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  Praise for Pierre Pevel and The Cardinal’s Blades:

  ‘This is a swashbuckling novel packed with rooftop chases, back-alley swordfights, epic tavern brawls, clandestine roadside meetings in coaches and cool diplomatic exchanges between men of power where what is left unsaid can be as important as what is voiced … Overall, The Cardinal’s Blades is a rollicking good book, full of action, adventure, mystery and some quite delicious intrigue’

  The Wertzone

  ‘If you are looking for a swashbuckler, you won’t be disappointed with The Cardinal’s Blades, especially if you like your swashbuckling with a smattering of history’

  Interzone

  ‘If I had to sum up The Cardinal’s Blades in two words, they would be: great fun. This is the France of Alexandre Dumas and Fanfan la Tulipe: a land of flashing blades and break-neck chases, beautiful women and gallant warriors, of masquerades and midnight plots and sword play’

  Strange Horizons

  ‘A fantasy novel of depth and style … Thanks to Pevel’s eye for detail, swashbuckling action and characterisation this is something quite original’

  SciFi Now

  ‘An enormously thigh-slapping, cheering, toasting, roaring, puking, bawling, galloping, adventuring hearty piece of fiction’

  Adam Roberts

  ‘A fast-moving fantasy of sword play, disguise and deception in the Paris of The Three Musketeers, with the blood of dragons splashed across the unforeseen consequences of follies and tragedies past. Dumas would surely approve and I loved it’

  Juliet E. McKenna

  This book is dedicated to my father

  PIERRE PEVEL

  Translated by Tom Clegg

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Pierre Pevel

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Maps

  July 1633

  I: The Chatelaines’ Prisoner

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  II: The Arcana

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  III: Bois-Noir

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  IV: The Primordial

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Pierre Pevel

  Copyright

  July 1633

  Night coiled itself around Mont-Saint-Michel.

  Forbidding but elegant, the abbey built on the summit overlooked the immense bay that stretched out below it, still damp from the last tide and crossed by short-lived streams. A thin crescent moon floated in an ink-black sky. Just above the sands, dragonnets dove and twirled in the banks of mist, their wings tearing it away in tatters that immediately dissipated in the air.

  A rider came to halt on the shore. She was young and beautiful, slender in build, with a pale complexion, green eyes and full, dark lips. Her heavy black curls were gathered into a braid that had started to come undone during her long journey on horseback. She wore thigh boots, breeches and a white shirt beneath a thick red leather corset, and carried a sword at her hip. She was no ordinary rider. She was a baronne, bore the name of Agnès de Vaudreuil, and belonged to an elite unit serving at the command of Cardinal Richelieu: the Cardinal’s Blades. But her past concealed other secrets, most of them painful.

  One of them had brought her here.

  Agnès considered the abbey for a moment, its Gothic spire and tall shadowy buildings, and the village that slumbered beneath its walls, sheltered behind solid ramparts. Having undergone various changes over the centuries, the site now belonged to the Sisters of Saint Georges, the famous Chatelaines. The mission assigned to this religious order was to protect the French throne from the threat of dragons, waging a veritable war against them. And no war could be won without possessing a strong citadel. The abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel had become the Chatelaines’ citadel, and they had proceeded to enlarge and embellish it, hollowing out mysterious underground chambers beneath it and covering its roofs above with draconite – a rare alchemical stone as black and shiny as obsidian. Pilgrims ceased to visit. These days, the abbey was more often referred to as ‘Mont-des-Chatelaines’ than as Mont-Saint-Michel.

  Referred to with a certain hint of fear …

  Sitting straight, her hands on the pommel of her saddle, Agnès eased her shoulders slightly forward and closed her eyes. Perhaps to catch the caress of the sea breeze. Or perhaps to collect her thoughts and summon her courage. She only opened them when she heard another rider arrive behind her. She didn’t turn to look. She knew who it was.

  Ballardieu drew up by her side. Squat and heavily built, the old soldier presented the ruddy face of a man who had no fear of indulging in wine and good food. He had put on weight over the years and no doubt he walked with a slower step now than in his youth. But it would be a mistake to be taken in by that, for he remained a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘No one followed us,’ he announced.

  Agnès glanced at him.

  ‘Good,’ she said with a nod.

  With Ballardieu watching her out of the corner of his eye, she looked up at the abbey again. Her beautiful face was grave, and a curl of black hair fluttered at her cheek.

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  She urged her horse forward.

  Mont-Saint-Michel was a craggy island, surrounded by water at high tide. It was crowned by the imposing and mysterious Chatelaine abbey, while the village occupied its two more accessible sides – so accessible, in fact, that ramparts had been built to defend them. In contrast, even at low tide the western and northern sides of the island were impregnable. Here there were no walls, towers, or gates, just steep, rocky slopes that were hidden by dense trees, condemning any attackers to attempt an impossible climb.

  Agnès and Ballardieu made a wide detour before approaching the mount again from the north. They stopped in the shelter of a spur of rock on which stood an ancient chapel dedicated to Saint Aubert. They dismounted and, handing her reins to the old soldier, Agnès observed the night sky before saying:

  ‘I must hurry …’

  ‘Are you sure you would not rather—’

  ‘Stay here and mind you keep the horses out of sight. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Be careful, girl. Don’t make me come and get you.’

  Ballardieu watched with a worried gaze as the young woman moved quickly towards an old tower that stood below the first of the rocky cliffs. This tower housed a spring that had once provided Mont-Saint-Michel with fresh water. Originally it had been accessible via a narrow stairway between high walls that descended directly from the abbey. The stairs were no longer maintained, but they were still passable. Following her instructions, Agnès knocked at the door that guarded their entry and waited.

  The door opened slightly and a sister of the Order of Saint Georges peeped out warily. She was young. No doubt she had only taken her vows in the past year.

  ‘I am Agnès de Vaudreuil.’

  The sister nodded and hastily let Agnès pass. She was wearing an ample black cloak and hood over her white robe and veil. She held a similar cloak out to the baronne de Vaudreuil, and said:

  ‘This is for you. I am Sœur Marie-Bénédicte.’

  ‘Please don’t lock the door, sister,’ Agnès requested as she pulled on the loose-fitting garment.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘If I must make my escape on my own, I would prefer not to break my neck running into it.’

  ‘Escape?’

  ‘You never know, sister …’

  Worried, and visibly pressed for time, t
he young Chatelaine conceded the point.

  As she followed the sister up the steps, Agnès recalled her own novitiate in the religious order. Had she really been so young, when she was forced to make the choices that would decide her future? She could scarcely believe it. And yet she had come very close to taking the veil.

  The stairway was so steep it couldn’t be climbed without growing short of breath. When they reached the top, a second door was unlocked and opened onto a narrow terrace looking out at the tall façade of a Gothic building that was impressive both in its size and its beauty: the church known as ‘La Merveille’. The terrace served as a defensive walkway. Agnès and the Chatelaine quickly crossed it, and the baronne allowed herself to be led into the secret heart of the abbey.

  Happily, there were few sentries about.

  As a result, and despite her fears, Sœur Marie-Bénédicte was able to deliver Agnès to her destination without mishap. The sister opened the door at the end of a narrow archway, and followed the baronne inside after giving a last nervous glance around. They found themselves in a dark vestibule, where a burning oil lamp cast only a dim glow. The young Chatelaine lit a torch before leading them into a blind corridor.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, halting before a door.

  She looked furtively to left and right before pushing it open and then moving aside.

  ‘Be quick,’ she murmured. ‘They could discover I took the keys at any moment.’

  The baronne de Vaudreuil nodded and, unaccompanied, entered the austere, windowless convent cell. A woman lay sleeping on the narrow bed. Agnès had trouble recognising the beautiful face in the shadows, its pale features marked by fatigue. But it was Sœur Béatrice d’Aussaint. What ordeal could have affected her so deeply?

  Béatrice and Agnès had first met and been friends during their novitiate. But Sœur Béatrice had taken the veil and even gone on to become a ‘louve’, or a she-wolf, as the young baronne had originally hoped to do herself. Forming an exclusive band within the Sisters of Saint Georges, the Louves blanches, or White Wolves, took their name from the Saint-Loup convent where they were based, as well as from their military calling and their tendency to hunt in packs. Both nuns and warriors, the White Wolves rode on horseback and tracked down dragons, often armed with no more than a draconite blade and the shield of their faith. Agnès had little doubt that Sœur Béatrice d’Aussaint was one of the best.

  Removing her black cloak, the baronne sat on the bed by the sleeping woman and touched her hand. Sœur Béatrice immediately opened her eyes, and Agnès was forced to bite back a gasp of surprise when she saw their glassy whiteness and realised her friend was blind.

  ‘Agnès? Is that you, Agnès?’

  ‘Yes, Béatrice. It’s me.’

  ‘Lord be praised! My prayers are answered!’

  ‘My God, Béatrice, your eyes! What happened?’ asked Agnès in a soft voice.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just the price of … It won’t last, I believe.’

  ‘The price of what?’

  ‘You must know, Agnès. You must see what I have seen!’

  The louve tried to sit up in her bed, but Agnès prevented her, gently pressing down on her shoulders and saying:

  ‘Calm yourself, Béatrice. You need to rest. I can come back later.’

  ‘No!’ cried the other woman. ‘Now! It can’t wait! Give me your hands, Agnès.’ The sister’s fingers gripped those of the baronne. ‘And now, see … See,’ she repeated in a weaker tone. ‘You must … see.’

  Her milky white eyes darkened as if injected with a black liquid, and suddenly Agnès’ awareness plunged into their abysmal depths.

  And she saw.

  It was night. Panicked crowds ran through streets lit by flames to the sound of a deafening, crackling roar. Fire rained from the sky in brief but powerful gouts, belched out by a great black dragon. Incandescent blasts struck the rooftops; the dazzling columns produced explosions of tiles and red-hot sprays of particles fell to the ground below. The city’s bells were pealing in alarm. The terrorised residents jostled, fought and trampled one another in their desire to flee. Fear and panic were killing as many people as the fires and the collapsing buildings. Some soldiers were firing their muskets futilely into the air. Human torches wriggled and thrashed horribly. The blazes consumed entire neighbourhoods and the whole immense conflagration was reflected in the dark waters of the Seine as it flowed past the Louvre. The royal palace, too, had been set alight.

  Paris burned, helplessly exposed to the rage of a dragon whose onyx scales glowed red and gold. It roared, spat and exulted. A single crafted jewel shone flamboyantly upon its brow. Its fire lashed out as it descended from on high to skim over the rooftops. Then it rose again with a few beats of its wings, leaving a swathe of destruction in its wake. The creature was immense and powerful, its anger bestial. It lingered for a moment in the black skies, contemplating its work, no doubt searching for another spot to continue its ravages. Then, having found its goal, it dove back towards the flames and the horror …

  Suddenly, the bells of Notre-Dame began to toll.

  Agnès came back to her senses with a jolt.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she was stunned for a moment by this shared vision which had seemed so powerful, so vivid, so real. Then the full realisation of what she had seen struck her with all its terror.

  Sœur Béatrice had relinquished her grip on the baronne’s hands. Her eyes had turned milky again and, having fainted, her face now expressed a measure of peaceful release: finally freed of a burden she had borne to the very limits of her strength.

  ‘No … no!’ Agnès exclaimed. ‘Béatrice! You must explain this to me! You must!’

  She took hold of the Chatelaine by the shoulders, sat her up and shook her, forcing her to respond:

  ‘Tell me, Béatrice! What did I see? What did you show me?’

  ‘This … this will come to pass,’ the louve murmured.

  ‘Who is that dragon? Where does it come from?’

  ‘No … No name … The Primordial … The Primordial of the Arcana …’

  ‘What? I don’t understand, Béatrice. Speak sense, I beg of you!’

  Struggling against exhaustion, Sœur Béatrice replied:

  ‘The Arcana … Beware of the Arcana … and of the Heir … There are many of them … The Alchemist …’

  ‘The Alchemist?’

  Just then, Sœur Marie-Bénédicte opened the door from the corridor and announced:

  ‘It’s time, madame.’

  ‘One moment,’ said Agnès, without turning round. Still holding Sœur Béatrice by the shoulders, she asked her, ‘This alchemist, it’s the Alchemist of the Shadows, isn’t it?’

  ‘The Alchemist … of the Shadows.’

  ‘It’s time to leave, madame!’ the young Chatelaine insisted.

  ‘Then leave!’ Agnès snapped sharply.

  Turning back to the louve, who was beginning to nod off, she said, ‘Béatrice, the Alchemist has been taken care of. You haven’t heard, but we defeated him. He can no longer harm any—’

  ‘The Alchemist … The queen … in danger …’

  ‘No, Béatrice. Calm down. The queen is safe, I assure you. You must tell me about the black dragon. I need know what—’

  ‘The queen …The Heir …’

  ‘The dragon, Béatrice! The dragon!’

  But Sœur Béatrice had lost consciousness again, and Agnès laid her head on the pillow before turning back to the doorway …

  … to find that the young Chatelaine was no longer there.

  The baronne swore and went out into corridor. It was empty: Sœur Marie-Bénédicte hadn’t waited for her. Swearing even more roundly, she swept her black cloak about her and set forth. Would she be able to find the way out on her own? She reached the vestibule where the Chatelaine had lit her torch and almost ran into someone. It was the sister returning.

  ‘Some louves have arrived,’ she announced. ‘Three of them. On wyverns.’
>
  ‘So?’

  ‘They were not expected,’ the young Chatelaine explained anxiously. ‘One went to wake the mother superior. The other two have summoned the guards and—’

  She did not finish, for just then the bells began to ring.

  Nagged by worry, and spurred on by his instincts, Ballardieu became convinced something had gone wrong when he saw three wyverns in white harness arrive. He was nearly halfway up the stairs leading to the abbey when he heard the bells start to toll. The old soldier picked up his pace, swearing under his breath as he climbed.

  ‘Leave me,’ said Agnès in a low voice.

  Her tone brooked no argument.

  She and Sœur Marie-Bénédicte had paused at the corner of a building. The bells were still ringing and the abbey was beginning to stir.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ responded the young Chatelaine.

  ‘Leave me here, and go back … Go to wherever you should be.’

  ‘Madame, I promised Mère de Cernay—’

  Interrupting her, Agnès took the nun by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.

  ‘Listen to me, sister. You have done all you can. Soon, this place will be swarming with guards. I am used to these situations and I can outwit the sentries more easily if I am on my own. Off with you!’

  ‘Will you be able to find your way?’

  ‘Of course,’ the baronne de Vaudreuil lied. ‘Now, go! Run! And thank you.’

  At first reluctantly, then with a swifter step, the young Chatelaine moved away and disappeared beneath an arch.

  Still hoping to leave the abbey by the route she came in, Agnès headed for the long narrow terrace at the top of the abandoned old stairway. From there, she intended to go back down to the bay and rejoin Ballardieu by the Saint-Aubert chapel as quickly as possible. The old soldier must have heard the bells and she knew him well enough to know that he would not sit still for long …

  Avoiding a patrol that hurried past, Agnès made her way by guesswork through the maze of buildings forming the abbey. She had almost reached her goal when she made an error and climbed a flight of stairs. Her blunder allowed her to evade a second patrol which was investigating more slowly and thoroughly than the first, but it brought her to a sort of balcony from where she could only gaze helplessly at the terrace she was trying to reach. The detour saved her from worse trouble than the patrol, however, when she saw guards moving back and forth along the terrace while a figure in white – one of the louves, no doubt – gave them their orders. Armed men were already making their way down the stairway that led to the old spring.