Tracing the Shadow Read online

  “Although the Inquisition destroyed that nest of vipers in Karantec—those malefactors who dared to call their study of the Dark Arts a science—it now seems that not every member of the College of Thaumaturgy was tried and executed, as we thought. This cowardly attack on Père Magloire bears all the hallmarks of the Forbidden Arts, although I’m delighted to be able to tell you that our librarian is making a good recovery from his ordeal.”

  Jagu leaned forward, listening with full attention now.

  “I have sent to Lutèce to request an investigation from the Inquisition. And I and my fellow priests will perform a cleansing rite tonight.”

  Is no one going to explain why we were targeted? Jagu, disappointed, gazed expectantly at the other masters but they all stood listening in silence.

  “I advise you boys to be on your guard at all times. Report anything suspicious instantly to one of the masters. Don’t try to deal with it yourself.” Abbé Houardon’s stern gaze swept over the congregation, thick brows drawn together. “We may be attacked again.” And with this abrupt warning, he made the sign of blessing over the pupils and left the lectern.

  “Be on your guard?” Jagu mouthed to Paol. “Against what? Who was that man?”

  “Jagu de Rustéphan, I want another word with you. Come with me.”

  Jagu looked up to see Abbé Houardon towering over him. “M—me, sir?” he stammered, wondering what misdemeanor he was to be punished for this time.

  “You’re such a troublemaker, Jagu,” whispered Kilian with a malicious grin, as Jagu squeezed past him to follow the headmaster out of the chapel.

  The headmaster’s study looked out over the seminary gardens, and as Jagu stood before Abbé Houardon’s desk, he realized that he could see the very spot where the intruder had been standing. The spring sunlight created shifting shadows on the grass beneath the spreading boughs of the old tree. A froth of tender green had appeared on the bare branches, as the first leaves began to unfurl.

  “I can see the tree,” Jagu said as the Abbé searched through a pile of papers. “The tree where he was waiting.”

  “What?” The headmaster looked up. “Oh, this has nothing to do with our intruder. I received a letter from Lutèce today. An eminent musician who once studied here in Kemper is visiting the city. You’ll be pleased to learn that he is going to honor his old school with a recital.”

  Jagu forgot the intruder. “A musician?” His heart began to beat faster with excitement. Questions tumbled out of his mouth. “Will he give lessons? What’s his name? When will he be here?”

  A slight curl of the lips that might have passed for a smile altered Abbé Houardon’s habitually severe expression. “He’s called Henri de Joyeuse. And according to this letter, he’ll be arriving on the diligence from Lutèce tomorrow evening. The bishop has invited him to play in the cathedral, so you’re very fortunate that he’s agreed to spend a day with us. He’s just been appointed chapel master at the Church of Saint Meriadec.”

  “And he studied at this seminary? Just like me?”

  “I still regret that Henri was never ordained as a priest, but the lure of the music was too strong.” Abbé Houardon seemed to be lost in reminiscence. “He left us to study fortepiano and composition at the conservatoire in Lutèce. And now, it seems, he has found favor with the royal household…”

  A real pianist! Jagu had always dreamed of being taught by a proper musician rather than his elderly and rheumatic music master, Père Isidore. He often took Père Isidore’s place in chapel on cold days when the old man was too stiff to climb the steep spiral stair to the organ loft.

  “So we thought that you should meet Maistre de Joyeuse. How do you feel about that?”

  Jagu nodded enthusiastically. His fingers were itching to play.

  “Report to me here tomorrow after vespers. Oh, and Jagu,” said Abbé Houardon quietly as Jagu turned to leave, “it was…ah…unfortunate that you were the only one—apart from Père Magloire—to see the intruder.”

  Jagu stopped. Was the headmaster warning him that he was in danger? The good news had put all ominous thoughts out of his head.

  “What was the book?” he blurted out. “The book he stole?”

  “It was Père Laorans’s Life of Saint Argantel.” An expression almost resembling a grin had appeared on the headmaster’s face. “I can’t help wondering if that magus wasn’t as clever as he thought. I’d like to see what sense he makes of the life of our patron saint! But be on your guard, Jagu, in case he returns. Because you’re the only one among us who could identify him.”

  The grin had vanished; Jagu saw that Abbé Houardon was in deadly earnest.

  “‘But how can we protect the faithful against the wiles of those cursed with daemon blood?’ asked Archimandrite Sergius of the angel.

  “Then Galizur struck the living rock with his sword of flame and breathed on the fragments that broke off. The rock became as clear as glass. ‘Take these seven stones,’ said the angel, ‘and if they turn as dark as night, then you will know that evil is at hand.’

  “With one of these angel-given stones, the Blessed Sergius tracked the Drakhaoul-daemons that were terrorizing the empire and destroyed them…”

  Rieuk shut the Life of Saint Argantel and passed a hand over his eyes. Where did the historical facts end and the legends begin?

  His investigations had eventually brought him to Kemper and the seminary dedicated centuries ago to Argantel. The faithful companion of Saint Sergius—and founder of the Commanderie—had died in Kemper and was interred in the chapel. Every year on the date of his death, Saint Argantel’s Day was celebrated and the saint’s relics were displayed to the faithful. That day was but a fortnight away.

  Saint Argantel’s Day was approaching. And he had to inveigle himself into the seminary fast, or risk losing his chance of discovering the hiding place of the Commanderie’s precious Angelstones.

  “Whom shall I become? Old Père Magloire? As librarian and archivist, he must have access to all manner of ancient seminary secrets. Or better still, one of the students, one closely involved in the preparations for their saint’s day?

  “Wake up, Ormas. Go and reconnoiter. I want to see what’s happening in every dormitory, every classroom, even the gardens.”

  Ormas silently flew away into the gathering dusk.

  “Show us where you saw this evil magus, then, Jagu.” Kilian pushed open the rusted ironwork gate with Paol and Jagu trailing behind.

  The three boys had sneaked into the seminary gardens after vespers. And now, as dusk painted the boughs of the ancient cedars inky black against the slowly darkening sky, Jagu began to wish that they had come in daylight. The long grass beneath the trees was already damp with evening dew, and from the branches of the walled garden a blackbird let out a shrill warning cry.

  “Keep up, Jagu,” ordered Kilian. “We’re supposed to be following you.”

  Jagu, increasingly uneasy, glanced up at the mullioned windows of the old library behind them. He reckoned that the intruder must have been about twenty paces from where he was standing.

  “What’s the matter?” jeered Kilian. “Scared?”

  Was Kilian deliberately trying to provoke him? “You weren’t there.” Jagu could not shake off the nagging feeling that there was still some trace of that malignant presence lingering in the twilit shadows.

  “So where was he?”

  “There.” Jagu pointed.

  Kilian went up close to the gnarled trunk of the tree. He walked all around it. “There’s some kind of metal label on it. But the writing’s worn away.”

  “Isn’t this one of the rare trees Père Ninian brought back from his mission to the Spice Islands?” said Paol, examining the label. “I think it might be a Serindhan malus. A paste made from the rotting fruit is said to cure scabies and—”

  “Ooh, listen to our clever little scholar here. How come you’ve turned into such a swot, Paol?”

  Paol neatly ducked Kilian’s backhanded swipe
. “Abbé Houardon says that the king was so impressed that he offered Père Ninian the post of Royal Botanist.”

  “It’s getting too dark to see.” Jagu could not get rid of the feeling that they were being watched. “Let’s go.”

  “But Père Ninian never got to take up the post. He fell sick with some mysterious illness and died here in Kemper.” Paol’s voice grew quiet.

  “And now his ghost haunts the gardens…” Kilian’s words came floating through the twilight. Normally, Jagu would have laughed at his fooling. But tonight his nerves were on edge.

  “Well, I’ve got keyboard practice.” He forced a careless laugh as he started back toward the gate. “See you later…”

  A shadow slipped from behind a tree. “Now you are mine, boy,” a hoarse voice whispered in his ear. Hands covered his eyes and mouth. Jagu wriggled around and lashed out wildly, his fist connecting with flesh and bone.

  “Ow!” Kilian went sprawling on the grass. “That hurt.” He clutched his chin.

  Jagu, breathing hard, had been about to say, “Serves you damn right.” But a sudden flap of wings above their heads made him whip round. A bird lifted off from the upper branches of Père Ninian’s tree and was flying away with slow, deliberate strokes. Dimly silhouetted against the star-prickled sky, its shadowy serrated wings were just like those of the bird he had seen in the library.

  “Did you see that?” said Paol.

  “Probably a crow.” Kilian was still massaging his jaw.

  “It was almost as if it was watching us. Jagu, d’you think it was—”

  “I don’t know,” Jagu said curtly. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Paol suddenly shivered, hugging his arms to himself. “I’m cold. Let’s go back.”

  Waiting for them in the doorway to the dormitory wing stood Père Albin, slowly, menacingly tapping his cane against his palm. “The headmaster told you quite clearly that the garden is out of bounds. What have you got to say for yourselves?”

  Jagu lay on his stomach, unable to sleep. It wasn’t just that his backside stung from raw weals inflicted by Père Albin’s cane. It was that the bizarre incident in the library seemed to have left some residual scarring in his memory. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the magus smiling at him, with a look of such chilling malignance that he awoke, shuddering.

  What did he really want?

  Staring down the dark dormitory filled with the soft breathing of the other boys asleep, punctuated from time to time by the odd staccato snort or grunt, he determined that he was going to find out.

  The library was usually occupied by the older students at this time of day. Slumped over their essays, or thumbing frantically through old dictionaries, they struggled with their translations of the Sacred Texts from Ancient Enhirran. But the final year were being examined on their knowledge in the main hall and the intermediate boys had been sent away to a remote island monastery on a retreat. So when Jagu, Paol, and Kilian cautiously opened the door, they saw that the library was empty.

  Shafts of sunlight shimmering with dust motes slanted between each tall bookcase onto the floorboards.

  “This place could do with a good cleaning,” said Kilian, pulling a face. “It stinks of old books.”

  “I love that smell,” said Paol, smiling as he drew in a deep breath of dusty air. “Old books are filled with fascinating secrets. You should try reading one sometime, Kilian.”

  “Huh.” Kilian scowled, kicking at the base of one of the cases. “So where was Musty Magloire when you found him, Jagu?”

  “Over here.” Jagu pushed a library ladder along the rail until it reached the central stack, where he had seen Père Magloire.

  “Paol, you keep watch.” Kilian had taken charge of the operation. “Cough if you hear anyone coming.”

  “Why do I have to be the lookout?” complained Paol.

  “Because you’re the youngest. Off you go.”

  Paol stuck out his tongue at Kilian but did as he was told.

  “I’ll hold the ladder steady. You shin up,” said Kilian.

  Jagu gripped the sides of the slender ladder and climbed up until he could see the titles on the top shelf. “Ugh. Layers of dust covering everything. Titles…faded. Difficult to read.” He squinted sideways at the indistinct lettering, wobbling as he tried to keep his balance. “Nobody’s taken these out in years.”

  “There must be a gap,” said Kilian, “where the stolen book was shelved.”

  “A Mission to the Spice Islands,” read Jagu. “Botanical Specimens from Serindher.”

  Kilian yawned loudly. “Bo—ring.”

  Jagu pulled out Botanical Specimens, a large, leather-bound volume. A small cloud of dust rose from its spine, tickling his nose and provoking a violent sneeze. Something dislodged itself from inside the covers and fell, bouncing off Kilian’s head.

  “I said bring them down, not throw them at me.”

  “Sorry,” said Jagu cheerfully.

  “What have we here…?” Kilian relinquished his hold on the ladder. Jagu felt the ladder sliding away sideways and made a grab for the shelves to stop himself from falling off.

  “For heaven’s sake, Kilian, hold on—” The sound of frantic coughing interrupted him.

  “Damn. Someone’s coming,” said Kilian, stuffing the object that had fallen from the top shelf into his jacket. Jagu slid down the ladder, burning the palms of his hands in his haste.

  “What are you boys doing in here?” To Jagu’s relief, he saw not Père Albin but doddery old Père Servan, who taught classes on the Sacred Texts.

  “Er, Père Albin sent us to do some research on the prophets,” said Paol swiftly.

  “The prophets? You’re looking in the wrong section.” Père Servan pointed with his walking stick to another stack at the opposite end of the library. “You’ll find no prophets here; these shelves are devoted to the history of the Commanderie and the missions overseas.” He turned to Paol and prodded him in the chest with the end of his stick. “Unless you’re planning to follow in the footsteps of Laorans and join our brothers at the new mission in Serindher?”

  “Well, I’ve always dreamed of traveling abroad.” Paol pushed his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s not the traveling, it’s the desire to spread the holy word that should inspire you,” said Père Servan severely. “Have you young men today no sense of vocation?” He shook his head and continued on past Jagu and Kilian, muttering under his breath, “No spiritual rigor!”

  Paol caught Jagu’s eye and gave a quick nod. The boys moved toward the library doors, slowly at first, then quickening their pace before Père Servan asked any more questions.

  Outside in the empty corridor, the boys huddled together to examine their discovery.

  “It’s just another book,” said Kilian, disappointed.

  “What did you expect to find in a library?”

  “I thought that magus might have made his bird conceal something in there. Something magic—an ‘eye,’ maybe, so that he could spy on us from afar.”

  “An eye?” echoed Paol incredulously.

  “Not a real flesh-and-jelly eyeball, stupid, some kind of necromantic device. A magic stone.”

  “You have a weird imagination,” said Paol. “Why would anyone want to spy on schoolboys?”

  Jagu had been wiping sticky cobwebs from the cover of the little book with his handkerchief as the other two bickered. He opened it carefully, prising the first two puckered pages apart. “It’s handwritten,” he said. All his earlier feelings of excitement faded, faced with an almost unintelligible blur.

  “How can we read this scrawl?” said Kilian impatiently. “It’s useless.”

  Paol peered at it through his awry spectacles. “It’s all blotched. The book must’ve got wet.”

  “So why were they keeping it in the library?” Jagu took it back from him and opened another two pages. “Wait…this looks like a date at the top. Monday. Then Wednesday. D’you think i
t’s a diary?”

  The bell for the midday meal began to ring.

  “You two scholars can decipher it if you want. I’m starving.” And Kilian, with a careless wave of the hand, hurried off in the direction of the refectory.

  Jagu wavered, torn between the need to eat and the desire to find out more about the book. “It’s in our own tongue, at least.” He stared again at the looping script and began to make out words. “Hey, Paol, I can read this bit. ‘Reached the Enhirran border…sunset…the local tribesmen made us welcome…’”

  “Enhirre?” said Paol, his eyes wide with surprise behind his round lenses.

  The midday bell stopped ringing. Jagu’s empty stomach had begun to rumble.

  “Whatever it is, we’ll miss our meal if we don’t hurry.”

  During his daily journeys to practice in the organ loft, Jagu had discovered many secret places in the old chapel. Behind the organ loft was a poky little room where piles of dusty choir music were stacked from floor to sloping ceiling in overspilling ledgers. And the steep, claustrophobic spiral stair leading to that room continued on upward until it opened out onto a hidden, sunny lead-lined platform between the sides of the chapel roof that allowed access to the bell tower beyond.

  After Jagu had finished his practice, he, Kilian, and Paol hurried up onto the roof. As both the others had been working the bellows for him, no one would question their whereabouts for a little while, affording them some rare free time to examine their discovery without interruption.

  “What are you eating?” demanded Paol.

  Kilian smiled secretively but didn’t reply.

  “Aniseed drops. Don’t deny it, I can smell them on your breath! But how—?”

  “One of the Intermediates owed me a favor. He happened to be going into Kemper on an errand, so I made sure he called at the sweetshop on his way back.” Kilian lay back on the sun-warmed lead, hands clasped behind his head, smiling in self-satisfaction.

  “An Intermediate student owed you?”