The Alchemist in the Shadows

4

The young Chatelaine who, torch in hand, was the first to enter the dark corridor was both worried and in a hurry. Behind her, Agnes de Vaudreuil seemed more assured, al-though all her senses were on edge too.

In coming this far, she had scrupulously respected the warnings to be cautious addressed to her by Emmanuelle de Cernay, the former Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges. In a letter that Agnes had found upon her return from Dampierre, Mere Emmanuelle informed her that she had been unable to discover what had become of the chevalier Reynault d'Ombreuse, the son of the gentleman who had asked the Blades for help. On the other hand, she had uncovered the identity of the sister Reynault and a detachment of( Black Guards had accompanied to Alsace on their secret mission: Sceur Beatrice d'Aussaint. As well as where she could how be found. She and the baronne de Vaudreuil had undergone their novitiates together. They were friends, or they had been.

Strangely, Sceur Beatrice was now being held in isola-tion, like a prisoner, on the orders of the current Superior General, the formidable Mere Therese de Vaussambre.

Advancing along the corridor on tiptoe, Agnes was led to a door. The Chatelaine guiding her looked furtively to left and right before pushing it open and then moving aside.

'Be quick,' she murmured. 'They could discover that I took he keys at any moment.'

Agnes nodded and entered.

It was an ordinary convent cell, austere and lacking in any comforts. She saw Sceur Beatrice lying on the narrow bed. Pale and with drawn features, she remained beautiful but seemed worn out. She was a mere shadow of the superb, proud Chatelaine who, early one morning in a corner of Alsace, had stood alone against a great dragon with a draconite blade in her hand and an incantation on her lips.

She was asleep.

Agnes removed the great black cloak with a hood that had hidden her head, then sat by the sleeping woman and touched her hand.

The sister opened blind eyes, filled with a glassy whiteness.

'Agnes? Is that you, Agnes?'

'Yes, Beatrice. It's me.'

'Lord be praised! My prayers are answered at last!'

'My God, Beatrice, your eyes! What happened to you?'

'It's nothing. Nothing but the price of ... It won't last, I believe.'

'The price of what?'

'You need to know, Agnes. You need to see what I have seen!' said the Chatelaine in an anguished voice.

She wanted to sit up in her bed. Agnes gently held her down and said:

'Calm yourself, Beatrice. You need to rest. I'll come back later.'

'No!' cried out the other woman. 'Now! It can't wait . . . ! Give me your hands, Agnes.' The young baronne obeyed. 'And now, see . . . See,' she repeated in a weaker tone. 'You need ... to see.'

Her white eyes darkened as if injected with a black liquid.

An abyss was born into which Agnes's awareness suddenly plunged.

And she saw.

She saw what the Chatelaine had seen that morning in Alsace when she looked into the mind of the dragon.

She saw glimpses of a future that was both terrifying and close at hand.

It was night. Panicked crowds were running through streets lit by crackling flames. Fire was raining from the sky. It was being belched by a blacky dragon. Or by several. Fiery blasts were striking the rooftops; dazzling columns provoked explosions of tiles; red-hot sprays fell back in incandescent particles. Screaming, terrorised people were jostling, fighting and trampling one another in their desire to flee. Some soldiers were firing their muskets futilely into the air. Human torches wriggled and thrashed horribly. The blazes consumed entire neighbourhoods and the immense conflagration was reflected in the dark waters of a river.

A river that ran past the Louvre, which had also been set alight.

Trembling, her eyes full of tears, Agnes watched Paris burn.