Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  “I want to ensure that no one else has to suffer as Paol suffered.”

  Ruaud looked searchingly at Jagu and saw the boy’s eyes burning with the desire to serve. “How old are you?” he asked gently.

  “I’m eleven. But I’ll be twelve soon. And I’m tall for my age.”

  Ruaud could not hide a smile at this persuasive piece of reasoning. He reached out and tousled Jagu’s black hair.

  “You’re too young. I was eighteen when I joined the Commanderie cadet force. But I like your attitude. And…” The smile faded when he remembered that the magus had escaped. The boy was still in danger. The magus could return at any time and destroy him. “What about your music? Abbé Houardon tells me that you were planning on studying at the conservatoire.”

  Jagu nodded with genuine enthusiasm. “Maistre de Joyeuse promised he would teach me if I came to Lutèce.”

  “Henri de Joyeuse, no less?” The boy must be very talented to have impressed the king’s Maistre de Chapelle. “But what of your parents?”

  A dismissive, defensive shrug. “I’m the youngest son. I was always destined for the church.”

  How could the boy’s family show such lack of interest toward their gifted and sensitive child? “Then let’s strike a bargain. You come to Lutèce with me and study music at the conservatoire until you’re eighteen. Then if you still feel the call to join the Commanderie, I’ll be your sponsor. Is it a deal?” Ruaud held out his hand. Jagu stared at him a moment, as though astonished by the offer. Then he reached out to grasp Ruaud’s hand, his grip surprisingly firm for one so young.

  “It’s a deal, Captain.”

  “You used the last Angelstone?” Grand Maistre Donatien’s face had turned red. “So now we have none?”

  “I saved a boy’s life! Isn’t that the reason they were given to us, to save lives?” Ruaud could not understand Donatien’s attitude. Had the responsibilities of leadership warped his mind? Disgusted, Ruaud pulled out the chain from beneath his shirt and handed the crystal to the Grand Maistre. “Abbé Houardon asked me to return it to you. And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have duties to attend to.”

  “Wait.” Donatien stared down at the last Angelstone. “Have you noticed this crystal is still clear? When the others were used, they lost their brilliance. Could it be…?”

  “This stone is different from the others?” Ruaud turned around, wondering what Donatien was suggesting.

  “Take it to Père Judicael. And report to me on his findings as soon as you can.” Donatien handed the Angelstone back to Ruaud. As Ruaud took the stone, Donatien’s fingers closed tightly around his. “We thought we had destroyed the magi,” he said, his voice low, intense. “All except Linnaius. So where did this magus come from?”

  Ruaud had been wondering the same thing. “Ondhessar?”

  “It’s time we exerted some pressure on their patron and protector. I’ve suspected Arkhan Sardion’s hand in this for a long while. He’s resented our presence ever since we took Ondhessar. But there’s trouble brewing between Enhirre and Djihan-Djihar.” Donatien smiled, a slow, calculating smile. “And Shultan Fazil has always been Francia’s ally. If Sardion attacks Ondhessar again, Fazil has promised to send his troops to help us.” He let Ruaud go; his grip had been so tight, it had left marks on Ruaud’s skin. Beneath that calm, controlled manner, Donatien must be seething at the damage inflicted by the magus on the Commanderie’s holy relics. “This magus’s little triumph will prove short-lived.”

  “So you think that this Angelstone is different from the others?” Père Judicael took the crystal from Ruaud and held it up to the candlelight.

  “When I used it against the magus, I felt a burst of light flood through me. It was as if I became…a weapon.” Ruaud found it hard to put into words, fearing that the old priest might pour scorn on his account. “And the boy I rescued told me that he saw a winged figure. Of course, the child was utterly terrified. Fear does strange things to the mind…”

  “Have you noticed that the crystal is still remarkably clear and brilliant?” said Père Judicael. “Once the other Angelstones were used against the magi, they became dull and clouded. I wonder if this stone might be the Stone of Galizur? Ah well, there’s only one way to be certain.” He shuffled into the center of the arcane chamber, placing the stone at the heart of the Circle of Galizur. “Extinguish all the candles,” he ordered.

  Ruaud obeyed, and as he snuffed out the last candle, the silver traces marking the exorcist’s circle began to gleam in the darkness.

  “But what will this show us, mon père?”

  The Angelstone had begun to radiate a clear, cold brilliance, glittering like ice in sunlight.

  “Only the Blessed Sergius was pure enough in heart to summon the Winged Guardians. I don’t see how I…”

  “Sssh!” hissed Judicael. “There is still a trace of angelic power at the heart. It reacted to the Holy Sigils inscribed within the circle.” He gazed at Ruaud, the Angelstone’s penetrating light throwing the deep lines on his weathered face into sharp relief. “There’s no doubt; this is the stone of Angel Lord Galizur.” He removed the stone from the circle and the icy light faded as he handed it to Ruaud. “I doubt it would defeat a magus again, but it will still alert its wearer to the presence of evil.”

  Ruaud’s fingers closed around the crystal and in the gloom he murmured a fervent prayer of thanks to the Commander of the Winged Guardians for saving Jagu’s life.

  CHAPTER 14

  Rieuk never remembered how he found his way to Fenez-Tyr or the ship bound for Enhirre. In the aftermath of the Guerrier’s attack, he moved like a sleepwalker, mind and body drained by the Angelstone’s power.

  Two days out of port, fever claimed him. He drifted in and out of consciousness, too weak to leave his bunk, lying in his own sweat and filth.

  In his delirium, Rieuk wandered across a hot, dusty plain where the sands had been burned the color of blood by a pitiless sun. Where was Ormas? Had the hawk been fatally injured by the angelic power of the stone? He could only sense the faintest hint of the hawk’s presence.

  Lost, with no sense of which way to go, he trudged doggedly on, forcing his aching body to move until, exhausted, he dropped to his knees and crawled. His mouth was parched chokingly dry by the baking sun, and the coarse granules of red sand grazed his hands and knees till they were raw, yet still he went onward.

  “Ormas…where are you?” he cried, even though his throat felt as if it were raked by thorns every time he tried to speak.

  Suddenly a dazzling figure blocked his way. Blinded by the light, Rieuk flung his forearm to protect his face, glimpsing only the faintest outline of great snow-white wings, half-furled, and eyes that seared to the very core of his being.

  Rieuk became aware that someone was wiping clean his burning skin with a cool, wet cloth. The cold shock of the water against the heat of his body made him shudder and cry out.

  “Your fever is too high. This is the only way to bring it down,” said a voice in his native Francian, a voice that though firm was also young and persuasive. Through the heat haze, Rieuk glimpsed his savior bending over him, pausing to push back a lock of hair. The image hovered in and out of focus: long hair, like silvered gold, and pale eyes so translucently blue they were the color of daybreak.

  “Who…are you? Are you…an angel?” he said out of his delirium, still unsure what was real and what was conjured from the heat of his fevered brain.

  The apparition laughed. “I’ve been called many things but never angel before. I guess I should be flattered.”

  Rieuk felt a wash of shame. “That was…a stupid thing to say…”

  “It was the fever talking, nothing more. I’ve heard far worse, believe me. Now drink this draft. It will help bring your fever down.” He raised Rieuk’s head and held a little bowl to his dry lips. Rieuk swallowed, gagging at the bitter flavor.

  “Vile…”

  “I never said it would taste good.” The kindly stranger’s
face swam in and out of Rieuk’s vision, as if steam rising from his burning body were drifting across his sight, until he lapsed back into confused dreams.

  “The fever’s responding at last.”

  Rieuk opened his eyes at the touch of a cool hand on his forehead.

  “I thought I’d lost you there a couple of times,” said his savior cheerfully.

  “You cleaned me up?” Rieuk felt deeply ashamed that this stranger had washed the encrusted filth from his body; he had only vague memories of the last days but he remembered the young man’s voice and the feel of hands, firm yet careful.

  “Well, you were stinking up the lower deck; I wasn’t acting entirely selflessly!”

  Rieuk could not remember a time since he had been with Imri when anyone had taken care of him. He felt humbled by the young man’s ministrations. “But…why? Are you a doctor?”

  “No exactly. The name’s Blaize. Père Blaize.”

  “A priest?”

  Blaize laughed in that charming, self-deprecating way that Rieuk had first heard as he surfaced from the incoherence of his fever dreams. “I promised myself that I would come on pilgrimage to Azilia’s Shrine to test the strength of my faith.”

  This young man could not be that much older than Emilion at Saint Argantel’s Seminary.

  “Why did you save me? You must know what I am. Why didn’t you just walk away?”

  “To me you were suffering and in desperate need. I wasn’t prepared to abandon you just because you happen to be a magus.” The amused look faded, replaced by a regard so keen and incisive that Rieuk knew Blaize was no naïve, inexperienced student.

  “But you—your order—you’re sworn to destroy us.” Rieuk struggled to sit up.

  “I’d never seen one of your kind before. Your eyes are quite…remarkable.” Blaize caught hold of him and eased him back down. “Easy, there. You’re in no state to go anywhere yet.”

  “My spectacles…”

  “So that’s how you go unnoticed among us?” Blaize was examining the thick lenses thoughtfully. He glanced up. “Don’t worry,” he said, grinning. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Rieuk had used up what little strength he had; he felt his eyelids closing in spite of his will to stay awake. As he lapsed back into sleep, he found himself wondering how far he could trust the young priest. Or did Père Blaize plan to hand him over to the Commanderie when they reached the next port?

  “This hawk tattoo on your breast. It’s so realistic. Such artistry.” Blaize wiped the wet cloth gently over the inked feathers. “What does it signify?”

  Rieuk gazed up at Blaize. “If I were to tell you, you’d never believe me,” he said without blinking.

  Blaize looked a little hurt for a moment. Then he laughed and shrugged the rejection away. “As you wish.”

  Violent summer storms off Smarna blew the ship off course and the ship’s master was obliged to put into harbor at Vermeille until the bad weather passed.

  Too weak to leave his bunk to go ashore, Rieuk found himself looking forward to his visits from Blaize, who brought back fresh fruit for his patient: luscious black Smarnan grapes and white-fleshed peaches. And, little by little, he learned more about the young man who had saved his life.

  “After Enhirre, I’m on my way to Serindher, to join the missionary fathers.”

  Rieuk closed his eyes. “To convert the ignorant natives?” he said, unable to keep the cynicism from his voice.

  “To care for the poor and the sick.”

  Rieuk opened one eye. “Why would you want to do that, Father Blaize? Aren’t you as like to get sick yourself in all that heat and humidity?”

  Blaize paused a moment. Then he said, with a glimmer of a mischievous smile, “If I were to tell you, you’d never believe me.”

  Rieuk smiled back. “Touché.”

  “Master…”

  Rieuk heard Ormas’s voice calling to him through the confusion of his lightning-riven dreams. He woke, heart pounding, as thunder crashed overhead, setting the ship timbers trembling. A second later, the sound of torrential rain drummed on the deck above.

  “Ormas?” Rieuk sat up too fast in his eagerness. The cabin spun and he pressed one hand to his forehead, as the blood rushed away from his temples. Lightning flashed again, silver-bright against the Smarnan night. And in the lightning’s brilliance, Rieuk saw a hawk-winged shadow silhouetted against the cabin porthole. A fierce joy surged through him. Fighting the dizziness, he swung his legs off the bunk as the thunder rolled deafeningly again around the bay.

  “Where have you been?” he cried out over the thunder. “I thought I’d lost you for good!”

  “I went to the Rift to be healed. I’m sorry, Master, that I abandoned you.” Ormas sounded contrite. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Welcome back,” Rieuk said softly, opening his arms to his Emissary. Another silver flicker lit the humid night as Ormas lifted from the porthole. The cabin door opened. Blaize came in just as Ormas flew to Rieuk, melting into his tattooed breast.

  Thunder rumbled as both men stared tensely at one another. And then Blaize began to laugh. “Amazing the tricks that lightning can play on the eyes! I could have sworn that I saw a hawk in here…but such a thing is impossible. Isn’t it?”

  When the storms died down and the ship set off again for Enhirre, Rieuk had regained enough strength to leave his cabin. Standing on the deck with Blaize beside him, he watched the sun setting, bleeding scarlet light into the deep blue of the waves, and relished the fresh tang of the wind on his face and hair. Once he and Imri had stood together like this and…For a moment, the fiery light blurred and dimmed as tears stung his eyes. He hastily blinked them away, not wanting Blaize to see.

  “So what are you going to do when we reach Enhirre?” he said. “Hand me over to your superiors?”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “I’m your enemy. The Enemy.” Rieuk had come to feel so much at ease in the young priest’s company that he took pleasure in teasing him. He was still too weak to do anything else.

  “Well, you thought I was an angel,” Blaize said after a pause. “So, perhaps I was mistaken too.”

  As the ship sailed into the bustling harbor, making its way between the hundreds of little fishing boats bobbing about in its wake, Rieuk knew with a terrible certainty that he wanted the voyage to continue forever. He would rather have sailed over the rim of the world than return to his cruel and exacting master, the Arkhan. The very smell of Enhirre—dusty, hot spices mingled with excrement and rotting fruit—produced a feeling of profound loathing.

  “So this is where our ways part,” said Blaize. In the intense sunlight, Rieuk saw how young and vulnerable he looked in his white priest’s robes. He feared for him.

  “I don’t know how to thank you—” he began lamely, when to his surprise Blaize flung his arms around him and gave him a swift, hard hug.

  “Take care, Magus.” Then, without another word, he strode swiftly down the gangplank and disappeared into the crowds of merchants and sailors thronging the quay.

  Rieuk stood staring after him, feeling as if he had just lost something more valuable than he had realized.

  “A Guerrier attacked you with the last Angelstone and you survived?” Arkhan Sardion’s blue eyes widened with astonishment. At his side, Alarion, Sardion’s eldest son, stared challengingly at Rieuk with eyes as startlingly blue as his father’s.

  “This streak of white in my hair is where the stone’s power caught me.” Rieuk pointed to the snowy lock that stood out amid the rich brown above the silvered angel-scar on his left temple.

  “You’re either lying, Emissary Mordiern,” said Prince Alarion, “or you crystal mages are made of stronger stuff than your peers.”

  Rieuk held out the few fragments of shattered Angelstone that he had retrieved before the Guerrier had attacked him. “This is all that remains of the Angelstones in Kemper. But there was something different about the stone the Guerrier used.” He was still
weak from the aftereffects of the duel in the chapel but he didn’t want to admit that to the Arkhan, or his fierce-eyed son.

  Sardion took the shards of crystal and held them up to the daylight. “It’s difficult to believe that these dull chips of stone were once touched by an angel. By my reckoning, all seven stones have been used up and the Commanderie have nothing left to use against us.”

  “Now we can win Ondhessar back,” said Alarion, his eyes alight. “Without the Angelstones, the Francians are vulnerable. Let me lead a raid against them, Father!”

  “Fifteen is too young to fight,” said Sardion sternly.

  “But Eugene of Tielen fought alongside his father when he was only fifteen,” protested the boy.

  “Prince Eugene was born a military tactician. At the age when you were happy enough to chase butterflies in the palace gardens, he was already planning campaigns with his lead soldiers. We must bide our time and strike when the moment is right.”

  Alarion scowled and stalked off without another word.

  “Headstrong boy,” said Sardion, although Rieuk thought he heard a note of pride rather than censure in his voice. “You must be tired after your long journey, Emissary Mordiern. And I believe Lord Estael has some news for you. Go to him.”

  News? Rieuk, who had been drooping in the soporific heat, was suddenly alert again. Had he earned his reward, and would the precious souls of Imri and Tabris be released at last from the soul-glass?

  “You’ve done well,” said Lord Estael. Rieuk stared at the tiled floor. “You’ve drawn the Commanderie’s teeth. Let’s see how valiant they are without their Angelstones to protect them.”

  “But I was careless. A boy died.” Rieuk could not meet Lord Estael’s penetrating gaze. “And one of the Guerriers bested me in a duel. I still have much to learn, my lord.” Yet he had seen the mission through because it was for Imri, and he knew he would do it all again, if only in the vainest of hopes that it might bring Imri back. Yet the question was choked in his throat; he hardly dared to ask, for fear that the answer would not be what he so fervently wished for.