Flight Into Darkness (46 page)

The mason shook his head slowly. “If you're going to commission a copy, highness, I'd say that now is not too soon.”

“Can you do it?” Ilsevir asked the sculptor.

“I believe I can,” he replied. “But not here. I'd prefer to work in my studio.”

Girim caught a glance from Ilsevir. “I'm afraid that will not be possible,” he said. “We must ask you to work and live here. We will close the cathedral until the copy is complete. My men will bring you anything you need. And you will be most generously remunerated.”

“This is to be our little secret.” Ilsevir extended his hand, the signet ring glinting in the chapel candlelight. “I ask you, gentlemen, to swear on my ring, never to breathe a word of what we have discussed here today.”

The men looked at one another. They glanced at Girim, who was watching them, arms folded. Then, the mason, followed by the sculptor, knelt and kissed the prince's ring.

“Will it work, do you think?” Ilsevir murmured to Girim as Korentan and the Rosecoeurs began to clear the cathedral of priests and worshippers.

When the prince had departed and the two experts had gone to make their arrangements, Girim lingered on, waiting until the chapel was empty. The candles were guttering, burning down into their sconces.

He went up to the statue and slowly reached out to touch the discolored stone.

“Why?” He dropped to his knees before her. “Why has this happened? Why have you deserted us? This is
your
city, the city you made your home.” His whispered words echoed softly in the gathering gloom as, one by one, the candles burned out. “Since then, we've
honored your memory. So why have you turned your face from us?” He bent slowly forward, until his forehead rested against the statue's chill marble feet. “Or is this a test of my faith?” Her bright image had illumined his life since he was a boy. His heart had been stirred by the story of Mhir, the poet-prophet whose perfect, selfless love for Elesstar had brought about her miraculous revival, through the blood of the rose that sprang from his grave. “What more can I do? Give me a sign and—” A sudden babble of angry voices started up outside and he left the chapel to see what was happening.

“I don't care what his highness says. This is a house of prayer and must be kept open to everyone.” The bishop had arrived, flanked by several priests and Korentan, and his men were barring their way. “And where are we to conduct our daily acts of worship?”

“It's only for a few days, your grace,” Girim said, putting on his most placating tone. “And Prince Ilsevir has put his own private chapel at your disposal, so that you can hold services there until this essential work is complete.”

“A few days?” spluttered the bishop.

“And his highness has requested that you pray for the health of his wife.” Girim knew that this was one request the priests would find it hard to refuse.

“Princess Adèle is still indisposed? I had no idea. Well, if his highness requests…”

The Princess of Allegonde's bedchamber looked out over the palace gardens, which lay covered in a crusty sparkle of white hoarfrost. From her curtained bed, propped up on pillows, Adèle could see only the grey sheen of the cloud-covered sky and the chill, wintry gardens, empty except for a single gardener pushing a wheelbarrow, and a few birds.

“Enguerrand drowned?” Adèle gazed at her husband. “But how? What was he doing in the Spice Islands? Why was he so far from home?” The bespectacled face of her younger brother swam before her eyes as she had last seen him, an earnest smile warming his customarily grave expression. “Surely it's a mistake…”

Ilsevir was gazing out of the window, his back to her. There must be much that he wasn't telling her, she suspected, for fear the news might make her condition worse. She sat up in bed, pulling her lacy shawl closer around her shoulders, and used a tone of voice she had often heard her mother employ.

“We are talking about
my
brother,” she said sternly. “No matter how distressing the details, I need to know. Knowing is better than imagining all manner of horrible things.”

He turned around. She saw instantly how confused he was, obviously at a loss as to how to broach the matter contained in the letter, and through the first waves of grief, she realized what she had long known but never admitted to herself before—that she was the stronger of the two. She might be weak in body, but she was Gobain's daughter. At heart, Ilsevir was a conflicted blend of sensitivity and self-regard, and the inner conflict between the two often resulted in his seeming unfeeling, even impervious, to the feelings of others, while internally he agonized over what might be the most appropriate, caring way to respond.

“Your mother writes that he was on his way to visit the Commanderie mission in Serindher when a tidal wave struck, devastating the whole area.”

“Visiting a mission?” Adèle's eyes filled with tears. “That's so like my little brother,” she said, trying to sound brave. “Poor Maman. First Aubrey, now Enguerrand. I must go to her.”

“You'll go nowhere until the doctors have pronounced you fit to travel.” Ilsevir came and sat at her bedside. “It's a long and tiring journey to Francia. And the mountain passes are still treacherous with snow. Write to your mother; she'll understand. Besides…” He looked down, not meeting her gaze. There must be something else that he was not telling her.

“How can they be so sure he's dead?” All manner of possibilities passed through her mind. Enguerrand might be lying in some islander's hut, rambling in fever, not even remembering his own name. “He might have been shipwrecked on one of the islands. Have they searched thoroughly?”

“This arrived from the First Minister of Francia.” Ilsevir placed a letter in her hands; it was ornately scribed and weighted with the seal of the Francian government. “He is formally requesting our presence in Lutèce as soon as you are well enough to make the journey. It seems that as Enguerrand has left no heirs, the crown passes to you, my dearest—and to me. From now on, we'll have to divide our time equally between Allegonde and Francia. But how will the people of Francia feel about an Allegondan—”

“You're not listening to me, Ilsevir!” Adèle seized hold of his hand. “He may not be dead. We must send ships to join the search.”

“But of course.” He squeezed her hand in his own. “You're very hot,” he said anxiously. “The doctors warned me not to overburden you. You must rest.”

“How can I rest when you've told me such terrible news?” Adèle cried. Sometimes Ilsevir could be so insensitive. “My only brother—”

There came a discreet tap at the door. She broke off, remembering that there was no real privacy to be found in the palace, not even when she was ill. “Come in,” she said, trying to compose herself. A lady-in-waiting appeared, eyes demurely lowered, and said to Ilsevir, “If you please, highness, Captain nel Ghislain is here with an urgent dispatch.”

“Urgent?” Ilsevir let go of her hand. “Tell him I'll see him in my study straightaway.” He seemed almost relieved to have an excuse to take his leave.

Adèle sighed. She had no liking for Girim nel Ghislain or his Rosecoeurs, and his influence over her husband seemed to grow stronger by the day. “Ilsevir,” she said, speaking from the heart, “what is it about Girim nel Ghislain that appeals to you so much?”

Ilsevir stopped, halfway to the door and turned around. “He is a man of true vision.” His eyes were shining. “His time in the desert at Ondhessar has made him an inspiration to us all. You should hear him speak about the revelation he experienced when he first entered the shrine of the Eternal Singer. I could bring him to talk to you—”

Adèle sank back on her pillows. The prospect was repellent. “No,” she said faintly, turning away from Ilsevir to gaze out at the frozen gardens. She heard him pause a moment, then hurry away, his heels tapping over the highly polished floor.

Ghislain wields too much influence over you, Ilsevir.
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
And if Enguerrand is dead, who else can I turn to?

Girim went down on one knee as Prince Ilsevir entered the study. “Your majesty,” he said respectfully, “may I offer my congratulations?”

“News travels fast!” Ilsevir was looking perplexed. “How did—” Girim held out the secret letter that had been sent to him by Hugues Donatien, watching as the prince scanned the contents.

“‘… Invaluable opportunity… unite the Allegondan and Francian Commanderies … purge Francia of the insidious and corrupting influences still rife in the universities and colleges…’” Ilsevir looked
up. His reaction would be crucial to the success of Girim's plans. “But this is inspired!” Ilsevir's face was transfigured by a beatific smile. “Maistre Donatien is right; God has given me this chance to make the western quadrant a better place.”

Girim nodded.

“Give me your blessing.” Ilsevir knelt before Girim, who extended his hand so that the Rosecoeurs’ most eminent patron could kiss the ruby ring he wore as head of the Allegondan Commanderie.

Girim went under cover of darkness to take one last look at the Ondhessar statue before leaving Bel'Esstar as escort to the royal party.

Since the chapel had reopened, the faithful of Bel'Esstar had been arriving in hundreds to pray, with queues stretching out into the street. But not before the original Ondhessar statue had been removed in the dead of night by a squad of Girim's most trustworthy Rosecoeurs and deposited in the cellars of the Bel'Esstar Commanderie.

Lifting the cloths covering her, he let out a cry of revulsion and stepped back. The whole statue had turned the grey of mold, and the end of the nose, the fingertips, and the toes had began to crumble away. The patches of discoloration had deepened to blotches of black.

Is this a sign of your displeasure?

The priceless image of Elesstar was decaying before his eyes. And he, a hardened Guerrier, who had seen the most harrowing sights in battle, found himself unable to look at the corrupted image of his beloved saint. Hastily, he threw back the covers, hiding her.

Thank God I had the duplicate made just in time.

CHAPTER 12

The sound of strings and woodwinds tuning up wafted backstage as Celestine hurried toward the dressing rooms, her arms filled with billowing, gauzy dresses. She was amazed to see that so many dancers were obliged to change in such a tiny room. The girls crowded around two cracked mirrors, applying their eye liner and rouge as best they could. In the corridor, others sat on the floor to lace up the ribbons on their dance pumps. The room exuded a powerful odor of warm female bodies, perfume, and powder. As she stood at the entrance, many hands reached out and grabbed the costumes from her.

Yet, on her way back to the wardrobe room, she heard the strains of music from the stage and found herself drawn into the wings to listen. The orchestra had begun the overture and the enchanting melody she had heard backstage soared into the empty auditorium on violins and sweet-toned flutes. Hands clasped tightly together, she stood there, almost forgetting to breathe as the music swept her away. And as the overture finished, the singers of the chorus pushed past her, making their way onto the stage.

A sharp tap on the shoulder rudely shattered the enchantment. She turned to see Grebin glaring at her.

“What are you doing idling here, Maela?” he hissed as the chorus broke into song. “There're latrines to be cleaned.”

All Celestine's delight in the music was soured. Her rightful place was there, with the singers. For a moment she wavered, indignant at the injustice of her circumstances—then she remembered that she was a nobody, without even a place to sleep.

“Soon he'll change,”
whispered the Faie.
“Soon he'll be begging us to sing for him.”
It was only as Celestine was hefting the heavy bucket of water along the narrow passageway back from the pump that the Faie's comment struck her as odd.
Us.

She pushed up her sleeves and set to work. Yet as she dragged the mop to and fro across the floor, the melody returned to haunt her. There was no one around to hear. She began to hum and then to sing, wordlessly, because she had not been able to make out the lyrics. Her voice was weak from lack of practice so she matched each pass of the mop to each phrase, hearing the notes echo around the tiled room until she had gained control of her breathing. Finally, as she poured the dirty water away down the open drain, she pushed her voice far into its upper register, thrilling into top notes that rang out, clear and exhilarating as an icy wind.

She picked up the mop and bucket and turned to see Grebin standing in the doorway, staring at her.

“I'm—I'm sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her head as a blush of embarrassment spread across her face. “I'll get on with my chores.” She was sure he would dock her pay for wasting time—or even give her the sack.

“Tell me I was hallucinating. Tell me that wasn't you singing, was it, Maela?”

“I won't do it again, I promise.” She tried to hurry past him but he caught hold of her by the arm, jutting his face into hers. She shrank away, fearing what was coming next.