by Sarah Ash
The cart rattled along over the cobbles, surrounded on both sides by an armed escort of Rosecoeurs. A crowd was gathering, trailing behind the cart toward the Place du Trahoir, but unlike the unruly, hostile mob who had jeered at her father and the magi of Karantec, these people were subdued and silent.
Celestine's thin linen shift was sleeveless and her feet were bare. The sky grew darker. A cold wind stirred the willows by the River Sénon. She began to shiver.
“Are you cold?” His voice was filled with concern. So like Jagu, to think of her before himself.
“If only they'd let us be together one last time,” she said. “If only they'd let us hold each other, I think I could face what's to come.”
The cart suddenly slowed, the drivers tugging on the reins.
“Halt!” The escort of Rosecoeurs marching alongside stopped. Celestine's head jerked up, trying to see what was causing the delay. Her nerves were already on edge. Ahead, at the crossroads, she spotted a patrol of Commanderie Guerriers lined up, muskets on shoulders. Their officer, his back to the cart, was arguing with the Rosecoeur lieutenant leading the escort.
“We're here to relieve you.”
“This is most irregular!”
“New orders. From the Grand Maistre. You're to go on ahead to the Place du Trahoir to guard King Ilsevir. They need more troops to control the crowd. We'll take over here.”
Celestine noticed that while the driver's attention was distracted, a Guerrier had crept around the side of the cart. The next moment, he clambered up, struck the driver over the back of the head with the butt of his musket, threw him out into the gutter, and leaped into the driver's seat.
“What in—” Celestine was flung to the floor as the cart went hurtling around the corner. Shots rang out behind them, musket balls whizzing close overhead, smashing glass panes in the houses. The onlookers shrieked and ran for cover.
“Stay down,” hissed the Guerrier over his shoulder. “Hold your fire, you idiots. You'll hit the civilians!”
“Kilian?” She peeped through the bars at the other Guerriers running alongside, providing the most ragged armed guard ever seen at an execution. The officer who had halted the procession jumped on the cart, clinging on precariously.
“Take the next street on the left!” he shouted, clambering up to sit beside Kilian.
“Viaud?” Jagu sat up. “Kilian?”
“Did you think we were going to hand you over to the Rosecoeurs without a fight, Lieutenant?” cried Viaud.
As the cart careered wildly from side to side, people diving out from under the carthorses’ plunging hooves, Celestine wondered if they were more likely to die in a crash than on the pyre.
And then she heard another shot ring out. Viaud cried out, grabbing for the reins, tugging the cart to a halt as Kilian swayed and slumped forward.
“Kilian!” she screamed as he toppled sideways from the slowing cart and fell into the street.
Up ahead, the street was blocked by a double line of Rosecoeurs, all aiming their muskets at the oncoming cart—the front row down on one knee, as if they were an execution squad. And she recognized the officer who was blowing smoke from the end of his pistol as he began to walk slowly, almost nonchalantly, toward them.
“Philippe, stop the cart,” she begged Viaud. “I don't want any of you to die. Please. Can't you see it's hopeless? You're outnumbered.”
“Viaud, see to Kilian,” said Jagu, his voice hoarse. “That's an order.”
Viaud's shoulders slumped dejectedly as he pulled hard on the reins and the horses slowed to a stop.
“Stay precisely where you are, Lieutenant Viaud,” said Captain nel Ghislain, “or I tell my men to fire.” He reached the side of the cart where Kilian had fallen, facedown. Celestine, peering out through the bars, saw him place his foot against Kilian's body and roughly flip him over onto his back. Blood was fast welling from the bullet wound at the base of Kilian's neck and spreading beneath him, reddening the puddle in which he lay. From his pallor, she feared he might be past help. But then she heard Kilian give the faintest of groans. Ghislain crouched down beside him, pressing the second unfired pistol to his forehead.
“What little game were you playing at, Lieutenant Guyomard?” he asked.
Kilian's lips twisted into an insolent little grin. “Just amusing… myself…” He coughed and blood began to trickle from the side of his mouth.
“Help him,” Celestine begged. “At least stop the bleeding—”
“Help a traitor? I think not.” Ghislain turned to his Rosecoeurs. “Arrest these Guerriers. I'll take the prisoners on to the Place du Trahoir myself.”
“Kilian.” Jagu's voice, low, intense, came from the other side of the cart. “I'll never forget this. Not as long as I live, I swear.”
“We may see each other sooner … than you think…” Kilian's last words were abruptly cut off as he began to choke convulsively. As Ghislain took the reins from Viaud and urged the cart onward, Celestine caught one final glimpse of Kilian, his fast-leaking blood staining the muddy cobbles bright red.
As the cart turned into the Place du Trahoir, Celestine felt her courage fall away at the sight she remembered from childhood: the wooden stake, surrounded by bales of hay and logs, piled high. A dais had been erected at a suitable distance from the pyres and she could see her judges sitting there, waiting as if they were about to witness a musical performance, not an execution. Donatien and Visant were seated on either side of King Ilsevir and the Queen Mother. There was no sign of Adèle.
It's just my old nightmare again. In a moment I'm going to wake up and everything's going to be all right.
Captain nel Ghislain brought the cart to a standstill in front of the dais. Guerriers of the Inquisition stood alongside, bearing torches whose flames burned pale in the cloudy light.
“On your feet!” Two of the Rosecoeurs caught hold of Celestine by the arms and removed the shackles, dragging her to her feet. In the other cart, she saw Jagu hauled to a standing position. He was in shirtsleeves, and the first glimpse she got of his face showed her a gaunt, unshaven shadow of the man she loved.
“The Inquisition has tried these two malefactors and found them guilty of practicing the Forbidden Arts,” announced Inquisitor Visant.
At last his words provoked a response from the crowd; jeers and boos could be heard rising from all corners of the Place. Visant must be trying to stir them up, Celestine thought; maybe he's even planted his supporters among the onlookers.
“Celestine de Joyeuse, Jagu de Rustéphan, your crimes are doubly despicable because you committed them while wearing the uniform of the Francian Commanderie. Let your deaths be a warning to all who are tempted by the lure of the Forbidden Arts, or to those who would make a mockery of their sacred vows.”
It was so dark that the torch flames burned brightly against the gloom. Celestine hardly heard the Inquisitor's voice enumerating her crimes. She could see the black tendrils of darkness unraveling from the oncoming clouds. This was no ordinary thunderstorm; the dark air crackled with energy.
“Drakhaoul,” whispered the Faie, waking at last.
“Something is coming!” she cried in warning. One of the Rosecoeurs struck her across the mouth.
“Don't touch her!” cried Jagu, straining against his captors.
Celestine tasted blood welling from her bruised lip but she hardly felt the pain. “Something is coming!” she shouted defiantly. “Look at the sky!”
“It's just a storm,” said Visant dismissively. “Tie the prisoners to the stake.”
“Jagu!” Celestine called out to him in desperation as they bundled her out of the cart and up onto the pyre, where the Inquisitors stood waiting. The roughness of the wood and the scratchy straw hurt her bare feet, but still she tried to reach out to touch him.
“You were partners in crime in life; now you will die together,” said Visant coldly. “And may the Blessed One have mercy on your souls.”
The Inquisitors pulled her
arms back around the broad wooden stake, tying her wrists behind her. Then they did the same with Jagu, so that their fingers almost touched. But when she remembered the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his left hand, she didn't want to cause him any more pain.
“If your guardian's able to help us, now would be a good time,” she heard Jagu mutter as she saw the torchbearers approaching. A strong, acrid smell of tar was rising from the pyre; they must have doused the logs in pitch to make them burn more fiercely. The darkness was growing thicker and a chill wind had begun to whine around the place, causing the torches to flare and gutter.
Something is coming.
* * *
A streak of dazzling silver, liquid lightning, slashed the darkness. Celestine saw, circling above them, a great sky dragon, bearing in its coils a small craft. The people in the crowd looked too and began to shout out in consternation as the craft broke away and slowly descended.
“Magus?” she whispered.
“It's the king!” The rumor spread among the onlookers. “King Enguerrand!”
“Rosecoeurs, defend King Ilsevir!” ordered Captain nel Ghislain. There was a rush as the Rosecoeurs pushed through the crowd to encircle the dais, priming their muskets and aiming at the craft.
But Ilsevir and Aliénor had risen to their feet and were staring at the occupants.
“Hold your fire!” Aliénor's command penetrated above the confused clamor. “Enguerrand, is that really you?”
Enguerrand scrambled out of the craft and hurried up the stair onto the dais. Eugene hung back, knowing that this was Enguerrand's moment.
“Madame,” Enguerrand said, bowing to his mother.
“If this has all been a joke, Enguerrand, it's been in very poor taste.”
“No joke, Madame, I assure you.” Enguerrand turned to Ilsevir, who had gone very pale. “What is the meaning of this, Brother?” He gestured to the stake. “Why are two of my most loyal subjects about to be executed?”
“They are guilty of—” began Donatien.
“I was not speaking to you, Maistre Donatien,” Enguerrand said curtly.
“Is that really the king?” Celestine heard Jagu ask dazedly. But she was distracted. The darkness was growing thicker and a wind had begun to whine around the place.
Something is coming. Something unimaginably powerful…
CHAPTER 12
As Nagazdiel came soaring down from the clouds, Rieuk recognized the winding Sénon far below. The physical exhilaration of flight had utterly overwhelmed him, driving all other thoughts from his mind. He had watched through Ormas's eyes countless times before, but to feel the wind against his face, to see the great city of Lutèce from this dizzying height, was the most thrilling sensation he had experienced in his life.
“Azilis!” The Drakhaoul had found her. They came hurtling down at such speed, weaving past pointed steeples and pepper-pot towers, that Rieuk was terrified that Nagazdiel would lose control and smash his body on the cobbles.
He took in the situation in one glance: the two prisoners tied to a stake; the dais filled with dignitaries come to gloat over the barbarous execution; the Inquisitors bearing flaming torches to ignite the pyre; the watching crowd.
“It's Celestine,” he cried. “They're going to burn her!”
“Jagu, look,” Celestine urged. “Look up!”
Flying through the ominous sky, drawing the trails of darkness behind him like a vast cloak unfolding to smother the whole city, came a Drakhaoul. At first she could only see his eyes clearly: two crimson flames searing through the gloom. But as it drew nearer, she saw a powerful figure bearing down on them on wings of shadow. And she heard the Faie cry out suddenly in recognition.
“Father!”
* * *
Jagu's left wrist throbbed so piercingly that suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that his magus, the one who had marked him in Kemper, had come back to claim him. Looking up, he saw the dark angel descending, swooping down out of the blackened sky like a creature forged from flame and shadow.
So he's summoned his dread lord to carry me away to the Realm of Shadows? The thought struck Jagu as so bitterly ironic that he almost laughed aloud.
“Lord Nagazdiel,” Eugene murmured. “Why have you come?” And, in the depths of his heart, he felt a memory stir, a memory planted there by Belberith the Warrior, his Drakhaoul.
It was the briefest of visions that flickered through his mind, but in it he saw Nagazdiel as a tall, dark-haired Heavenly Guardian, turning to hold out his hand in friendship to him, his eyes filled with warmth and compassion.
That must have been before he was imprisoned in the Realm of Shadows. Before he became embittered and corrupted…
“Light the pyre!” A lone voice cried out in the stunned silence. Celestine recognized the strident tones of the Haute Inquisitor. “Are you going to stand by and let this daemon set his servants free?”
“Stop him, someone—” Enguerrand launched himself forward but Visant seized a torch from one of his terror-struck men and threw it onto the straw bales.
“Burn them!”
The straw crackled into bright flame. Celestine gasped as she felt the wave of heat hit her. And then the acrid fumes from the rising smoke blew in her face, making her eyes stream.
“Keep your mouth closed,” warned Jagu through the roar of the flames.
“Faie?” she rasped in desperation, coughing as she breathed in a lungful of smoke.
” I'll do… what I can…” The Faie cast a translucent shield around them. But as Celestine felt herself growing dizzy, the shield began to waver.
The Faie needs me to stay strong, or we'll all be lost. I mustn't black out…
* * *
Rieuk saw Visant set the pyre alight. He saw how fast and how hungrily the flames leaped upward. Celestine would die if he didn't move speedily enough. And if she died, what would become of Azilis, cast adrift without a mortal host?
The sky had become so black that the flames burned fiercely bright and the dust-laden wind which had blown in his wake only fanned them higher. And then Rieuk heard a voice crying out for help—that same high, anguished, piercing voice he had first heard all those years ago when he released Azilis from the Lodestar.
“Save her,” Nagazdiel commanded.
There was no time to quench the fire. Rieuk took to the air again, swooping down into the intense heat and smoke to land on the pyre itself. The burning logs singed the soles of his feet, but he hardly felt the pain. Celestine's fair head was drooping. With Nagazdiel's sharp talons, he slashed at the ropes that confined her until they shredded and she fell forward against him. Clasping her tightly in his arms, he lifted from the pyre, flying with strong wingbeats over the heads of the mesmerized onlookers.
“Jagu…” Celestine murmured faintly. “Save Jagu…”
Eugene had stood watching long enough. He turned to Linnaius. “Wind mage,” he said, “can you call down a rainstorm?” Linnaius appeared to have read his thoughts, for the Emperor saw
that his fingers were already at work.
The daylight was blotted out by the fast-gathering dark. From nearby the sonorous tones of the clock of the cathedral of Saint Etienne could be heard striking noon, but the sky was as black as if it were midnight. The only light in the Place du Trahoir was the harsh light of the pyre flames.
On the royal dais, Captain nel Ghislain pushed his king to the ground, shielding him with his body as the Drakhaoul flew overhead. Donatien threw his arms around Aliénor. Enguerrand alone stood in the rushing darkness, gazing after the Drakhaoul.
“My lord Nagazdiel,” he whispered. “Protect her. Protect your beloved daughter.”
* * *
Through the clouds of choking smoke, Jagu saw the Drakhaoul rising into the air with Celestine in his arms. And he could do nothing to prevent it.
“Hold on, Jagu! Hold on there, man!” Men's voices penetrated the crackle of the flames.
He was finding it harder to breathe a
nd his senses were swimming.
“We'll get you down, Jagu!” And was that the sound of water sloshing onto the flames?
Must be losing consciousness…
Yet he could see black shapes looming up out of the smoke, men clambering over the burning logs toward him.
“Fire! Fire on them!” Visant ordered his Guerriers. Jagu heard the sound of shots, then screams of panic from the crowd.
A man loomed up over Jagu, slashing the ropes that bound him, catching him as he slumped forward. A stab of pain jarred through his hand, jolting him back to consciousness.
“Steady there, lads, don't forget he's injured,” warned a familiar voice and he thought he recognized Alain Friard's homely features, face streaked with ash, as his rescuers bundled him down over the dying fire.
Enguerrand had never felt so angry in his life as the moment he saw Alois Visant set the pyre alight. And when the Inquisitor ordered his men to fire on the Commanderie Guerriers, he could take no more.
He drew his pistol and walked up to Visant, pressing the muzzle into his back.
“This time you've gone too far, Inquisitor.”
Visant half turned, a puzzled expression on his face that twisted into a humorless smile. “Surely your majesty is joking…”
“Guerriers!” Enguerrand called out to the Commanderie squad who had come running with buckets of water to Jagu's rescue.
“Sire?” One turned around and Enguerrand saw that it was Alain Friard, Ruaud's loyal second-in-command.
“Arrest Inquisitor Visant.”
Friard saluted and beckoned two of his men up onto the dais. They seized hold of the Inquisitor and started to drag him down from the dais.
“You fools!” Visant cried. “You'll live to regret this. I am all that stands between you and the darkness!” He went on shouting as the Guerriers dragged him away.
“Sire, I really must object—” began Donatien, but Enguerrand turned on him.
“I am ashamed that my guest, the Emperor, has been forced to witness this barbarous display on his first visit to Francia.”
