Flight Into Darkness (45 page)

“And you'd like me to go to look for them?”

“Our agents in Francia have just informed me that Ilsevir of Allegonde is to succeed Enguerrand. Until now, Allegonde has remained neutral. But those damned religious fanatics, the Rosecoeurs, have just appointed Ilsevir their patron.”

This was unexpected news. Linnaius knew now why Eugene looked so troubled. Allegonde and Francia united would be a considerable threat to the stability of the new Empire.

“This tidal wave,” Eugene said. “Could it have anything to do with what happened at the Serpent Gate?”

Linnaius's thoughts had been running along the same lines. “It's possible that the tremendous surge of power that destroyed the Gate set off a volcanic eruption. Which, in turn, caused the wave to sweep through the Azure Ocean.”

Eugene fell silent at this suggestion.

“You mustn't blame yourself,” Linnaius said, anticipating what the Emperor was thinking. “If you hadn't closed the Serpent Gate, Nagazdiel would have come through into our world. And the consequences of such an act…”

“Even so…” Eugene said. Then he seemed to shrug it aside. “But you must rest before you set out, old friend.”

Linnaius managed a smile. “Do I look so very frail?”

Eugene came over to him, kneeling before his chair to look earnestly into his eyes. “You've already done so much for me and my family. If it weren't for Astasia, I wouldn't be asking this of you …”

“I understand.”

“How I shall ever make it up to her if Andrei is lost a second time…” Linnaius saw a brief shadow of desperation cross the Emperor's face. He knew all too well what Eugene was leaving unsaid.

Astasia woke suddenly, listening intently in the darkness. A drowsy little moan came from the crib beside the bed. Ever since Rostevan's abduction, she had refused to let him sleep in the nursery, preferring to keep him close. Her decision had incurred the disapproval of the elder courtiers and especially her mother, Sofiya, who constantly reminded her that she was spoiling him and would regret it when he grew older.

The baby let out another little cry and moved restlessly, setting the crib rocking.
He must be dreaming.

Eugene lay beside her, deeply asleep. She looked at her husband in fond exasperation, wondering how he could sleep so soundly and not be disturbed by his son's cries.

Light from the setting moon flooded the bedchamber, and Astasia went rigid as its glimmer revealed a shadowy figure standing by Rostevan's crib.

“Who's there?” she whispered. The silver-grey light brightened and she recognized the pallid features of Valery Vassian. “V—
Valery?” She must be dreaming too, she was sure of it, for Valery was dead; he had given his life protecting her and Rostevan from Andrei's Drakhaoul.

“Help me, Astasia.”
His haunted, sunken eyes stared imploringly at her as he moved closer to her bedside.

Astasia instinctively made the sign to ward off evil.

“What do you want?” Her voice trembled.

“
I don't belong here anymore… yet I can't seem to find my way back…
” Terrified as she was by his appearance, his words were so desolate, so despairing, that her heart filled with pity.

“Back? To where?”

The moonlight began to fade and with it, his spectral form began to fade away too.

“Valery, wait!”

Rostevan, hearing the fear in his mother's voice, woke up and began to wail. Astasia pushed back the covers and ran to him, picking him up and rocking him against her. “There, there, baby, he's gone, it's all right now.”

“What on earth's the matter?” came an exasperated voice from the bed. “Who's gone?”

And Astasia, to her shame, burst into tears.

“Dearest girl, you must have been dreaming.” Eugene stroked her hair and, even though she pressed close against him, finding comfort in his warmth, his words did not reassure her in the least. “Waking dreams can seem very realistic.”

She shook her head. “I know I was awake. And he was in such distress, Eugene. How can I help him? Should we call a priest to perform an exorcism?”

“Let's not act too hastily,” Eugene said soothingly. “We don't want to cause unnecessary alarm.”

“You still don't believe me!”

“There are members of Valery's family in your entourage, don't forget. What would his sister say if she heard what you were planning to do? Don't you think it would cause her distress?”

As always, Eugene had a valid reason to support his point of view. Perhaps she was overreacting. She had not been sleeping well of late, lying awake for hours, worrying about Andrei.

But if her brother was dead, wouldn't it have been his ghost that had appeared at her bedside, and not Valery's?

* * * 

There was still no word from Linnaius. Eugene read through dispatch after dispatch from his agents and captains in the southern quadrant, impatiently discarding one after the other. Nothing but sad news of wrecked cargo ships, devastated villages, ruined spice harvests, and starving villagers. He had instructed Admiral Janssen of the Southern Fleet to supply whatever aid he and his men could to the survivors: food, blankets, and plenty of tools to start rebuilding.

That evening there had been a little concert in the music room, followed by
lansquenet
and
tric-trac;
Astasia and her ladies-in-waiting took pleasure in these diversions and it reassured Eugene to see her enjoying herself. But he had left early, rescued by the timely appearance of Gustave, bearing a fresh batch of intelligence. Now it was past midnight; the courtiers had retired, the palace had fallen silent and his eyelids were drooping…

“Why have you changed the colors in this room, Eugene? We chose them, together, remember?”

Eugene's heart seemed to stutter to a halt. “Margret?” In the dim light the slim figure turned around and he saw his first wife gazing at him from eyes dark as shadow.

“You said you wanted the colors of marguerites, to…”

“To match your name,” he said hoarsely.

“
My Eugene, the bluff soldier, struggling to master the subtleties of interior design.
” An endearing little smile lit her wan face.

“And you teased me mercilessly.” He couldn't help smiling too, at the memory.

“But in my heart, I loved you even more for trying because you wanted to make me happy. The painted paper was so pretty: sprigs of daisies on a fresh white background. Green, white, yellow. I liked to sit and read in here; even in winter the light tones reminded me of summer…
”

“How can I be talking to you, Margret? Did I fall asleep at my desk? Are you part of my dream?” Eugene was convinced that he would wake up at any moment.

“
I don't know what I'm doing here…
” Her voice trailed away as she wandered aimlessly around the room. He felt a chill descend on his heart as a gust of cold, dusty wind blew through the study.
“It's all so different. So… wrong.
” She began to shiver, wrapping her
arms around her as if to keep out the cold. The light faded, tinged with a dingy taint of grey, as if a film of dust had descended between them.
“Help me, Eugene.”
She turned to stare at him. “
I don't belong here. But I don't know how to find my way back…
” She looked so frail, so insubstantial, that she could have been a skeletal leaf blown in on the fitful wind.

The lantern flame illuminating Eugene's desk guttered and died. In the darkness, he fumbled for the tinder to relight the wick. By the time he had succeeded, there was no trace of Margret.

So I must have been dreaming after all.
Yet he still felt shaken. He wanted to remember Margret as she was depicted in her portrait: happy, smiling, and carefree. Not the confused, lost apparition his tired brain had conjured.

He yawned widely until his jaw cracked. Time to sleep.
I will accomplish nothing useful tonight; better to rise early and refreshed.
He lifted the last dispatch to file it with the others and, to his surprise, saw a fine dust fall onto his polished desktop from the papers. He touched it, raising his fingertips to examine it: tiny granules of a grey, sandy grit.

As he tiptoed into the bedchamber so as not to wake Rostevan, he saw that a night-light burned on Astasia's side of the great canopied bed. She must be so engrossed in the latest novel from her favorite writer that she had stayed awake to finish it.

“Eugene? Is that you?” She was sitting up in bed, clutching the covers to her.

“Who else would it be?”

“
He
was here again. Valery.” Her violet eyes were wide and dark with fear. “I'm afraid, Eugene. Something is wrong. Very wrong…”

CHAPTER 11

Girim nel Ghislain's brisk footfall echoed high into the painted dome of the Basilica as he made his way to Elesstar's Shrine. At this hour of twilight, between services, there were few worshippers around, although from the glimmer of many votive candles, there had obviously been plenty of pilgrims passing through the shrine earlier. A pale-haired young Rosecoeur Guerrier detached himself from the shadows of the entrance grille and saluted.

“I came as soon as I could, Korentan,” Girim said, returning the salute. “Show me.”

Inside the shrine, a soft glow of candles illumined every marble niche and alcove. The priceless statue of Elesstar lay in the heart of the shrine, bathed in the pearly light. But as Girim came closer, he saw that the flawless white marble showed patches of discoloration, as if the saint's sculpted body had become corrupt and was decaying from within.

“What can have caused this deterioration? Has anyone disobeyed the prince's command?” He had asked Prince Ilsevir to issue a decree forbidding worshippers to lay even a finger on the statue. He had seen too many precious relics worn away by the fervent kisses and caresses of the faithful.

“We've kept the pilgrims at a distance, Captain.”

Bewildered, Girim walked around the statue. “Then I have no idea, no idea at all…” He came back to Korentan. “Has anyone made any comment? What have you heard?”

“The candlelight helps to maintain the illusion, just as you suggested
, Captain. As long as they file past the grille and don't come any closer, they don't seem to notice. Yet.”

“Why is she decaying, Girim?” Prince Ilsevir demanded. “This is Bel'Esstar,
her
city.”

“One must remember, highness,” Girim said soothingly, “that it is a statue, not Elesstar's mortal remains, that we are discussing.”

“Ah, but one can't help but notice the horrible semblance of putrefaction,” Ilsevir said with a fastidious shudder. “People will talk. People will begin to say that the air of our city is not wholesome. That there is something rotten at the heart of Allegonde. And they will point to me, Girim. We've already had a disastrous plague-ridden summer. And now my beloved Adèle is ailing. She's already miscarried once. We can't afford any more bad luck.”

“What are you implying, highness?”

“Haven't you heard the rumors?” The prince was so agitated that he began to pace the chapel. “Even though you tried to hush up the affair, the people have not forgotten the four Guerriers who were struck down here at the inauguration ceremony. There's talk at court and on the streets of the city that the statue is cursed.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” said Girim, forcing a laugh.

“They're saying that she should be returned to Ondhessar.”

Girim could feel the prince's gaze on him, assessing his reaction to the suggestion.

“I believe it's nothing but the effects of the damp air on the marble. As you said yourself, highness, it's been an unusually humid summer.” Girim knew Ilsevir well; the capricious prince was all too easily swayed by the opinions of his ministers and favorites. “I have invited two experts, a sculptor and a mason, to take a look at her. With your approval, I would like to offer them some kind of incentive to stay discreet about the whole affair.”

“And where are they, these experts?”

To Girim's relief, young Korentan reappeared, followed by two civilians; both men bowed low to the prince. Ilsevir then proceeded to pace the chapel as they began their examination of the statue, only adding to Girim's growing sense of disquiet.

The Basilica clock chimed out the hour, then the quarter, each stroke making the building resonate dully. Eventually the experts finished their examination and approached the prince. From their expressions, Girim knew that the prognosis was not good.

“I've never seen anything like this before, highness,” said the mason, scratching his bearded chin. “The statue appears to be decaying from within. And yet I can't find any fissure or crack where rainwater could have penetrated the marble.”

“And I can assure you that the statue was thoroughly protected from the elements when we transported it here.” Girim felt obliged to repeat this fact to reassure himself that he and his men had taken scrupulous care of the statue, especially during the sea crossing.

“How long before she starts to crumble away?” Ilsevir asked. The bluntness of the prince's question surprised Girim; Ilsevir was not usually so direct in his dealings with people.