Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

The frontage of Maistre de Joyeuse’s town house could not be seen from the street, as like many others in Lutèce, it was protected by a high wall. But to Celestine’s delight, behind the wall lay an intimate courtyard garden. When she gazed upward, she saw that the little garden was surrounded by other tall houses, and a single square of blue sky could be glimpsed high above. But she could hear sparrows twittering in the flowerpots among the scarlet tulips.

  Maistre de Joyeuse went on ahead while the girls collected their bundles from the coachman. Celestine could not help feeling as insignificant and dowdy as the brown sparrows fluttering in and out of the rambling wisteria that framed the porch with its luscious-scented blooms.

  “So where are our new students?” demanded an imperious voice from inside. “Don’t tell me you’ve left them to make their own way in?”

  The Maistre appeared in the open doorway with a grey-haired woman beside him. “Aunt Elmire, may I present Demoiselles Celestine and Gauzia.”

  The girls curtsied. Elmire Sorel regarded them with a keen and critical eye.

  “You will be studying vocal technique with me. I’m a hard taskmaster and I expect you both to be diligent students.”

  “She’s worse than Sister Noyale,” whispered Gauzia to Celestine as they left the house to walk to the Sisters of Charity, their new home.

  A tall, willowy nun was waiting to greet them in the austere entrance hall of the convent. Celestine stared.

  “Angelique?” She ran to her and flung her arms around her, relieved to see a familiar face.

  “Welcome to the Sisters of Charity,” said Angelique, kissing her cheek. “Is this Gauzia? Let me show you to your room.”

  As Celestine followed the older girl through the hushed convent, she felt as if her new life was going to turn out all right if Angelique was there to guide and reassure her.

  Every weekday the girls went to the Maistre’s house for a singing lesson with Dame Elmire, then left after lunch to sing the afternoon service with the convent choir at the ancient Church of Saint Meriadec. Three times a week, the girls attended the Conservatoire for lessons in music theory and the fortepiano. To Celestine’s disappointment, it soon became evident that the Maistre’s busy schedule would only permit him to coach them from time to time. But when the day came for her first lesson, Celestine found herself filled with nerves at the prospect of a whole hour alone with him.

  The lesson began well enough and she soon began to forget her apprehension, lulled by his sensitive accompaniment.

  Suddenly he stopped playing. Celestine, surprised, stopped singing. He was leaning forward, arms draped over the music stand, regarding her intently.

  “Did I sing a wrong note? I’m sorry…”

  “No; the notes were perfect.” Still he stared at her.

  “My breathing, then. The phrasing?”

  He slowly shook his head and she saw the hint of a smile on his lips. Was he teasing her? “Shall I sing the phrase again?” Used to Sister Noyale’s strict regime, she felt baffled by his silence. She wanted so much to please him and win his approval.

  He rose from the keyboard. “You’ve been well trained. Like all Sister Noyale’s star singers, you have a good technique and produce a pleasing sound.” He began to pace the music room as he spoke. Pleasing. From anyone else it would have been a compliment. Celestine watched him, alarmed. Every time he passed her, she found herself thinking not of her technique or her phrasing, but how there was a trace of golden stubble on the curve of his chin. She kept trying not to think of it…but the more she tried, the more her fingers longed to reach out and touch it, to feel the roughness against his smooth skin—

  He stopped suddenly in front of her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Demoiselle?”

  She stared at him blankly. She had not heard a word, only the sound of his voice. And then she felt her cheeks flushing bright red. What must he think of her?

  “Where is your real voice, Demoiselle Celestine? I want you to stop trying to sing the way other people have told you to.” He was gazing into her eyes now with such intensity that she could not look away. “I want you to show me what this music means to you. I know you can do it. Who are you, Celestine?”

  Who am I? The question came like a ram battering at a long-locked door. Celestine felt herself trembling. She had been Celestine for so long now, quiet, obedient, well-behaved Celestine, that the prospect of letting her true self loose was terrifying.

  “I—I don’t know!” She turned in panic and fled the room.

  Little golden bees were busy about the blue buds of lavender, droning in the warmth of the sun. It was hard, in this little courtyard garden, to remember that the bustling city lay outside the walls with all its hateful memories. The roses had almost all finished except for one pale cream climber around the arbor seat that was still flowering prolifically. The roses had not even started to bloom when they left the convent; had they been in Lutèce so long already?

  She could hear Gauzia’s voice drifting through the open music room window, swelling as she sang, more rich and glorious in tone than it had ever sounded at the convent.

  She’s everything I’m not. Celestine paced the looping gravel path, unable to escape the sound of Gauzia’s voice. And how delighted he must be with her progress. She stopped to pick a spike of lavender, sniffing the sharp scent on her fingertips. It took her back to the convent stillroom, tying bunches for Sister Kinnie to hang up to dry from the overhead herb rack. Maybe I should never have left Saint Azilia’s. Maybe I’m not ready to cope with life in the big city. But Gauzia is so confident, nothing seems to upset her. She’s improving every day.

  Yet the thought of the two of them, Henri de Joyeuse and Gauzia, performing together pricked her imagination, sharp as a rose thorn.

  I can’t bear for him to pay her so much attention. I want him to play for me, to smile at me, I want… She imagined them smiling at each other over the music, a secret look of understanding that suggested a far greater intimacy than the usual relationship between master and pupil.

  No! I can’t afford to like him. Liking, loving, only leads to hurt. Loss. Loneliness. I must stay strong.

  Maistre de Joyeuse had a composition to complete. He locked himself away in his music room, insisting that no one disturb him.

  Celestine would tiptoe past his locked door and notice that his food tray had been left untouched, the delicious dinner cooked by Dame Elmire cold and congealing beneath its cover.

  How wonderful to be so wrapped up in the world of sound that everyday necessities like eating and sleeping could be forgotten.

  She stood very still, holding her breath, hoping to catch a faint snatch of the new sounds that he was weaving together. But all she heard were a few disjointed fragments.

  Next morning, as Celestine arrived for her lesson with Dame Elmire, she heard Maistre de Joyeuse’s voice. “Coffee!” he called. “Strong coffee.”

  She stopped, seeing him emerge from his room in his robe de chambre. He was unshaven and his hair was loose about his shoulders and disheveled, as though he had been dragging his fingers through it.

  “You should be ashamed, wandering around the house in such a state,” chided Dame Elmire. “Will you join us, Celestine?”

  In the morning room, the housekeeper poured black coffee into delicate porcelain cups. Celestine was still unaccustomed to the drink—a luxury that she had not even heard of in Saint Azilia’s—and she found its dark, burned aroma irresistible. When the Maistre had finished the first cup, he pushed it forward for a refill. As he did so, he glanced up at Celestine, acknowledging her presence with a rueful smile. “It took all night,” he said. “But it was worth it.”

  “Your new composition?” she said, trying not to notice that she could plainly see a triangle of lean bare chest where the dark silk of his robe gaped open as he leaned forward to lift the cup to his lips. Is that all he has on? Is he naked underneath? she wondered, then felt herself blushing that she should think such an impure
thought. “What are you working on, Maistre?”

  “A work for Demoiselle Gauzia to sing on the Feast of Saint Sergius.”

  She thought at first she had not heard aright. “For Gauzia?”

  “The Grand Maistre commissioned a new anthem. It’s for a service at the Commanderie chapel.”

  “I see.” Celestine turned swiftly away, hoping that he had not noticed her bitter disappointment.

  “The Feast Day is only a week away. I need extra time to work on her part with her…so would you mind very much if we canceled our lesson today?”

  Another sharp thorn pierced Celestine’s heart. It was all she could do not to blurt out, “What am I doing wrong? Why didn’t you choose me?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Gazette! Get your copy of the Gazette!” sang out a paper vendor, passing by the front of the café. “Fighting in Enhirre, latest news!”

  Rieuk leaped up, beckoning the boy over to buy a paper, hastily scanning the columns to discover what had happened.

  “Our brave Guerriers have successfully repelled a raid on the Fort of Ondhessar by hostile Enhirran tribes. Ownership of the fort has long been contested by Enhirre and Djihan-Djihar, as it lies on the border dividing both countries. The household troops of his Excellency Shultan Fazil of Djihan-Djihar fought alongside the Francians to repel the invaders. It is reported that Arkhan Sardion’s eldest son and heir, Prince Alarion, is among the many Enhirran casualties…”

  The paper slipped from Rieuk’s fingers. Alarion dead? But the Arkhan had forbidden him to fight. It had to be a mistake. And why had Djihan-Djihar entered the fray?

  A hawk-winged shadow darted overhead and he heard Ormas’s voice, low and urgent.

  “Almiras is here. He has a message for us.”

  Rieuk cast coins on the table and hastily set off after the hawk. It must be an urgent message for Lord Estael to send Almiras so far from Ondhessar. At the end of the street he saw an avenue of plane trees leading to ornate ironwork gates. A sandy path led him into a shady public garden, where the distant voices of children at play carried over the splash of water spouting from a green-stained marble fountain. Rieuk stopped in the heart of an alley of sweet-blossomed lime trees, checked to see if anyone was watching, and set Ormas loose. There was a rustle high in the branches overhead and he saw both smoke hawks alight.

  “We are to return straightaway,” Ormas conveyed Almiras’s message. “The Arkhan is demanding to see you.”

  The Arkhan’s palace was hung with black. Black gauzes covered every window and only a faint, muted light seeped through. The sound of women’s weeping, muffled and desolate, echoed through the vastness of the empty halls. The hushed, gloomy atmosphere only increased the ominous feeling of foreboding that had been plaguing Rieuk on the long journey back to Enhirre. Many weeks had passed since Alarion’s death, yet as Rieuk followed the silent guards to the Arkhan’s private chambers, he realized that Sardion was still grieving.

  “I will never forgive them,” said Sardion softly. “They took my son from me, my firstborn, my beloved Alarion. They will pay dearly for this. Francia will pay.”

  “I—I am sorry for your loss, my lord.”

  The Arkhan raised him to his feet, fingers clutching his shoulders. “And you will be the instrument of my vengeance.” His blue eyes burned with a feverish glint in grief-hollowed sockets.

  “Your vengeance?” Rieuk repeated, wishing he could retreat, yet held tight by the Arkhan’s strong grip.

  “The House of Francia will suffer as I have suffered. Let Gobain know what it is to lose a child, a child more dear to him than life itself.”

  “What do you mean, my lord?” Had Sardion been driven mad by Alarion’s death? Rieuk could not follow what he was saying.

  “My Emissaries have many skills at their disposal. They have acted as assassins before. Now it is your turn.”

  Assassins. Rieuk felt a chill in the pit of his stomach at the mere thought. “Please don’t ask me to do this, my lord. Please, I beg you.”

  Sardion let go of him at last and reached into the breast of his robe. He withdrew a little phial which he held up in front of Rieuk’s face. A translucent swirl of dark gold lit the lotus glass, intertwined with a spiraling thread of black. Rieuk’s hands reached out toward the glass before he knew what he was doing.

  “No, my lord, please not Imri—”

  “Imri was dear to you, wasn’t he?” The Arkhan’s sleep-starved eyes glimmered like corpse candles as he snatched the precious glass from Rieuk’s grasp. “And you will carry out this mission for the sake of the soul of the one you hold dear. Fail me, Rieuk, and I crush this soul-glass. And Imri Boldiszar becomes one of the Lost.”

  “We are magi,” said Lord Estael dispassionately. “We achieve our ends much more subtly than a common hired gun. But we are just as deadly as a trained marksman. And much harder to track down afterward.”

  “The Arkhan wants me to kill?” Rieuk still could not believe what he had been ordered to do.

  “You will bring about a death. There’s a subtle difference.”

  “Why? Why must it be me?”

  “You’re a native Francian. You’ll be able to get close to your target. Close enough to carry out your mission.”

  “And who is my target?”

  “The heir to the throne. Prince Aubrey.”

  Rieuk went to the top of the Tower and gazed out into the night. A gust of breeze ruffled his hair, bringing with it the hot, parched scent of the desert.

  If I were to close my eyes and let myself fall forward into the darkness, I would be killed instantly. And that would be an end to it. Their hold over me would be broken and I’d be free. In truth, he was weary, soul-weary, and wondering what there was left to live for. Magister Gonery’s prophetic words kept whispering through his mind. “They will promise you the things you most desire. And then, before you know what you have done, you will find yourself in thrall. Sealed into a contract that binds you until death—and beyond.”

  The eerie ice-light of Imri’s Rift tomb shimmered in the darkness. Rieuk stood, one hand on the casket of aethyr crystal that encased Imri’s body.

  “Where are you, Imri? Can you hear me? Or are you far beyond the bournes of this world already…and this is just some cruel ruse to get me to do the Arkhan’s will?”

  Beneath the rime-coated crystal facets, he could hardly make out the form of Imri’s body anymore. So much time had passed since they were last together. And Rieuk knew now how frail and vulnerable a soul was, once it was separated from its mortal body.

  He slipped to his knees, resting his forehead against the chill crystal. “I don’t know what to do. If only you were here, you’d tell me. Can I trust Lord Estael? If I carry out this mission, will the Arkhan keep his promise and set you free?”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Maistre de Joyeuse’s new anthem is ravishingly beautiful, Celestine.” Gauzia twirled around the girls’ narrow convent cell. “I can’t believe that he wrote it especially for me to sing. It’s such an honor.” She stopped for a moment in front of the little mirror and tweaked an errant curl back into place.

  Celestine listened in silence, slowly dragging a comb through her hair. She could not be sure whether Gauzia was so excited that she could not contain herself, or if she was rattling on expressly to provoke her.

  “We’re leaving for the final rehearsal at ten. We’re taking a carriage to the Forteresse. I suppose that means you’ll have to manage without me somehow at Saint Meriadec’s today. Though I heard the Maistre say that one of his younger students was going to play the organ in his place. We won’t be back till late, after vespers.”

  Another lesson canceled—and he had not even taken the trouble to tell her himself. And what was with this “we”? It sounded as if there was more than a master-student relationship between Gauzia and the Maistre.

  “Of course, all the most important members of the Commanderie will be there: the Inquisitor, Captain de Lanvaux, the Grand
Maistre himself. And it’s even rumored that Prince Enguerrand will attend. Sergius is his patron saint…” Gauzia stopped. “Listen to me, chattering on.” Gauzia gave Celestine a condescending smile. “I must save my voice for the rehearsal.”

  Heart troubled with conflicting emotions, Celestine entered the chapel of Saint Meriadec. As she went into the vestry and took off her grey lay sister’s hooded cloak, she felt that the cloth was damp. It must have started to drizzle as she walked through the streets and she had been so preoccupied that she had not even noticed.

  “No Gauzia today?”

  Celestine recognized Angelique’s voice and turned around, grateful to see a friendly face. “It’s her big moment. She’s singing at the Feast Day in the Forteresse.”

  “I see.” Angelique nodded, handing Celestine her choir robe. “I imagine she’s pretty insufferable right now.”

  “She mentioned that there was a new student playing for the service today.” Celestine changed the subject for fear she would say aloud what she really thought of Gauzia.

  “He’s only seventeen but very talented.” Angelique gave Celestine a mysterious smile. “I heard a rumor from the older sisters that Captain de Lanvaux discovered him in Armel and brought him to Lutèce to study. So you share the same patron.”

  Another of the captain’s protégés? Celestine was intrigued, in spite of her dejected mood.

  The candles were lit in the choir stall glasses, for even though it was only four in the afternoon, the greyness of the sky outside made the light too dim to see to read the music. And as the choir began to sing, they were accompanied by the insistent patter of the rain against the stained-glass windows.

  Maistre de Joyeuse’s deputy had been dispatched to conduct in his master’s place. Placid in temperament, he favored careful, easygoing tempi, taking no risks with difficult phrases. Celestine kept glancing surreptitiously toward the organ loft. Frustratingly, it was impossible to see anything of the new organist from her position in the choir stalls. And after a while, she forgot that a novice was playing, so competent and unobtrusive was his accompaniment. But when the time came for him to play alone at the end of the service, a paean of notes came tumbling out into the dimly lit chapel, lighting it up with the brilliance of its fanfares. The exuberance of his performance wiped all other concerns from Celestine’s mind; she moved slowly as they filed out, entranced.