Tracing the Shadow
Read Tracing the Shadow Online
Authors: Sarah Ash
CONTENTS
For Joan,
ma belle-mère
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My warmest thanks go to:
My editor, Anne Groell, for her expertise, patience, and encouragement
My agents, Merrilee Heifetz and John Richard Parker, for getting this project off the ground
Two very talented artists: Phil Heffernan for the cover art and Neil Gower for the map
Josh Pasternak for his care in helping
Tracing
evolve from typescript to printed book
Ariel, my ever-resourceful webmaster
Alain Nevant and Stéphane Marsan and all their fellow Mousquetaires for welcoming me to Bragelonne
Michael for reminding me to “Go upstairs and write!”
Blessed Azilia, let thy light shine through the darkness and
show us the way to paradise.
—V
ESPER
P
RAYER OF THE
K
NIGHTS OF THE
C
OMMANDERIE
PROLOGUE
Ruaud de Lanvaux staggered as he passed beneath the archway into fabled Ondhessar. He was exhausted. Blood dripped into one eye from a scimitar slash he had received in the final assault on the citadel, and he wiped it away on the back of his hand.
“Fly our standard from the highest tower,” he ordered. “Let all Enhirre see that the Francian Commanderie is here to stay.”
The courtyard in front of him was strewn with bodies. The Enhirrans had fought like cornered dogs, desperately refusing to admit defeat. Even a hardened soldier like Ruaud was shaken by the sight; the night air stank of death. Even as his triumphant Guerriers took possession of the citadel, meticulously checking out every tower, every passageway on his orders, he heard the occasional pistol shot and stifled cry.
Ruaud walked slowly on across the bloodstained courtyard. His men were checking the dead, turning them over one by one, stripping them of their weapons.
And then he caught a low, rasping groan close by.
“This one’s still alive, Captain,” called Lieutenant Konan, holding his knife blade to the Enhirran’s throat. Ruaud went over. By the torchlight, he saw that the wounded man was young, hardly more than a boy. From the glistening blood seeping out from beneath his body and trickling from the side of his mouth, it was obvious that he wasn’t likely to last long. “Shall I put him out of his misery?” growled Konan.
The Enhirran murmured something and Ruaud saw a flicker of defiant fire in his dulled eyes. “Is he asking for water?” He went down on one knee beside him. “At least give the lad a drink.”
“You…defile…the holy place,” whispered the Enhirran in the common tongue. “You…have no right…to be here…”
“No right?” Konan grabbed the boy by the hair as if he was about to slit his throat. “You insolent—”
“Konan.” Ruaud placed a restraining hand on his lieutenant’s arm. “Let him be.”
“In Azilis’s name…I curse you…and all Francia…” The young warrior’s voice became more indistinct. “They will avenge us. They will come after you, the hawks that fly in the night…” The threat ended in a choking cough as blood gushed from his mouth. When Konan laid him down, his eyes had slid upward, staring sightlessly at the stars.
“Look, Captain.” Lieutenant Konan pointed. “See this? Is it some kind of tribal marking? Every man I’ve found has it.”
There was a tattoo, in indigo ink, on the boy’s left hand and another identical mark on his forehead
“It looks like a character in Old Enhirran,” Ruaud said. “The letter ‘A.’”
“A? For Azilia?” Konan said, a tremble of emotion in his deep voice. “The Eternal Singer? Have we found the place at last?”
“But at such a high cost.” Ruaud drew his hand over the boy’s staring eyes, closing the lids. “Hundreds of Enhirrans have died here over the past days.”
“We have as much right as they to come on pilgrimage!” Konan said indignantly.
Ruaud let out a sigh that issued from the depths of his soul. “I fear they will not be quick to forgive us for taking Ondhessar.”
She had many names. To the Francians, she was Saint Azilia; to the Allegondans, she was Elesstar, the Beloved, patron saint and protectress of their capital city, Bel’Esstar. To the people of Enhirre, her birthplace, she was Azilis, the Eternal Singer. For hundreds of years, the Enhirrans had kept this place a secret from the rest of the quadrant, constructing the fortress-citadel of Ondhessar to protect Azilis’s Shrine.
A faint, high, eerie voice drifted over the scene of carnage, as clear as if spun from starlight…
“D’you hear that, Captain?” said Konan, wiping his bloodied knife clean.
Ruaud’s rational mind told him that the singing was just a natural phenomenon, the cold wind of the desert night whistling between the towers…
Until Alain Friard appeared at the doorway of one of the towers, beckoning excitedly.
“We’ve found her, Captain.”
Ruaud followed Friard. The fragile thread of sound grew clearer, more intense as he entered the shadowed doorway. A gleam of light faintly illuminated a dark passageway that wound down deep into the earth.
The atmosphere grew colder as he descended, one hand against the rough rock wall to guide him. The eerie song made the air tingle. They must be drawing nearer.
A pale figure glimmered in the shadows. Ruaud stopped, heart beating too fast—until he realized it was only a marble statue. Ancient, yet radiant with a bewitching, androgynous beauty, Azilia stood with both hands cupped, holding a lotus flower, symbol of the immortal soul. White light emanated from the crystal petals. And at the heart of the lotus lay the source of the sound: a white crystal of glittering purity. The high, unearthly strain was emanating from the stone.
“How can it be that the stone is singing?” Père Laorans, the regiment’s priest, stood gazing up at the statue, his bearded face bathed in the white light. “Is it a natural phenomenon or the miraculous influence of the saint?”
Ruaud, entranced, extended one hand to touch the crystal lotus petals. As his fingers made contact, a loud grinding startled him; the other Guerriers whirled around, grasping their sword hilts, fearing a surprise attack. But an opening had appeared in the wall behind the statue, slowly gaping to reveal a cavity. Père Laorans thrust his hands into the cavity before Ruaud could stop him and let out a shout of excitement.
“Look!” he cried, pulling out his discovery. “Manuscripts. Scrolls. Ancient writings.”
Ruaud looked at the ancient parchments, so discolored with age and dust that it was hard to see any writing on them until Père Laorans held them close to the crystals. Faint characters began to appear on the faded vellum, almost as if the silvery light had brought them to life.
“Old Enhirran,” said Père Laorans triumphantly. “
The Book of Azilis,
” he translated. “‘The Eternal…Singer.’” He looked up at Ruaud. “This is one of the Sacred Texts,” he said in hushed tones.
“So this is a significant find?” Ruaud forgot his exhaustion; even his wound seemed to have stopped stinging since he entered the cavern.
“It must date back to Saint Sergius’s time…or even earlier. Maybe even to the time that Azilia herself was still alive.”
The great citadel of Ondhessar dominated the ridge, towering high above the hidden valley. Armed sentries constantly patrolled its battlements, where the crimson banners of the Commanderie fluttered in the wind. Cannons protruded from its battlements, ready to repel attackers.
But the trespasser had infiltrated the citadel by a secret way. With the setting of the sun came the faint, high, eerie voice he had been waiting to hear, as clear as if spun from starlight…
The trespasser flitted from tower to tower, gazing up at the worn carvings that surrounded each gaping doorway. He kept glancing uneasily over his shoulder, aware that he could be discovered at any moment. He had entered forbidden ground, and the price for discovery was death.
No time to linger.
The fragile voice grew clearer, more intense. He entered the shadowed doorway and followed the thread of sound down a dark stair. If he was caught in the act of trespass, there would be no possible escape; he would be trapped deep belowground. The Guerriers of the Commanderie had dedicated their lives to the annihilation of all who practiced the Forbidden Arts. It had taken him many months of delicate investigation and deception to discover the location of this mystery. He was not going to let a few fanatical Francians stand in his way.
“And here you are,” he said softly. The statue of Azilis stood before him, holding the lotus flower in which nestled the source of the unearthly sound. “An aethyr crystal.”
The trespasser gazed down at his prize in amazement, the soft radiance illuminating his face. Then he moved swiftly, purposefully, taking a sharp chisel from his pocket, working to pry the rare stone from the lotus within the statue’s curved fingers.
Just as it came loose, the sound stopped abruptly. Hastily, he thrust his prize into his inner pocket, took out another stone, a clear crystal, and put it in the lotus gem’s place.
“Someone’s in the Shrine!” Booted feet clattered overhead, coming nearer.
He had been discovered.
“Give yourself up! You’re surrounded.”
He made for the winding stair and started to climb.
“The tower! Cut him off at the entrance!” There was still a chance he might get away, but his knees were aching as he stumbled on upward, each worn step seeming steeper than the last.
The arched doorway lay ahead. The moon had risen while he was underground. He hurried onward, hearing his own painful wheezing echoing in the lofty vault of the tower.
I’m getting too old for this kind of venture.
Outside, the citadel towers loomed above him, silvered by the rising moon. If he could just make it to his craft…
A Guerrier appeared out of the shadows. “Stop, or we shoot.” He leveled a pistol at him. “You won’t get away.” The voice was young and earnest.
Yet the trespasser ran on, ignoring the warning.
“Fire!”
Tiny bursts of flame lit the darkness as the powder in the pans ignited and shots rang out. Musket balls whizzed past him, grazing off chips of stone as he ran.
“After him—don’t let him escape!”
He reached his craft, little bigger than a rowboat, and crawled inside, shaking loose the sail.
Must find enough strength to get away.
He closed his eyes, seeking the path of the winds. Streaking like crystal dragons, they scored interweaving tracks through the night, high above. He reached out to them and felt a sudden shudder in the air as one tore across the desert toward the fort.
Clouds of dust and sand arose, blotting out the stars. And as the sail filled, the wind began to lift the craft into the air.
The first Guerrier, swifter than the rest, caught up with him. He made a grab for the craft, clinging on to the side.
Damn you, you won’t stop me now.
The trespasser twisted his fingers together, making the hand signs to control the wind beneath his craft.
Dust, grit, and sand, sucked up from below, showered down, peppering the Guerrier, laceratingly sharp as tiny shards of glass. Half-blinded, he loosed his hold and fell. The craft rose and went spinning away. The last the trespasser saw as the fast-gusting wind bore him swiftly upward toward the stars was the young Guerrier lying sprawled on the ground.
