Tracing the Shadow Page 25

  “Jolivert’s ‘Chromatic Prelude,’” whispered one of the elder sisters. “That piece is fiendishly difficult to play!” Celestine strained for a clearer look at the virtuosic organist but saw only the back of his dark head as he bent over the console.

  In the vestry, the sisters began to chatter excitedly as they put on their cloaks. “What a magnificent technique! The boy’s a real discovery. Such talent, so young…”

  “We’re leaving, Celestine,” called Angelique. But Celestine stayed at the open vestry door, listening until the last blaze of notes died away. She was curious to see the gifted young musician with whom she shared a patron. After a little while, the lamp in the organ loft was extinguished. The bellows boys emerged from beneath the console, play-punching each other in a mock fight, and scampered off, yet still there was no sign of the organist. Had he already slipped away out of one of the rear doors? Disappointed, Celestine pulled up her hood and left the vestry—and almost bumped into someone crossing in front of the altar.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “No, the fault was mine.” The sacristan was extinguishing the candles; in the dreary rainlight slanting into the shadowed chapel, she saw a tall, lean young man clutching a folder of music. She had a brief impression of dark, intense eyes in a pale scholar’s face and a skein of untidy black hair tumbling about his shoulders.

  “You were the organist, weren’t you?” she said, surprised at her own boldness. “Your playing was truly inspired. Thank you.”

  She saw his dark eyes widen at the compliment.

  “Jagu!” a man called from the open doorway.

  “Coming.” The young organist turned and hurried down the nave toward the entrance. Celestine followed, but by the time she reached the open door, the chapel steps, glistening slick with rain, were empty. Even the beggars who usually sheltered with their dogs between the columns had disappeared.

  Celestine pulled her cloak closer about her and, head down, set off through the puddles back to the convent.

  The rain had stopped by the time the Maistre’s carriage set out for the Forteresse. Celestine sat beside Gauzia, hands meekly folded in her lap, staring out of the window, while Gauzia chattered excitedly. Maistre de Joyeuse sat opposite, next to his aunt, Dame Elmire, who kept shooting reproving looks at Gauzia. Eventually she leaned forward and said, “Shouldn’t you be saving your voice for the performance?”

  Celestine had been paying Gauzia scant attention, having learned long ago to ignore her. Her mind was filled with music; ever since the afternoon, she had been remembering the magnificent performance that had lit up the dim chapel.

  “So what did you think of our young organist today?”

  Celestine realized that Maistre de Joyeuse was addressing her. Had he read her thoughts? “He’s very talented. He played with such passion.”

  “I’m glad that Jagu acquitted himself well. Though now I have a serious rival!” She saw again that warm and endearing smile. He really cares for his students, she thought. Is that because he had an understanding Maistre when he was a student? Or did he have to struggle? She wanted to know everything about Henri de Joyeuse—and yet she did not dare to ask him such personal questions.

  “Is Jagu really only seventeen?”

  “Yes. He used to be a pupil at the Seminary in Kemper, my old—”

  “There’s the Forteresse!” interrupted Gauzia. “We’re nearly there.”

  Celestine peered out of the carriage window and saw that they were traveling along a broad quay beside the river. Ahead, on an island, loomed a vast stronghold, whose crenellated fortifications and towers dominated the skyline.

  “I believe it was originally built as a monastery,” said Dame Elmire. “But the Commanderie converted it during the Religious Wars into a formidable citadel to defend the city. It’s been theirs ever since.”

  As they crossed the bridge, Celestine saw that there were Guerriers standing guard, all garbed in somber black. Every time she saw those uniforms, the sight brought back a sick, shaky feeling.

  This is not going to be easy…

  The carriage rattled over a wide drawbridge toward the portcullis, and the coachman slowed the horses to a stop as two Guerriers approached.

  “Your papers, please.” The Guerrier addressing the Maistre spoke formally, with no hint of a threat, and yet Celestine felt a sense of panic rising. A band tightened across her chest, constricting her breathing.

  “Here.” Maistre de Joyeuse handed over their passes.

  It was the Inquisition who took Papa. These are just ordinary Guerriers, like Captain de Lanvaux.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” inquired Dame Elmire. “You look rather pale.”

  “Fine, thank you,” Celestine managed.

  “The jolting of the carriage can make one feel very queasy. I’ve brought a restorative tincture.” Dame Elmire leaned forward to pass her a little brown glass bottle. “Take three drops on the tongue. That will make you feel better.”

  Celestine, grateful for the distraction, did as she was told. The drops were so strong they made her eyes water, but she felt a little less nauseous afterward.

  “You’re too delicate, Celestine,” complained Gauzia. “You’ll never be strong enough to be a professional singer if you can’t take a simple carriage drive without feeling sick.”

  And then, as the carriage drove on into the vast parade ground beyond, Celestine caught sight of the ancient Commanderie chapel, its delicate gilded spire rising high to pierce the cloudy sky. A great rose window was set above the triple-arched doorway, dominated by tall statues of winged Guardian Warriors, their stern features almost worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

  Many dignitaries and distinguished guests of the Grand Maistre were climbing the wide steps between a black-garbed Commanderie guard of honor. Celestine swallowed back her fear and straightened her shoulders.

  “Would you let me take your arm, my dear?” asked Dame Elmire. “I don’t want to miss a step and make a fool of myself in front of all these important people.”

  “Of course.” Celestine managed a little smile, grateful for the distraction, and she and Dame Elmire set off up the steps, behind Maistre de Joyeuse and Gauzia.

  After the service, the guests gathered for refreshments in the lofty Commanderie hall beneath a magnificent timber roof like the hull of an upturned galleon. Banners and bright-embossed shields adorned the walls, and carved angels gazed down from every gilded ceiling boss.

  As Celestine escorted Dame Elmire into the throng, the retired singer was soon recognized and warmly greeted by two elderly clerics. Celestine stood watching as they began to reminisce, hoping that no one would notice her. She started counting the conical helmets and crossed scimitars displayed on the wall; trophies of some ancient Commanderie battle against the Enhirrans, she reckoned.

  “Is my aunt neglecting you?” Henri de Joyeuse appeared behind her, startling her out of her reverie.

  “Not in the least.”

  A peal of delighted laughter came from the other side of the hall. Celestine winced. Gauzia was surrounded by a little crowd of admirers, all eager to compliment her on her performance.

  “Demoiselle de Saint-Désirat is in her element.”

  “She sang very affectingly,” admitted Celestine. “But then, the anthem was very affectingly composed.”

  “I’m so glad you liked it.”

  But Celestine’s attention was distracted. A guest had caused a chill in the atmosphere, just by entering the hall. Was he one of the nobility? He was soberly attired, with no jewelry or obvious badge of office. Yet she noticed that as he passed among the other officers, their conversation ceased and they instinctively drew back, as though deferring to him. She watched him reach Grand Maistre Donatien and bow. The Grand Maistre instantly turned to acknowledge him, a sure sign of the newcomer’s importance.

  “Who is that man?” Celestine whispered, still unable to take her eyes off him.

  “One you don’t wa
nt to have to do business with. That’s Haute Inquisitor Alois Visant.”

  “Inquisitor?” she repeated mechanically.

  “The head of the Francian Inquisition.” Was that man talking with Captain de Lanvaux, exchanging the customary pleasantries, the ruthless mind who had hunted down and destroyed her father? She wondered why he looked so ordinary; his hair was chestnut with the slightest shading of grey about the temples, his expression thoughtful as he conversed, giving little hint of his—

  “Celestine?”

  “What?” She started to find that Maistre de Joyeuse was gazing at her with concern.

  “You were far away then. Very far.”

  “Forgive me, Maistre. I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Had she revealed too much? Trying to change the subject, she said the first thing that entered her mind. “What herbs are in your aunt’s remedy? I feel much better now.”

  “My aunt’s restorative drops?” He was smiling again. “Mostly brandy.”

  Rough hands seize her and bind her to the stake. The ropes cut into her flesh as she tries to struggle free. A hooded figure stands before her pyre. “Burn her,” he orders the soldiers and they set flaming brands to the logs on which her bare feet rest.

  “No,” she whispers. Fire—such a cruel, horrible death. As the flames lick at her skin and the smoke stings her throat, she sees her executioner’s face, his cold eyes reflecting the light of the flames.

  Haut Inquisitor Visant.

  All morning, Celestine went about her daily tasks in a daze, haunted by her dream. Last night’s glimpse of Inquisitor Visant had brought home to her that she knew so little of the events that had led to her father’s downfall. When Gauzia left for vocal training with Dame Elmire, Celestine could wait no longer. She took out the book and said, “Help me, Faie.”

  “How can I help you?” Each word pierced her brain like a shard of crystal. Glimmering light was emanating from beneath the protective cloth in which she had concealed the book.

  “I was only a little child when the Inquisition took my father. I didn’t really understand what was happening. Do you know why he was executed?”

  The Faie, still in its guise of Saint Azilia, emerged from the cover until it towered above her, eyes luminous with concern, hands raised as though to bless. “Lock the door.”

  Celestine checked the corridor; there was no one about. And when she turned around again she no longer saw the sweet face of Saint Azilia smiling at her. A slender form, translucent as running water, gazed at her with wild, haunted eyes, faceted like glittering crystal.

  “I have a message for you. A message I was charged not to give you until you asked me.”

  The Faie’s form rippled and began to take on a new identity. Brownish fairly short hair, a little untidy, a firm jaw, an endearingly slightly snubbed nose, two warm and smiling eyes the blue-grey of slate…a face that she had not seen in over ten years.

  “Papa.” She sank to her knees before the beloved likeness.

  “Klervie.” Even the voice was his, not as deep or sensitively nuanced as Maistre de Joyeuse’s, but warm in affection and good humor.

  “Dearest Klervie. If you are receiving this message now, it will be because my worst suspicions will have been proved true. I pray this will not be the case. I have bound this aethyrial spirit to protect and guard you until you are old enough and skilled enough to set it free. You have my blood in your veins, which means that you are different from other children. You were not born an elemental magus, like Kaspar Linnaius or Rieuk Mordiern, for which I thank God, but you do have a gift.”

  “I have a gift?” she murmured.

  “Listen carefully, child. The book to which I have bound the spirit is a book of magic. My grimoire. But however tempted you feel to use the glamours and spells concealed in its pages, I beg you to consider the consequences. Every time you use one, it will deprive you of some of that essential life force that the magi call the Essence. If you must resort to such desperate measures, do it only when your life depends on it. There is always a price to be paid for the use of magic, and you have not been trained how to conserve your strength.”

  Spells? Glamours? Celestine’s mind was dizzied with the possibilities of this information. She could not take her eyes from this semblance of her father’s face, trying to seal every detail in her memory. And then she heard footsteps on the stair. “Someone’s coming!” But the Faie was still relaying her father’s message and Celestine was desperate not to miss a single word.

  “I’m sealing this message in the book because I fear I have been betrayed. Kaspar Linnaius and I have been developing a secret device, the Vox Aethyria, which transmits the human voice through the aethyr.”

  “Kaspar Linnaius,” Celestine repeated. And her memory cruelly catapulted her back again into the Place du Trahoir, that terrible day that she had never managed to blot from her mind.

  “We created a great invention together.” Papa’s bruised, swollen mouth twisted and contorted as he tried to enunciate the words. “An invention that would have made our fortunes. Yet here I am, condemned to die—and where is Linnaius?”

  “He betrayed you, Papa.” She vaguely remembered the older magus; he had always seemed forbidding and cold, never bringing her little treats, like Magister de Rhuys, or even smiling at her. Tears began to stream down her face. “Linnaius betrayed you to the Inquisition and stole your invention.”

  Someone rattled the door handle. “Celestine?” It was Gauzia, her voice shrill and petulant. “Why is the door locked? What are you doing in there?”

  “Never forget that you are Klervie de Maunoir. But never tell another living soul. That name alone is enough to have you arrested by the Inquisition.” Hervé’s image began to shimmer, to fragment and dissolve as the rattling at the door handle grew more frantic.

  “Don’t go, Papa. Please don’t go,” whispered Celestine, reaching forward to try to embrace the fast-vanishing illusion. But her arms closed on empty air as the Faie faded swiftly into the book and became Saint Azilia once more.

  “Celestine!” shrilled Gauzia petulantly. “If you don’t open this door at once, I’ll—”

  Celestine opened the door.

  “What were you doing?” Gauzia pushed in past her, looking around suspiciously, raising the bedcovers, opening the armoire door and peering inside. She turned on Celestine accusingly. “Was someone else in here? I thought I could hear voices.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gauzia.” Celestine glanced away, not wanting to let Gauzia see that she had been crying. “I was learning song words, saying them out loud.” She was still stunned by the Faie’s revelation about the book. My father left me his grimoire. A book of magic. And I have inherited a gift, his gift to use the glamours and spells inside…

  Gauzia came closer. “There’s something different about you.”

  “My hair.” Celestine cast around for her handkerchief.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “So what is so urgent that you had to break the door down to tell me?”

  “It seems,” Gauzia’s hazel eyes were bright with a self-satisfied gleam, “that my performance last night found favor with quite a few people. Influential people.”

  “And?” Celestine only half heard what Gauzia was telling her. She wanted only to see her father again, to hear his voice instead of Gauzia’s boasting.

  “I’ve been asked to perform at a reception at the Muscobar Embassy. Many foreign dignitaries will be there. If they like my singing…” Gauzia spun around, clasping her hands together. “This could be my chance, Celestine, my chance to escape the convent at last.”

  Celestine began to understand why Gauzia was so excited. Celestine had never considered until this moment that she would ever be asked to use her talents except in the service of the church.

  “Who made the invitation?”

  “Why, the Muscobite ambassador, no less. A very handsome man, a count. I was presented to him after the concert.” Gauzia sank to her
knees by Celestine’s bed. “And it gets better. I told him, ‘But I’ve nothing suitable to wear, I can’t possibly perform in this nun’s habit.’ And he said, ‘We’ll have a dressmaker visit you. Choose whatever style and color you like. And shoes to match.’”

  Dresses and shoes meant little to Celestine except as a means to an end. She understood only that Gauzia had sung in public and been offered this extraordinary opportunity.

  “And it’s all thanks to Maistre de Joyeuse. I couldn’t be more grateful. Do you think I should ask for a green gown, to match my eyes? Some people say it’s an unlucky color…”

  As Celestine lay awake with her thoughts, watching the moonlight fade, the clock of Saint Meriadec’s struck two in the morning. She could not help repeating one name again and again. Kaspar Linnaius: the one magus to escape death at the stake. Memories, hazed by years of healing forgetfulness, began to flicker through her mind. Papa at work in his study, so intent he did not notice she was standing in the doorway, until she called his name. “Not now, Klervie, Papa’s busy…” Sometimes there had been others there. The green-eyed young man who liked to play with Mewen, teasing him with a feather tied to a piece of string. And then she shivered. The older magus with eyes so cold that they gleamed like a wintry sky.

  Then there was Papa’s book, filled with forbidden knowledge. The Inquisition had burned everything in the magisters’ library. Only this book remained.

  Do I really have a gift? The gift to wield magic? The Inquisition had called it a Forbidden Art. If anyone else were to discover the secrets hidden inside the book…And yet now that she knew she had the key to unlock its hidden contents, this thought was dangerously attractive. She would never achieve anything if she was obliged to spend the rest of her days singing psalms with the Sisters of Charity. The answers lay beyond these safe convent walls, maybe far beyond the shores of Francia. But how was she, a young woman alone and without income or influence, to travel abroad?