Tracing the Shadow (9 page)

“Why would I want to return, highness?” Linnaius said with a frankness that surprised even himself. “Everyone I knew in Francia is dead. And your highness’s family has been more than generous to me; I have everything I need to continue my work in Tielen.”

To celebrate their patron saint’s day, the Blessed Azilia’s orphans wore aprons of starched white linen over their smocks and covered their heads with lace-trimmed kerchiefs. Every girl pinned a little bunch of violets to the bib of her apron. Celestine let Rozenne fuss over her, biting her lip as the brisk comb-strokes snagged her hair and hurt her scalp, trying to concentrate on the older girls’ gossip.

“Let’s take bets on who can collect the most treats,” said Katell.

“Betting is very wicked,” Koulmia said piously.

“I think Celestine will win,” and Katell stuck her face close to Celestine’s, almost rubbing noses. “And then she’ll share them with us,
won’t you?
”

Her pockets filled with pink-and-white sugared almonds and butter biscuits, Celestine walked away from the guests’ table, hearing the admiring voices still murmuring compliments.

“Such a sweet tone.”

“And such a sweet-faced child, too.”

“How could anyone abandon such a pretty little girl?”

“There was sickness in the city.” The Abbess was dominating the conversation now. “One shudders to think what might have happened if the captain hadn’t rescued her…”

Sugared almonds, glossy barley sugars, and golden sablés were being shared out in the Skylarks’ dormitory in a midnight feast. Celestine was so sleepy she kept nodding off, her head against Rozenne’s shoulder, as the older girls chattered.

“So Angelique is really going to join the sisters in Lutèce?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to go,” declared Katell. “They make you shave your head.” She tossed her dark plaits defiantly.

Celestine looked at her in horror. “But Angelique has such pretty hair…” The thought of Angelique’s honey-blond curls being callously snipped off made her shudder.

“Only if she takes her vows,” countered Rozenne. “Only if she dedicates her life to Saint Azilia. They don’t make you shave your head if you join the chapel choir. Do they?” she added uncertainly.

“But what else will she do with her life? What can any of us do? We’re orphans. No one will want us as wives. Aren’t we supposed to show our gratitude to the order for raising us by devoting our lives to the saint?”

“Don’t think I’m going to treat you any differently, Celestine,” said Sister Noyale sternly. “You may have charmed everyone yesterday, but your voice will need careful nurturing if your gift is not to be frittered away. I’ve seen it happen so many times before. Early success goes to a Skylark’s head and she neglects her technique.”

Celestine nodded. She was still terrified of Sister Noyale and had no idea what the choirmistress was talking about. Her head was ringing with the glorious sound of the choir. When she sang, her sadness receded and she thought only of the music. It was the only time that she did not grieve for Maman…or Papa.

“Do you really have to leave us, Angelique?” wept Katell.

An autumn gale was blowing, whirling dry leaves and dust around the yard. Overhead, the clouds scudded wildly across the bleak sky. Celestine stood shivering, watching as the older girl’s trunk was loaded into the waiting cart. Angelique had been accorded a great honor: She had been selected to join the choir of Saint Meriadec in Lutèce.

“Don’t go. We shall miss you so much,” Rozenne said in a voice stifled by tears, seizing Angelique’s hand as if to hold her back.

“Please stay!” chorused all the Skylarks, running out into the courtyard to surround Angelique.

“And I shall miss you all.” Angelique sounded close to tears, too. The errant wind whipped stray locks of her golden hair into her eyes as she bent to hug the Skylarks, each in turn. “Practice your singing, work hard—and then you may be chosen to join me.”

Rozenne began to sob.

Celestine hung back, overwhelmed by conflicting feelings. She had not known Angelique as long as the others, but she had come to love the girl as if she were an older sister. There had already been so many painful partings in her life, she could not bear to endure another so soon.

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye, Celestine?”

Celestine looked round to see that Angelique had come after her. She gazed up at the older girl and wondered why she could only see a blur where her face should be. Angelique dropped to her knees beside her. “What’s this?” she said softly. “Tears?”

“It’s the wind,” muttered Celestine.

Angelique hugged Celestine to her and Celestine felt the unbidden tears dampening Angelique’s honeyed curls. She did not want the others to see her cry. “But we shan’t be parted for long. With a voice as sweet as yours, you’ll soon be on your way to Lutèce to join me.”

Celestine stared at her. She would not reach sixteen for another nine years. So much could happen in that time.

Would Angelique even remember her?

CHAPTER 8

Plaisaunces was in an uproar. Courtiers huddled together in alcoves, speaking in urgent whispers. Messengers hurtled past, clutching dispatches. Ruaud could sense the growing tension as he made his way through the palace. At every stair and doorway, he was challenged by King Gobain’s household guards and obliged to show his papers, as well as the letter from Maistre Donatien requesting—no, demanding—his presence. Ruaud’s lieutenant, Alain Friard, followed him, his face a mask of bewilderment as he gazed at the chaotic activity.

“Something’s happened, Captain. Is it the Tielens?”

Ruaud nodded. “This doesn’t bode well.” In his opinion, the king’s decision to send the fleet to challenge Prince Karl was ill judged.

“Here we are.” He stopped at a great door of gilt-encrusted wood, guarded by halberdiers of the King’s House, resplendent in their coats of royal blue and gold.

“Captain de Lanvaux, Lieutenant Friard,” announced one of the guards as he opened the door to admit them.

Ruaud noticed Alain Friard’s eyes widen as they entered the chamber; the room was hung with martial tapestries and every wall bristled with crossed swords, spears and scimitars, delicate chain mail and plumed helmets, all trophies from the Holy Wars in Djihan-Djihar and Enhirre. A magnificent table dominated the center of the chamber, its surface polished to a mirror sheen.

Grand Maistre Donatien entered, imposing in his black robes. The golden Order of Saint Sergius hung on an emerald ribbon across his breast. The color of the ribbon did not escape Ruaud’s keen eye; it was the same green as the insignia of the Francian Inquisition. This obvious declaration of a new allegiance disturbed Ruaud, yet the benign expression on Donatien’s face as he greeted him was like a mask, giving nothing away.

“Maistre,” said Ruaud respectfully, dropping to one knee to kiss Donatien’s ring of office. “May I present my new lieutenant, Alain Friard?”

“Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant,” said Donatien, extending his hand. “You served us bravely in Ondhessar.”

Blushing, Friard knelt in his turn and touched the Maistre’s ring with his lips.

The formalities completed, Ruaud rose. “Do you know why the king summoned us, Maistre?”

As he spoke, the door opened again and another black-garbed priest entered, followed by a young secretary clutching a fat folder of documents. As the priest turned to nod them a curt acknowledgment, Ruaud recognized the hooded, watchful eyes of Inquisitor Visant. But before he could ask why the Inquisition had been invited to this meeting, the inner doors were drawn open and King Gobain strode in. One glance at his face was enough to tell Ruaud that his majesty was in a furious temper.

“Sit, gentlemen!” It was a command and the priests and Guerriers swiftly obeyed. “I won’t waste words. By now you’ll have heard of our humiliating defeat. By God, the whole quadrant will have heard!” His strong, strident voice boiled with barely restrained fury. “The flagship’s sunk, along with nine other warships. My wife’s brother, Aimery, is missing. Every remaining ship in the fleet is damaged—we’ll be lucky if half of them limp back to Fenez-Tyr.”

This was a comprehensive defeat. Ruaud, dumbstruck, stared at his reflection in the glassy tabletop. The thought of so many sailors lost in the sea battle, so many families bereaved and grieving, bruised his heart. Even the king had fallen silent, his chin sunk on his chest. No one spoke until Donatien cleared his throat and said, “Prayers will be said for the admiral and his men throughout Francia; I’ll send word to all the parishes directly. And would your majesty like me to conduct a service here at Plaisaunces?”

Gobain slowly raised his head. His eyes burned. “I want you to find me the man who caused this conflagration, Donatien.”

“Me, majesty?” Donatien said in tones of mild surprise. “But what can I do against Prince Karl?”

Gobain leaned across the table toward Donatien and spoke in a low, grinding voice. “Not that upstart Karl, but his damned Royal Artificier or whatever fancy name he’s known by.”

A slight frown furrowed Donatien’s smooth brow. “I beg your pardon, majesty, but I don’t quite follow—”

Gobain let out a snort of frustration. “Visant! Tell the Grand Maistre what your men have uncovered.”

Visant beckoned the secretary to open the bulging folder. He removed a file of papers and smoothed them out with neat, precise hand movements. “Alchymy,” he said. “The first reports from the survivors bear out my worst suspicions. Shells that exploded, letting off a pale, choking gas that caused confusion, blindness, and debilitating nausea among the sailors. Mortars that burst, setting fire to sails and rigging with flames that could not be extinguished with water. Sophisticated weapons that gave the Tielens an extraordinary advantage over our fleet.”

“And your point, Inquisitor?” said Ruaud.

“Alchymical weapons, without a doubt, Captain,” Visant said coldly. “Manufactured by one Kaspar Linnaius, late of the College of Thaumaturgy in Francia.”

“You told me all the magi were dead, Visant.” Gobain’s voice was quiet now, ominously quiet.

“Indeed, I believed so myself,” said Visant. “We tried Gonery, Maunoir, and Rhuys, with all their apprentices. Every man was found guilty and burned at the stake. But it seems that one escaped our raid…”

“Seems?” echoed the king scornfully. “D’you mean you don’t know?”

“What the Inquisitor is saying, majesty,” intervened Donatien, “is that when his men raided the college, there was an almighty explosion followed by a conflagration. When the Guerriers sifted through the rubble, they found some charred human remains in the West Tower. We assumed that both Kaspar Linnaius and his apprentice, Rieuk Mordiern, were killed in the blast.”

“An almighty explosion, hm?” the king repeated. “The very same alchymical firepowder that the Tielens have just used against our ships with such devastating effects.”

“Powder that can reduce a tower to rubble,” said Visant, a little defensively, Ruaud noted, “leaves very little behind of a body that can be positively identified. We’re talking fragments of charred bone.”

“Indeed,” added Donatien, coming to his rescue, “the magisters evinced some considerable distress when confronted with the evidence, leading us to construe that Linnaius had destroyed himself and his apprentice rather than be taken alive. However…”

“He played you all for fools,” said Gobain, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “He faked his own suicide—and went off to Tielen, to sell his services to Prince Karl.”

“He’s still alive?” Ruaud and the other officers gazed at one another in consternation.

“Very much so, and enjoying the protection of his royal patron. It seems it pleases Karl to encourage the pursuit of such heretical sciences. He’s even created a special position at court for Linnaius.”

“So even though his wretched apprentice perished, he escaped?”

“My agents were a little more diligent than yours, Inquisitor.” Ruaud saw a triumphant gleam in Gobain’s eyes. “You assumed Linnaius was dead. But it seems that a certain Sieur Guirec, a clockmaker from Kemper, made a trip to the college to deliver parts to Linnaius. He never returned home. He must have been waiting to meet with the magus in the West Tower when your men stormed the college—and the explosion took place. Poor devil.”

An embarrassed silence followed. Ruaud studied the tabletop, aware that Visant and Donatien must be furious at being humiliated by the king in front of their inferior officers.

“How can we make up for this grievous oversight, majesty?” Donatien’s smooth tones were at their most placating.

“I want Linnaius. The man’s a traitor. Betraying his own countrymen—it’s outrageous! Burning’s too good for him. I want him to suffer!”

“With respect, majesty,” said Visant, reading from the open file, “Linnaius is not, technically speaking, a Francian, although it seems he has resided here for well over one hundred years.”

Alain Friard stared at Ruaud. “How can he be so old?” he whispered.

“By foul and unholy practices,” said Donatien, overhearing. “By use of the Forbidden Arts.”

“We have no record of his true nationality. Although some say he may be Tielen by birth, others say Allegondan, and others still have even suggested that he was born in Khendye—”

“What matters,” interrupted the king impatiently, “is that we stop him. Before he teaches all the Tielen scientists his deadly alchymy and Prince Karl invades Francia.”

“Perhaps such a situation could be avoided,” said Donatien, “if your majesty were to agree to talks with Prince Karl—”

The king’s clenched fist came down with a loud thud on the table, making the silver inkwells jump. “I will
not
parley with Karl or his ministers.”

“Very well,” said Donatien.

“Captain de Lanvaux—you’re due to return to Enhirre next week, I believe. I want you to stay here in Francia.”

“Me, sire?” Ruaud had not been expecting this and he could see from Donatien’s look of surprise that neither had the Grand Maistre.

“Now that the rebels have been brought under our control, a man of your ability is wasted on guard duty.”

Ruaud tried not to wince at the king’s lack of tact. To make a pilgrimage to protect the holy shrines was a task that all Guerriers of the Commanderie viewed as an honor, not a duty. But then, Gobain had never shown himself interested in matters of faith.

“Surely the Inquisition is better equipped to deal with this matter, majesty,” said Visant.

“But the point, Visant,” said the king, leaning across the table to stare bullishly into his face, “is that the Inquisition has failed. A powerful alchymist escaped your net. And now he harbors a grudge against us because we executed his colleagues. We have made a formidable enemy for Francia.”

“And while he remains in Tielen under Prince Karl’s protection, there’s very little we can do about it,” said Visant dryly.

“Which is why I’m choosing you, de Lanvaux, to set up a new detachment within the Commanderie,” Gobain continued, ignoring Visant. “I want you to choose and train agents. Agents clever and committed enough to outwit a magus.”

“Sire—” began Visant but Gobain held up a hand to silence him.

“Your agents will liaise with Inquisitor Visant’s men, of course,” he continued, “but you will train them to work undercover. Abroad, if need be.”

Ruaud was trying to digest this information. The appointment was an honor—but in favoring him, the king was snubbing both Visant and Donatien, his superiors. “And how will I select these agents, majesty?”

“Whatever way you please.” Gobain rose. “I leave the details to you. Funds have already been allocated to cover your expenses.” As his guardsmen opened the inner doors, ready to escort him to his private apartments, he called back over his shoulder, “You will base your operations at the Forteresse, but you will also have an office here, at Plaisaunces. I shall expect a weekly report on—”

“Gobain!” Queen Aliénor appeared in the doorway, a letter clutched in her hand, her face streaked with tears. “Aimery’s lost. He’s gone down with his ship.”

She ran up to the king, thrusting the letter into his hands. The king cast a quick glance over it. “This confirms what I feared from the first dispatches.”

“Why did you send him, Gobain? You sent him to his death!”

The king flushed an angry red. “
I
sent him? The navy was his own choice, Aliénor.”

“But if you knew we were going to war, you could have ordered him to stay behind—”

“The Tielens got the better of us! God knows I didn’t want to lose so many men and ships. We’ve been thoroughly humiliated.”

Aliénor took a little step backward as though she was about to faint. “Aimery,” she whispered. “Oh Aimery, why did it have to be you?”

“A chair for her majesty!” Ruaud hurried over to her side but she gave him a look so forbidding that it stopped him in his tracks.

“Dear majesty,” said Donatien, his voice suddenly warm and compassionate, “I am here whenever you wish to discuss arrangements for your brother’s funeral. But if you need time to grieve alone, my private chapel is at your disposal. I can ensure that you are left undisturbed for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you, Maistre Donatien,” said the queen, placing her hand on his. “You have always been so understanding.”

The king gave a grunt of exasperation at this, turned on his heel, and left the chamber without another word to his wife. She gave a sad little shake of her head. “Will you accompany me, Grand Maistre? Let us pray for Aimery’s soul together.”

Ruaud and the others bowed as the queen left, supported by Donatien. He was aware that Visant was looking sidelong at him, as though assessing his new partner. “What did you make of that?” he asked casually.

“A sad loss for Francia and for the queen.” Ruaud said, unwilling to speak his thoughts aloud where they might be overheard.

“You defeated the magi in Ondhessar; I defeated their Francian brothers at Karantec. But in Kaspar Linnaius we are dealing with a very powerful adversary. There was more to this attack on our fleet than the king was prepared to tell us. A fierce storm blew up out of nowhere and drove several of our ships onto the rocks.”