by Sarah Ash
Why had he not seen this coming? He looked at her from the dark cloud of his despair and saw how happiness had transformed her; this must be the source of the radiance that made her performances so entrancing. Then he heard the silence; she had finished and was looking expectantly at him. There was something he was expected to say.
“I—I hope you’ll both be very happy.” He managed to stammer out the words. “And now I’d better be going.” He turned, making hastily for the door, fumbling clumsily for the handle.
“Thank you. But, Jagu, didn’t you have a message for me?”
He stopped, his numbed mind racing. What on earth could he invent now to explain the urgency of his visit? “A message?” His dazed mind tried to find a reason that would not sound too lame. “I’m…I’m asking the captain to send me back to Enhirre.” He heard the words before he understood fully what he was saying.
Celestine’s bright smile vanished. “Back to Enhirre? Oh, Jagu, must you go? After your last mission there…won’t it be dangerous to return?” He read concern in her eyes, but with the bitter consolation that she cared for him as a friend.
“There’s nothing to keep me here.”
The look of concern changed to one of disappointment. “We so wanted you to play at our wedding. But you’ll be gone…”
“Long before,” he managed to say, turning his face away so that she could not see his expression as he opened the music room door.
“Jagu?” He heard her puzzled tone as, head down, he strode down the hall and tugged the front door open.
“Got to get back.” He mumbled some nonsense about roll call and weapons training.
Somehow even Enhirre doesn’t seem far enough.
Rieuk had already inspected five rooms before he found one to rent that afforded a good view over Maistre de Joyeuse’s secluded mansion. It was a garret at the top of a dilapidated hostelry on the main avenue; the concierge was elderly, with poor sight, and asked no questions of “Père Emilion” in his threadbare soutane once he had paid her a month’s rent in advance.
The time Rieuk had spent at Saint Argantel’s Seminary provided him with a plausible alias. Emilion would have been in the junior class at the time Henri de Joyeuse was completing his final year.
He returned to Saint Meriadec’s to glean more information. The garrulous sacristan told Père Emilion that the Maistre and his ward were to be married at the end of the year. “They make such a charming couple!”
From his garret Rieuk kept a close watch on the Maistre’s house, noting the students and tradesmen who came and went. To his frustration, he could detect no regular pattern to the hours that visitors called. He would just have to make his move.
That afternoon, about three o’clock, a carriage drew up outside the house.
“Ormas. Go!”
Ormas sped through the grubby window glass and flew over the garden as Celestine and an elderly lady left the mansion. Through Ormas, he heard fragments of their conversation.
“Princess Adèle’s wedding gown was lace and satin. Do you think that your dressmaker—”
“But that was a summer wedding, my dear, and you’re getting married in winter. Lutèce can be so foggy at that time of year. You don’t want to catch a chill on your wedding day…”
He caught a glimpse of Celestine’s face as Ormas flew back to the garret; she looked so happy, chattering away animatedly as she helped the old lady up into the carriage.
Henri de Joyeuse was alone in the house.
Rieuk walked up the overgrown path, treading on the lavender stems that spilled their brittle heads beneath his feet, releasing a faint, bitter memory of their summer scent.
His first knock went unanswered. From upstairs he heard the sound of the fortepiano. He knocked again and waited. Still the sound of scales continued. At his third attempt, the scales suddenly stopped. A minute later, the door opened.
“I’m disturbing you. That’s unpardonable of me. I’ll come back another time.”
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Henri de Joyeuse looked at him quizzically, as though trying to recall his face.
“Emilion. The name’s Père Emilion. We were at Saint Argantel’s Seminary together. You probably don’t remember me—I was only ten when you left, Maistre.” It was a hazardous ploy; the Maistre might have kept in touch with his old school, Emilion might be dead…“But I sang in the chapel choir. And I’ve never forgotten your playing. You were so inspiring.”
“Saint Argantel’s?” A bewildered smile appeared on the Maistre’s face. “You’ll have to forgive me; I can’t quite place you. So what can I do for you, Père Emilion?”
Henri de Joyeuse seems a genuinely good-hearted man. Rieuk hesitated. Why do I have to do this to him? Yet he was so close to his prize now that he could not afford any sentimental feelings. He had to be ruthless. “I’ve been overseas. At the mission in Serindher. I understand you have a list of the organists and choirmasters in Lutèce. I’m looking for a musician to join our mission and teach hymns.”
“You’d better come in. I’ll see what I can find for you. Saint Argantel’s, hm? I haven’t been back in many years.” Henri de Joyeuse talked amicably on as he led Rieuk to the music room.
“And was Père Houardon still there?” asked Rieuk.
“No longer plain Père Houardon, but abbé and headmaster!” Henri de Joyeuse closed the music room door and went over to a glass-fronted bookcase filled with bound volumes.
“I was terrified of him; he was so strict.” It was too easy to play this part; Rieuk kept his voice even as he slid one hand inside the breast pocket of his stolen soutane and took out the tiny crystal soul-glass. “He’d make an excellent headmaster.”
“So, Emilion, you chose the church. Unlike me; I’m afraid I’m a disappointment to the good fathers.”
“The sacristan at Saint Meriadec’s told me you are to be married. May I offer my congratulations?”
Henri de Joyeuse turned around from the cabinet; his grey eyes were alight with an expression of such warmth and delight that Rieuk faltered. Is there no other way? If I stay here, as Père Emilion, until Celestine returns…
“She’s a singer. My ward. And such a talented musician…” He checked himself, laughing. “Forgive me; there’s nothing more tedious than having to listen to the ramblings of a man in love. Here’s that list. Why not try Le Brun first? He’s a skilled and patient trainer…”
Ready, Ormas? Rieuk steeled himself.
“Ready, Master.”
As Henri de Joyeuse closed the glass cabinet door and came toward him, the paper in hand, Rieuk loosed his Emissary. The hawk darted straight toward the composer. The Maistre’s grey eyes widened in surprise. The paper fell from his hands. Then as his legs began to buckle, Rieuk caught him, easing him slowly to the floor.
This moment, when he was caught between two consciousnesses, was always fraught with risk. Supporting Henri de Joyeuse’s lolling fair head against his arm, he held the soul-glass to his victim’s lips. And as Ormas melted into the composer’s breast, the lotus glass began to fill with the essence of his soul, gently but firmly forced out by the Emissary. Slowly, the composer’s gold-fringed eyelids closed as he breathed the last of his soul into Rieuk’s glass and Rieuk pressed home the crystal stopper, murmuring the words of sealing.
Rieuk felt faint and disconnected from his own body. He willed himself to secure the soul-glass in his inner pocket. He willed himself to lay the composer’s body down on the floor gently.
“Ormas,” he said quietly. “Ormas, can you hear me? Are you awake?”
This was the moment that Rieuk dreaded. There was always the risk that he would lose control and damage his own mind as well as his victim’s. For you, Imri. Only for you. He let his mind merge with Ormas’s.
For a moment he lost himself in a fragmented confusion of sensations, memories…Then, through his link with Ormas, he was looking at himself. Rieuk Mordiern stood over him, blinking behind the thick-lensed spectacles he
wore to conceal the brilliance of his eyes.
“What is your name?” Rieuk Mordiern asked. As always it was disconcerting to hear his own voice through another’s ears.
“My—name—is—” He stumbled, not yet fully inhabiting his victim’s brain. “It’s—Henri de Joyeuse.” It would take some practice to manipulate a mind as subtle and gifted as this. He might not have long before Celestine and the old lady returned.
“You are my eidolon. My puppet. You will do as I command.” Rieuk spoke the words of the rite to bind the stolen body.
“I am your eidolon. Your puppet. I will do as you command,” the composer repeated in a dull, lifeless voice. The glamour had worked; through Ormas, he had become Henri de Joyeuse.
“Good-day to you, Maistre de Joyeuse.” Rieuk backed away; he needed to retreat to the seclusion of his rented room, where he could concentrate all his strength on manipulating his victim.
He went slowly down the garden path, one uncertain step at a time. If the soul-stealing had been difficult, then this was harder still. His body was weakened, with only half his will to control it. All his vital energy, his life essence was infused into Ormas so that he could manipulate his eidolon-victim. If any of his enemies were to waylay him at this moment, he would have no strength to defend himself. He just had to hope that none of the Commanderie were close at hand.
The dressmaker plied Celestine and Dame Elmire with tea and delicious little macaroons while she took measurements for Celestine’s gown and laid out samples of fabrics. She suggested ivory and gold-threaded brocade or white velvet as soft as new-fallen snow, although Celestine had taken a liking to a bolt of fine satin, with a waxy sheen like snowdrop petals.
They left the shop much later than they had intended and made their way home through the twilit streets, still animatedly discussing the dressmaker’s suggestions. Celestine favored the satin but Dame Elmire preferred the brocade.
“With your pale porcelain complexion, a subtle touch of color would—” Dame Elmire broke off as they entered the walled garden. “No lamps lit in the house? And the sun’s setting.”
“Henri’s probably not even noticed. When he’s working, he loses all concept of time,” Celestine said with an affectionate smile.
“Henri, why are you working in this poor light?” called Dame Elmire as they entered the darkened house. “Hasn’t Francinette been up to light the lamps? Francinette!” She disappeared down the back stair to the kitchen to look for the maid.
The house was silent. Celestine tiptoed to the music room door. Henri must be composing at his desk, and she had no wish to disturb him, she just wanted to sneak a little look…
CHAPTER 33
“Back to Enhirre?” Jagu sensed that Captain de Lanvaux was looking at him intently, but he could not meet his gaze. “Why this sudden desire to leave Francia, Guerrier?”
Jagu stared at the floor.
“Ah. So she turned you down?”
Jagu managed the slightest, curtest of nods. To have to admit aloud that he had been rejected would only increase his humiliation.
“I see.” There was no hint of censure in the captain’s voice. “But to go so far…is that really necessary? I’d hoped that you would continue to work for me, as part of the special division. You and Demoiselle de Joyeuse acquitted yourselves with distinction in Bel’Esstar. You make a good team. I’d hoped that I could pair you together again.”
“Well, that won’t happen now,” Jagu said brusquely, “as the demoiselle is getting married.”
“Married? What happy news. And who is the lucky man?”
“Maistre de Joyeuse.”
“Excellent!” Captain de Lanvaux was smiling broadly. “They seem made for each other. I can’t help feeling a little responsible for this, as I brought them together at Saint Azilia’s. I must pay them a visit to offer my congratulations.”
The captain, his mind obviously distracted by Commanderie matters, had still not guessed the reason for Jagu’s black mood. This conversation was only rubbing salt in Jagu’s wounds. “May I be excused, sir?”
Captain de Lanvaux rose and walked round his desk to place a hand on Jagu’s shoulder. Jagu looked away. “Please reconsider your decision. Your quick thinking in the basilica saved the princess’s life. Not many have your experience when it comes to detecting the Forbidden Arts. Oh, and by the way, I’m recommending you for promotion.”
Jagu’s head lifted. “Promotion?”
“No one deserves it more than you.”
Rieuk lay on the narrow bed. The faint light of the waning moon shone through the cobwebbed window of his rented garret room. He was conserving his strength for the time when he must make his move. Beside him on the windowsill stood the soul-glass, faintly luminous in the darkness with the essence of Henri de Joyeuse’s immortal soul.
“Henri?” Celestine tapped on the music room door. When there was no answer, she opened it and peered into the room. “Won’t you join us for dinner, Henri? You must eat.”
He was sitting with his back to her, leaning over the open score on his desk, pen in hand.
“Later,” he said distantly.
She ventured a little farther into the room, longing to fling her arms around his neck and kiss the top of his head. Yet he seemed so deep in thought that she did not dare disturb him.
“Shall I bring you some food on a tray?”
“Thank you.”
She retreated to the kitchen, where Dame Elmire greeted her with a knowing look. “What did I tell you? He’s always like this when he’s composing, especially in the early stages of a new work. You’ve seen it before yourself! It’s best to let him alone until he’s ready to mix with us ordinary mortals again.”
Celestine let out a little sigh. She had been longing to discuss wedding plans. But if Henri was in the throes of composition, she was loathe to disturb him.
Rieuk watched Celestine through his Emissary’s eyes as she withdrew on tiptoe. There was still too much activity in the house to risk making his move, yet he could hear from the clatter of plates below that the servant was clearing away the remains of supper.
When she returns with the supper tray…
“I’m off to bed now,” called out the aunt. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he heard Celestine reply.
“And Francinette, make sure you’ve safely extinguished all the lamps. We don’t want to be burned alive in our beds.”
“Yes, madame,” came the surly response from the kitchen.
“I’ve brought you some soup and bread.” Celestine placed the tray on the music room table. “It’s pea and ham, your favorite. Don’t let it go cold.”
“Thank you.” Again that abstracted voice greeted her; Henri was leaning over the score, his head propped on one hand, his hair escaping its black ribbon, half-obscuring his face.
“Your aunt wished you good night.” She came closer. “The dressmaker took my measurements for the wedding gown today.” She just couldn’t resist telling him her news. “But I’m not allowed to say anymore; it’s bad luck.”
“Celestine. You’re an orphan; you never knew your parents. Is that right?”
Why was he asking her this question tonight? He had never seemed bothered before.
“I don’t remember them very well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I was only five when they died.” She longed to tell him all about herself, to share the secrets of her past with one who loved and understood her. But what if he looked at her with horror?
Yet even now he was looking at her oddly. “So you knew their names?” Was he testing her? Or worse still, had the jealous Aurélie been spreading malicious rumors?
“Is it important, Henri?”
“I thought there might be relations of yours that you would want to invite to our wedding. An uncle…or an aunt, perhaps?” His eyes had lost their usual brilliance and were dull and glazed.
“No one,” she said firmly.
“Forgive me. I didn’t me
an to upset you.”
“Of course. I forgive you.” She went to him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him full on the lips. “Good night.”
Rieuk had been wondering where the book might be hidden when Celestine suddenly flung her arms about him and kissed him passionately.
The kiss, so intimate, so invasive, shocked all other thoughts from his mind. He was inhabiting the Maistre’s body more easily now, moving with greater fluency. But seeing, feeling, tasting through another’s senses was deeply unsettling. Distracting, too; the feelings that had flooded through him awakened memories of a time when he had loved and been loved in return. For that brief moment, he knew what it was to adore Celestine with every fiber of his being. The image lingered on and it took a supreme effort of will to wrench his thoughts back to his mission. Even then, the soft radiance of her blue eyes still haunted him.
As he suspected, she had not told a soul her true name. But why was she working for the Commanderie, the very organization that had destroyed her father?
He had noted a trunk in the corner on which she had placed a jug of pale late roses, a gift, perhaps, from her fiancé? But he could not detect the slightest trace of an aethyrial presence. Azilis must have concealed herself from Ormas’s keen senses.
He stood on the landing, uncertain where to go. He had no idea which room was the Maistre’s bedchamber. It would not do to walk in by accident on the old lady as she was preparing for bed. He could only retreat to the music room and pretend to work late into the night.
He already felt drained by the tremendous effort he had expended. Returning to his own body, he checked the soul-glass. Was it his imagination or had the starry glimmer of the composer’s trapped soul begun to fade? He felt the first stirrings of panic. He had lost Paol de Lannion this way; he must not make the same mistake again.