by Sarah Ash
The director came running into the courtyard.
“What in God's name—?” he began, then fell silent as both men stared at the top of the tower. The prisoner's cell was shrouded in shadow and little flashes of energy crackled and flickered about the conical roof.
A flash of dazzling light seared their eyes and the top of the tower exploded, shattered stones and tiles showering down into the courtyard. The jailer pulled his stunned master to the ground, covering his head with his hands. As he glanced fearfully up, he saw—or thought he saw—a great winged creature, blue as midnight, wheeling away through the cloud-veiled sky.
“No one could have survived such a lightning strike,” said the director, getting unsteadily to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes. The jagged ruins of the broken tower were silhouetted all too clearly against the clearing sky.
“But d—didn't you see it, Director?” the jailer stammered. “The winged creature… like a dragon…”
“A dragon?” The director gave him a stern look. “I have no idea what you're babbling about. I will inform the Emperor straightaway that the prisoner died when lightning struck his cell.”
“Captain Peillac has just informed me that we'll reach Tielen by dawn.” Jagu ducked as he entered Andrei's cabin to avoid hitting his head. He set down a bottle of red wine and proceeded to pour with a steady hand. “So that gives us plenty of time to make the journey to Swanholm.” He handed both Celestine and Andrei a glass, then lifted his own in a toast. “To your miraculous survival, my lord Andrei.”
“Miraculous?” Andrei took a sip of the wine. “If you hadn't sent out your men to the rescue—”
“I was referring to the creature that plucked the old man from the waves,” Jagu said.
Andrei set his glass down. “You saw it, then?” A lost, sad look clouded his eyes.
“What was it, Andrei?” Celestine was gazing sympathetically at him. Jagu leaned back against the cabin wall; it was best to let her charm the facts from the young prince.
“It healed me. Whether it was a spirit that haunted the place where I was shipwrecked, or it sought me out for some purpose of its own, I don't know. All I know is it healed my body and restored my mind.”
“It healed you?” Celestine shot Jagu a swift, meaningful glance. “Did it ever reveal its purpose to you?”
“Not on Lapwing Spar, no. But in Mirom it spoke to me. It said, ‘You were born to rule. But it is too soon.’”
” ‘Born to rule,’” echoed Celestine. “And then it abandoned you?”
“I don't know why. For a moment I thought I heard a distant voice crying out for help.” Andrei gulped down his wine. “But it might have been Kuzko.” His voice faltered and Jagu refilled his glass. “Where was Eugene's war fleet going in such a hurry?”
“We asked ourselves the same question,” Jagu replied. “Who knows where Eugene's ambitions will lead him next?”
“Our countries have always been allies, Andrei,” Celestine said in Francian. “Your command of our language is excellent. We understand each other well, don't we? You've been deprived of your right to rule Muscobar by this new regime. Yet your family also claims descent from the Emperor Artamon. Had matters gone otherwise, you could have been Emperor of all Rossiya.”
“I could be Emperor?” Andrei said slowly. “But how? I have no country, no name, no troops at my disposal. The Muscobite army and navy have been absorbed into Eugene's forces.”
Celestine consulted Jagu with another glance. He nodded. Then she turned to Andrei and said, “We believe that our master, King Enguerrand, would be very interested in meeting you.”
* * *
“I'm going to the council meeting,” said Enguerrand. “Alone. Without my mother.”
Ruaud de Lanvaux stared at his young protégé, astonished. “But with respect, sire, how can you keep her away?”
Enguerrand glanced round at Ruaud as Fragan, the king's valet, fussed about him, obsessively brushing his jacket and straightening his lace cravat. Ruaud caught a glint of a dark little smile behind Enguerrand's thick spectacle lenses. “I've contrived to send Maman on my behalf to open an orphanage. On the opposite side of the city.”
So Enguerrand was beginning to stand up to his domineering mother at last. Ruaud offered up a silent prayer of thanks as he followed him into the council chamber. The councillors rose with a scraping of chairs and bowed, waiting to sit until Enguerrand had taken his place at the head of the long table.
Chancellor Aiguillon, first minister of Francia, addressed the council.
“Your majesty, gentlemen of the council, we have received an impassioned plea for help from Smarna. Eugene's forces have imposed martial law.”
The councillors began to murmur among themselves. Ruaud was watching to see how Enguerrand would react to this disturbing news. He saw that the king's hands had tightened their grip on the arms of his chair until the knuckles were white.
“In view of the unstable situation,” Aiguillon went on, “I think it would be prudent, sire, to postpone your pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”
“Did my mother make that suggestion?” Enguerrand stared at Aiguillon and when he was a second or so late in replying, added, “Of course she did; your hesitation confirms it. But I tell you now, Aiguillon, that I will not let either my mother's overprotective nature or the Emperor's overweening ambitions interfere with my plans.”
Ruaud was surprised to hear how forcefully the young king had spoken. The whole council was listening attentively.
Enguerrand turned to Ruaud. “The Second Fleet is under orders to act as our escort, isn't that right, Grand Maistre?”
“Indeed so,” said Ruaud. “Your majesty will be traveling with an escort of twenty-five well-armed warships, under the command of Admiral Mercoeur.”
“I like this plan!” The Duc de Craon, Enguerrand's uncle, thumped the table enthusiastically. “That will place our ships close to Smarna, should the need arise…”
“Where will Eugene's ambition and greed for power stop? Francia could well be next! But”—and Aiguillon leaned forward over the council table— “we are well prepared this time. Grand Maistre, if you would be so good…”
Ruaud rose. “Twenty years ago, the Tielens destroyed our fleet in the Straits, using alchymical weapons devised by Kaspar Linnaius. And now, at last, we're in a position to retaliate. Acting on the intelligence of our agents, we have a plan in place to arrest Kaspar Linnaius, then destroy the alchymical munitions factories. The Armel fleet is on maneuvers off Fenez-Tyr. Admiral Romorantin is standing by to launch an attack on Eugene's naval dockyards just as soon as you give the order, sire.”
Enguerrand nodded.
“Arrest Kaspar Linnaius?” It was Inquisitor Visant who, until then, had not contributed anything to the meeting. “And how, precisely, are you going to achieve that, Maistre de Lanvaux? The self-styled Magus has persistently evaded all our attempts to bring him to justice. What makes you think you'll succeed where the Inquisition has failed?”
“I have every confidence in my agents,” Ruaud said patiently.
“Isn't it a little rash to hazard so many sailors’ lives on the assumption that your agents will capture Linnaius?”
“Isn't it more rash to sit passively by and wait for the Emperor to make his move against us?” Ruaud had not planned to oppose the Haute Inquisitor so openly in front of the council, but Visant had left him no choice.
“Then we will assure the Smarnan council that they can count on Francia's support.” Aiguillon looked round at all the councillors. “Any objections, gentlemen?”
“Such an assurance will commit us to a needless war with the Emperor,” protested Visant.
“Smarna today, Francia tomorrow,” said Aiguillon. Ruaud looked around, surprised to find an unexpected ally in the chancellor. “Let's act now before the situation deteriorates any further.” He turned to Enguerrand. “Sire?”
“I authorize the arrest of the Magus,” Enguerrand said. “And o
nce we have him in our custody, I say we strike at Eugene's dockyards.”
The councillors rose to their feet, applauding. All except Visant, who sat, stone-faced, staring at the council papers in front of him.
Gavril Nagarian opened his eyes. He was lying on a cliff top, gazing up into the brilliance of a sun-warmed blue sky.
“Free,” he whispered. “I'm free…” And then he remembered how he had come to escape the Iron Tower. “Why did you come back for me, Drakhaoul? I cast you out…”
” You called for me. You were dying.”
“And you rescued me…and healed me, in spite of what I did to you…”
“We are bonded for life, bonded by your blood,” whispered the daemon. “I need you as much as you need me.”
The image of Kiukiu's limp body still haunted Gavril, her throat marred by the ravages he had inflicted in his hunger. “I nearly killed her. The bloodlust was so strong, I couldn't control myself. Do you understand, Drakhaoul, why I sought the exorcism?”
“I understand that she means more to you than Azhkendir.”
Gavril put his hands to his head. He had had too much time in Arnskammar to try to square matters with his conscience. He had saved Kiukiu's life, but in losing the Drakhaoul, he had also lost his country to Eugene. It was a bitter fact to live with. “I—I love her more than life itself. She accepted me unquestioningly for what I was, half-man, half-monster. But now that we are united again, Drakhaoul, how can I ask her to take me back?”
The distant sound of cannon fire disturbed the drowsy silence of the grassy cliff. Gavril Nagarian got shakily to his feet and went toward the cliff edge to gaze out to sea. “But this is Smarna,” he said, astonished. “And what are all those warships doing in Vermeille Bay?” And then his surprise turned to anger as he recognized the Emperor's colors flying from the masts of every ship. They were bombarding the citadel of Colchise. Colchise, which had been his home for many years.
“No,” he murmured, feeling the anger burn fiercer within him, “I can't let this happen. This must stop. Drakhaoul!” he called suddenly.
“You are still weak, Gavril. Are you certain that you want to attack them?”
“If I don't strike now,” Gavril said, flinching as another round of shot smashed into the citadel walls, “then it will be too late.”
A few seconds later, a dark-winged dragon took to the air, darting straight toward the Rogned, the flagship of the Emperor's Southern Fleet.
CHAPTER 7
“Where is Andrei?” Celestine demanded. She had left Jagu alone with Andrei over the remains of their meal for only a few minutes while she collected a letter from the customs house, and now there was no sign of the prince.
“He went out for a walk along the jetty. Said he needed time to think. He's still cut up over the old man's death.”
“How could you let him out of your sight?” Sometimes she did not understand Jagu at all.
Jagu sighed and pointed out of the window. The sun was setting over Haeven and had half sunk beneath the low clouds, illuminating the western horizon with a vivid dazzle of stormy gold. A lone figure stood silhouetted against the evening light. “He's not our prisoner, Celestine. We can't keep him confined.”
“But if anyone were to recognize him—”
“Prince Andrei always went clean-shaven. With that fisherman's beard, no one will give him a second look.”
“I'll go give this letter to him.”
“Better wrap up, then. The air is damp tonight and you don't want to catch a chill before Swanholm.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. Why did he have to treat her like a child? “As if I'd be so foolish…”
“What a dramatic sunset,” Celestine said as she approached Andrei. “You're an experienced sailor; does such a sky herald another storm?”
“No,” he said. He seemed distant, hardly turning to acknowledge her presence. “The weather can prove fickle off these shores, even for the most experienced sailor.”
“I have news for you from King Enguerrand.” She handed him a sealed letter.
He broke the seal and stared at the strange dashes and symbols, perplexed. “Is this some new Francian alphabet? It means nothing to me.”
“It's encrypted,” Celestine said, unable to repress a smile at his evident confusion. “Don't worry; Jagu has the key at the tavern.” She slipped her hand beneath his arm. “Let's go back now before I catch cold out here and ruin my voice.”
To our royal cousin, Andrei Orlov of Muscobar, from Enguerrand of Francia:
We are most heartily relieved to hear of your miraculous rescue. Please rest assured that news of your survival will not be revealed until you judge the time is right to do so.
We extend the hand of friendship to you and assure you of a warm welcome at our royal court. We also have new intelligence of events that took place toward the end of last year, which will both disturb and intrigue you.
Our representative in New Rossiya, Ambassador d'Abrissard, has some proposals to make, which we believe will be to our mutual benefit…
Andrei was rowed out through a brisk dawn breeze to meet with Fabien d'Abrissard aboard ship.
“Eugene's agents are everywhere,” the ambassador said as he welcomed Andrei into his paneled stateroom in the stern. “Here, at least, we are on Francian territory. Coffee to warm you this chilly morning?”
“Thank you.” The square windowpanes afforded a view over the Straits: an expanse of rain-grey sea and pale clouds.
The ambassador clicked his fingers and his butler poured Andrei coffee in a delicate white-and-gold cup. After living so long in a poor fisherman's cottage, Andrei had grown unused to such refinements and handled the flimsy china nervously.
“And our guest might appreciate a dash of brandy.” Had Abrissard seen his hands tremble? The ambassador's expression gave nothing away; although his lips smiled at Andrei, his manner was cool and detached. The butler added a measure of brandy to Andrei's cup and discreetly withdrew, closing the door softly behind him. For a moment the only sound was the lapping of the water against the ship as it bobbed gently at anchor.
“Were you aware that the power behind Eugene's empire is one Kaspar Linnaius, a renegade scientist, wanted for crimes in Francia?” Abrissard asked.
Andrei shook his head.
“We have reason to believe that this same Kaspar Linnaius was responsible for the sinking of your ship.”
“Sinking the Sirin? But how? She went down in a storm.”
“A storm that came out of nowhere on a calm night? A similar event occurred some years ago in the reign of Prince Karl, when the Francian fleet was wrecked by a disastrous storm.”
“But what possible proof could you have?” burst out Andrei.
“The testimonies furnished by two of Linnaius's fellow mages some years back, under torture,” said Abrissard smoothly. “They confirmed that this self-styled Magus can command and control the winds.”
“But… that's preposterous.”
“We have a witness. The night of the storm, one of the grooms at the Palace of Swanholm confirms that he saw Linnaius create a storm that brought down trees in the parkland. I should emphasize that this intelligence is of the highest confidentiality.”
Andrei sat back, trying to grasp the full implications of what Abrissard was saying.
“This should not be so difficult for you to accept, Andrei Orlov,” said Abrissard in the softest, smoothest of voices. “You, who have been touched by a daemon.”
“You're implying that Eugene ordered Linnaius to sink my ship? Doesn't that count as assassination?” At first, the news had left him stunned; then anger began to burn through.
Abrissard shrugged eloquently. “In war, such terms do not apply.”
“And my sister has married this man!” Andrei could sit still no longer; he rose and strode to the window to gaze out at the sea. A watery sun had begun to show beneath the clouds, catching the tops of the waves with flecks of silvery gold.
“Of course I do!” Andrei said hotly.
“Then come to Francia. King Enguerrand assures you of the warmest welcome at his court. He has great plans for the future. Those plans will include you, if you wish.”
Andrei turned and stared at Abrissard. He heard what the ambassador was saying, yet not putting into words. Francia had old scores to settle with Tielen.
“And Astasia?”
Abrissard's proud gaze grew colder. “Your sister has committed herself to Eugene. It may be difficult to persuade her to change her allegiance.”
“Your ambassador asked me to give you this.” Andrei handed a sealed letter to Celestine.
“Thank you.” Celestine felt a little shiver of excitement as she took it from him, recognizing from the firm handwriting that it came from Ruaud de Lanvaux. If the Maistre had given his blessing to her plan, then she would need all her courage and ingenuity to try to entrap the Magus. She was desperately eager to open it straightaway, but because of the sensitive nature of its subject matter, she retired to her room to read the Maistre's instructions.
Yet when she broke the seal, she found the message inside was frustratingly brief:
“Do whatever you judge is necessary to achieve your goal; but be discreet—and above all, be very careful. Extra funds will follow to cover any necessary expenses.”
“So here you are at last!” A ginger-haired man came into the room, shaking the raindrops from his greatcoat.
“Kilian!” Jagu rose and hurried over to give him a welcoming hug. “What brings you to Tielen?”
“I've been chasing across half the quadrant to catch up with you two. Don't you ever stay more than a couple of days in one place?”
“And now you've found us,” said Celestine, a little tartly. She had never entirely warmed to Kilian Guyomard's joshing manner. Yet because he and Jagu had been friends since their schooldays, she forced herself to put up with his banter.
