Flight Into Darkness (11 page)

It took a good quarter hour's tramp up the cliffs to reach the Osprey's Nest—a dilapidated little inn overlooking the White Sea. The keen breeze off the rough sea below was a constant reminder that the spring thaw had only just melted the ice and Celestine was soon shivering.

“It's rather remote,” she said, gazing at the single lantern glowing in the gathering dusk.

Jagu set down his bag on the rocks and took out two of the books of prayer he was carrying. “Let's not take any risks,” he said. Concealed within a secret compartment in each book lay a pistol, powder, and shot. “Here.”

“Lucky the Tielens didn't search us too zealously,” Celestine said, priming the second weapon. “Or should I call them Rossiyans now? That officer was a Tielen; I could tell from his accent.”

“According to our sources, the troops currently occupying Azhkendir are from Field Marshal Karonen's Northern Army.” Jagu finished loading his pistol and tucked it beneath his priest's robes. “Let's hope we're not obliged to use these.”

The smoky fug in the inn made Celestine's eyes water. Blinking, she saw men staring at them from around the large tiled stove. A strong, unsavory odor assaulted them from a bubbling cooking pot.
Fish,
thought Celestine, her empty stomach contracting at the thought.
And none too fresh either.

An old woman was stoking the stove and a gust of smoke billowed out from the glowing coals inside. She slammed the door shut, securing the latch with the handle of the shovel, and pushed herself to her feet, grunting with the effort.

“Priests?” she said in the common tongue.

“Can you put us up for the night?” Jagu asked, in a mild tone of voice. Was Jagu actually enjoying acting out the role of a shy, scholarly priest? “All the taverns in Arkhelskoye are full.”

The old woman hobbled closer and stared up at him, hands on her hips. “You don't
sound
like Tielens,” she said suspiciously. “Tielens aren't welcome here.”

“We're from Francia. Our order was founded in memory of Saint Serzhei.”

“Francia? That's all right, then. I can give you a room. Don't expect anything fancy, though. You're not in Azhgorod here. Oh, and you pay me first.” One gnarled hand shot out, palm upward. “Dinner's herring stew. Extra for bread. And ale.”

“Celestin, pay the landlady,” said Jagu. They had agreed to keep her assumed boy's name as close to her own as possible, in case of the odd, unintentional slip. Celestine dropped the coins into the landlady's outstretched hand, aware that the other drinkers were watching her every move.

“So priests do pretty well for themselves in Francia?” The landlady bit a coin with yellowed teeth. Too late Celestine realized that they had both misread the situation. Azhkendi priests were probably too poor to stay in inns.

“My master will give you a blessing if you let us eat for free, lady.”

“Nice try, boy.” The landlady cackled, retreating to ladle out two bowls of stew from the steaming pot.

“We're on a pilgrimage to Saint Serzhei's Monastery,” said Jagu as they ate, “and we're looking for someone to be our guide.”

Celestine was prodding at the stew in the earthenware bowl with her spoon; she had spotted a piece of herring tail, but the other chunks floating in the oily water were most probably winter vegetables: turnips, maybe, and parsnips… The “herring” was only there to give flavor. She dipped a chunk of dry bread in and cautiously sucked the liquid out of it, trying not to wince.

“You've come a long way, Father,” observed the landlady, adding with another cackle, “and you've still got a long way to go! It's several days’ journey from here to the Kerjhenezh Forest.”

“I could take you by boat to the samphire beaches,” a grizzle-bearded fisherman said, puffing out an acrid waft of tobacco smoke from his pipe. “Though you need good sea legs; the seas are mighty rough around the Spines this time of year.”

“By boat?” Jagu looked up from his bowl of stew.

“Most pilgrims from the capital take the route through the forest, but from Arkhelskoye it's far quicker to go by sea—once the ice has
melted. It's hardly a day's journey on foot to the monastery from Seal Cove. Half a day for you hardy young people.”

Jagu consulted Celestine with a look. She nodded, wondering how good her sea legs would prove in a little fishing smack.

“Let me buy you a drink,” said Jagu to the fisherman. “An ale for my friend here.”

“He's called Chaikin,” said the landlady.

“Ugh. This room stinks of fish too.” Celestine sniffed the air of the poky little room, searching out the source of the smell. “It's coming from the lamp! They must be burning fish oil.”

“Herring fishing is one of Azhkendir's main sources of trade and income,” said Jagu. “Alongside furs and mineral ores.”

“Must you speak like a traveler's guidebook? And there's only one bed, or hadn't you noticed?”

He shrugged. “I'll sleep on the floor.”

The harsh wind off the sea rattled the shutters, setting the lamp flame fluttering. Celestine threw down her cloak and ran her fingers through her cropped hair. She became aware that Jagu was staring at her in the dim light. “Well?”

“I still can't get used to seeing you this way.”

“With short hair? How else was I to disguise myself as your servant? Priests don't usually travel about with young women—or boys with luxuriant tresses. Besides, it'll soon grow again.” She tugged her fingers through the thick strands. “But it badly needs a wash. Oh, for a long soak in a hot bath…”

“I still don't understand why the Maistre sent you on this mission. Kilian or Philippe Viaud would have been a much safer choice.”

“Safer for me, or for you, Jagu?” She saw him blink; the slightest of reactions, but enough to show that she had touched another sensitive spot. First the hair, now this. Yet it had taken weeks of travel to get him to begin to open up about his concerns; he had been even more reticent than usual. “I
asked
the Maistre to send me. You know I have skills that make me the best suited to this mission.”

This was not the first time they had entered into this argument, and Jagu did not even bother to reply. Instead, he undid the top fastenings of his habit and drew out the chain concealed beneath, bringing the attached crystal out and holding it up to the flickering lamp flame.

“No change in the Angelstone,” he said, as the facets reflected the yellowish glow.

“If anything the trace of darkness has grown fainter. It's almost as if we're moving farther away from the daemon,” she said, puzzled.

“Or it's moving away from us.” Jagu carefully unscrewed the head of his Staff and slid out the cylinder concealed inside.

Celestine watched Jagu check the brittle fragments of the ancient Staff, making sure that the delicate golden wire binding them together had not become dislodged.

“And the irony is that, thanks to the Emperor's conquests, it's never been easier to enter Azhkendir.” Jagu gently slid the precious relic back and secured the end of the tube. “I never thought I'd have any reason to be grateful to the Tielens, but they've already made the ports and roads much safer for travelers.”

“As long as they don't suspect us.” Celestine drew her feet up onto the narrow bed, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Of what? We're members of the Francian church, here on pilgrimage. What's suspicious about that?”

“Let's not underestimate the Tielen agents. Have you noticed, Jagu? News travels remarkably fast in this new empire.” She had been thinking about this during the long sea voyage.

“Tielen is a remarkably efficient nation. Their communications network functions far better than ours.”

“Suspiciously better. We're still dependent on carrier pigeons and swift horses.”

“And your theory?” Jagu sounded drowsy. Maybe the local beer was more potent than he was accustomed to.

“My father's invention. The one Kaspar Linnaius stole. The Vox Aethyria,” she whispered. “The device that enables the human voice to be carried hundreds of miles through the air. If only we could find out…”

“Lend me your cloak.”

“What are you doing, Jagu?”

“Just making sure we're not disturbed.” He rolled up her cloak and inserted the precious metal cylinder in the middle. Then he lay down by the door, pillowing his head on the bundle. “Now that we're ashore, we'll have to take precautions to make sure they don't try to rob us in the night.”

She stared at him. “You can't go to sleep down there,” she said after a few minutes. “There's a howling draft. Your back will be so stiff by morning that you won't be able to move.”

“I'm fine.” He turned on his side, away from her, and snuffed out the lamp wick. Why did he have to be so stubborn?

“Listen to the wind. Such a lonely sound. There's nothing out there but the sea and the night.” Suddenly she felt so small, so vulnerable, an insignificant grain of sand blown along on the fast-flowing current of time. “We're so far from anywhere here, on the edge of the known world. If you get sick, how can I carry on this mission alone?” she said into the darkness. He did not answer. “I'm cold.” Which was true. “I need my cloak. What's the harm in sharing the bed? It's not as if we're going to take our clothes off and lie naked together. It's just to keep warm.”

She heard him sit up. He let out a sigh. Next moment she felt the wooden frame creak, then shudder as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Move over,” he said in resigned tones. He wrapped her cloak around her, then lay down beside her. She snuggled down, her earlier sense of desolation melting away in the warm shadow of his long, lean body. The bed was so narrow it was impossible to lie side by side without touching.

“Jagu?” she said softly. All she heard was his breathing: slow, regular, reassuringly soothing.
Asleep already? Or just feigning it?
She closed her eyes, smiling to herself in the darkness.

The sharp light of dawn pierced the cracks in the shutters. Jagu opened his eyes. For a moment he lost all sense of where he was, aware only of an unfamiliar feeling of warmth and contentment. Then he saw the golden head lying so close to his.

Gently yet swiftly, he drew back his arm which in sleep he had unconsciously, protectively, wound around her. She was so deeply asleep that she only murmured like a dreaming child, nestling closer to him. She must have cuddled up to him in the night, instinctively drawn to the warmth of his body.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, gazing down at her as she slept on, oblivious to his presence. The urge to touch those tousled strands of golden hair was almost too much to endure.

His hand crept out, hovering over her.

What am I doing? Surely I'm old enough now to control these urges! It's not as if I'm still a boy, cursed with wet dreams.

“You awake, Father?” The innkeeper's shrill voice called. He started, hastily withdrawing his hand. “Chaikin's ready to leave!”

“We'll be down right away,” he called back.

“I want a bath,” grumbled Celestine, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “I stink of travel. So do you,” she added pointedly.

“They have communal bathhouses in Azhkendir,” Jagu said, suspecting that she was trying to provoke him. “If you went in with me,
Celestin,
it wouldn't be long before—”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

Celestine had no option but to settle for a perfunctory wash in a bucket of ice-cold well water that left her gasping but fully awake.
Will I ever get properly clean again?
Perhaps after a while, they would become used to the smell of each other's unwashed bodies.

She and Jagu chewed their way through a bowl apiece of gritty, glutinous porridge. Then they fetched their belongings and followed the old fisherman down a narrow, crumbling cliff path to the rocky shore far below.

They had to wade out through the freezing tide to reach Chaikin's fishing boat, which lay at anchor in the little inlet.

“Wind's a fresh northeasterly this morning,” Chaikin told Jagu as he helped them clamber aboard. “Can your boy make himself useful? I could do with a couple of extra hands.”

“We'll both help out,” Celestine heard Jagu say as he stowed their bags and the precious Staff beneath an old piece of sailcloth. “Surely you don't sail her single-handed?” Jagu added as he pulled on the ropes to raise the boat's mainsail, a triangular expanse of canvas.

“When I drop you off at Seal Cove, farther up the coast, I'll be picking up my grandson.” Chaikin jabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, then clamped it back between his teeth.

“Do you take many pilgrims to the monastery?”

“Not anymore. Not since the Arkhel Clan was slaughtered by Lord Volkh.” Chaikin removed his pipe and spat. “Maybe that'll all change now.”

Jagu brought out a notebook and did little pencil sketches of the contours of the coast, marking the inlets and bays they passed. Celestine noticed that the raw northerly wind had brought a touch of color to his pale complexion; his cheeks and nose were red with the cold. She felt her own nose running and wiped it on her sleeve, as she had often seen the choirboys do at the cathedral in Lutèce. She saw him look at her in horror and stuck out her tongue at him.

“Seals!” Chaikin yelled, pointing with his pipe. Celestine forgot her own discomfort, gripping the side of the boat. Several sleek greybrown
heads were bobbing up and down between the waves, watching them. The fierce salt wind blowing her hair into her eyes, she followed their antics with delight as they swam effortlessly past through the choppy waters.

“There's a colony out on one of the Drakhaon's Spines.” Chaikin pointed again to the line of jagged rocks protruding out of the sea; from their vantage point they looked remarkably like the back of a great dragon emerging from the waves.

“A word of advice for you, Father,” Chaikin was saying to Jagu. “If you keep to the Pilgrims’ Road through the forest, you'll find your way to Saint Serzhei's. The brothers mark certain trees every year to show the way. There are shrines and pilgrims’ wells of clean water to make sure you're on the right route. But don't wander off the path. Wild boar and wolves often come down from the Kharzhgylls in winter, looking for food. Oh, and the robbers…”