Flight Into Darkness (21 page)

“I had some notion, yes,” Astasia said, fiddling with her wig. “I know that he has placed certain wards on the palace here and its grounds to protect us from harm.”

“But were you also aware,” and Celestine dropped her voice, “of his other talents? Or that his title is not a fanciful conceit? He is a wind mage, able to bend the winds to his will.”

“I had no idea!”

Celestine could not see the Empress's expression clearly but she noticed that her hands had fallen away from the wig.

“In the conflict between Francia and Tielen, your husband's father, Prince Karl, won a decisive victory over my countrymen in a sea battle off the Saltyk Peninsula. At the height of the battle, a terrible storm broke and many of the Francian fleet were blown into the rocks.”

“The seas around the Saltyk Peninsula can be treacherously unpredictable,” Astasia said lightly, taking off the heavy wig and replacing it on its stand, “even in the best of weather.”

“And Prince Karl was Kaspar Linnaius's patron.”

“I don't think we should be talking of this, Celestine…”

I can't stop now; she must hear it all.
“Your brother's ship, the
Sirin,
went down in a storm that blew up out of nowhere. On a calm, moonlit night.”

There came a loud rap on the door. Someone rattled the door handle.

“Imperial highness!” It was Countess Lovisa's voice. “Why is your door bolted?”

“I'm in dishabille!” Astasia beckoned Celestine to the fireplace. She pressed the marble acanthus leaf on the right and as a panel slowly slid into the wall, Celestine heard the grating of hidden machinery.

“A secret passageway?”

Astasia's voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm desperate to hear more, but it's best if you leave now. I'm certain that Lovisa has been spying on me. We mustn't arouse her suspicions.”

“I understand.” Celestine bent low to enter the secret passage.

“It opens onto the shrubbery near the Orangery, but be careful there is no one about to see you.”

“With so many people around for the ball, it won't be difficult to disappear into the crowd.”

“Nadezhda will have the costumes delivered to your lodgings.”

“Are you dressed yet, highness?” called a voice from the corridor.

Astasia gave a little groan. “Lovisa again. Go.”

She touched the acanthus leaf again and the panel slid to, leaving Celestine in the dark of the secret passageway, frustrated that the prying countess had interrupted their conversation before she had finished warning Astasia about the Magus.

“Are all the arrangements made?” Andrei's eyes were dark-shadowed as if he had not slept.

“The
Melusine
is waiting at Haeven to take you to safety in Francia, highness,” said Jagu. “We have a cabin prepared for your sister too, should she choose to leave with you.”

“I can't bear to think of her sharing that man's bed a moment longer.” Andrei rose and began to pace the little room restlessly.

Jagu exchanged a surreptitious glance with Celestine. Both were aware how risky a game they were playing and the strain of waiting was obviously beginning to tell on Andrei. Jagu had already had enough of humoring the Muscobite prince's unpredictable mood swings but was unwilling—for reasons he couldn't quite define—to leave Andrei and Celestine alone together.

“Delivery from the palace for Demoiselle de Joyeuse!” called the
innkeeper. A moment later, he came puffing up the stairs, carrying a wicker hamper.

“Costumes!” Celestine flung open the lid and pulled out the silky flounces of the shepherdess's dress, followed by breeches and a silken jacket of the same powder blue.

“Wigs,” announced the innkeeper, reappearing to deposit two boxes. Celestine took out a white-powdered wig and presented it to Andrei.

“You can't mean I have to wear this?” His dismayed expression was so comical that she burst into delighted laughter. “But I'll look like a
travest
!
”

“So will everyone else. And your true identity will be hidden under this mask.” She placed the gilded mask over his face, tying the laces behind his ears. A slip of paper fluttered out and Jagu bent to retrieve it, trying to hide his disapproving expression. Was she consciously flirting with Andrei? He didn't like the way she was behaving so familiarly with him.

“It's addressed to you, Celestine.” He handed her the note, stony-faced. “It's from the Empress.”

The Empress was sitting at the keyboard when Celestine was admitted to the music room. But as Celestine rose from her curtsy, she realized that the Empress was silently weeping, a lace handkerchief pressed against her lips as though to hold in the sobs.

“Why, imperial highness, whatever is wrong?” Celestine said in her warmest, most sympathetic tones. She had begun to hate herself for having to play so cruelly on Astasia's feelings.

“I—I was prepared to forgive Eugene many things,” Astasia said at last, dabbing at her eyes. “No one can reach his position without making enemies. But I couldn't sleep last night thinking of what you told me…” A fresh flow of tears stifled her words.

The sight of Astasia's face all red and blotched from crying only increased Celestine's sense of guilt. “Forgive me, highness, but are you referring to—?”

“The Magus. The sinking of the
Sirin.
How could Eugene have sanctioned such a thing? Muscobar wasn't even at war with Tielen when she went down in the Straits.”

“It may be that the Magus acted alone for the good of Tielen… or to gain favor with your husband. The Emperor himself may have
known nothing about the consequences of the storm until the news broke and it was too late to do anything.”

“I only wish I could believe it to be so. But Eugene had everything to gain from my brother's death. I don't know if I can trust him anymore.” Astasia was so distressed that her tears began to flow unchecked. Celestine felt so sorry for the young woman that she forgot court protocol and put her arms around her.

Dievona's Night arrived and the carriages of the illustrious guests began to roll through the village, heading toward the Swanholm estate. Celestine hired the innkeeper's daughter to act as her maid and help her with the intricate fastenings of the boned bodice and pannier over-skirts of the shepherdess's costume. Tightly laced, she sat before her traveling mirror, making small adjustments to her wig so that not a single golden hair could escape and betray her identity. And she wondered if the Empress was feeling as apprehensive as she at that moment. She had developed a genuine liking for the Empress over the past days; Astasia had accepted her unquestioningly, treating her as a friend. “And a friend is a luxury that I haven't been able to afford for so very long,” she said softly to her white-wigged reflection.

“Are you ready, Celestine?” Jagu called. “Your carriage is waiting.”

“Coming.” Celestine draped a black velvet cloak over her costume, took up her gilded mask, and went out onto the landing to find Jagu waiting for her. His eyes widened as he gazed at the beribboned vision in powder-blue satin.

“Does it suit me?” She performed a little pirouette for him, unable to hold back delighted laughter as she held the mask to her face, peering at him teasingly.

“It's certainly… different from your usual style of dress.” He seemed at a loss for words.

“Ah, but can you be sure it's really me? I might be her imperial highness—”

He caught her by one lace-gloved hand. “How can you take this so lightly, Celestine? This isn't a charade. Forget the pretty costumes and the masks. Never forget that you're a foreign agent. If you're caught impersonating the Empress, it will mean imprisonment— maybe even execution.”

She stared at him. The expression in his dark eyes was severe to the point of disapproval. Why didn't he trust her? “Lightly?” she repeated, hurt. “If you think—”

“Demoiselle.” She turned to see Andrei in a suit of matching blue satin, his black curls hidden beneath his white-powdered wig. “How charming you look. Shall we go?” He offered her his arm and she placed her hand on it.

“I won't be there to back you up if anything goes wrong,” Jagu muttered as she swept past him down the stairs. “Please be careful.”

CHAPTER 9

“What is your will, Lord Arkhan?”

Oranir prostrated himself before Sardion. Beside him, Lord Estael, Magisters Aqil and Tilath, also bowed down.
So few of us left now, since Rieuk was lost in the Rift…

“King Enguerrand of Francia is on his way to Ondhessar.” There was a tremor of excitement in the Arkhan's voice. “He is on a pilgrimage, with only a small retinue of guards. I want you to assassinate him.”

Lord Estael raised his head. “Lord Arkhan, is that wise? Such an act, on Djihari soil, could bring the most terrible retribution on you and your people.”

“You dare to question my judgment, Estael?” The cold anger in Sardion's voice made Oranir flinch.

“I do.” Estael gazed up at his royal master. “Why risk so much when we can achieve the same results by more subtle means?”

“And what means are you referring to?” Sardion stood over Estael, arms folded.

“You may remember we used a slow and subtle poison to eliminate Enguerrand's father, Gobain,” said Magister Aqil.

“Slow? The king is only here to pay a brief visit to the shrine.”

“We know from our intelligence that Enguerrand has never enjoyed good health,” Estael said.

“Then one of you must infiltrate the king's entourage. You, Aqil.”

“Not I!” said Aqil. “The Francian Guerriers have seen my face before; I can't risk jeopardizing the mission.” He turned to Oranir. “But
you will go in my stead. You were my apprentice for six years; you are better trained in physic than most western physicians.”

Oranir had been staring at the floor, praying that they would not select him. He heard Aqil's words with a sinking feeling. “But won't they suspect me?”

“You've traveled abroad, you must have learned something about the Francians in that time. You're an excellent choice,” said Estael.

“But, Lord Est—” Oranir began, but Estael silenced him with a look.

Oranir just managed to hold his tongue until they had left the Arkhan's apartments. But as soon as they had been escorted to the main gates of the palace, he could not restrain himself any longer.

“Why does the Arkhan wield so much power over us? Why did none of you dare to stand up to him? Only Rieuk had the courage to defy him, and what did we do? We turned our backs on him, abandoning him to his death in the Rift. We betrayed—”

“Quiet!” Estael turned on him with such a forbidding look that Oranir left his sentence unfinished. “Even out here his spies are watching, listening.”

The great sandstone walls of the ancient fortress of Ondhessar towered above the king of Francia's entourage as they neared their goal. Enguerrand, his head and face loosely covered in a burnous, Djihari-style, to protect him from the stinging sand, gazed up in awed silence at the ancient citadel. At his side, Ruaud de Lanvaux gazed too, his heart heavy with memories. He had been not much older than Enguerrand when he had fought his way into Ondhessar and been the first to discover Saint Azilia's hidden shrine. The stairs and courtyards had been slippery with blood; the whole fortress had reeked of death and sorcery. In the desperate battle, the Commanderie had been forced to employ two of their precious Angelstones to defeat the black arts of the magi of Ondhessar.

Now the Allegondan Commanderie, the Rosecoeurs, had command of Ondhessar. It was humiliating to have to ask their permission to visit the shrine.

“How long is it since you were last here, Maistre?” Enguerrand was asking him.

Ruaud had been lost in his recollections of the past. “Well over twenty years…”

“Just after I was born, then?”

Ruaud nodded, realizing that he must seem extremely old to Enguerrand. “We tore down the Arkhan's standard and hoisted our Commanderie flags that day.” His vision was drawn upward into the burning blue of the sky to where the crimson banners of the Rosecoeurs hung limply from the flagpoles, not stirring for want of a breeze. A bird of prey was slowly circling high above the towers of the fortress, so faint against the brilliant sky that it seemed to his dazzled eyes as evanescent as a wisp of smoke.

“Why is Captain nel Macey making his majesty wait in this intolerable heat?” Ruaud demanded, turning around in the saddle to see if there was any sign of activity.

The great gates began to open with a grinding sound. The captain came striding out, followed by a column of Rosecoeur Guerriers, who lined up to form an honor guard for the king.

“I apologize for making you wait, sire,” nel Macey said, bowing, “but we had intelligence of a possible attempt on your life. Let me offer you and your men some refreshment…”

The shrine is just a hollow shell without Azilis's presence.
Ruaud, arms folded, stood watching Enguerrand's rapt expression. It brought back to him something of the burning excitement he had felt when, wounded and exhausted, he had first discovered the hidden cavern.

But then
she
had been here. Her ethereal voice had drawn him. Even if her singing had only been a natural phenomenon, currents of desert wind sighing through hidden vents, setting the crystals in the cave vibrating, it had lifted his weariness, making him forget the pain of his wounds. All that was left in the shrine were the ancient frescos and a gaping alcove where once the statue of Azilis had stood, a white apparition carved from translucent and flawless marble.