Tracing the Shadow Page 15

  “Don’t waste your breath asking, he’s never going to tell,” said Jagu. Kilian had several “business arrangements” with the older boys; Jagu suspected that Kilian had acted as go-between, arranging the occasional forbidden tryst with the girls at the nearby convent school. “The least you could do is share them round, Kilian.”

  “Not till you’ve told us about my diary.”

  “Yours? I found it.”

  “Ah, but it fell on my head.”

  The feathered whisper of wings made Jagu glance round, dreading what he might see. But it was only a pair of collared doves, alighting on the ridge above their heads. “I think,” he said slowly, removing the diary from his pocket, “that it’s Père Laorans’s journal. The master who was sent to Serindher to the new mission. Informal notes, jottings, place names, observations about the local flora and fauna…”

  “And that’s interesting because…?” Kilian’s eyes were closed; he appeared to be half dozing in the sunshine.

  “There’s some really gruesome stuff about the magi of Ondhessar. It says they practice soul-stealing.”

  Kilian rolled over onto his stomach and grabbed the journal from Jagu, eyes moving avidly over the intricately looping handwriting. “I’ll bet this never made it into the official record of the mission.”

  “Read it out aloud!” insisted Paol.

  “Then don’t blame me if you can’t sleep tonight.” Kilian rolled his eyes dramatically. Then in a hushed voice he began to intone, “‘In the moonlight, a strange yet chilling sight was revealed. Many ruined towers lay below, the last vestiges of a lost, ancient civilization. At this point our guides refused to go any farther. They told us that the hidden valley was haunted by soul-stealing ghaouls who preyed upon the unwary traveler. One, Jhifar, related how he had once been unwise enough to enter the valley with his brothers. At nightfall, the eerie sound of a woman’s singing began to issue from one of the ruined towers below. It was so strange yet so beautiful that the eldest brother went in search of the singer. Later he returned to their campfire. “You must come with me and hear her sing,” he told them. They followed him but as they drew near to the first of the towers, a host of shadow birds swooped down upon them, feeding upon their life essence, sucking out their souls, while the shell that had been Jhifar’s brother looked on and laughed. The evil magi had made him their puppet to lure the unwary travelers into their trap to feed their accursed shadow birds.’”

  “Um…what was it you said about the magus in the garden?” said Paol with a slight quiver in his voice. “Didn’t he have a bird with him?”

  “Surely you don’t believe any of this, do you?” Kilian looked up over the top of the book. “Ooh, Jagu, poor little Paol’s scared. I don’t think we should read any more, in case he has nightmares.”

  “Cut it out.” Paol made a swipe at Kilian and snatched the journal from him. “‘Even more obscene is the rite Jhifar described to us,’” he continued in a loud voice, “‘to initiate a new member into the secret cult of soul stealers.’” He squinted at the book, turning it upside down. “It’s illegible. Pity. Something about a fresh corpse…and its tongue—”

  “Give it here.” Jagu took the journal back and turned to the passage that had been puzzling him.

  “Are you planning on boring us to death, Jagu?” Kilian got to his feet and stretched. “Since when were you so keen on ancient history?” He went to the edge of parapet and leaned over to scan the courtyard below.

  “I haven’t got to the curse yet.”

  “There was a curse?”

  Paol crept up behind Kilian, hand reaching toward his jacket pocket.

  “The guides told Père Laorans that anyone who entered the hidden valley would be cursed by the magi, fade away, and die.”

  Paol made a sudden move and snatched the bag of aniseed drops from Kilian’s pocket.

  “Give those back!” Kilian made a lunge but Paol was too swift. Crowing with delight, he darted away and disappeared down the stairwell, with Kilian hurrying after. Jagu sighed and followed.

  “So you’re Jagu de Rustéphan.” Henri de Joyeuse was standing in the music room, one hand resting on the worn ivory keys of the fortepiano. “I’ve heard much about your gift.”

  Jagu opened his mouth and stammered a few words of greeting. “And I—I’ve heard so much about you.” The fortepiano stood half in shadow and he could not quite distinguish Maistre de Joyeuse’s features. His hair was fair, pale as ripening summer barley, and far longer than any priest’s in the seminary, tied back at the nape of the neck with a black ribbon.

  But what was I expecting? He trained in Lutèce. He must have adopted the fashions of the royal court.

  “Perhaps you’d like to play something for me.” The Maistre’s voice was softly modulated, yet unusually kindly in tone for a teacher.

  “What, now?” Jagu had not expected this. “But I’m supposed to show you round the seminary.”

  “The tour can wait. I’m eager to hear you play first.” Joyeuse moved away from the keyboard, gesturing to Jagu to take his place.

  Jagu felt suddenly unsure of himself. “What shall I play?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  Jagu’s mind blanked for a moment. And then he remembered the prelude he’d been practicing that morning, the fifth of six by Marais, where the familiar melody of an old plainchant hymn to Saint Argantel was woven through an intricate pattern of running notes. It required both dexterity and control to let the melody sing through the decorative figuration and Jagu had been working on it for months, refusing to be defeated by its difficulty.

  Maybe it was a rash choice. Maybe he wasn’t ready to perform it yet. But it was a piece that he cared about, that he had labored over for a long time. He raised his hands over the keys and saw to his shame that they trembled. Yet as soon as fingers touched the familiar yellowed keys, his nerves melted away. Absorbed in the demands of the prelude, he forgot that Maistre de Joyeuse was watching him until he played the final chord.

  “Marais’s Fifth Prelude?” Joyeuse was smiling. “You’ve mastered the technical difficulties extremely well for a student of your age.”

  Jagu heard the words as he surfaced from a trance of deep concentration. He felt himself blush with pleasure at the compliment and swiftly lowered his head.

  “But there’s so much more to this piece than just playing the notes. Listen…” Jagu slid off the stool to make way for him. “Close your eyes.”

  Jagu obeyed. The prelude began to reveal itself beneath Joyeuse’s swift, sure fingers. The plainchant melody sang through the gentle patter of notes, like birdsong heard through falling rain. Joyeuse made it sound so effortless. When he had finished, Jagu did not know what to say. Now he wanted to blush with shame at the clumsiness of his own playing.

  “How about that tour of the school?” Joyeuse closed the lid and stood up. “I hear the new chapel organ is a fine instrument.”

  “Oh. Of course. Please follow me, Maistre.” Jagu didn’t know whether he felt grateful or disappointed that there was to be no further analysis of his playing tonight. As Jagu held open the door, Maistre de Joyeuse stopped and put his hand on Jagu’s shoulder. “You’re young, Jagu. To play that prelude as Marais intended, one must have lived a little.”

  Jagu stared up at him, not understanding. Maistre de Joyeuse was smiling at him again, an enigmatic smile, reserved, yet kindly. None of the priests had ever treated him with kindness; they controlled the boys with strictness and frequent applications of the cane. As Jagu led Maistre Joyeuse from the music room, he was not sure whether he knew how to handle the situation. He was used to resenting and fearing his teachers.

  Paol climbed slowly up a library ladder, carrying a pile of books. In Père Magloire’s absence, Abbé Houardon had arranged a library roster and the senior prefects had been deputed to ensure that the boys did not shirk their duties. And the seniors preferred to send the youngest ones to tidy the highest shelves, while they lounged about at the f
ront desk, “keeping an eye on things.” Anyone—like Kilian—who dared to argue was dismissed with a cuff and extra duties. But this afternoon, the library was deserted, as the senior students were being examined on their knowledge of the Holy Texts.

  “Take care, Jagu.” Paol was just leaning out to replace the last well-thumbed volume when a quavering voice called out. He grabbed at the ladder, almost losing his balance. He looked down and saw the Père Magloire peering up at him through cloudy spectacle lenses.

  “I’m Paol, mon père. Jagu is showing a visitor around the seminary, so I’ve taken his duty instead.”

  “Ah well, I suppose you will have to do for now…”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you, Paol.” The elderly librarian was smiling at him and nodding.

  Paol reached the bottom rung of the ladder. “It’s good to see you back in the library.”

  “And it’s good to be back. Although there are misplaced books everywhere I look,” said Père Magloire, pointing to a nearby shelf. “Someone has mixed the saints up with the prophets.” He pulled out a thick volume. “And since when have the learned commentaries of Erquy been classified as mathematical theorems?”

  “I’ll sort them out for you.” As Paol knelt down, he thought he saw a flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye. He blinked. A bird must have fluttered across the window blinds…

  CHAPTER 12

  Jagu’s eyes kept straying from the mathematical problem he was supposed to be solving to the classroom window. It had rained all morning but since midday the clouds had dispersed and now the sun shone in a sky of fresh-washed blue. But what drew Jagu’s attention was the dark bird that had soared past the window for the third time. As he watched, it disappeared amid the snowy dusting of blossom that had appeared overnight on the trees in the walled garden. Surely it couldn’t be the Magus’s familiar…?

  “Rustéphan!” Jagu started and saw Père Albin towering over his desk. “Would you kindly stand up and repeat to the class what I just said?”

  Jagu had not heard a word. Paol whispered, “Measure the angle—”

  Père Albin’s cane thwacked down on Paol’s desk, making him let out a startled yelp. “Is your name Rustéphan?”

  “N—no, mon père.”

  “If I want to hear your voice, Paol de Lannion, I’ll be sure to ask you. Rustéphan?” Père Albin rolled the “r,” like a mastiff growling. He patted the end of the cane on his palm. “I’m waiting.”

  Jagu looked the hated Père Albin in the eyes. He would not be intimidated by the choleric old man. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear, mon père.”

  “As I suspected! Daydreaming again. You know what happens to boys who daydream in my lessons?”

  “Show me.” It was an order, even though Henri de Joyeuse’s voice was quiet. Jagu reluctantly obeyed. Joyeuse gently took his hands in his own to examine them more closely and Jagu heard him softly draw in his breath between his teeth.

  “And what crime did you commit to earn this barbarous punishment?”

  Jagu could not meet Joyeuse’s eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention in class.”

  There was a silence. “I see,” Joyeuse said eventually. “And the master who did this to you?”

  “Père Albin.” Jagu raised his head, realizing what Joyeuse intended. “But please…please don’t take it any further.”

  “Because he’ll only make your life more miserable if I do?” Joyeuse’s pleasant expression had hardened into a look of stern determination. “I can’t allow a master to subject you to such abuse and ruin your prospects as a musician in the name of classroom discipline.”

  Over the past months, Jagu had forced himself to endure Père Albin’s punishments in silence, hiding his misery, even from his friends. Now he realized that he had an ally, a protector who was prepared to stand up to the sour-tempered old master, and he was not at all sure how he felt about it. He had never understood why Père Albin had taken such a dislike to him. He had needed a great deal of willpower to arm himself against Père Albin and he feared that Joyeuse’s kindly words might erode his defenses. He stared at the worn floorboards, studying each knothole, not knowing what to say.

  “You have a God-given gift for music, Jagu,” Joyeuse said, almost as if reading his thoughts, “and in the years to come you will encounter more people, like Père Albin, who are jealous of that gift, who resent you for it. Such people are to be pitied rather than despised.”

  “B—but you’re leaving,” Jagu blurted out.

  “And when I’ve gone, it will all be just the same as before?” A mysterious smile had appeared on the musician’s face. “I’ve already spoken with Abbé Houardon and he has agreed to allow you an extra hour a day to practice. It will mean extra duties substituting for old Père Isidore at matins and vespers in chapel, of course. But I don’t believe you will find that so disagreeable, will you?”

  Jagu felt as if a sudden shaft of brilliant sunlight had illuminated the music room, brightening every dusty corner. He gazed up at Maistre de Joyeuse. “You did that for me? Thank you, Maistre.” His voice came out huskily and to his embarrassment he found that his eyes had filled with tears. He had never wept once when Père Albin was caning him, not even when the pain was so intense that he had bitten his lip till it bled to stop himself from crying out. But now he felt that if he began to weep, he would never stop.

  And then he felt the lightest touch on his cheek, wiping away the single stray tear that had begun to trickle down. “If ever you need a recommendation, Jagu, I have many friends at the conservatoire of music in Lutèce. I’m not asking you to rush this decision. Practice diligently. And if you still want to make music, whether it be in a few months or a few years, contact me.” The musician’s gentle fingers tipped Jagu’s chin upward until the soft grey eyes gazed intently into his. “Promise me that you will.”

  Jagu nodded, still fighting back the tears. This unexpected kindness had undone him utterly.

  “And now I must bid farewell to my old form master.” Henri de Joyeuse was already at the door; he glanced back over his shoulder and Jagu saw the ghost of a mischievous grin. “Of course, back then, he wasn’t headmaster, and his hair hadn’t turned grey. But we were all in awe of him, even the senior students.”

  “Abbé Houardon was your form teacher?” Jagu tried to imagine Henri at the same age as himself; had he been small and studious, like Paol, or a rebel like Kilian?

  “Till we meet again.” With a salute of the hand and a smile, Henri de Joyeuse was gone. Jagu, his emotions in disarray, stood in the center of the room, not knowing what to do. Then he noticed the little pile of music on the lid of the fortepiano. Maistre de Joyeuse had forgotten it; he would have to run after him.

  A note addressed to “Jagu de Rustéphan” lay on top of the pile. With swollen, clumsy fingers, he opened it and read:

  “Dear Jagu,

  “These pieces are for you. The first is a book of chorale preludes that I composed for the organ at Saint Meriadec. The second is Marais’s Variations on a Ground Bass. Both are challenging works. I have marked the fingering, expression and phrasing for you. Take your time in learning them. And when you have mastered them, come and play them to me in Lutèce.

  “Your friend, Henri de Joyeuse.”

  “His own compositions?” Jagu took up the chorale preludes and leafed through them eagerly. At a first glance he could see that they were far more difficult than anything he had ever played before. Learning them would take weeks of practice; reaching performance standard might take years. But he relished a challenge. He clutched the precious book tightly to him.

  “Thank you, Maistre,” he whispered to the empty room.

  “Lannion? Where’s Rustéphan?” demanded Emilion as a slender, fair-haired boy appeared in the vestry. “He’s missed his chapel duty again.”

  “He, um, asked me to deputize for him.” Paol de Lannion had a distinctly distracted air. “He’s having a music lesson with Mais
tre de Joyeuse.”

  “There’s quite enough to be done for Saint Argantel’s Day, without you little squirts skipping duties. You’ll have to do, I suppose. Tell him to see me later. He’s not getting off so lightly.” And Emilion turned to the altar, bowing respectfully, before removing the candlesticks and the jeweled Golden Crook. “Come here, Lannion. All these will have to be polished. What are you waiting for?”

  He turned round and saw that Paol was tottering on the first step of the altar. One hand was clutched to his shirt collar as if he was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “What now?” Emilion said impatiently. The boy began to back away. His eyes had a haunted look. “Look, Lannion,” he said, a little less fiercely, “just do the candlesticks, will you? There’s polish and dusters in the vestry.”

  The boy nodded dumbly, slowly retreating, one unsteady step at a time.

  “Angelstones, master…” Rieuk clutched at the ancient Serindhan malus tree to support himself as Ormas caught a tremor of the stones’ latent power. “They’re here, hidden in the altar.”

  Rieuk concentrated again and looked around the chapel through Paol’s shortsighted eyes. He could sense the strong, clear wave of energy emanating from the Angelstones, slowly draining Ormas of his strength.

  “This one is too weak to support me.”

  The bright flame of the boy’s life essence was fading; separated from his soul, his heart would not be able to sustain the Emissary’s presence much longer.

  Rieuk knew that his plan was going awry. He had detected the location of the Angelstones but Ormas was not able to approach them without being affected. And with the union between Emissary and Paol failing so fast, he would have to find some other means to extract the stones and destroy them.

  “Ormas. Bring the boy Paol to me in the garden. We need to find someone older to get the stones. Someone stronger.”

  Jagu could not sleep.