Tracing the Shadow (44 page)

There was a sharp hint of autumnal crispness in the morning air as Jagu left the Forteresse; as he crossed the bridge to the quay, he saw wisps of mist rising from the river, mirrored by the trails of smoke rising from the forest of chimneys.

He had spent half the night praying for guidance in the Commanderie chapel, yet his thoughts had strayed constantly to Celestine.

He missed her.

They had spent much of the trip to Allegonde in each other’s company. He had looked forward to seeing her each day. He kept remembering little things about her: the unconscious frown of concentration on her face as she tied back her cloud of golden hair in the oppressive heat; her radiant smile when a difficult phrase in a song went suddenly to her liking; Celestine scattering crumbs from her breakfast roll every morning for the little birds on her windowsill. Celestine, Celestine, Celestine…

Kilian’s right. I can’t think of anything else. I must be in love.
And yet it was an intoxicating feeling, one that put a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

Jagu hadn’t expected Celestine to open the door to him. Her smile, so open, so welcoming, put all thoughts out of his head.

“Oh, Jagu, the Maistre is out. I’m so sorry if you’ve come all this way—”

“It wasn’t the Maistre I came to see. It was you.”

“Me? Is it to do with…the magus?” She beckoned him into the music room, closing the door behind them. He stood there, feeling awkward. She had assumed that he had come on Commanderie business.

“Not exactly—” he began, but she interrupted him in a sudden excited torrent of words.

“I haven’t told Captain de Lanvaux yet, although I must. Do you think he’ll mind? It’s just that I don’t think I can continue to work for him now that my circumstances have changed. I’m so grateful to him for all he’s done and I don’t want to offend him in any way—”

“Wait.” Jagu held up one hand to try to interrupt the flow. What had she just said?
My circumstances have changed.

“Oh, but how rude of me; I still haven’t asked you why you’ve come.”

But Jagu had to know what she was babbling about. “Why can’t you continue to work for the captain?”
Or with me, for that matter?

A shaft of sunlight sparkled on the little drops of condensation on the windowpanes, falling between the two of them like a translucent barrier.

“You should be one of the first to know.” She clutched both hands together in her excitement. Her eyes sparkled, bright as the sun-riven water drops. “We’re to be married!”

“You?” Jagu felt as if he had been shot in the chest. “And the Maistre?” For a moment it seemed as if the sun were extinguished.

“The Maistre is going to ask you to play the organ at the ceremony.” He could hear her, still happily chattering on, unwittingly increasing his anguish, for how could she know what he felt? He had never dared to tell her. And now it was too late and he had lost her. And lost her to the one he had always admired most in the world of music. “It’ll be at Saint Meriadec’s, of course, with the choir of the Sisters of Charity. I hope Angelique will sing a solo…”

Why had he not seen this coming? He looked at her from the dark cloud of his despair and saw how happiness had transformed her; this must be the source of the radiance that made her performances so entrancing. Then he heard the silence; she had finished and was looking expectantly at him. There was something he was expected to say.

“I—I hope you’ll both be very happy.” He managed to stammer out the words. “And now I’d better be going.” He turned, making hastily for the door, fumbling clumsily for the handle.

“Thank you. But, Jagu, didn’t you have a message for me?”

He stopped, his numbed mind racing. What on earth could he invent now to explain the urgency of his visit? “A message?” His dazed mind tried to find a reason that would not sound too lame. “I’m…I’m asking the captain to send me back to Enhirre.” He heard the words before he understood fully what he was saying.

Celestine’s bright smile vanished. “Back to Enhirre? Oh, Jagu, must you go? After your last mission there…won’t it be dangerous to return?” He read concern in her eyes, but with the bitter consolation that she cared for him as a friend.

“There’s nothing to keep me here.”

The look of concern changed to one of disappointment. “We so wanted you to play at our wedding. But you’ll be gone…”

“Long before,” he managed to say, turning his face away so that she could not see his expression as he opened the music room door.

“Jagu?” He heard her puzzled tone as, head down, he strode down the hall and tugged the front door open.

“Got to get back.” He mumbled some nonsense about roll call and weapons training.

Somehow even Enhirre doesn’t seem far enough.

Rieuk had already inspected five rooms before he found one to rent that afforded a good view over Maistre de Joyeuse’s secluded mansion. It was a garret at the top of a dilapidated hostelry on the main avenue; the concierge was elderly, with poor sight, and asked no questions of “Père Emilion” in his threadbare soutane once he had paid her a month’s rent in advance.

The time Rieuk had spent at Saint Argantel’s Seminary provided him with a plausible alias. Emilion would have been in the junior class at the time Henri de Joyeuse was completing his final year.

He returned to Saint Meriadec’s to glean more information. The garrulous sacristan told Père Emilion that the Maistre and his ward were to be married at the end of the year. “They make such a charming couple!”

From his garret Rieuk kept a close watch on the Maistre’s house, noting the students and tradesmen who came and went. To his frustration, he could detect no regular pattern to the hours that visitors called. He would just have to make his move.

That afternoon, about three o’clock, a carriage drew up outside the house.

“Ormas. Go!”

Ormas sped through the grubby window glass and flew over the garden as Celestine and an elderly lady left the mansion. Through Ormas, he heard fragments of their conversation.

“Princess Adèle’s wedding gown was lace and satin. Do you think that your dressmaker—”

“But that was a summer wedding, my dear, and you’re getting married in winter. Lutèce can be so foggy at that time of year. You don’t want to catch a chill on your wedding day…”

He caught a glimpse of Celestine’s face as Ormas flew back to the garret; she looked so happy, chattering away animatedly as she helped the old lady up into the carriage.

Henri de Joyeuse was alone in the house.

Rieuk walked up the overgrown path, treading on the lavender stems that spilled their brittle heads beneath his feet, releasing a faint, bitter memory of their summer scent.

His first knock went unanswered. From upstairs he heard the sound of the fortepiano. He knocked again and waited. Still the sound of scales continued. At his third attempt, the scales suddenly stopped. A minute later, the door opened.

“I’m disturbing you. That’s unpardonable of me. I’ll come back another time.”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Henri de Joyeuse looked at him quizzically, as though trying to recall his face.

“Emilion. The name’s Père Emilion. We were at Saint Argantel’s Seminary together. You probably don’t remember me—I was only ten when you left, Maistre.” It was a hazardous ploy; the Maistre might have kept in touch with his old school, Emilion might be dead…“But I sang in the chapel choir. And I’ve never forgotten your playing. You were so inspiring.”

“Saint Argantel’s?” A bewildered smile appeared on the Maistre’s face. “You’ll have to forgive me; I can’t quite place you. So what can I do for you, Père Emilion?”

Henri de Joyeuse seems a genuinely good-hearted man.
Rieuk hesitated.
Why do I have to do this to him?
Yet he was so close to his prize now that he could not afford any sentimental feelings. He had to be ruthless. “I’ve been overseas. At the mission in Serindher. I understand you have a list of the organists and choirmasters in Lutèce. I’m looking for a musician to join our mission and teach hymns.”

“You’d better come in. I’ll see what I can find for you. Saint Argantel’s, hm? I haven’t been back in many years.” Henri de Joyeuse talked amicably on as he led Rieuk to the music room.

“And was Père Houardon still there?” asked Rieuk.

“No longer plain Père Houardon, but abbé and headmaster!” Henri de Joyeuse closed the music room door and went over to a glass-fronted bookcase filled with bound volumes.

“I was terrified of him; he was so strict.” It was too easy to play this part; Rieuk kept his voice even as he slid one hand inside the breast pocket of his stolen soutane and took out the tiny crystal soul-glass. “He’d make an excellent headmaster.”

“So, Emilion, you chose the church. Unlike me; I’m afraid I’m a disappointment to the good fathers.”

“The sacristan at Saint Meriadec’s told me you are to be married. May I offer my congratulations?”

Henri de Joyeuse turned around from the cabinet; his grey eyes were alight with an expression of such warmth and delight that Rieuk faltered.
Is there no other way? If I stay here, as Père Emilion, until Celestine returns…

“She’s a singer. My ward. And such a talented musician…” He checked himself, laughing. “Forgive me; there’s nothing more tedious than having to listen to the ramblings of a man in love. Here’s that list. Why not try Le Brun first? He’s a skilled and patient trainer…”

Ready, Ormas?
Rieuk steeled himself.

“
Ready, Master.
”

As Henri de Joyeuse closed the glass cabinet door and came toward him, the paper in hand, Rieuk loosed his Emissary. The hawk darted straight toward the composer. The Maistre’s grey eyes widened in surprise. The paper fell from his hands. Then as his legs began to buckle, Rieuk caught him, easing him slowly to the floor.

This moment, when he was caught between two consciousnesses, was always fraught with risk. Supporting Henri de Joyeuse’s lolling fair head against his arm, he held the soul-glass to his victim’s lips. And as Ormas melted into the composer’s breast, the lotus glass began to fill with the essence of his soul, gently but firmly forced out by the Emissary. Slowly, the composer’s gold-fringed eyelids closed as he breathed the last of his soul into Rieuk’s glass and Rieuk pressed home the crystal stopper, murmuring the words of sealing.

Rieuk felt faint and disconnected from his own body. He willed himself to secure the soul-glass in his inner pocket. He willed himself to lay the composer’s body down on the floor gently.

“Ormas,” he said quietly. “Ormas, can you hear me? Are you awake?”

This was the moment that Rieuk dreaded. There was always the risk that he would lose control and damage his own mind as well as his victim’s.
For you, Imri. Only for you.
He let his mind merge with Ormas’s.

For a moment he lost himself in a fragmented confusion of sensations, memories…Then, through his link with Ormas, he was looking at himself. Rieuk Mordiern stood over him, blinking behind the thick-lensed spectacles he wore to conceal the brilliance of his eyes.

“What is your name?” Rieuk Mordiern asked. As always it was disconcerting to hear his own voice through another’s ears.

“My—name—is—” He stumbled, not yet fully inhabiting his victim’s brain. “It’s—Henri de Joyeuse.” It would take some practice to manipulate a mind as subtle and gifted as this. He might not have long before Celestine and the old lady returned.

“You are my eidolon. My puppet. You will do as I command.” Rieuk spoke the words of the rite to bind the stolen body.

“I am your eidolon. Your puppet. I will do as you command,” the composer repeated in a dull, lifeless voice. The glamour had worked; through Ormas, he had become Henri de Joyeuse.

“Good-day to you, Maistre de Joyeuse.” Rieuk backed away; he needed to retreat to the seclusion of his rented room, where he could concentrate all his strength on manipulating his victim.

He went slowly down the garden path, one uncertain step at a time. If the soul-stealing had been difficult, then this was harder still. His body was weakened, with only half his will to control it. All his vital energy, his life essence was infused into Ormas so that he could manipulate his eidolon-victim. If any of his enemies were to waylay him at this moment, he would have no strength to defend himself. He just had to hope that none of the Commanderie were close at hand.

The dressmaker plied Celestine and Dame Elmire with tea and delicious little macaroons while she took measurements for Celestine’s gown and laid out samples of fabrics. She suggested ivory and gold-threaded brocade or white velvet as soft as new-fallen snow, although Celestine had taken a liking to a bolt of fine satin, with a waxy sheen like snowdrop petals.

They left the shop much later than they had intended and made their way home through the twilit streets, still animatedly discussing the dressmaker’s suggestions. Celestine favored the satin but Dame Elmire preferred the brocade.

“With your pale porcelain complexion, a subtle touch of color would—” Dame Elmire broke off as they entered the walled garden. “No lamps lit in the house? And the sun’s setting.”