by Sarah Ash
If only we could have had the chance to meet again in battle…
“Highness.” Gustave was addressing him from his seat at the Vox Aethyria. “Admiral Janssen is awaiting your orders.”
CHAPTER 5
The instant Celestine closed the door of the dressing room and laid down the bouquet, the smiling mask she had somehow managed to sustain cracked.
Why did “October Seas” affect me so? I've sung it many times since Henri's death.
One hand rose shakily to cover her face, as if to hold the shattered pieces in place.
Did anyone notice?
Since she had left the music room, flashes of memory from the song's first performance kept returning to increase her distress: Count Velemir presenting her to Andrei Orlov; Prince Andrei's sulky expression transforming to a smile of dazzling warmth as he kissed her hand. And Henri glancing up at her from the fortepiano with such a look of pride and pleasure that it had made her heart melt.
How difficult to accept that all three were dead: the suave and charming count, slain by Gavril Nagarian; Prince Andrei drowned at sea in a freak storm; and Henri, her beloved Henri, destroyed by a soul-stealing magus.
We never said good-bye, Henri. If I could just see you one last time, talk to you one last time, then maybe I could move on…
But necromancy was one of the Forbidden Arts. And as an agent of the Commanderie she had sworn to eradicate all such practices.
The door opened and she whipped around, forcing a defensive smile. Jagu came in, the sheet music under one arm.
“It's only you, Jagu.” Relieved, she sank onto a chair.
“Only me? Who were you hoping to see?”
“So”—she made herself concentrate on their present situation— “have you found out why the Emperor left in such a hurry?”
“The palace is buzzing with rumors.” Jagu poured them both a glass of mineral water from the crystal jug that had been provided for the two performers. “One name I heard mentioned several times was ‘Smarna.’”
“But not Francia.” Celestine sipped the water. “Let's pray that—” A little tapping on the door interrupted her. She glanced question-ingly at Jagu. “Come in.”
A stout, grey-haired lady-in-waiting appeared in the doorway.
“I've come from her imperial majesty,” she said in their own tongue. Celestine rose, recognizing her as the Empress's chaperone.
“Countess Eupraxia.” She curtsied. “Please come in.”
“The Empress would like to… speak with you, Demoiselle.” The countess's plump cheeks were red and her full bosom heaved, as if she had run all the way through the palace. “If you would be so good as to accompany me…”
A private audience? Celestine glanced at Jagu and he gave a brief nod of assent. “I am honored to accept the Empress's invitation,” she said and followed the countess out into the lofty, echoing corridor.
“You sang so beautifully,” Empress Astasia said, smiling warmly at Celestine. “I felt utterly transported.”
“Your imperial highness is too kind.” With velvety eyes that appealing, I wonder if the Emperor can refuse her anything. Celestine was reminded of her first royal patron and friend, Princess Adèle, now married to Ilsevir of Allegonde. Was this imperial audience merely a gesture of appreciation… or did the Empress have an ulterior motive in inviting her?
“Please, come and sit beside me,” said Astasia in Francian, gesturing to the blue-and-white-striped sofa.
“Your highness speaks our tongue like a native,” Celestine said. “I had a Francian nursemaid, didn't I, Praxia?” “Indeed you did,” said the countess, nodding fondly. “Would you like some tea, Demoiselle de Joyeuse?” Celestine nodded. “That would be most agreeable. Thank you.” While sipping a cup of strong tea sweetened in the local fashion with jam (“the damson is delicious”), Astasia suddenly turned to Celestine and said, “I have a request to make. I do hope you'll be able to accept. You see, Karila, my little stepdaughter, hasn't been very well. She doesn't have a strong constitution. And her eighth birthday is very soon.” From the look of sadness that clouded the brilliance of Astasia's eyes, Celestine realized that, unlike some stepmothers, she genuinely cared for the little girl.
“I wondered if you would consider giving a recital for Karila at the Palace of Swanholm? There's to a be a masked ball there soon—a Tielen custom, my husband tells me—to celebrate the midsummer solstice.”
It did not escape Celestine's notice that Astasia blushed when she said “my husband.” Was theirs a love match? There was a difference of some sixteen years between Eugene and Astasia, yet all the court gossip throughout the quadrant had regarded the partnership as merely a marriage of convenience and political necessity. She could not help wondering how the young Empress felt about her husband's terrible injuries; perhaps she had nursed him back to health after he was burned by the Drakhaoul…
“Thank you; it would be an honor to sing for the little princess,” Celestine said, carefully setting down her empty teacup on its delicate saucer. Her mind began to whirl with the possibilities such an invitation presented.
As Celestine and Countess Eupraxia left the Empress's rooms, they passed a portrait, half-draped in black. Celestine stopped, recognizing the charming, confident smile and distinctive violet-blue eyes.
“Isn't that a portrait of the Empress's late brother, Prince Andrei?” she asked.
“It is.” The countess's eyes filled with tears. “It's many months now, but she's still not over his loss, none of us are. Such a tragedy…”
Celestine nodded, caught up in a vivid memory of the first time she had been presented to Andrei. His ready, infectious smile had instantly dispelled her nerves, putting her completely at her ease.
“Lost at sea,” said the countess, dabbing her eyes, “in a terrible storm in the Straits. Such a waste. That dear, dear boy…”
And yet, Celestine wondered but did not dare say aloud as she followed Eupraxia to her waiting carriage, would Eugene have found it so easy to conquer Muscobar if Andrei were still alive?
“We've been invited to perform at Swanholm Palace,” Celestine told Jagu as the ambassador's carriage jogged back toward the embassy. “Swanholm, Jagu!”
“Well, that's a great compliment, but I can hardly see why you're so excited.” Jagu looked distinctly unenthusiastic. “A journey to Tielen and back is going to take at least six weeks out of our schedule. What about our concerts in Allegonde? And suppose the Maistre wants us back in Francia?”
She stamped her foot on the floor of the carriage, exasperated. “Who else resides at Swanholm? In the laboratories especially designed for him by Prince Karl? The Tielen Royal Artificier, no less, Kaspar Linnaius. We'll be able to spy on him firsthand. No one from the Commanderie has ever managed to get so close.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
He still seemed less than interested, so she folded her arms and stared out at the dark streets of Mirom, offended.
After a while he said with a sigh, “We can't just take matters into our own hands, Celestine. If you act rashly at the Emperor's court in Swanholm, you could spark off a diplomatic incident, and that's the last thing we need. We must get word to the Maistre and await his instructions.”
“Fine! And while we sit around for days waiting for the Maistre's reply, we'll be losing valuable time. It's the Magus, Jagu.”
“And that's precisely the reason we need to proceed with caution. The man is very dangerous. You know that better than most.”
It was her turn to sigh. Why must Jagu be so insistent on following the correct protocol at all times? “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “We'll ask the ambassador to ensure that our message is sent by the swiftest diplomatic post available.”
The trunks were packed and Celestine was waiting with Jagu in the hall of the embassy for their carriage to arrive. Claude suddenly appeared, walking stiffly as usual, carrying a folded paper on a silver tray.
“The ambassador se
nds his apologies that he is unable to bid you farewell in person.” He bowed, presenting the tray. “He's been called away on urgent business. But he left you this note.”
Jagu opened the letter and Celestine peeped over his shoulder to read it:
Stay vigilant. I've yet to discover the reason why the Emperor left your recital so suddenly. His people are keeping something secret. Remember: Once you're in Tielen, you'll be on your own. I'll give you the name of one or two trustworthy contacts. If I've played my cards right, I'll be invited to the Dievona Ball at Swanholm. But until then, be on your guard…
The broad mouth of the Nieva was filled with warships. A great fleet of the New Rossiyan navy was under full sail, making for the Straits.
As the Dame Blanche followed in their wake, Jagu and Celestine went up onto the observation deck to take a closer look.
“There's the Rogned again,” Jagu said, following the fleet with an eyeglass borrowed from Captain Peillac. “Where are they heading, I wonder?”
Celestine leaned out over the rail, straining to see. The wild salty wind whipped her hair into her eyes. “Not for Francia, I hope!”
“Hard to tell. But what a formidable sight they make. Each man-o'-war bristling with cannons…”
“Is that a fishing boat out there?” Celestine leaned out even farther. “It's being blown into the path of the fleet! The fishermen haven't a chance!”
The sound of rending timbers carried on the fierce gusting wind. With it came frantic shouts for help. Two men were in the water, threshing and bobbing in the wake of one vast warship as another bore down upon them.
“They'll be crushed!” Celestine turned to the ship's master to appeal for help, but Captain Peillac had already summoned up a rescue party and the sailors were lowering a rowboat into the churning waves.
And then a feeling of dread overwhelmed her, as if she had been swept overboard into the dark tide. She began to shiver uncontrollably. As she helplessly watched the drowning men, the sea around them began to spin like a waterspout, funneling upward. Wings. Something was rising from the waves on great, beating wings that were blue-black as a starlit night.
“Jagu.” Celestine clutched at Jagu's arm, pointing. “Look. What in God's name is that?”
Jagu raised the eyeglass he had been using to observe the Tielen fleet and focused it on the wreck of the fishing boat.
“Whatever it is, it's not of this world.” He swiftly passed her the glass.
“There were two men in the water. Now I see only one - and that abomination.”
The sailors had nearly reached the wreckage.
“The Angelstone,” she urged. “Check the Angelstone.”
Jagu pulled out the crystal pendant from inside his shirt. The clear
crystal had turned as dark as ink.
“A warrior daemon,” she whispered, “from the Realm of
Shadows. It's the Drakhaoul. “
CHAPTER 6
“Turn back!” yelled Jagu to the rowers, but they were too far away to hear his voice.
“If only Abbot Yephimy hadn't been so stubborn, we could have used Sergius's Staff.” Celestine could only stare at the dark-winged daemon, eaten up with frustration at their helplessness. And yet, even as she clutched the wet rail of the ship, the creature halted in midair.
It shuddered.
Suddenly, it let out a wailing cry, inhuman and desolate. Then it began to plummet toward the waves, losing its hold on its human burden.
“Can it sense the Angelstone?” Jagu leaned far out over the rail, straining to see what was happening.
“Be careful, Jagu!” Celestine grabbed hold of him, fearful that he might be swept overboard.
For a moment daemon and man disappeared below the surface. Then a whirlpool began to churn the waves. The sailors shouted out and cursed, gripping the sides of the rowboat as it was thrown sideways, almost capsizing. And out of the spinning water, Celestine saw a shadow rise, dark as smoke, and speed away, low across the waves.
The sailors gently laid the two fishermen down on the deck. Celestine went to help them but Jagu put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”
The younger of the two began to retch, spewing up a lungful of seawater. He forced himself to his knees, turning to the older man who lay motionless beside him. Celestine watched in growing distress as he tried to revive him.
“Come on, Kuzko.” The fisherman laid his head against the other's chest, as if listening for a heartbeat. “Don't desert me now!”
The old sailor's head lolled back, mouth gaping.
She saw the fisherman lay him back down on the deck and gently close his eyes. One of the sailors came up and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Only then did the fisherman crouch beside the still body and weep.
Celestine opened the cabin door and took a long, appraising look at the young fisherman, who lay deep in exhausted sleep. In spite of his untidy black curling hair, rough beard, and skin dark-tanned by wind and sun, there was something about him that suggested he was no ordinary fisherman.
Jagu was busy discussing their itinerary with Captain Peillac. She felt a little guilty acting on her own initiative, without his approval, but she was certain that the young man's features were familiar.
“I know you,” she whispered. “We've met before. But when… and where…”
He began to mutter in his sleep, twisting and turning, as though in the grip of a nightmare. Mumbled words escaped his salt-dried lips.
“Drowning… I'm drowning!” He flailed wildly as though fighting to stay above the waves.
She caught hold of his hand. “You're safe now.”
He sat bolt upright. Eyes of dark violet-blue stared into hers. “I— I'm so sorry. I was dreaming.”
“It must have been quite a dream.” Gently, she released his hand.
He nodded, still staring at her. “I've seen you before. You sang in Mirom last winter. You're Celestine—”
“De Joyeuse. I'm flattered you remember me.” I've seen eyes of that unique hue very recently. Can he be one of the Orlovs?
“Celestial in voice as well as in name,” he said. “How could I forget?”
“The daemon creature that attacked you,” she said, ignoring the compliment. “That would be enough to give anyone nightmares.”
“That was not what I was dreaming about. My ship went down in the Straits some months ago. The old man, Kuzko, rescued me. And now—” He choked on the words. “Now he's dead.”
“You don't talk like a common sailor.” She was looking at him curiously. “What's your name?”
“Andrei.”
“Andrei?” she said, her mind racing. My ship went down in the Straits…
“Where are you bound?”
She made an effort to focus her thoughts. “Why, to Swanholm, to sing for Princess Karila's birthday at the request of the Emperor's wife, Astasia.”
“Astasia,” he repeated, pronouncing the name with affection, almost reverence. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said in Francian, “may I confide in you?”
“He says he's Andrei Orlov, Crown Prince of Muscobar?” Jagu stared at Celestine, his brows drawn close in a frown of disbelief. “How can you be sure he's not an impostor? Or out of his mind?”
Celestine had been expecting this reaction. She forced herself to count to ten before replying. “You met Prince Andrei last year in Mirom, at Count Velemir's reception, Jagu, didn't you? Before the Revolt?” Their cramped cabin was not the best place for such a discussion; the sea was still choppy and, seasoned travelers though they were, the creaking and pitching of the Dame Blanche made it difficult to talk about such a sensitive subject without raising their voices. “You have to admit that the likeness is remarkable.”
“The same Prince Andrei who went down with the Sirin?” Jagu crossed his arms defensively as he sometimes did when not wishing to admit that she might be right.
“Can't you see what a trump card has fallen into our hands?” she went on, trying to keep her vo
ice low. “When Eugene forced Muscobar to capitulate, Andrei was believed to be dead. Now that he's alive, there's a rival for the throne. And if he allies himself with Francia, Eugene will find himself in a very tricky situation indeed.”
“And then there's the Drakhaoul.” Jagu pulled out the precious Angelstone and showed it to Celestine; the trickle of darkness that had polluted its clarity had disappeared. “Is it gone for good? Or could he summon it back and destroy us? We have to interrogate him, Celestine. The Maistre would expect nothing less.”
“Let's leave him to rest a little longer.” She put on her most appealing tone, one that she knew Jagu could not refuse. “If we bombard him with questions when he's still in shock, we'll only make him more confused.” Although the prospect that Prince Andrei might be able to summon the daemon to his aid was deeply unsettling.
“Help me… Drakhaoul…”
The prisoner was dying. Wasted with fever, the brilliance of his blue eyes dimming, the young man suddenly murmured a few words, barely intelligible. And his jailer had been ordered to summon the Director of Arnskammar Asylum if he said anything, so he dutifully locked the door and set out to fetch his master. For some reason, it seemed that the Emperor had a personal interest in the prisoner.
He had just reached the courtyard when he sensed the sky darken overhead. Glancing up, he saw a stormcloud speeding toward the tower. He stopped, terrified. For he had glimpsed eyes in the whirling darkness, eyes that burned with the piercing blue of lightning.
