by Ash, Sarah
Eugene entered his study, a light and airy cabinet with views across the park, and sat down at his desk. At his right, just within easy reach, was the Vox Aethyria, arguably Linnaius’s most brilliant invention, an ingenious combination of metal cogs and dials that had often confused the uninitiated into thinking it to be some new type of clock. But the crystal that powered it was dull with not even a trace of the aethyric spark at the heart of its many facets.
As lifeless as its inventor . . . Eugene blinked the blur of tears away again. Damn it, the last thing Linnaius would have expected of him was to mope about when there was work to be done. There would be time to mourn properly later. The network of linked machines Linnaius had established to enable Eugene to communicate instantly with his agents and ambassadors in the furthest, most remote corners of the empire, had ceased to function the year before, during the Great Darkness.
And without it, my single greatest advantage over my rivals and enemies is gone.
Eugene drummed his fingertips on the polished surface of the desk as he contemplated the broken machine. If the Vox Aethyria had been functioning, he could already have spoken with Sylvius in Tielborg instead of fretting as he waited for Lovisa to arrive and then sending out a small squad of messengers.
I wonder if young Bernay knows how to repair the Vox?
But before he could pursue this line of thought further, there came a discreet tap at the door and Lovisa entered. She was, as always, impeccably dressed; today’s gown was in gray silk, embroidered at the collar in speedwell blue and silver thread to match the underskirt. He supposed she had chosen the colors to reflect the flag of Tielen and the uniforms of his elite household troops in honor of the occasion.
“How can I be of service to you, imperial majesty?”
“Let’s drop the formalities, cousin; we’re alone,” Eugene said, rising to assist her into a seat.
“Then how can I be of help to you, Eugene?” There was a slightly frosty edge to her words as she rephrased her question. Her punctiliousness was one of the qualities he valued in her; it made her one of his most meticulous and reliable agents.
“I want you to interrogate Guy Maulevrier, the ingenieur in charge of the Tielborg University team. Find out how he came to employ the pilot. The one who’s so conveniently disappeared. Find out everything you can about this ‘Karl Lorens’.”
“Shall I interrogate Professor Kazimir too? After all, he was responsible for developing the new fuel. ”
Eugene waved one hand dismissively. “Kazimir may appear like a gullible fool, but I trust him. He’s no traitor. The Magus would never have bequeathed his life’s work to him if he hadn’t felt the same way. But now we have a new Magus, Lovisa, one Gerard Bernay.”
“A new Magus . . . ?” Her blue eyes widened in astonishment; she so rarely let her true feelings show but this news had startled her. “Then Linnaius is—”
“Dead.” Eugene heard himself say the word aloud but still had difficulty believing it, even though he had held the old man in his arms until the last breath had left his frail body. “Bernay is his great-grandson.”
“I see,” Lovisa said guardedly.
“Linnaius died protecting me from an attack by Oskar Alvborg.”
Her eyes grew even wider. “Alvborg is here? At Swanholm? He gained entry in spite of the extra guards we’ve placed around the estate?”
“He made his attack from the air.” Eugene didn’t want to complicate matters by trying to explain what he had witnessed; he didn’t begin to understand it himself.
“Are you saying that Karl Lorens is Alvborg? In disguise? How did he get back into Tielen? Sylvius’ agents have been on high alert at all the ports looking out for him.”
“Someone has been negligent. Although . . .” He left the comment unfinished; there was little point at this stage in singling out and punishing any of Sylvius’ agents for negligence if Oskar had—for reasons that baffled him—been selected by the Heavenly Guardians as their instrument of vengeance.
“Although?”
He realized that Lovisa was prompting him to complete his observation. “My main concern is that Astasia and the children are fully protected at all times.”
“I will see to it at once. And I’ll report back to you straight away.” And then, never one to be less than blunt with him, she said, “I noticed that her imperial majesty was absent from today’s contest. I hope this recent bout of ill health is not a cause for concern.”
“Just a headache, nothing more.” Eugene smiled at her. “But Astasia will be touched to hear that you inquired after her health.” There was still a distinct touch of frostiness in the air whenever the two women met; it had been hard to dissuade Astasia that he and Lovisa had never been romantically involved, in spite of the slanders certain malicious tongues whispered at court.
Lovisa shot him an enigmatic look, then rose, curtseyed, and departed in a brisk swish of silken skirts.
Eugene remained at his desk, mulling over her final observation. He had wondered when one of the courtiers would comment on Astasia’s absence—and, of course, it was the fearlessly frank Lovisa who was the first to do so. He was more than a little ashamed that he had not sent Gustave to find out if the empress was feeling any better, but the extraordinary events of the day had delayed him far longer than he had anticipated. It was true that Astasia had been looking more pale than usual since they arrived in Swanholm but he had attributed her pallor to the rigors of the journey. He longed to tell her of Linnaius’s death and to share the grief that he could not afford to show in public. Only with her could he allow himself to reveal the ache of loss that he had suppressed to deal with the crisis. But if she was still feeling unwell, he was reluctant to burden her with his troubles.
***
Astasia was sitting up in the great swagged bed, propped up on pillows and cushions, her dark hair unbound about her shoulders, holding a delicate porcelain cup of tea in both hands.
Eugene hesitated, seeing how pale she looked, the skin below her violet eyes darkly smudged, but hearing him come in, she looked up from the tea and smiled, carefully setting the cup back on its saucer.
“I’m so sorry to miss the contest, Eugene.” She beckoned him closer, patting the bed. “How did it go? Who won?”
He could see she was making an effort to conceal how she was feeling. That’s my girl. He went to sit beside her and took her hand in his.
“I heard the band playing, then the chug of the engines. And all the cheers! It must have been so exciting.”
“I hope the noise didn’t disturb you too much.”
“No; it all sounded far away.”
“And how are you feeling now?”
“Oh, much better.” She did not meet his gaze, picking at a loose thread in the sheet with her free hand. He was not convinced. “You still haven’t told me who won. Was it the Arkhel boy? I do hope it was.”
He had been pondering how best to report what had happened to her. “In truth, Tasia, the other pilot has disappeared and we haven’t yet found his flyer. So we will award the cadets from Tourmalise the gold medals. And if you’re feeling better, it would be a fitting end to the contest if you could help me make the presentation to the cadets in front of the court. They’re brave, enterprising young men and merit their reward.”
“It would be a pleasure,” she said. But she still seemed distracted and distant.
“Astasia,” he said, leaning forward to stroke her face, tilting it toward him. “Is everything well with you? Is there something you want to tell me? I’m here, ready to listen, whatever it might be. I’ve asked Nadezhda to make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Um.” Still she did not meet his gaze. “Well. I didn’t want to say until I was certain. It seems that I’m—we’re—expecting another child.”
This was not at all what Eugene had been expecting. He had come back to the palace, raw from witnessing the death of Linnaius and now Astasia was informing him that he was to be a father aga
in. He felt tears burning a path down his cheeks as he reached out blindly and crushed her tightly to him.
“Eugene?” he heard her say, surprised, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“Of course I am. I’m—I’m overwhelmed.” He blinked away his tears and kissed her. “So when is the baby to be born? When shall we announce the good news to the court?”
“Nadezhda reckons around the Feast of the Holy Veil.”
“The Holy Veil?” Eugene gave her a puzzled look, suspecting this was one of the many holy days celebrated in Muscobar which the Tielen Church regarded as unimportant.
“Autumn.” She laughed for the first time in a long while. “Harvest festival time.”
“Ah.” He was making mental calculations. “But we can’t rely on Nadezhda’s guesswork. We must summon the best medical practitioners in Tielborg.”
“Good heavens, Eugene, I don’t want to be poked and prodded by strangers, no matter how good their qualifications . A good local midwife will be fine. And Doctor Amandel, if needs must. I’m not ill, I’m merely with child. It happens all the time, you know!”
“Of course, dearest Tasia, whatever you wish,” he said, kissing her again, unable to help himself. “Do you feel well enough to attend the medals ceremony? I’d like to present Toran Arkhel to you. It would be a good opportunity to introduce him to his little cousin Stavy.”
“I’d love to meet him.”
There came a discreet tap at the bedchamber door and Nadezhda’s white-coiffed head appeared.
“Forgive the interruption but Count Gustave has urgent news for his imperial majesty.”
“Urgent? You’d better not keep Gustave waiting,” Astasia said.
“I’ll leave you to rest.” He helped her back onto the pillows and kissed her forehead. But as he left the bedchamber, a little voice nagged at the back of his mind, reminding him that perhaps it was not so usual for pregnant women to be laid low with headaches.
In the antechamber, Gustave turned to greet him, holding out a folded paper. Eugene opened it and read:
“Farmers on the edge of the northern moors reported seeing flames in the sky. We’ve found burned wreckage—but no human remains. We’re collecting the debris and bringing it back for further investigation.
“Alvar Baryard, Captain, Imperial Guards”
Eugene nodded and handed back the paper to Gustave. He was determined not to let this news—disquieting as it was—spoil his pleasure on hearing Astasia’s news.
“If I might be so impertinent as to make an observation,” said Gustave, “but your majesty seems to have recovered your spirits.”
Of course! Gustave knew him too well not to notice. Eugene grinned at his old friend. “Indeed so, Gustave. I’ve just received some excellent tidings from the empress.”
Gustave’s brows rose questioningly and then he smiled too and bowed. “May I be the first to congratulate you both?”
“Thank you.” Eugene clapped Gustave on the shoulder, delighted to have gained his approval. “But this report from Captain Baryard only confirms my suspicions; the pilot survived the crash. Which means he’s still at large.”
Chapter 54
Airborne at last, Gavril was rediscovering the skills he had learned in his Drakhaoul form. Taliahad was right: even though the feathery wings were hard to master and control, his body had not forgotten how to fly. Soon he was using the up-draughts and air currents to soar and skim. And the sensation was so deliciously invigorating that it allowed him to ignore the repetitive, tearing pain triggered by each wing-stroke.
From the air, the trail left by Chinua’s wolves dragging the cart and its precious cargo across the grasslands was ridiculously easy to follow. The wolf shaman must have assumed that Gavril and his men would not be swift enough to pursue them on horseback and had not bothered to cover their tracks across the steppe.
But after a while Gavril began to flag. Krasa had galloped off with his water and rations in the saddle bags. His throat was dust-dry and his empty stomach had begun to cramp. And he had not spotted a single traveler on the steppes below. If he didn’t catch up with Kiukiu and Chinua soon, there was a real danger that he would exhaust the last of his energy and crash to earth, parched and starving. All he could do was flap doggedly onward, keeping the wolves’ trail through the crushed grass directly below him.
They’ll have to stop at some stage to feed Risa. There’s no sign yet of the mountains or Lake Taigal, so I haven’t crossed into the Serpent Woman’s domains. There’s still time to stop them before they fall into her clutches.
***
Oskar flapped slowly, raggedly onward, propelled only by the Guardian’s failing strength. The peerless blue of the Tielen sky was hazed over with a crimson sheen as waves of faintness washed through him. His main aim was to get as far away as possible from Eugene’s men and then, like a wounded creature, go to ground. But each successive wing-stroke sent fresh jags of pain through his body as blood slowly dripped from the bullet wound to the earth below.
“You . . . you didn’t warn me.” The words were Ardarel’s but they were issuing from his own mouth, using his own voice. “I had no idea—that it would feel like this.”
Oskar spiraled clumsily down to the open moorland far beneath, dropping the last few feet to tumble onto a patch of heather. The fall knocked the breath from his lungs and jarred the bullet-wound in his right shoulder. He yelled aloud as agony shot through him.
“Damn you,” he whispered, curling in on himself. “You promised me freedom. All I get is a bullet in the shoulder. Can’t you heal me?”
“Is this . . .” the angel whispered back, “what you call pain ? This rending, tearing, burning sensation? You mortals are so fragile. You break so easily. You are vulnerable . . . in so many ways.”
“Just heal me. Make me whole again.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, mortal. I’m not your servant. I’m a Warrior of the Second Heaven, second-in-command to Prince Galizur—” Ardarel broke off as another surge of agony rose, cresting like a storm wave.
“But you can’t fulfill your mission without my help.” Oskar managed through gritted teeth.
There was a slight pause as though the Guardian was reconsidering his options—and maybe even regretting his prideful outburst.
“Very well.” Oskar heard him mutter. And then the gilded heat slowly enveloped them both in a fiery cloud of healing .
***
Oskar sat up, flexing his arm, then slowly rotating the damaged shoulder. The pain had gone; all that remained was a slight sensation of stiffness where the torn flesh and crushed bone had been re-fused.
“Amazing,” he said under his breath. He had no idea how Ardarel had used his powers to undo the damage; the ball had passed right through his body,
“Now that your body has been restored, I have a question for you.” Ardarel’s voice resounded in Oskar’s mind, keen and incisive as his fiery blade. “Why did you override my instructions? You attacked the Emperor, instead of the two magi.”
Oskar rolled onto his back. Laughter welled up inside him. The irony of his situation would make a fine church morality play, full of comedy and pratfalls. He flung his arms wide to the sky and laughed aloud until his throat and ribcage ached. “What does it matter? The foolish old Magus sacrificed himself for his Emperor. Your mission was accomplished.” He sat up, the last residue of laughter suddenly gone. “Although it would have been so much better if I could have destroyed them both with one single blow.”
“You are full of hate. I had no idea how powerful this emotion could be.”
“So you high and mighty ones have no experience of mortal feelings?”
“We have no need,” Ardarel said.
Oskar considered the response. “That must make it almost impossible to deal with us. You have no real understanding of what drives us. No wonder we mortals are such a big disappointment to you. We’re so . . . unpredictable.” A sudden pang of hunger gripp
ed him and he clutched at his empty stomach. He could not even remember when he last eaten. There had been fresh-baked rolls, slices of cheese and cold meats, berry jams and jellies laid on by the imperial kitchens before the contest. Just remembering the smell, the texture of the bread, brought saliva to his mouth; the taste of white rolls, still hot from the oven, spread with jam, dipped in steaming coffee almost made him drool.
“What is this?” Ardarel demanded.
“I need food. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m light-headed with hunger.”
“How can you find some . . . food?” Ardarel pronounced the word as if it were utterly unfamiliar.
“Not out here in the wild. It’s too early for berries. And I’ve no money.” Oskar began to laugh again, overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the sorry plight he found himself in.
“And if you don’t find food—”
A distant ripple disturbed the aethyr, a chill, fresh watery sensation that briefly lapped at Oskar’s mind with a wash of blue. Ardarel felt it too for he fell silent, listening intently.
“What’s that?” Oskar asked, puzzled. It had stirred up yet more memories, frustratingly fleeting, and he could not be sure whose they were.
“What are you doing here, Taliahad?” he heard Ardarel murmur. “Have you traced the Key Child?”
***
A thin curl of woodsmoke wisped upward, gray against the cloud-sheened sky: the first sign of life Gavril had spotted all day. But if it was Chinua, where were the steppe wolves? Had Chinua posted them to keep watch? Relief that he had caught up with the fugitives mingled with the realization that a difficult confrontation lay ahead. And he was so tired and hungry that when the rhythm of his wing-beats began to falter, he was too exhausted to find the strength to regulate them.
Then—there it was: the tea merchant’s cart far below, sheltered in a small hollow. Gavril felt his pulse quicken at the sight.
Kiukiu and Risa .
