Tracing the Shadow Read online

  “My darling child…this may be the last time you see your dearest papa. The last chance you have to say farewell to him.”

  Klervie gazed into Maman’s tear-filled eyes, uncomprehending. “Farewell?” she echoed. “Are they sending him away again? To another prison?”

  “No.” Maela drew Klervie tight, almost crushing her, so that Klervie could feel her mother’s whole body trembling with suppressed sobs. “To a place where he will finally be free.”

  “Why are all these people here?” Klervie asked, clinging to Maman’s hand in the press as they were swept along in the cresting tide. But Maman did not answer, forcing her way grimly on.

  Soldiers lined the street. All were garbed in the same plain black uniforms as those worn by the men who had raided the cottage and dragged Papa away. Pikes in hand, they formed a barrier between the surging crowd and the center of the street.

  And then Klervie thought she could make out the distant thud of drums—a slow, solemn beat, coming steadily nearer.

  The crowd suddenly began to shout and jeer. The roar of their voices terrified Klervie; she felt as if she were surrounded by wild beasts. “Why are they all so angry?”

  “Pay them no heed.” Maela tugged at Klervie’s hand, pulling her onward through the press of people, toward the soldiers.

  A wooden cart, drawn by four strong dray horses, was lumbering toward them, its wheels rattling over the cobbles. Soldiers armed with muskets marched in front, matching their slow pace to the ominous beat of the drummers.

  Now Klervie could see that there were men on the cart, caged like animals behind metal bars. She heard Maela give a soft gasp.

  “Hervé,” she whispered. “Oh Hervé, what have they done to you?”

  Klervie screwed her eyes to a squint against the watery morning light. She could count five men on the cart and each one was slumped against the bars, as if barely able to stand.

  Jostled to and fro by the crowd as it pressed forward to see the prisoners, Klervie almost lost hold of Maela.

  Her mother was staring at one of the men. Bruises and blood-crusted cuts marred his face; one eye was half-closed with a swollen, purpled lid. And there seemed to be something wrong with his legs; he was supporting himself by pulling himself up by the bars.

  “Maela,” he called, his voice gratingly hoarse. “Maela, what are you doing here? For God’s sake, take the child away.”

  Only then did Klervie recognize this gaunt, haggard man as her own father. She reached out, trying to clutch the grimy, blood-streaked hand between her own.

  “Papa?”

  For a moment, the gaunt face softened. “Klervie, look after your mother. For my sake.” The fingers tried to extend farther to touch her hair but the effort seemed too great and she saw a grimace of pain twist his features.

  “No communication with the prisoners.” A soldier grabbed Maela by the arm and tried to pull her away.

  “A few minutes with my husband. I was promised. I sold my ring—my wedding ring—to pay for it.” Klervie heard Maela’s voice break as though her heart were breaking too. The soldier tugged at her arm, less gently this time.

  “Let her go!” shrieked Klervie.

  “We were betrayed,” said Papa. “Look, Maela. Everyone is here—all save one. Where is Kaspar Linnaius?”

  “I can’t believe Magister Linnaius would do such a thing.” As the cart moved slowly on, Maela hurried alongside, Klervie following.

  “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 will come for us,” cried another magister in a faint, cracked voice. “He can twist the winds to his will. He will come. You’ll see.”

  One by one, the learned scholars ascended the pyre: lean-faced, kindly Madoc, gazing bemusedly around as if walking in his sleep; softly spoken Goustan de Rhuys, who used to make Klervie laugh by mysteriously plucking little treasures from behind her ear or under her chin—a tiny finch, a spotted butterfly, a barley sugar; venerable, white-haired Magister Gonery, so frail and broken that he had to be carried by the soldiers.

  “That one’s nothing but a boy,” a woman said as Deniel was dragged up by four Guerriers. “You’d think they’d have spared the lad. Look at him; he’s trembling so much he can hardly stand.”

  “Call yourselves mages!” jeered a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you save yourselves?”

  “Show us your magic tricks,” called out another mockingly.

  “Magisters of Karantec.” A harsh voice rang out across the crowded square. A tall man in flowing robes had climbed up onto a platform. “You have been tried before God by His inquisitors and found guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts.”

  “Who is that man?” Klervie quavered.

  “His name is Alois Visant.” Maman’s voice had dwindled to a whisper. “Never forget that name, Klervie. He is a cruel, vindictive man.”

  “You are all condemned to burn at the stake. May God have mercy on your souls.”

  “Come away, child. This is no place for you.” Maman caught Klervie up in her arms and began to carry her away as the crowd surged forward. Klervie saw the avid looks in their eyes. And then she smelled smoke. Maela battled on against the tide of people; Klervie clung to her, afraid they would both be crushed in the throng.

  Maman was sick. She lay on the bed, sometimes plucking feebly at the dirty sheet, sometimes murmuring disjointed words or phrases that Klervie could not understand.

  “The wards…why did the wards fail?”

  Klervie anxiously patted Maman’s sweat-damp hand.

  “Thirsty,” Maman whispered. There was still a little cold camomile tisane in the teapot from the night before. Klervie poured some into a bowl and brought it to Maman, biting her lower lip as she tried not to spill.

  Maman drank a sip or two and then sank back, as if the effort had drained her.

  “Does that make you feel better, Maman?” Klervie asked earnestly. Papa had told her to look after Maman and she was doing her best to obey his wishes.

  Maman tried to stroke Klervie’s cheek but her hand dropped back limply onto the threadbare blanket. “You’re a good girl, Klervie,” she said, her voice so faint that Klervie had to lean in close to hear her. Her eyes closed. Klervie climbed up on the bed and snuggled up to her mother, seeking comfort. But soon she rolled away, seared by the fever heat that was burning through her mother’s body.

  “What will become of us?” she heard Maman murmur.

  Klervie awoke with a gnawing pain in her belly. A cloudy daylight lit the attic chamber. Klervie jumped off the bed and went to search in their bag of food. There was only a stale crust of bread left. The fire in the grate had burned itself out, and the scale-encrusted kettle had only a trickle of water inside.

  “Maman, I’m hungry,” Klervie said.

  There came no answer. Klervie went back to the bed and began to tug at Maman’s hand, which was lying limply over the side. Maman gave a dry little moan.

  “I’m hungry,” Klervie insisted. “My tummy hurts.”

  “Go…and ask…downstairs…”

  Klervie shook her head. She was afraid of the old woman who had so grudgingly given them shelter. Her jaundiced eyes were cold and disapproving.

  “What d’you mean, your mother’s sick?” The concierge dropped her broom. “I’m not having anyone sick in this hostelry; it’s bad for business. You’ll have to leave.” She clapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “Keep your distance, girl. And tell your mother to pack your bags.”

  “I don’t think she’s well enough,” said Klervie in a small voice.

  “Then I’ll call the carrier,” said the concierge, backing away. “Haven’t you got any family to go to? Didn’t your mother mention a sister?”

  “Tante Lavéna?” Klervie shook her head doubtfully. “I d—don’t remember wh
ere she lives.”

  “Then go out and find where. Go on.” She took up her broom and began to jab it at Klervie’s toes. “Be off with you. And don’t come back until you’ve found your auntie.”

  Klervie hesitated, not wanting to leave Maman, yet frightened of the old woman and her broom.

  She backed away. Then she turned and fled.

  It was growing dark and Klervie was lost. She had wandered up and down the tree-lined avenues for hours, searching for Tante Lavéna’s house. She had asked but no one knew her aunt’s name. Now it was starting to rain. She crept into a doorway for shelter, sliding down with her back to the door, hugging her knees to her chest.

  She was so sleepy…

  When Klervie awoke, cold and stiff, it was night. The wet street gleamed in the light of a lantern.

  The scent of cooking meat drifted on the damp breeze. Her empty stomach growled. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. The scent drew her, enticing her out of her hiding place and down a winding alley.

  A man was sitting in an archway, hunched over a small brazier, slowly turning a spit on which were skewered two plump chickens, their skins a crisp golden brown. He looked up and saw her.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  Klervie nodded. The unbearably mouthwatering smell of the roasting fowl, the dripping juices sizzling into the fire, drew her closer. The aching hollow in her empty belly made her want to moan. But there was something about the man’s eyes as he watched her that made her skin crawl.

  “Come closer, little girl.” He beckoned, smiling at her. “I’ll bet you’d like to share a slice or two of this with me.” He produced a long loaf of fresh-baked crusty bread, and broke off a hunk. “Here!” He tossed it to her and she caught it. “Go on. Eat.”

  Klervie could not help herself. She started to tear at the bread with her teeth, gulping it down. And oh, it tasted so good that it brought tears to her eyes.

  “You’re a pretty one. What’s your mother doing, letting you roam around here so late?”

  “Maman is sick.”

  He touched her hair, running a curl between his greasy fingertips, and his touch made her shudder. “Hair like gold. This would fetch a good price at the wigmaker’s.”

  Klervie shied abruptly away and he began to laugh. “Did I scare you, sweetheart? Don’t worry. I won’t cut your hair. You’re worth so much more to me intact.” Wrapping his hand in a filthy cloth, he took the skewer from over the glowing brazier and slid one of the roast fowl onto a battered metal dish. Then, a dull flash of steel in the gathering dusk, and he had begun to carve into the crackling brown skin with a keen-bladed knife. He stabbed the tip into a slice of white breast meat and offered it to Klervie. Klervie wavered.

  “Take it,” he said, grinning. “It’s yours.”

  “I have no money,” Klervie said in a small voice. The delicious smell of the roast fowl tormented her sore stomach.

  “Tender breast meat…for a tender child.”

  Klervie suddenly snatched at the meat and crammed it into her mouth, furiously chewing, swallowing as fast as she could, squeezing her eyes shut with the sheer pleasure of eating.

  “How’d you like to stay with old Papa, then?” the man said. “You could snuggle up, nice and cozy, with me here.” He patted the sacks on which he was sitting. She saw that greedy glint in his eyes again.

  “You’re not my papa.”

  He shrugged and tore a leg off the fowl he’d been carving, chewing on it while the fat trickled down his chin.

  “My papa’s dead.” Klervie took a step back.

  “Where d’you think you’re off to? Aren’t you going to give old Papa a kiss?”

  Klervie saw the firelight glinting on his greasy lips and stubbled cheeks. She took another step back. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed her. “Oh no, you don’t! You owe me!” The grease-smeared mouth pressed against hers, while his hand groped beneath her skirts.

  Struggling and kicking, Klervie cast around with one hand for something, anything, to help her get away. Her fingers closed on the skewer, hot and slimy with fat and she jabbed it with all her strength into the man’s arm.

  With a howl, he let go and she hurtled away as fast as she could, heart hammering in her chest as he came lumbering after her. “You’ve stabbed me, you ungrateful little bitch! Come back here! I’ll make you wish you’d never been born…”

  Maman will be worried. Maman will fret. Maman will cry if I don’t get back to her soon…

  It was not until afternoon the following day that Klervie at last found her way back to their lodgings. She had lost a shoe running to escape the horrible man. But she dared not stop to rest, for fear he’d find her, so she kept limping doggedly on through unfamiliar streets until dawn broke.

  “Klervie…Klervie…”

  She glanced up, certain that someone was calling her name. Shops were opening their shutters, water carts were clattering over the cobbles.

  “Come quick, Klervie…” The faint, urgent voice drew her onward, one stumbling step at a time. Was it Maman’s voice guiding her home? It sounded so familiar…

  Weary and footsore, she tramped up the rickety stairs and opened the door to see the old woman rifling through their few possessions.

  “Where’s Maman?” Klervie stared at the empty bed in disbelief. “What have you done with her?”

  “Everything costs money, you know. Even a pauper’s grave. I had to pay the carter too. I’m not a charitable institution. Aha…what’s this?” Her fingers closed around Klervie’s book, hidden beneath the threadbare blanket, and tugged it out.

  Klervie still did not, could not, understand what she was saying.

  “Now, this…why ever didn’t your mother sell this?” She held it up to the light trickling in through the filthy panes, an avaricious gleam in her eyes. “It’d have fetched a good sum.”

  “My book.”

  Klervie started forward but the old woman turned on her, her yellowing teeth bared in a snarl. “My book now.”

  Klervie took a step back.

  “I’m owed. For the shroud, if nothing else.”

  “Shroud?” Klervie repeated, still not understanding.

  “Your mother’s dead, child. Dead and buried—by now.” She gave a harsh laugh. “If the body snatchers haven’t got hold of her first.”

  “Dead?” Klervie felt as if all the air had been knocked from her body. Her head spun. She felt herself falling.

  “God help us. Don’t say you’ve taken the sickness as well.” The concierge, clutching Klervie’s book, got to her feet and began to hurry toward the doorway.

  The dust motes in the room shivered, caught in a sudden ray of light. Klervie blinked. The concierge stopped in midflight. The shadow of a woman shimmered in the dimness, pale as starlight.

  “Maman…?” Klervie murmured. For it seemed to her as she crumpled to the dusty floor that her mother was at her side, standing protectively over her.

  The concierge gave a screech of terror. The book dropped from her fingers as she made the sign against evil. Then she ran, with a strange hobbling, stumbling gait, as though all the daemons from the abyss were chasing her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tinidor clip-clopped slowly over the cobbles. Captain Ruaud de Lanvaux noticed how passersby hastily made way for him, scrambling out of his path, as if one glance at his black uniform and the golden insignia of the Staff was enough to instill fear and respect. Even carters pulled their wagons to one side and the barouche-drivers stopped to let him pass.

  Something must have happened in Lutèce while he was overseas, to provoke this deference. Had Grand Maistre Donatien instigated a purge of heretics? He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice the fleeing child—or her pursuers—until she was almost under Tinidor’s hooves.

  He tugged hard on the reins and Tinidor reared up, iron-shod hooves pawing the air.

  He saw the child glance up at the huge horse looming above her. Her knees buc
kled and she toppled into the gutter. Ruaud leaned forward to whisper soothing words in Tinidor’s ears. The warhorse gave a snort and, responding at last to his master’s voice, brought his front hooves down onto the cobblestones, narrowly missing the child’s emaciated body.

  Ruaud swung hastily down from the saddle and glared at the cringing gutter thieves. One look at his face—and his hand gripping the hilt of his sword—and they took to their heels, abandoning their prey. Ruaud knelt beside the little girl, lifting her out of the foul-smelling water. His heart pained him to see how thin and frail the body was; he could feel her bones protruding through her filthy rags.

  “Little sparrow,” he said softly, “are you hurt?”

  The child’s fair lashes fluttered and eyes dull with hunger gazed at him from a dirt-smeared face. A soft moan issued from cracked lips.

  He had encountered many such starving street children on campaign in the dry heat of Enhirre; they clustered around his men, begging for food and water. Their skins might have been darker, but that look of desperate hunger was the same. Ignoring the gathering curious crowd, he took out a little metal flask from his uniform jacket and, supporting the child’s head against his knee, poured a few drops into her mouth. All Guerriers carried a flask of well-watered wine in the desert. She spluttered.

  “Sour,” she whispered.

  What had the thieves been so keen to steal from her? Whatever was wrapped in the shreds of sacking, she still clung to it as if her life depended upon it.

  “What have you there, child?” he asked, forcing gentleness into a voice more accustomed to shouting orders.

  “My book.”

  Ruaud caught a glimpse of the cover and saw to his surprise that it was a Lives of the Holy Saints. Had she stolen it? Or was the child from a devout family?

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Klervie.” Her eyes focused on his for a moment. They were startlingly blue and clear, like a rain-washed sky.