by Sarah Ash
In a little clearing, they found the first shrine to the saint—a worn stone plinth, overgrown with ivy. Jagu bent down to clear away some of the clinging strands. Faint letters could just be made out, surmounted by the sign of the crook pointing the way to the monastery. The only sound was the twittering of birds and the occasional feathery flutter of wings as they flitted across the glade.
“Doesn't it strike you as ironic that Saint Sergius is venerated here,” Jagu said, straightening up, “even though his murderer, the Drakhaoul, has lived on for centuries in the ruling house? How can the Azhkendis reconcile the two, the saint and the daemon?”
While he was speaking, Celestine noticed that a strange stillness had fallen over the green glade.
“The birds have stopped singing. Is someone watching us?”
“Show yourself!” Jagu drew his pistol. Back to back, heel to heel, they slowly turned around, checking for any sign of movement among the lichen-blotched trunks. But if anyone was shadowing them, he kept well hidden. She heard him let out a slow breath. “This is only the first of the shrines; there are four more to go before we reach the monastery.”
“If we're going to reach the pilgrims’ shelter before nightfall, we'd better make a move.” Celestine was tired and her feet were hot and sore, but the knowledge that Kaspar Linnaius was close by gave her new determination to keep going. As they left the glade, she noticed Jagu glancing back over his shoulder. Had the Magus been shadowing them?
They stopped by the mossy banks of a forest stream to catch fish for supper. Celestine had learned on earlier missions that Jagu's stillness and quick eye made him a good fisherman.
“That's not a trick you learned at the seminary,” she said, watching him dispatch the slippery, struggling char with an expertly judged blow to the head.
“My elder brother Markiz taught me,” he said, laying it beside his two earlier catches.
“How many brothers do you have?” He so rarely spoke of his family that she couldn't resist the chance to tease out some information about his early life.
“Markiz took over the family estate when my father died three years ago. Léonor is a notary in Kemper. And I…”
“You showed an early gift for music, so your father sent you to a seminary.”
He pulled a face. “My father never really understood,” he said curtly, getting to his feet. “Time to go.” He pointed to the sky. “We have to find the pilgrims’ shelter before dusk.”
The daylight was fading; glints of gold from the setting sun filtered through the branches. In the twilight, Celestine tripped on a knotted tree root.
“Ow!” She hopped to lean against a mossy trunk, nursing her stubbed toe.
“Watch where you place your feet. If you trip and sprain your ankle, I'm not going to carry you.”
Why did Jagu always have to be so self-righteous? She glared at him. “It's getting a little hard to see my feet, or hadn't you noticed? It'll soon be dark. And then what do we do?”
“If we don't reach the pilgrims’ shelter, we'll just have to make camp here.”
She pulled a face. “Oh, wonderful! And be prey to all those ravenous wolves and boar Chaikin warned us about?”
“I'll light a fire.” Jagu glowered back at her. “We're not exactly short of kindling.”
“Then we might as well shout to any local brigands, ‘Here we are, why don't you come and rob us?’”
He said nothing to her taunt, continuing along the path. She set off resignedly after him, dragging her sore foot.
“Smells of damp.” Celestine sniffed as they investigated the shelter.
“It's been a while since any pilgrims stayed here.” Jagu straightened up from the ash-stained hearthstone.
“Perhaps we're the first this year.”
“At least there's a well with clean water. And a roof of sorts over our heads.”
Having grown up in Saint Azilia's Convent, Celestine was accustomed to making do with such basic comforts. She wondered whether sleeping in drafty dormitories and rising before dawn each day to do backbreaking chores had toughened her, making her even better suited to enduring the hardships of life on the road than seminary-educated Jagu.
While Jagu laid and lit a fire, she drew water from the ancient well. By the time she was lugging the battered bucket back across the clearing to the shelter, it was dark and a spatter of sparks shot up into the darkening glade.
“Azhkendir, Saint Sergius's birthplace.” Jagu leaned back, gazing into the flames. “Just think; this is the same forest in which he grew up. He might even have fished in the same stream. I wonder what made him decide to dedicate his life to God…”
Celestine glanced at him; he seemed to be unaware that she was watching him, lost in his own thoughts. His dark eyes burned, not just with the reflection of the firelight but with an inner passion. She had rarely known Jagu to speak of his beliefs; he had only told her that he had turned his back on a career in music and entered the Commanderie after Maistre de Lanvaux had saved him from a soul-stealing. But hearing him talk made her realize how little he ever revealed of himself to anyone, even to her, keeping so much bottled up inside.
“I found most of the texts that they made us study at the seminary boring… or difficult to understand. But when we read Argantel's Life of the Blessed Sergius, everything changed. It was inspiring. And when Maistre de Lanvaux rescued me from the magus”—he looked up at her through the leaping flames— “I remember thinking, ‘This is what Sergius must have been like. This desperate show of courage in the face of impossible odds.’”
“I wish I could have seen the Maistre in action,” she said fondly. Jagu had never really spoken of his encounter with the magus before; all she knew was that it had left him scarred and wary. But Ruaud de Lanvaux was a bond they shared; he had rescued both of them from certain death: she, a starving, orphaned child, he, a schoolboy marked as a magus's prey.
“Careful, you'll burn your tongue,” warned Jagu, handing Celestine the spitted fish, hot from the flames.
She was so hungry by then that she didn't care. The white flesh of the char, silvery skin crisped and charred by the fire, tasted delicious. She licked her sticky fingers when there was nothing left but bones and looked up to see him watching her. There was a rare hint of a grin on his face.
“What?”
“I was just thinking what your adoring public would think if they could see their idol now: hair hacked short, wiping the grease from her lips with the back of her hand.”
“Is it so different from Gauzia playing a breeches role in an opera?” Celestine hadn't given Gauzia much thought till then; circumstances had driven the two girls very far apart—Gauzia to a prestigious career in opera, Celestine to a new life as a secret agent of the Commanderie.
She and Jagu rarely spoke of Henri de Joyeuse, even though it was he who had first brought them together. The truth was that neither had ever fully recovered from his death six years ago. But if Jagu had lost a beloved teacher and mentor, Celestine had lost her first and only love. The best way to keep his memory alive in their hearts was to ensure that his music was played wherever their Commanderie work took them. To the musical world they were renowned as interpreters of his songs—and under this guise they had traveled throughout the western quadrant, giving concerts while at the same time gaining valuable information to feed back to the Commanderie about foreign affairs. Celestine had learned very early how to use her looks to charm all manner of secrets from smitten diplomats and politicians. And thus far no one had ever suspected her of spying for Francia. Thus far…
The sound of distant bells ringing could be heard, oddly sweet on the morning air.
Through the thinning tree trunks ahead, Celestine could see whitewashed walls. A few minutes later, she and Jagu emerged in a sun-dappled apple orchard where bees droned in the pink and white blossoms. At the far end, Celestine spotted two monks, one old, one young, tending beehives.
“At last,” she said. “This must be
it.” Her blisters were throbbing and she could no longer help limping. The thought that there would be clean water and medicinal salves to soothe her aching feet was the one thing that kept her going.
“Wait.” Jagu checked her, one hand on her shoulder. “Let's make certain…” He pulled out the Angelstone and held it up to the light. “No change,” he said and concealed it beneath his shirt again.
I could have told you as much, Jagu. But you still don't trust my powers…
The young monk, hearing voices, looked up and came hurrying through the trees to greet them.
“Good day to you, brothers. It's early in the year for pilgrims,” he said, grinning at them. “My name's Lyashko. Have you come far?”
“From Francia. My name is Jagu and this is my servant, Celestin.”
“Francia!” echoed Brother Lyashko. “Do you hear that, Brother Beekeeper?”
The elder monk came hobbling over and peered at them shortsightedly. “Run on ahead, Lyashko, and tell Abbot Yephimy.”
Lyashko set off at a run toward the white walls of the monastery.
“Welcome to Saint Sergius, my brothers,” rang out a strong, vibrant voice.
Celestine saw a tall, broad-shouldered priest striding vigorously toward them, arms wide open. His brown hair and long beard were streaked with iron grey, but he bore himself more like a soldier than a monk.
“We are members of the Francian Commanderie, Abbot,” said Jagu. “Is there anywhere more private that we could talk?”
Celestine noted that the abbot gave her a long, appraising glance as they entered the silent cloisters and knew that he had seen through her disguise; Yephimy was obviously not some doddery old country priest. It was not going to be easy to persuade him to part with the monastery's precious relic, no matter how noble the cause.
“Now, what is all this really about?” he asked, ushering them into his study.
“The leader of our order has been monitoring the disquieting growth of daemonic activity in this part of the world,” said Jagu. “We have been sent to investigate.”
“Ah,” said Yephimy, folding his hands together. “The Drakhaoul.”
“Is that its Azhkendi name?” Celestine asked, testing him.
Yephimy frowned at her. “It never revealed its true name. However, your leader will be pleased to learn that the daemon has been cast out from Lord Gavril's body.”
“Cast out, maybe, but not destroyed,” said Jagu. “Members of our order tracked it along the Straits. We believe it may have gone to ground in Muscobar.”
“What? It's still at large?” From Abbot Yephimy's look of dismay, Celestine knew they had him at a disadvantage.
“We believe so. And that is why the Grand Master of our order has commissioned the reforging of Sergius's Staff.”
“Sergius's Staff?” Yephimy repeated. “You have Sergius's Staff? But how? The Chronicles state that it was shattered in Sergius's last battle with the Drakhaoul.” He rose, staring at them with suspicion. “Exactly who are you, and what is this Commanderie?”
“We are Companions of the Order of Saint Sergius, Abbot,” said Jagu. “Our order is dedicated to the destruction of all daemonic influences in the world. As for the Staff, well, legend has it that Argantel, the founder of our order, fled Azhkendir with the shattered pieces and had it repaired in Francia. All the pieces save one: the crook, which we understand you keep here, in the shrine.”
“Lord Argantel was indeed Sergius's friend,” said Yephimy slowly. “But our Chronicles do not record what became of him. So. Show me this relic.”
Jagu placed his metal Staff on Yephimy's desk and unscrewed the top. He tipped the shaft gently and out slid the charred fragments, bound into a whole with bands of golden wire.
Yephimy put out one hand and touched them reverently. “These should be kept here, with the saint's bones. Have you come to return it to the shrine?”
“You misunderstand our intentions, Abbot,” said Jagu gravely. “We are on the trail of this daemon. We intend to use the Staff to destroy it.”
“Will you give us Sergius's golden crook?” Seeing the look of alarm in the abbot's eyes, Celestine put the question they had traveled hundreds of miles to ask. “So that we can defeat the daemon and send it back to the Realm of Shadows?”
Yephimy let out a sigh. “I cannot answer for my brothers without consulting them,” he said, “but I offer you the hospitality of the monastery while we discuss your proposition.”
Jagu placed his hand on the abbot's arm, staring intently into his face. “This matter is urgent. I beg you, Abbot, do not discuss it too long.”
Jagu and Celestine joined the monks for supper in the refectory, sitting with the abbot and the two beekeepers, Lyashko and old Osinin.
“We're self-sufficient here,” said the abbot, gesturing to the food on the tables. “Everything you eat has been grown and harvested here, from the beetroot soup to the goats’ cheese.”
“This bread tastes so good,” said Celestine, trying not to gulp it down too fast in her hunger.
“Try our special liqueur,” said Brother Lyashko, lifting a stoneware bottle. “It's made with honey and mountain herbs.”
“It's strong stuff for a young lad,” warned the abbot. “But you must take a bottle when you leave; a drop or two will warm you up on cold nights.”
“So the Clan Wars are finally at an end?” Jagu asked.
Yephimy nodded. “I never thought I would say it, but I give thanks to God for the Emperor's intervention. The Tielens have brought peace to our war-ravaged country at last. And now that the Drakhaoul is gone—”
“Did you see him in the forest?” asked Osinin suddenly as he slurped his soup. “You must have passed him on the pilgrim's route.”
“We saw no one,” said Celestine, wondering if Brother Beekeeper's wits were wandering.
“That old fellow who came here yesterday,” persisted Brother Osinin. “Spent all day doing research in the library. You remember,
Abbot? The one with the peculiar eyes. Gives you the chills when he looks at you. Colder than a winter blizzard.”
“Peculiar eyes?” Celestine was only half-listening, intent on mopping up the last of her soup with her bread.
“If you're referring to Magister Linnaius, Brother,” the abbot said pensively, “he left rather suddenly. I don't think he even came to bid me farewell.”
“Kaspar Linnaius was here?” Celestine was all attention. “Could you show us the books he was reading?”
A luminous blue dusk was settling over the monastery as Celestine and Jagu followed the abbot across the courtyard, and there was a crisp chill in the air. From the darkness of the forest came the distant, eerie hooting of owls.
Yephimy lit a lantern and led them past shelf after shelf of old leather-bound volumes to a little door at the far end, which he stooped to unlock with a key from a chain worn around his neck. “We keep our oldest, most precious manuscripts in here,” he said proudly.
Celestine stopped in the doorway to the little book room, sniffing. There was a hint of something lingering in the dusty air that reminded her of her father's study. She held up the lantern to illuminate the chained book lying open on the desk.
“The Glorious Life and Martyr's Death of the Blessed Serzhei of Kerjhenezh,” said the abbot reverently. “This copy is hand-scribed; it dates from the time of Artamon.”
“But what's this?” Celestine held the lantern closer to the yellowed vellum pages; something glittered faintly in the glow. She gently touched it and brought her fingertips close to her face.
Jagu, looking over her shoulder, began to read by the flickering light. “‘Armed with the might of the Righteous Ones, Serzhei banished the Drakhaouls from Rossiya, and bound them in a place of torment for all eternity. Yet there was one who still defied him and all the hosts of heaven.’” He looked up. “The text is referring to the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir, isn't it, Abbot?”
The abbot nodded.
“I think that
there was a secret text hidden on this page,” Celestine said, “and this pretty alchymical dust has been used by the Magus to reveal it.” She brushed the dust from her fingers onto the open volume but, to her disappointment, nothing happened. “So Linnaius must have come here—on the Emperor's orders—to discover the place where Sergius imprisoned the remaining Drakhaouls.”
“The Magus is still close by.” Celestine rounded on Jagu as they crossed the courtyard. “Why can't we go after him?”
“Because he has a significant advantage over us,” said Jagu flatly, “in that he can fly. And we can't.”
“So you're just going to ignore the fact that he's—”
“Now just wait a moment.” Jagu caught hold of her by the arm. “What is our mission?” he said sternly.
“To destroy the Drakhaoul.”
“And our orders are—”
“To return directly. With or without the golden crook.” A sullen, almost rebellious look had appeared in her eyes.
“So you were just about to abandon the mission and go chasing off after Kaspar Linnaius?”
She pulled away from him and stood, staring at him defiantly. “We've never been this close to him before, Jagu. And you saw for yourself that he's been researching the history of the Drakhaouls. Even the abbot was shaken.”
He let out a sigh. Sometimes she could be so headstrong. “We've only a couple of days before the Dame Blanche sails from Arkhelskoye. There's no time left.”
“Have you forgotten?” She seized his left wrist and tugged back the sleeve, exposing the place where the magus had seared his mark on Jagu's wrist. “We made a pact together. In Saint Meriadec's. You vowed to hunt down the magus with me.” In the dying light her eyes had darkened to the deep blue of the dusk. It was all he could do to resist her: her pale face upraised, pleadingly, to his.
“But that was before the Drakhaoul was set loose. This is an unprecedented situation. We both made another vow before God, remember? To act as the Knights of the Commanderie used to in olden times and fight the forces of evil.”
