Tracing the Shadow (47 page)

On the sixth and uppermost floor of the narrow building, the stink of magic grew stronger. He was confronted by a single door. “Open up!” he cried. When there was no reply, he kicked the door open.

He halted on the threshold. It was a tawdry, poky little room, half-lit by a grubby-paned window set in the eaves that afforded a good view of the Maistre’s house below.

Spots of blood stained the bare boards; freshly spilled, Ruaud reckoned, from the look of it. If the magus had been here, he was injured and could not have got far…

He tugged the thin mattress off the bed, flinging it on the floor, frantically searching beneath for the soul-glass. The magus would have little use for it now.

And then he stopped, hearing the crunch of glass beneath his foot.

“Oh no.” He knelt down and felt with careful fingers on the dusty boards. Soon they closed on sharp shards: the fragments of a delicate lotus glass with its priceless contents all leaked away.

CHAPTER 34

Quicksilver ripple of air…

Jagu felt it. Even within his quarters, within the hallowed stone walls of the Forteresse, the disturbance reached him. Faint, this time, yet unmistakable, that strange moment of stillness.

And at the same moment, the magus’s mark on his wrist began to burn, just as it had in Bel’Esstar.

He pushed back his cuff, staring at it in disbelief, seeing the faint marks of the sigil on his skin darkening to an angry red, as if freshly branded there by the magus’s perverted art.

How could
he
be here in Lutèce? And why had he come?

A thin filament of glimmering brightness spiraled through the air…

The Maistre’s fair-lashed lids fluttered a little, then opened, revealing a hint of soft grey.

“Ce…les…tine?”

He knew her. He was his own self again.

“I’m here, Henri, I’m here.”

He tried to raise one hand to touch her face. But then she saw the light fade from his eyes, and as it dimmed, so his hand dropped back. A little sigh escaped his mouth and she knew that he was gone.

“What’s wrong, Rustéphan?” demanded Lieutenant Friard, glancing up from the roll call.

“Where’s the captain, Lieutenant? I need to see him. Urgently.”

“How urgently?”

“The magus is here,” said Jagu. “In the city.”

Lieutenant Friard dropped his pen, spattering ink over the neatly scribed list of names. “I believe he went to pay a call on Demoiselle de Joyeuse…”

Celestine? Jagu’s heart twisted in his chest. Suppose the magus had come seeking her out after the thwarted attack in the Basilica? “Permission to go find the captain?”

“Granted.” Friard took up his pistol. “Do you need backup?”

But Jagu was already running toward the Forteresse stables.

Jagu dismounted at the entrance to the
ruelle
that led to the Maistre’s house and tied his horse’s reins to the railings. He checked the mark on his wrist and saw that it was already fading.

He’s getting away.

He hesitated a moment, torn between his duty to pursue the magus and his fear for Celestine’s safety. And then he saw that the front door was open.

“Celestine!” he shouted, hurrying into the hall. “Maistre!”

He stopped, hearing the sound of muffled sobbing coming from upstairs.

Something was wrong here, very wrong. He hurried up the stairs, two at a time.

Through an open doorway, he saw Celestine weeping over the body of a man who lay with his fair head in her lap.

“Maistre?” Jagu stared down at his beloved teacher. He knelt beside Celestine and lifted the Maistre’s wrist, feeling in vain for a pulse. “Maistre!”

Celestine raised her tear-streaked face to his. “Jagu, you’re too late. He’s gone.”

Jagu was still holding the Maistre’s hand in his own. “No,” he said in disbelief. “He can’t be.” How could a healthy young man like Henri de Joyeuse be lying here dead? He leaned forward and felt for a pulse at the throat. “A doctor. You’ve sent Francinette for a doctor?”

“It’s no use,” said Celestine in a hard, low voice. “It was the magus, Jagu. He stole his soul. And when it returned to his body, it was too late and he…he died.”

“But why?” Jagu could feel tears, useless tears burning in his eyes. Why was he reliving this nightmare? Why was the magus still at large, ruthlessly attacking all those he held dear? “Why use the Maistre?”

“To get at me.” Her voice was even quieter. “He did it to deceive me. It’s all my fault.”

“How can it be your fault?” Jagu burst out, not understanding what she was saying.

“Don’t ask me. Not now.” Her blue eyes burned in her white face; he had never seen her look so fierce…or so desolate. And then the mask crumpled and the tears began to flow again. “Henri,” she wept. “Why couldn’t I save you? Why didn’t I see what he had done to you? Why was I taken in by his deception?”

Immobilized by his own shock and grief, Jagu knelt, clutching the Maistre’s cold hand, not knowing what to do. There was nothing he could say to alleviate her pain, yet he could not bear to see her so distraught. Would she have wept for him like this if he had died in Enhirre? And then he dismissed the idea; how ignoble of him to even think such a thing! He laid the Maistre’s hand down and looked into his still, empty face, seeking in vain for a trace of the gentle, endearing humor that had so often animated it.

I came to save her, dear Maistre. I never once thought that I would lose you.

Blindly through his tears, he reached out to put his arms around Celestine. To his surprise, she turned to him, burying her face in his shoulder. They knelt there awhile, clinging to each other, until Jagu heard voices and the sound of booted feet on the stairs.

Captain de Lanvaux appeared in the doorway, his face grim. Jagu recognized several familiar faces from the captain’s elite squad, foremost among them Alain Friard and Kilian.

“He got away,” said the captain briefly. “He was wounded. We followed a trail of bloodstains. But we lost all trace of him at the quay.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded a woman’s voice querulously from downstairs. “Why is my front door open to the four elements?”

“Dame Elmire.” Celestine started up. “I must go to her. We have to break it to her gently. She’s elderly. The shock could kill her.”

Ruaud de Lanvaux stopped her. “Let me tell her, Celestine.”

Celestine nodded.

Jagu dashed his hand across his eyes, hastily wiping away the wetness. He didn’t care if the other Guerriers saw his tears for his teacher, but she would need him to be strong.

“Shall we move him?” Lieutenant Friard said quietly.

The Guerriers moved forward and respectfully, efficiently, lifted the Maistre’s body and laid it on the bed. The lieutenant began, in a quiet voice, to say a Sergian prayer for the dead. They stood, heads bowed, until he had finished.

“It’s all my fault, Jagu.” Celestine’s eyes were swollen with crying. “Henri died because of me.”

“No,” Jagu insisted. “You mustn’t blame yourself. He died because the magus killed him. Just as he killed Paol.” He wanted so much to put his arms around her again and hold her close. But the captain reappeared and Celestine hurried to him. “Dame Elmire is in shock,” he said briefly. “The servant woman is with her. I’ve sent for the physician.”

Much later that interminable day, the members of Captain de Lanvaux’s squad returned to the house. Celestine, clutching the book, had been keeping watch over Henri’s body. But as evening fell, she let the Guerriers take her place and went downstairs, still holding on to the book.

“Soul-stealing is damaging for the stealer as well as the victim,” said the captain. “The magus must have used up much of his own life energy. He can’t have gone far.” He carefully drew his handkerchief out of his pocket. Wrapped inside were fragments of crystal glass.

“What is that?” Her throat ached and her voice was hoarse when she tried to speak.

“I found these on the floor of his room. He must have smashed the soul-glass when you thwarted his attack.”

“Henri’s soul was contained in here?” She extended her hand to touch the glittering shards, as if there were some tangible, lingering trace of his presence.

“Careful; they’re sharp,” the captain said brusquely.

“What kind of glass can preserve a mortal soul?”

“We believe the magi who practice soul-stealing use a special glass that they imbue with Aethyric properties.”

“We’re going to track him down and bring him to justice,” said Jagu grimly. “No one else is going to die by the Forbidden Arts.”

“How did it all go so wrong?” Rieuk lay, ill and in intense pain, in the darkened cabin of a barque sailing upriver. He could see nothing through the seared ruin of his right eye. His left eye watered constantly, half-closed and swollen in sympathy with its damaged twin. Even the slightest movement of the barque on the water sent agonizing barbs of pain shooting through his head.

Ormas had retreated into himself, nursing his own wound in silence.

Rieuk had not felt so alone—or so desperate—since Imri’s death.

“Why did Celestine attack? Didn’t she understand what would happen to de Joyeuse? I thought she loved him. I don’t understand…”

“
Azilis made her do it, Master,
” came back Ormas’s halting reply. “
Azilis took control of her. Azilis has chosen Celestine for her own.
”

“When am I going to wake up, Faie?” Celestine whispered. “When am I going to wake up and find this is all a vile dream?”

“
You protected me,
” said the Faie.
“And in protecting me, you lost the one you loved. I can never repay such a debt.
”

“Why can’t you bring him back? Why, Faie?”

“Nothing has changed. I can only protect you. I am powerless to help anyone else.
”

Celestine was sorely in need of sleep but every time her aching lids drooped and she fell into a doze, she found herself reliving the events of the last hours, watching in horror as the man she loved lurched toward her, a living puppet, moved by the will of the magus who had stolen his soul.

She sat in the dark in the music room, huddled in Henri’s old robe de chambre, clutching Hervé’s book. The soft, worn fabric still retained a hint of the scent of his body, and as she pulled it close about her, she found a little comfort in it. She did not want to go back to the room, her room, where he had died.

The physician had given Dame Elmire a sleeping draft to calm her. But Celestine had refused his potions. She needed to keep alert in case
he
returned.

Captain de Lanvaux had asked her, gently enough, “Why was the magus here? Why did he attack you?” and she had answered him, just as she had answered Jagu, that she believed his attack was in retribution for the Bel’Esstar affair.

“I’ve even had to lie to Captain de Lanvaux to shield you, dear Faie. And I owe him so much. He’s stood by me and defended me. How can I tell him the truth?” In her exhausted state, she might so easily make a slip and reveal too much about her past. And then not even the captain would be able to save her from the Inquisition.

Although she feared that attending Henri’s funeral would be more painful to endure than any torture the Inquisition could devise.

As the slow procession filed out of Saint Meriadec behind the Maistre’s coffin, Celestine walked as if in a trance. Dame Elmire was too ill to attend, but Captain de Lanvaux stood at Celestine’s side as the last sweet, sad strains of the choir of the Sisters of Charity floated out into the autumn air. Jagu was at the organ, and he had chosen to honor his teacher’s memory by playing one of the Maistre’s chorale preludes from the book that he had given Jagu at Saint Argantel’s Seminary.

Celestine envied Jagu that he had a role to fulfill during the service; he could occupy his mind with changing organ stops and concentrate on his performance, rather than on the coffin that rested before the altar, beneath its simple wreath of lilies.

Crowds of people waited in the street outside in respectful silence under a cloudy sky.

I had no idea that the Maistre’s music was so popular,
Celestine thought dazedly. She was glad that she had hidden her face beneath a black voile veil; she was sure that as she passed by, the onlookers were whispering and nudging one another.

“So tragic…so young…”

Captain de Lanvaux had ensured that the Maistre’s death was reported in all the journals as being from a sudden and devastating apoplexy, brought on by overwork.

“If the true reason were given…” he had begun, and Celestine had understood.

A sharp breeze had begun to blow from the river, stirring the tops of the cypresses and yew that lined the walled cemetery. The mourners had begun to drift away, but Celestine still stood with Jagu and the captain beside her at the grave.

“You killed him!” The voice was a woman’s, throbbing with bitter accusation.

Celestine stopped as a tall, elegantly black-clad figure forced her way through the crowd of mourners, one finger pointed directly at her. She recognized Aurélie, dark eyes flashing with fury in a white-powdered face. Behind her, she saw Gauzia, muffled in a hooded cape, staring, yet for once saying nothing.