Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  “Our last link,” Linnaius said softly. “And the only one of the enchantments I placed upon him that has remained untouched by Azhkendir’s malevolent atmosphere.”

  Eugene, overcome with yearning, found himself stretching out his hand toward the little glass, as if touching it could restore something of lost Jaromir. But Linnaius slowly shook his head.

  “As long as this flame still burns, you will know he is alive.”

  “It burns so faintly,” Eugene said, his voice trembling. “What does it mean?”

  “It is best not to conjecture. Conjecture can lead to false hopes—or delusions of despair.” Linnaius replaced the lotus glass in the ebony cabinet and, as he locked it, the darkness slowly bleached from the room and the low hum died to silence. Eugene found himself narrowing his eyes against the daylight, which now seemed piercingly bright. Etched on his sight was Jaromir’s faint life flame; wherever he looked, he saw its crimson shadow.

  Eugene was at dinner with his chiefs of staff and Chancellor Maltheus when Marta appeared.

  “Highness.” She bobbed a curtsy. “The little one is not well. She’s asking to see you.”

  “The prince is busy with matters of state,” Chancellor Maltheus said coldly. “He will come when he can.”

  “I wouldn’t have disturbed the prince,” Marta insisted, face flushing a bright pink, “but his daughter is very sick.”

  Eugene felt a sharp stab of anxiety. Karila ill again. And just at the time he was planning to leave Tielen.

  “I’ll go see Karila,” he said, rising from the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  He followed the nurse out into the candlelit corridor, soon outstripping her in his haste.

  “Has the doctor seen her? What does he say?”

  “Another sweating fever.” She was out of breath from hurrying to keep up with him.

  “She was playing near the lake again. It’s too damp there; she must have caught a chill. You must keep her in the orangery in the cold months.”

  “I try, highness. But the sunlight is also good for her. I do my best, but—”

  He dashed up the wide curving stair that led to the nursery wing, taking two steps at a time.

  Karila’s bedroom was painted cerulean blue pricked out with little gold stars and moons. But in spite of the scented candles burning to perfume the sickroom air, he noticed the all too familiar smell of illness again. In the bed, beneath the gold coronet and lace hangings, lay his daughter, all curled up under her mussed sheets like a drowsing kitten. He put out one hand to stroke her brow and felt the fever heat and tendrils of hair damp and lank with sweat. At his touch, Karila murmured in her sleep.

  “She’s burning up. Are you sponging her down with cool water?”

  “Oh yes.” Marta bobbed another curtsy. “And giving her two sips of willow water every half hour. Just as Doctor Amandel said.”

  “Papa.” A little croaking voice issued from his daughter’s throat. Eyes, overbright with fever, glistened in her flushed face.

  “How do you feel, Kari?”

  “My throat hurts.” She held out one hand to him and—after hesitating—he leaned over and took it, feeling the hot, sticky fingers curl about his. “And my head feels funny. All wrong.”

  “You must sleep. When you wake tomorrow, you’ll feel much better.” How he hated to hear himself speaking words of reassurance in calm, measured tones when inside he felt such turmoil.

  “I dreamed there were shadows in the bedroom. There. At the foot of the bed.” The fever-bright eyes widened in fear. “Winged. Like dark dragons with fiery eyes. They burned me with their breath. If I sleep again, they’ll be there, waiting for me.”

  Dragon shadows. He shivered. What did she mean? What had she seen?

  “It was just a dream,” the nurse said, smoothing the rumpled sheets.

  “Stay with me, Papa.” The pressure on his hand increased. “Tell me a story. The Swanmaiden . . .”

  “My dear, I have guests. Important guests.” Such a weak excuse. But the longer he stayed, the more the buried memories of Margret’s last illness began to surface.

  “His highness is a busy man, Karila,” Marta said briskly. “Say good-night to your father and settle down. I’ll tell you the Swanmaiden’s tale.”

  He glanced gratefully up at her.

  “Good-night, Kari. Sleep sound.” He leaned over and briefly brushed her hot forehead with his lips.

  “’Night . . .” she murmured, lids fluttering closed.

  Maltheus had conducted the chiefs of staff from the dining table to the Walnut Anteroom, where digestifs were being served. Eugene accepted a little glass of clear aquavit from a servant and swallowed it down.

  “Well?” Maltheus said.

  “Another chill.” Eugene beckoned the servant to refill his glass; the clean taste of the aquavit cleared his head of the lingering taint of the sickroom.

  “There’s nothing for it. You must marry again.”

  “Must I?”

  “Karila is sickly. A sweet child, but hardly one capable of ruling Tielen. You need an heir, highness.”

  “Yes, yes. All in good time.” Eugene set the glass down. “At this moment we have other concerns. What news from the Straits?”

  “Admiral Janssen reports no significant losses,” said Maltheus, helping himself to more sloe brandy. “The Helda lost her mainsail in the most recent exchange of fire. But we sank two of the Muscobar fleet and holed a third.”

  “That’ll make the Grand Duke sweat!” said Anckstrom with a chuckle.

  “Indeed,” Maltheus said drily. “And to that end, I suspect, we have a visitor. The Muscobar ambassador is waiting to see your highness.”

  “Count Velemir?” Eugene said. Was there news at last from Azhkendir?

  “He says he has come with a proposition. He’s waiting for you in the Malachite Room.”

  A fire burned in the marble fireplace of the Malachite Room, casting warm shadows on the dark sea-green brocaded walls.

  Count Velemir was standing before a great naval battle canvas depicting the triumphant defeat of the Francians by the Tielen fleet commanded by Prince Karl off the Saltyk Peninsula. The sea boiled with fire, and the red-streaked sky was dark with the smoke of the Tielen cannons.

  He turned as Eugene entered and bowed.

  “An impressive piece of work, highness.” He spoke the Tielen language with just the slightest hint of a Muscobar accent. “Designed, no doubt, to strike fear into the hearts of the enemies of Tielen.”

  “Commissioned to celebrate my father’s first naval victory,” Eugene said, affecting a careless tone. In spite of his lifelong schooling in self-restraint and fortitude, he longed to cry out, “You’ve brought news of Jaromir at last?” Instead he merely gestured to the count to come to sit opposite him beside the fire. “This room is full of mementos of his life. I like to think of him watching over me, approving what I have done with his old hunting lodge.”

  “And what a magnificent achievement Swanholm has turned out to be, highness. Such refined taste. Such elegance.” In all their meetings Eugene had never once been deceived by the ambassador’s urbane manner. He saw beneath Velemir’s cultured facade a sharp and devious mind, always ready to turn a difficult situation to his own advantage.

  “So what is this proposition you have come to make me?”

  “Marriage. The Grand Duke proposes a match between your highness and his daughter, the Altessa Astasia.”

  “Marriage?” Eugene echoed. This was not at all what he had expected, and for a moment he found himself thrown completely off course. Could this be the duke’s admission of defeat in the Straits? Or just another stalling tactic?

  “A delightful girl, just nineteen summers old, strong, healthy—and very attractive.”

  “Nineteen.” Margret had been just eighteen when they married, he a dozen years her senior. There would be a greater gap between Astasia and himself. Damn it all, he was old enough to be her father. “Another child
bride.”

  “A portrait is nearing completion, highness. I think you will not be disappointed.”

  Eugene nodded absently. He had more troubling matters on his mind.

  “A union between the royal houses of Muscobar and Tielen. What better way to bring peace to the continent? What better way to put the unpleasantness over the herring grounds behind us?” Velemir was still the consummate courtier, ever ready to charm. But Eugene was in no mood to be charmed. He had been patient long enough.

  “News,” he said, leaning forward into the glare of the flames. “You promised me news.”

  Velemir’s pleasant expression faded. “Of our mutual friend? No further news. All we know is he never reached the council in Azhgorod to make his claim to the throne. Neither did he make it to Arkhelskoye in time to catch the last boat out.”

  “You promised me your agent in Azhkendir would keep us informed,” Eugene said, voice dangerously quiet. “You gave me your word, Velemir.”

  “My agent has been unable to keep contact with the young man in question. And, I might add, recent circumstances have placed my agent in a very delicate situation. Communication is . . . difficult.”

  “Even though Magus Linnaius entrusted you and your agent with his most sophisticated intelligence artifice.” Frustration—and the certainty that Velemir was not being as open with him as he should—hardened Eugene’s voice. “You underestimated the druzhina’s cunning, Velemir. I’m disappointed in you. If we had known—”

  “You wouldn’t have let Jaromir go?” There was the slightest tinge of irony in the count’s voice.

  Eugene let a sigh of frustration escape. “Who am I trying to fool? Nothing I could say or do would have prevented him going to seek out Volkh. He was like a caged bird, beating at the bars of his gilded cage, burned up with grief and frustration. Now I fear—”

  “That the druzhina have captured him?”

  Jaromir interrogated, tortured, left to die in chains in some vile Azhkendi dungeon . . . The fear flared again in Eugene’s breast.

  “The House of Nagarian has been a constant threat to the peace and stability of the whole continent. We must crush this young serpent in his lair. And if Muscobar will not help, then I swear on my father’s name I will take action myself.”

  “How can Muscobar help you, highness,” Velemir said with a shrug, “when we are tied by the Treaty of Accord the Grand Duke signed with Lord Volkh?”

  “Volkh is dead,” Eugene said coldly. “The treaty is null and void. You will remind the Grand Duke of that fact, ambassador.”

  There was silence for a moment, except for the hiss and crackle of the flaming logs in the grate.

  “So what answer shall I convey to Grand Duke Aleksei, highness? Do you accept his proposition?”

  Eugene sensed—with some satisfaction—the slightest suggestion of desperation coloring the ambassador’s carefully chosen words.

  “Can we hope for a peaceful conclusion to this unfortunate disagreement in the Straits?” Velemir added.

  “I will give it all due consideration.” Let the Grand Duke and his ministers sweat a little longer, Eugene thought. Now that Muscobar’s most powerful ally, Volkh, was dead, Aleksei Orlov was doubly vulnerable. “I will let you know my decision as soon I have discussed the matter with my ministers.”

  Velemir’s face darkened as he realized he had been dismissed, but Eugene saw him swiftly conceal his disappointment in an elaborately courtly bow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Every time Kiukiu closed her eyes she saw Bogatyr Kostya loom out of the smoky shadows, staring at her with eyes of stone, finger jabbing accusingly.

  “You lied to me. You summoned Lord Volkh. Now you must send him back.”

  “But I don’t know how . . .”

  She woke shivering, her linen shift soaked with perspiration. She sat upright in her narrow bed, hugging her knees to her, trying to still the shaking.

  The little room was dim with the half-light before dawn, a fusty, dusty light. She blinked—and it was as if the dust of past ages had settled on her lashes, veiling her sight. One thing alone was clear: she must try to send Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith back to the Ways Beyond before anyone discovered the truth.

  But how can I send him back without the mirror? And what if he refuses to go?

  Kiukiu waited, hiding beneath the stairs, until she saw Lord Gavril escorted from his chamber by the Bogatyr. As they descended, she heard the Bogatyr insisting upon an important meeting with the Azhgorod lawyers. If she was lucky, the bedchamber would be empty for at least an hour.

  Once inside, she made loud noises scraping out the grate, clattering the dustpan and brush so that anyone passing outside would know she was busy at her work. And all the time that she worked, she could sense the little doorway to the dressing room behind her. Such an innocuous-looking little door—and yet in her mind it loomed vast as a portal to hell.

  At last the grate was cleared and fresh kindling laid. She sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand across her brow. Hot work, clearing grates.

  She listened. No one was about. No one would know if she slipped into the dressing room for a few minutes.

  “Lord Volkh?” she whispered as she entered. “My lord?”

  What was she doing, calling on a ghost as she might call Sosia’s cat? The little room had lost all its charged atmosphere, it was just a dressing room again. She closed her eyes, searching in her mind for any trace of Lord Volkh’s presence. But there was no response, no prickle of fear or recognition. . . .

  A sound from outside startled her.

  Someone was in the bedchamber. Someone who—from what she could hear—was rifling through the Drakhaon’s possessions.

  And they don’t know I’m here.

  Kiukiu crept through the doorway and stayed, hidden behind the bed canopy, biting her lip so as not to breathe.

  Who is it? What are they looking for?

  Curiosity overruled caution. Kiukiu knew she should not peep, but she could not stop herself.

  Silently, she drew back a fold of the heavy dark brocade and saw a woman in a jade silk gown bending over the unlocked dragon chest, a woman who was feverishly sifting through the contents, a woman whose luxuriant chestnut hair glinted in the dim light.

  Lilias.

  Kiukiu closed her eyes in dread. If Lilias knew she had been observed . . .

  “Not here. Not here.” Lilias was muttering to herself now. She pressed the lid shut and locked it again, using a little key on a chain around her neck.

  She pushed herself up to her feet, moving slowly, laboriously. “Then where, where?” she whispered, one hand on her swollen belly, as though talking to her unborn child. She looked up at the portrait of the boy and—to Kiukiu’s astonishment—spat at it. The genteel Lady Lilias, spitting like a common village drudge . . .

  “Don’t think I’m going to give all this up without a fight. When my son is born, then we shall see who is truly Drakhaon.”

  There was such malice in her voice that Kiukiu shrank back inside the doorway.

  Best not to have looked. Best to stay quiet, not move, not give myself away.

  Lilias gathered the loose folds of her green silk gown about her, and Kiukiu saw her lift the corner of one of the great gold and crimson hunting tapestries on the far wall. A little door slid open behind . . . and Lilias bent to enter, letting the tapestry fall back behind her.

  A secret door. Kiukiu stared, her mouth open. She knew there were secret passageways in the kastel, but she had never before been aware that there was one right here, in the Drakhaon’s bedchamber. She had dusted and polished so close to it and never known. . . .

  “Kiukiu!” shrilled Sosia.

  Kiukiu opened the door a crack and looked warily out.

  “Better hurry,” said one of the guards on the door with a grin, “or she’ll box your ears!”

  She nodded. As she reached the stairs, she grabbed a handful of skirts and ran down to the hallway, the
sound of her footsteps echoing and reechoing up into the rafters.

  And as she ran, she kept silently repeating to herself, “Best forget, best forget . . .”

  Best to forget all about it.

  Kiukiu carried her empty bucket across the weed-grown cobbles to the coal house in the kastel outbuildings. Here the green boughs of the great forest of Kerjhenezh overhung the ramshackle roofs of the stores and granaries, whispering and sighing in the breeze, wafting a faint breath of pine resin across the twilit courtyard.

  She was shoveling the precious coal into her bucket when she heard the cry. An eerie, keening cry that made the hairs prickle at the back of her neck.

  Ghost spirit of the forest. The stalking beast whose fangs dripped blood.

  It came again—high-pitched, inhuman—the cry of a creature in pain.

  Kiukiu dropped the shovel and began to run toward the sound of the cries, through the kitchen gardens toward the old walled orchard. She came stumbling between the bent, weathered apple trees to see a man kneeling, stout stick raised, over something that shrieked and struggled, caught in the fanged jaws of a poacher’s trap.

  “Let it alone!” Kiukiu cried, launching herself across the frosty grass. She hurtled into the man with full force, knocking him over. Only then, as she rolled clear of him, she saw whom she had felled. It was Oleg, the butler.

  Oleg gave a winded groan and began to fumble for his stick. Panicked, Kiukiu edged away across the grass, slippery with frost-blackened windfalls. Was there still time to make a grab for the stick? She had meant to save the creature in the trap, but now it looked as if Oleg was about to attack her.

  “Come here.” Oleg rose unsteadily to his knees. He let out a rumbling belch; his breath stank of stale beer. “Come here and I’ll give you a good thrashing.”

  “Help!” Kiukiu yelled at the top of her lungs. “Help me!” She grabbed up her skirts to run—but her toe caught in the hem and she came crashing down onto her knees. Oleg lurched toward her, jabbing the end of his stick in her face.