Paris
May 1792
I was awoken by a crashing sound from the front hall, and a lot of shouting. I cast a glance towards my companion, the Comtesse du Près, but Suzanne did not seem to have noticed the furore. I quickly and quietly climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of breeches, some shoes and a shirt, grabbed my sword and crossed to the door of my bed chamber. Outside the shouting was getting louder, and mingled with the unfamiliar voices I could occasionally hear Henri, my butler, trying to prevent the interlopers gaining access to the house.
I opened the door slightly to see if I could get a clearer idea of what was going on, but as I did so I heard a dull thud, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. Then I heard voices shouting in triumph as they finally knocked the front door off its hinges.
I triggered a shield spell, then stepped cautiously out into the corridor and looked carefully over the balcony. Below me I could see about fifteen people, men and women, forcing their way inside my home, and I could not help but notice that every one wore some token that identified them as supporters of the revolutionary party. I could also see Henri, lying crumpled by the doorway, his neck at an unnatural angle. The bastards had killed him for doing his job.
"Stop right where you are!" I demanded, walking slowly down the stairs. Looking back on it, this was probably not the smartest move I had ever made, but I think that perhaps the shield spell had made me foolhardy. It was a mistake I have never repeated. "What are you doing in my house, and why did you murder my servant?"
"You are the Marquis du Harcouët?" asked their leader, a ruffian in his late twenties I would guess, but with the gleam of revolutionary fervour in his eyes.
"I am. Why are you here?" I kept my eyes on him, but mentally called up a spell that would put him and his companions to sleep in an instant. While I had no love of the revolutionaries, I drew a mental line at killing them out of hand with magic.
"You are under arrest," came the reply.
"On what charges?" I demanded, surprised.
"Treason against the state, murder and diabolism."
"You are joking, I assume?" I replied, startled at the latter two accusations, although the former was less unexpected - after all, I was claiming to be a member of the nobility and their time was already passing in France.
"Non, monsieur. We have evidence. Will you come with us, or do we have to shoot you where you stand?"
"I should like to see you try," I answered, fuming.
"If that is what you wish..." As he spoke, two of his companions came into plainer sight and I could see that they were levelling weapons at me. Still, what are shields for anyway? As they moved in, I triggered the spell which would render them unconscious for long enough to allow me to make my escape.
And nothing happened.
Nothing of the kind had ever happened to me before, and it both surprised and frightened me. For the first time in many years I felt vulnerable. However, I did not have long to think. Two of the revolutionaries had started up the stairs towards me. I brought my blade to bear, and prepared to defend myself. The first man got too close to me, and was soon falling back down the stairs, blood coming from my cut to his side. Then I heard the sound of a flintlock being cocked behind me. Startled, I turned, while remaining aware that there was at least one other man on the stairs behind me, to be met by the sight of Suzanne standing on the stairs above me, a pistol aimed directly at me.
"Drop the sword, Robert," she said, quietly, "now, before I have to kill you," and I could hear the tension in her voice.
"You..." I muttered in disbelief, "why are you helping them?"
"Believe me, my love, I have no choice."
My first instinct was to disobey. What right had any of them to make demands of me in my own house, and anyway, she wouldn't actually shoot, would she?
I brought to mind a spell that would actually do the murderers some damage, although not fatally, but once again nothing happened when I triggered it. What was wrong with me?
Then I heard the explosion as the pistol in Suzanne's hand went off, and at the same time I felt a burning sensation in my temple as the ball grazed my skull - just as if the shield were not there. It was more surprise at this than anything else which made me let the weapon I was holding drop to the floor. I stared at her, unable to believe that she had actually tried to kill me. Then I felt my arms being grabbed by two of the revolutionaries.
"Thank you, Citoyenne," I heard their leader say, "be assured that you aid has guaranteed your brother safe conduct out of France. This man is very dangerous, and is an enemy of the revolution."
I looked at him, finally recognising him as Duvalier, one of the truly fanatical revolutionaries, and then glanced back at my lover. Her composure had gone, and as I was taken away down the stairs I saw her sink to the floor, sobbing.
I was dragged outside to a waiting carriage, and was driven through the streets of Paris. In the carriage with me were four men. Three of them were armed to the teeth, but the fourth, who was older, and dressed somewhat better than the others, just sat at the opposite side of the coach from me and watched me. I closed my eyes, both trying to feign sleep and also in an attempt to relieve the pain from the still bleeding graze on my temple, and started working on bringing a teleport spell to mind. So, I would be abandoning my house in Paris indefinitely if I chose to leave that way, but it was better than the alternative.
"Do not bother to try, de Lacie," said the well dressed man, in a voice that was almost too quiet to hear, "your magic will be of no use to you here."
"What makes you think I was considering using magic?" I asked, trying to sound conversational, rather than curious.
"You have already tried at least twice, and I know just how successful those attempts were," he replied, "although were our positions reversed I suspect that I would not be listening to my advice either."
I tried to trigger the spell anyway, but once again nothing happened. It was as if my magic had been stripped away from me.
"Who are you?" I asked, finally, opening my eyes once more.
"My name is Antoine de Vassigny," he replied, smiling, "you may have heard of me."
Indeed I had. When I had been living in Paris as early as 1745 I had heard de Vassigny's name mentioned. He was a mage of some skill even then, and it was claimed, however fantastically, that he had sold his soul to increase his personal power. Taking into account that there were members of the Court of France who truly believed that such a thing was possible, and had pursued it themselves, the rumours concerning the man had lasted longer, and had been given more credence than many, preposterous as they might sound to you now.
I had avoided encountering him in the circles I usually frequented at that time, however I suppose all good things have to come to an end, and the irony of being in his custody, accused of his crimes, was not wasted on me. What goes around, comes around.
"Yes, I have heard of you," I conceded, "or at least someone who bore the same name as you. I am sure he should be dead by now - or at least, considerably older." As I have said before, the youth spells were still experimental then, and very few people knew how to cast them.
"As should you, my dear Duke."
"Marquis...you have mistaken me for someone else, I think."
"No, I do not believe so. You see, I also remember you - or someone very like you - from many years ago. Certainly you bear a startling resemblance to the man I recall."
"And who, pray tell, would that be?" I suppose I was asking for form's sake, however I was curious as to how much he had guessed about me. I was also interested in how he knew my true appearance, but supposed that the disguise spells, too, had been stripped away from me.
"There was an English duke who spent a lot of time in Paris in the late 40s and early 50s. He was also a mage, and he and his friends proved to be a thorn in my side on a number of occasions."
I was surprised at his admission, as I had no recollection of ever working against him personally. However I had to admit to myself that it was possible I might have ruined plans he had set in motion. After all, myself and several companions had actively worked against some of the more radical elements of the so-called "Satanists" at Court.
"So who was this duke?"
"He was a namesake of yours, in fact - although he always insisted on the English pronunciation of his name, not the French."
"It is possible, I suppose. My family do have distant relatives in England - several of my ancestors aided William when he ventured across the Channel in one thousand and sixty-six." The information was actually true, as far as it went. The Harcouët title had been in my family since then, and I had merely found it convenient to take it up.
"Of course," he said, with a dismissive gesture of the hand, "that must be it," and with that he lapsed back into silence. In response, I leaned back into the seat cushions and waited.
Finally, the carriage drew to a halt, and I was bundled out of it. I found myself in front of a sturdy, stone built edifice which was obviously being used as a prison, and was very aware of de Vassigny about three paces behind me. Duvalier nimbly jumped down off the driver's box to join us, and I was taken none too gently inside and hauled into a sparsely furnished room. Within a couple of minutes, my captors and I had been joined by four other men, and Duvalier had crossed to stand with them.
"This hearing of the revolutionary court is now in session," he said, once they were seated in the only chairs in the room, "the accused is charged with treason, murder and diabolism." He paused for a moment, just long enough to hear the outraged exclamations of his companions, and then continued. "Harcouët, how do you answer the charges against you?"
"Not guilty on all counts," I replied.
"Is that so? Then pray tell us what other reason an Englishman would have for masquerading as a Frenchman, if not to spy?"
"You are mistaken. As I was saying to Citoyen de Vassigny, I think you have mistaken me for someone else - one of my English cousins." I hasten to add at this point that by then I considered my French to be near perfect, and I did not think that they would be able to trip me up on that score.
"And the other charges?"
"I am neither a murderer, not a follower of Satan...indeed, I have worked against those who are."
"You claim not to be a murderer, and yet you attacked one of those who was sent to apprehend you, and he lies near death, with his survival very much in doubt," accused Duvalier.
"That is called self defence," I protested.
"No, it is the attempted murder of an officer of the National Guard in the pursuance of his duty," came the reply, "and you will be punished for it."
"You are an alchemist, are you not?" said of the other inquisitors, changing the subject presumably to throw me off balance. I considered denying the charge, but decided that there was no point. I had not made a secret of it, because before the Revolution it was not a crime.
"I am," I finally replied, cautiously, "but what bearing does that have on your accusations?"
"It is well known that the Art of Khem is inspired by dark powers, rather than light," came the response.
"Then you are sorely mistaken," I answered, trying to remain calm. It would be unwise at best to give vent to the anger I could feel building within me, "like anything else, it is not the science that it is good or evil. It is the purpose to which it is put that makes the difference, and I have never used it for ill."
"Of course you would say that," said de Vassigny from behind me.
"It happens to be the truth," I replied, failing to keep the anger completely out of my voice.
"Lying dog," shouted Duvalier, rising from his seat, and at his signal one of the guards struck me.
"I am not lying," I answered, trying not to be provoked further, even though the side of my face stung where the blow had landed, "by what right do you charge me with this?"
"You have been witnessed practising your dark arts. You have made compounds and then had your agents give them to other citoyens who died within hours."
"Who?" I asked, incredulous.
"Several of the families in the rue Vaurigard and the rue Saint-Georges," replied Duvalier I thought back, and realised that he must mean some of the poorer families I had seen treated for cholera over recent months. The outbreak had been swift and vicious and in many cases there was very little that could be done. Then he spoke again. "My family was among them."
My heart sank as he said that, because it meant that of the six men in the room with true power, two had what they saw as a personal grievance against me, rather than just wishing to act "for the glory of the Revolution".
"The compounds I made were to relieve their suffering," I tried to explain, "but for most of them there was nothing that could be done to save them."
"That is easy for you to say now," said one of my other judges, a man I recognised as Charles Bouchet, "but none of them are here to testify to that. You had those citoyens poisoned, and you will pay the price."
"You're wrong," I protested, but even as I did so I could tell that it was pointless. The expressions of my accusers were stony, and I knew before they spoke what their judgement would be.
"Be quiet, murderer," thundered Duvalier, but a gesture from the man on the extreme right of the group silenced him. Then the man stood up, and delivered their decision in a voice that was as cold as ice. I had heard him speak before, to the masses, and knew him to be Citoyen Robespierre.
"It is the judgement of this court that you are guilty of murder and treason, de Lacie," he said, quietly. "On the third charge, there is one last test that will either prove or disprove your innocence. De Vassigny, if you will..?"
The man behind me stepped forward, a small silver crucifix in one hand. However, as he did so I was filled with horror at the sight of it. As a mage I was very sensitive to the curse that had been placed upon it.
"The way you can prove your innocence, to the last charge at least, is by taking the cross from de Vassigny," said Robespierre, calmly. I looked at him, then back at the black mage. Having seen what he held, I had no doubts now that the rumours about him were true. I was very neatly trapped.
"Something wrong, de Lacie?" asked de Vassigny, innocently, but I could see a look of triumph in his eyes.
"You know damn well what's wrong," I replied, but my antagonist just smiled.
"Take it, dog," demanded Bouchet.
I reached towards it, using all my strength of will to stop myself recoiling from it, and tried to touch it. The pain as it burned my hand surprised me all the same, and I could not stop myself from crying out and pulling back my hand, shaking it to try and rid it of the pain.
"Guilty as charged," said Duvalier, a look of pure joy on his features, "Robert de Lacie, formerly the Marquis du Harcouët, you will be taken from this place in the morning, and will die by the guillotine. Guards, take him away."
"You can't do this," I protested. While I knew it was hopeless, it at least made me feel better.
"Silence," ordered Robespierre, "or the sentence will be changed to death by burning, as befits the most heinous of your crimes."
With that, my judges rose and left the room, leaving me with de Vassigny and three guards.
"I trust you now see the error of opposing me, de Lacie," he said, very quietly.
"You are punishing me for the crimes of another," I replied, as firmly as I could. However, by then my head was aching and all I wanted to do was sit down.
"I don't think so," he replied, in a voice that made Robespierre's sound warm, "if you aren't the erstwhile Duke of Worcester, then you are his bastard. The resemblance between you - under those pretty spells you were wearing - is too strong for it to be otherwise. I will admit I favour the latter, though, after all it isn't easy to feign one's death and I believe the Duchy changed hands some years ago. However, it is no matter. You will pay for your father's actions against myself and the Circle - and when I get my hands on his friend Ragoczy I shall do the same to him...Guards, take the prisoner to his cell to ponder his last few hours."
Two of the men grabbed my arms and I was marched out of the room. As before, my antagonist followed a short distance behind me, and I was escorted to a cell. It was small, dirty and squalid, with just a waste hole in the corner and a straw pallet on the floor as furnishings. I was pushed inside, barely keeping my feet but determined that de Vassigny would not see me fall, and the thick wooden door was slammed and locked behind me. Then I heard the sound of two sets of footsteps marching off down the hall.
After they had gone, I brought a teleport spell to mind, just in case. However, when I tried to trigger it I got the result I had been expecting. Once again, nothing happened. Either de Vassigny was planning to stand outside all night, or he had set the same "null-magic" field on the cell in advance of my arrival.
I thumped on the cell door for a couple of minutes, just for form's sake, and then retired to the sleeping pallet to consider my predicament. The problem appeared to be that while I could bring my magic to mind, the power that was needed to cast it drained away before I could use it. However, as I pondered the matter, once thing became more apparent. De Vassigny had always been a short distance from me. Even when he had held the cursed cross in front of me it had been at arm's length and I had been at the same. At no point had he got within three feet of me.
So what was the nature of his spell? Was it purely on me, or was it around the area where I was standing? I was inclined to believe the latter from his behaviour, which meant that if I got within that distance of him he would probably either have to drop the field or be rendered powerless himself. With this in mind, I leaned back against the damp, filthy wall of my cell and started to think of alternatives.
It didn't seem like hours until the cell door opened again, and when it did, de Vassigny was there as if he had been all along. He looked considerably fresher than I did, though. Two of the guards came in, pulled my hands behind my back and manacled them together. The chains were tight, but at least I had some chance of breaking them. The problem would be getting the opportunity to do so.
Once again my enemy stood a few paces behind me, but I had no doubt that he would be within my reach when I made my move. After all, it was either that or Duvalier and his cronies lost me for good. I was taken out to the waiting tumbril which was used to transport the prisoners to their appointment with Madame, and when I reached it, I was startled to see that Jean-Paul du Près was already standing in the back, still as obviously a prisoner as I was. When I saw him, I thought of Suzanne and her part in my own capture, and could not decide whether to be sorry for her or pleased that she, too, had been betrayed. I settled on the former.
Three others were brought out to join us, none of whom I recognised, and then the driver whipped the horses and started the short drive to the place of execution. De Vassigny walked behind us and a little to the left - within the cordon of revolutionaries who were flanking the cart to stop the other citoyens from getting too close. Still, the various missiles that were thrown at us were bad enough - I saw Jean-Paul reel as he was hit in the face by a some indeterminate variety of rotten vegetable, and I gasped as a heavy stone hit me in the ribs, cracking one of them.
And you wonder why I threw my lot in with those who later tried to rescue others from the same fate.
As we trundled through the streets, I worked on the chain between my wrists. I had always been stronger than those around me - even if not in terms of those I now know of as my family - and I hoped that the edge that gave me would be enough. At last, to my relief, I felt one of the links of the chain give sufficiently that it just needed one hard tug to part. Now I just had to keep this fact concealed from my captors, and took silent comfort from the fact that we were standing in the cart facing outwards, not inwards.
Finally, far too soon, we reached our destination and the back of the cart was lowered. The crowd was baying for blood, but the person who caught my eye was Suzanne. She was standing to one side of the platform, a look of sheer horror on her face. She had recognised her brother first, and then I thought I saw a flash of recognition when she realised who I was. Before my eyes I saw her go pale, and then she tried to fight her way towards us, however the men surrounding us prevented her passage. In the end she was pulled back by the mob and I lost sight of her.
Then, to the adulation of the crowd, the first of our number was hauled down and marched up the steps to the platform, whereupon the executioner declared to the people that the Marquis de St. Cyr had been found guilty of treason. For my part, I hoped that I would get the opportunity to reach de Vassigny before it was my turn. Until then there was really nothing I could do.
As the blade came down, and the crowd roared their appreciation, I got my chance. My adversary moved in a little closer, to give approval to St. Cyr's death, and I saw the opportunity I was looking for. I broke the chain to give my hands some manoeuvrability, and launched myself off the back of the cart, hitting de Vassigny in the back. I felt my left wrist fold under me as I landed badly, and fought down the gasp of pain. However, as planned, my enemy fell to the ground, winded. Now was when I discovered whether my theory was correct.
I triggered the spell to recall my sword to my right hand, and to my vast relief it appeared. I placed it at his throat, while the assembled citoyens looked on in shocked amazement. I felt de Vassigny begin to cast a spell of his own, but I beat him to the punch - the one I wanted was already to mind. The pair of us, plus Jean-Paul and our co-prisoners, disappeared from the place of execution, and reappeared in one of the side chapels of Notre Dame cathedral.
De Vassigny's scream rent the air, and all thoughts of casting a counter spell were forced from his mind. Relentless, I kept hold of him, unwilling to let him free. Over to one side I could see Jean-Paul and the others looking at me with shocked expressions on their faces.
"Go. Get out of here," I urged, "before the priests arrive."
"How?" asked Jean-Paul, finally, trying to separate his arms. I suppose he had a point. Trying to ignore de Vassigny's continued screaming, I brought another spell to mind, and sent them on their way. Andrew would be able to free them once they arrived in the great hall at Millbank. I, however, needed to continue pressing my advantage until my prisoner was disabled - and while I could have taken him home to the family church, I did not want to give him the opportunity to see the place, in case he came visiting later.
Moments after they had gone, the first priest - a man of slightly more than middle years - came into the chapel.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. I have to admit that I must have made a pretty startling sight: the blood from the wound I had taken when I was arrested had dried and cracked down the side of my face, and I was standing there with manacles around my wrists and a sword to the throat of a screaming man.
"My apologies, Father, but I would very much like your help," I replied, with as much dignity as I could muster. It wasn't a lot, I have to admit.
"Who are you?" he demanded as two other priests came into the chapel, crossed themselves and stepped towards myself and de Vassigny.
"That really doesn't matter. What is more important is that I need your assistance in dealing with this man."
De Vassigny was sagging by now, as the consecrated ground had the effect on him that I had hoped. However, as his exposed hands and head touched the floor, his flesh began to burn and he began screaming again with renewed vigour. In the end I had pity on him and put him to sleep, although not without a fight - his mind was as strong as any I had encountered before.
The priests could obviously recognise the symptoms of what had afflicted my adversary, and looked truly shocked. One of them ran out of the chapel, obviously to get help, while the others considered me with a combination of fear and condemnation.
"You should not have done this to him, my son," said the first priest.
"I had no other choice," I replied, unrepentant.
"What you have done comes dangerously close to defiling this place."
"I understand that, Father, but I could think of no alternative. I did not wish to be killed for his crimes. If you believe that that is wrong, then I am in no position to argue your judgement at this moment in time."
"Who are you?" he asked again.
"I cannot tell you that," I answered, trying to catch his eye to persuade him to cease his questioning. He must have realised what I was attempting to do, however, as he averted his gaze and just shook his head sadly. Any further comment he was about to make was lost as the third priest came back with a group of men. My heart sank as I noticed that two or three of them were again wearing the cockade of the Revolution, and I recognised one of them as one of those who had arrested me the night before. Unfortunately, he also recognised me.
He stepped towards me, as if to try and grab me, but I stepped back and came on guard. Believe me, fighting in a church is not something I am wont to do, but just then I was prepared to defend myself. I was not going to let them take me again without a fight.
"Leave him," commanded the old priest.
"But Father Laurent, that man is a prisoner of the Revolution, accused of murder, treason and worshipping the Devil."
The priest just smiled. "I cannot comment on the former accusations, but as you can see the latter is completely unfounded. If it were true, then he would not - could not - be standing on consecrated ground. I suggest you look to the unconscious man on the floor to find your diabolist."
De Vassigny lay motionless, his chest no longer rising and falling. The burns on his hands and face were still worsening, and he was barely recognisable.
"Good citoyens, please remove that man from this place and deal with him as you see fit," said Father Laurent, indicating my adversary, "but be assured that I will inform the Cardinal what has transpired here."
"And the Marquis du Harcouët..?"
"Will remain under the protection of the Church until such time as you can present genuine charges against him."
I thought the man was going to argue further, but the youngest of the priests diverted the group's attention to de Vassigny. With a last foul look in my direction, the men picked up the body of the black mage and slowly bore it out of the cathedral. Father Laurent and I watched them go, and then he turned towards me.
"Do you have anything else to say, my son?"
"I really don't believe I had a choice, Father. The man was going to have me executed, for crimes that he himself had committed."
"And the charges of treason and murder?"
"As false as the third."
He looked straight at me, and I almost felt as if he was reading my very soul. The ability to use magic is not the only manifestation of the Talent. Then he nodded. "What do you intend to do now?"
"To leave this place, and to give you no further trouble," I replied, "however, I am very grateful for your help."
"If you walk out of the doors they will rip you apart like wolves do their prey," he commented, with a look of disgust on his face, "while it is not really my place to say so, at times they act like animals."
"I do not plan to walk," I answered. My intention was to teleport back to my dusty private rooms at Millbank. Once again I felt his gaze on me, and he inclined his head once more.
"Go in peace, my son," he said, making the sign of the cross in blessing.
"I will remember what you did for me this morning," I said, quietly, "and I hope that one day I will be able to repay the favour."
"That is not why I helped you, du Harcouët," he replied, and then he turned and left.