by Ash, Sarah
“Why would Lord Gavril send his druzhina to attack my men? It’s Arkhel land.”
“It’s possible that the lad was mistaken,” Gerard said, realizing that he was treading on dangerous territory.
“Iarko’s employed men from families loyal to the Arkhels. They’ve had to lie low for years, nursing their grievances. Word must have got out.”
“You can’t mean it was the Nagari—” Gerard began, understanding what his employer was saying. “But we have no proof.”
“Yet you were threatened, along with Ryndin and Kartavoi, weren’t you? And—” A loud rap at the door made him break off. “Come in.”
The door creaked open, bringing a gust of damp air and with it the protests of the miners assembled outside. Kartavoi came in, followed by Iarko and his son Temir, a tall, well-favored young man.
One glance at the Arkhel retainers’ expressions told Gerard how volatile the situation had become. And another glance at Lord Ranulph—who had been entertaining two ladies to tea not half an hour ago—revealed that Toran’s father had been away from Azhkendir for far too long and was utterly out of his depth.
“What’s all this damnable racket, Iarko? Tell the men to be quiet.”
“The men are loyal to you, my lord.” Iarko’s face was flushed. “They want to let you know that whatever action you choose to take against the Nagarians, they are ready to support you and defend the mine.”
“What action do they think I’m going to take?” Lord Ranulph looked bemused. “I’m not going to attack Lord Nagarian. Although I’m prepared to meet him, face-to-face to discuss reparation.”
“But this is a slur on your honor, my lord. It’s an act of deliberate provocation. If the Nagarians want a fight, let’s give them a fight.”
“I came back here with one aim, Iarko,” Lord Ranulph’s voice hardened. “To mine firedust. And copper. Not to start another clan war.”
Gerard looked at him in surprise. This was the first time he had heard his employer speak so decisively.
“Ingenieur,” Lord Ranulph suddenly turned to Gerard, catching him off-guard, “I’d like you to go to Kastel Nagarian and set up a meeting with Lord Gavril. On neutral territory. Temir, pick a couple of reliable men and accompany Ingenieur Bernay.”
“Me?” Gerard was taken aback; he had no wish to walk straight into the lion’s maw.
“I’ll write a letter.” And Lord Ranulph sat down at the table, picking up his pen.
“But I’m just an ingenieur. I have no experience of mediation or negotiation—” Gerard began.
“You’d better take this.” Temir came over and handed him a pistol.
Gerard instantly handed it back. “If we ride over armed to the teeth, they’ll think we’re coming to pick a fight.”
Temir shrugged and stuck the pistol in his belt.
“Temir’s a crack shot. Used to be my gamekeeper at Serrigonde.” Lord Ranulph folded the letter, sealed it and handed it to Gerard, clapping him on the shoulder. “He’ll look after you.” Close to, Gerard smelled the brandy on his breath. This incident must have reawakened memories that he’d rather forget. He took the letter in silence and tucked it into his inner pocket.
***
What am I doing here wasting my time in Azhkendir? Gerard was still fuming with resentment as he rode behind Temir across the moors toward Kastel Nagarian. If Maulevrier hadn’t played me for a fool and stolen my designs, I could have been back at the university in Tielborg, lecturing, teaching, sharing my discoveries with like minds, exchanging ideas about the mechanical arts with the students, not caught up in some ancient barbaric blood feud.
“We’re lucky it’s early summer,” Temir said, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Long hours of daylight this far north.”
Ahead lay a great forest, marking the eastern border of the moors and the Arkhel Waste. The meandering road they were on, little more than a stony track, would eventually lead them to the western entrance to Lord Nagarian’s demesne. Gerard soon spotted a crenellated tower rising above the evergreens.
“Is that part of the estate?” he asked, pointing.
“That must be the western gatehouse,” Temir said gazing up at the ivy-festooned tower, eyes narrowed in a frown.
“Did you grow up here, Temir?”
“No; I was born in Tourmalise. My father married one of Lady Tanaisie’s maids. But he and Ryndin taught me the Azhkendi tongue.”
“You seem to know your way around.”
“Dad used to draw maps for me. Told me how it was in Lord Stavyor’s time. The good days, he used to say. Before Lord Volkh—”
“If you were at Serrigonde,” Gerard said, hastily changing the subject, “you must have known Lord Toran.”
Temir turned round in the saddle and Gerard saw that he was smiling. “We used to play together when we were little. He loved the wolfhounds. Almost as much as he loved his granddad, Lord Denys.” Gerard felt his mood mellowing; the image of a much younger Toran burying his face in the rough gray fur of the family hounds, laughing as they licked his face, made him smile too. “He was always sneaking out to his granddad’s workshop, tinkering around with bits and pieces, making models. But why do you ask, Ingenieur?”
“I—” Gerard broke off abruptly as he spotted two horsemen riding toward them. Temir must have heard the thud of the hooves on the stony track too, because he swung around, gripping the reins with one hand, the other moving to grab the pistol in his saddle holster.
“Wait,” Gerard said. “We’re here to deliver a letter.”
“They’re not like you and me, Ingenieur,” Temir muttered, “they’re barbarians.” But to Gerard’s relief, he slipped the pistol back into its holster.
The horsemen drew near, one of them hailing them in the common tongue.
“What is your business here?”
“I bring a letter for Lord Gavril,” Gerard called back. He wondered as they rode closer exactly what Lord Ranulph had written. He hoped it was nothing contentious. As they approached, he saw that the horsemen—although dressed in conventional riding attire—also had cobalt blue clanmarks tattooed on their foreheads, just like the two warriors he and Kartavoi had encountered near Morozhka’s Round. The elder of the two looked very much the seasoned soldier; at closer quarters Gerard saw the pale rim of a scar running from his left eyebrow to his chin. Battle-hardened warriors, both of them.
“I am Askold, Bogatyr of Lord Gavril’s druzhina,” said the elder one. He spoke with courteous reserve but Gerard sensed that he was assessing them intently.”And who might you be, gentlemen?”
“My name is Gerard Bernay,” Gerard said. “I am an ingenieur from Tourmalise in the employ of Lord Ranulph, and this is Temir, my guide.”
“I see.” Askold and his subordinate exchanged glances; too late Gerard wondered if it would have been better not to have mentioned his employer’s name.
“My lord is away in Azhgorod at the boyars’ council and cannot receive you.”
“But two of the ingenieur’s men have been murdered,” Temir burst out. “There’s a killer on the loose. We can’t let their deaths go unpunished.”
“However, Lord Gavril is expected home in a few days’ time.” Askold extended his right hand. His scar-seamed face was impassive yet Gerard sensed the growing tension in the air. “I will ensure that the letter is safely delivered.”
Gerard handed over the letter, all the while fearing that Temir, silently seething with repressed anger, might lose control.
Temir began to protest but Gerard gave a swift, terse shake of the head to silence him and without further exchange of words rode away from the watching Nagarians back toward the moors.
***
“So Lord Gavril’s away from home.” Lord Ranulph gave a little shrug. “Then my hands are tied until he returns.” Gerard sensed he was relieved that the meeting had been postponed. And yet his employer’s demeanor was not entirely that of a man who was weighed down by the responsibilities of his enterprise; the
re was a hint of sparkle in his eyes and an air of suppressed excitement, like a child bursting to share a secret. He kept glancing at a letter which lay on the table.
“If you have no further instructions for today—” Gerard began, suddenly overcome with weariness; it had been a long and disheartening day.
“You met my son in Paladur, didn’t you, Bernay?” Lord Ranulph was beaming. “I’ve just received some excellent news.”
Gerard had turned to leave; he stopped, his attention caught, in spite of himself.
“Here; read it yourself.” Lord Ranulph, very much the proud parent, handed the letter to him. Gerard instantly recognized Toran’s bold, somewhat erratic hand:
“Dearest father,
“Our adventure continues. After a terrible storm in the Iron Sea (Branville was seasick as a dog!) we’ve safely made landfall in Tielen at last and I’m writing to you from the port of Haeven. We’re about to travel on to the Palace of Swanholm where the Emperor is hosting the contest. Major Bauldry has hired two wagons to transport our equipment and the parts of the Aiglon . We will be allocated outbuildings on the estate in which to reassemble our craft. The contest will take place—if the weather is fine—close to the festivities on Dievona’s Night when the sun hardly sets.”
As he read, Gerard could almost hear Toran’s voice excitedly relating the events and could not help smiling. But then his smile froze as a desperate sense of frustration and longing arose within him . I should be there at his side, not that arrogant boor Elyot Branville. He realized—just as a ray of cold Azhkendi daylight pierced the looming cloud pall, revealing the landscape in startling clarity—that everything he cared about: flying machines, the elegance and beauty of the ingenieur’s craft, had become somehow inextricably mingled with his feelings for Toran.
“We’ve just learned that the finalists will be using a new fuel especially created by the Emperor’s alchymists.” A new alchymical fuel? Unease spread like a feverchill through Gerard’s body as he read. Surely the imperial military scientists wouldn’t experiment on the contestants?
“Bernay?”
He realized that Lord Ranulph was looking at him expectantly, one hand extended to take back the letter, obviously waiting for him to comment on Toran’s achievements. He handed back the letter. “Your son is a gifted ingenieur,” he said with conviction. “I truly hope that his team wins the contest. And I wish I could be there to wish them well.”
“But what would I do without you here?” Lord Ranulph clapped him genially on the shoulder. “You’re indispensable, my dear fellow.”
Bernay nodded. Up until that moment he had convinced himself his expertise was essential for the successful running of the enterprise, that—in helping Lord Ranulph restore the Arkhel family fortunes—he was, in his own way, helping Toran at a distance. Now his instinct told him to stop running away. It was time to gather up his meager savings and scrape a passage—even in steerage—on the next ship sailing from Narvazh to Tielborg. What would it matter if Maulevrier recognized him? He’d be going to support Toran and the cadets, not to accuse him of stealing his designs. Maulevrier could say what he damned well pleased.
“I’d like to take a look at the copper mine tomorrow,” Lord Ranulph added. “Could you show me around? Our funds are running a little low, so it would be good to see some returns on our investment.”
“With pleasure,” Gerard heard himself answering. He had a certain ingenieur’s pride in overseeing the construction of the pump at the copper mine. This would be the ideal time to hand over the running of the mine to Kartavoi, pump and all. The only problem was persuading the superstitious miners back to work.
But how long was it till Dievona’s Night? He remembered from his student days drinking into the small hours with his friends to celebrate the end of the examinations on the night when the sun never set. Amorous couples would jump the bonfire embers, hand-in-hand, to win the pagan goddess’s blessing on their union, a tradition frowned on by the pastors of the Tielen Church.
Gerard picked up the little calendar on the office table. Out here in the wilds he had lost count of the passing of time but Lord Ranulph had been keeping a record. The letter must have taken over a fortnight to reach the mine works.
Which meant there were only two days to go to the contest. The calendar dropped from his hand. He would never make it to Swanholm in time.
Chapter 42
Gavril reined Krasa to a sudden halt. A violent shiver coursed through his whole body as if the air temperature had suddenly dropped. The disconcerting sensation stirred up fragments of memory—and yet also felt alien and unfamiliar.
Is it a Drakhaoul? He scanned the empty plain but could see no sign of another living creature, not even a bird. There’s no way it could be. All he could hear was the faint whine of the wind stirring the heather, rattling the spines on the gorse bushes. Yet it feels so like Khezef, or Belberith…
And at that moment a wave of yearning for his lost daemon overwhelmed him and the ache of loss was so strong he dropped the reins, clutching his arms to his chest, trying to hold in the grief.
What’s the matter with me? The fusion with Khezef was destroying me, eating away at everything that made me human. At least I can honestly claim to have been myself—and myself alone—this last year.
The shiver caught him again, like a freezing wave breaking against the shore, then another, and another. The wind was growing stronger, blowing in gusts across the steppe until it whipped his hair into his face.
What is it?
Fighting the growing urge to kick his heels into Krasa’s sides and ride like hell away from whatever was coming, Gavril dismounted.
I have to find out what this is.
He stroked Krasa’s neck as much to calm himself, as to calm her.
It’s here.
Slowly turning, Gavril saw a man where there had been no one before, walking directly toward him across the steppe, moving with an easy, determined stride, his feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground. But it was not just his swift progress that took Gavril’s breath away, it was the piercing glitter of his eyes, his cascade of hair, the pale icy blue of a sunlit Northern sea . . . and the furled wings that sprouted from his shoulders.
“Gavril Nagarian,” the winged stranger called to him. The voice was strong, yet light and youthful with nothing of Khezef’s world-weary cynicism.
“What do you want?” Gavril tried to steady his voice, and yet his heart had begun to thud painfully fast against his ribs. He must be one of the Heavenly Guardians. “Have you come to punish me?”
Still the stranger came on, moving at a swift and steady pace, his bare feet scarcely touching the scrub. “We need to talk, Gavril Nagarian.”
“Talk?” It had to be a trap. Or a stalling tactic, designed to lull him into letting down his defenses. Although what defenses did he have, now that Khezef was gone? He almost laughed out loud at the irony of the situation: if the Heavenly Guardians wanted to destroy him, he was utterly unprotected.
Krasa whinnied, jittering around nervously as the Heavenly Warrior drew closer, and Gavril took tight hold of the reins, speaking softly to steady her.
“My name is Taliahad of the Seven Seas,” said the stranger.
Is this how Khezef looked once, before he followed Nagazdiel to this world and fell from grace? Gavril found himself wondering, overwhelmed by the beauty and nobility of the young seraph’s features. There was an unsullied innocence in the directness of his piercing gaze and an appealingly earnest ring to his voice.
“Why now, Lord Taliahad?” Gavril’s mouth had gone dry and the words were hard to get out. He realized that he was fighting back a fear so great that it threatened to unman him. The angel must have been sent to punish him.“Why have you waited so long to hunt me down?”
A look of incomprehension passed across Taliahad’s bright face. “Hunt you down? That was not my purpose. I was sent to watch over you—and your daughter.”
Gavril was so astoun
ded to hear this that for a moment he had no idea how to react. “B-but why?” he heard himself stammer.
“When the Fallen Guardian Khezef left this world, he left you and your unborn child utterly unprotected. And there are many unscrupulous forces lurking in the mortal world that dearly desire to use your daughter for their own ends.”
“Use Larisa?” All the fears that had been tormenting Gavril since Kiukiu and Larisa had disappeared surfaced again. “What do you know? Is she in danger? Am I too late to save her? Tell me.”
“Your wife, the Spirit Singer, has run away, hasn’t she? Taking your daughter with her.”
“How do you know that? And why should I trust you? How can I be sure that you’re who you claim to be?”
“I told you; my task is to watch over you. It is my duty to know.” Taliahad’s gaze was so steadfast that Gavril glanced away, ashamed to have accused the young Guardian too hastily.
“So why has Kiukiu disappeared with Larisa?”
Taliahad sighed. “Has your wife ever told you what happened to her in Khitari? Or the price she was forced to pay to regain her lost youth?”
A cold, unsettling feeling began to churn in Gavril’s stomach. He shook his head.
“Your wife is in thrall to Anagini, one of the Elder Ones. Some call her the Guardian of the Jade Springs, others the Snake Goddess, but she was here long before Nagazdiel’s rebellion.”
“The Snake Goddess,” Gavril repeated under his breath, remembering the worn carvings on the tumbled stones of the ancient island temple where he and Kiukiu had made love. Images left long ago by some early primitive people: a full-breasted female divinity, half-woman, half-serpent, yet when Kiukiu had discovered them in the morning sunlight next day, she had reacted strangely. At the time he had wondered why—but events had overtaken them, leaving him no opportunity to ask her why she had been so troubled.
“Anagini’s powers are rapidly diminishing—and so she placed a binding spell on your wife. The price of restoring her youth was the pledging of your firstborn child to her service. And if Kiukirilya ever breathed a word to anyone of this bond, she would instantly lose her youth and become an old woman again.”
