Flight Into Darkness (14 page)

“But just the two of us? Without backup?”

He shook his head. “Of course not. We'll need a whole detachment to pull this off.”

“A detachment of pilgrims?” The image was so odd that it almost made her smile.

“And a swift cutter waiting in the cove nearby for a quick—” He broke off, as if listening.

“What is it?”

She only caught the flash of movement out of the corner of one eye. Jagu gave a muffled grunt and crumpled to the ground.

“Jag—” Her scream was stifled as someone clamped a hand over her mouth. Next moment, she was forced to her knees. Her unseen attacker pulled back her hood and, grabbing her by the chin, yanked her head upward. She heard him let out a low whistle of surprise—and then, with brutal swiftness, he pushed her onto her back on the rough ground. She was aware as she fell that another man was ripping open her bag, searching for anything worth stealing, she guessed.
The book.
The precious book was concealed inside, wrapped in a spare shirt.

“Faie!” She tried to call to her for help, but the pressure of the man's hand only increased. The fall had knocked the breath from her body. Her assailant forced himself on top of her, trying to subdue her with the weight of his body. He had guessed she was not a boy. She fought and struggled as, with his free hand, he tugged at her clothes. He was too strong for her.

Dizzy, angry, she attempted to knee him in the groin—but her desperate struggles only seemed to excite him the more. She could not even reach the little knife she wore tucked into her boot. And she could feel his breath against her throat, hot and panting, as he fumbled beneath her cloak, trying to tug down her breeches.

“Faie!”
she cried again in terror. And suddenly the twilit glade was filled with a dazzle of shimmering light. Her attacker paused. The moment's distraction gave Celestine her chance. Up came her knee again, jabbing hard into his groin with all the fury she could muster. He fell back, gasping. And in that moment, she felt the Faie's protecting arms around her. Bathed in the pure, white light of her guardian spirit, she arose, staring down at her attacker. The Faie gave her strength, the Faie's power blazed through her eyes, flowing through her body until she felt as if she were glowing with aethyrial radiance.

Slowly, she raised her hand, pointing accusingly at the robber. She could see him clearly at last, crouching like a beast at bay, his face twisted, his bloodshot eyes bulging. She took a step toward him and saw, to her satisfaction, that he cringed away from her, one shaking hand rising to shield his eyes from her brilliance.

She heard his accomplice give an incoherent shout of fear. She took another step toward her would-be violator. Her fingers tingled with the Faie's power.

“Celestine,
no!”
Jagu's hoarse voice broke through the trance. “Don't do it!”

“He deserves to die.”
She heard another voice, clear and hard as ice. It seemed to issue from her lips.

“You promised me.” She saw Jagu slowly push himself to his knees. His head drooped.
“You gave me your word.
” He staggered to his feet, leaning against a tree trunk.

“You're all right.” She slowly lowered her arm. A surge of relief flooded through her and the cold, murderous rage melted away; all she wanted was to run to his side.

Her attacker began to crawl away into the shadows; the accomplice had already fled.

One lurching step at a time, Jagu made his way toward her. Blood dripped from a jagged gash on the side of his head. His arms reached out and held her. Suddenly she felt faint and sick, and she clung to him as if he were a rock in a pounding sea. The aethyric light slowly dwindled as the Faie silently faded back into the book.

Jagu felt Celestine trembling as he held her, her face pressed against his shoulder. Dizzy from the blow, he closed his eyes, trying to calm his agitated mind, to think logically.

She's safe.
That was all that mattered. But no thanks to him.

“I'm so sorry. I was careless,” he said. “I let my guard down.”

“It wasn't your fault, Jagu,” she said, her voice muffled in the thick folds of his robes. “They prey on poor pilgrims. They're scum.”

A moment ago, she had dominated the glade, her eyes blazing with light, possessed by her guardian spirit. Now she was just a frightened, vulnerable girl again. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but the guardian spirit had saved them both. If it hadn't appeared to protect Celestine, he could not bear to think what the robbers might have done to her as he lay unconscious among the tangled tree roots. And yet were anyone to learn the secret of her innocuous-looking
Lives of the Saints,
the Inquisition would not hesitate to destroy her.

Celestine wanted to wash herself clean, to rid herself of the taint of her attacker's pawing hands, the lingering stink of his sweat, but Jagu's wound needed treating first. She went over to the stream and
doused her handkerchief in the cold water, wringing it out. Then she began to dab at the congealing blood.

“What did he hit you with? A tree branch? It must have been quite a blow to lay
you
out cold.” She chattered away, intent on distracting him, aware of the need to distract herself too. “It's swelling up. You'll have an impressive bruise there soon. At least the bleeding's stopped; it's quite a superficial wound. But he must have whacked you pretty hard.” There were some basic medical supplies in her bag. She took out her little pot of arnica cream and smoothed some onto the contusion.

“You're going to have a headache,” she said. “If you can get a fire going, I'll brew you an infusion of willow bark to dampen the pain. We don't have to worry about catching our supper tonight; we've plenty of cheese, honey, and bread left from what the brothers gave us.”

“The Staff!” Jagu started up. “Is the Staff safe?”

In all the confusion of the attack, they had both forgotten their sacred treasure. But in the twilight, Jagu found it still lying where he had left it. The robbers had been after more valuable plunder than a priest's staff.

Jagu threw pinecones on the fire and as they burned, sending up blue smoke into the night, their strong, aromatic scent seemed to cleanse the air. Celestine sat hunched, cradling her mug of tea in both hands, gazing into the crackling flames.

What was going through her mind? She looked so distant, her gaze so abstracted that he wanted to put his arm around her, to comfort her. But the danger was past and he no longer had any excuse. Yet every time he remembered how she had clung to him, her body pressed close to his own, he felt an ache of desire so strong it almost overwhelmed him.

“Why is Linnaius so interested in the Drakhaoul?” she said suddenly. So she had been thinking about the Magus again. “Lord Gavril is the Emperor's prisoner, condemned to life imprisonment in the Iron Tower. He's no longer a threat.” She tossed on another pinecone, watching it flare into bright flame in the heart of the blaze. “And to use his Dark Arts to pry secrets from that chained book in the monastery library… it stank of sorcery in there.”

Jagu forced himself to ignore the confusion of feelings twisting his heart. Tracing and defeating the Drakhaoul was the aim of their
mission, maybe the most dangerous one they had ever undertaken together.

“Yet if the Drakhaoul were to take a new mortal host, then that man would be a real threat to the Emperor,” he said. “Eugene barely escaped with his life from their last encounter. He'll bear the scars to the grave.”

“But the Drakhaoul can only meld with one of the Nagarian family.” She turned to look at him, the flames staining her pale face with fiery shadows. “Or is that just a legend? Could it meld with anyone?”

“If Eugene wants the Drakhaoul's powers for himself, then Francia is in real danger.” Jagu prodded at the fire with a stick, sending a sizzle of sparks up into the starry dark. “He's conquered the five princedoms of Old Rossiya; why would he stop there? His agents must know that our navy is half the size of his northern fleet… and no match for his alchymical weapons.”

“But if we arrest Linnaius,” she said, her voice low, “Eugene's in-genieurs will soon find it impossible to continue to manufacture alchymical weapons.”

“Our mission is to destroy the Drakhaoul, not to go after Linnaius,” he said sternly. “No matter what our personal desires may be, we must obey the Maistre's orders.”

To his surprise, she let out a little giggle. “Oh, Jagu, must you always be so punctilious? We're not at the Forteresse now.” He saw her adding another dash of the monks’ liqueur to her tea.

“Go easy there, Celestine,” he said, reaching for the flask. “A little too much of that stuff and you'll wake up with a pounding headache.”

“You're such a spoilsport,” she said, snatching the flask away and dangling it just out of his reach. “If you want it, you'll have to come and get it.”

He made a lunge and missed. Laughing triumphantly, she took another long sip of her tea.

“Give that here!” He lunged again, catching hold of the flask. But she wouldn't let go and he ended up almost falling into her lap.

“Ask nicely, Jagu.” Her breath was sweet with the gentian liqueur. Was she drunk? Her cheeks were flushed in the firelight and she was looking at him with a teasing, provocative smile.

“Please.” He knelt beside her.

“On one condition, then.” Her speech was becoming slurred.

“You have a little more too.” She uncorked the flask and held it up to his lips; the liqueur poured out, trickling down his chin.

“Enough!” he said, trying to wrest the flask from her hands. In the tussle, she fell backward and he found himself lying sprawled on top of her. The flask rolled away across the dried leaves.

In the chilly Arkhelskoye tavern, he had managed to restrain himself. But now his self-restraint suddenly snapped and he pressed his mouth to hers. He heard her let out a muffled sound, more like surprise than protest.

What am I doing?
Panicked, he pushed her away from him.

“Why did you stop?” she murmured. Her lids were drooping. “That was nice…”

Because if he didn't stop immediately, he'd never be able to hold himself back.

She nestled her head against his shoulder, like a sleepy, trusting child.

Taking advantage of her when she's had too much to drink? I'd never forgive myself.

When they boarded the
Dame Blanche,
Captain Peillac handed Jagu a sealed letter bearing the Commanderie's crest.

“It seems we have been engaged to perform before the Emperor and his new bride in Mirom.” Jagu passed Celestine the message.

“‘The ship will put in at the port of Khazan, where you will disembark and receive further instructions,’” she read. “What does the Maistre want us to do in Muscobar? What can have happened while we've been away?”

But Jagu seemed in no mood to talk; he was busy transcribing the pencil sketches he had done aboard Chaikin's boat to make a rough map of the coastline between Arkhelskoye and Seal Cove.

“Must you do that now?” Celestine asked, kicking her heels against the wooden side of the bunk. “Can't this wait until we reach dry land?”

“We need something to show for this mission,” he said, not even glancing up from his work. His face was drawn in a frown of what she assumed to be concentration. “I don't like to return empty-handed …”

So his simmering moodiness was caused by their failure to secure the golden crook? “The Maistre will understand. He knew that the monks were unlikely to hand over their prized relic. At least we've
learned enough to prepare for a return visit.” No, there had to be more to it than that. There was something else troubling him and, knowing Jagu, he was likely to keep brooding over it for days rather than share his fears with her. She tried a change of subject.

“I hope my hair will have grown enough to look presentable at court. Perhaps I'll have to buy a wig!”

“At least you can still practice,” muttered Jagu. “I can't remember the last time I touched a keyboard. I'll need to lock myself in a music room when we reach Mirom. Maistre de Joyeuse always used to say—” He broke off. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right, Jagu.” His comment had been entirely spontaneous. “You know it's better to talk of him, to keep him alive that way.” She smiled, although her heart still ached whenever she thought of Henri. “In fact, I was going to suggest that we perform ‘October Seas’ at the recital. With words by Mirom's favorite poet, the Empress and her court will love it.”

A large trunk was awaiting them at the Khazan customs house. Jagu had it carried to their lodgings and set about the task of trying to open the rusted catches with his pocketknife.

“I can't wait to see what's inside!” Celestine hovered excitedly behind him.

“Damn!” Jagu shook his right hand. He had managed to open the final clasp, so Celestine threw open the lid as he knelt back on his heels, nursing his injured finger.

“Look, Jagu.” There were clothes, neatly packed in layers of lavender-scented tissue, leather folders of music, and many other personal necessities they had been obliged to do without for so long. She plunged her hands in among the soft folds, drawing out her mulberry silk concert gown with a cry of delight. “There's a letter here. It's in code. Here; you're the cryptographer.” She turned to pass it to him and saw that he was trying to trim the broken nail, just as if he were a fine lady of the court.

“It'll soon grow again,” she said.

He hardly looked up, frowning at the damage. Over the years they had worked together, she had come to accept that the fastidious care Jagu took of his hands was one of his personal quirks. She rummaged in the trunk and found her ivory box of cosmetics; inside lay a porcelain pot of almond oil hand cream. “Here.” She passed it to him. “This will restore a dewy softness to my lord's chapped skin.”

He looked up at her, unsmiling at her little joke. “A keyboard player must always take good care of his hands,” he said, scowling. “They are his livelihood.”

“Just decipher the letter,” she said, raising her eyes to heaven, “then when we know what our orders are, you can get back to your manicure.”