A Trail of Fire

by Diana Gabaldon

  Nothing good. He was sure of that. Though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would kidnap a nun and drag her out of Paris in the dark, only to stop at the edge of a public cemetery. Unless . . . half-heard rumours of depraved men who murdered and dismembered their victims, even those who ate . . . his wame rose and he nearly vomited, but it wasn’t possible to vomit and run at the same time, and he could see a pale splotch on the darkness that he thought – he hoped, he feared – must be Joan.

  Suddenly, the night burst into flower. A huge puff of green fire bloomed in the darkness, and by its eerie glow, he saw her clearly, her hair flying in the wind.

  He opened his mouth to shout, to call out to her, but he had no breath, and before he could recover it, she vanished into the ground, the comte following her, torch in hand.

  He reached the mineshaft moments later, and below, he saw the faintest green glow, just vanishing down a white chalk tunnel. Without an instant’s hesitation, he flung himself down the ladder.

  ‘Do you hear anything?’ the comte kept asking her, as they stumbled along the white-walled tunnels, he grasping her so hard by the arm that he’d surely leave bruises on her skin.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘What— am I listening for?’

  He merely shook his head in a displeased way, but more as though he were listening for something himself, than because he was angry with her for not hearing it.

  She still had a faint hope that he’d meant what he said, and would take her back. He did mean to go back himself; he’d lit several torches and left them burning along their way. So he wasn’t about to disappear into the hill altogether, taking her with him to the lighted ballroom where people danced all night with the Fine Folk, unaware that their own world slipped past beyond the stones of the hill.

  The comte stopped abruptly, hand squeezing harder round her arm.

  ‘Be still,’ he said, very quietly, though she wasn’t making any noise. ‘Listen.’

  She listened as hard as possible – and thought she did hear something. What she thought she heard, though, was footsteps, far in the distance. Behind them. Her heart seized up for a moment.

  ‘What— what do you hear?’ she thought of asking. He glanced down at her, but not as though he really saw her.

  ‘Them,’ he said. ‘The stones. They make a buzzing sound, most of the time. If it’s close to a fire-feast or a sun-feast, though, they begin to sing.’

  ‘Do they?’ she said faintly. He was hearing something, and evidently it wasn’t the footsteps she’d heard. They’d stopped now, as though whoever followed was waiting, maybe stealing along, one step at a time, careful now to make no sound.

  Was it another of the Auld Ones? If it was, it didn’t want to be heard. It was cold here underground, but sweat crawled down the crease of her back, and her nape prickled, imagining something ancient and sharp-toothed, leaping out of the dark just behind . . .

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and his face was intent. He looked at her sharply again, and this time, he saw her.

  ‘You don’t hear them,’ he said, with certainty, and she shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. Her lips felt stiff. ‘I don’t— I don’t hear anything.’

  He pressed his lips tight together, but after a moment, lifted his chin, gesturing toward another tunnel, where there seemed to be something painted on the chalk.

  He paused there to light another torch – this one burned a brilliant yellow, and stank of sulphur – and she saw by its light the wavering shape of the Virgin and an angel. Her heart lifted a little at the sight, for surely faeries would have no such thing in their lair.

  ‘Come,’ he said, and now took her by the hand. His own was cold.

  Michael caught a glimpse of them as they moved into a side tunnel. The comte had lit another torch, a red one this time – how did he do that? – and it was easy to follow its glow.

  How far down in the bowels of the earth were they? He had long since lost track of the turnings, though he might be able to get back by following the torches – assuming they hadn’t all burned out.

  He still had no plan in mind, other than to follow them until they stopped. Then he’d make himself known, and . . . well, take Joan away, by whatever means proved necessary.

  Swallowing hard, rosary still wrapped around his left hand and pen-knife in his right, he stepped into the shadows.

  The chamber was round, and quite large. Big enough that the torchlight didn’t reach all the edges, but it lit the pentagram inscribed into the floor in the centre.

  The noise was making Rakoczy’s bones ache, and often as he had heard it, it never failed to make his heart race and his hands sweat. He let go of the nun’s hand for a moment, to wipe his palm on the skirts of his coat, not wanting to disgust her. She looked scared, but not terrified, and if she heard it, surely she— Her eyes widened suddenly and she let out a small yelp.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she said.

  He whirled, to see Raymond, apparently come out of nowhere, standing tranquilly in the centre of the pentagram.

  ‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle,’ the frog said, bowing politely.

  ‘Ah . . . bonsoir,’ the girl replied faintly. She made to back away, and Rakoczy seized her by the wrist.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Rakoczy interposed his body between Raymond and the nun.

  ‘Very likely the same thing you are,’ the frog replied. ‘Might you introduce your petite amie, sir?’

  Shock, anger, and sheer confusion robbed Rakoczy of speech for a moment. What was the infernal creature doing here? Wait— the girl! The lost daughter he’d mentioned; the nun was the daughter! Tabernac, had the frog sired this girl on La Dame Blanche?

  In any case, he’d plainly discovered the nun’s whereabouts, and somehow had followed them to this place. He took hold of the girl’s arm again, firmly.

  ‘She is a Scotch,’ he said. ‘And as you see, a nun. No concern of yours.’

  The frog looked amused, cool and unruffled. Rakoczy was sweating, the noise beating against his skin in waves. He could feel the little bag of stones in his pocket, a hard lump against his heart. They seemed to be warm, warmer even than his skin.

  ‘I doubt that she is, really,’ said Raymond. ‘Why is she a concern of yours, though?’

  ‘That’s also none of your business.’ He was trying to think. He couldn’t lay out the stones, not with the damned frog standing there. Could he just leave with the girl? But if the frog meant him harm . . . and if the girl truly wasn’t . . .

  Raymond ignored the incivility, and bowed again to the girl.

  ‘I am Master Raymond, my dear,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Joan Mac—’ she said. ‘Er . . . Sister Gregory, I mean.’ She pulled hard against Rakoczy’s grip. ‘Um. If I’m not the concern of either of you gentlemen . . .’

  ‘She’s my concern, gentlemen.’ The voice was high with nerves, but firm. Rakoczy looked round, shocked to see the young wine merchant walk into the chamber, dishevelled and dirty, but eyes fixed on the girl. At his side, the nun gasped.

  ‘Sister.’ The merchant bowed. He was white-faced, but not sweating. He looked as though the chill of the cavern had seeped into his bones, but put out a hand from which the beads of a wooden rosary swung. ‘You dropped your rosary.’

  Joan thought she might faint from sheer relief. Her knees wobbled from terror and exhaustion, but she summoned enough strength to wrench free of the comte and run, stumbling, into Michael’s arms. He grabbed her and hauled her away from the comte, half-dragging her.

  The comte made an angry sound and took a step in her direction, but Michael said, ‘Stop right there, ye wicked bugger!’ just as the little froggy-faced man said sharply, ‘Stop!’

  The comte swung first toward one and then the other. He looked . . . crazed. Joan swallowed and nudged Michael, urging him toward the chamber’s door, only then noticing the pen-knife in his hand.

  ‘What were ye going to do wi’ that?’ she whispered, half-hysteri
cal. ‘Shave him?’

  ‘Let the air out of him,’ Michael muttered. He lowered his hand, but didn’t put the knife away, and kept his eyes on the two men.

  ‘Your daughter,’ the comte said hoarsely to the man who called himself Master Raymond. ‘You were looking for your lost daughter. I’ve found her for you.’

  Raymond’s brows shot up, and he glanced at Joan.

  ‘Mine?’ he said, astonished. ‘She isn’t one of mine. Can’t you tell?’

  The comte drew a breath so deep it cracked in his throat.

  ‘Tell? But—’

  The frog looked impatient.

  ‘Can you not see auras? The electrical fluid that surrounds people,’ he elucidated, waving a hand around his own head. The comte rubbed a hand hard over his face.

  ‘I can’t— she doesn’t—’

  ‘For goodness sake, come in here!’ Raymond stepped to the edge of the star, reached across and seized the comte’s hand.

  Rakoczy stiffened at the touch. Blue light exploded from their linked hands, and he gasped, feeling a surge of energy such as he had never before experienced. It ran like water, like lightning! through his veins. Raymond pulled hard, and he stepped across the line into the pentagram.

  Silence. The buzzing had stopped. He nearly wept with the relief of it.

  ‘I— you—’ he stammered, looking at the linked hands, where the blue light now pulsed gently, with the rhythm of a beating heart. Connection. He felt the other. Felt him in his own blood, his bones, and astonished exaltation filled him. Another. By God, another!

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Raymond looked surprised.

  ‘That you were a—’ He waved at the pentagram. ‘I thought you might be.’

  ‘Not that,’ Raymond said, almost gently. ‘That you were one of mine.’

  ‘Yours?’ Rakoczy looked down again at their linked fingers, bathed in blue.

  ‘Everyone has an aura of some kind,’ Raymond said. ‘But only my . . . people – my sons and daughters – have this.’

  In the blessed silence, it was possible to think again. And the first thing that came to mind was the Star Chamber, the king looking on as they had faced each other over a poisoned cup. And now he knew why the frog hadn’t killed him.

  Rakoczy’s mind bubbled with questions. La Dame Blanche, blue light, Mélisande and Madeleine . . . The thought of Madeleine and what grew in her womb nearly stopped him asking, but the urge to find out, to know at last, was too strong.

  ‘Can you— can we— go forward?’

  Raymond hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Yes. But it’s not safe. Not safe at all.’

  ‘Will you show me?’

  ‘I mean it.’ The frog’s grip tightened on his. ‘It’s not a safe thing to know, let alone to do.’

  Rakoczy laughed, exhilarated, full of joy. Why should he fear knowledge? Perhaps the passage would kill him – but he had a pocket full of gems, and besides, what was the point of waiting to die slowly?

  ‘Tell me!’ he said, squeezing the other’s hand. ‘For the sake of our shared blood!’

  Joan stood stock-still, amazed. Michael’s arm was still around her, but she scarcely noticed.

  ‘He is!’ she whispered. ‘He truly is! They both are!’

  ‘Are what?’ Michael gaped at her.

  ‘Auld Folk! Faeries!’

  He looked wildly back at the scene before them. The two men stood face to face, hands locked together, their mouths moving in animated conversation – in total silence. It was like watching mimes, but even less interesting.

  ‘I dinna care what they are. Loons, criminals, demons, angels . . . come on!’ He dropped his arm and seized her hand, but she was planted solid as an oak sapling, her eyes growing wider and wider.

  She gripped his hand hard enough to grind the bones and shrieked at the top of her lungs, ‘Don’t do it!’

  He whirled round just in time to see the front of the comte’s coat explode in a fountain of sparks. And then they vanished.

  They stumbled together down the long pale passages, bathed in the flickering light of dying torches, red, yellow, blue, green, a ghastly purple that made Joan’s face look drowned.

  ‘Des feux d’artifice,’ Michael said. His voice sounded queer, echoing in the empty tunnels. ‘A conjuror’s trick.’

  ‘What?’ Joan looked drugged, her eyes black with shock.

  ‘The fires. The . . . colours. Have ye never heard of fireworks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ It seemed too much a struggle to explain, and they went on in silence, hurrying as much as they could, to reach the shaft before the light died entirely.

  At the bottom, he paused to let her go first, thinking too late that he should have gone first – she’d think he meant to look up her dress . . . he turned hastily away, face burning.

  ‘D’ye think he was? That they were?’ She was hanging onto the ladder, a few feet above him. Beyond her, he could see the stars, serene in a velvet sky.

  ‘Were what?’ He looked at her face, so as not to risk her modesty. She was looking better now, but very serious.

  ‘Were they Auld Folk? Faeries?’

  ‘I suppose they must ha’ been.’ His mind was moving very slowly; he didn’t want to have to try to think. He motioned to her to climb, and followed her up, his eyes tightly shut. If they were Auld Ones, then likely so was Auntie Claire. He truly didn’t want to think about that.

  He drew the fresh air gratefully into his lungs. The wind was toward the city now, coming off the fields, full of the resinous cool scent of pine trees and the breath of summer grass and cattle. He felt Joan breathe it in, sigh deeply, and then she turned to him, put her arms around him, and rested her forehead on his chest. He put his arms round her and they stood for some time, in peace.

  Finally, she stirred and straightened up.

  ‘Ye’d best take me back, then,’ she said. ‘The Sisters will be half out o’ their minds.’

  He was conscious of a sharp sense of disappointment, but turned obediently toward the coach, standing in the distance. Then he turned back.

  ‘Ye’re sure?’ he said. ‘Did your voices tell ye to go back?’

  She made a sound that wasn’t quite a rueful laugh.

  ‘I dinna need a voice to tell me that.’ She brushed a hand through her hair, smoothing it off her face. ‘In the Highlands, if a man’s widowed, he takes another wife as soon as he can get one; he’s got to have someone to mend his shirt and rear his bairns. But Sister Philomène says it’s different in Paris; that a man might mourn for a year.’

  ‘He might,’ he said, after a short silence. Would a year be enough, he wondered, to heal the great hole where Lillie had been? He knew he would never forget – never stop looking for her in that space between heartbeats – but he didn’t forget what Ian had told him, either: But after a time, ye find ye’re in a different place than ye were. A different person than ye were. And then ye look about, and see what’s there with ye. Ye’ll maybe find a use for yourself.

  Joan’s face was pale and serious in the moonlight, her mouth gentle.

  ‘It’s a year before a postulant makes up her mind. Whether to stay and become a novice, or . . . or leave. It takes time. To know.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said softly. ‘Aye, it does.’

  He turned to go, but she stopped him, a hand on his arm.

  ‘Michael,’ she said. ‘Kiss me, aye? I think I should maybe know that, before I decide.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  You’ll doubtless have noticed the links between ‘Mrs Abernathy’ in Plague of Zombies, and the comte’s lady-friend, Mélisande. You also doubtless recall Claire meeting Mrs Abernathy in Voyager – twice. But you may or may not recall that Mélisande Robicheaux was the nom de guerre under which Geillis Duncan lived in Paris, following her escape from Scotland after the witch-trial in Outlander.

  Chronology of the Outlander Series

  The Outlander series includes three kinds of stor
ies:

  • The Big, Enormous Books (BEBs) that have no discernible genre (or all of them).

  • The Shorter, Less Indescribable Novels (SLINs) that are more or less historical mysteries (though dealing also with battles, eels, and mildly deviant sexual practices).

  And,

  • The Bulges – these being short(er) pieces that fit somewhere inside the storylines of the BEBs and SLINs, much in the nature of squirming prey swallowed by a large snake. These deal frequently – but not exclusively – with secondary characters, are prequels or sequels, and/or fill some lacunae left in the original storylines.

  Now, most of the SLINs (so far) fit within a large lacuna left in the middle of Voyager, from 1757–1761. Some of the Bulges also fall in this period; others don’t.

  So for the reader’s convenience, here is a detailed Chronology, showing the sequence of the various elements in terms of the storyline. HOWEVER, it should be noted that the SLINs and Bulges are all designed suchly that they may be read alone, without reference either to each other, or to the BEBs – should you be in the mood for a light literary snack instead of the nine-course meal with wine-pairings and dessert trolley.

  Outlander (aka Cross Stitch) (BEB) – If you’ve never read any of the series, I’d suggest starting here. If you’re unsure about it, open the book anywhere and read three pages; if you can put it down again, I’ll give you a dollar.

  Dragonfly in Amber (BEB) – It doesn’t start where you think it’s going to. And it doesn’t end how you think it’s going to, either. Just keep reading; it’ll be fine.

  Voyager (BEB) – This one won an award from EW magazine for ‘Best Opening Line.’ (To save you having to find a copy just to read the opening, it was: ‘He was dead. However, his nose throbbed painfully, which he thought odd, in the circumstances.’) If you’re reading the series in order, rather than piece-meal, you do want to read this book before tackling the SLINs and Bulges.

  Lord John and the Hand of Devils (‘Hell-Fire Club’) (BULGE) – Just to add an extra layer of confusion, this (Hand of Devils) is a SLIN that includes three Bulges (novellas). The first story in this book, ‘Hell-fire Club,’ is set in London in 1757, and deals with a red-haired man who approaches Lord John Grey with an urgent plea for help, just before dying in front of him. [Originally published in the anthology PAST POISONS (ed. Maxim Jakubowski, 1998).]