Tracing the Shadow (42 page)

“Don’t approach him. Don’t do anything that might endanger our mission, or yourself.”

CHAPTER 31

The cloying scent of orange blossom filled the basilica; the white petals were wilting and dropping in the stifling heat as the royal couple took their vows.

Celestine was drooping too; she fanned herself vigorously, trying to stay alert. The Duc de Craon, Adèle’s uncle, kept nodding off and had to be nudged awake several times. The princess’s bridesmaids fidgeted, fiddling with their posies of pink and white rosebuds. Prince Ilsevir was perspiring; Celestine saw him mop his shiny face with a silk handkerchief just before he exchanged rings with his bride.

Small wonder,
thought Celestine,
as he must be unbearably hot in that heavy embroidered brocade jacket. But as for you, dear princess, you look exquisite in your white gown. How could any man fail to fall in love with you?

Thus far, to her relief, the ceremony had proceeded without incident, apart from the moment when one of the littlest bridesmaids tripped during the procession down the altar.

Prince Ilsevir folded Adèle in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

To Celestine’s surprise, her eyes filled with tears. She had remained dry-eyed through Prince Aubrey’s funeral. A wedding was supposed to be a happy occasion! Yet she was not alone; she saw many lace handkerchiefs raised among the eminent guests and heard the sound of sniffing coming from Adèle’s ladies-in-waiting.

A wave of longing for what could never be swept through her. Never before had she missed the Maistre so desperately; his absence was like a burning ache in her heart.

Is this my own sadness? Or am I sensing the Faie’s loneliness too?

The moment when the couple retired to sign the register was approaching. As the princess’s bridesmaids lifted the train, Celestine raised her moist eyes to the organ loft, where Jagu was stationed beside Illustre Lissier, the basilica’s Maistre de Chapelle. This was their cue; she moved out from behind the choir stalls where she had been sitting.

I must not let myself be distracted.
The temptation to scan the congregation for a glimpse of the elusive Magister Linnaius was distracting enough.
I must sing like one of the painted angels overhead.

The lavish reception filled the gardens of the palace. Only royal guests and a few select foreign dignitaries had been invited to attend the wedding banquet in the ornately gilded dining room, so Jagu and Celestine had been relieved of their duties by the royal bodyguards for the duration of the banquet.

“At least you’ve been spared the tedium of the Duc de Craon’s speech, my dears,” said the marquise. “Josselin has been known to drone on for a good half hour and more. Go and enjoy yourselves!”

Enjoy ourselves?
Jagu never felt at ease when mingling with strangers. The younger son of the lord of Rustéphan, he had often escaped to the seashore when guests arrived at the
manoir,
leaving his older brother Markiz to play the “good son.” Jagu’s idea of enjoyment was an uninterrupted hour or two practicing the fortepiano, or a long, bracing walk along the rugged coastline near his home. Solitary pursuits. But Celestine was soon surrounded by admirers, and as he watched her he could not help thinking there was a radiance about her that afternoon, and yet also a vulnerability that made him want to protect her.

The oppressive heat was evidently proving a problem for the palace kitchens; buckets and yet more buckets of ice were sent for as the delicate fruit jellies and elaborate charlottes began to melt. Page boys were set to work to swat the swarms of sticky black flies that hovered beneath the trees. Jagu, still ill at ease, stood apart from the wedding guests, keeping watch, while Celestine gracefully accepted the many compliments.

At length she rejoined him, carrying two glass dishes of a rose-pink dessert.

“Iced sherbet?” He shook his head; it smelled too sickly for his taste.

The sun was setting and a violet twilight bathed the grounds.

“Did you spot your magus?” she asked in a low voice. “In the Tielen contingent?”

Jagu slowly shook his head. “Perhaps he chose not to attend the wedding after all.”

“Jagu, it’s some years now since you saw him. Perhaps you’ve—”

“Forgotten?”
What could she possibly know about it?
“Oh no, I haven’t forgotten. If only I could forget.”

“But you said he was a soul-stealer.” Her spoon clicked against the dish as she scraped the last traces of sherbet. “Perhaps even the face you saw in the school garden was stolen…”

“It’s possible,” Jagu admitted. “But the little I’ve learned tells that soul-stealing can drain the stealer of life essence, too—”

He flinched as a crow lifted from the tree branches above their heads, its wings black against the darkening sky. High overhead he saw a cloud of birds slowly circling above the palace.

“Birds,” she said, staring upward too. “Tell me, Jagu, why are you so afraid of birds?”

“Because,” he said, finding the courage to confide in her at last, “that magus had a hawk as his familiar.”

“A hawk?” she repeated. “I saw a hawk yesterday. It flew close to my window and—”

“What kind of hawk?”

“How should I know? Its feathers were mottled, dark, like charcoal.”

This was not what he had wanted to hear. “The magus’s familiar had smoky plumage, too. It was unlike any hawk I’ve ever seen before.”

“Jagu, you don’t think…”

He wanted to reassure her. But the possibility that the magus who had placed his mark upon him was close by had set his nerves on edge.

“We must be on our guard.”

Celestine lay on her little bed, unable to sleep for the heat. Even the sheet was damp with her perspiration, so she flung it off, wishing for a hint of breeze to cool her. The stifling night air was sensuously perfumed by the white stars of night-flowering jasmine growing beneath her windows.

It was Adèle’s wedding night. What must it feel like to lie so close to Ilsevir, naked, all the wedding finery stripped away? To let him invade the most intimate, secret places of her body?

The thought was both terrifying and disturbingly, deliciously arousing. She moved restlessly on the crumpled sheet, wishing that she were not alone on this scented, sultry night.

“Henri,” she whispered, “are you thinking of me? Just a little?”

Jagu gazes out across the Bel’Esstar rooftops, all the neat slates gleaming as if slicked with oil beneath the yellow, thundery sky.

A storm is coming.
Far out on the dusty Dniera plain, heavy clouds are gathering, threatening torrential rain.

Yet this feeling is different, charged with a darker significance. He has felt it before; it stirs up memories he has tried to scour from his mind.

Quicksilver ripple of air…strange stillness…

“Wake up, Rustéphan!”

Jagu sat up in bed, gasping as if he were drowning.

Viaud stood over him, glaring. “That was some nightmare! How can I sleep if you’re shouting like a madman?”

Jagu’s heart was still pounding and as he pressed one hand to his chest, to calm its frantic beating.

What did it mean? Was it a warning? Or just a memory?

The instant he entered the chapel, Jagu sensed it. Faint, masked to conceal its presence, but unmistakable: the dark aura of a true magus. At the same moment, he felt a burning in his wrist as if the magus’s mark had reacted, just as it had in Ondhessar. He pushed up his cuff and saw the sigil faintly glowing, angry red. For a moment he stood still, disoriented, fighting the urge to turn and run as fast as he could.

“Jagu?” Celestine gently touched his arm. “Are you all right?” Her eyes were dark with concern. Suddenly he was disgusted with himself for being afraid. She was depending on him. He must be strong to protect her.

“Be on your guard,” he muttered. “Something’s not right here…”

He scanned the guests as they took their seats in the chapel. Illustre Talfieri came in, leaning on his cane; he paused before sitting down and nodded to them.

As if it wasn’t hard enough keeping vigilant in case of an attack, he and Celestine had to perform Talfieri’s new and taxing composition under the critical eye of the composer. Jagu glanced at Celestine and noticed that she was practicing controlling her breathing to calm herself. He had to remind himself that she was only nineteen years old; this premiere must be quite an ordeal for such a young singer.

And then the audience rose to their feet as Prince Ilsevir and his new bride came in.

“And now I will call upon you, your highness,” said the archbishop, “to say a few words on this auspicious occasion and declare the new Elesstar Shrine open…”

Celestine glanced at Jagu. The chapel was an intimate space in which to sing. It was also an ideal opportunity for an assassin to strike and make good his escape. Yet Jagu seemed withdrawn, lost in his own thoughts; she detected that his fingers moved silently on the arm of his chair. Was he mentally rehearsing Talfieri’s music? The keyboard part was fiendishly difficult.

The prince clasped his hands together, head bowed, as if overcome by the emotion of the moment. “I—I can hardly find words to express my joy to be standing before these holy and priceless relics of the Beloved Elesstar.” He raised his head and Celestine saw that his eyes glistened with tears. “Such a sight inspires the utmost humility in the heart of a devout believer like me.”

Oh, Adèle, my poor Adèle, I had no idea that Prince Ilsevir could be such a prig.
Celestine tried not to look in the princess’s direction. She could imagine all too easily that Adèle was squirming in her seat, trying to conceal her embarrassment. Yet Adèle sat utterly impassively, showing a poise her mother, Aliénor, would have approved of.

“I’m honored to welcome the brave Rosecoeurs who brought back these treasures from Ondhessar. I shall be awarding each man the Order of the Rose, an honor accorded only to the most valiant and devout soldiers of our order.”

Celestine was scrutinizing the audience. The Allegondan Guerriers to be honored were standing guard at the rear of the chapel, by the double doors; their captain, nel Ghislain, was seated behind the princess.

“But first I would like to invite Celestine de Joyeuse to sing a sacred aria in honor of Elesstar, especially composed for the occasion by our most eminent composer, Illustre Talfieri.”

Celestine gazed around the candlelit chapel as she took a slow, calming breath, one hand resting on her lower ribs to ensure that she expelled the air slowly and regularly. She smiled radiantly, just as Dame Elmire had taught her, although within she felt nothing but a growing agitation.

Something’s wrong. Can you sense it too, Jagu?
She turned to him and saw him acknowledge her with a little inclination of the head. There was something about his calm, watchful air that comforted her; they were close together, ready to act as one, should the need arise.

Celestine’s last pure notes, sensitively phrased, died away into silence.

Jagu waited, tense. Then Prince Ilsevir began to applaud, followed by the rest of the audience. Illustre Talfieri seemed pleased enough as he took his bow. Celestine smiled at Jagu. But as she smoothed down the silken folds of her blue dress, he couldn’t help noticing that her hands were trembling. So she had been nervous! She had concealed it with consummate skill.

If only he could dispel the feeling that their ordeal was far from over.

The first of the Allegondans to be awarded the Order of the Rose approached the prince. Ilsevir turned to Captain nel Ghislain, who held out the medals on a crimson velvet cushion. The mark on Jagu’s wrist suddenly throbbed. He flung himself forward. “Protect the princess!”

Quicksilver ripple of air…all movement ceases…

Celestine blinked. Everyone around her seemed frozen: the prince, half-turning toward the Rosecoeur, the red medal ribbon in his hands.

A flash of dark wings scored her vision. Then another and another, all swooping down toward the princess.

“
Adèle!
” Heedless of her own safety, Celestine flung herself in front of the princess, throwing her arms wide as the shadow creatures flew toward her. Behind her, Jagu pulled Adèle down, shielding her with his body.

The four Rosecoeurs waiting to be honored collapsed like puppets whose strings had been severed.

“Keep away!” Celestine’s voice rang out, clear and hard with fury as the shadowy hawks attacked. “You shan’t hurt her. I won’t let you!”

Jagu, weakened by the throbbing pain emanating from the magus’s mark, stared at Celestine, astounded. Her eyes blazed white fire. She stood there, her arms outstretched, and it seemed that a cold, pure light radiated from her body, as if she had created an invisible shield the shadow hawks could not penetrate. Jagu saw them fall back, repulsed, scattering little shreds of smoky feathers. One after another, they spiraled through the air, speeding toward the great windows overhead, flying through the stained glass as though it were no more solid than mist.