s wintry expression grew icier still. “For there to be any hope of it succeeding at all, the Rift must be stable. The consequences of failure are too dreadful to be imagined.”
Ormas silently alighted on Rieuk’s shoulder. Rieuk closed his eyes, relieved beyond words that the smoke hawk had not flown too far into the Rift and abandoned him. Don’t leave me like that again, Ormas. You’re all that I have now, my only companion.
“If you don’t bring Azilis back to us, Rieuk, there’s a very real risk that next time you set Ormas loose in the Rift, he may not return at all.”
Had Lord Estael read his thoughts? Rieuk drew in a slow, resigned breath. “Very well. I’ll do it. I’ll go back to Francia.”
“Don’t stay too long within the Rift,” Lord Estael had warned. “Even with our Emissaries’ protection, our bodies are not able to tolerate the rarefied atmosphere for long.”
Imri’s tomb shimmered dully in the hazy light in the clearing at the foot of the Emerald Tower. The clear crystal had become more opaque, as if layers of ice had encrusted the case, making it harder to see Imri’s still form within. Yet just to glimpse the indistinct outlines of those familiar, beloved features, so perfectly preserved within the aethyr crystal, brought sudden tears to Rieuk’s long-dry eyes.
“I couldn’t leave again without seeing you once more.” Rieuk slipped to his knees, one hand touching the chill aethyr crystal. “Where are you, Imri?” he whispered. “Can you still hear me?” He slowly let his head rest against the casket, close to Imri’s. “Are you at peace?” He could not forget what he had done to Paol. The child’s spirit had been so frail and vulnerable out of his body. “Or are you in torment, trapped in the soul-glass? If only you could tell me. I don’t want to make you suffer.” All he wanted was to hear Imri’s voice, gently, affectionately chiding him as he often had when they were together. “I keep telling myself that this is all for you, to give you your life again, but am I deceiving myself? Am I being selfish, wanting to bring you back from the dead?”
The dreamlike atmosphere within the Rift must have begun to affect him…or was the growing numbness he felt seeping from the chill of the aethyr crystal? A slight breeze stirred the branches of the trees nearby and set the hairs at the nape of Rieuk’s neck pr
ickling. Was it his imagination? Or had he felt the touch of invisible hands drifting a brief caress?
He raised his head. There, on the edge of the clearing, half-clothed in shadow, stood Imri, his black hair loose about his shoulders.
“Imri?” Yet there was something indistinct about his lover, as though a gauzy veil was separating them, softly trembling in the breeze from the Rift. Yet Rieuk found himself stumbling headlong toward him, hands outstretched, even though sense told him that he could not embrace a shade. “Is it really you?”
“Stay with me, Rieuk. Stay here.”
“Rieuk.” A harsh voice was calling his name. He felt the sting of a hand-slap across his face. “Rieuk, wake up!”
“No,” Rieuk murmured angrily. “Go away. Leave us be.”
“Stay with me, Rieuk…”
“Us?” Someone gripped him by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet. “You fool! I warned you not to stay in here too long.”
Groggily, Rieuk opened his eyes to see Lord Estael glaring at him. “But Imri was here—”
“Look around you! There’s no one here but ourselves.”
CHAPTER 15
Sister Kinnie bustled down the chapel aisle, accompanied by a chestnut-haired girl.
The Skylarks’ singing wavered. Celestine tried to keep her gaze fixed on Sister Noyale’s moving hands as they shaped the contours of the musical line and marked the beat. Sensing that Rozenne and Koulmia had lost concentration too, she stared at the visitor…and thus failed to notice the ominous frown wrinkling the choirmistress’s face.
“New girl,” muttered Katell and then, too late, clapped a hand over her mouth.
Sister Noyale’s dark eyes narrowed. Her hands dropped. The singing raggedly petered out. She beckoned to Katell.
Katell hesitated.
“Out here. Now.”
Celestine had a sinking feeling. Sister Noyale had an implacable look that all the Skylarks knew well. At one time or another, each girl had transgressed in choir practice and learned to regret it. But impulsive Katell never seemed to remember.
“Did I hear you speak, Katell?” Sister Noyale was deliberately ignoring Sister Kinnie and the new girl.
Katell nodded, eyes lowered.
“Hold out your hands.”
Celestine instinctively clenched her own fists, knowing what must come next.
Katell held out her hands, palms up. The sharp swish of Sister Noyale’s leather strap slapped down once, twice. Celestine winced, as did the other twenty-two Skylarks, feeling the stinging pain in sympathy with Katell.
“Return to your place.” Sister Noyale placed the strap back on her music stand, her face impassive. Then she turned to Sister Kinnie and the new girl. “I will not tolerate any chatter in my rehearsals,” she said crisply, staring at the girl as she spoke. “So you must be Gauzia.”
“Demoiselle Gauzia de Saint-Désirat,” said the newcomer in a clear, cool voice. “Youngest daughter of the Vicomte de Saint-Désirat.” She stared back boldly at the choirmistress, with dark-lashed hazel eyes, more green than gold.
“So you are a vicomte’s daughter?” Sister Noyale repeated in a disparaging tone the Skylarks knew well. Celestine sensed the other girls squirming, partly in embarrassment, partly in anticipation of the put-down to come. “Here we are all equal in the eyes of God, all servants of the Blessed Azilia. And I hope for your sake that you have some semblance of a singing voice, or you’ll soon become very well acquainted with the convent kitchens.”
Gauzia seemed not in the least cowed by Sister Noyale’s chilly welcome. “What would you like me to sing for you?”
Koulmia gasped and several of the older Skylarks nudged each other. Celestine watched Gauzia, impressed in spite of herself by the new girl’s self-confidence.
“I take it that you have prepared something?”
Gauzia cleared her throat, softly hummed a single pitch, and, clasping her hands together at her breast, began to sing. Celestine recognized the melancholy cadences of the old evening hymn “Guard Us Through This Night.” Gauzia’s voice was low but strong and sweet. She had been well trained, Celestine realized with a little pang of envy; she knew exactly when to take a breath as well as how to shape a phrase. And she used her soulful eyes to good effect; Celestine observed Sister Kinnie smiling and nodding her head in time as she listened.
“Your voice is strongest in the lower register,” said Sister Noyale as Gauzia reached the end of the second verse. “Go and stand in the back row. To my right. Make room for her, Katell and Margaud.”
Gauzia stared at her, mouth a little open, as if about to object. She did not look too pleased to be placed on the back row. Then she closed her mouth, pressing her lips together. Celestine, unable to quell her curiosity, turned around to watch her. So did the rest of the front row.
Sister Noyale tapped her music stand briskly with her baton. “Any girl not looking in my direction will stay behind to polish the candlesticks instead of having her supper.”
In the dormitory, the Skylarks clustered around the new girl, chirping questions. Celestine found herself on the outside of the circle, unaccountably reluctant to join in.
Am I just a little jealous of her?
“No, I’m not an orphan.” Gauzia seemed so self-assured, answering as she unpacked her few belongings. “But my father made a vow that one of his children should be given to the church. I’m the youngest of six sisters. By the time he’d paid for my sisters’ dowries, there was nothing left for me.” She spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone as she shook out her woollen stockings that it sounded as if she had merely been forgotten when a tray of sweetmeats was being shared around, rather than being confined to a convent for life.
“But that’s so unfair!” cried Katell.
Gauzia shrugged. “My oldest sister died in childbirth last month. My next sister was married off to a vile-tempered colonel who stinks of brandy. My—”
“We understand, we understand,” chorused the girls.
Gauzia ignored them, staring at Celestine, the only one not joining in. “You’re very quiet. What’s your name?” The question was not framed in the friendliest of tones.
“Celestine.”
“Just Celestine?” The bold hazel eyes challenged her. “Don’t you even know your father’s name? Or perhaps you never had a father.” There was barely concealed scorn in Gauzia’s voice now. Celestine opened her mouth to reply, and then remembered. When Maman lay dying Klervie had promised her never to reveal Papa’s name. She closed her mouth again. None of the Skylarks had ever questioned her about her parentage. The Abbess had told them she was an orphan, rescued from the slums of Lutèce.
“Does it matter? We’re all orphans here,” said Rozenne, placing her arms around Celestine’s shoulders protectively. “We leave family ties outside the convent walls.”
Celestine leaned back against Rozenne, grateful beyond words that she had come to her rescue.
Gauzia shrugged and turned back to her unpacking, but not without giving Celestine a long, penetrating look. This matter was not over, Celestine sensed it, even as she nestled against Rozenne.
That night she dreamed of fire again.
The pyre burns so fiercely that she can feel the heat on her skin as she and Maman cower in a doorway. “Don’t make a sound,” warns Maman. But the stench of burning human flesh chokes her and she begins to cough and retch.
Garbed in black, the faceless soldiers seize her and start to drag her toward the flames. “Maman, save me!” she shrieks, but the shadowy crowd surges around her and her mother’s anguished face disappears from sight.
At first it was just a malicious glance or a snide little comment. But one rainy morning, as the Skylarks were coming out of chapel after a rehearsal punctuated by coughs and sneezing, Gauzia hurried after Celestine and Rozenne, holding out a little cloth bag.
“You’re on kitchen duty? Sister Noyale gave me these spices to put in the soup today. She says they’re medicinal and will help t
o cure the sore throats. But only put in three spoonfuls.”
If it was Sister Noyale’s instructions, Celestine reasoned as she stirred the black spices into the soup, it must be all right.
“Are you certain it was three spoonfuls?” Rozenne asked, ladling out the soup at lunchtime.
But when the sisters and the girls started to drink the soup, there were cries of disgust and much coughing and spluttering.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sister Noyale marched up to the two girls. “Are you trying to poison us?” Her eyes were watering. “Have you even tasted this soup?”
Celestine glanced unhappily at Rozenne. She shook her head.
“Try it now,” insisted Sister Noyale.
Reluctantly, Celestine lifted a spoonful to her mouth and swallowed. It burned like fire. “P—pepper,” she wheezed.
“You can pour the soup down the drain; not even the pigs will touch it. Then you can spend the afternoon scrubbing out the washrooms and latrines. Perhaps that will teach you both to take more care with your cooking and not waste good ingredients!”
As Celestine straightened up to stretch her aching back, she saw Gauzia watching her and Rozenne from the washroom doorway, a little smile on her lips.
“You set us up!” said Rozenne. “You told us to put three spoonfuls in the soup.”
“Oh, did I say three spoonfuls? How silly of me; I must have got mixed up. I think Sister Noyale said three pinches. You really shouldn’t pay any attention to me, I know nothing about kitchen work. That was all done by the servants…” Gauzia’s knowing expression belied the innocent tone of her voice as she walked off.
“That stuck-up demoiselle Gauzia. Her kind just makes me so—so angry.”
Celestine looked in surprise at Rozenne. Her friend was sitting back on her haunches, scrubbing brush in hand, staring into the middle distance. Even-tempered, always ready to greet everyone she met with a smile or a kind word, Rozenne was never angry.