Tracing the Shadow Read online

  “He has a high fever. He’s delirious.” Aliénor was twisting the cord of her robe between her fingers; even though her tone of voice was flat and controlled, Ruaud saw that she was genuinely anxious about her youngest child.

  “Is it that serious?” Adèle came running in, also in her robe de chambre. “Serious enough to postpone the wedding?”

  “It’s far too late to do that, I’m afraid. Besides”—and Ruaud saw the queen bite her lip before continuing—“if the worst were to happen, it’s vital that Francia has a strong ally.”

  “What are you saying, Maman?” Adèle glanced at Ruaud, as though desperately seeking his support. “I can’t leave Enguerrand if he’s that sick! I won’t go. You can’t make me.” She began to sob.

  “Control yourself, Adèle.” Aliénor looked coldly at her daughter. “This is no time for hysterical outbursts. You will go to Bel’Esstar, and that’s an end to it. I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”

  Ruaud wished that there were some way he could alleviate the princess’s worries. It wasn’t surprising that she was so distraught; already facing the prospect of marriage to a virtual stranger with whom she had little in common, her brother’s illness must seem catastrophic.

  “But if my brother isn’t there to give me away?”

  “Your uncle Josselin is quite capable of performing that role. It’s more important that the wedding goes ahead, under the circumstances.”

  “Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” Gauzia’s eyes flashed with a cold, contemptuous light. “Coming between two lovers. Breaking up a long and happy relationship.” She flung down a broadsheet on Celestine’s bed. The headline read: “Diva Storms out of Balkaris at Opera House.” “You’ve ruined the Maistre’s opera.”

  “What are you talking about, Gauzia?” Celestine was taken aback at the vehemence of Gauzia’s outburst. She picked up the Gazette and read: “‘The Divine Aurélie has walked out of Balkaris, accusing her fiancé, Henri de Joyeuse, of carrying on a secret affair with his ward, convent-educated orphan Celestine.’” The paper dropped from Celestine’s hands.

  “It’s the talk of the Opera House. By tonight it’ll be the talk of Lutèce. You and the Maistre. Poor Aurélie is utterly distraught.”

  “Now wait a moment—” began Celestine indignantly, but Gauzia was in full flow and would not be silenced.

  “It’s always the quiet ones. I’d never have thought of you as a troublemaker.” She advanced on Celestine, thrusting her face close to hers. “You sly, devious little minx. Stealing him away from Aurélie. Carrying on with him behind her back.”

  “What?” Someone must have been spreading malicious rumors, and Celestine had a good idea who it might be.

  “Just how long have you and the Maistre been at it?”

  Celestine gasped. The unfairness of the allegation took her breath away. Before she knew what she was doing, she had lifted her hand and slapped Gauzia, hard. “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you slander the Maistre? When you know nothing. Nothing at all!”

  Gauzia, one hand clasped to her reddening cheek, stared at Celestine. Suddenly tears began to spill from her eyes. “You hit me. You hit me!”

  Celestine stared back, horrified at what she had done. “Oh, Gauzia, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to—”

  “Don’t come near me.” Gauzia backed away, still weeping. “Don’t ever come near me again. I’m going back to the Opera. At least I know now who my true friends are.” She turned and fled; Celestine heard her sobbing as she ran down the stairs.

  Celestine was shaking as she picked up the Gazette and scanned the column again. How long would it be before Aurélie spread the slanderous gossip around the whole city?

  “I can put an end to your career before it’s even begun.”

  Celestine paused in her packing for the journey to Allegonde and picked up the precious book to place it in the little trunk. “At least I’m starting out on my journey to trace Kaspar Linnaius,” she told the Faie, and found herself wiping away a tear that had strayed unbidden down her cheek. “But leaving the Maistre is hard, so hard, I don’t think I can bear it…”

  Someone tapped at the door; imagining it to be Dame Elmire, she said, “Come in,” without looking up. When she raised her head from the open trunk, she saw Henri de Joyeuse standing there.

  “Maistre,” she said, wishing that the mere sight of him did not make her heart ache so.

  “How can I apologize for what has happened?”

  “The Gazette?” She gave a little shrug, feigning indifference. “What’s done is done.”

  “I knew Aurélie wouldn’t let me go without creating some scandal. But she had no business dragging your name into this, and I can never forgive her for that.”

  “I’ll be on my way to Bel’Esstar tomorrow,” Celestine said, trying to sound more philosophical about the matter than she felt. “By the time I return to Lutèce, the whole affair will probably have been forgotten.”

  “Not by me.”

  “Maistre?” There had been something in his voice that made her heart miss a beat. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Opera House?”

  “I can’t bear to think that we’ll be apart again,” he said. His hair was untied and there were shadows beneath his grey eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Suddenly he moved, catching hold of her by the hand. “Promise me one thing. Promise that you’ll not be tempted by the Allegondans to stay in Bel’Esstar.”

  “I’m not sure that I can.” She was trembling; she was not sure that she was strong-willed enough to extract her hand from his. And when he pulled her close to him, all she wanted was to rest her head against his shoulder and stay folded close in his arms.

  “Once they hear you sing, they’re going to try to make you stay. The great Talfieri, Illustre Lissier, they have much influence with the prince.”

  “You have to let me go, Maistre. You know that the princess has done so much to advance my career. She’s been so kind to me.” Couldn’t he see how torn she felt? Why was he making it so hard for both of them? “I can’t let her down.”

  She heard him swallow hard, as though gulping back tears.

  “Of course. I have no right to tell you what to do. You must follow the dictates of your heart.” He took both her hands in his and pressed them to his lips. “Farewell, my dearest girl.”

  “Captain…” A hoarse voice issued from the king’s bed.

  Ruaud had nodded off. He jolted awake.

  “Sire?” he said, hardly daring to hope.

  “I’m thirsty…”

  Ruaud hastily poured water and, supporting the boy’s head, held the glass to his fever-cracked lips, gently wiping away the drops that spilled down the side of his chin.

  “What day is it, Captain…?” The dark eyes looking at Ruaud from the pillows were lucid, no longer hazed and wandering.

  “You know me. Thank God.” Ruaud had stayed at the king’s side for five days and nights while fever racked the young man’s body, ready to administer the last rites of the Sergian Church. Now his prayers had been answered. Enguerrand’s hand fumbled for his.

  “You stayed with me.”

  “It was nothing, sire.” Ruaud looked at the king’s slender fingers curled so trustingly around his own. Tears of relief trickled down his cheeks.

  Is this how I would feel if I had had a son of my own?

  “Don’t…be sad.” The pressure around his hand tightened. “I’m going to recover. I had a dream, Captain…I dreamed that the Angel Lord Galizur came to my bedside. He told me I must get well again. He told me there was much for me to do. He warned me that the Agents of Darkness were abroad, and that I must do all in my power to fight them.” Enguerrand gazed into Ruaud’s face pleadingly. “And he said that my sister is in danger.”

  “Your sister is protected by two of my best agents,” said Ruaud, as soothingly as he could. “They will do all in their power to keep her safe.” But he silently offered up a prayer to Saint Sergius to watch over Cele
stine and Jagu.

  CHAPTER 30

  The journey across the mountains to Allegonde had taken the royal party three days longer than planned, due to an unseasonable fall of snow in the high passes. But Celestine did not mind; she was so excited to be leaving Francia for the first time in her life that every new occurrence was a novelty to her. She did not mind sharing a cramped bedroom with the princess’s ladies-in-waiting, high in the eaves of a mountain chalet inn; when she flung the shutters wide on the first morning, the view over the peaks as the sun rose took her breath away.

  She leaned out, watching the rising sun tinge the white snow with rose and gold.

  If only you were here to see this with me, dearest Maistre…

  A wave of yearning washed through her, so strong it made her shiver.

  “Close the shutters, Demoiselle!” cried one of the ladies. “Do you want us all to catch a chill?”

  While the court ladies complained about lumpy mattresses and the coarse, gritty porridge served for breakfast, Celestine ran outside to gaze at the snow-covered crags, still tinged pink by the sunrise, breathing in the crisp, sweet air.

  “Enjoy the mountain air while you can.”

  She looked around and saw Jagu de Rustéphan leading his horse out from the stables. “Why so?”

  “I hear it can get very oppressive down by the Dniera at this time of year. Snow in the mountains means thunderstorms on the river plain.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see Bel’Esstar. Surely you must feel just a little excited to be visiting the birthplace of Talfieri? And the Opera House…”

  He came close to her and said quietly, “We have a job to do. Never forget that. Even up here, someone might be waiting…”

  She glared at him, resenting the reminder that she was new to this role. “Do you think I’ve forgotten? But that intercepted message specifically mentioned the two of them. Together.” Why did he have to be such a killjoy? “And that won’t happen until we reach Bel’Esstar.”

  A bird suddenly rose from the stable roof and flapped away on dark wings. Jagu flinched and Celestine saw in that brief unguarded moment a look of fear in his eyes.

  He’s served in Enhirre and fought in battle. How can he be afraid of a harmless bird?

  The Basilica in which Adèle and Ilsevir were to be married was a magnificent domed edifice, completed only thirty years ago. The exterior was deceptively and elegantly plain, but the instant Celestine entered the building, she was overwhelmed by the wealth of ornate decoration. White marble and gold leaf dazzled the eye; every fluted column was adorned with carved, rosy-cheeked cherubim playing musical instruments. A celestial trompe l’oeuil filled the inside of the vast dome, depicting golden-haired angels, floating on impossibly fluffy, snowy clouds, or hovering on rainbow wings in a sky of bright cerulean blue.

  “And look at the organ,” she whispered to Jagu, trying not to giggle. “It’s like a wedding cake.” The vast case was garlanded with painted festoons of flowers and fruit; fulsome angels blew gilt trumpets from every corner.

  “Forget the exterior,” he said brusquely. “It’s the action that counts.” Each word reverberated around the dome. “And such a resonant acoustic. Every quiet footfall, every stifled cough will be greatly magnified. An assassin would be setting himself an impossible task in here.”

  “A normal assassin, maybe. But one practicing the Forbidden Arts…”

  He nodded, and she glimpsed again that fleeting look of pain she had seen before when he had let slip those few tantalizing details about his best friend’s death.

  “There’ll be guards posted in the upper gallery, as well as in all the aisles, and covering every exit. I’ll be in the organ loft…” He left her and hurried to the little door concealing the stairs that led up to the console.

  “So I’ll need to position myself over here to see you.” Celestine went to stand on the marble tiles in front of the choir stalls. As Jagu appeared high above her, she said, “We’re a long way apart. We need a signal.” She thought a moment. “If I notice anything suspicious, I’ll take out my lace handkerchief. If I drop it, be ready to take action.”

  “The view from here is quite limited.” Jagu was checking how much he could observe using the organist’s mirror.

  “I’ll go and investigate the rear exits.” Celestine passed the altar and skirted around the back, where the flicker of many votive candleflames glowed in the shadows. She passed chapels dedicated to Saint Sergius and Saint Argantel, stopping as she came to a set of double doors, freshly varnished, set between two massive columns entwined with carved vines and gilded grapes.

  She tried the door and found that it was locked. A sudden tingle of pain, thin and silvery, like a wire, shot through her head. She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples.

  Two priests appeared.

  “Why can’t I go in?” she demanded in the common tongue.

  “You need a special permit from the Grand Maistre,” replied one, smiling. “This chapel is closed to visitors.”

  “But we are Guerriers of the Francian Commanderie.” Jagu had reappeared, striding swiftly over to her side. “We’re responsible for Princess Adèle’s personal security. We must check every corner of the cathedral.”

  “You need a special permit,” repeated the priest, still smiling.

  “Why? What’s in here?” Celestine asked, affecting her most innocent expression.

  “The sacred relics brought back from Ondhessar.”

  “The relics?” Jagu repeated.

  “Captain nel Ghislain and his men recovered the Elesstar statue and brought it here for safekeeping.”

  “But in doing so, they despoiled the Shrine.” Jagu seemed to be controlling his temper with difficulty.

  “More sacrilege to have left them there to be despoiled by the Enhirrans,” said a calm, smooth voice. “If we hadn’t arrived just in time to relieve you, these sacred treasures would be lost to us.” A grey-uniformed Rosecoeur officer came toward them from the shadows; Celestine’s eyes were instantly drawn to a small insignia, an enameled rose, dark crimson, on the lapel of his jacket. “Captain nel Ghislain at your service,” he said to Celestine, saluting.

  “Yes, I remember you, Captain,” said Jagu coldly, returning the salute. “This is Demoiselle de Joyeuse; she will be singing at the ceremony.”

  Celestine nodded in greeting and as she did so, another silvered barb of pain pierced her skull. She hoped neither man noticed her wince.

  “Would you like to see what we have rescued from the ruins of Ondhessar, Demoiselle?” Captain nel Ghislain addressed Celestine directly, ignoring Jagu.

  “Ruins?” repeated Jagu ominously.

  “Thank you,” said Celestine, giving him her most gracious smile. She sensed a distinct animosity between the two men.

  Ghislain took a key from his pocket and unlocked the doors, ushering them both into the chapel beyond.

  “Ohh,” she said softly. In the center of the chapel stood a life-sized figure carved from white marble, so pale, so translucent that it seemed to exude a gentle radiance. As she approached, she saw that it was the effigy of a woman, so skillfully sculpted that, had it not been for its unearthly pallor, she would have taken it for a living being.

  “It seems only fitting that this exquisite image should be exhibited here, in Bel’Esstar, the city where the Blessed Elesstar was miraculously restored to life,” said Captain nel Ghislain.

  A thin, silvery melody had begun to whisper through Celestine’s brain. As she walked slowly around the figure, she noted the unearthly beauty of the carved face, the cupped hands on the statue’s breast, holding the open petals of a lotus flower.

  What was that elusive, persistent melody? Was it a song she had heard before, many years ago? It was so sad it made her want to cry.

  “Has the Allegondan Commanderie stripped the Shrine of all its sacred treasures?” said Jagu, still bristling with barely disguised disapproval.

  The melody was growing louder. Cel
estine stretched out her hands, compelled for a reason she could not explain to touch the statue’s delicate white marble fingers. The men’s voices receded, to be replaced by the rushing sound of a distant, turbulent wind.

  “Father…where are you, Father?” She is standing, alone and confused, on the edge of a barren, empty plain. Overhead, clouds scud unnaturally fast across a sickly, faded sky the color of fog. She stretches her arms out into the wilderness, calling for him in vain…

  “Are you all right, Demoiselle?”

  She started, blinking as she looked up into Jagu’s face.

  “And soon, God willing, we will start work on the new cathedral,” Captain nel Ghislain was saying. “It is his highness’s dearest wish that he should leave a lasting memorial to his late father. What better way than to build a Fortress of Faith to house this exquisite figure?”

  “So much for the spirit of brotherhood between members of the Commanderie,” muttered Jagu as they left. She could tell from the set of his mouth that he was genuinely upset. “They’ve despoiled the Shrine and taken the treasures for themselves. I can’t believe that Maistre Donatien gave his agreement to such an act of vandalism. I’m going to notify Captain de Lanvaux.”

  The official book containing the complete list of wedding guests was on display in an anteroom in the palace, flanked by jade vases overflowing with late-flowering roses of pink, old gold, and cream, already drooping in the heat.

  As Celestine and Jagu studied the list, the heavy scent from the roses balmed the warm air. Each eminent name was elegantly hand-scribed in curling handwriting, each dot and accent picked out in gold. Yet as Celestine turned page after page, she realized that, should the name “Kaspar Linnaius” appear in the Tielen contingent, she had not even formulated the beginning of a plan. There were plenty of Rosecoeur Guerriers on hand that she could call on to arrest him, but a powerful magus must surely be well prepared to counter such eventualities. Besides, if he was attending as a member of Prince Eugene’s household, arresting him could spark an unfortunate international incident.