by Ash, Sarah
“If they had any idea of the value of their lands,” Dysis said softly, “after the Emperor’s alchymist made that discovery at Kastel Nagarian . . .”
“That’s why I must play this game with extreme caution.” Lilias sat up, determined to remain resolute. “I can’t afford to lose. I need the Arkhels to return to Azhkendir and stake their claim. And they need me if they’re to benefit from the mineral riches—and that firedust stuff—in the Arkhel Waste. The only thing troubling me is, how to stop the Emperor from plundering the treasure for himself first. Once Eugene gets wind of what I’m planning, he’s bound to intervene. He’ll even maintain he’s doing it for Stavy’s future benefit.” Lilias heard the resentment burning in her own voice and told herself to calm down. “I must be careful. When it comes to Eugene, I let my feelings show too easily. Why is that?” There was still a tremor in her voice. But before Dysis could answer, there came a tap at the door and the landlady, a bird-like old lady, popped her mob-capped head around the door. “I’ve brought you and your maid some supper, Mistress Arkhel. Soup, bread roll and butter. Are you sure that’s all you want?”
“Oh yes, I’m on a strict diet,” said Lilias, wishing she had not caught a whiff of the enticing smell of roast capon floating up the stairwell. But soup was all they could afford. “That’s why I’ve come to Sulien, to take the waters for my health.” Her empty stomach growled and she coughed, trying to conceal the sound. “That soup looks delicious.”
Chapter 3
The Serpent Gate looms high above Gavril and a lurid light leaks from it, a glimmering swirl of turgid colors, like oil in muddy rainwater.
“What am I doing here?”
Clawed hands emerge, reaching out to drag him beneath the portal.
Terrified, he feels rough, scaly fingers clench his arms, his legs, and start to tug him toward the churning instability that lies beyond the Gate. Talons puncture his flesh, sharp as barbed fishhooks; he is caught, unable to break free.
He tries to cling onto the ancient stones beneath his feet, to the knotted creepers growing through the cracks of the sacrificial altar, but in vain; he finds himself sliding slowly, inexorably back toward the turbulence.
A dazzling light sears his eyes, a light so powerful that he cannot endure its burning brightness.
“The Other Gates, Khezef. Tell me where to find them.” A deep voice thunders, every word piercing his racked body like a fire-tipped spear.
Through the glaze of pain, he can just make out a shimmering figure hovering above him on gilded wings, accusing eyes glittering fiery gold with anger.
“No!” he cries with all his might, although he can hardly hear his words above the roar of the winds beyond the Serpent Gate.
“Then your punishment is to live on in eternal, unendurable torment.”
“Don’t imprison me again. Kill me, Galizur. Destroy me. Don’t—” He gasps the avenging Warrior prince’s name in vain, just before the searing light is abruptly extinguished and he is sucked back into the chaotic, wind-tossed darkness of the Realm of Shadows.
***
“No, Galizur!” Gavril sat up, gasping for air. His throat burned as if he had breathed in poisonous fumes. He was drenched in a cold sweat. He could still feel taloned, scaly hands pawing obscenely at his body, could still hear that merciless voice condemning him to eternal torment.
“What did you say?” Kiukiu turned over, wheaten hair tousled, strands escaping her single bedtime plait, to peer up at him in the dim dawn light.
A sleepy wail came from the cradle beside their bed.
“And now you’ve woken Larisa,” Kiukiu said wearily. She put out one hand and began to rock the cradle.
Gavril was still confused, still mired in the vivid horror of his dream.
Am I really here? Or is this just an illusion and I’ve been trapped in the darkness beyond the Serpent Gate ever since I destroyed it? Was I sucked in by the force of the explosion? There had been times in his lonely prison cell in Arnskammar, high above the storm-tossed Iron Sea, when he had sought comfort in dreams of Kiukiu until he had begun to wonder if they were nothing but fantasies conjured to console himself.
Larisa let out another wail, more insistent and disgruntled than the last. And then another, and another . . .
“I don’t think she’s going to go back to sleep.” Kiukiu let out a sigh and swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering, as Larisa began to cry in earnest.
“Hush, now; Mama’s here, baby, it’s all right, don’t wake the rest of the household up.”
But this seems so real. Kiukiu, our baby daughter, the bitter chill of an Azhkendi autumn morning . . .
“You were having another nightmare,” Kiukiu said, yawning as she opened her nightdress and offered her breast to the furious baby. Larisa’s yells quietened into snuffly suckling sounds. “She was hungry.” Kiukiu stroked the baby’s fine strands of auburn hair.
“This is real, isn’t it?” Gavril said uncertainly.
Kiukiu looked up at him over Larisa’s head, frowning. “Of course this is real. What on earth were you dreaming about this time?” There was a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I wouldn’t have minded, but little Lady Larisa might have slept on for another half hour, maybe, and so would I.”
“The Serpent Gate.”
“Well, that’s hardly surprising. It’s a year, isn’t it, since the Great Darkness?” And then she said, her tone softening, “We’ve been so busy, with rebuilding the kastel and looking after Larisa, perhaps this is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to remember what happened.”
“He called me Khezef.”
“Who did?” Kiukiu sounded distracted.
“Galizur.”
She shrugged; the name evidently meant nothing to her.
“ I couldn’t see his face. He was so bright. So powerful.” Gavril shuddered.
“Ah. Khezef may have left your body, but he’s still left a trace of his memories in your mind and soul.”
“Do you think so?” Gavril was not sure whether to feel reassured by Kiukiu’s words or even more disturbed. “It was so vivid. As if I was there .” And I heard myself begging Galizur not to punish me again. Was Galizur the Heavenly Guardian who had imprisoned Khezef in the Realm of Shadows? He shivered, remembering the aching cold of the lightless pit of darkness. “Suppose Khezef and his kindred didn’t escape through the Rift when I destroyed the Gate. Suppose they’re trapped in that terrible place again, and trying to escape?”
Kiukiu leaned across and stroked his cheek. He raised his hand to cover hers, pressing her palm against his face to reassure himself that he was not dreaming.
Larisa looked up at them both, her eyes piercingly blue in the growing light.
“Such bright eyes,” Kiukiu said, lifting her onto her shoulder and rubbing her back. “I wonder if they’ll stay so blue? Are all babies born with blue eyes? Or is that just puppies and kittens?”
Gavril gazed at her affectionately. Only Kiukiu could ramble on so inconsequentially and sound so charmingly naive. He wanted to hug her for bringing him back to reality from the confusion of his recurring nightmares.
“Did I say something silly? I’m only half-awake, thanks to a certain someone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can hold your damp daughter while I find some clean clothes for her.” Kiukiu thrust Larisa into his arms and sure enough, she was warm and wet, smelling of milk and wee. “Damp? She’s sopping wet!” He pulled a face but Larisa cooed at him, smiling so winningly that he relented and smiled back.
This has to be real. No matter how vivid the nightmares, this smelly baby is no dream. He held Larisa at arm’s length and said, “How can you smile so sweetly, little Risa, when you’re such a stinky child?”
Kiukiu returned with a change of clothes and took Larisa from him with a resigned and pointed sigh.
“Surely a nursemaid should be doing this,” Gavril said. “I can’t imagine that the Empress Astasia dirties her h
ands cleaning up little Rostevan.”
“The Empress Astasia? But she was born to that life. She probably doesn’t even know how to look after a baby. When you asked me to marry you, don’t you remember I told you that I could never be like her: a highborn lady? If you wanted a princess, you could have chosen from any number of eligible royal daughters.”
Larisa began to wriggle violently, causing Kiukiu to let out a grunt of exasperation as she tried to ease her waving arms into sleeves.
He had said the wrong thing. “But I wanted you.” Why did they always end up arguing over little things, these days? Was lack of sleep making them both short-tempered? “Can’t Ninusha help out? She’s still nursing Dion—” He broke off, as she shot him a furious look.
“She’s our precious daughter, Gavril; I can’t trust her care to anyone else.”
Was it his imagination or was she protesting too forcefully ? Does she believe, as I do, that we don’t deserve this happiness? That someone is waiting to snatch Larisa away from us?
A fragment of dream-memory gusted through his mind like a tainted breath, darkening his mood. Shadowy whirlwinds flinging stinging dust into his eyes and nostrils and mouth. Eternal torment, eternal despair. He shivered, wanting to banish the death-tainted taste from his mouth.
“Gavril? Are you all right?”
He blinked, seeing Kiukiu staring at him with a concerned expression furrowing her brow.
“How’s the painting going? Is anything finished yet? Can I come and look?”
There’s no way I could show anyone what I’ve been painting, even you, who’s seen me at my lowest, my most depraved. He could not meet her eyes.
“Had you thought of drawing Larisa? Nothing fancy. Just little sketches, showing how she’s growing from week to week.”
“Drawing Larisa?” he repeated, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. The idea appealed. Concentrating on capturing the baby’s expressions might block out the other disturbing images that kept darkening his mind.
“Just like that book of sketches your mother did of you that you brought back from Smarna. I love looking at those. You could use those—what are they called: pastels? I like the way you smudge the lines to get that special soft effect. “
“Pastels.” He looked gratefully at her as she leant over the cradle to place Larisa back inside, realizing that she had managed yet again to draw him back from the shadows. He went over and put his arms around her as she straightened up, hugging her close. For a moment she leant against him, closing her eyes. And then she let out a little cry, pushing him away. “There’s so much to be done today and it’s nearly sunrise!”
“What’s happening today?”
“How could you forget, Gavril? It’s only a fortnight to your daughter’s Naming Day and Abbot Yephimy is coming to discuss the ceremony. We have to give him a good meal in thanks for making the journey over here. I can’t leave all the preparations to Ilsi.”
***
“You’re not supposed to be in the kitchens, my lady.” Ilsi looked up from her mixing bowl as Kiukiu entered.
“Can’t I help? Ninusha’s looking after Larisa and I can’t just sit around idle with visitors coming.” The truth was that Kiukiu was in need of company and the only place she felt at ease in the kastel was in the kitchen.
“Well, it’s not that I couldn’t do with an extra pair of hands, but what will Lord Gavril say?”
Kiukiu was tying on an apron and scrubbing her hands. She pretended not to have heard Ilsi’s question. “What would you like me to do?”
“You used to make passable pastry. And we’re serving wild boar pie to the Abbot, flavored with juniper berries.”
Kiukiu rolled up her sleeves and flexed her fingers. “Pastry it is, then.”
As she was kneading the dough, Semyon came into the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare tread mud in here, Semyon!” Ilsi cried, rounding on him, brandishing her rolling pin like a rapier. “Out!”
“I only came to ask,” Semyon began, hastily retreating, “if you knew where Lord Gavril is. There’s an urgent matter the Bogatyr needs to discuss with him.”
“He’s probably in the summerhouse, painting,” Kiukiu said, “again.” And she heard herself sigh rather more loudly than she had intended.
“What’s wrong?” Ilsi said, sprinkling flour on the table top.
“There was a time when Sem wouldn’t have needed to ask where to find Lord Gavril,” Kiukiu said, slapping the ball of pastry down on the floured surface and reaching for the rolling pin.
“So the blood bond—?” Ilsi scraped chopped onions into a pan to sauté them.
“Hasn’t worked since the Great Darkness. Lord Gavril can’t summon the druzhina using the bond anymore.”
“Thank goodness we’re at peace, then.” Ilsi shook the pan vigorously as the onions began to sizzle.
“He won’t speak of it, not even to me, but I know he’s still not himself,” Kiukiu said, more to herself than to Ilsi as she rolled the pastry. “It’s almost . . . as if he left a part of himself on Ty Nagar.”
Chapter 4
“Jaromir Arkhel was like a brother to me,” said the Emperor. He stopped in front of Jaromir’s portrait—a faithful copy of the original in the Palace of Swanholm—and gazed pensively up at it. “The younger brother I never had.”
“So you’ve often said, my dear,” murmured the empress, dandling their baby son on her knee. She pulled a silly grimace at him and Rostevan instantly erupted into chuckles. She thought it best not to remind Eugene of the existence of his true younger half-brother, Oskar Alvborg, his father’s bastard son, condemned to exile on the distant shores of Serindher with her brother, Andrei.
“And the thought—the mere thought—that that woman has dared to petition us to have our little Stavy returned to her is enough to make my blood boil.”
“She is his mother,” the empress reminded her husband. She made another grimace, rolling her eyes at Rostevan, and his chubby little face creased up as a peal of laughter came out.
“How poor Jaro ever came to allow himself to be seduced by that shameless adventuress, I’ll never know.”
“She’s very attractive,” said Astasia, tempted to blow a raspberry on Rostevan’s tummy.
“But she used him to further her own ambitions. She planned to use Stavy too—and would have done so, if I hadn’t stepped in and made him our ward.”
“Perhaps she just wanted to ensure that Stavy had a secure future.”
Stavy, who had been engrossed in building a tower with wooden blocks, placed one more on the wobbling pile, and the whole edifice collapsed with a clatter on the parquet floor.
“Down!” he said triumphantly. Rostevan let out a shriek of excitement and clapped his hands.
“Yes, Stavy, they all fell down.” Astasia lifted her wriggling baby and placed him on the parquet floor beside Lilias and Jaromir’s son. “Let’s build them up again, shall we?”
Stavy lifted his face to hers, and gave her an angelic smile which almost melted her heart . He has his father’s golden hair, but his mother’s bewitching green eyes. With looks like yours, I fear you’re going to seduce all the ladies when you grow up, Stavy.
The inner door in the paneling opened and Gustave appeared.
“Forgive me for interrupting, but Baron Sylvius requests an audience,” he said, and Astasia did not miss the significant look he gave her husband. Gustave and Eugene had, she realized long ago, developed their own secret code of meaningful glances that allowed them to communicate without alerting others except the Emperor’s most intimate inner circle.
“Pa?” Rostevan attempted to toddle after his father as Eugene disappeared through the secret doorway after his secretary and the panel slid silently shut behind them. Frustrated, he thumped his fists on the wood, crying out indignantly, “Pa! Pa !”
Oh dear, she found herself thinking as she retrieved their son, what new troubles have arisen in the empire to make Gustave interrupt
our precious family time together?
***
“It seems,” said Baron Sylvius, settling himself into the button-backed chair opposite Eugene, “that your lively young ward Stavyomir is not all alone in the world, after all.”
Eugene gazed enquiringly at his spymaster; he had been expecting a report on some recent disquieting rumors of dissident activity in Mirom that the baron’s agents had been investigating.
“But all the Arkhels perished in the Clan Wars; all, except Jaromir.”
“Apparently not. My agents were following up on a quite different lead in Tourmalise when they stumbled upon some unexpected information. It seems that Jaromir’s youngest uncle is still alive.”
Eugene was so surprised that words deserted him as he digested the information. Eventually he said quietly, “Why were we not made aware of this earlier?”
Sylvius looked pained. “I believe you were made aware, Eugene.”
Eugene frowned. His recall of matters of such significance was usually excellent. He was sure he would have remembered.
Am I becoming a little absent-minded as I grow older? I’m only thirty-eight; surely it’s a little early for senility to set in. Or has someone at court deliberately tried to prevent me finding out about Stavy’s family?
Sylvius screwed in his monocle, produced a silver-cased notebook from an inner pocket and began to read aloud. “‘Ranozhir, youngest brother of Lord Stavyor Arkhel, is currently residing at the spa resort of Sulien in Tourmalise under the name Ranulph. Ranulph has amassed a considerable gambling debt at the Assembly Rooms.’ At the time, I reported to your father, ‘This fellow is obviously a gambler and a wastrel.’ My instructions were to keep a weather eye on him. ‘He seems no real threat.’ That was back in ’68, the year after your father defeated the Francian navy in the Straits.”
“I would have been seventeen, and this Ranulph not much older at the time, I imagine. What was he doing so far from Azhkendir?”
“His brother sent him on some kind of Grand Tour. Unusual for the Arkhels to indulge in such genteel practices; their main pleasure seems to have been perpetuating their blood-feud with the Nagarians.” Sylvius closed the silver notebook case with a click and slid it back into his inner pocket.
