Tracing the Shadow (4 page)

“If we hadn’t sealed it within that book, it would have rent you in bloody fragments,” Hervé de Maunoir had said in his habitual matter-of-fact way.

So you sealed it, Magister de Maunoir. My aethyrial spirit is trapped in your book.

Rieuk could not stop thinking of it. He hated the way the magisters had reminded him of his lack of experience, his need to gain the wisdom and knowledge that would make him strong enough to control such a power. He hated the fact that they had made him feel gauche and inadequate.

And why was a spirit trapped in that crystal, anyway? Where exactly did my master find it?

Suddenly he became aware that the swallows had fallen silent. The air felt heavy, as if a storm was looming. Rieuk, puzzled, rolled off his bed and went to the window to look out. High above in the cloudy sky, he spotted the faint silhouette of a hawk slowly circling the college. Even as he gazed up at it, the hawk wheeled around and lazily winged away. Within moments, the swallow chicks began to chirp again and the parents returned, darting in, swift and accurate as arrows to their target.

“You’re talented, Rieuk. But it doesn’t take talent alone to make an alchymist.” Magister Gonery leaned forward over his cluttered desk and gazed earnestly into Rieuk’s eyes. And although the elderly alchymist’s mild expression appeared solicitous, Rieuk was not fooled. “You want too much too soon. You cut corners, take risks. You leave yourself vulnerable to unscrupulous influences.”

“But I have a gift with crystals,” Rieuk blurted out. “
I
made the Vox work. Why doesn’t my master let me use my gift? Why doesn’t he trust me?”

“Your gift drew you here. But it also draws you to the attention of
others.
Others who would use you and your gift for their own selfish ends.”

Rieuk felt a muscle twitch involuntarily in his cheek and hoped Magister Gonery had not noticed. His uncanny ability to read even the most well-guarded thoughts never failed to unnerve his students.

“They will promise you the things you most desire. And then, before you know what you have done, you will find yourself in thrall. Sealed into a contract that binds you until death—and beyond.”

Rieuk had heard this lecture many times before. But this time he feared it was the prelude to his expulsion.

Magister Gonery let out a sigh. “As I said—had you been paying attention—we all recognize that you have the gift. And a gift such as yours is all too rare these days. But it is still raw and ill controlled. If Magister de Maunoir had not been there to contain that aethyrial spirit, it would have escaped and wreaked havoc.” He removed his spectacles and began to polish a lens on his sleeve. “And worst of all, I’ve had to contend with a stream of complaints from the good citizens of Karantec. Even the mayor.” He picked up a sheaf of letters on his desk and waved them in front of Rieuk. “I can’t let the irresponsible act of one of my students tarnish the college’s reputation. Especially in these troubled times.”

Rieuk swallowed down the lump in his throat.
Here it comes. The end of my career.

“Magister Linnaius is adamant that you should be expelled. But I’m putting you on probation until I’ve consulted with the other magisters. If—and I repeat,
if
—any one of them is willing to take you on as his apprentice, I’ll grant you a second chance. Of course, you’ll have to repeat the final year’s work.”

“But Magister Linnaius will influence them. No one will want to—”

A stern look from Magister Gonery silenced him. “And you’re banned from all the college laboratories until I’ve met with the others to discuss your case.”

“Banned?”

“You will make yourself useful in other ways, running errands and repairing the damage at Magister de Maunoir’s house. And to start with, I’m sending you on an errand.”

Rieuk was not listening with full attention; he was seething with self-righteous indignation. So now he was to be used as an errand boy?

“It will give you the chance to reflect upon the foolishness of your actions. And it will put a little distance between you and your master.”

“Where are you sending me?” Rieuk said sullenly.

“Magister Linnaius has an arrangement with a skilled horloger in Kemper, one Maistre Guirec.”

Rieuk remembered the name. “The one who made the parts for the Vox?”

“The very same. Your master has already ordered new parts. You are to collect them from Sieur Guirec. He’s bringing them to Karantec.”

“And my master trusts
me
with this errand?” Rieuk muttered.

“
I
trust you.” Gonery’s rheumy eyes suddenly gleamed with a clear light that pierced Rieuk to the core; caught off guard, he staggered and took a step back. “Your master has other matters on his mind at present. Don’t let me down, Rieuk. This is your last chance.”

Inquisitor Visant gazed around the interior of the chapel of Saint Argantel’s Seminary with a coldly critical eye. He noted an ancient polychrome statue of the patron saint, lit by the uncertain daylight, but nothing else of architectural distinction.

“So this is where you spent your school days, Maistre Donatien? I understand your affection for the place,” he added dryly, “but I’m a busy man; was it really necessary to drag me along on your nostalgic journey?”

Grand Maistre Donatien rose from his knees and turned around from the altar, smiling. “Touché, Inquisitor. But there’s much more to this chapel than schoolboy memories. I’d never have brought you and your men here if it were not on a matter of the utmost importance.”

“And the utmost confidentiality?”

“I’ve received an urgent request for help from our Guerriers in Enhirre. It seems that a certain Kaspar Linnaius, citizen of Francia, violated the Shrine at Ondhessar, stealing a sacred stone. But at last we have proof positive that Linnaius is a magus: He escaped in a flying craft. We have
witnesses,
Alois.”

Visant regarded Donatien without commenting; there had been many bizarre rumors about Linnaius before but never evidence such as this.

“Captain de Lanvaux was injured trying to hold the craft down; he was dragged several feet into the air before the Magus forced him to let go.”

“So you want me to arrest Linnaius?”

“Not just Linnaius, but all of his colleagues at the College of Thaumaturgy. They call themselves ‘alchymists.’ They claim that they’re working on scientific experiments. And now,” he said triumphantly, “we have proof that they’re practicing the Forbidden Arts.”

“But if the magi at Karantec are practicing the Forbidden Arts, we’ll need more than a company of Guerriers to arrest them.”

Donatien beckoned him toward the altar. “Have you ever heard of Argantel’s Angelstones?”

Visant shook his head.

“We’ve gone to great lengths to keep them a well-guarded secret, even within the Commanderie. Until today, only the Grand Maistres have known their hiding place. But I think I can trust you, Inquisitor,” Donatien said, with a knowing little smile, “not to divulge their whereabouts to another living soul, can’t I?”

He knelt before the altar and took a golden key from a chain around his neck. Visant saw him press in turn a sequence of carved images on the altar: Sergius’s crook; Mhir’s rose; seven stars for the Seven Heavenly Guardians. With a creak, a little aperture opened below the seven stars, revealing a second, concealed door. Donatien inserted the key, turning it left, then right, then left again. From within the cavity behind the second door, he drew out a wooden box, which he placed on the altar, using the key to unlock it.

Fascinated, Visant drew closer. “Angelstones?” Clear as polished drops of ice, the stones glittered in their plain wooden setting.

“Seven crystals…but not of this world. They were given to Saint Argantel by the Angel Lord Galizur as protection against daemons. If a daemon is close by, a streak of darkness sullies the clarity of the crystal.”

“But how will this protect
us
against Kaspar Linnaius and the other magi?”

“If Linnaius is a true magus, his powers are daemonic in origin. The Angelstones will counteract those powers and render him helpless.”

Visant looked at the crystals. It was difficult to imagine that such pretty gems could subdue a magus wielding the Forbidden Arts. “You said there were seven. I see only five.”

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Donatien said with a little laugh. “We were forced to employ two to defeat the magi of Ondhessar. And even now we can’t be certain that some didn’t escape.”

“But how can I be sure that they will protect my men?” Skeptical by nature, Visant could not help but feel reluctant to put his trust in Donatien’s angelic legacy.

“Each stone was imbued with angelic power by one of the Heavenly Guardians.” A faint luminescence from the crystals illuminated Donatien’s face as his fingers hovered above the precious stones, as if pondering which one to select. “But once used, that power is exhausted. The crystals of Cassiel and Dahariel are empty now. But one should be sufficient to quell the magi of Karantec. I think this one should serve your purposes well enough; the stone of Ardarel, Lord of Heavenly Fire.”

Visant took the stone from Donatien. For a moment, he thought he caught a faint shimmer of flame at its heart—or could it have been a trick of the light? “In Sergius’s name, this Angelstone had better work, Maistre,” he said dryly. “For if the magi fight back using the Forbidden Arts, my men and I are as good as dead.”

CHAPTER 3

Rieuk set out into the town, head down, scowling.

So this is how Gonery means to punish me, treating me as an errand boy, forcing me to fetch and carry like a common servant? And what character-improving lesson am I supposed to learn from this humiliation?

It was all very well for Magister Gonery to warn him of the unscrupulous who lurked in dark corners, waiting to rape him of his talent. Wasn’t that precisely what Kaspar Linnaius had done?

It was my gift that divined the spirit imprisoned in the crystal, it was my “raw talent” that drew it out into the mortal world. I made the Vox Aethyria work—and yet Linnaius will take all the glory.
He kicked angrily at a loose stone, sending it ricocheting down the cobbled lane.

The sun was sinking as he crossed the old stone bridge that spanned the meandering River Faou, turning the water to violet and gold. The darkening air was still heavy with the day’s heat, and swallows swooped low over the shallows, feasting on midges. A serving girl was standing on tiptoe to light the lanterns that hung outside the ivied door of the tavern. As each flame glowed to life, Rieuk saw velvety white moths flitting through the soft twilight, drawn to the brightness. He stopped beneath one of the lanterns to look again at his instructions:

“Ask for Anselm Guirec the Horloger.”

A lively babble of voices issued from inside. Rieuk disliked meeting new people, and he especially disliked being forced to seek out a complete stranger. The stink of ale and wine fumes made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, and the fug of the smoky air tickled the back of his throat.

A group of drinkers broke into roars of laughter as he walked past.
Are they laughing at me? And how, in God’s name, am I supposed to find Guirec in this throng?

“You are looking for Sieur Guirec?”

Rieuk started, caught off guard. A man had appeared beside him out of the gloom. He was tall, dressed in a long traveling coat of charcoal grey, his straight black hair loosely tied back at the nape of his neck with a slender bronze ribbon of silk. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles whose cloudy lenses seemed to hide rather than reveal the dark eyes behind. Rieuk’s first impression was that he had more the air of a lawyer or a priest than a clockmaker.

“You’re not Sieur Guirec.”

An enigmatic smile appeared on the stranger’s face; he nodded. “Very good. Our predictions were accurate: I see there is no deceiving you, Rieuk Mordiern.”

Rieuk took a step back, fearing a trap. “How do you know my name?”

“Your contact was obliged to leave on urgent business; I offered to make the delivery in his stead.” He held out a casket. “I believe this is what you came to collect.” Rieuk noticed how long and slender the man’s fingers were, not gnarled and stained with chymicals like Magister Linnaius’s.

“How do I know that you haven’t tampered with the contents?” Rieuk stared suspiciously at the casket, then at the smiling stranger.

“Check the seal. You’ll find it’s unbroken.”

To his relief Rieuk saw that it was true. The horloger’s mark was intact; the contents must be undamaged.

“We’ve been watching you, Rieuk.”

Alarmed, Rieuk began to back away.

“You’re nearly at the end of your apprenticeship, aren’t you? Your seven years will be up by summer’s end. And then what will you do?”

Rieuk shrugged.

“You’re dissatisfied. Frustrated by Magister Gonery’s restrictions. Disappointed when others take the credit for the fruits of your hard work.”

Even though Rieuk’s head was lowered, he was listening now with ardent attention.

“And if I were to tell you that I belong to another order, one which welcomes gifted young magi like yourself and encourages them to develop their talents? We know that you have been investigating certain…skills forbidden to Gonery’s students.”

Rieuk’s face began to burn. “Who
are
you? And why all the secrecy?”

The stranger smiled at him again, a frank, winning smile that made Rieuk want to trust him, even though he knew he dared not. “At least tell me who you are,” he said warily.

“My name is Imri. Imri Boldiszar.”

“Imri,” repeated Rieuk softly. “Not a Francian name.” That explained the hint of a foreign accent.

“I’ve risked a great deal in coming here to see you, Rieuk Mordiern. Your masters are very powerful and they would not treat me kindly if they discovered me so close to the heart of their mysteries.”

“So why risk discovery just to see me, a mere apprentice?”

“Have you never wondered where your gift came from? Have you never longed to discover your true parentage?”

“My true parentage?” This was getting far too personal, and Rieuk began to wish he had taken the Vox parts and run. “What’s that to you?”

“It can make for a lonely childhood. Rejected by the other children because you’re different. Cornered one day, driven too far by the other children’s goading—and discovering your gift in one moment of sheer, transcendent rage…”

Rieuk slowly raised his head to stare into the stranger’s face. “How did you know?” he whispered. But Imri Boldiszar just raised one hand and removed his spectacles, revealing dark brown eyes that glimmered with an unnatural golden radiance.

“That’s how it is for all of us born with the gift.” And Rieuk caught the briefest shadow of pain tainting the warmth of Boldiszar’s gaze. “Destined to be misunderstood, rejected by our own flesh and blood, we seek out those rare individuals who understand us…because they share the same heritage.”

“
You
are—” began Rieuk, then stopped. If this man was indeed another magus, then he was not one of the college’s alumni. He had never seen the name “Boldiszar” inscribed in any of the college records. Which must mean…

“We want you, Rieuk. Join us.”

“You w—want me?” stammered Rieuk.

“I’ve been sent to find you. To bring you to us…if you wish to come.”

“But who
are
you?” Rieuk knew that he should have terminated this conversation long ago. He was straying into treacherous waters, but the stranger was speaking the very words he had longed to hear all his life.

Suddenly, Boldiszar reached out, hands cupping Rieuk’s face, drawing it closer to his own. Rieuk found himself staring into black-lashed brown eyes, flecked with dark gold, like tortoiseshell. Terrified, he tried to break free but found he could not move. The magus’s power held him helpless. And then his terror slowly began to melt into another, quite different feeling.

“Oh Rieuk,” whispered Boldiszar, “don’t fight me. I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I can initiate you into our mysteries. I can even help you awaken your true power.” The magus’s breath was warm, like a caress, aromatic, with a hint of bittersweet spice.

“My true power?”

“Your masters fear you. Why else would they have held you back, confining you to menial tasks? But I can sense your potential.” Imri Boldiszar’s mouth touched his in a brief kiss, light as the brush of a bee’s wings, yet Rieuk felt a current of dark energy reverberate through his whole body. “I can
taste
your potential,” Boldiszar murmured. “There is so much I can teach you, Rieuk. So many secrets that Gonery and Linnaius will never let you share.” The dark, tortoiseshell gaze held his until he felt as if he were floating in a star-studded sky. Rieuk closed his eyes, surrendering. Fear and excitement were pulsing through him. He knew he was being seduced—and he wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted in his whole life.

The moon is rising, casting its clear, verdant radiance over dark forests. A tower looms high above them, its jagged turret stark against the pale disc of the emerald moon. Faint, keening cries echo high above the trees. Shadows soar across the moon’s brilliance, winged creatures, graceful and swift as hawks. Rieuk is suddenly overwhelmed by a yearning so strong that it makes his whole being burn with longing…

Rieuk opened his eyes to find that they were standing beneath the willows on the riverbank in the warm darkness of the summer night, the plashing of the gently flowing water almost drowned by the shrill chorus of frogs. He had no recollection of how they had come to be there. The moon was rising but its chill light was silvered white, like the pure flame of burning magnesium, not the emerald green of his vision.

Imri Boldiszar let his hands travel slowly down from Rieuk’s face to rest on his shoulders. And Rieuk, who for so long had hated to be touched, no longer shied away.

“Do you plan to stay at the college all your life? Or would you rather break free and take your chance with me?”

Rieuk had not wanted the dream to end. He craved more. “The emerald moon. The tower.” The words came spilling out of his mouth like fast-flowing water. “Where was that place? And the winged ones? What were they?” Nothing else mattered to him anymore. Since Imri had touched his lips to his, Rieuk had been in a daze, unable to think of anything but that eerie moonlit landscape. It had awakened an aching hunger, and he knew he could not rest until it was assuaged.

The church clock rang out, chiming midnight. Rieuk blinked. Where had the last four hours gone?

“You must be thirsty,” said Imri casually. “Why not share a bottle of wine with me before you go back to the college? I can have the landlord bring it up to my rooms.” His smile was so open, so friendly, that Rieuk found himself following without a second thought.

Imri’s rooms were on the top floor of the old riverside inn, up three flights of creaking stairs. Rieuk carefully placed the casket containing the Vox parts on the table. A pale wash of moonlight shone in through the casement window.

“There’s a tinderbox on the table,” said Imri. “Unless you know some mage-trick to light the lamps?”

There were two oil lamps; Rieuk lifted the glass bowls and struck a flame, coaxing each wick in turn to a gentle glow. When he looked up, he saw that Imri was unfastening his coat, shrugging it off his shoulders, casually draping it over the corner of the bed. He had his back to him so that all Rieuk could see was the silky sheen of his long black hair against the white of his shirt…until Imri slowly let slip the thin linen of the shirt, turning around to face him.

Rieuk took a step backward toward the door. What did Imri intend? And then a soft, wondering gasp broke from his throat. “What
is
that?” For painted or tattooed in intricate detail into Imri’s honey-brown skin was a bird of prey. Its serrated wings were spread wide open across Imri’s breast, its proud head nestling at the base of the magus’s throat.

“This,” said Imri quietly, “is an Emissary. My Emissary.”

Rieuk’s fingers were reaching out before he was aware of it. The ink that had etched the feathers was black as shadow, and each feather looked so real that Rieuk was certain that it would feel like stroking the glossy wing of a living creature. As the tips of his fingers connected with the warmth of Imri’s skin, he sensed a faint crackle of energy.

“It’s…
alive
?”

He had been about to snatch his hand away but Imri moved the more swiftly, grasping it, pressing it against his ink-mottled breast.

“B—but how? It’s only a tattoo.” Rieuk’s natural skepticism refused to allow him to accept the physical evidence. But now, touching the etched skin, he could feel not only the strong pulse of Imri’s heart but another throbbing heartbeat, wild and fast, as if striving to break free.

Imri murmured into his ear, “Can you sense it? It’s one with me…and yet I can also send it to do my bidding.”

“Show me.” Rieuk was surprised at his own boldness. A slow, enigmatic smile spread over Imri’s face and Rieuk felt his own heart begin to thud faster, too. This was raw magic, the kind he had always secretly craved, and it was acting like a drug, awakening his senses.

“Tabris,” Imri commanded. “Tabris, come forth.”

The air shuddered, and a gust of wind whipped Rieuk’s hair across his eyes. Blinking, he looked again and saw the fierce flame of amber eyes staring haughtily back into his. Perched on Imri’s forearm was a great hawk, its inky feathers dully shimmering, trembling like shifting moonlit shadows.

“It’s—it’s real.” Rieuk’s mouth had gone dry and his voice was husky. “It’s…beautiful.” He could still just make out the pearlescent outline on Imri’s skin where the hawk had been etched.

“Show Rieuk what you can do.” Imri raised his arm. “Fly, Tabris.”

Rieuk ducked instinctively as the hawk lifted off Imri’s arm and flew straight toward the window. Rieuk let out a cry of warning, certain that the hawk would crash into the glass and injure itself. But it passed straight through the pane and flew on into the moonlit sky outside.

“Tabris is a shadow hawk, not of this world,” Imri said gently, placing a hand on Rieuk’s shoulder and steering him toward the casement so that he could watch the hawk’s graceful flight across the silver disc of the moon, skimming above the ramshackle roofs of Karantec.

“Tabris,” repeated Rieuk mechanically.

“And now I can see what Tabris sees.” Imri’s eyes had become clouded as he scanned the streets of the town and the roads beyond. “That’s far enough. Return.”