Part 25 (1/2)

”I've marked the place,” said Judicael.

Friard overcame his revulsion and opened the book. There, above an intricate engraving, was the sigil he had seen before, this time drawn in faded brown ink. Friard peered more closely, seeing that the woodcut portrayed tier upon tier of stylized, winged angels. Closer inspection still showed that many wielded spears and fiery swords and, tumbling down from the highest tier of heaven, fell one of their number. A little inscription had been scratched on the woodcut in the same brownish ink.

”Do you recognize the language?” Judicael asked.

”It looks like a variant of ancient Djihari,” Friard said, scratching his head. ”Is that word 'fall'?”

”'The fall of the angel Nith-Haiah, one of Seven.'”

”Nith-Haiah?” repeated Friard, staring at the sigil.

”Written in human blood.”

”How could I have been so stupid? 'Th' and 'l' are interchangeable in ancient Djihari,” Friard muttered. ”So Nilaihah is Nith-Haiah. The blood-sigil is the sign of the apostate.” The king's ”angel” was one of the rebels. He thrust the book back into Pere Judicael's hands. ”I must warn the Grand Maistre straightaway.”

Ruaud stared at his king. Enguerrand looked like a young saint in his pure white robes, and the Grand Maistre felt a catch in his throat as he gazed at his protege. There was a radiance about the king, as he placed the Tears of Artamon on the altar; his eyes gleamed gold and a faint glimmer seemed to encircle his head, like a halo.

”Will the Drakhaon come, do you think, Ruaud?” Enguerrand asked. And the tremor in his voice betrayed his fear and his vulnerability.

Ruaud came closer to Enguerrand. ”If you have the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of this venture...”

Enguerrand gave him an affronted look.

”There would be no dishonor in abandoning the attempt,” Ruaud said gently.

”I won't abandon my duty.” There was a stubborn glint in Enguerrand's eyes. ”I'm no coward, Ruaud. I have my guardian to guide and protect me.”

The summer daylight outside the chapel began to fade. Clouds must be rolling up fast, Clouds must be rolling up fast, Ruaud thought, feeling the hairs p.r.i.c.kle on his body; thunderstorms were common at this time of year. A fitful wind began to gust outside, high about the chapel spires. Ruaud thought, feeling the hairs p.r.i.c.kle on his body; thunderstorms were common at this time of year. A fitful wind began to gust outside, high about the chapel spires.

The great door suddenly banged open. All the candleflames guttered wildly and went out.

”Is he here already?” Ruaud swung around. A man stood in the doorway. Even in the dim light, Ruaud could see that his skin glittered as though jeweled with iridescent scales and his wild dark hair tumbled about his shoulders.

”I am here,” said the Drakhaon. He began to walk down the aisle toward Enguerrand, who took a step back. ”Well?” he said. ”You promised that my druzhina druzhina would be released. Where are they?” would be released. Where are they?”

”Your reign of terror is over, Drakhaoul!” cried Enguerrand. He raised the gold-tipped Staff high, brandis.h.i.+ng it like a hunting spear, ready for the kill. ”Daemon, I command you to leave this man's body!” The golden crook gleamed like a crescent moon as the daylight faded from the chapel.

”I call upon my guardian angel to help me. Nilaihah, work through me-and draw out this daemon.”

”Nilaihah?” echoed Gavril Nagarian.

The rose window splintered into a million shards of colored gla.s.s. Through the deadly rain of splinters burst two daemon-dragons, one scarlet as flame, the other dark as purple twilight.

Enguerrand turned, wielding the Staff, pointing it at them with trembling hands.

The scarlet Drakhaoul s.n.a.t.c.hed the Staff from him, snapping it in half as if it were matchwood. The other breathed a little burst of violet flame. The golden crook melted into a puddle of liquid metal.

Enguerrand collapsed.

Disjointed words issued from his mouth as he cowered on the floor. ”Why-did you-to your Chosen One? Am I-unworthy?”

Ruaud started out toward him but stopped as the king's body began to twitch and thrash about as though he were in the throes of a violent epileptic fit. A fine gilded mist arose, spinning around him, until the air glittered.

In the king's place, a third daemon-dragon crouched, armored with burnished scales as resplendent as the morning sun. ”Why was I-so deceived?” it cried and its voice was Enguerrand's. ”Save the Tears, Ruaud!”

Ruaud started out toward the altar, only to see the scarlet Drakhaoul seize the casket in its talons, hissing a warning at him that seared the air.

”Wait!” cried Gavril Nagarian. ”Why should you you take charge of the Tears, Sahariel?” take charge of the Tears, Sahariel?”

”Because, dear brother,” came back the mocking reply, ”we don't trust you.” ”we don't trust you.” And the scarlet and purple Drakhaouls rose into the air and flew out through the ruined window. And the scarlet and purple Drakhaouls rose into the air and flew out through the ruined window.

”No!” Before Ruaud's astonished eyes, Gavril Nagarian transformed in a dark whirlwind into his dragon form, leaping into flight after them, the gust from the beating of his great wings sending Ruaud sprawling. Before Ruaud's astonished eyes, Gavril Nagarian transformed in a dark whirlwind into his dragon form, leaping into flight after them, the gust from the beating of his great wings sending Ruaud sprawling.

Fists thudded against the barred wooden doors of the chapel; m.u.f.fled voices clamored to be let in.

Ruaud de Lanvaux pushed himself to his feet. There was no sign of the Drakhaouls-or the Tears of Artamon. Broken gla.s.s and fragments of stone were scattered everywhere. The Commanderie chapel was cracked open to the sky, a great, jagged hole gaping where the magnificent rose window had been.

And sprawled on the floor, unmoving, lay Enguerrand.

”Sire,” Ruaud called. ”Sire, are you unharmed?” Little remained of Enguerrand's white robes; they had been shredded to tatters, leaving the king nearly naked. Yet he could see no bruises or wounds on the king's body.

What would he do if the daemon had killed the king? And how would he explain it to Alienor? She would blame him. She would have him and his closest advisers executed in the most prolonged and painful way she could devise.

Loud, rhythmic thuds made the locked doors shudder on their hinges. He guessed that his Guerriers must be trying to force them open.

The king let out a soft moan.

”Sire?” Ruaud helped the king to sit up. ”Thank G.o.d you're alive.” He took off his jacket and slipped it around the king's shoulders. Enguerrand was s.h.i.+vering uncontrollably; he seemed in a state of shock.

The doors crashed open and armed Guerriers came rus.h.i.+ng in.

”Maistre, the king?” Alain Friard appeared.

”The king is unharmed.”

”Thank G.o.d. Because that name you gave me, Nilaihah, it belongs to one of the Fallen. Pere Judicael only just-”

”Alain, go make sure that no one has been injured in the attack.” Ruaud could not bear to hear any more.

”Maistre.” Friard saluted and hurried away.

”The Staff.” Enguerrand's voice was a barely more than a whisper. He was staring fixedly at the scattered splinters.

”It was just wood and metal.” Ruaud felt a deep sense of disillusionment pervading his soul. ”And we were arrogant fools to think that any of us was pure enough to inherit Sergius's powers.”