Flight Into Darkness Part 37

"Captain, would you be so good as to let the duke through?" Alienor said to the captain of her guards.

"First you tell me, Alienor, that Aude has run away to Serindher with your son." Raimon de Provenca strode toward the dais, loudly enumerating his grievances. "Second comes the news of this tidal wave or typhoon. And then-here are the Prince and Princess of Allegonde, and talk of a coronation. I need to know: Is my daughter alive or dead?"

The raised voices, the growing sense of unbearable tension, mingled with grief for her brother and fatigue after the journey... Suddenly the salle began to swim before Adele's eyes. She heard Ilsevir cry out her name. And then a roaring sound, as if of an incoming tide, rose to drown out everything else and she went under into blackness.

"Have you been eating properly?"

Adele closed her eyes wearily as her mother started on one of her lectures again. "A gla.s.s of strong red wine a day, with a spoonful of phosphorus, will be good for your const.i.tution. We can't have you fainting at the coronation. And we need you for the fitting of the robes tomorrow."

"Yes, Madame..." If only Maman would let her alone to rest.

"She looks very peaky, Ilsevir. I'd like my physician to take a look at her."

"I'm sure Adele is just fatigued after the journey," she heard Ilsevir say and smiled to herself, touched that he had dared to defend her against her mother. If only he would stay and talk with her. He was spending so much time these days with Girim nel Ghislain and the clerics that she felt neglected.

"Nevertheless, I'm going to call in Doctor Vallot."

"Vallot? In spite of all his experience, he couldn't save my father." In the shocked silence that followed, Adele realized that she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

"Well, I must go and meet with Maistre Donatien," said Ilsevir, retreating hastily.

"They just stood there," said Adele when he had gone. "They stood in silence. Watching."

"What are are you babbling about? Are you feverish?" said Alienor sharply. you babbling about? Are you feverish?" said Alienor sharply.

"The people. They don't want Ilsevir as king. They don't want Francia and Allegonde to be united."

"What do they care as long as the taxes don't rise too high and there's enough bread to fill their bellies? Francia alone is weak, but Francia and Allegonde united present a strong front to resist the Emperor."

Adele lay back, knowing there was no point in arguing with her mother. But Alienor was blind. That silent protest was a sign of a deeper malaise. Resentment was brewing in the city and could erupt at any moment into open rebellion.

The morning of the coronation, the skies filled with clouds and rain began to fall over Lutece.

"What luck we chose the closed carriage," said Ilsevir, gazing out at the raindrops running down the windows.

"Yes," said Adele. She felt sad and subdued. Was the wet weather an ill omen? "You look lovely," Ilsevir said softly.

"Do I?" She looked at him, surprised yet touched by the compliment. "Thank you." All the while her ladies had been dressing her in the heavy gown of blue and gold brocade, the colors of Francia, her mind had been elsewhere, wondering why she, of all the three children of Gobain and Alienor, should be the only one still alive.

As they climbed down from the carriage, equerries hurried forward to shield them from the rain. Adele noticed how few had gathered outside the cathedral to cheer for their new king and queen. An honor guard lined their way up the wide steps and into the cathedral: all Allegondan Rosecoeurs, she noted sadly.

And then a fanfare blared out to announce their arrival and the long procession set off. Adele sighed. Everything in the gloomy, drafty cathedral reminded her of what she had lost: a father and two beloved elder brothers.

If only you were here to sing for me, Celestine. I think I could endure this with fort.i.tude if I could hear your sweet voice and know you were here to cheer my spirits afterward...

"Ready, my dearest?" Ilsevir whispered and, looking up at him, she saw how pale he looked. She had been so bound up in her own feelings that she had neglected to notice that her husband was suffering from nerves. Ilsevir needed her support as never before. She put the past from her mind and smiled bravely up at him as she placed her hand firmly on his.

"I'm ready," she said.

CHAPTER 17.

Jagu disembarked at the Mirom docks under a yellow-grey sky that threatened more snow. The crew had already begun to unload casks of wine from the hold, rolling them down onto the quayside with much raucous shouting and swearing. Merchants from Khitari in their high-collared jackets had gathered in a huddle to check on boxes of tea, and an argument suddenly broke out as one discovered a fractured seal. Wagons clattered over the cobbles, as traders in fur coats and fur-trimmed hats arrived to haggle over the Dame Blanche's Dame Blanche's cargo. cargo.

The sea journey to Mirom had taken much longer than Jagu had antic.i.p.ated. Winter storms in the Straits had twice driven Captain Peillac to seek shelter in little ports on the western coast of Muscobar. Cut off from any news, Jagu had fretted away his time ash.o.r.e, even setting out to travel overland by sleigh. But severe blizzards inland drove him back to the ship. By the time they reached the Nieva estuary, the river had frozen over and they had to wait for channels to be cut through the thick winter ice by Tielen ships with specially designed metal prows.

Having secured lodgings, Jagu presented himself at the Francian Emba.s.sy. While he was waiting in the entrance hall, he couldn't help noticing that all the amba.s.sador's staff were wearing black mourning bands.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Lieutenant de Rustephan." An earnest-faced young man came out to greet him, ushering him swiftly into his office. "My name is Roget de Cormery, secretary to Amba.s.sador d'Abrissard."

"Has the amba.s.sador suffered a bereavement?" Jagu asked, seeing that Cormery was also wearing a mourning band.

"My dear lieutenant, haven't you heard the terrible news? The king has been lost at sea."

Jagu stared at him, dumbfounded.

"It seems that his majesty was visiting a distant mission in Serindher when a tidal wave or typhoon struck. The reports are still vague. And it's rumored-but please may I count on your discretion here-that Prince Andrei may have been with him."

"First Maistre de Lanvaux, now the king?" All the time Jagu had been trapped by the weather, he had been cut off from news of the outside world. "Are there any orders for me from the Forteresse?" he asked, trying to focus on his mission.

"A letter of credit has been sent through from the Commanderie treasurer to cover your expenses. And his Excellency asked me to ensure ..."

Enguerrand was dead? Jagu hardly heard what Cormery was saying; he was trying to come to terms with the news. The last he had heard was that the king had been abducted by a Drakhaoul-so to have survived that a.s.sault only to succ.u.mb to the treacherous elements seemed the cruelest of fates.

"You'll need more warm clothes too."

Jagu blinked, realizing that he had not heard a word of what Cormery was telling him.

"It may be spring in Francia, but here in Mirom, the snows can still return after the thaw."

Jagu entered the vast nave of the Cathedral of Saint Simeon. A deep, dark chanting echoed through the incense-spiked air, sending shivers through his whole body. He had heard tell of the visceral power of the monks' singing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw them: thirty or so long-bearded men gathered together in the golden glow of the altar candles, producing an extraordinarily deep-throated, resonant sound. He closed his eyes and let the ancient chant enshroud him. It was a music borne of the earth itself, dragged up from deep below, raw and vibrant.

Jagu found an obscure corner and knelt, silently repeating the words of the Sergian funeral service for his lost, drowned king, though in his heart, he still hoped that Enguerrand had been washed up on some little island and was waiting to be rescued.

"How long have you known Jagu de Rustephan, Lieutenant Guyomard?" asked Grand Maistre Donatien. Rain spattered against the windowpanes behind him; the view of the river and the quay beyond was obscured by trails of water.

"Over fifteen years; we were at Saint Argantel's Seminary together." Kilian gazed at Donatien, wondering what lay behind such a seemingly innocent question.

"I sent the lieutenant on a mission to Muscobar in the autumn and he has not returned. I think you may have some idea what that mission was." Donatien was still smiling, but his eyes gazed keenly back at Kilian.

"Demoiselle de Joyeuse."

"So he told you?"

"I guessed." Kilian could play at that game too.

"So you were close enough to know the way he thinks, acts?"

"Close enough," Kilian said lightly.

"So why do you think he hasn't brought her back for questioning?"

Kilian stared down at his boots, noticing a spatter of mud. "Perhaps he hasn't tracked her down yet," he muttered. "Muscobar is a big country."

"What's most important to you, Lieutenant: your vow as a Guerrier or your friendship with Rustephan?"

Kilian knew exactly where the questions were leading; his future career in the Commanderie would depend on his answer.

Jagu, you stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You didn't listen to a word of my advice, did you? You've gone and thrown everything away, and all for the sake of that worthless woman.

"I value his friendship highly," he said, "but my sacred vow must always come first."

"And if Rustephan had betrayed the Commanderie, how would you feel about him then?"

"Our friendship would be over. Any betrayal of the Commanderie would feel like a personal betrayal," Kilian said stiffly. And more so, Maistre, than you could begin to imagine. And more so, Maistre, than you could begin to imagine.

"You have considerable potential, Kilian." The Maistre smiled warmly at him. "I think you could go far in the Commanderie. Changes are coming. I can see you replacing Alain Friard when he retires."

"The captain's retiring?"

"Yes, and maybe sooner than he antic.i.p.ates. Make a success of this mission, Kilian, and I will personally recommend you to the king for promotion."

Captain Guyomard. Kilian had to admit to himself that it had a pleasing ring to it as he hurried through the rain to the treasurer's office. And Donatien had given him carte blanche to carry out the mission using whatever means he thought appropriate. Kilian had to admit to himself that it had a pleasing ring to it as he hurried through the rain to the treasurer's office. And Donatien had given him carte blanche to carry out the mission using whatever means he thought appropriate.

What had love and friendship brought him? Nothing but heartache and humiliation. But promotion and the chance to become one of the men who controlled Francia? Kilian had never realized till now that he was ambitious. To rise to the top meant being ruthless, shedding old friends and allies when it was expedient to do so.

"Pa.s.sage on a Mirom-bound ship for you, Lieutenant?"

"Indeed, and I'll need an extra cabin on the return journey. I'm planning to bring back an old friend of mine."

Over the next days, Jagu found himself returning to the cathedral, drawn by the power of the monks' singing. The Muscobites employed choirs of a cappella singers in their churches and cathedrals, eschewing the use of instruments for their religious services. There was no sign of women in the church choirs of Mirom, so Celestine could not have found employment there, unless she had entered a convent...

It was bitterly cold in the cathedral that day and Jagu sought out a tavern to warm himself. As he sat in the smoky fug, his numb fingers clasped around a mug of steaming sbiten, sbiten, he sipped slowly, feeling the honey-spiced warmth infuse slowly through his body. he sipped slowly, feeling the honey-spiced warmth infuse slowly through his body.

Where are you, Celestine? She had last been seen at Lapwing Spar, the southernmost tip of Muscobar. After that, he had picked up only the vaguest of clues. A fair-haired woman matching Celestine's description had auditioned for several theaters in late autumn, just before the great darkness. After the darkness, there had been no more sightings. If she was still pursuing Kaspar Linnaius, she might have gone to Tielen weeks ago. She had last been seen at Lapwing Spar, the southernmost tip of Muscobar. After that, he had picked up only the vaguest of clues. A fair-haired woman matching Celestine's description had auditioned for several theaters in late autumn, just before the great darkness. After the darkness, there had been no more sightings. If she was still pursuing Kaspar Linnaius, she might have gone to Tielen weeks ago.

When do I accept defeat?

Since his first visit to the cathedral, he had not been able to rid his mind of the glorious sound of the choir. One chant in particular kept weaving its way through his mind, its sonorities sad yet triumphant, like the song of a warrior who had survived a desperate and b.l.o.o.d.y battle, limping back across the battlefield, past the bodies of his fallen comrades...

What's happening to me? Why do I feel this way? Since Ruaud's death and Celestine's disappearance, Jagu had begun to question everything in his life. While Ruaud had been there to guide and inspire him, the Commanderie had fulfilled his need to make a stand against the darkness. But now he felt the irresistible pull of his first love-music. Since Ruaud's death and Celestine's disappearance, Jagu had begun to question everything in his life. While Ruaud had been there to guide and inspire him, the Commanderie had fulfilled his need to make a stand against the darkness. But now he felt the irresistible pull of his first love-music.

Jagu had done little in the way of composition at the conservatoire, concentrating on improving his keyboard technique. Now, for the first time, he felt the compulsion to try to recapture in notes that elusive, all-transcending moment of clarity he had experienced in the cathedral.

He sat up late into the night, frantically writing, scribbling out, then writing again. It was as if the torrent of notes had been building up deep within him over a long while and there was no stopping it. It poured unchecked from his pen onto the staves he had ruled, forcing him to abandon himself to the demands of the music. It was a work for chorus and soprano soloist, growing out of the pitches of the ancient chant-quite unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was not that he had given up on his search for Celestine; it seemed to him, as he worked, that he could hear her singing the solo soprano part he was creating. Her pure voice was the inspiration for his choice of words, which were taken from the Vesper Prayer of the Knights of the Commanderie-the "Song of Azilis." Sometimes he even felt as if Celestine were with him in his shabby lodgings, leaning over his shoulder as he wrote.

Day after day, Jagu worked obsessively on his Vesper Prayer, only leaving his room to buy more paper and ink. His landlady brought meals, leaving them outside his door so as not to disturb him; often he forgot they were there till hours later and had to spoon down cold beetroot soup or tepid stew with globules of congealed fat.

After a while he began to sense a feeling of resolution. He scanned the pages, filled with scribblings-out and corrections, reading through what he had written. The boldness of the musical language surprised him. He had no idea that such strength of feeling had been bottled up inside him-or that he had the innate skills to organize the musical material. But then he had been taught by Henri de Joyeuse... and he must have absorbed something of the Maistre's technical ability in those long hours of study.

"And yet I never thought of myself as a composer then, Maistre," he said aloud.

Pa.s.sing by the little mirror over the mantelpiece, he caught sight of himself. Haggard-eyed, with many days' growth of stubble, he looked like a madman. If he were to convince a Muscobite director of music to take a look at his work, he would have to tidy himself up.

The landlady was sweeping the hall; he leaned over the banister to ask where he could find the nearest public bathhouse.

"Across the square," she said, "on the far side, beyond the Imperial Theater."

"What's this... ?" Emerging clean-shaven and damp-haired from the bathhouse, Jagu stopped. Fresh playbills had been plastered on the bathhouse walls. They announced the long-antic.i.p.ated appearance of the celebrated Francian diva Gauzia de Saint-Desirat at the Imperial Theater in A Spring Elopement. A Spring Elopement.

"Gauzia?" Jagu stood there, lost in memories. In the five years since Gauzia had turned her back on the world of church music, her stage career must have blossomed. Jagu stood there, lost in memories. In the five years since Gauzia had turned her back on the world of church music, her stage career must have blossomed.

Curiosity impelled him up the wide steps of the theater and through the grand colonnaded entrance, with its carved swags adorned with painted flowers and lyres. The foyer was even more impressive; an elaborate double staircase wound up to the first floor and marble statues of ill.u.s.trious past performers stood in every mirrored alcove. Dazzled by the gilt and crystal l.u.s.ters, Jagu suddenly caught a brief burst of song as an inner door opened from the auditorium, then swung shut again.

"Can I help you?" A flunkey in a brown-and-gold uniform barred his way.

"I'd like to speak with Demoiselle de Saint-Desirat."

The flunkey's eyebrows rose. "So would every man in Mirom, it seems," he said disdainfully. "The diva is rehearsing. If you would be so good as to leave your card..." One gloved hand was thrust in Jagu's face, palm upward.

"But I'm an old friend of the diva's."

"Of course course you are. Your card?" you are. Your card?"

This was going to take more than a little ingenuity. Jagu had no cards-and even if he sent a letter, Gauzia would probably refuse to see him. As he went back out into the bitter cold, he noticed a man bearing armfuls of striped hothouse lilies, cream and pink and gold, disappearing round the side of the theater.

Bouquets for the diva.

"A moment there, my friend," he called out, drawing a coin from his pocket. "You must be very busy. Let me deliver those for you."

The florist hesitated, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Then he thrust the bouquets into Jagu's arms and swiftly pocketed the coin.

Jagu knocked at the stage door. He held the flowers high, so that the heavily scented blooms half concealed his face.

"Flowers for the diva?" a stagehand said. "Take them straight to her dressing room."

A warren of ill-lit pa.s.sages opened up in front of Jagu. Chorus members and stagehands hurried to and fro, pushing past him without even seeming to notice he was there. In the dim light, it was difficult to make out the names on the doors he pa.s.sed. A gust of cold air stirred the petals of the lilies and he suddenly heard a woman's voice break into song in the distance.

He stopped abruptly. That distinct, pure tone. The unseen singer shaped phrase after phrase with sensitive musicianship. Gauzia had a richer voice, a more sensual sound, but she had never managed to rise to those elusive high notes with such unique, unearthly artistry. He knew that voice instantly, even though it was many months since he had heard her sing. He stood, back pressed up against the dusty bricks of the pa.s.sageway, not knowing what to do, as the singers flitted back and forth.