Flight Into Darkness (64 page)

“You're offering me consolation?” Celestine repeated, her voice raw.

“So you even reject the forgiveness of the Church?” Donatien slowly shook his head. “I see now to what depths of depravity you have sunk in your pursuit of the Forbidden Arts. I can only pray that
the cleansing flames will purge the evil from your immortal soul.” And he walked away without a backward glance.

“Take off your clothes.”

Celestine stared at the Rosecoeur Guerriers who stood over her. One threw a rough linen shift onto the cell floor beside her.

“Take off your clothes and put this on.”

What further humiliation were they going to inflict on her? She crossed her arms and said nothing, merely staring up at them defiantly.

“Or would you rather we stripped you ourselves?”

“Turn around,” she said.

“You're a Guerrier, aren't you?” said one with a thick Allegondan accent. He seized hold of her by one arm, pulling her to her feet. “Why should we treat you any differently?” He caught hold of the collar of her bodice and started to tug, ripping the fine cloth.

“How dare you!” She slapped him, hard, and he struck her, sending her tumbling to the floor.

“What are you doing in here?” That lazy drawl; it was a voice she had grown to hate. Kilian Guyomard. “Report to Captain nel Ghislain in the courtyard immediately.”

The Rosecoeurs hurried away.

“Have you come to gloat?” Celestine sat up, rubbing her bruised cheek. “It's all worked out just as you planned it, hasn't it, Kilian?”

“Listen.” He dropped to his knees beside her, whispering, “No one is going to die today. There's a plan to rescue you, but you'll have to stay alert. When the time comes, just make sure you take care of Jagu.” He handed her the shift and left the cell.

“Why?” she cried after him. “Why, Kilian?”

But all she heard was the echo of his footfalls receding into the distance.

CHAPTER 11

Hands and ankles shackled, Celestine was led out into the courtyard and forced to climb up inside a covered, partitioned prison cart—a cage on wheels. The guards pushed her to the front and pulled a heavy grille across, locking it. Crouching on hands and knees in the corner, she saw through the grille that they were dragging Jagu into the half on the other side of the partition.

“Jagu.” She crawled across the dirty boards of the cart, calling his name. The cart suddenly lurched as the four sturdy horses started off, sending her sliding back into the corner. They were passing beneath the portcullis onto the bridge connecting the island with the right bank of the Sénon.

“Celestine?”

She heard Jagu's voice from the other side of the partition, and just hearing him call her name brought tears of relief to her eyes. She set out again, shackles clunking against the boards, until she could sit with her back against the partition.

“I'm here. I'm right here, Jagu.”

She heard him lean back against the partition and felt her heart swell, knowing he was so near.

“We're going to get out of this alive,” she said, her voice low, and fierce with determination.

After being kept so long in the gloom of the cell, she found that the daylight hurt her eyes. But as she blinked up at the cloudy sky, she saw stormclouds gathering over the far horizon. “It looks like it's going to rain.”

She heard Jagu give a hard, ironic chuckle.

“If it rains hard enough, would it quench the pyre?”

“More like we'd suffocate from the smoke long before the flames were extinguished.”

“No one is going to die today.” She repeated what Kilian had promised her. But could she trust Kilian?

The cart rattled along over the cobbles, surrounded on both sides by an armed escort of Rosecoeurs. A crowd was gathering, trailing behind the cart toward the Place du Trahoir, but unlike the unruly, hostile mob who had jeered at her father and the magi of Karantec, these people were subdued and silent.

Celestine's thin linen shift was sleeveless and her feet were bare. The sky grew darker. A cold wind stirred the willows by the River Sénon. She began to shiver.

“Are you cold?” His voice was filled with concern. So like Jagu, to think of her before himself.

“If only they'd let us be together one last time,” she said. “If only they'd let us hold each other, I think I could face what's to come.”

The cart suddenly slowed, the drivers tugging on the reins.

“Halt!” The escort of Rosecoeurs marching alongside stopped. Celestine's head jerked up, trying to see what was causing the delay. Her nerves were already on edge. Ahead, at the crossroads, she spotted a patrol of Commanderie Guerriers lined up, muskets on shoulders. Their officer, his back to the cart, was arguing with the Rosecoeur lieutenant leading the escort.

“We're here to relieve you.”

“This is most irregular!”

“New orders. From the Grand Maistre. You're to go on ahead to the Place du Trahoir to guard King Ilsevir. They need more troops to control the crowd. We'll take over here.”

Celestine noticed that while the driver's attention was distracted, a Guerrier had crept around the side of the cart. The next moment, he clambered up, struck the driver over the back of the head with the butt of his musket, threw him out into the gutter, and leaped into the driver's seat.

“What in—” Celestine was flung to the floor as the cart went hurtling around the corner. Shots rang out behind them, musket balls whizzing close overhead, smashing glass panes in the houses. The onlookers shrieked and ran for cover.

“Stay down,” hissed the Guerrier over his shoulder. “Hold your fire, you idiots. You'll hit the civilians!”

“Kilian?” She peeped through the bars at the other Guerriers running alongside, providing the most ragged armed guard ever seen at an execution. The officer who had halted the procession jumped on the cart, clinging on precariously.

“Take the next street on the left!” he shouted, clambering up to sit beside Kilian.

“Viaud?” Jagu sat up.
“Kilian?”

“Did you think we were going to hand you over to the Rosecoeurs without a fight, Lieutenant?” cried Viaud.

As the cart careered wildly from side to side, people diving out from under the carthorses’ plunging hooves, Celestine wondered if they were more likely to die in a crash than on the pyre.

And then she heard another shot ring out. Viaud cried out, grabbing for the reins, tugging the cart to a halt as Kilian swayed and slumped forward.

“Kilian!” she screamed as he toppled sideways from the slowing cart and fell into the street.

Up ahead, the street was blocked by a double line of Rosecoeurs, all aiming their muskets at the oncoming cart—the front row down on one knee, as if they were an execution squad. And she recognized the officer who was blowing smoke from the end of his pistol as he began to walk slowly, almost nonchalantly, toward them.

“Philippe, stop the cart,” she begged Viaud. “I don't want any of you to die. Please. Can't you see it's hopeless? You're outnumbered.”

“Viaud, see to Kilian,” said Jagu, his voice hoarse. “That's an order.”

Viaud's shoulders slumped dejectedly as he pulled hard on the reins and the horses slowed to a stop.

“Stay precisely where you are, Lieutenant Viaud,” said Captain nel Ghislain, “or I tell my men to fire.” He reached the side of the cart where Kilian had fallen, facedown. Celestine, peering out through the bars, saw him place his foot against Kilian's body and roughly flip him over onto his back. Blood was fast welling from the bullet wound at the base of Kilian's neck and spreading beneath him, reddening the puddle in which he lay. From his pallor, she feared he might be past help. But then she heard Kilian give the faintest of groans. Ghislain crouched down beside him, pressing the second unfired pistol to his forehead.

“What little game were you playing at, Lieutenant Guyomard?” he asked.

Kilian's lips twisted into an insolent little grin. “Just amusing… myself…” He coughed and blood began to trickle from the side of his mouth.

“Help him,” Celestine begged. “At least stop the bleeding—”

“Help a traitor? I think not.” Ghislain turned to his Rosecoeurs. “Arrest these Guerriers. I'll take the prisoners on to the Place du Trahoir myself.”

“Kilian.” Jagu's voice, low, intense, came from the other side of the cart. “I'll never forget this. Not as long as I live, I swear.”

“We may see each other sooner … than you think…” Kilian's last words were abruptly cut off as he began to choke convulsively. As Ghislain took the reins from Viaud and urged the cart onward, Celestine caught one final glimpse of Kilian, his fast-leaking blood staining the muddy cobbles bright red.

As the cart turned into the Place du Trahoir, Celestine felt her courage fall away at the sight she remembered from childhood: the wooden stake, surrounded by bales of hay and logs, piled high. A dais had been erected at a suitable distance from the pyres and she could see her judges sitting there, waiting as if they were about to witness a musical performance, not an execution. Donatien and Visant were seated on either side of King Ilsevir and the Queen Mother. There was no sign of Adèle.

It's just my old nightmare again. In a moment I'm going to wake up and everything's going to be all right.

Captain nel Ghislain brought the cart to a standstill in front of the dais. Guerriers of the Inquisition stood alongside, bearing torches whose flames burned pale in the cloudy light.

“On your feet!” Two of the Rosecoeurs caught hold of Celestine by the arms and removed the shackles, dragging her to her feet. In the other cart, she saw Jagu hauled to a standing position. He was in shirtsleeves, and the first glimpse she got of his face showed her a gaunt, unshaven shadow of the man she loved.

“The Inquisition has tried these two malefactors and found them guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts,” announced Inquisitor Visant.

At last his words provoked a response from the crowd; jeers and boos could be heard rising from all corners of the Place. Visant must
be trying to stir them up, Celestine thought; maybe he's even planted his supporters among the onlookers.

“Celestine de Joyeuse, Jagu de Rustéphan, your crimes are doubly despicable because you committed them while wearing the uniform of the Francian Commanderie. Let your deaths be a warning to all who are tempted by the lure of the Forbidden Arts, or to those who would make a mockery of their sacred vows.”

It was so dark that the torch flames burned brightly against the gloom. Celestine hardly heard the Inquisitor's voice enumerating her crimes. She could see the black tendrils of darkness unraveling from the oncoming clouds. This was no ordinary thunderstorm; the dark air crackled with energy.

“Drakhaoul,”
whispered the Faie, waking at last.

“Something is coming!” she cried in warning. One of the Rosecoeurs struck her across the mouth.

“Don't touch her!” cried Jagu, straining against his captors.

Celestine tasted blood welling from her bruised lip but she hardly felt the pain. “Something
is
coming!” she shouted defiantly. “Look at the sky!”

“It's just a storm,” said Visant dismissively. “Tie the prisoners to the stake.”

“Jagu!” Celestine called out to him in desperation as they bundled her out of the cart and up onto the pyre, where the Inquisitors stood waiting. The roughness of the wood and the scratchy straw hurt her bare feet, but still she tried to reach out to touch him.

“You were partners in crime in life; now you will die together,” said Visant coldly. “And may the Blessed One have mercy on your souls.”

The Inquisitors pulled her arms back around the broad wooden stake, tying her wrists behind her. Then they did the same with Jagu, so that their fingers almost touched. But when she remembered the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his left hand, she didn't want to cause him any more pain.

“If your guardian's able to help us,
now
would be a good time,” she heard Jagu mutter as she saw the torchbearers approaching. A strong, acrid smell of tar was rising from the pyre; they must have doused the logs in pitch to make them burn more fiercely. The darkness was growing thicker and a chill wind had begun to whine around the place, causing the torches to flare and gutter.

Something is coming.

* * * 

A streak of dazzling silver, liquid lightning, slashed the darkness. Celestine saw, circling above them, a great sky dragon, bearing in its coils a small craft. The people in the crowd looked too and began to shout out in consternation as the craft broke away and slowly descended.

“Magus?” she whispered.

“It's the king!” The rumor spread among the onlookers. “King Enguerrand!”

“Rosecoeurs, defend King Ilsevir!” ordered Captain nel Ghislain. There was a rush as the Rosecoeurs pushed through the crowd to encircle the dais, priming their muskets and aiming at the craft.

But Ilsevir and Aliénor had risen to their feet and were staring at the occupants.

“Hold your fire!”
Aliénor's command penetrated above the confused clamor. “Enguerrand, is that really you?”

Enguerrand scrambled out of the craft and hurried up the stair onto the dais. Eugene hung back, knowing that this was Enguerrand's moment.