CHAPTER 11

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Père Albin’s voice droned on, dull as the buzz of the fly trapped against the narrow classroom window. Jagu tried not to sigh too loudly as he dipped his pen in his inkwell and dutifully scratched down the dictation. The pen nib was slightly bent and, try as he might, he could not write with an even hand. He stopped, trying to pry the crossed prongs apart with a fingernail, dirtying his fingertips in the process.

An ink pellet suddenly flipped over his head, spattering his work with drops of black, and landed with a small splotch on Père Albin’s desk. The elderly teacher paused and gazed down at the pellet. There came a smothered laugh from behind Jagu. Kilian! Never able to resist a prank, even in Père Albin’s catechism lessons.

The boys waited, breath bated, to see how Père Albin would react. Glaring over the top of his spectacles, he reached for the cane with one gnarled hand. He brought the cane down on the desk with an ear-bruising whack. Jagu winced. Père Albin’s fingers might be knotted with protruding veins and distorted with rheumatism, but he could still deliver a painful dose of the cane that his pupils did not forget in a hurry.

You idiot, Kilian.

“Which boy was responsible?”

Silence. Jagu stared at his blotted work, not daring to raise his head.

Père Albin walked between the desks, slowly tapping the end of the cane on his palm. Jagu had no love for the master who somehow contrived to make the most inspiring and beautiful verses of the Holy Texts dull, but he was in awe of his considerable scholarship.

“Own up now, and your punishment will be brief. Remain silent, and the whole class will suffer for your impudence.”

Jagu could hear the old man’s testy breathing as he approached from behind. He crouched lower over his work.

“What’s this, Rustéphan? Splashes of ink?” Jagu could hear the barely restrained choler in the master’s voice. “Show me your hands.” He glared round at the cowering boys. “Whoever made that pellet will have ink on his fingers.”

Jagu slowly raised his hands and turned them over for the master to inspect. Père Albin let out a cry of triumph. “Aha! Just as I thought!” He grabbed hold of Jagu’s right hand. “Inky fingers!”

“It wasn’t me—” Jagu began, but down came the cane on his outstretched palm. The pain made his eyes fill with tears.

“Sir,” piped up Paol, “he’s got organ practice at four.”

Jagu bit his lip, praying the tears would not spill out and disgrace him in front of the other boys. He tasted blood as the cane came down again and again,

Quicksilver ripple of air…strange stillness…everything ceases…

Père Albin’s arm froze in midstroke, and Jagu felt his heart stop.

The cane dropped to the floor with a clatter. Jagu blinked. The burning pain in his hand brought him back to himself. He saw Père Albin make a sudden move and instinctively ducked out of the way. But Père Albin’s attention was diverted. Where his jowled face had been red with anger, it was now a pasty white. The master staggered toward the window. The sky outside was black with a sudden swirl of crows, as if all the birds in the seminary garden had erupted into crazed flight.

“May the Heavenly Ones protect us,” Père Albin muttered under his breath. The other boys were gazing at one another, mystified. Paol nudged Jagu. “You all right?” he whispered. Jagu nodded, nursing his swollen hand. He was still aware of the strange, stilling sensation that had seemed to stop his heart. Even now, there was an odd, unsettling taint to the air.

Kilian, who was nearest the window, let out a piercing whistle. “Will you look at that!”

Suddenly all the boys forgot Père Albin and scrambled toward the window, pushing and shoving to get a better view. And what was most extraordinary was that Père Albin made no move to stop them. He seemed for the moment as fascinated as they. Jagu, taller than his peers, gazed out over their heads, while agile Paol wriggled his way through to the front of the throng.

The dark flock of birds swirled over the ochre-and-grey-tiled roofs of the town of Kemper like thunderclouds, scattering a hail of jet feathers. The classroom door banged open and other boys came rushing in, jostling Père Albin’s class to get a better view.

Jagu stood his ground, fascinated in spite of himself. The unpleasant feeling emanating from the darkly swirling birds was growing stronger. He felt a disorienting sense of nausea, as though the natural order itself had been disrupted.

“Thaumaturgy,” Jagu heard Père Albin say in a strangled voice. “And here, in our very own town.” The chapel bell began to clang—a fast, frantic clamor.

“Père Albin!” Jagu turned to see the imposing figure of Abbé Houardon, the seminary headmaster, in the doorway. He was glowering at their form master. “Bring your class down to the chapel at once. And Jagu, run to the library and fetch Père Magloire. If I know our librarian, he won’t even have heard the warning bell.”

 

Unlike most of his rowdier friends, Jagu was usually pleased to be sent to the seminary library. He liked the calming silence, and the dusty smell of old books entranced him with the promise of amazing tales and arcane secrets to be discovered within their faded bindings. Even though Jagu was one of the younger students in the seminary, the elderly librarian, Père Magloire, had begun to recognize him and nod kindly—if a little absently—at him whenever he was sent on an errand. The library overlooked the seminary gardens, and the many old and rare trees that had been brought from across the seas by a keen botanist priest over a century ago. Bookcases of varnished oak lined the walls and tall ladders could be wheeled along the sides on a rail so that Père Magloire could reach the highest volumes. Although of late, Jagu had always offered to scale the ladders in his place, fearing that the frail, wisp-bearded old man might fall.

When Jagu entered the library, Père Magloire was not at his desk. Blinds had been pulled down to protect the books from the sun, yet daylight still penetrated the faded linen, coloring the air with a yellowish tinge. The bell had stopped. But the disconcerting sense of wrongness still permeated the air; if anything, it felt stronger in here.

Jagu hurried along each row of bookcases, searching for the librarian. A fresh breeze and a splash of daylight made him notice that, unusually, one of the blinds was rolled up and the window gaped open. He reached the far end of the lofty room and gazed around, perplexed.

“Père Magloire?” he called, disturbing the silence.

There was no reply.

And then he felt it again: that horrible, unsettling sensation of nausea. The air in the library rippled before his eyes, as if an invisible layer of gauze were being peeled away. Every instinct told Jagu, “Run!” Yet when he tried to turn and flee, he found that he could not move.

A shadow skimmed the top of his head, drawing his gaze upward.

Père Magloire was tottering on the highest rung of one of the library ladders. As Jagu watched, helpless, the shadow took shape, revealing itself as a swift-flying smoky hawk, making straight for the elderly librarian.

“Mon père!” Jagu felt his mouth frame words of warning, but only a strangled sound issued from his throat.

Père Magloire turned to stare at him. But instead of the old man’s customary rheumy, benevolent gaze, Jagu felt himself transfixed by eyes that were blank and empty. The librarian pulled an ancient volume from the top shelf, releasing a little cloud of brownish dust. The hawk seized the book in its outstretched claws and darted away, making for the open window.

Jagu gave chase. “Thief! Come back!” But the hawk had already swooped out the window and was winging swiftly away.

Frustrated, Jagu leaned out, trying to trace where it was going.

There, in the seminary gardens, stood a stranger beneath the spreading branches of one of the ancient trees. Jagu froze, hands clutching the sill, as the smoke-winged hawk flew straight toward the man, the book still grasped securely in its claws.

He saw the stranger raise his hands to take the book. He saw the hawk alight on the man’s wrist. The air rippled…and then a cloud passed across the sun, plunging the garden into shadow. Jagu blinked, rubbed his eyes. The hawk was gone. But the man was still there, his head raised, staring directly at Jagu.

And he was smiling.

 

Jagu slowly backed away from the window. The intruder had seen him. He could identify the thief, but the thief knew who he was.

“What am I doing up here?”

Père Magloire’s voice jolted Jagu out of his stupor. The old priest was wobbling dangerously, trying to regain his balance.

“Mon père, hold on!” Jagu hurried over and grabbed hold of ladder. “Can you climb down by yourself? Shall I help you?”

“I feel a little dizzy,” quavered the old man.

“What on earth is going on, Rustéphan?” One of the final-year students appeared around a stack of books. On seeing Père Magloire, he launched himself forward to take his weight just as the old man loosened his hold and slid downward. All three ended up in a heap on the floor. As Jagu extricated himself, he recognized the student from his hazel-brown curls as Emilion, the senior prefect—a studious, conscientious young man destined to rise high in the priesthood.

“Go and get help,” ordered Emilion, untangling himself from the unconscious librarian. Keen to escape, Jagu sped off.

 

“You saw the thief, Jagu? You actually saw him?” The boys whispered together excitedly in the chapel pews as they waited for Abbé Houardon to address them.

Jagu nodded numbly. He had been grilled by the priests in the headmaster’s study for over an hour and was exhausted.

“What was he like? What did he do?” Paol kept pestering him with questions. “D’you think he really was a magus?”

“He put a spell on Père Magloire.” Jagu felt a chill as he remembered the old librarian’s expression. “His eyes were…weird.”

Kilian was not convinced. “Père Magloire’s always weird. Is it so surprising, after working here all these years? He must be getting on for a hundred.”

“And he stole a book.”

“From our library? Huh! Good luck to him, then,” said Kilian with a shrug. “Every book in there is as dusty and dry as Père Albin’s sermons.” He leaned back and propped his feet over the pew in front, causing the younger boys sitting there to squeak with annoyance.

“But which book?” persisted Paol as Kilian continued to torment the little boys.

“It was from the shelf where Magloire keeps the books about the missionary fathers. Remember? He showed us after he gave us that talk about his work in Enhirre.”

Paol mimicked the librarian’s quavering voice. “‘Bringing the heathen unbelievers to the light is the noblest cause a young man can devote his life to.’”

“Why would anyone want a book about missionaries?” Kilian yawned widely.

“Maybe it was a book one of the missionaries brought back.” If only he had managed a closer look before the dark bird flew straight at him, clutching the book in its talons.

And there, in the green garden below, stands the waiting figure of the Magus, the breeze stirring his long locks of hair, unmoving, yet terrifying in his stillness.

Would I recognize him if I saw him again? This thought had been troubling Jagu since he had seen the intruder. And, worse still, would he recognize me?

“Stand up, Kilian!” Abbé Houardon strode down the aisle in a swirl of grey robes, stopping to glare at Kilian, who sullenly removed his feet from the pew and stood up with the rest of the boys. “See me after chapel,” muttered Père Albin to Kilian as he followed in the headmaster’s wake.

Abbé Houardon positioned himself below the tall statue of Argantel, the seminary’s patron saint; the other masters took their places on the steps below. The headmaster cleared his throat and glared intimidatingly at all his students. “After today’s incident, we must all be vigilant. I never thought that any servant of darkness would be so rash as to attempt to infiltrate a seminary, but it appears that our enemies are becoming bolder. The Commanderie has warned all devout believers to be on the alert.”

Kilian raised one eyebrow in an expression of bored cynicism. This lecture was not a new one; the fathers were always warning the boys that they were entering an age of uncertainty in which their faith would be tested to the limit.

“Although the Inquisition destroyed that nest of vipers in Karantec—those malefactors who dared to call their study of the Dark Arts a science—it now seems that not every member of the College of Thaumaturgy was tried and executed, as we thought. This cowardly attack on Père Magloire bears all the hallmarks of the Forbidden Arts, although I’m delighted to be able to tell you that our librarian is making a good recovery from his ordeal.”

Jagu leaned forward, listening with full attention now.

“I have sent to Lutèce to request an investigation from the Inquisition. And I and my fellow priests will perform a cleansing rite tonight.”

Is no one going to explain why we were targeted? Jagu, disappointed, gazed expectantly at the other masters but they all stood listening in silence.

“I advise you boys to be on your guard at all times. Report anything suspicious instantly to one of the masters. Don’t try to deal with it yourself.” Abbé Houardon’s stern gaze swept over the congregation, thick brows drawn together. “We may be attacked again.” And with this abrupt warning, he made the sign of blessing over the pupils and left the lectern.

“Be on your guard?” Jagu mouthed to Paol. “Against what? Who was that man?”

“Jagu de Rustéphan, I want another word with you. Come with me.”

Jagu looked up to see Abbé Houardon towering over him. “M—me, sir?” he stammered, wondering what misdemeanor he was to be punished for this time.

“You’re such a troublemaker, Jagu,” whispered Kilian with a malicious grin, as Jagu squeezed past him to follow the headmaster out of the chapel.


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The headmaster’s study looked out over the seminary gardens, and as Jagu stood before Abbé Houardon’s desk, he realized that he could see the very spot where the intruder had been standing. The spring sunlight created shifting shadows on the grass beneath the spreading boughs of the old tree. A froth of tender green had appeared on the bare branches, as the first leaves began to unfurl.

“I can see the tree,” Jagu said as the Abbé searched through a pile of papers. “The tree where he was waiting.”

“What?” The headmaster looked up. “Oh, this has nothing to do with our intruder. I received a letter from Lutèce today. An eminent musician who once studied here in Kemper is visiting the city. You’ll be pleased to learn that he is going to honor his old school with a recital.”

Jagu forgot the intruder. “A musician?” His heart began to beat faster with excitement. Questions tumbled out of his mouth. “Will he give lessons? What’s his name? When will he be here?”

A slight curl of the lips that might have passed for a smile altered Abbé Houardon’s habitually severe expression. “He’s called Henri de Joyeuse. And according to this letter, he’ll be arriving on the diligence from Lutèce tomorrow evening. The bishop has invited him to play in the cathedral, so you’re very fortunate that he’s agreed to spend a day with us. He’s just been appointed chapel master at the Church of Saint Meriadec.”

“And he studied at this seminary? Just like me?”

“I still regret that Henri was never ordained as a priest, but the lure of the music was too strong.” Abbé Houardon seemed to be lost in reminiscence. “He left us to study fortepiano and composition at the conservatoire in Lutèce. And now, it seems, he has found favor with the royal household…”

A real pianist! Jagu had always dreamed of being taught by a proper musician rather than his elderly and rheumatic music master, Père Isidore. He often took Père Isidore’s place in chapel on cold days when the old man was too stiff to climb the steep spiral stair to the organ loft.

“So we thought that you should meet Maistre de Joyeuse. How do you feel about that?”

Jagu nodded enthusiastically. His fingers were itching to play.

“Report to me here tomorrow after vespers. Oh, and Jagu,” said Abbé Houardon quietly as Jagu turned to leave, “it was…ah…unfortunate that you were the only one—apart from Père Magloire—to see the intruder.”

Jagu stopped. Was the headmaster warning him that he was in danger? The good news had put all ominous thoughts out of his head.

“What was the book?” he blurted out. “The book he stole?”

“It was Père Laorans’s Life of Saint Argantel.” An expression almost resembling a grin had appeared on the headmaster’s face. “I can’t help wondering if that magus wasn’t as clever as he thought. I’d like to see what sense he makes of the life of our patron saint! But be on your guard, Jagu, in case he returns. Because you’re the only one among us who could identify him.”

The grin had vanished; Jagu saw that Abbé Houardon was in deadly earnest.

 

“‘But how can we protect the faithful against the wiles of those cursed with daemon blood?’ asked Archimandrite Sergius of the angel.

Then Galizur struck the living rock with his sword of flame and breathed on the fragments that broke off. The rock became as clear as glass. ‘Take these seven stones,’ said the angel, ‘and if they turn as dark as night, then you will know that evil is at hand.

With one of these angel-given stones, the Blessed Sergius tracked the Drakhaoul-daemons that were terrorizing the empire and destroyed them…

Rieuk shut the Life of Saint Argantel and passed a hand over his eyes. Where did the historical facts end and the legends begin?

His investigations had eventually brought him to Kemper and the seminary dedicated centuries ago to Argantel. The faithful companion of Saint Sergius—and founder of the Commanderie—had died in Kemper and was interred in the chapel. Every year on the date of his death, Saint Argantel’s Day was celebrated and the saint’s relics were displayed to the faithful. That day was but a fortnight away.

Saint Argantel’s Day was approaching. And he had to inveigle himself into the seminary fast, or risk losing his chance of discovering the hiding place of the Commanderie’s precious Angelstones.

“Whom shall I become? Old Père Magloire? As librarian and archivist, he must have access to all manner of ancient seminary secrets. Or better still, one of the students, one closely involved in the preparations for their saint’s day?

“Wake up, Ormas. Go and reconnoiter. I want to see what’s happening in every dormitory, every classroom, even the gardens.”

Ormas silently flew away into the gathering dusk.

 

“Show us where you saw this evil magus, then, Jagu.” Kilian pushed open the rusted ironwork gate with Paol and Jagu trailing behind.

The three boys had sneaked into the seminary gardens after vespers. And now, as dusk painted the boughs of the ancient cedars inky black against the slowly darkening sky, Jagu began to wish that they had come in daylight. The long grass beneath the trees was already damp with evening dew, and from the branches of the walled garden a blackbird let out a shrill warning cry.

“Keep up, Jagu,” ordered Kilian. “We’re supposed to be following you.

Jagu, increasingly uneasy, glanced up at the mullioned windows of the old library behind them. He reckoned that the intruder must have been about twenty paces from where he was standing.

“What’s the matter?” jeered Kilian. “Scared?”

Was Kilian deliberately trying to provoke him? “You weren’t there.” Jagu could not shake off the nagging feeling that there was still some trace of that malignant presence lingering in the twilit shadows.

“So where was he?”

“There.” Jagu pointed.

Kilian went up close to the gnarled trunk of the tree. He walked all around it. “There’s some kind of metal label on it. But the writing’s worn away.”

“Isn’t this one of the rare trees Père Ninian brought back from his mission to the Spice Islands?” said Paol, examining the label. “I think it might be a Serindhan malus. A paste made from the rotting fruit is said to cure scabies and—”

“Ooh, listen to our clever little scholar here. How come you’ve turned into such a swot, Paol?”

Paol neatly ducked Kilian’s backhanded swipe. “Abbé Houardon says that the king was so impressed that he offered Père Ninian the post of Royal Botanist.”

“It’s getting too dark to see.” Jagu could not get rid of the feeling that they were being watched. “Let’s go.”

“But Père Ninian never got to take up the post. He fell sick with some mysterious illness and died here in Kemper.” Paol’s voice grew quiet.

“And now his ghost haunts the gardens…” Kilian’s words came floating through the twilight. Normally, Jagu would have laughed at his fooling. But tonight his nerves were on edge.

“Well, I’ve got keyboard practice.” He forced a careless laugh as he started back toward the gate. “See you later…”

A shadow slipped from behind a tree. “Now you are mine, boy,” a hoarse voice whispered in his ear. Hands covered his eyes and mouth. Jagu wriggled around and lashed out wildly, his fist connecting with flesh and bone.

“Ow!” Kilian went sprawling on the grass. “That hurt.” He clutched his chin.

Jagu, breathing hard, had been about to say, “Serves you damn right.” But a sudden flap of wings above their heads made him whip round. A bird lifted off from the upper branches of Père Ninian’s tree and was flying away with slow, deliberate strokes. Dimly silhouetted against the star-prickled sky, its shadowy serrated wings were just like those of the bird he had seen in the library.

“Did you see that?” said Paol.

“Probably a crow.” Kilian was still massaging his jaw.

“It was almost as if it was watching us. Jagu, d’you think it was—”

“I don’t know,” Jagu said curtly. He didn’t want to think about it.

Paol suddenly shivered, hugging his arms to himself. “I’m cold. Let’s go back.”

Waiting for them in the doorway to the dormitory wing stood Père Albin, slowly, menacingly tapping his cane against his palm. “The headmaster told you quite clearly that the garden is out of bounds. What have you got to say for yourselves?”


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Jagu lay on his stomach, unable to sleep. It wasn’t just that his backside stung from raw weals inflicted by Père Albin’s cane. It was that the bizarre incident in the library seemed to have left some residual scarring in his memory. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the magus smiling at him, with a look of such chilling malignance that he awoke, shuddering.

What did he really want?

Staring down the dark dormitory filled with the soft breathing of the other boys asleep, punctuated from time to time by the odd staccato snort or grunt, he determined that he was going to find out.

 

The library was usually occupied by the older students at this time of day. Slumped over their essays, or thumbing frantically through old dictionaries, they struggled with their translations of the Sacred Texts from Ancient Enhirran. But the final year were being examined on their knowledge in the main hall and the intermediate boys had been sent away to a remote island monastery on a retreat. So when Jagu, Paol, and Kilian cautiously opened the door, they saw that the library was empty.

Shafts of sunlight shimmering with dust motes slanted between each tall bookcase onto the floorboards.

“This place could do with a good cleaning,” said Kilian, pulling a face. “It stinks of old books.”

“I love that smell,” said Paol, smiling as he drew in a deep breath of dusty air. “Old books are filled with fascinating secrets. You should try reading one sometime, Kilian.”

“Huh.” Kilian scowled, kicking at the base of one of the cases. “So where was Musty Magloire when you found him, Jagu?”

“Over here.” Jagu pushed a library ladder along the rail until it reached the central stack, where he had seen Père Magloire.

“Paol, you keep watch.” Kilian had taken charge of the operation. “Cough if you hear anyone coming.”

“Why do I have to be the lookout?” complained Paol.

“Because you’re the youngest. Off you go.”

Paol stuck out his tongue at Kilian but did as he was told.

“I’ll hold the ladder steady. You shin up,” said Kilian.

Jagu gripped the sides of the slender ladder and climbed up until he could see the titles on the top shelf. “Ugh. Layers of dust covering everything. Titles…faded. Difficult to read.” He squinted sideways at the indistinct lettering, wobbling as he tried to keep his balance. “Nobody’s taken these out in years.”

“There must be a gap,” said Kilian, “where the stolen book was shelved.”

A Mission to the Spice Islands,” read Jagu. “Botanical Specimens from Serindher.

Kilian yawned loudly. “Bo—ring.”

Jagu pulled out Botanical Specimens, a large, leather-bound volume. A small cloud of dust rose from its spine, tickling his nose and provoking a violent sneeze. Something dislodged itself from inside the covers and fell, bouncing off Kilian’s head.

“I said bring them down, not throw them at me.”

“Sorry,” said Jagu cheerfully.

“What have we here…?” Kilian relinquished his hold on the ladder. Jagu felt the ladder sliding away sideways and made a grab for the shelves to stop himself from falling off.

“For heaven’s sake, Kilian, hold on—” The sound of frantic coughing interrupted him.

“Damn. Someone’s coming,” said Kilian, stuffing the object that had fallen from the top shelf into his jacket. Jagu slid down the ladder, burning the palms of his hands in his haste.

“What are you boys doing in here?” To Jagu’s relief, he saw not Père Albin but doddery old Père Servan, who taught classes on the Sacred Texts.

“Er, Père Albin sent us to do some research on the prophets,” said Paol swiftly.

“The prophets? You’re looking in the wrong section.” Père Servan pointed with his walking stick to another stack at the opposite end of the library. “You’ll find no prophets here; these shelves are devoted to the history of the Commanderie and the missions overseas.” He turned to Paol and prodded him in the chest with the end of his stick. “Unless you’re planning to follow in the footsteps of Laorans and join our brothers at the new mission in Serindher?”

“Well, I’ve always dreamed of traveling abroad.” Paol pushed his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not the traveling, it’s the desire to spread the holy word that should inspire you,” said Père Servan severely. “Have you young men today no sense of vocation?” He shook his head and continued on past Jagu and Kilian, muttering under his breath, “No spiritual rigor!”

Paol caught Jagu’s eye and gave a quick nod. The boys moved toward the library doors, slowly at first, then quickening their pace before Père Servan asked any more questions.

Outside in the empty corridor, the boys huddled together to examine their discovery.

“It’s just another book,” said Kilian, disappointed.

“What did you expect to find in a library?”

“I thought that magus might have made his bird conceal something in there. Something magic—an ‘eye,’ maybe, so that he could spy on us from afar.”

“An eye?” echoed Paol incredulously.

“Not a real flesh-and-jelly eyeball, stupid, some kind of necromantic device. A magic stone.”

“You have a weird imagination,” said Paol. “Why would anyone want to spy on schoolboys?”

Jagu had been wiping sticky cobwebs from the cover of the little book with his handkerchief as the other two bickered. He opened it carefully, prising the first two puckered pages apart. “It’s handwritten,” he said. All his earlier feelings of excitement faded, faced with an almost unintelligible blur.

“How can we read this scrawl?” said Kilian impatiently. “It’s useless.”

Paol peered at it through his awry spectacles. “It’s all blotched. The book must’ve got wet.”

“So why were they keeping it in the library?” Jagu took it back from him and opened another two pages. “Wait…this looks like a date at the top. Monday. Then Wednesday. D’you think it’s a diary?”

The bell for the midday meal began to ring.

“You two scholars can decipher it if you want. I’m starving.” And Kilian, with a careless wave of the hand, hurried off in the direction of the refectory.

Jagu wavered, torn between the need to eat and the desire to find out more about the book. “It’s in our own tongue, at least.” He stared again at the looping script and began to make out words. “Hey, Paol, I can read this bit. ‘Reached the Enhirran border…sunset…the local tribesmen made us welcome…’”

“Enhirre?” said Paol, his eyes wide with surprise behind his round lenses.

The midday bell stopped ringing. Jagu’s empty stomach had begun to rumble.

“Whatever it is, we’ll miss our meal if we don’t hurry.”

 

During his daily journeys to practice in the organ loft, Jagu had discovered many secret places in the old chapel. Behind the organ loft was a poky little room where piles of dusty choir music were stacked from floor to sloping ceiling in overspilling ledgers. And the steep, claustrophobic spiral stair leading to that room continued on upward until it opened out onto a hidden, sunny lead-lined platform between the sides of the chapel roof that allowed access to the bell tower beyond.

After Jagu had finished his practice, he, Kilian, and Paol hurried up onto the roof. As both the others had been working the bellows for him, no one would question their whereabouts for a little while, affording them some rare free time to examine their discovery without interruption.

“What are you eating?” demanded Paol.

Kilian smiled secretively but didn’t reply.

“Aniseed drops. Don’t deny it, I can smell them on your breath! But how—?”

“One of the Intermediates owed me a favor. He happened to be going into Kemper on an errand, so I made sure he called at the sweetshop on his way back.” Kilian lay back on the sun-warmed lead, hands clasped behind his head, smiling in self-satisfaction.

“An Intermediate student owed you?”

“Don’t waste your breath asking, he’s never going to tell,” said Jagu. Kilian had several “business arrangements” with the older boys; Jagu suspected that Kilian had acted as go-between, arranging the occasional forbidden tryst with the girls at the nearby convent school. “The least you could do is share them round, Kilian.”

“Not till you’ve told us about my diary.”

“Yours? I found it.”

“Ah, but it fell on my head.”

The feathered whisper of wings made Jagu glance round, dreading what he might see. But it was only a pair of collared doves, alighting on the ridge above their heads. “I think,” he said slowly, removing the diary from his pocket, “that it’s Père Laorans’s journal. The master who was sent to Serindher to the new mission. Informal notes, jottings, place names, observations about the local flora and fauna…”

“And that’s interesting because…?” Kilian’s eyes were closed; he appeared to be half dozing in the sunshine.

“There’s some really gruesome stuff about the magi of Ondhessar. It says they practice soul-stealing.”

Kilian rolled over onto his stomach and grabbed the journal from Jagu, eyes moving avidly over the intricately looping handwriting. “I’ll bet this never made it into the official record of the mission.”

“Read it out aloud!” insisted Paol.

“Then don’t blame me if you can’t sleep tonight.” Kilian rolled his eyes dramatically. Then in a hushed voice he began to intone, “‘In the moonlight, a strange yet chilling sight was revealed. Many ruined towers lay below, the last vestiges of a lost, ancient civilization. At this point our guides refused to go any farther. They told us that the hidden valley was haunted by soul-stealing ghaouls who preyed upon the unwary traveler. One, Jhifar, related how he had once been unwise enough to enter the valley with his brothers. At nightfall, the eerie sound of a woman’s singing began to issue from one of the ruined towers below. It was so strange yet so beautiful that the eldest brother went in search of the singer. Later he returned to their campfire. “You must come with me and hear her sing,” he told them. They followed him but as they drew near to the first of the towers, a host of shadow birds swooped down upon them, feeding upon their life essence, sucking out their souls, while the shell that had been Jhifar’s brother looked on and laughed. The evil magi had made him their puppet to lure the unwary travelers into their trap to feed their accursed shadow birds.’”

“Um…what was it you said about the magus in the garden?” said Paol with a slight quiver in his voice. “Didn’t he have a bird with him?”

“Surely you don’t believe any of this, do you?” Kilian looked up over the top of the book. “Ooh, Jagu, poor little Paol’s scared. I don’t think we should read any more, in case he has nightmares.”

“Cut it out.” Paol made a swipe at Kilian and snatched the journal from him. “‘Even more obscene is the rite Jhifar described to us,’” he continued in a loud voice, “‘to initiate a new member into the secret cult of soul stealers.’” He squinted at the book, turning it upside down. “It’s illegible. Pity. Something about a fresh corpse…and its tongue—”

“Give it here.” Jagu took the journal back and turned to the passage that had been puzzling him.

“Are you planning on boring us to death, Jagu?” Kilian got to his feet and stretched. “Since when were you so keen on ancient history?” He went to the edge of parapet and leaned over to scan the courtyard below.

“I haven’t got to the curse yet.”

“There was a curse?”

Paol crept up behind Kilian, hand reaching toward his jacket pocket.

“The guides told Père Laorans that anyone who entered the hidden valley would be cursed by the magi, fade away, and die.”

Paol made a sudden move and snatched the bag of aniseed drops from Kilian’s pocket.

“Give those back!” Kilian made a lunge but Paol was too swift. Crowing with delight, he darted away and disappeared down the stairwell, with Kilian hurrying after. Jagu sighed and followed.

 

“So you’re Jagu de Rustéphan.” Henri de Joyeuse was standing in the music room, one hand resting on the worn ivory keys of the fortepiano. “I’ve heard much about your gift.”

Jagu opened his mouth and stammered a few words of greeting. “And I—I’ve heard so much about you.” The fortepiano stood half in shadow and he could not quite distinguish Maistre de Joyeuse’s features. His hair was fair, pale as ripening summer barley, and far longer than any priest’s in the seminary, tied back at the nape of the neck with a black ribbon.

But what was I expecting? He trained in Lutèce. He must have adopted the fashions of the royal court.

“Perhaps you’d like to play something for me.” The Maistre’s voice was softly modulated, yet unusually kindly in tone for a teacher.

“What, now?” Jagu had not expected this. “But I’m supposed to show you round the seminary.”

“The tour can wait. I’m eager to hear you play first.” Joyeuse moved away from the keyboard, gesturing to Jagu to take his place.

Jagu felt suddenly unsure of himself. “What shall I play?”

“Whatever you like.”

Jagu’s mind blanked for a moment. And then he remembered the prelude he’d been practicing that morning, the fifth of six by Marais, where the familiar melody of an old plainchant hymn to Saint Argantel was woven through an intricate pattern of running notes. It required both dexterity and control to let the melody sing through the decorative figuration and Jagu had been working on it for months, refusing to be defeated by its difficulty.

Maybe it was a rash choice. Maybe he wasn’t ready to perform it yet. But it was a piece that he cared about, that he had labored over for a long time. He raised his hands over the keys and saw to his shame that they trembled. Yet as soon as fingers touched the familiar yellowed keys, his nerves melted away. Absorbed in the demands of the prelude, he forgot that Maistre de Joyeuse was watching him until he played the final chord.

“Marais’s Fifth Prelude?” Joyeuse was smiling. “You’ve mastered the technical difficulties extremely well for a student of your age.”

Jagu heard the words as he surfaced from a trance of deep concentration. He felt himself blush with pleasure at the compliment and swiftly lowered his head.

“But there’s so much more to this piece than just playing the notes. Listen…” Jagu slid off the stool to make way for him. “Close your eyes.”

Jagu obeyed. The prelude began to reveal itself beneath Joyeuse’s swift, sure fingers. The plainchant melody sang through the gentle patter of notes, like birdsong heard through falling rain. Joyeuse made it sound so effortless. When he had finished, Jagu did not know what to say. Now he wanted to blush with shame at the clumsiness of his own playing.

“How about that tour of the school?” Joyeuse closed the lid and stood up. “I hear the new chapel organ is a fine instrument.”

“Oh. Of course. Please follow me, Maistre.” Jagu didn’t know whether he felt grateful or disappointed that there was to be no further analysis of his playing tonight. As Jagu held open the door, Maistre de Joyeuse stopped and put his hand on Jagu’s shoulder. “You’re young, Jagu. To play that prelude as Marais intended, one must have lived a little.”

Jagu stared up at him, not understanding. Maistre de Joyeuse was smiling at him again, an enigmatic smile, reserved, yet kindly. None of the priests had ever treated him with kindness; they controlled the boys with strictness and frequent applications of the cane. As Jagu led Maistre Joyeuse from the music room, he was not sure whether he knew how to handle the situation. He was used to resenting and fearing his teachers.

 

Paol climbed slowly up a library ladder, carrying a pile of books. In Père Magloire’s absence, Abbé Houardon had arranged a library roster and the senior prefects had been deputed to ensure that the boys did not shirk their duties. And the seniors preferred to send the youngest ones to tidy the highest shelves, while they lounged about at the front desk, “keeping an eye on things.” Anyone—like Kilian—who dared to argue was dismissed with a cuff and extra duties. But this afternoon, the library was deserted, as the senior students were being examined on their knowledge of the Holy Texts.

“Take care, Jagu.” Paol was just leaning out to replace the last well-thumbed volume when a quavering voice called out. He grabbed at the ladder, almost losing his balance. He looked down and saw the Père Magloire peering up at him through cloudy spectacle lenses.

“I’m Paol, mon père. Jagu is showing a visitor around the seminary, so I’ve taken his duty instead.”

“Ah well, I suppose you will have to do for now…”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you, Paol.” The elderly librarian was smiling at him and nodding.

Paol reached the bottom rung of the ladder. “It’s good to see you back in the library.”

“And it’s good to be back. Although there are misplaced books everywhere I look,” said Père Magloire, pointing to a nearby shelf. “Someone has mixed the saints up with the prophets.” He pulled out a thick volume. “And since when have the learned commentaries of Erquy been classified as mathematical theorems?”

“I’ll sort them out for you.” As Paol knelt down, he thought he saw a flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye. He blinked. A bird must have fluttered across the window blinds…