Part 7 (1/2)
What am I doing? Surely I'm old enough now to control these urges! It's not as if I'm still a boy, cursed with wet dreams.
”You awake, Father?” The innkeeper's shrill voice called. He started, hastily withdrawing his hand. ”Chaikin's ready to leave!”
”We'll be down right away,” he called back.
”I want a bath,” grumbled Celestine, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. ”I stink of travel. So do you,” she added pointedly.
”They have communal bathhouses in Azhkendir,” Jagu said, suspecting that she was trying to provoke him. ”If you went in with me, Celestin, Celestin, it wouldn't be long before-” it wouldn't be long before-”
”Yes, yes, I understand.”
Celestine had no option but to settle for a perfunctory wash in a bucket of ice-cold well water that left her gasping but fully awake. Will I ever get properly clean again? Will I ever get properly clean again? Perhaps after a while, they would become used to the smell of each other's unwashed bodies. Perhaps after a while, they would become used to the smell of each other's unwashed bodies.
She and Jagu chewed their way through a bowl apiece of gritty, glutinous porridge. Then they fetched their belongings and followed the old fisherman down a narrow, crumbling cliff path to the rocky sh.o.r.e far below.
They had to wade out through the freezing tide to reach Chaikin's fis.h.i.+ng boat, which lay at anchor in the little inlet.
”Wind's a fresh northeasterly this morning,” Chaikin told Jagu as he helped them clamber aboard. ”Can your boy make himself useful? I could do with a couple of extra hands.”
”We'll both help out,” Celestine heard Jagu say as he stowed their bags and the precious Staff beneath an old piece of sailcloth. ”Surely you don't sail her single-handed?” Jagu added as he pulled on the ropes to raise the boat's mainsail, a triangular expanse of canvas.
”When I drop you off at Seal Cove, farther up the coast, I'll be picking up my grandson.” Chaikin jabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, then clamped it back between his teeth.
”Do you take many pilgrims to the monastery?”
”Not anymore. Not since the Arkhel Clan was slaughtered by Lord Volkh.” Chaikin removed his pipe and spat. ”Maybe that'll all change now.”
Jagu brought out a notebook and did little pencil sketches of the contours of the coast, marking the inlets and bays they pa.s.sed. Celestine noticed that the raw northerly wind had brought a touch of color to his pale complexion; his cheeks and nose were red with the cold. She felt her own nose running and wiped it on her sleeve, as she had often seen the choirboys do at the cathedral in Lutece. She saw him look at her in horror and stuck out her tongue at him.
”Seals!” Chaikin yelled, pointing with his pipe. Celestine forgot her own discomfort, gripping the side of the boat. Several sleek greybrown heads were bobbing up and down between the waves, watching them. The fierce salt wind blowing her hair into her eyes, she followed their antics with delight as they swam effortlessly past through the choppy waters.
”There's a colony out on one of the Drakhaon's Spines.” Chaikin pointed again to the line of jagged rocks protruding out of the sea; from their vantage point they looked remarkably like the back of a great dragon emerging from the waves.
”A word of advice for you, Father,” Chaikin was saying to Jagu. ”If you keep to the Pilgrims' Road through the forest, you'll find your way to Saint Serzhei's. The brothers mark certain trees every year to show the way. There are shrines and pilgrims' wells of clean water to make sure you're on the right route. But don't wander off the path. Wild boar and wolves often come down from the Kharzhgylls in winter, looking for food. Oh, and the robbers...”
”A day's journey inland,” Jagu said as they tramped over the wet sand. The tide was going out, exposing a wide expanse of sandy beach, filled with little tidal streams, runnels, and rock pools. Gulls skimmed low over the sh.o.r.e. The air smelled of sea salt, mingled with the slightly sulfurous tang of mud.
”If only we had horses. We'll never reach the monastery before dark; it's already well past midday.” Celestine pointed to the pale sun which was no longer directly overhead.
”Then we'll just have to find one of these pilgrims' shelters before nightfall.”
The ancient forest of Kerjhenezh covered most of the eastern corner of Azhkendir, extending as far as the foothills of the snow-covered Kharzhgyll Mountains, the natural border between the Drakhaon's lands and the khanate of Khitari, now all united as part of Eugene's empire. New spring leaves on the thick-girthed oaks were only just beginning to unfurl, but the heavy branches of the firs-larch, pine, and cedar-kept the Pilgrims' Road well shaded and the sandy ground underfoot soft with a carpet of dried needles.
Jagu pointed to the faded white symbol of Sergius's crook daubed on the knotted trunk of a tall pine. ”Ironic, isn't it? The very reason for our journey is going to show us the way.” Celestine heard the faint, warning call of a bird, answered by another, farther off. She had been troubled by a strange sensation ever since they parted company with Chaikin. From time to time she s.h.i.+vered, even though she was not cold or feverish.
A current of silvery translucence snakes through the air...
The green branches overhead stirred, moved by a freak gust of wind.
She stopped, hugging her arms to her, suddenly chilled to the depths of her soul.
”Celestine?” Jagu, realizing that she was no longer walking beside him, turned and saw her standing, gazing up into the cloudy sky.
”What is he he doing here?” she said, as if talking to herself. doing here?” she said, as if talking to herself.
”He? Who do you mean?” Jagu looked upward. All he could see above the interwoven branches of s.h.a.ggy fir was the milky pallor of the cloud-veiled sky.
”Didn't you feel it?” Her eyes had a distant, unfocused look. ”It was the Magus.”
CHAPTER 3.
”The Magus?” Jagu hastily pushed back his sleeve, checking the mark on his left wrist. ”Are you sure?” He showed her; the sigil could only faintly be detected, like a pearlescent tattoo against the blue veins marking his pulse point. ”If it's a magus, then it's not the one who did this to me.”
”Why is Kaspar Linnaius in Azhkendir?” Celestine asked, kicking a pinecone out of her path. ”Is he here on the Emperor's business? Or on some affair of his own?” She felt on edge now.
In a little clearing, they found the first shrine to the saint-a worn stone plinth, overgrown with ivy. Jagu bent down to clear away some of the clinging strands. Faint letters could just be made out, surmounted by the sign of the crook pointing the way to the monastery. The only sound was the twittering of birds and the occasional feathery flutter of wings as they flitted across the glade.
”Doesn't it strike you as ironic that Saint Sergius is venerated here,” Jagu said, straightening up, ”even though his murderer, the Drakhaoul, has lived on for centuries in the ruling house? How can the Azhkendis reconcile the two, the saint and the daemon?”
While he was speaking, Celestine noticed that a strange stillness had fallen over the green glade.
”The birds have stopped singing. Is someone watching us?”
”Show yourself!” Jagu drew his pistol. Back to back, heel to heel, they slowly turned around, checking for any sign of movement among the lichen-blotched trunks. But if anyone was shadowing them, he kept well hidden. She heard him let out a slow breath. ”This is only the first of the shrines; there are four more to go before we reach the monastery.”
”If we're going to reach the pilgrims' shelter before nightfall, we'd better make a move.” Celestine was tired and her feet were hot and sore, but the knowledge that Kaspar Linnaius was close by gave her new determination to keep going. As they left the glade, she noticed Jagu glancing back over his shoulder. Had the Magus been shadowing them?
They stopped by the mossy banks of a forest stream to catch fish for supper. Celestine had learned on earlier missions that Jagu's stillness and quick eye made him a good fisherman.
”That's not a trick you learned at the seminary,” she said, watching him dispatch the slippery, struggling char with an expertly judged blow to the head.
”My elder brother Markiz taught me,” he said, laying it beside his two earlier catches.
”How many brothers do you have?” He so rarely spoke of his family that she couldn't resist the chance to tease out some information about his early life.
”Markiz took over the family estate when my father died three years ago. Leonor is a notary in Kemper. And I...”
”You showed an early gift for music, so your father sent you to a seminary.”
He pulled a face. ”My father never really understood,” he said curtly, getting to his feet. ”Time to go.” He pointed to the sky. ”We have to find the pilgrims' shelter before dusk.”
The daylight was fading; glints of gold from the setting sun filtered through the branches. In the twilight, Celestine tripped on a knotted tree root.
”Ow!” She hopped to lean against a mossy trunk, nursing her stubbed toe.
”Watch where you place your feet. If you trip and sprain your ankle, I'm not going to carry you.”