Flight Into Darkness (50 page)

“We have proof, your highness.”

Adèle turned her head away, determined not to listen to Maistre Donatien any longer; he was her mother's confidant and, she was certain now, not to be trusted.

“Official mourning for Enguerrand will end in a week's time,” said Aliénor. Adèle stared at the floor. How could her mother speak so calmly and coldly about her son's death? Even hearing the words had brought the tears to her eyes again and she was fighting to hold them back, willing herself not to weep in front of Aliénor and the ministers.

There came a sudden clatter of hooves outside and the sound of shouting shattered the awkward silence.

“I demand to see my cousin! Let me through!”

The great doors at the far end of the Salle des Chevaliers burst open. The guards thrust their halberds across the opening, creating a barrier. A grey-haired, broad-shouldered man strained against them.

Aliénor rose. “Raimon?” she said in a voice sharp as steel. “What are you doing here?”

Ilsevir retreated behind his wife's chair. “Who is this rude man?” he whispered nervously in her ear.

“The Duc de Provença,” Adèle whispered back. She had not seen her father's cousin in many years.

“Where's my daughter? Where is Aude?” bellowed the duke.

“Captain, would you be so good as to let the duke through?” Aliénor said to the captain of her guards.

“First you tell me, Aliénor, that Aude has run away to Serindher with your son.” Raimon de Provença strode toward the dais, loudly enumerating his grievances. “Second comes the news of this tidal wave or typhoon. And then—here are the Prince and Princess of Allegonde, and talk of a coronation. I need to know: Is my daughter alive or dead?”

The raised voices, the growing sense of unbearable tension, mingled with grief for her brother and fatigue after the journey… Suddenly the salle began to swim before Adèle's eyes. She heard Ilsevir cry out her name. And then a roaring sound, as if of an incoming tide, rose to drown out everything else and she went under into blackness.

* * * 

“Have you been eating properly?”

Adèle closed her eyes wearily as her mother started on one of her lectures again. “A glass of strong red wine a day, with a spoonful of phosphorus, will be good for your constitution. We can't have you fainting at the coronation. And we need you for the fitting of the robes tomorrow.”

“Yes, Madame…” If only Maman would let her alone to rest.

“She looks very peaky, Ilsevir. I'd like my physician to take a look at her.”

“I'm sure Adèle is just fatigued after the journey,” she heard Ilsevir say and smiled to herself, touched that he had dared to defend her against her mother. If only he would stay and talk with her. He was spending so much time these days with Girim nel Ghislain and the clerics that she felt neglected.

“Nevertheless, I'm going to call in Doctor Vallot.”

“Vallot? In spite of all his experience, he couldn't save my father.” In the shocked silence that followed, Adèle realized that she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

“Well, I must go and meet with Maistre Donatien,” said Ilsevir, retreating hastily.

“They just stood there,” said Adèle when he had gone. “They stood in silence. Watching.”

“What
are
you babbling about? Are you feverish?” said Aliénor sharply.

“The people. They don't want Ilsevir as king. They don't want Francia and Allegonde to be united.”

“What do they care as long as the taxes don't rise too high and there's enough bread to fill their bellies? Francia alone is weak, but Francia and Allegonde united present a strong front to resist the Emperor.”

Adèle lay back, knowing there was no point in arguing with her mother. But Aliénor was blind. That silent protest was a sign of a deeper malaise. Resentment was brewing in the city and could erupt at any moment into open rebellion.

The morning of the coronation, the skies filled with clouds and rain began to fall over Lutèce.

“What luck we chose the closed carriage,” said Ilsevir, gazing out at the raindrops running down the windows.

“Yes,” said Adèle. She felt sad and subdued. Was the wet weather an ill omen? “You look lovely,” Ilsevir said softly.

“Do I?” She looked at him, surprised yet touched by the compliment. “Thank you.” All the while her ladies had been dressing her in the heavy gown of blue and gold brocade, the colors of Francia, her mind had been elsewhere, wondering why she, of all the three children of Gobain and Aliénor, should be the only one still alive.

As they climbed down from the carriage, equerries hurried forward to shield them from the rain. Adèle noticed how few had gathered outside the cathedral to cheer for their new king and queen. An honor guard lined their way up the wide steps and into the cathedral: all Allegondan Rosecoeurs, she noted sadly.

And then a fanfare blared out to announce their arrival and the long procession set off. Adèle sighed. Everything in the gloomy, drafty cathedral reminded her of what she had lost: a father and two beloved elder brothers.

If only you were here to sing for me, Celestine. I think I could endure this with fortitude if I could hear your sweet voice and know you were here to cheer my spirits afterward…

“Ready, my dearest?” Ilsevir whispered and, looking up at him, she saw how pale he looked. She had been so bound up in her own feelings that she had neglected to notice that her husband was suffering from nerves. Ilsevir needed her support as never before. She put the past from her mind and smiled bravely up at him as she placed her hand firmly on his.

“I'm ready,” she said.

CHAPTER 17

Jagu disembarked at the Mirom docks under a yellow-grey sky that threatened more snow. The crew had already begun to unload casks of wine from the hold, rolling them down onto the quayside with much raucous shouting and swearing. Merchants from Khitari in their high-collared jackets had gathered in a huddle to check on boxes of tea, and an argument suddenly broke out as one discovered a fractured seal. Wagons clattered over the cobbles, as traders in fur coats and fur-trimmed hats arrived to haggle over the
Dame Blanche's
cargo.

The sea journey to Mirom had taken much longer than Jagu had anticipated. Winter storms in the Straits had twice driven Captain Peillac to seek shelter in little ports on the western coast of Muscobar. Cut off from any news, Jagu had fretted away his time ashore, even setting out to travel overland by sleigh. But severe blizzards inland drove him back to the ship. By the time they reached the Nieva estuary, the river had frozen over and they had to wait for channels to be cut through the thick winter ice by Tielen ships with specially designed metal prows.

Having secured lodgings, Jagu presented himself at the Francian Embassy. While he was waiting in the entrance hall, he couldn't help noticing that all the ambassador's staff were wearing black mourning bands.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Lieutenant de Rustéphan.” An earnest-faced young man came out to greet him, ushering him swiftly into his office. “My name is Roget de Corméry, secretary to Ambassador d'Abrissard.”

“Has the ambassador suffered a bereavement?” Jagu asked, seeing that Corméry was also wearing a mourning band.

“My dear lieutenant, haven't you heard the terrible news? The king has been lost at sea.”

Jagu stared at him, dumbfounded.

“It seems that his majesty was visiting a distant mission in Serindher when a tidal wave or typhoon struck. The reports are still vague. And it's rumored—but please may I count on your discretion here—that Prince Andrei may have been with him.”

“First Maistre de Lanvaux, now the king?” All the time Jagu had been trapped by the weather, he had been cut off from news of the outside world. “Are there any orders for me from the Forteresse?” he asked, trying to focus on his mission.

“A letter of credit has been sent through from the Commanderie treasurer to cover your expenses. And his Excellency asked me to ensure …”

Enguerrand was dead? Jagu hardly heard what Corméry was saying; he was trying to come to terms with the news. The last he had heard was that the king had been abducted by a Drakhaoul—so to have survived that assault only to succumb to the treacherous elements seemed the cruelest of fates.

“You'll need more warm clothes too.”

Jagu blinked, realizing that he had not heard a word of what Corméry was telling him.

“It may be spring in Francia, but here in Mirom, the snows can still return after the thaw.”

Jagu entered the vast nave of the Cathedral of Saint Simeon. A deep, dark chanting echoed through the incense-spiked air, sending shivers through his whole body. He had heard tell of the visceral power of the monks’ singing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw them: thirty or so long-bearded men gathered together in the golden glow of the altar candles, producing an extraordinarily deep-throated, resonant sound. He closed his eyes and let the ancient chant enshroud him. It was a music borne of the earth itself, dragged up from deep below, raw and vibrant.

Jagu found an obscure corner and knelt, silently repeating the words of the Sergian funeral service for his lost, drowned king, though in his heart, he still hoped that Enguerrand had been washed up on some little island and was waiting to be rescued.

* * * 

“How long have you known Jagu de Rustéphan, Lieutenant Guyomard?” asked Grand Maistre Donatien. Rain spattered against the windowpanes behind him; the view of the river and the quay beyond was obscured by trails of water.

“Over fifteen years; we were at Saint Argantel's Seminary together.” Kilian gazed at Donatien, wondering what lay behind such a seemingly innocent question.

“I sent the lieutenant on a mission to Muscobar in the autumn and he has not returned. I think you may have some idea what that mission was.” Donatien was still smiling, but his eyes gazed keenly back at Kilian.

“Demoiselle de Joyeuse.”

“So he told you?”

“I guessed.” Kilian could play at that game too.

“So you were close enough to know the way he thinks, acts?”

“Close enough,” Kilian said lightly.

“So why do you think he hasn't brought her back for questioning?”

Kilian stared down at his boots, noticing a spatter of mud. “Perhaps he hasn't tracked her down yet,” he muttered. “Muscobar is a big country.”

“What's most important to you, Lieutenant: your vow as a Guerrier or your friendship with Rustéphan?”

Kilian knew exactly where the questions were leading; his future career in the Commanderie would depend on his answer.

Jagu, you stupid bastard. You didn't listen to a word of my advice, did you? You've gone and thrown everything away, and all for the sake of that worthless woman.

“I value his friendship highly,” he said, “but my sacred vow must always come first.”

“And if Rustéphan had betrayed the Commanderie, how would you feel about him then?”

“Our friendship would be over. Any betrayal of the Commanderie would feel like a personal betrayal,” Kilian said stiffly.
And more so, Maistre, than you could begin to imagine.

“You have considerable potential, Kilian.” The Maistre smiled warmly at him. “I think you could go far in the Commanderie.
Changes are coming. I can see you replacing Alain Friard when he retires.”

“The captain's retiring?”

“Yes, and maybe sooner than he anticipates. Make a success of this mission, Kilian, and I will personally recommend you to the king for promotion.”

Captain Guyomard.
Kilian had to admit to himself that it had a pleasing ring to it as he hurried through the rain to the treasurer's office. And Donatien had given him carte blanche to carry out the mission using whatever means he thought appropriate.

What had love and friendship brought him? Nothing but heartache and humiliation. But promotion and the chance to become one of the men who controlled Francia? Kilian had never realized till now that he was ambitious. To rise to the top meant being ruthless, shedding old friends and allies when it was expedient to do so.

“Passage on a Mirom-bound ship for you, Lieutenant?”

“Indeed, and I'll need an extra cabin on the return journey. I'm planning to bring back an old friend of mine.”

Over the next days, Jagu found himself returning to the cathedral, drawn by the power of the monks’ singing. The Muscobites employed choirs of a cappella singers in their churches and cathedrals, eschewing the use of instruments for their religious services. There was no sign of women in the church choirs of Mirom, so Celestine could not have found employment there, unless she had entered a convent…

It was bitterly cold in the cathedral that day and Jagu sought out a tavern to warm himself. As he sat in the smoky fug, his numb fingers clasped around a mug of steaming
sbiten,
he sipped slowly, feeling the honey-spiced warmth infuse slowly through his body.

Where are you, Celestine?
She had last been seen at Lapwing Spar, the southernmost tip of Muscobar. After that, he had picked up only the vaguest of clues. A fair-haired woman matching Celestine's description had auditioned for several theaters in late autumn, just before the great darkness. After the darkness, there had been no more sightings. If she was still pursuing Kaspar Linnaius, she might have gone to Tielen weeks ago.