Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  Kostya halted before a pillared doorway. The way was barred with planks of wood nailed across the doors. Two of the druzhina stood on guard outside.

  “Open the doors,” said Kostya.

  The warriors glanced at each other—the first time Gavril had seen any of the druzhina hesitate to execute a command—then took their axes to the planks, levering and hacking until, with a splintering crack, the wood came away and the doors swung open.

  “Now the shutters,” Kostya said.

  Gavril watched with a growing sense of unease. That queasy feeling of dread had returned, like a cold, sick fever. He did not want to cross the threshold. He wanted to turn and run, to find the crisp brightness of the autumn day outside.

  “Come, my lord,” Kostya said, ushering him over the threshold.

  No torches lit the Great Hall, guttering their smoke into the shadows. But beneath his feet Gavril saw the same black and ocher patterned tiles which, in his vision, had been slimed with blood.

  He was standing only a few feet from where his father had lain dying.

  If he closed his eyes, he could see again the flash of spangled light that seared the eyes, could smell again the reek of burning flesh, could feel the dying man’s last, agonized gasps as his consciousness faded. . . .

  “Remember.”

  He opened his eyes. Etched against the daylight a figure of shadow wavered, tall, broad-shouldered.

  The air breathed cold as winter fog; there was an unpleasant, moldering taint to it, like decaying leaves and chill earth.

  “Gavril.”

  “Father?” Gavril whispered.

  “My son.” The revenant’s voice shuddered through him, each word a sliver of ice. Then the revenant suddenly crumpled to the floor, a figure sprawled in the ungainly attitude of death, dark blood leaking like ink onto the tiles from the slack mouth.

  A second shadow came billowing like curling smoke from Lord Volkh’s breast until it towered above Gavril, blotting out the daylight, the shadow of a great daemon-serpent, hooked wings outspread, darker than a thundercloud.

  Sick and faint, Gavril felt himself swaying, falling. . . .

  Strong hands gripped his shoulders, supporting him.

  “Steady, lad,” muttered Kostya’s voice in his ear.

  Gavril blinked. There’s nothing there. Look. In the daylight, he could see that the tiles had been washed clean. But Kostya and the young guard who had let them in were staring at the same spot, transfixed.

  “This is where he died, isn’t it?” Gavril said shakily.

  “Aquavit for Lord Gavril!” barked Kostya, recovering. “Hurry, Michailo!”

  The young guard went running out, returning with a metal flask that Kostya thrust into Gavril’s hands.

  “Drink.”

  Gavril put the flask to his lips and took a mouthful. The aquavit burned his throat like fire. Cleansing fire. Coughing, eyes watering, he handed the flask back to Kostya, who took a long swig himself before passing it to the young guard who had brought it.

  “This is bad, very bad,” Kostya muttered. It was the first time Gavril had seen him disconcerted.

  “You saw it too?”

  “I saw what I saw. And you, Michailo?”

  The young man started; beneath his sunburned cheeks, Gavril noticed that he had turned as pale as whey.

  “I saw my lord Volkh as he was when he was alive. May the Blessed Sergius preserve me from such a sight again. The dead should not walk with the living.”

  “My father’s ghost?” Gavril said softly. He did not believe in ghosts. But there had been something here in this room for which he could find no other name.

  “Once a spirit-wraith has been called back into our world, it is very hard to persuade it to return,” Kostya said.

  “And who could have summoned it?” said Michailo.

  “I aim to find out,” Kostya said darkly.

  Gavril’s eyes kept returning to the distinctive patterns on the tiles, the black serpent, wings spread against the ocher background. How could he have dreamed all this so accurately? And the painted panels and beams, the wreathing carved friezes of ivy in which bright-beaked wooden birds nested?

  Why? he silently asked his dead father. Why have you laid this burden on me? I didn’t ask to be born your son. I didn’t ask to be Lord of Azhkendir. Why must I inherit your feuds, your hatreds, your vendettas?

  The wall behind the dining table was hung with spiked oval shields, each one painted with the black and silver device Gavril had first seen darkening the barque’s mainsail: the winged serpent. And beneath the shields hung a gold-framed portrait draped with black funeral cloths and crowned with dried sprigs of rosemary and rue. No flowers for a dead Clan Lord. Only his weapons, polished to lethal brilliance, laid reverently in tribute.

  “Lift the cloth,” Kostya said, gently pushing Gavril forward.

  Gavril pulled the cloth to one side and, mouth dry with apprehension, gazed upward.

  The portrait showed a man in the prime of life, dark-haired, dark-browed, gazing back at Gavril with eyes of the same brooding intense blue as his own. But there the resemblance ended: the Drakhaon’s long, curling hair and beard were of a black so glossily dark the painter had picked out the little highlights in cobalt, an artist’s trick Gavril had learned from Elysia. But this was not Elysia’s work. Everything about this portrait of Lord Volkh Nagarian spoke of power and control: the proud gaze, the unyielding stance, the grim, firm-set mouth. The Drakhaon was somberly dressed in black; his only concession to ornament was a blue-stoned signet ring on his gloved left hand and the embroidered device of the winged serpent in silver and sapphire threads on the left sleeve of his jacket. On his head he wore a hat trimmed with sable fur. Behind him, the artist had detailed a wintry landscape: a snow-covered vista of forests and mountains stretching into infinity, implying that the Drakhaon’s domains were too vast to portray.

  “This is not the picture my mother painted,” Gavril said, unable to take his eyes from the likeness. “What happened to her portrait?”

  Kostya gave a little shrug. “In an attic, a cellar . . . There was a time when your father could not bear to have anything near him that reminded him of her.”

  “Are there no more recent portraits than this?”

  Kostya did not reply. Gavril turned around and saw that the old man was evidently struggling to find an answer to his question.

  “Well, Kostya?”

  “Lord Volkh took a dislike to having his portrait painted.”

  “But why?” Gavril asked, puzzled. “Was there some reason? You said there was a war, a bitter clan war. Was he scarred in the fighting? Disfigured?”

  “He was . . . not the same,” Kostya said obliquely. “It . . . altered him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My lord, there are many people waiting to meet you. There will be time in plenty to talk of your father later.”

  It was as blatant a change of subject as Gavril had heard since he arrived. Looking at the old warrior’s face he saw that Kostya was not going to answer his question.

  “Indeed, Kostya, you are right. I have been impatiently waiting to meet you, Lord Gavril.”

  A woman’s voice, sweet as lavender honey, made Gavril start.

  “Who gave permission for you to be admitted?” Kostya said gruffly.

  All Gavril saw at first was green eyes, green as forest glades, and the sheen of glossy chestnut hair. Then the woman moved slowly toward him through the shaft of bright daylight and he saw that she was pregnant, heavily pregnant.

  “Aren’t you going to present me, Kostya?” the woman said, smiling.

  Kostya cleared his throat.

  “Lord Gavril, this is Madame Lilias Arbelian.”

  Gavril came down from the dais, his hand extended. To his surprise, Lilias dropped to one knee and instead of shaking his hand, kissed it, the pressure of her lips warm on his skin.

  “Please. There’s no need . . .” Embarrassed, Gavril lean
ed forward and raised her to her feet.

  “So you’re his son,” Lilias said, gazing intently into his face. “Elysia’s boy.” Although she still smiled, Gavril saw that her bewitching green eyes had filled with tears. As she straightened up, he noticed she wore a black mourning ribbon about the pale porcelain column of her neck. Who was she, what was her place in the household? Gavril glanced at Kostya for help but Kostya had turned away, his back stiff with disdain.

  “You—you have the advantage over me, madame,” Gavril stammered.

  “Oh, Kostya,” said Lilias, her tone sweetly chiding, “did you forget to tell Lord Gavril about me? I was your father’s mistress, Gavril.”

  “Whore,” Kostya muttered through his moustache.

  Gavril stared at her, tongue-tied. He should have known there would be other women in his father’s life; who could expect a Clan Lord to stay celibate for so many years? If only Kostya had warned him.

  “Your journey must have been tiring, Lord Gavril,” Lilias said. “When I first came to Azhkendir from Mirom, the voyage took eight days. Such terrible storms! I was utterly exhausted—”

  “Shouldn’t you be resting?” Kostya interrupted.

  “Such concern over my welfare! I’m touched, Bogatyr,” said Lilias in her sweetly honeyed voice. “I merely came to invite Lord Gavril to take a dish of tea with me. I thought we should get to know each other better, my lord. There is so much to talk about.”

  “Thank you,” Gavril said warily.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, then? About four?”

  “Four.” Gavril heard himself accepting her invitation even though Kostya was frowning at him and shaking his head.

  “I look forward to our meeting, my lord. I want to get to know all about you.” Lilias gathered her full skirts and curtsied to him before turning to leave.

  “So you’ve seen nothing unusual, Lilias?” Kostya said.

  She stopped. “What should I have seen?”

  “Lord Volkh.”

  Lilias’ serene smile faded. “Don’t play word games with me, Kostya. Say what you mean.”

  “My meaning is,” Kostya said with some savagery, “that his ghost appeared here in this hall today. In the very place where he died. A foot or so from where you are standing.”

  Gavril saw Lilias delicately flick the hem of her gown away from the place which Kostya was pointing at.

  “Why should that concern me?” She looked up at Kostya, staring at him as though challenging him to answer her question directly. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  She turned away and went sweeping from the Great Hall.

  Kostya muttered something under his breath.

  “Kostya,” Gavril said. “Why didn’t you tell me? She’s carrying my father’s child, isn’t she?”

  Kostya muttered again, inaudibly.

  “Kostya! Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth?” Kostya shook his battle-scarred head. “When it comes to my lady Lilias, no one knows the truth. But I ask you, Lord Gavril, does she look like a woman in mourning? Oh, she made a fine fuss the night of your father’s murder, shrieking and wailing like a madwoman. But she’ll put off her mourning clothes soon enough.”

  “And if her child is a son? Won’t he be a rival claimant?”

  “Son, daughter, it doesn’t matter; your father made you his heir. And he never married Lilias, no matter what she might claim. By the ancient laws of Azhkendir, you are his only son. He never divorced your mother.”

  Gavril’s head had begun to ache. So many threads left untied at his father’s death.

  “I’ll send your apologies later this afternoon,” Kostya said.

  “Surely that would be discourteous?”

  “There’s more pressing matters to attend to! She’s only a woman. She should know her place.”

  “Lord Gavril.” Sosia came hurrying in. “The lawyers have arrived from Azhgorod.”

  Was it just a dream? Kiukiu kept asking herself as she raked the embers of Lord Gavril’s fire into her dustpan. The new Drakhaon was downstairs, reopening the Great Hall. She must work fast to prepare a new fire in readiness for his return.

  She had slept badly, tossing and turning on her little bed all night. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw again the desolate plain and the pitiful lost souls crawling aimlessly through an eternity of swirling, stinging dust. Her head was still sore to the touch, but Sosia’s witch hazel had soothed the bruise. Yet how could a mere blow to the head produce such terrifying visions?

  She took up her little brush and began to sweep the grate clean of cinders. The ash drifted into the pan, gray as the bitter dustclouds of that windswept plain.

  He said I have a gift. The gift to hear the voices of the dead? She dropped her brush with a clatter and looked round guiltily, hoping no one had heard her. The thought was not a comforting one.

  If I have this gift, then why haven’t I ever seen any ghosts before?

  She stood up, her pan full of ashes. She would have to go fetch fresh coals and kindling to lay a new fire.

  And then she noticed the door to the dressing room was slightly ajar.

  And if I did bring Lord Volkh’s ghost through, why has no one else seen it?

  She hesitated. The temptation to check the dressing room was overwhelming. It would only take a minute or so: all she needed was to convince herself that it had been a trick of the mind.

  She tiptoed across to the dressing room. As she entered she noticed Lord Gavril’s traveling clothes, washed, ironed, and folded by Sosia. The smell of Sosia’s best soap perfumed the air. Already the room felt completely different from yesterday.

  Pensively she fingered the frame of the broken mirror. Yesterday it had become a doorway to another world, and now it was just a piece of wood.

  If she had really brought a ghost through from the Ways Beyond, it was no longer confined here in this room. And, with the mirror portal shattered, how was she to send it back?

  The servants were in a huddle as she came into the kitchen, all talking in hushed voices. Half-rolled pastry lay abandoned on the pastry slab; peeled apples for a pie were turning brown. No one was working.

  “Michailo saw Lord Volkh?”

  Kiukiu froze in the doorway.

  “Where? Where did he see him?”

  “In the hall. In the shadows. Where Lord Volkh—you know—”

  “And how can we be sure Michailo hadn’t been at the aquavit?”

  “Because the Bogatyr has seen it too.”

  Kiukiu felt faint and cold. So it hadn’t been a dream. She had brought Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith back from the Ways Beyond.

  “But why does the Bogatyr think one of us summoned it?” Ilsi’s voice, sharp even when whispering, rose above the others. “No one knows how to do such a thing.”

  If she tiptoed through very softly, maybe no one would notice her—

  “Kiukiu!” Sosia had spotted her. She stopped, not daring to look around.

  “Yes, Auntie?” she said in a small voice.

  “The Bogatyr wants a word with you.”

  “Me?” She tried to shrink into the corner. “Why me?”

  “You haven’t been a bad girl, have you, Kiukiu?” said Ilsi in a silly, singsong voice. Ninusha began to giggle. “If you’ve been a bad girl, the Bogatyr will have to punish you.”

  Kiukiu began to shiver. She was afraid of the Bogatyr. She remembered the screams and agonized cries of the men he had had put to the question. The druzhina could inflict pain in any number of cruel and ingenious ways.

  “Come with me, my girl.” Sosia seized hold of her wrist and began to pull her. “And put that coal bucket down.”

  “I don’t want to come.” Kiukiu tried to pull away, but Sosia’s grip was as tight as pincers. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Sosia half-led, half-dragged her toward Bogatyr Kostya’s quarters.

  The Bogatyr was waiting for them. When the guards at the door let them in, he said brusquely, “Let no one els
e in. We are not to be disturbed.”

  A little whimper of fear came out of Kiukiu’s lips. He looked so fierce, so unforgiving. She had never been brought before him like this; Sosia usually dealt with all matters of discipline belowstairs.

  “Someone has summoned up Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith,” he said. “Was it you?”

  “Me?” Kiukiu’s legs were trembling. “Why me?”

  Instead of answering, he looked accusingly at Sosia.

  “Does she know?”

  “How could she?” Sosia said scornfully. “She knows nothing. I’ve kept my counsel all these years, just as you made me swear to.”

  Kiukiu stared from one to the other, confused. What was she supposed not to know?

  “Look at the girl, she’s simple; she has no idea what you’re talking about.” Sosia smiled at Kiukiu but Kiukiu could sense the tension behind the smile. “Simple but loyal-hearted, isn’t that right, Kiukiu?”

  “Well, Kiukiu?” His eyes burned into hers.

  Fear locked her tongue.

  “A straight answer, girl,” he barked.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt Lord Gavril,” she burst out. “Never!”

  There was a silence. She could feel sobs welling up inside her but she fought to hold them back; if she wept now, he might take it as an admission of guilt.

  “Very well,” he said. “But if I find you have been lying to me, things will go ill with you. Understand me, girl?”

  She nodded.

  “Now get out of my sight.”

  Outside his room, the tears began: helpless, stupid tears. She stuffed her apron in her mouth to stifle them, angry with herself for being so weak and frightened.

  “Dry your eyes.” Sosia bustled up beside her. “There’s work to be done.”

  Kiukiu nodded, wiping the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “What did he mean, Auntie,” she asked, hurrying to keep up with Sosia’s brisk pace. “When he asked, ‘Does she know?’ Know what?”

  “Nothing that need concern you.”

  “And why is it so bad that the ghost is here? Perhaps all it wants is to bring the murderer to justice. Perhaps—”

  Sosia stopped suddenly, spinning around and wagging her finger in Kiukiu’s face.