by Sarah Ash
Surely she wouldn't have made him poison her captors—would she?
CHAPTER 23
Ruaud knelt in the desecrated chapel in darkness. A shimmer of moonlight shone in through the gaping void of the ruined rose window, starkly illuminating the destruction wreaked by the Drakhaouls.
He clasped his hands together but he could not pray. The familiar comforting words that he had repeated day after day since he became a Guerrier had deserted him.
Ruaud pressed his hands to his temples, trying to erase the terrifying images imprinted in his mind…
“Maistre.”
Ruaud raised his head. Enguerrand stood in the chapel doorway.
“So you couldn't sleep either.” He knelt before Ruaud, his head bent. “I'm corrupted,” he said, his voice heavy with self-loathing. “Tell me how I can rid myself of this curse.”
Ruaud gazed down at Enguerrand's abject posture and knew that he was utterly at a loss. The king was begging him for consolation— and he had none to give. The Drakhaouls had defeated him.
“It told me it was my guardian angel.” Enguerrand choked on the words. “And I believed it. How could I have been so gullible? It was just using me to steal the Tears of Artamon. And now the Drakhaouls plan to open the Serpent Gate and set Prince Nagazdiel free.” He raised his head and Ruaud saw with alarm that his eyes glittered in the dark, flecked with the same gold as those of the Drakhaoul that possessed him. “Help me, Ruaud!” He reached out, clutching Ruaud's hand in his own.
Ruaud pulled out the Angelstone from around his neck; in the gloom, the thread of gold that had deceived him burned brightly. The other threads—blue, scarlet, green, and violet—had faded. The Drakhaouls must have taken the precious rubies far away. “We must move fast, before the other daemons return,” he said, determined that there was only one possible course of action. “There isn't much time.”
“What do you intend?” the king asked nervously.
“To hold an exorcism.”
CHAPTER 24
The first stones of the Chapel of Saint Meriadec were said to have been laid by Lord Argantel in the time of Artamon the Great. So when Ruaud told the king that the ancient chapel was deemed the most suitable place for the exorcism to take place, Enguerrand readily agreed.
Standing guard over the Holy Texts towered two massive stone guardian angels, one with an upraised sword, the other, lion-maned, holding the keys to the Realm of Shadows. Enguerrand had known their names from childhood: Dahariel and Nasargiel. And as he lay prostrate in front of the altar, he tried to keep calm by reciting the Holy Texts. But the waves of panic kept rising up, and, the more he muttered, the more apprehensive he became. Suppose the exorcism doesn't work? Will the Drakhaoul manifest itself again? Will it force me to attack the venerable priests and exorcists gathered here to help me?
Nilaihah had been silent for the last hours. But he feared that the daemon would not leave him without a terrible struggle. And in that struggle, it might rend him apart. He had read of such horrific ceremonies in the secret annals of the Commanderie.
Blood spattering the tiles, shreds of flesh, brain, and bone defiling the sanctuary…
Kneeling on the worn tiles, Enguerrand squeezed his eyes shut and begged the Heavenly Guardians to forgive and protect him.
“Make me clean again. I will do anything you ask!”
He could hear the murmur of voices and the steady tread of the exorcists approaching. One by one, the candles in the aisles were extinguished until only those on the altar still burned. Shadows filled the chapel, and in the pale light of the last candles, the worn statues seemed to take on a life of their own, as though the winged warriors were hovering in the aisles, ready to do combat with his daemon.
The exorcists, robed in black, their faces masked and hooded, stood on either side of him.
“Are you ready, majesty?” Enguerrand recognized Ruaud's voice.
“Yes,” whispered Enguerrand, terrified.
The ceremony began with a low, intoned chant. Enguerrand squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pray. But he could hear a faint whispering that was growing more and more insistent, superimposing itself over the exorcists’ measured chanting. And try as he might, he could not blot it out.
“Stop!” he cried. Instantly, he was seized by two of the priests and slammed down onto the hard tiles.
“Don't listen to his cries,” urged Ruaud de Lanvaux, “it's the daemon talking.”
“No! It's me, your king, Enguerrand. And I order you to stop this ceremony at once!” He struggled to break free but the priests were the stronger and held him down.
“Take no notice. No matter what blandishments he uses, ignore him.”
But Enguerrand could hear the Drakhaouls calling to Nilaihah.
Nilaihah… it's time to open the Serpent Gate and set Prince Nagazdiel free. Come, join us.
Enguerrand went limp in the grip of the exorcists.
“At last,” answered Nilaihah.
Energy was flooding through Enguerrand's body; it sparkled through his veins and sinews, as though his blood had been transmuted to liquid gold.
“It's time,” repeated Nilaihah, his voice echoing like a great bell through Enguerrand's mind, “for our final transformation.”
Ruaud paused in the chanting of the ritual of exorcism and looked at the king. He lay utterly still, unresisting. Was it having some effect at last? Ruaud hoped so with all his heart. He took up a bottle of holy water and began to sprinkle it over Enguerrand's limp body.
“Begone, daemon. In the name of Dahariel and Nasargiel, I command you: Return to the Realm of Shadows!” He raised the ceremonial spear of the Dragonslayer, tipped with gold, and held it above the king.
Enguerrand's body began to twitch.
“It's working.” Ruaud invoked more of the Heavenly Warriors. “In the name of Galizur, of Taliahad, and Sehibiel of the Second Heaven, I banish you!” His voice rose, full of confidence, strong in the knowledge that he had the power to drive the Drakhaoul from Enguerrand's body.
But an extraordinary change was taking place. The king's hair was growing, the short-cropped locks lengthening before his eyes, writhing and curling like serpents, golden and black.
“Hold him down!” Ruaud ordered the priests restraining the king. Unnerved, he continued to recite the rite, stumbling over the words.
“Enough!” cried Enguerrand. He flexed his arms and, with one sudden gesture, hurled both the priests right across the chapel. Then he leaped to his feet and stared at Ruaud.
The candles blew out.
Enguerrand's eyes glittered in the darkness. His whole body glittered, as though powdered in stardust.
Shocked, Ruaud took a step back, holding tight to the book. The stunned exorcists lay groaning in the shadows. All was darkness and confusion in the chapel—except for the light that emanated from the daemon's gilded skin.
For the daemon was beautiful. It had transformed Enguerrand to a creature of unearthly splendor. No longer in dragon-form, it towered above Ruaud, golden-feathered wings furled behind its powerful shoulders.
“A—angel?” stammered Ruaud.
“Do not call me angel. Never call me by that name again!” Enguerrand reached out and seized the book of exorcism from Ruaud's hands. He cast it on the floor and flicked one taloned finger at it. A little dart of golden fire sizzled out and the priceless ancient book flared up, then subsided into a pile of cinders.
“Majesty!” Ruaud stared in dismay at the remains of the burned book. With both book and Sergius's Staff destroyed, he knew himself defeated; he had no resources left.
“We are Nilaihah,” answered the daemon. “You will address us as such.” The voice was still Enguerrand's, but enriched and distorted by the Drakhaoul.
“Where is Enguerrand?” Ruaud demanded. “What have you done with him?”
“Enguerrand is no longer under your influence, priest. And you believed you were powerful enough to control me?” Nilaihah threw back his golden h
ead and laughed.
That cruel, contemptuous laughter was more than Ruaud could bear. He had dedicated his life to Enguerrand's education; he had worked hard to shape the young man's beliefs and attitudes, he had cared for him as if he had been his own son. And now to hear his protégé deliberately mocking him—
The Enguerrand he knew was obviously dead. This daemon that dared to masquerade as an angel had inhabited his body. And there was only one way to drive it out. He must kill the king—or what was left of him. Without a mortal body to inhabit, the Drakhaoul would be forced to flee; it would be vulnerable.
Yet in destroying Enguerrand, he knew he was signing his own death warrant. But there was no time to consider, Nilaihah was advancing upon him, golden eyes ablaze in the gloom. Ruaud seized the ceremonial spear of the Dragonslayer. With all his strength, he thrust it at the daemon.
Nilaihah gave a howling cry as the spear pierced his breast. He clutched the shaft with both hands, and tugged.
Out came the spear and the daemon's gilded blood leaked out with it, dripping onto the tiled floor, where it sizzled and steamed.
“Forgive me, my king,” whispered Ruaud.
But Nilaihah did not fall. He pressed one taloned hand over the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. The other hand slowly raised the spear, pointing the bloodstained tip at Ruaud.
By now Ruaud could hear voices. His Guerriers had come to the rescue. But the doors to the chapel were locked and bolted. He began to back away down the aisle.
Nilaihah launched the spear at him. It caught him full in the chest, the force of the thrust pinning him to the wooden door.
The daemon strode toward him and pulled out the Dragonslayer's spear and cast it away.
“Enguerrand—” Ruaud tried to say his pupil's name, but his mouth had filled with blood. As he slid slowly down, he saw the dazzling form of Nilaihah rising on golden wings, making for the far window.
* * *
“What's happened here?” As Linnaius brought his craft swooping down toward the palace of Swanholm, he saw flames and smoke rising from the East Wing. Far below he saw the lines of servants and guards working to extinguish the fire, pumping water from the lake, passing buckets from hand to hand. But in spite of their efforts, the fire had taken hold; and from the air Linnaius could see the flames gusting toward the rest of the palace.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead, summoning a swift storm wind to blow rain clouds to aid their efforts. Soon the sky darkened and rain began to pour down, dampening the flames. Gaping open to the sky, a ruin of fire-blackened timbers and tumbled stone, the wing looked as if it had been subjected to an intense bombardment. And yet there was no sign of enemy troops encamped in the park or patrolling the grounds.
Linnaius made his way on foot through the rain into the palace, searching for anyone, courtier or guard, who could give him information. Dust lay everywhere and a pungent smell of smoke clouded the lofty entrance hall.
“Why is this entrance unguarded?” he demanded, his voice echoing around the empty hall. A man appeared at the far end, hurrying toward him.
“Magus!” he cried. “Thank God you've come.”
Linnaius recognized Eugene's majordomo; usually spotlessly attired, his palace livery was drenched and his face was smeared with fire smuts.
“The princess,” the majordomo said, his voice rasping as he coughed the smoke from his throat. “We tried to stop him—but he was too strong for us.”
“He?” Linnaius said.
“Count Alvborg.”
“Oskar Alvborg,” Linnaius repeated, his heart growing cold at the sound of that name; Alvborg was a rebellious nobleman who had long borne a grudge against Eugene. “What has Alvborg done with Princess Karila?”
The majordomo seemed to be struggling to get the words out.
“He—he transformed into a dragon. And then he abducted her.”
“Drakhaoul.” This was worse than Linnaius had expected. “A Drakhaoul has taken the princess.” And the hidden text he had discovered months ago at the monastery in Azhkendir returned to his mind, laden with a new, ominous relevance.
For only by the sacrifice of the Emperor's children in that far-distant place can that Door ever be opened again and the dread Prince Nagazdiel released. And no mortal would dare stoop to such a base and inhuman act.
“No mortal would dare,” Linnaius murmured as he hurried back to his sky craft, “but a Drakhaoul…”
“Whatever dreadful sounds you may hear, don't interrupt the ceremony,” Ruaud had warned Alain Friard.
But Friard was about to disobey his commanding officer for the first time in twenty years of service. He had waited long enough. His duty was to protect the Maistre.
First there had been muffled voices, raised as if in argument. Friard had heard laughter; horrible, mocking laughter that made his skin crawl. And then the sudden, bloodcurdling cry that sounded as if it issued from the throat of a fiend in torment.
Friard tugged at the door. When he found it was locked, he pounded on it with his fists, yelling, “Open up!” with the full force of his lungs.
“What's wrong, Captain?” Lieutenant Viaud came running up, followed by several of his men.
“We've got to break this door down. The Maistre's in danger!”
And at that instant a sudden, violent thud set the door timbers shuddering.
Both officers stopped, staring at the door. Friard pointed. A pointed metal tip had penetrated the door panel and blood dripped from its sharp end. Someone on the far side had been pinned to the door, like a butterfly to a collector's tray.
As they watched, mesmerized, the spearhead was withdrawn. Seconds later came the sound of shattering glass.
“Come on, lads, put your shoulders to this door!” Friard cried. When, a few moments later, they broke the bolts and burst into the chapel beyond, they almost fell over a body lying on the tiled floor in an ever-widening pool of blood.
“Ruaud!” Friard forgot all military protocol and knelt beside his old comrade in arms, gently turning him over. The Maistre's robes were soaked with bright scarlet and more was frothing and bubbling from his lips as he tried to speak.
“Who did this?” Friard propped the Maistre's head up against his knee as Viaud attempted to staunch the flow of blood with his scarf.
“The—king.” Ruaud's hand rose feebly, trying to point. “Drakhaoul—took—the king.” Friard followed the direction of the pointing finger and saw that the arched window above the altar was shattered, as if someone—or something—had burst its way through. Surely the Maistre couldn't mean that the king had been abducted by a Drakhaoul?
“Find the king!” Viaud ordered his men.
“And send for a doctor,” added Friard automatically, although he knew from one look at the Maistre's pale face that it was too late.
“I—I tried to stop him, Alain.” Ruaud tried to speak again and Friard saw the desperation in his eyes as one hand rose to try to grip his coat.
“We'll get his majesty back,” Alain said staunchly. “You know you can count on us.”
“Be caref—” Ruaud began to cough and a sudden gush of blood drowned his words. His blue eyes, which had been fixed on Friard's face, lost their focus and stared through Friard, beyond him. The hand that had been grasping at his collar fell away. “Maistre? Maistre!” Friard's voice broke. Ruaud was gone. He had died trying to protect the king, whom he had loved as dearly as a son. He laid the Maistre gently down on the tiles and drew a shaking hand over his eyes, closing the lids.
Viaud, coming back down the aisle, stopped abruptly. He knelt beside his commander's body and began to murmur the words of the Sergian prayer for the dying. Friard tried to join in but his voice was choked with tears. He wanted time to mourn the Maistre properly, but if he had understood Ruaud's dying words correctly, they were faced with an unprecedented crisis. Francia had lost not only the head of the Commanderie but her king, who had been abducted by one of the daemons he had been trying to d
efeat.
Part III
CHAPTER 1
One moment, all the bells of Mirom were dinning out a joyful cacophony in celebration of the birth of Prince Rostevan, heir to the Empire of New Rossiya. Then the sky began to darken.
At first Celestine thought it no more than an oncoming thunderstorm, blowing inland off the Straits.
I must find shelter before the storm breaks.
Alone and destitute, she had arrived a day earlier in the bustling capital of Muscobar and had been trudging from theater to theater in search of work. If she had been rash enough to use her real name, the concert managers would have fought for her to appear in their halls and opera houses. But she was a wanted woman on the run from the Francian Inquisition. She could not afford to reveal her true identity.
She was desperately hungry, having spent the last of her money on paying her passage to the city, and the only way she knew to earn a living was by her voice. Yet no one was interested enough in a shabbily dressed woman to bother to ask to hear her sing. Time after time, she was turned away at the stage door. “We're not auditioning. Come back next month.”
If only I weren't so light-headed, I could think straight enough to work out a plan.
Around her, people were gazing up at the sky and pointing. Celestine looked up too, wondering if it might be an eclipse of the sun, not a storm after all. There was an eerie, lurid quality to the remaining daylight that made her feel uneasy. The stout flower seller on the corner of the square began to pack away, muttering as she waddled toward her cart with buckets of autumn flowers: purple asters, bronze and gold chrysanthemums. A delicious smell of frying batter drifted across from where a stallholder was cooking blinis and Celestine felt her empty stomach rumble.
