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 fishing 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 shivered, 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."

Why did Jagu always have to be so self-righteous? She glared at him. "It's getting a little hard to see my feet, or hadn't you noticed? It'll soon be dark. And then what do we do?"

"If we don't reach the pilgrims' shelter, we'll just have to make camp here."

She pulled a face. "Oh, wonderful! And be prey to all those ravenous wolves and boar Chaikin warned us about?"

"I'll light a fire." Jagu glowered back at her. "We're not exactly short of kindling."

"Then we might as well shout to any local brigands, 'Here we are, why don't you come and rob us?'"

He said nothing to her taunt, continuing along the path. She set off resignedly after him, dragging her sore foot.

"Smells of damp." Celestine sniffed as they investigated the shelter.

"It's been a while since any pilgrims stayed here." Jagu straightened up from the ash-stained hearthstone.

"Perhaps we're the first this year."

"At least there's a well with clean water. And a roof of sorts over our heads."

Having grown up in Saint Azilia's Convent, Celestine was accustomed to making do with such basic comforts. She wondered whether sleeping in drafty dormitories and rising before dawn each day to do backbreaking ch.o.r.es had toughened her, making her even better suited to enduring the hardships of life on the road than seminary-educated Jagu.

While Jagu laid and lit a fire, she drew water from the ancient well. By the time she was lugging the battered bucket back across the clearing to the shelter, it was dark and a spatter of sparks shot up into the darkening glade.

"Azhkendir, Saint Sergius's birthplace." Jagu leaned back, gazing into the flames. "Just think; this is the same forest in which he grew up. He might even have fished in the same stream. I wonder what made him decide to dedicate his life to G.o.d..."

Celestine glanced at him; he seemed to be unaware that she was watching him, lost in his own thoughts. His dark eyes burned, not just with the reflection of the firelight but with an inner pa.s.sion. She had rarely known Jagu to speak of his beliefs; he had only told her that he had turned his back on a career in music and entered the Commanderie after Maistre de Lanvaux had saved him from a soul-stealing. But hearing him talk made her realize how little he ever revealed of himself to anyone, even to her, keeping so much bottled up inside.

"I found most of the texts that they made us study at the seminary boring... or difficult to understand. But when we read Argantel's Life of the Blessed Sergius, Life of the Blessed Sergius, everything changed. It was inspiring. And when Maistre de Lanvaux rescued me from the magus"-he looked up at her through the leaping flames- "I remember thinking, everything changed. It was inspiring. And when Maistre de Lanvaux rescued me from the magus"-he looked up at her through the leaping flames- "I remember thinking, 'This 'This is what Sergius must have been like. This desperate show of courage in the face of impossible odds.'" is what Sergius must have been like. This desperate show of courage in the face of impossible odds.'"

"I wish I could have seen the Maistre in action," she said fondly. Jagu had never really spoken of his encounter with the magus before; all she knew was that it had left him scarred and wary. But Ruaud de Lanvaux was a bond they shared; he had rescued both of them from certain death: she, a starving, orphaned child, he, a schoolboy marked as a magus's prey.

"Careful, you'll burn your tongue," warned Jagu, handing Celestine the spitted fish, hot from the flames.

She was so hungry by then that she didn't care. The white flesh of the char, silvery skin crisped and charred by the fire, tasted delicious. She licked her sticky fingers when there was nothing left but bones and looked up to see him watching her. There was a rare hint of a grin on his face.

"What?"

"I was just thinking what your adoring public would think if they could see their idol now: hair hacked short, wiping the grease from her lips with the back of her hand."

"Is it so different from Gauzia playing a breeches role in an opera?" Celestine hadn't given Gauzia much thought till then; circ.u.mstances had driven the two girls very far apart-Gauzia to a prestigious career in opera, Celestine to a new life as a secret agent of the Commanderie.

She and Jagu rarely spoke of Henri de Joyeuse, even though it was he who had first brought them together. The truth was that neither had ever fully recovered from his death six years ago. But if Jagu had lost a beloved teacher and mentor, Celestine had lost her first and only love. The best way to keep his memory alive in their hearts was to ensure that his music was played wherever their Commanderie work took them. To the musical world they were renowned as interpreters of his songs-and under this guise they had traveled throughout the western quadrant, giving concerts while at the same time gaining valuable information to feed back to the Commanderie about foreign affairs. Celestine had learned very early how to use her looks to charm all manner of secrets from smitten diplomats and politicians. And thus far no one had ever suspected her of spying for Francia. Thus far...

The sound of distant bells ringing could be heard, oddly sweet on the morning air.

Through the thinning tree trunks ahead, Celestine could see whitewashed walls. A few minutes later, she and Jagu emerged in a sun-dappled apple orchard where bees droned in the pink and white blossoms. At the far end, Celestine spotted two monks, one old, one young, tending beehives.

"At last," she said. "This must be it." Her blisters were throbbing and she could no longer help limping. The thought that there would be clean water and medicinal salves to soothe her aching feet was the one thing that kept her going.

"Wait." Jagu checked her, one hand on her shoulder. "Let's make certain..." He pulled out the Angelstone and held it up to the light. "No change," he said and concealed it beneath his shirt again.

I could have told you as much, Jagu. But you still don't trust my powers...

The young monk, hearing voices, looked up and came hurrying through the trees to greet them.

"Good day to you, brothers. It's early in the year for pilgrims," he said, grinning at them. "My name's Lyashko. Have you come far?"

"From Francia. My name is Jagu and this is my servant, Celestin."

"Francia!" echoed Brother Lyashko. "Do you hear that, Brother Beekeeper?"

The elder monk came hobbling over and peered at them shortsightedly. "Run on ahead, Lyashko, and tell Abbot Yephimy."

Lyashko set off at a run toward the white walls of the monastery.

"Welcome to Saint Sergius, my brothers," rang out a strong, vibrant voice.

Celestine saw a tall, broad-shouldered priest striding vigorously toward them, arms wide open. His brown hair and long beard were streaked with iron grey, but he bore himself more like a soldier than a monk.

"We are members of the Francian Commanderie, Abbot," said Jagu. "Is there anywhere more private that we could talk?"

Celestine noted that the abbot gave her a long, appraising glance as they entered the silent cloisters and knew that he had seen through her disguise; Yephimy was obviously not some doddery old country priest. It was not going to be easy to persuade him to part with the monastery's precious relic, no matter how n.o.ble the cause.

"Now, what is all this really about?" he asked, ushering them into his study.

"The leader of our order has been monitoring the disquieting growth of daemonic activity in this part of the world," said Jagu. "We have been sent to investigate."

"Ah," said Yephimy, folding his hands together. "The Drakhaoul."

"Is that its Azhkendi name?" Celestine asked, testing him.

Yephimy frowned at her. "It never revealed its true name. However, your leader will be pleased to learn that the daemon has been cast out from Lord Gavril's body."

"Cast out, maybe, but not destroyed," said Jagu. "Members of our order tracked it along the Straits. We believe it may have gone to ground in Muscobar."

"What? It's still at large?" From Abbot Yephimy's look of dismay, Celestine knew they had him at a disadvantage.

"We believe so. And that is why the Grand Master of our order has commissioned the reforging of Sergius's Staff."

"Sergius's Staff?" Yephimy repeated. "You have Sergius's Staff? But how? The Chronicles state that it was shattered in Sergius's last battle with the Drakhaoul." He rose, staring at them with suspicion. "Exactly who are you, and what is this Commanderie?"

"We are Companions of the Order of Saint Sergius, Abbot," said Jagu. "Our order is dedicated to the destruction of all daemonic influences in the world. As for the Staff, well, legend has it that Argantel, the founder of our order, fled Azhkendir with the shattered pieces and had it repaired in Francia. All the pieces save one: the crook, which we understand you keep here, in the shrine."

"Lord Argantel was indeed Sergius's friend," said Yephimy slowly. "But our Chronicles do not record what became of him. So. Show me this relic."