"I was a pupil of Elmire Sorel in Francia," Celestine said demurely.

"Elmire Sorel?" Grebin was looking at her with new respect. "I heard her sing here at the Imperial Theater years ago; such a wonderful voice, such fire and pa.s.sion..." And then the moment of nostalgia pa.s.sed and he was once again his brusque, businesslike self, leaning forward across his desk to stare at her suspiciously. "Something doesn't add up here. A young woman with a talent like yours reduced to sweeping floors?"

"I told you, I've never sung in opera. I sang in a-"

"Church choir." He finished her sentence. "My dear demoiselle, you are hiding something-but what right do I have to pry into your personal affairs? Perhaps you caught a young priest's eye and had to flee a scandal... Whatever the reason, I'd like to offer you a contract with the Imperial Theater."

Celestine's heart began to beat faster. Is my luck turning at last? Is my luck turning at last?

"Your voice is a joy to listen to. But as you have no theatrical training, I can't put you directly into a leading role. So I'm proposing that you join the chorus as a soprano, and I'll review your progress after a month. Does that sound acceptable?"

"What would the salary be?"

"Comfortable enough for you to buy some clothes more suited to your new situation," Grebin said, looking disapprovingly at her worn dress.

Celestine found lodgings in a little boardinghouse four streets away from the theater. The furnishings were shabby and the pinch-faced landlady insisted that she pay a month's rent in advance, leaving no money for the new clothes Grebin had so pointedly suggested. Yet the room, tucked under the snow-laden eaves, was snug; the rising warmth from the woodstove on the floor below was a luxury. And the landlady's three cats took an instant liking to her, running out to greet her whenever she returned home.

Grebin set her to understudy the role of Mariella. The celebrated soprano, Anna Krylova, was suffering from a heavy cold, he told her, so she must be prepared to take her place.

And indeed, when Celestine arrived at the Imperial Theater on the day rehearsals were due to begin, Grebin rushed up to her in a panic. "La Krylova's taken to her bed," he said, "and the physicians say that her lungs are inflamed. It's serious. She won't be able to sing for weeks. You'll have to take her place. Don't let me down, Maela."

"That voice!" a woman cried out from the wings. "I know that voice!"

Celestine half turned to see a familiar face staring at her from the wings. Exquisitely painted to bring out the liquid green of her bold hazel eyes and the fullness of her lips, her auburn hair artfully curled and arranged, there stood Gauzia de Saint-Desirat.

She mustn't recognize me! Hearing her entry from the repet.i.teur at the fortepiano, Celestine picked up her cue only to stop again as Gauzia stalked onto the stage, grandly holding up one gloved hand to halt the music. Hearing her entry from the repet.i.teur at the fortepiano, Celestine picked up her cue only to stop again as Gauzia stalked onto the stage, grandly holding up one gloved hand to halt the music.

Celestine stood, eyes lowered, as Gauzia walked around her, hearing the swish of her ermine-trimmed cloak over the boards.

"What's your name?"

Celestine raised her head. "Maela Ca.s.sard," she said quietly. Grebin came hurrying out onto the stage.

"Is there a problem, Diva?" he asked anxiously, glancing from one to the other. All around the theater, Celestine realized that everyone from the lowliest stagehand to the most senior chorus member had stopped what they were doing, sensing a storm crackling in the air.

"Ma-e-la Ca-ssard," Gauzia repeated, overemphasizing each syllable. Celestine forced herself to maintain her self-composure-yet the sudden appearance of her onetime fellow student and rival had reawakened a host of painful memories.

"Anna Krylova is suffering from a severe inflammation of the lungs," Grebin began to explain. "Maela has been understudying the role of Mariella and she'll be taking Krylova's place."

"I see." Gauzia stopped suddenly in front of Celestine and stared boldly into her face. "Hair can be dyed and skin darkened with walnut juice. But I know of no way to change eyes from blue to brown." She shrugged. "It must be coincidence."

"We'll break for a quarter of an hour," announced the conductor to the soloists a.s.sembled in the rehearsal room. "Thank you, Diva, that was truly delightful." Everyone broke into applause; Celestine joined in as Gauzia smiled graciously at her admirers. Yet the instant the conductor had left the room, the smile vanished and she turned on Celestine.

"Manager Grebin tells me that you studied with Dame Elmire in Lutece." Gauzia's penetrating stare. "I studied with Elmire Sorel for several years, and yet I never once saw you among her pupils. I think I would have remembered a voice as distinctive as yours..." studied with Elmire Sorel for several years, and yet I never once saw you among her pupils. I think I would have remembered a voice as distinctive as yours..."

"I believe I may be two or three years your senior, Diva," said Celestine. She's trying to trick me. Has she guessed? She's trying to make me give myself away. She's trying to trick me. Has she guessed? She's trying to make me give myself away.

"And you never sang in opera in Lutece?"

"I sang in a church choir."

"Oh, really? really? So you won't have heard the news?" So you won't have heard the news?"

"What news?" Celestine said warily.

"About the murder."

Celestine shook her head.

"So shocking that anyone should be murdered in church. But particularly shocking in this case. It was just before the darkness." Gauzia was obviously relishing telling the tale, lowering her voice to increase the dramatic effect. "The Grand Maistre of the Commanderie was found dying in the Chapel of Saint Meriadec. There was blood everywhere. everywhere."

Celestine sat, rigid with shock, unable to speak. The Maistre was dead? "That's terrible news," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. I mustn't cry. Why would Maela Ca.s.sard cry over the death of a stranger? I mustn't cry. Why would Maela Ca.s.sard cry over the death of a stranger?

As soon as the rehearsal was over, Celestine put on her hooded cloak and set out through the snow to the Cathedral of Saint Simeon. There she handed to the grey-bearded sacristan the coins she had been saving to pay for her supper, and bought candles.

The monks were chanting vespers, and, as she walked through the gloom of the nave to the side chapel dedicated to Saint Serzhei, their deep voices seemed to her to be singing a threnody for Ruaud. The little chapel was already ablaze with candles, like a lantern in a dark night. She knelt to light her memorial candles and placed them one by one beneath the saint's icon, reciting under her breath the words of the Francian service for the dead.

"Dear Maistre," she whispered, "I can't believe you're gone. I can't believe that I'll never see your smile again... or hear your voice." Tears began to stream down her face as memories came rushing back to her, memories from so long ago of a lost and desperate little child, suddenly swept up in the strong arms of a golden-haired knight and carried away on his charger to a white convent overlooking the sea.

"You were my fairy-tale knight, Maistre. You rescued me, you were my protector and my mentor." Gauzia's words sickened her. Found murdered in the chapel... blood everywhere... Found murdered in the chapel... blood everywhere... "A man in your position makes enemies. But who would strike you down when you were at prayer? Who would do such a cowardly thing?" Smarnan extremists, Tielen secret agents, even the monks of Saint Serzhei's shrine in Azhkendir; there were so many possibilities. "Forgive me, Maistre. I betrayed your trust in me. I didn't listen to your advice. If only I hadn't been so selfish, following my own desires, I could have stayed at your side. And then, maybe I could have saved your life..." "A man in your position makes enemies. But who would strike you down when you were at prayer? Who would do such a cowardly thing?" Smarnan extremists, Tielen secret agents, even the monks of Saint Serzhei's shrine in Azhkendir; there were so many possibilities. "Forgive me, Maistre. I betrayed your trust in me. I didn't listen to your advice. If only I hadn't been so selfish, following my own desires, I could have stayed at your side. And then, maybe I could have saved your life..."

The singing ceased; the service had come to an end. She wiped the tears from her eyes as the candle smoke went wisping upward into the darkness. "But it's too late. Now there's no one left in the Commanderie to protect me. I can never go back to Francia."

CHAPTER 13.

A day ago, wherever Andrei looked, all he could see was water. The sea had rushed in, flooding the whole coastline, sweeping away all traces of the village and the mission.

This morning he looked down on a scene of disorder and devastation. The sea had retreated, leaving chaos in its wake. Fragments of broken boats lay beached among the ruins of the mission chapel. Strewn all along the bay were uprooted trees, the carca.s.ses of animals and, Andrei saw to his sadness, drowned bodies, flung up by the relentless tide to lie like abandoned dolls amid the debris.

He spent a grim morning helping the other men bury the dead. Most were strangers to the villagers; sailors or fishermen caught by the strength of the wave. As dusk was falling, the two priests, Laorans and Blaize, spoke the words of the Sergian funeral service over the ma.s.s grave, and the villagers went back up the hill to their encampment.

Andrei lingered behind, sobered and sad. The sole survivor of a devastating storm at sea, he knew how fortunate he was to be still alive.

"I've never seen anything like this in my whole life," he admitted to Blaize. "Nor do I ever want to see it again."

"What else is there to do but rebuild?" Blaize said philosophically.

It was difficult to get any rest in such crowded conditions; children whimpered and hungry babies wailed, but eventually sleep overtook Andrei. He woke to see Laorans crouched over the casket he had helped the priest rescue, carefully examining the contents by the light of the dying fire.

"What's in the box, Abbe?"

Laorans looked up at him, the flames glinting in his spectacle lenses. "Ma.n.u.scripts. Ancient ma.n.u.scripts whose contents are so contentious that they cost me my career in the Commanderie."

Intrigued, Andrei moved to sit down beside him. "What do they say?"

"That the children of Azilis are blessed because of the angel blood that runs in their veins. That we should respect them for their gifts, which were bestowed to benefit mankind, and not persecute them."

"And who are these children of Azilis?"

"The magi. Magus Kaspar Linnaius, for one."

"Heresy," murmured Enguerrand.

"Not according to these Holy Texts, which I discovered hidden in Azilis's shrine. My superiors thought they had destroyed them, but they burned the copy I'd made. I managed to smuggle the originals out of Francia," Laorans said with a dry little chuckle. "They were far too valuable to be consigned to the flames."

"Are they religious texts?" Enguerrand propped himself up on one elbow on the other side of the fire.

"I believe," Laorans said, his voice intense, his eyes alight with the fanatical enthusiasm of the scholar, "that they predate those we use today by several centuries. I believe that they were suppressed by the early followers of Saint Sergius. We mustn't forget that Sergius was acting under the instructions of the Seven Heavenly Guardians, led by Galizur. And that by the time the priests of Ty Nagar discovered the Rift and learned how to summon the Drakhaouls through the Serpent Gate, they had been imprisoned in the Realm of Shadows for some considerable time."

"It's still heresy," Enguerrand said severely. "Nagazdiel rebelled against the Divine Will."

"The Holy Texts we know were written by the followers of Galizur. But you, your majesty"-and Laorans gazed keenly at Enguerrand through the flames- "know so much better than I how angelic in nature Nilaihah was at heart."

Andrei saw Enguerrand flinch at the mention of his Drakhaoul. "Is it in the nature of an angel to commit murder?" Enguerrand said after a while in a distant voice. "Nilaihah made me kill Ruaud. Ruaud who was more like a father to me than my own father ever was."

Andrei felt a pang of sympathetic guilt. "And Adramelech made me kill my oldest friend." The words were wrung out of him. It was the first time he had admitted it aloud.

"Ah, you make my heart bleed." The caustic tones set Andrei's nerves on edge as he saw Oskar sit up beyond the rising smoke. "So you killed a few people who got in your way? Learn to live with it."

"Father Blaize? You've not said a word." Andrei turned to Laorans's companion, ignoring Oskar. "What do you think?"

A distant look came into Blaize's eyes. "I found myself on a long sea voyage once with a young magus. In spite of the gulf between us, we got to know each other rather well. By the end of the voyage, I like to think that we had become friends." He leaned forward to stoke the fire with fresh kindling. "He was injured. I nursed him back to health. Should I have just turned away and left him to die? That's what The Book of Galizur The Book of Galizur would have had me do. Perhaps I was wrong... and my actions have condemned me to eternal d.a.m.nation." would have had me do. Perhaps I was wrong... and my actions have condemned me to eternal d.a.m.nation."

"The Book of Galizur?" Enguerrand repeated in puzzled tones. Enguerrand repeated in puzzled tones.

Blaize and Laorans glanced at each other across the flames and began to laugh. "We've been away from the Commanderie for so long that we've grown used to calling the Holy Texts by that name to distinguish them from the texts I found in the Shrine."

"And what are they called?"

"The Book of Azilis."

Once Enguerrand had begun to read The Book of Azilis, The Book of Azilis, he could not stop. Too weak from fever to help the other men build shelters, he sat beneath a tamarind tree, devouring Laorans's translation. At first he feared he might be corrupted by what he was reading, but as he became more engrossed, his fears faded away. he could not stop. Too weak from fever to help the other men build shelters, he sat beneath a tamarind tree, devouring Laorans's translation. At first he feared he might be corrupted by what he was reading, but as he became more engrossed, his fears faded away.

From time to time, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk, deep in thought. Being one with golden-eyed Nilaihah had given him new insight into the origins of the ancient and bitter war that had split the Guardians of Heaven. It was only natural, he supposed, that the victors had done all they could to eradicate all traces of their opponents.

"How are you feeling, sire?"

Enguerrand opened his eyes to see Abbe Laorans bending over him, his lined face crinkled into an expression of kindly concern. It was twilight and cooking fires had been lit in the clearing. "I-I'm confused," he said. "I've begun to question everything I ever believed in."

"That's exactly how I felt!" The Abbe sat next to him. "But it all becomes much clearer when you reread the texts, I promise you." His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm in the firelight.

Enguerrand reached out and took the old priest's hand in his own. "I fear you've been very badly treated by the Commanderie," he said. "How can I begin to make it up to you?"

"So you believe, sire?" Laorans's voice quavered.

"If I hadn't seen what lies beyond the Serpent Gate, then I might still doubt the authenticity of these texts. But now, it all makes sense. And if I ever get back to Francia, I promise you, Abbe, that I'll do all in my power to see The Book of Galizur The Book of Galizur replaced by the wisdom of replaced by the wisdom of The Book of Azilis The Book of Azilis in all our schools and churches." in all our schools and churches."

"You'll have quite a fight on your hands," said Laorans, chuckling.

"I'll be ready for them!" Enguerrand knew that he had changed since he had been host to Nilaihah; he had inherited something of his Drakhaoul's indomitable, determined nature. "And I'll have you at my side to support me."

Laorans shook his head. "I'm honored, sire, but I'm not sure I could leave my little flock, especially in these difficult times."

"Then at least let me make a copy. I'm no use to anyone until I've thrown off the last of this fever... but at least I could study the texts properly by copying them out."

"What an excellent idea!" Laorans straightened up. "I'm sure that in all the confusion I managed to save pens, ink, and paper somewhere. What good is a mission without a school, after all?"

CHAPTER 14.

It had been but a few months since Kaspar Linnaius had last flown across the remote Azure Ocean, yet in that time, so much had changed.

And I had not thought I would ever have to come this far again.

He pa.s.sed high above the Southern Fleet in full sail, as it headed on Eugene's orders toward the beleaguered Spice Islands to aid the islanders and spice traders. But, even though they were the swiftest ships in the quadrant, it would take them at least another four weeks to complete their journey.

The calm sheen of the waters below-a deep, clear, gla.s.sy blue- was deceptive. Because, although his instincts told him that he was approaching the Spice Islands and that Ty Nagar, the fabled island of the Serpent G.o.d, lay farther beyond, he could see little below that he recognized. He had nothing to steer by, for the haze of drifting smoke from the fire cone that dominated Nagar's island was nowhere to be seen.

"Is it possible that the island is gone?" he murmured aloud. He had heard tell of volcanic eruptions so violent that they had cracked islands apart and sunk them beneath the sea. "Perhaps the distortion caused by the destruction of the Serpent Gate triggered the disaster."

Certainly "disaster" was the only word to describe the desolate scenes below. The nutmeg groves and cinnamon plantations had been washed away, along with the topsoil; only a few stumps remained. Worst of all, he could see no signs of life: The lively villages and bustling little harbors where the Tielen spice clippers used to put in to collect their fragrant cargos had vanished, with only a trail of driftwood and tumbled stones to show they had ever been there.

A terrified cry pierced Andrei's dreams. He sat up, groggy from sleep, to see others stirring around the embers of their fires. The sky was lightening toward the east although the little encampment was still shrouded in darkness.

"Forgive me. Forgive me, Maistre!" The anguished cry came again. Andrei, recognizing the Francian tongue, made his way over to Enguerrand's shelter. Aude was struggling to restrain the young king, who was thrashing about wildly.

"Don't look at me like that!" Enguerrand was staring fixedly into the darkness behind the shelter.

"Enguerrand. Calm yourself." Andrei knelt beside Enguerrand and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Nilaihah made me do it. I tried to stop him-but he overmastered me." Enguerrand began to sob uncontrollably.

"A nightmare, or is he delirious again?" Andrei said to Aude. But Aude was also staring into the shadowy glade behind them.

"Andrei, look. There is is someone there..." someone there..."

Andrei looked into the gloom and saw, with a sudden chill, that she was right. The figure of a man stood there, watching. He turned suddenly and disappeared among the slender palm trunks. Andrei gave a shout and went running after him. From the rustling sounds in the branches overhead, he could tell that the birds were beginning to wake; it must be near dawn. But the silent watcher had vanished into the night and Andrei soon abandoned his search.