Tracing the Shadow (21 page)

“And you? Have you been to the Palais de Plaisaunces?” Skylarks crowded eagerly around her. “Or Belle Garde?”

“Well, I’ve seen King Gobain and Queen Aliénor.” Gauzia gave a toss of her chestnut curls. “And Crown Prince Aubrey. He’s so good-looking. Dark-haired, like his father, broad-shouldered…” Several Skylarks let out squeals of excitement.

“You should be the one to sing solo, Gauzia,” said Koulmia fervently.

“Koulmia!” Katell tugged her plait hard.

“What was that for?” Koulmia said.

“What about our Celestine? Huh! Call yourself a friend?”

Celestine turned hastily away, but not before she had seen Gauzia fix her with a penetrating stare.

Ruaud de Lanvaux surveyed the congregation and wondered what he was doing addressing this avid audience of nuns and little girls. For it could not just be an illusion created by the golden shimmer of candleflames; he was certain that all the eyes staring at him shone with an air of almost…adoration. Certainly the atmosphere in the flower-garlanded chapel was uncannily hushed; not even one of the little girls had coughed as they gazed up at him. He recovered himself and murmured a prayer to Saint Azilia before he began his talk.

“Sisters,” he began, and saw them all eagerly lean forward. “I have recently returned from a long journey. A hazardous pilgrimage that took me through a wild and barbaric land to find the last resting place of the bones of the patron saint of my order: the Blessed Sergius.” As he spoke, he soon forgot the adoring eyes, losing himself in vivid memories of his travels: the icy White Sea, the sinister pine forests, the grey desolation of the Arkhel Waste…

“Who is your new little songbird, Abbess?” Ruaud asked after the service. “When she sings, that girl has a radiant, luminous quality…almost as if she were not of this world.”

“It is you we have to thank for bringing her to us,” said the Abbess, smiling fondly at him.

Ruaud blinked. “She’s not that poor, half-starved little scrap I found wandering in the slums!” The snow-chilled memories of Azhkendir melted away as he saw again the ragged child wander blindly out in front of Tinidor, clutching her
Lives of the Holy Saints.
Those matted locks, framing a thin, dirt-streaked face, those blue eyes, dulled with despair and fever…

“The very same.”

“You and the sisters have wrought a miracle.” There was no suggestion of flattery in his words; he was genuinely amazed that in a few years his little foundling had blossomed into this angel-voiced girl. “May I see her?”

“Don’t be shy.” The Abbess beamed indulgently at Celestine as she hovered at the entrance to the parlor, uncertain as to why she had been summoned. “Captain de Lanvaux asked to see you.”

Celestine ventured in, keeping her gaze fixed on the painted floor tiles, not daring to raise her head. She saw the captain’s travel-worn leather boots and the long scabbard that hung from his belt. She saw the black jacket of his Guerrier’s uniform—the same uniform worn by the men who had arrested her father. Searing hatred burned through her at the sight as the memories she had tried to suppress flared up, fierce as the flames of her father’s pyre.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the captain gently.

How could anyone wearing that hated uniform speak with such warmth and sincerity?

“You owe Captain de Lanvaux your life,” said the Abbess. “It was he who found you, ill and abandoned, and brought you to us.”

Celestine slowly raised her head. “
You
rescued me?” She dared to look into his face and saw that he had tempered his steely gaze and was regarding her kindly.

“You don’t remember me, do you, Celestine? Tinidor and I carried you here.” His weather-tanned face crinkled into a smile.

“Tinidor?” She repeated the unfamiliar name mechanically.

“My charger. He’s stabled here today. Would you like to meet him again? You could give him an apple; he loves apples.”

“You saved my life?” Celestine was still trying to come to terms with the fact that one of the men who had destroyed her father had also been her savior.

“And having heard you sing today, I am doubly glad that I did so. You have a real gift, a God-given gift, Celestine. If you continue to work hard at your singing, I’m sure you will be chosen to sing in the royal chapel one day.”

Celestine hardly heard the compliments. She was staring at the golden insignia on the collar, lapels, and cuffs of the uniform jacket.

“What do those mean?” she asked, pointing.

“Celestine!” Abbess Ermengarde said in shocked tones. “You mustn’t speak so rudely to the captain.”

“These?” Captain de Lanvaux beckoned Celestine closer. “This is the badge of the Order of Saint Sergius. Can you see the emblem of his crook? The crook with which he fought the Dragon of Azhkendir?”

Celestine had not been so close to a man since she entered the convent. Now, standing at the captain’s side, examining the gilt buttons on his cuff, she felt overwhelmed. His skin exuded a different scent from the clean, soap-scrubbed smell of the Sisters, strong and rich as leather, salty like a breeze off the bay. She was aware of the slight hint of fair stubble on his tanned face, and remembered the roughness of her father’s cheek when he kissed her good night…

The Guerriers who had arrested her father had worn different insignia on their black jackets.

“Then what do the emerald badges mean?”

“Emerald?” A puzzled look came over his face. “Ah. You must have seen the Guerriers of the Inquisition. But when—”

“The Inquisition,” Celestine repeated slowly so that she should not forget. “What is the Inquisition?”

The Abbess clapped her hands sharply. “That’s quite enough questions, child! Isn’t there something you have to say to Captain de Lanvaux?”

Celestine wrenched her thoughts away from the black-clad shadows that still stalked her nightmares. Now they had a name: the Guerriers of the Inquisition. She was glad that Captain de Lanvaux was not one of their number. She raised her face to his again and, dazzled by the affectionate look he gave her, whispered, “Thank you, Captain de Lanvaux, for saving my life.”

Tinidor let out an uneasy whinny and stamped one of his great hooves as Ruaud came into the stables.

“What’s up, old fellow?” Ruaud stroked the charger’s shaggy mane to calm him.

“Good evening, Captain.” A dark-haired man appeared, his features half-illumined by the gilded aura of lamplight. How had he got in past the sentry? “Don’t worry; I’m not an assassin.” He smiled, revealing dazzlingly white teeth.

“If you were an assassin, I’d be dead by now.” Ruaud spoke self-deprecatingly but inwardly he cursed himself for being so careless about his personal security.

“I make it my business to come and go unannounced, unseen. Let me introduce myself; my name is Abrissard. Fabien d’Abrissard.”

Ruaud looked coldly at the stranger. “Should I know you?”

“The reason you’ve never seen me before, Captain, is that my job is to remain invisible. I and my kind deal with matters others would rather not dirty their hands with.”

“You’re a spy?”

“‘Spy’ is such a crude term,” said Abrissard fastidiously. “We prefer to refer to ourselves as agents of the crown. And our royal master asked me to have a little word with you before you take on your new role as Prince Enguerrand’s tutor.”

“So his majesty doesn’t have complete confidence in me?”

“On the contrary. He chose you himself, purposely going against her majesty’s advice.”

“Let me guess; the queen favored Maistre Donatien?”

“It’s no secret that she relies on Maistre Donatien rather too much since her brother’s death.”

“Is Prince Enguerrand in any danger?”

“No. But, as his tutor, you may be. There are dangerous undercurrents, Captain, beneath the smooth-flowing waters of court life. Old allies may come to see you as an unexpected obstacle to their ambitions.”

“I see.” Ruaud heard the warning concealed in Abrissard’s metaphorical language.

“Just take this as a friendly piece of advice.” And with an enigmatic smile, the agent of the crown was gone, slipping into the night as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving Ruaud with more questions than answers.

CHAPTER 16

Dark, charred ruins crowned the hill where once the college had towered above Karantec.

Rieuk stood staring at the devastation that had been his home for seven years. His throat had gone dry. His palms were cold and sweaty. He wished he had not been forced to come back. He laid his hand on his breast, gaining reassurance as he felt the slumbering Ormas quiver at his touch.

The cottage where Rieuk had last seen Hervé’s daughter happily playing with her tabby cat had a sad, neglected air. The windows were boarded up, slates had fallen from the roof, and weeds were sprouting up vigorously all over the little garden.

A neighbor was sitting out by her front door, shelling peas.

“Can I help you?” she called in a loud tone that suggested help was the last thing she wanted to offer.

“I’m looking for Madame de Maunoir.” He hoped she would not recognize him; the thick-lensed spectacles and white-silvered streak in his hair gave him the air of someone older than his twenty-two years.

“She’s long gone.”

“So I see. Would you happen to know where?”

“What’s your business?” The woman put down the bowl of peas and scraped the empty pods from her apron into a bucket beside her chair.

“I’m a lawyer,” said Rieuk. “I have news for her.”

“Well, she’s gone, and good riddance. Her husband was involved in some bad business. Last I heard, he was tried and burned with his treasonable books. No more than he deserved.”

The barely disguised loathing in the woman’s voice shocked Rieuk. The people of Karantec used to accept the magisters, taking a certain pride in their unconventional residents living on the hill. The Inquisition’s campaign had changed all that.

“So you have no idea where we might find Madame de Maunoir and her daughter?”

“They followed him to the city. That’s the last we heard of them.”

“I see that the house is empty.”

“No one will live there. They say it’s cursed.” The woman stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is it a legacy, then? Has she come into some money?” There was an unpleasantly avaricious gleam in her eyes.

“I can divulge nothing, except to my Madame de Maunoir,” said Rieuk, looking at her coldly over the rims of his spectacles.

“She had a sister in the capital. That’s all I know.” She took up the bowl and shuffled inside, slamming the door behind her.

Around the back of the deserted cottage, a shutter had been prised open and hung at an awkward angle, one hinge detached. Rieuk leaned over the windowsill and peered inside. He hardly recognized the interior of Madame de Maunoir’s neat and pretty cottage. Someone had scrawled obscene graffiti all over the whitewashed walls. A few fragments of smashed china lay on the dirt-smeared tiled floor.

Rieuk turned away, wishing he had not troubled to look.

There were armed Guerriers out on patrol in the streets of Lutèce, and the very sight of their black uniforms set Rieuk’s nerves on edge. It had taken him several days’ intensive research in the records at the Hotel de Ville to discover Madame de Maunoir’s family name, and several more days to trace details of any surviving relatives.

“And why should I talk to you?” Lavéna Malestroit stared at him with unconcealed hostility. “Isn’t it customary with lawyers to put their business in writing first?”

“Very well, madame.” Rieuk turned away. “We’ll find some other way of contacting your sister.”

“M—my sister?” Rieuk heard a catch in Madame Malestroit’s voice.

“Didn’t I say so? It’s to do with the title deeds of her cottage in Karantec…”

“You’ve had a wasted journey. My sister is dead.”

“Dead? Then you must be caring for her daughter, Klervie?”

Rieuk saw Madame Malestroit swallow hard. She seemed to be finding it hard to speak. “Klervie—is gone, too.”

Klervie was dead?

“I should have taken the child in.” Madame Malestroit began to sob. “After my sister died, that money-grubbing landlady couldn’t even look after a little girl for a day or two. She turned her out. Oh,
her
story was that she’d sent Klervie to find me, but the child never arrived. I was told that a fair-haired child was seen nearby with a—a man. All they recovered was a shoe, her little shoe, muddy and bloodstained.”

“She was murdered?”

She nodded, one hand pressed to her mouth, as though even speaking the words aloud made her want to retch. “Sick, evil pervert, preying on children. They never caught him.”

So Klervie was dead. The image of the bright-haired child smiling up at him faded, tainted by the news of her sorry end. He retreated, stammering an apology. “I—I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

Rieuk sat down at a café in the nearby square and ordered coffee and a brandy. He rarely drank spirits but he was so shaken by the news that his hand trembled as he raised the glass to his lips. He drank the brandy down in one gulp, grimacing as it burned his throat. He had left without asking the weeping Madame Malestroit whether her sister had left any effects behind, let alone what had become of them.

Yet if Azilis had been in that house, surely I would have sensed her. I felt nothing. So where do I look for her now?

Hervé de Maunoir’s book could have been sold off to an antiquarian bookseller, a private library, a university…A long and difficult search lay ahead of him. He ordered a second brandy and drank it in slow, ruminative sips, savoring the taste of burned sugar, wondering as he watched the passersby what new identity he would be forced to take. Scholar, collector, even Inquisition spy…?

Was it just chance, or were all the lives Azilis had touched fated to end in tragedy?