by Ash, Sarah
Tarakh let out a secretive little laugh. “She kissed me.”
“Idiot. It was me she kissed,” Radakh said indignantly.
“So you both saw her?” Gavril began to suspect that Morozhka and the twin’s “lost” lady were one and the same. He set off again, wading on through the moonlit drifts. “What was she like?”
“Hair as white as Dunai’s,” Tarakh said dreamily.
“But prettier.”
“She said she had a special reward for us.”
“I’ll set your men free, Drakhaon, if you agree to lend them to me to guard the mountain.”
What fate had he consigned these two young men to? He had agreed to Morozhka’s terms to save their lives—but now he wondered if he had unwittingly condemned them to a lifetime of service to the cold-hearted Elder One.
“Look,” he heard Tarakh say. “It’s the old western tower.”
“The one Da calls the Pepper-pot?” Radakh said. “Who knew we’d come so far west in the dark?”
Gavril realized that they were right. A crooked pepper-pot roof loomed ahead out of the moonlit darkness. It must be one of the outer watchtowers; during the Clan Wars with the Arkhels, Gavril’s Nagarian ancestors had built several such defenses around the inner and outer boundaries of the kastel estate so that they could keep an eye on the activities of their enemies and defend their borders.
“Lord Gavril!” A full-throated roar startled him as Gorian charged out from beneath the ivy-choked archway. “Come on in out of the cold.”
Warmth greeted them as they entered the round tower; a log fire crackled and sputtered in the ancient, soot-stained hearth, its glow lighting the faces of the druzhina as they rose to welcome them. The chamber smelt pungently of cinders, damp horses, and a savory steam that was rising from an iron cooking pot suspended over the blaze.
“My boys!” Gorian cuffed them in turn and then hugged them. Semyon hurried over to help him support the twins over to the fire.
“Does anyone have any aquavit?” Gavril asked. Askold handed him his flask and he took a good swig of the fiery liquor, hoping it would steady his nerves.
“I’ve made soup,” said Vartik, looking up from stirring the pot. “Dried meat, berries, snow melt; it’ll warm you up, my lord.”
The horses were tethered at the far side of the round chamber; Gavril went over to check on his mare. She gave a welcoming whinny when she sensed him approach and he was glad to see that she was calm again after her panicked flight had left him stranded in the forest.
A little while later, thawing his frozen toes and fingers near the fire, Gavril sat drinking his soup from a tin mug and listening to his druzhina arguing companionably. The color had returned to Tarakh’s cheeks. And when he saw Radakh throw back his head and laugh at one of Vasili’s jokes, he began to wonder if the encounter with Morozhka had been nothing but a snow mirage. Then he looked down at his left forearm and saw the gash her icy blade had made. Drying blood had stained his sleeve where her ice blade had slashed through the material and now he was out of the cold, he could feel the raw ache of the wound. She had been no mirage.
“Lady Morozhka would never have dare enter Nagarian territory in the old days.” Gorian said with a grunt, tapping out the residue from his clay pipe and stuffing a fresh wad of tobacco into the bowl.
The other druzhina fell silent, staring at Gorian.
Gavril broke the awkward silence. “You mean: when the Drakhaoul was here?”
“Too right, my lord. Morozhka and her Snow Spirits showed proper respect.” Gorian held a glowing taper to the tobacco, puffing as he spoke from one side of his mouth, teeth gritted around the pipe stem. Gavril nodded. He sensed that the druzhina were waiting for him to reprimand Gorian for his bluntness. But all he said was, “Tell me more about her.”
“Morozhka was here long before the Drakhaoul.” Gorian blew a smoke ring into the flickering firelight. “She’s one of the Elder Ones. They were here when the world was first made. And they’re still here, even if no one pays them much respect anymore.”
“So did people used to worship Morozhka?”
Gorian shrugged. “There’re ruins up in the mountains: a broken stone circle on one of the high plateaus. It’s called Morozhka’s Round. My father told me never to go there; he said the place was cursed.”
“With reason!” said Askold with a harsh laugh. “The only way to Morozhka’s Round was through Arkhel territory. You’d have never have made it out alive. Those bastards would have skinned you alive and hung you up as fresh meat to feed their cursed owls!”
Gavril saw the younger druzhina eye each other uneasily; all three were too young to remember what it was like before Lord Volkh destroyed the Arkhel clan.
“My granddad used to say there was treasure buried up there,” said Vartik. “Lady Morozhka’s Hoard, he called it. But no one who went looking for it ever came back.”
“Your granddad could’ve been right,” said Gorian, nodding. “There used to be copper and gold mining up there until the Arkhels claimed the land as their own and drove everyone else away.”
“Arkhel gold?” Askold said darkly. “The only Arkhel gold I ever saw was the hair on their cursed heads—and the light of battle in their eyes when they attacked the kastel. Owl eyes. Mad and gold and bright as stars.”
“That’s a color you won’t see again,” Gorian said, jabbing the stem of his pipe at the Bogatyr to emphasize his point. “Kostya made sure of that when he shot Jaromir Arkhel.”
Gavril stared at the dirt floor. There was no point defending Jaromir Arkhel, the enemy whom he had come to love as a friend; the older druzhina would never understand.
“And he was the last of that cursed line,” said Askold, nodding.
The wind gusted fiercely around the tower, rattling the roof tiles above; the horses shifted from hoof to hoof uneasily, startled by the noise.
“What we didn’t tell you, my lord,” said Askold, “was that someone was sheltering here before us.”
“Recently?” Gavril looked up.
“We found evidence of a fire. Someone was sheltering in here last night.”
The druzhina were exchanging glances. “The trespassers who were sighted on the edge of the Waste?” Gorian suggested.
“Could have been fur trappers,” said Vasili.
“Or pilgrims,” added Semyon.
Gavril had been trying the gauge the right moment to tell Gorian and his sons of the pact he had been forced to make with Morozhka.
“Listen,” he said. “Morozhka told me that strangers passed through her sanctuary yesterday.”
“The same ones?” said Askold.
Gavril steeled himself. “She made me enter into a pact.” He gazed at Radakh and Tarakh who were beginning to nod off, drowsed by the warmth and the aquavit. “I gave my word that, in exchange for your lives, you would protect her sanctuary.”
“You did what ?” Gorian, eyes blazing, rose up as if he was going to swing a punch at him. Vasili and Vartik caught hold of him, pulling him back down.
“Gorian! Apologize to Lord Gavril!” Askold’s rebuke rang out, sharp as a whip-crack. “Didn’t you hear what he said? He saved your boys’ lives.”
“Only to condemn them to spending all winter up here on the mountain.”
“It’s all right, Da.” Tarakh looked ashamed of his father’s outburst. “Radakh and me, we’re fine with it.”
“It’s just another patrol,” Radakh said with a shrug. “We can make this tower our base; if we bring plenty of supplies and firewood, it won’t be so bad.”
“But who are these strangers? Treasure hunters?” Gorian was not so easily appeased. “Or bandits from Khitari,” Semyon said under his breath, “sneaking across the border before the high passes are blocked with snow.”
Gavril stifled a yawn; the warmth of the fire and the potency of Askold’s aquavit were making him sleepy.
“You must be tired, my lord.” Askold rose and went to put another log on the f
ire; the snow-damp wood made the flames spit sparks up the wide chimney. “Get some rest; we’ll keep watch.”
Gavril did not argue. He wrapped his coat around him and lay down, and in spite of the hardness of the dirt floor, his lids began to close.
***
“Abbot!” Brother Cosmas strode into Abbot Yephimy’s candlelit study. “Some pilgrims have made it through the blizzard; they’re asking to speak with you.”
Yephimy looked up from the yellowed codex he was attempting to transcribe and laid down his pen. He was thankful to be interrupted; his eyes were beginning to ache with the strain of deciphering the ancient script. “Pilgrims arriving in this snowstorm?” He was surprised that anyone was rash enough to brave the snows at night, unless they were foreigners, and unaccustomed to the vagaries of the Azhkendi winter. “How far have they come?” he asked as he snuffed out the candles on his desk and followed Cosmas into the dark, draughty passageway.
“From Tourmalise.”
“Tourmalise?” Yephimy repeated in astonishment. The last time a large number of “pilgrims” had arrived, they had turned out to be the most unwelcome of visitors: Guerriers of the Francian Commanderie. Their visit had ended in bloodshed and the theft of the monastery’s most precious relic: Saint Serzhei’s golden crook. Since then he had felt obliged to mount a guard on the gate and to search all visitors to the monastery, confiscating any weapons they were carrying. “Does anyone in Tourmalise even know of Saint Serzhei’s existence?”
They crossed the snowy courtyard and entered the refectory. Yephimy saw four cloaked men warming their hands at the fire.
“Welcome to our monastery,” he cried, striding down past the tables which were already laid with bowls and spoons for the morning. “My name is Yephimy. I hear you’ve traveled far. What brings you all the way to Azhkendir?”
They turned on hearing his voice and the foremost among them shook off his fur-rimmed hood, revealing his face. Yephimy stopped, staring. The firelight burnished his hair, catching red glints in its distinctive shade of dark gold, tempered with strands of gray. That color . . .
“Thank you for your hospitality, Abbot,” the pilgrim said in perfect Azhkendi. “It’s been a long time since we last met.”
Yephimy peered at him in the flickering light.
“Over twenty years,” said the pilgrim. “These days I’m known as Ranulph, Baronet of Serrigonde. But you may remember me by the name your predecessor gave me here some forty-two years ago on my Naming Day: Ranozhir.”
“Ranozhir?” Yephimy echoed, coming closer. The strong features, the aristocratic nose, and that distinctive rich-colored hair; there could be no doubt. “Ranozhir Arkhel!”
Chapter 17
“The men are back!” The shout went up from the gatehouse and was soon passed around the kastel from servant to servant. Kiukiu, who had hardly slept all night, rushed to the window that overlooked the courtyard, anxiously scanning the cloaked, hooded figures hunched over their horses’ heads for a glimpse of Gavril.
“I’ve waited long enough; let’s go find your daddy,” she said, bending over Larisa’s cradle. Larisa let out an indignant squawk as Kiukiu grabbed her and hastened down the stairs toward the door that led to the stable-yard.
Something happened to them out on the Waste. I’m certain of it.
“Give the babe to me,” called Sosia. “You can’t take her out in all that snow without wrapping her up properly. She’ll catch her death of cold.”
Kiukiu hastily thrust her daughter into Sosia’s outstretched arms and hurried on, snatching a cloak from those left hanging up outside the pantry. As she ran along the narrow passageway toward the outer door, the moist chill of the snowy morning enveloped her.
In the courtyard, the druzhina had already dismounted and the air was filled with clouds of steaming breath from the horses. Kiukiu scanned the returning faces anxiously, searching for Gavril. Then she spotted tow-haired Ivar leading Krasa by the reins toward her stall.
“He’s over there, my lady.” She glanced round, recognizing Bogatyr Askold’s voice. “Don’t worry; we took good care of him.”
“Gavril!” Forgetting how a lady should behave, ignoring the frozen slush underfoot, she flew across the courtyard to fling her arms around him and hug him tightly.
He kissed her and she felt the roughness of dark stubble grazing her cheek.
“It was only a night away,” he said with a quiet laugh. “We found shelter in the watchtower on the edge of the forest.”
Gazing up into his face, she saw instantly that, in spite of his reassuring smile, there was a haunted look in his sunken eyes as if he had not quite woken fully from a nightmare. But practical needs had to be addressed first. She slipped her arm through his, steering him toward the open door. “You must all be famished. Come into the kitchen and get warm.”
“You go on ahead, my lord,” Askold said, “I’ll make sure the morning watch are briefed.”
The meaningful look that passed between the two men did not escape Kiukiu. I was right; something has happened! But she had learned that it paid to be patient with Gavril and not to press him with questions too soon, so she guided him inside and waited while he and the other druzhina spooned down bowlfuls of hot porridge, sweetened with bitter-sweet heather honey, and drank spiced, mulled ale.
“What happened out there?” Kiukiu had waited long enough; she wanted to know. “Did you find anyone trespassing in the Waste?”
Again she saw a look pass between Askold and Gavril; the other men stared fixedly at their bowls or drained their ale mugs.
“We met Lady Morozhka,” Gavril said in the silence.
Ilsi dropped the porridge ladle with a clang. “Lady Frost?” she said, making the sign against evil. “It’s a wonder she didn’t freeze you all to death.”
I sensed Morozhka and her Snow Spirits were about last night. Kiukiu, remembering her encounter with the Snow Spirits, wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. They lull you to sleep with their cold, clear lullabies . . . and you never wake up again. It terrified her to think how close Gavril had come to succumbing to their chill embrace. She watched him as he pensively scraped the last of the porridge from his bowl and realized how vulnerable he was; no longer protected by his daemon Drakhaoul, he looked as tired and careworn as his druzhina.
But it was not until Gavril returned from the bathhouse, clean shaven again and skin glowing from the heat, that she drew him into their bedchamber.
“Tell me what really happened,” she said, sitting him down on the bed and toweling the last of the moisture from his damp hair . Such soft hair for a man. Darker auburn than our daughter’s, with coppered glints in the firelight . . . but not a single trace of daemon blue anymore.
Gavril picked up his comb.
“Let me do that for you. Your hair’s all tangled.” She knelt up beside him and took the comb from him. “Mmm. You smell of birch bark; you must have been using Sosia’s special soap.”
“What would I do without you?” he said softly. “Don’t ever leave me, Kiukiu. I don’t think I could go on without you.”
“Silly,” she said, although his words made her heart ache. “I’m not going anywhere. My place is here, at your side.”
***
“Old Mother Winter is plucking her geese. White feathers come tumbling down, tumbling down . . .”
Kiukiu heard the distant strains of the old children’s song, sung in a sweet, husky woman’s voice.
“Who’s singing?” She went to get up but saw that Larisa’s eyes had closed and her little head drooped against Kiukiu’s shoulder. As the baby’s breathing grew slow and regular, Kiukiu gently placed her back in the cradle and pulled the woolen blanket around her, loosely tucking it in . If we’re lucky she’ll sleep through now until dawn.
Suddenly she felt the fine hairs prickling at the back of her neck as a cold sensation, light as a flurry of snow, settled over her.
Someone’s watching me.
Slowly
she raised her head from Larisa’s cradle and stared at the oriel window. A woman’s face was pressed up against the glass panes, barely visible in the mauve light of the snowy dusk. For a brief second, Kiukiu’s gaze connected with hers—and then Kiukiu heard the door open behind her and Gavril came in.
“Gavril,” she whispered, clutching at his arm, “someone’s at the window. Looking in. I saw a face.”
“At the window?” he repeated. “But we’re on the first floor. There’s no balcony outside. How could anyone look in? Who did you see?”
“A woman . . . I think. Dark eyes, pale skin, a strange look on her face, curious, yet somehow . . .” Hungry. She didn’t want to say the word aloud, but hunger was the emotion she had sensed emanating from the apparition at the window; hunger and longing.
“There’s no one there.” Gavril had gone directly to the window and was gazing out onto the twilit garden below.
Just like a man; needing physical proof before he’ll believe anything.
“Perhaps you dreamt it? Or it could have been a trick of the light, casting shadows on the frosted glass?”
“It’d better not be one of the Drakhaon’s Brides come back to haunt you.” The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and she saw him flinch. There are things he still hasn’t been able to bring himself to tell me. But he wouldn’t still be alive now if he hadn’t drunk innocent blood. But she couldn’t bear to think—even if he had been under the Drakhaoul’s influence—of her man talking so intimately with these other girls, touching, kissing, biting —
Gavril was gazing at her, a look of puzzled hurt dulling his eyes.
“That was unfair of me,” she said, annoyed with herself for speaking out thoughtlessly. “I’ve just felt so . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right word, “So unsettled since you told me about those strangers.”
“And still no one knows who they were or where they were headed.”
“Why would anyone try to cross the Arkhel Waste at this time of year?” Kiukiu had a sudden disturbing thought that made her reach out to seize Gavril’s hand. “Suppose it’s assassins, Gavril? You know you made enemies when you were Drakhaon. Only a well-paid assassin would be motivated enough to venture out under cover of winter to try to take down his—or her—target.”
