by Sarah Ash
Also by Sarah Ash
LORD OF SNOW AND SHADOWS Book
One of the Tears of Artamon
PRISONER OF THE IRON TOWER Book
Two of the Tears of Artamon
CHILDREN OF THE SERPENT GATE Book
Three of the Tears of Artamon
TRACING THE SHADOW
Book One of the Alchymist's Legacy
For Diana and Christopher Wallis
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As the final credits roll for Alchymist's Legacy, it's time for me to express my warmest thanks to everyone who has helped me tell Celestine's tale:
First and foremost, my wonderful editor (and novelist herself), Anne Groell, for her boundless patience, understanding, and good humor, not to mention all her editorial expertise and experience.
My supportive agents, John Richard Parker and Merrilee Heifetz.
Three very talented artists: Phil Heffernan for the gorgeous cover art, and Jamie S. Warren Youll for the neat jacket design, and Neil Gower for the map.
David Pomerico for not only being my “Wise Reader” (that invaluable adviser as advocated by Orson Scott Card) but also for stage-managing the later stages of production.
Sara Schwager for a very thorough copy edit, and Josh Pasternak for his invaluable help in the early stages.
My two webmasters: Darren Turpin and Paul Raven.
Janet Barrett, headmistress of Oak Lodge Primary School, and all my colleagues and parent librarians for their continuing interest and support.
And last—though by no means least—my husband, Michael, for … well… everything!
FOREWORD
In the secret history of the conflict between Tielen and Francia (as described in the Tears of Artamon) the mischief created by Francian agents Celestine de Joyeuse and Jagu de Rustéphan threatens to bring down an empire. Flight into Darkness recounts those events—but from the perspective of the Francian “enemy”—and reveals the hitherto untold story of what ensues in the turbulent months after the conclusion of Children of the Serpent Gate.
PROLOGUE
SEVEN, THEY WERE SEVEN,
THE DARK ANGELS OF DESTRUCTION
Sardion, Arkhan of Enhirre, stared up at the watch fires burning on the battlements of the ancient fortress of Ondhessar. For centuries it had towered over the desert, his country's strongest bastion against invaders, concealing a priceless treasure in its vaults: the shrine dedicated to Azilis, the Eternal Singer. For centuries it had been his family's sacred duty to protect the sacred Lodestar that housed her spirit, aided by the secret sect of the magi of Ondhessar, his Emissaries.
But he had failed. After a bitter and bloody siege in which many of his magi had fallen, the Francian Commanderie had seized the fortress. His first attempt to take back Ondhessar had cost him dear; his beloved eldest son, Alarion, had died in the conflict and the Francians had beaten back his forces. The next attempt to take back the fortress, by stealth and magic, would have succeeded, had it not been for the untimely arrival of the Allegondan Commanderie, the Rosecoeurs. And now the hated banner of the rose fluttered from every turret of the fortress.
He had sent a mage-assassin to exact his revenge against the Francian royal family. First the Crown Prince, Aubrey, had died— and then his father, King Gobain. But it was not enough, not nearly enough to sate the grief or the emptiness in his soul.
A dry, cold wind suddenly gusted across the desert and the Arkhan pulled his burnous up to cover his nose and mouth as granules of choking sand swirled into the night air. Above him, the stars burned with pitiless brilliance in a black sky.
“I must take Ondhessar back,” he murmured to the stars, “by whatever means I can, no matter how high the cost.” His generals had failed him. Even his magi had failed him.
“My lord Arkhan? You have a visitor. A most… unexpected visitor.”
Sardion turned, startled out of his dreams of revenge, to see Lord Estael, the commander of his few surviving magi, standing behind him.
“Who is it?”
“Lord Volkh Nagarian. The Drakhaon of Azhkendir.”
So the legends are true, Estael thought, as he gazed at the Arkhan's unexpected guest.
Lord Volkh was tall, broad-shouldered, his black hair and beard sprinkled with the first threads of silver. Yet it was the darkness of his aura that compelled Estael's attention; the instant the stranger entered the Arkhan's audience chamber, the elder magus felt a shiver of warning.
We're in the presence of a powerful and ancient daemon. Is this why Sardion asked me to stay? To protect him? I fear my powers are no match for the creature of darkness that has concealed itself within this man.
“This is an unexpected honor, Lord Drakhaon,” Sardion said guardedly.
“I've traveled a long way to see you, Lord Arkhan.” The Drakhaon turned to stare at Estael and Estael saw that the Drakhaon's eyes were piercingly, luminously blue. Unlike the magi of Ondhessar, Lord Volkh did not hide the evidence of his daemon blood behind thick spectacle lenses. “This is a matter of the utmost confidentiality; I'd prefer it if we could talk in private.”
“This is Estael, the eldest of the magi of Ondhessar; he has knowledge that may be of use to you.”
“If he stays, then Bogatyr Kostya stays too.” Behind the Drakhaon stood a single retainer, scarred arms folded, his iron-grey hair braided, Azhkendi-style. He had been obliged to hand over his weapons before being admitted to the Arkhan's presence, but his aggressive, menacing stance was enough to instill respect as he moved closer to his master, glaring suspiciously at Estael.
“What brings you so far from Azhkendir?” Sardion gestured to Lord Volkh to sit opposite him.
“I want to be rid of the Drakhaoul.”
“To be rid of it?” Sardion repeated and Estael heard the astonishment in his voice. “You inherited the powers of a Drakhaoul—and you want to be rid of it?”
“Have you no idea what it means to use these daemonic powers?” Lord Volkh cried. “Or what becomes of a mortal man's body when it is forced to host a Drakhaoul? Look at me. Look more closely.” He lifted his hands to reveal sharp talons where the nails should have been, each one a dark cobalt. “And my hair.” In the muted light filtering from behind the linen blinds drawn to shade the chamber from the fierce sun, Estael could just make out now that the Drakhaon's hair was more dark blue than black.
“Surely a small price to pay?” Sardion seemed unimpressed. “I heard that you defeated Stavyomir Arkhel's men and laid waste to his lands single-handed.”
“This is merely the outward manifestation of its presence.” Lord Volkh's voice grew so quiet that Estael had to lean forward to catch his words. “There is a legend in my country. It tells of the Drakhaoul's Brides, young women who were given to my ancestors … and were never seen alive again. It is no legend. Using the Drakhaoul's powers takes a terrible toll on a mortal body. It creates a terrible hunger that can only be assuaged by… ” The Drakhaon's powerful voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “By drinking fresh human blood.”
So those hooked talons had torn innocent flesh…
“The priests of Nagazdiel summoned the Drakhaouls by blood sacrifice,” Estael said. “The only way to bring a daemon into our world from the Realm of Shadows is to dispatch another soul to take its place.”
Lord Volkh turned to him, and his eyes burned so piercingly blue that Estael could not hold his gaze and looked swiftly away. “How do you know all this, Magus?”
“It's one of the Seven Arcane Secrets of Ondhessar that have been handed down from one elder magus to another since our order was founded.”
“I don't suppose that such knowledge would have helped my father.” Lord Volkh no longer gazed at Estael but through him at some far-distant point.
“The hunger eventually drives us mad. He grew so desperate that he abandoned me and my mother and sailed far into unchartered waters, searching for the lost island of Ty Nagar.”
“Estael, have you ever heard of this Ty Nagar?” The Arkhan asked the question idly enough, but Estael, who knew his master well, sensed that he was taking far too keen an interest in the matter.
“Is that where the portal to the Realm of Shadows is said to be?” Estael said guardedly. “The place known as the Serpent Gate?”
Lord Volkh gave a brusque nod. “My father's last wish was to send the Drakhaoul back to the Realm of Shadows and end the curse on our family. But he died, far from home, before he could fulfill his quest and the Drakhaoul returned, passing the curse on to me. The truth is, Lord Arkhan, that I don't know how much longer I can endure this burden.”
Estael heard the weary desperation in Lord Volkh's deep voice. It must have taken a great deal of courage for such a proud warlord to bare his soul to two strangers.
“And why, my lord, do you believe that I can help you?” asked Sardion.
“I've spent many years researching the history of the Drakhaouls”— Lord Volkh turned his burning blue gaze on Sardion— “and I discovered that your ancestors, Lord Arkhan, were once priests of Nagazdiel, the prince of the Drakhaouls. I believe that you and your magi may possess the lost knowledge that I'm seeking.”
Estael realized that both men were staring expectantly at him. As elder magus, he had guarded the secrets of the Rift that lay hidden below Ondhessar for many years and he was not prepared to reveal them so freely to a stranger.
“It was the priests of Nagazdiel who first brought the Drakhaouls from the Realm of Shadows through the Serpent Gate to serve the sons of the Emperor Artamon,” continued Lord Volkh. “So you must know of a way to send the Drakhaoul back.”
“What other means have you tried, my lord? Exorcism?”
Lord Volkh let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, the monks at Saint Sergius's Monastery tried—to their cost. It was far too powerful for them.”
“And what will become of this Drakhaoul, Lord Volkh, when you die?” The Arkhan's question sounded innocent enough, but Estael, to his alarm, detected an underlying hint of interest.
“It will seek out my son, Gavril. It attaches itself only to the male bloodline. I'd do anything to save my son from inheriting this curse. Gavril is a gentle, artistic boy who's studying to be a painter.” To Estael's surprise, a sad, almost wistful look entered Lord Volkh's blue eyes. “He knows nothing of me… or the Drakhaoul.”
“And if you had no son?”
Bogatyr Kostya, who had stood listening, as still and silent as a statue, unfolded his scarred arms and took a step forward.
“Is that a threat, Lord Arkhan?” He stared challengingly at Sardion.
“Stand down, Kostya,” Lord Volkh growled, as if addressing a disobedient mastiff.
“Join with me, Lord Volkh,” said Sardion suddenly. “Help me drive the Allegondans out of my lands. Lend me your powers.”
Lord Volkh's fist came down on the table like a thunderclap, making Estael jump. “Have you any idea what you're asking?” In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Estael saw his master's gaze harden. Sardion's moods were unpredictable and Estael inwardly prayed that the Arkhan would not provoke the Drakhaon into transforming into his Drakhaoul-form. But then, to Estael's surprise, the blue fire faded from Lord Volkh's eyes and his expression became distant, almost sad. “I had hoped that you would understand, Lord Arkhan. But I see I was mistaken.”
“All I know,” volunteered Estael bravely, “is that the Serpent Gate was sealed by Saint Sergius and the key to opening it, the fabled ruby known as Nagar's Eye, was divided up centuries ago by Artamon's sons. Even if we discovered where Ty Nagar lies, Lord Volkh, there is no way to reopen the Gate—unless the divided shards of ruby could somehow be found and reunited…”
Lord Volkh let out a harsh sigh. “So even you are unable to help me.”
“I fear you have had a wasted journey, my lord.” Sardion smiled, yet there was no warmth in his expression. “But please stay with us tonight and let us entertain you. The sun will soon be setting and the desert nights are cold.”
“I'll not prevail upon your hospitality any longer.” Lord Volkh rose abruptly. “Come, Kostya.”
Estael still sat at the table, unable to move. He realized that his hands were shaking. So even without revealing the daemon sleeping within him, the Drakhaon could induce this deep, visceral fear in everyone he encountered.
“He possesses the power of the last of the Seven,” he heard Sardion mutter, “and he wants to be rid of it?”
A sudden burst of daemonic energy rippled through the air. Heart thudding with apprehension, Estael got up, knocking over his chair, and ran out onto the balcony. Surely Lord Volkh would not attack the palace?
“What is it, Estael?” Sardion cried, following him.
“My lord, look. Look up!”
Darker than the night itself, a great dragon wheeled overhead, the glittering scales on its body shedding a fine trail, like powdered star-dust. As it winged away, Estael saw it gaze back down at them, and he recognized the proud, bitter look in its moon-blue, slanting eyes.
“Volkh is a fool.” Sardion was still muttering under his breath as he followed the Drakhaon's flight across the moonlit desert until the dragon could no longer be seen against the stars. “He could rule the quadrant.” The Arkhan swung round and gripped Estael by the shoulder. “Do you give me your word never to reveal anything of what I'm going to show you? On pain of death?”
Estael saw the crazed gleam in Sardion's eyes and knew that it would be madness to refuse his master's request.
“Follow me, Estael.”
“Sentient stone?” Estael murmured, watching as the Arkhan made a cut with his dagger in his palm and smeared a little of his blood on the wall. A hidden carving appeared, sigils and the arcane hieroglyphs of Ancient Enhirran. So the hidden door could only be opened by a drop of the Arkhan's blood.
“Now you. Or else the chamber will never let you out again. And you wouldn't want to end your days walled in belowground, would you?”
Estael silently offered his palm to the Arkhan's blade and let a drop or two of his blood trickle down the dark, worn stone. A grinding, groaning noise began and a small doorway opened. Sardion led the way, the magus following down the dark passageway until they came to a second door, where the same blood ritual was repeated.
The chamber beyond was lined in black marble: Even in lantern-light, the atmosphere was somber and stifling.
“My father first brought me down here when I was eight,” said Sardion. “I was terrified. I thought it was a tomb. I imagined there would be dead bodies.”
Estael was gazing around him. “No bodies… but there are carvings in an ancient script.” He began to translate. “‘Seven, they were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction.’” He broke off. “What is this place?”
“It's a shrine to Nagazdiel, the Prince of the Realm of Shadows,” said Sardion. He drew aside a curtain that concealed a mosaic portraying a winged man, fashioned from chips of obsidian, garnet, and ruby. “The most powerful of the Drakhaouls.”
“And this door?” Estael began to feel apprehensive. What was the Arkhan's true motive in revealing these ancient secrets to him?
“It leads into the Rift. My ancestors believed that it also led to the Realm of Shadows. And that anyone who could find his way into the Shadows could summon Nagazdiel to do his bidding.”
“Did any of your ancestors ever attempt such a rash act?”
“We cannot enter the Rift. Those who tried, perished. In agony. Only those with mage blood can survive in the unstable atmosphere of the Rift.” Sardion gazed pointedly at Estael.
“You don't mean me, Lord Arkhan?” Estael stared back at him, aghast. “Surely one of the younger Emissaries would be a better choice…”
“Rieuk Mordiern, then. He's the most powerful of
you all.”
“Rieuk is still recovering from his injuries. But I beg you to reconsider. If you set Nagazdiel free, can you be sure that such a powerful Drakhaoul would obey you? After all, he— “
“Are you daring to suggest that I am not as strong as Lord Nagarian? That I'm not capable of controlling a daemon from the Realm of Shadows? “
“No, Lord Arkhan, but I was reminding you that the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir was merely one of Nagazdiel's warriors. Nagazdiel himself—”
Sardion quelled his objections with a single look. “Test this doorway for me, Estael.”
Estael steeled himself and passed through the doorway. If the Arkhan was wrong, he would suffocate in the unstable atmosphere. Veil upon veil of shadows parted, like gauzy spiderwebs, as he reluctantly moved forward, not wanting to leave the safety of the doorway. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a dreary wasteland stretching away into the far distance. Everything was the color of dust. From time to time a chill wind gusted across the emptiness but otherwise nothing stirred.
“What a terrible place,” Estael murmured aloud.
And then he sensed it. A mighty power, darker than a stormcloud, was approaching. He shrank back. His sole instinct was to flee, to get away before it discovered him. Two stars had appeared in the dun light, crimson as fire. No, not stars—eyes, slanted, cruel eyes. And they were coming toward him, bearing down on him, relentless and swift. Estael turned to run back toward the doorway.
“What are you doing here, Magus?” The voice pierced him like an icy spear. Trembling, Estael dropped to his knees. “Have you come to set me free?”
Estael dared to look up. The Drakhaoul towered over him, its crimson eyes burning into him, reading him to the most secret recesses of his soul. Its powerful body was sheathed in scales of black jet that shimmered in the dull light. A mane of charcoal-black hair streamed down its back.
“You're not strong enough to host me, old man,” it said scornfully. Estael felt its hold over him relax and he fell forward into the dust. And as it strode away into the darkness, he heard it murmur, “Am I never to escape?”
