Tracing the Shadow Read online

  Yet there it was. Some lines below his royal patron, Eugene of Tielen, “Magister Kaspar Linnaius” was clearly written, followed by the title of Royal Artificier.

  So he was close by. After all the years he had spent in hiding in Tielen, he must feel very secure in his master’s protection to accompany him abroad. And now that I know he’s here, what am I going to do? How do I entrap a magus as powerful as Magister Linnaius?

  “Jagu.” She pointed out the name. “It’s him. The alchymist. The Magus. Is he the one, do you think…?”

  She saw him grip the edge of the delicate ormolu table until his knuckles whitened.

  “Surely the Tielens wouldn’t stoop to such a low trick?” he muttered. “Prince Eugene wouldn’t dare employ the Forbidden Arts against his royal host and his bride.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Is he the one who killed your friend?”

  He turned and she glimpsed again that vulnerable, younger Jagu, his dark eyes blank with the raw pain that had never healed. He grabbed hold of her by the wrist. “How did you know?” His voice was unsteady. “Who told you?”

  “The Maistre.” She felt sorry now that she had been the one to reopen the wound he kept so well hidden.

  “And how, how do you know that this man is a magus?” His fingers pressed harder into her flesh.

  “The captain sent me to the Inquisition archives to do research. It seems that Linnaius was the only magus in Francia to escape the Inquisition’s purge fourteen years ago.” She was surprised at the ingenuous tone with which she gave her answer. “Jagu…you’re hurting me.”

  He looked down at his hand, which was still tightly gripping her wrist, as if it were not his own. The grip relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

  “And he’s coming to Bel’Esstar.” His eyes had a distant, unfocused look, as though he was staring into the nightmare that had scarred his past.

  “Would you know him again, if you saw him?”

  “His smile still haunts my dreams,” he said, with a shudder.

  “What manner of man was he?” Even though he had let go of her, she stood close to him, speaking softly, as though of some intimate, shared secret. If anyone were to come in now, they might well imagine they had disturbed a lovers’ tryst.

  “The one who murdered Paol? Young, well favored, not some old grey-bearded scholar. Unless that was just the face he chose to show me. But his eyes…such a glittering, mesmerizing stare.”

  “Why did he kill your friend?” Celestine pursued the matter relentlessly, unsparing of his feelings.

  Jagu hesitated. “He stole his soul. He used his body and deceived us all, moving around the school like one of the pupils, to get what he wanted.”

  “A soul-stealer? So this magus could take control of anyone here and use their bodies to do his will?” She began to fear for Adèle. “So if he is behind the death threats, he could become anyone. Even you, Jagu, or me. And then he could get close to the princess…”

  A sudden chatter of voices outside made her break off; the ladies-in-waiting were returning

  “We need to talk somewhere less public.”

  The East Wing music room overlooked the formal gardens of Ilsevir’s palace. Celestine stood at the window, gazing out at the imposing prospect, which stretched far into the horizon.

  “A white garden; what a curious conceit.” The gravel was white; the beds were filled with white lilies, roses, and marguerites, and the borders with silver-grey foliage. The statues were all of pale marble: gryphons with folded wings, swans, and wan water nymphs. White peacocks trailed their long tail feathers along the paths and doves clustered together to drink from birdbaths shaped like upturned shells. The afternoon was muggy and close; Jagu’s information about the soporific summer atmosphere of the low-lying city was all too correct. She could see courtiers drifting listlessly along the paths, fanning themselves, soon disappearing into the shade of tree-lined avenues.

  Jagu lifted the lid of the fortepiano and played a series of arpeggios in quick succession, shaking his dark head as he did so. “I’m sorely out of practice.”

  “I need to warm up too.” Already Celestine missed the rigor of her daily exercise routine, strictly imposed by Dame Elmire. “It’s too easy to slip into bad habits.”

  They worked for a half hour or so until Celestine burst out with the question that had been troubling her since their last meeting. “How could you tell if I was…not myself, Jagu? How would you know if I had fallen victim to a soul-stealer?”

  He stared at the fortepiano keys, as if lost in reminiscence. “It was impossible to tell with Paol. We were all deceived. So as part of my training, the captain sent me to research soul-stealing. But there was little information, even in the secret library. The technique drains both stealer and victim of much life energy. If the victim’s soul is out of his body for too long, the body dies.”

  Celestine shivered, goose bumps prickling her arms, in spite of the clammy warmth of the afternoon. “And the victim’s soul? What happens if the body dies?” She came over to lean on the top of fortepiano. “Is there no way of telling? Are there no words of holy exorcism to drive the evil influence out of the victim? Why are we so ill armed against the magi?”

  A sharp tap at the door interrupted them and a grey-wigged flunkey announced, “His excellence, Illustre Talfieri.”

  Hearing the name of the eminent composer, Jagu rose hastily and Celestine dropped into a curtsy.

  “Forgive me for disturbing your rehearsal.” An elderly gentleman with an untidy mop of silvered hair entered. “But I come at his highness’s special request.”

  “W—we’re honored, Illustre,” stammered Jagu. Celestine was trying not to stare as Talfieri placed a folio on the fortepiano and drew out a sheaf of music.

  “Are you skilled at quick study?” he asked, regarding them with a glint of malicious amusement. “The prince asked me to write a little piece to celebrate the opening of the new shrine to Elesstar. He didn’t give me very much notice, but that’s the way of princes.” He handed them copies.

  “But why us, Illustre?” Celestine found her tongue. “Surely there must be many Allegondan musicians more worthy of this commission than—”

  “Indeed,” he said, nodding, “but the prince felt it would honor his new bride if her household musicians were to perform instead. So here I am, to coach you.”

  This isn’t a clever ruse to distract us from our duties guarding the princess, is it?

  “Let me play you the opening bars to give an idea of the tempo.” Talfieri flipped the tails of his brocade jacket as he took Jagu’s place at the keyboard. “You may have a little difficulty reading my handwriting,” he said, leaning forward until his nose almost touched the paper.

  Celestine shot Jagu a questioning look. He gave a little shrug. The great Talfieri was renowned. What could they do but comply?

  Celestine had been quartered with one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting, the matronly Marquise de Trécesson and her maid, Mélie, a skilled seamstress. In the palace hierarchy, a singer’s status seemed to be on a par with that of a maid, so both were allocated little beds in the narrow antechamber, while the marquise enjoyed the luxury of a spacious room. Mélie allowed Celestine a glimpse of her mistress’s chamber; the walls and vast bed were hung with Khitari silk printed in an exquisite pattern of bamboo and dancing cranes, in subtle tones of jade, pomegranate, and black on ivory.

  Mélie was busy with the final alterations to the princess’s wedding gown when Celestine returned, sitting close to the window to make the most of the hazy afternoon light, a little pair of pince-nez balanced on her upturned freckled nose as she squinted at the seam she was sewing. Celestine looked at the voluminous folds of satin and delicate lace that swamped Mélie’s lap and let out a sigh of admiration.

  “How do you make those tiny stitches so neat and even?”

  Mélie looked up over the top of her pince-nez and said, “Practice. And good light.” As she spoke, a shadow passed acros
s the windowpanes. Celestine glanced up.

  “And now a cloud goes across the sun,” said Mélie, glowering.

  “No, a bird. It’s hovering outside the window. It looks like a bird of prey.”

  “Chase it away! Let it go and catch its dinner somewhere else.”

  Celestine rapped loudly on the pane. Almost instantly, the hovering bird swooped around, so close to the glass that she was afraid it was about to crash through. She took a step back but not before she had seen it fix her with its fierce amber eyes. And then it was gone, darting away with astonishing rapidity, like a streak of smoke smeared across the blue of the sky.

  “That’s better,” said Mélie, applying herself to her sewing again. But Celestine was overwhelmed with an inexplicable feeling of apprehension. Her first instinct was to check that the book was still safely concealed, wrapped in a silken scarf in her trunk. Her second instinct, as she gently unwrapped it, was to ask the Faie’s advice. But as she knelt before the open trunk, gazing down at the image on the cover, she knew that it would be impossible while Mélie was in the room. Yet the urge to ask the Faie the questions burning in her brain grew stronger as she looked at the placid, beatific expression the Faie had adopted.

  “Mélie! Is the gown finished yet?” the marquise called. “We’re late for the final fitting.”

  “Coming, madame,” answered Mélie, raising her eyes to heaven as she snipped off the thread and laid her needle down.

  “Shall I help you?” Celestine offered, eager to have a few precious moments of privacy alone with the Faie.

  “I daresay I can manage,” said Mélie resignedly, lifting the voluminous folds of the dress and carefully wrapping it in a thin muslin sheet to protect its delicate fabric.

  Celestine waited, all impatience, for both women to leave the marquise’s apartments. When she was certain that Mélie would not be sent back to retrieve some vital item, she bolted the antechamber door, closed the shutters, and, in semidarkness, took out the book.

  The Faie immediately issued from the book, almost as if she had been eager to escape its confines. And as her translucent form took shape, Celestine was disturbed to see that the Faie had assumed the image of the Elesstar statue, hands cupped at her breast, holding a pale lotus flower.

  “Why do you look this way?” she whispered. “Is it because I’ve been unable to forget the statue since I saw it? Or is there a connection between you and Elesstar?”

  “I saw this image in your thoughts. It pleased you, and so it pleased me too.”

  “Can you read me so well?”

  “I’ve watched over you as if you were my own daughter. I’ve known your mind since you were a child. Does that trouble you?”

  Celestine had not expected to hear such caring words from the Faie. “No, not at all. But, dear Faie, something else is troubling me. How did my father find you? Did he summon you? What happened that night, the night I first saw you?”

  The Faie extended one hand and let her translucent fingers drift over and around Celestine’s face, as if caressing her. “You heard my voice. And so did another. He had the power to set me free.”

  “So it wasn’t my father who released you?” Till now, Celestine had believed that Hervé had summoned the Faie for the express purpose of protecting his daughter. To learn that another magus had been involved put quite a different complexion on the matter.

  “I saw you, Celestine, and in that one moment I knew that I wanted to protect you as my own.”

  The Faie’s words were like balm, calming Celestine’s worries.

  “And never more than at this time, in this place.”

  The moment of calm was shattered. “What do you mean?” Celestine cried, alarmed. “Am I in danger?”

  “There are powerful forces near at hand. They are gathering. I can sense them.”

  “The princess. Do they mean to harm the princess?”

  The Faie’s expressive eyes suddenly darkened to a sad, twilit amethyst. “I do not know what they intend. But I fear for you, Celestine. I fear for your life.”

  Celestine had begun to twist her fingers together in agitation. “What can I do? I can shoot a pistol reasonably well. I can—”

  “Let me shield you and your princess.”

  “You?”

  “Pistols will be little use against their kind of power. But I can shield you from the darkest of glamours.”

  “But how, dear Faie?”

  “For a little while, just a little while, I will come with you.”

  Celestine still did not understand what the Faie intended. “With me? In the form you’re in now? But won’t that draw too much attention to us?”

  “I am bound to the book. And to you, by blood. I can be part of you, just as I am a part of the book.”

  Celestine recoiled. “You mean…in my body?”

  “Shall we try it? If you find the experience distasteful, then I will return to the book. I will do exactly as you wish.”

  It was hard to resist the Faie’s sweet and persuasive tones.

  “Do you remember the day I gifted you? Did that distress you?”

  “No, but…” Celestine wavered, still reluctant to risk so much.

  The Faie had drawn closer to her, so close that when Celestine gazed into her limpid eyes, she felt as if she were losing herself. “Trust me,” whispered the Faie, coming closer still. A cloudy mist filled Celestine’s vision as the Faie swirled about her in a dazzle of pale light. And then the glimmer vanished and Celestine shivered, as though a sudden draft had gusted through the stuffy antechamber.

  She could hear voices outside; the marquise and Mélie must have returned.

  Celestine looked down at the book on her lap and saw that the cover was plain leather. The image of Saint Azilia had vanished.

  The door opened and Mélie’s thin face peered in. “The princess is asking for you, Celestine.”

  “I’ll go at once.” Celestine hastily replaced the book in her trunk.

  “What a gorgeous perfume,” remarked the maid, sniffing the air as she came in. “What is it? Lilies? And look at you; how do you manage to keep so fresh and radiant in this stifling heat?”

  All the windows in the princess’s apartments were open and the gauzy voiles hung across them to mute the sun’s glare and keep out insects stirred a little in a hot breeze.

  Adèle was reclining on a chaise longue, but the instant she saw Celestine, she sat up, opening her arms to embrace her.

  “Isn’t this humidity fatiguing? Even in this light muslin, I feel too hot and sticky to do anything strenuous. I hope I can persuade Ilsevir to leave the capital and spend the summer months in the country. He has an estate in the mountains.”

  “And how is his highness?” Celestine inquired as Adèle patted the seat beside her.

  “His highness is well, thank you,” said Adèle as Celestine sat down. “In fact, he has proved himself rather sweet and attentive,” she added with a bubbling little laugh. “I fear I may have judged him rather harshly.”

  “But you were so certain that he had no redeeming features other than his love of music.” Adèle liked to be teased, and Celestine felt confident enough in the princess’s friendship to indulge in a playful dig or two.

  “And in looks, he certainly comes a poor second to dashing Andrei Orlov. Yet”—and Adèle gave Celestine a coy sideways glance—“he has such an adorably shy smile. For once I have to admit that Maman made a wise choice. When I think of the other contenders…” Celestine saw her give a delicate little shudder of disgust. “Eugene of Tielen.”

  “Prince Eugene?” Celestine’s playful mood evaporated.

  “How could I have married a Tielen? My uncle Aimery died defending Francia against Prince Karl’s war fleet. I was only six, but I’ve never forgotten Maman crying all night when the news came through.”

  “Azilis.” Rieuk had sensed her for a brief moment, a pale shimmer, like the faint notes of a once-loved melody heard again after many years.

 
The magi had traveled by boat up the River Dniera to Bel’Esstar and were filing off with the other passengers onto the quay. Rieuk looked up at the merchants’ houses of pale grey stone lining the wide banks and wondered why he had heard her calling.

  “This is, after all, the city where Azilis spent most of her mortal life,” said Lord Estael as they walked along beside the river. “Perhaps you can feel traces of her presence lingering here? Or can you sense the sacred relics that they stole from the Shrine?”

  A patrol of grey-uniformed Allegondan Guerriers appeared, marching down the street, carrying a Rosecoeur banner. The magi quietly drew back into an alley as the Rosecoeurs went by.

  “We must split up,” said Lord Estael. “You all have your allotted tasks. The city is swarming with the Commanderie and Ilsevir’s troops. Be careful. And remember that Kaspar Linnaius may be here as well; his name was on the list of guests.”

  Rieuk shivered at the thought that he might come face-to-face with Imri’s murderer after all these years. He felt Lord Estael’s hand on his shoulder and turned to see the magus’s hawk-bright eyes staring warningly at him.

  “Don’t approach him. Don’t do anything that might endanger our mission, or yourself.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The cloying scent of orange blossom filled the basilica; the white petals were wilting and dropping in the stifling heat as the royal couple took their vows.

  Celestine was drooping too; she fanned herself vigorously, trying to stay alert. The Duc de Craon, Adèle’s uncle, kept nodding off and had to be nudged awake several times. The princess’s bridesmaids fidgeted, fiddling with their posies of pink and white rosebuds. Prince Ilsevir was perspiring; Celestine saw him mop his shiny face with a silk handkerchief just before he exchanged rings with his bride.