by Ash, Sarah
© 2019 Sarah Ash
Sarah Ash has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Tourmalise Press
First published and printed in 2019
First published in eBook format in 2019
ISBN: 9781913227470
(Printed edition: 9781700902719)
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Two
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Cast List
Acknowledgments
The Tears of Artamon
The Story So Far...
Portraitist Gavril Nagarian has inherited more than a distant wintry kingdom and the title of Drakhaon of Azhkendir from the father he never knew. With the title comes the curse of the Drakhaoul, a daemon-dragon spirit that inhabits his body and lends him tremendous shape-shifting powers—at a terrible cost. After Gavril and his Drakhaoul Khezef defeat the invading army of neighbouring ruler Eugene of Tielen, Eugene collects the legendary Tears of Artamon, seven rubies that enable him to summon his own Drakhaoul and make himself Emperor of the Western Quadrant. But when his rash act sets free other Drakhaouls, Eugene and Gavril must put aside their differences and make a pact to send them back through the Serpent Gate to the Ways Beyond, in a bid to restore peace to the mortal world. Gavril is helped by Kiukiu, a servant girl, a Spirit Singer who uses her songs to travel into the world of the dead—and ambitious Eugene is aided by his onetime tutor Kaspar Linnaius, the long-lived Magus, a powerful wind-mage and alchymist.
PROLOGUE
Steamy waters bubble and fizz. Clouds of mist, tinged with the acrid scent of minerals, rise to blot out the stars. And through the rising steam, eyes gleam, green as jade. A soft, sibilant voice whispers, “I can see you, Kiukirilya. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I shall be watching you, watching and waiting.”
Kiukirilya sat bolt upright, staring into the darkened bedchamber.
“Do not forget your promise .” A barb of pain, sharp as a serpent’s poisoned bite, pierced her ankle.
My promise.
“What’s wrong?” a sleepy voice asked from beneath the rumpled blankets beside her.
“How can she be here?” Kiukiu could still hear the faint bubbling of the hot springs, could still sense the serpentine eyes gazing at her.
“Who’s here?” The bedclothes heaved as her husband turned over, surfacing from deep slumber.
His question jolted her fully awake. “I must have been dreaming again.”
“Another nightmare?”
She nodded.
“It’s all right.” Gavril reached out in the darkness and pulled her to him. “I still have nightmares too. Sometimes it helps to tell.”
She snuggled closer, absorbing the heat of his body, the comforting strength of his arms. She wanted to lose herself in that human warmth and forget the insistent, sibilant voice that had penetrated her dreams every night since she discovered that she was bearing his child. But she could never tell him the substance of her nightmares. Not until she had figured out a way to undo the secret bond she had entered into with Anagini, the Guardian of the Jade Springs, a bond sealed by the touch of the snake goddess’s fangs on her ankle.
“ Give me your firstborn child, be it boy or girl, to tend my shrine . . . And you must never tell anyone what passed between us here today or you will find yourself an old woman again.”
Part One
Chapter 1
“What will the druzhina say?” Kiukiu felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyelids. “She’s just a girl. They were expecting a boy. An heir to Kastel Nagarian.”
“She’s perfect.” Gavril gazed at their newborn child. He was holding her very gingerly, as if afraid she might break. But the look in his eyes had softened to one of such tenderness that it made her heart melt. “Let the druzhina say what they will. She’s my daughter—and they’ll learn to love and respect her. They’ll get their heir next time.”
“Next time! Who assumed there’s going to be a next time?” Exhausted, Kiukiu flopped back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Did Gavril have any idea what she had gone through to bring his daughter into the world? Every muscle in her body ached as if she had been stretched to breaking point.
“Look at her hair; it’s coppery in the candlelight,” she heard him say. “What there is of it, that is.”
These moments were so important that she wanted to remember every second so she could treasure them when the time came to give up her precious firstborn.
No . She stopped herself. There must be a way to annul her contract with the Guardian of the Jade Springs.
“What’s wrong?” Gavril leaned across, still cradling the baby in one arm, and stroked her face. “Are you in pain? Should I send for Sosia?” The gentleness of his touch only made the tears well up and spill down her cheeks.
“I’m all right,” she said, forcing a smile as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. She was annoyed at herself for feeling so weak. “Just a little . . . weary.” She reached out to tousle the baby’s soft wisps of hair. “Auburn, like your mother’s. Should we call her ‘Elysia’?”
“What about ‘Malusha’, for your grandmother?”
She shook her head vehemently. “An Arkhel name for a Nagarian child? The druzhina would never allow it.”
�
�The druzhina will do as I tell them.” For a moment, the sea-blue eyes darkened and she caught a brief glimpse of the stern, ruthless clan leader he had forced himself to become to win back his kingdom. Then he said, less harshly, “But you’re right, love; there’s no point creating bad feeling when this little one is the first of a new generation of Nagarians, and our hope for a better future.”
“Still here, Lord Gavril? Your wife needs to rest.” Sosia reappeared, carrying a steaming cup of tea. “A long first labor drains a woman of her strength. Drink this, Kiukiu.”
“What’s in it?” Kiukiu sniffed the tea suspiciously.
“Just a few medicinal herbs,” Sosia said, plumping up her pillows. “They’re good for women after childbirth.”
Kiukiu sipped the tea; it tasted bitter, with a strong hint of aniseed that made her pull a sour face. “Are you trying to make me feel worse, Auntie?”
“Drink it all down; you’ll thank me later on,” Sosia said briskly. And then she turned to Gavril. “My lord, you mustn’t hold your daughter like that, you have to support her head properly!”
Kiukiu saw Gavril’s mortified expression as Sosia took the baby from him and demonstrated.
“And what’s this little angel’s name?” Sosia asked, cooing over her great-niece.
Kiukiu exchanged a guilty glance with Gavril. “We haven’t quite decided yet.”
“But all the kastel are waiting to celebrate her birth,” Sosia said, shocked. “Askold can’t propose a toast to a nameless child.”
Sosia’s words made Kiukiu laugh—and then stop abruptly, sucking in her breath as her aching muscles protested.
“Besides, you know the old tales, Kiukiu, that a nameless newborn is easy prey for the Lost Souls trying to find a way back into this world.”
“Yes, Auntie,” Kiukiu said, handing her the empty tea cup. And I should know more than anyone, for I’ve encountered them on the borders of the Ways Beyond.
“Well, I need to go help Ilsi in the kitchens; old Oleg’s drunk as a pig again. He insists that he had to sample the wine to make sure it was a good vintage to wet the baby’s head.” Sosia placed the baby in Gavril’s arms again and bustled out.
Kiukiu lay back on the pillows. Had there been a sedative in the tea? She felt suddenly sleepy.
“I’ve always liked the name Larisa,” Gavril said after a while. “It comes from an old Smarnan song our housekeeper Palmyre used to sing to me when I was little.”
“Larisa? I like it too,” she said drowsily. “And I don’t think there’s ever been anyone of that name in either clan, Arkhel or Nagarian.”
***
Kiukiu had lapsed into sleep and Gavril sat beside her, doing his best to hold Larisa the way Sosia had shown him.
My daughter. It still seemed too extraordinary a thing to comprehend. I’m not ready to be a father. I’m not worthy to be given this precious new life to guard and protect. Yet the warm little bundle that he was supporting so cautiously knew nothing of who he was—or what terrible things he had done. She just lay there, lightly dozing, letting out the faintest little squeaky sound from time to time. Her vulnerability terrified him. Do all newborn babies make such strange grunts? Is that normal? Suppose she’s struggling for breath? He tried to push all the worries and fears to the back of his mind. How would I know what to do?
Suddenly her lids opened and she gazed directly up at him with eyes that were the same deep sea-blue as his own. Startled by this intense scrutiny, he gazed back.
“Hallo, Larisa,” he said softly, certain that she was studying him. “I’m your father.” And then his view of her little face blurred and he found he was blinking away tears. “If only your grandmother Elysia could have lived to meet you. She’d have been enchanted with her first grandchild.” And she’d have shown him the right way to hold the baby so that he didn’t feel quite so incompetent.
***
The Elysia Summerhouse, Lord Volkh’s wedding gift to Gavril’s mother, had fallen into neglect again during the Tielen occupation.
But Gavril had been working steadily through the summer to repair the damage and convert it into a studio where he could paint, just as his mother Elysia had done after his own birth. And with the coming of autumn, there was a painful anniversary to be marked.
There were hardly any flowers left in the garden but he knew that the bunch of bright-berried twigs, glossy ivy, and the last soft-furred seed heads of wild clematis he had assembled would have pleased her far more than any bouquet of hothouse flowers. There were no greenhouses at Kastel Nagarian, and none of the elegant conservatories. filled with exotic plants and fragrant roses all year round, found in all the country estates in Tielen or Muscobar.
The rotting floorboards and carved woodwork balustrade had been replaced, the holes in the roof repaired, and Dunai had helped him paint the veranda a soft gray-blue. Gavril imported clear glass panes from Tielen to improve the quality of light inside and cleared the overhanging vegetation that had smothered the building: brambles, vines, and rampant wisteria hardy enough to survive the harsh winters.
A couple of easels stood inside, each one sporting canvases—but both canvases were blank. His sketchbooks lay on the floor, boxes of pastels untouched beside them.
“Can it really be a year already, Mother?” He heard the catch in his voice. She had died bravely yet recklessly trying to stop the Drakhaoul Nilaihah from abducting young Giorgi Vashteli. He had arrived too late to save her, seeing only the departing daemon’s trail scoring the sky, finding her lifeless body lying sprawled on the floor. And since that time he had not once been able to bring himself to paint or draw, even though sometimes he thought he could hear her affectionately chiding him, “Why are you wasting your life and your talent? My time is over, my life’s work finished, but yours has hardly begun. Stop moping around and pick up your paintbrush! Heavens, Gavril, life is short enough as it is! What kind of a son have I raised?”
He lifted his hand to wipe away a stray tear that had suddenly leaked down his cheek, defiantly blinking away the salt, stinging trickle.
“Mother, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s just that I . . . I . . .” He knelt down and opened up the battered, stained artist’s case that had been hers. Before he left the Villa Andara, Palmyre had thrust it into his hands, insisting, “No, you must take it, she would have wanted you to.”
The pungent smell of oil paints and turpentine that issued from inside made his eyes start to water again. Suddenly he was back in her studio, no more than five years old, sitting at her feet, watching her with wide eyes as she placed a carefully-judged brushstroke on the canvas, then stood back to assess its effect. One tiny dab of white . . . and suddenly, there was an uncannily lifelike glint in the eyes of the portrait in progress.
I felt as if I was watching a sorceress weaving spells. And I longed—more than anything I’d ever longed for before—to learn the secrets of her magic.
“You taught me so much more than any of the professors at art school,” he said aloud to the empty studio.
His fingers strayed over the crushed metal tubes, crusted with bright flakes of dried paint, the latest invention that she had ordered from Francia. He remembered her telling him what a boon they were to any traveling artist, her eyes alight with enthusiasm at the new possibilities they presented.
“Don’t listen to those conservative old farts at the art school who turn up their noses and say that a true artist must always grind and mix his own paints!” She had never been one to trim her language when she felt strongly about an issue. After all, she had often traveled abroad alone, fearlessly seeking out new experiences, and new commissions.
Then there was Palmyre. He had wanted to bring her back with him to Azhkendir but she had been reluctant to leave Smarna. Elysia had left her a generous legacy, more than enough to buy a small house of her own.
“But who will keep the Villa Andara ready for you when you come to visit?” Palmyre had objected. She had worked there as housekeeper
and companion to Elysia for so many years that Gavril realized it would be unkind to compel her to leave. So he had agreed that she should stay on and open the house in summer to visitors who wanted to view Elysia’s paintings.
The blank canvases mocked him. You were never as good as your mother. Your career as a painter ended before it began. What’s the point of starting again? Insidious voices began to whisper in his mind once more . A true painter paints because he has to. You’re just a dilettante, a dabbler, an amateur . . .
He clapped his hands over his ears and shouted out, “That’s not true!” And then he glanced guiltily around, wondering if anyone had heard him.
I would start painting again—if only I didn’t feel so . . . empty.
Chapter 2
On entering the Pump Room in Sulien, Lilias Arbelian blinked, dazzled by the glittering light radiating from the crystal chandeliers overhead. Even though it was still day, the elegant watering place was illumined by the flames of hundreds of white wax candles.
“It must cost a fortune,” her maid Dysis murmured. “No wonder the entrance fee was so extortionate.”
From behind her black lace fan, Lilias was carefully observing the other visitors who had come to take the healing waters of the spa. The steamy air was cloyed with heavy perfumes and lavender pomades, although she also noticed the presence of an unpleasant sulfurous odor. A problem with the drains? And even though the fashion for periwigs was long gone, many of the older clients tottering around with the aid of canes were wearing fanciful, curlicued confections on their heads, as though they were still the latest mode.
“Oh dear. The average age here must be sixty at least.” Lilias felt her spirits sinking as she scanned the company for a glimpse of a younger, unwrinkled face.
“But remember that it’s only three in the afternoon. The footman at the door told us that later on there will be cards . . . and dancing.”
The faint strains of a string trio floated toward them; on a raised dais at the rear of the lofty room sat three musicians earnestly scraping away, but the guests’ chatter was so loud that their efforts were all but in vain.
