by Sarah Ash
“We will talk again soon, madame,” Vassian said, picking up his pen. It seemed as if he had already turned his mind to other matters.
“So you have recently returned from Azhkendir, count?” Elysia asked boldly.
“Indeed no, madame, but I have been on official business to Tielen.” He stopped. They had reached a long, mirror-lined gallery whose tall windows looked out onto a formal garden where fountains spouted among clipped hedges of box and yew. “I must congratulate you, Madame Andar.”
“Congratulate me?” Elysia looked into the weather-browned face but saw only the count’s charming smile.
“You had us quite baffled. News from Azhkendir travels slowly at best, and much is garbled when it reaches us. Some rumors said that you were dead. We had no idea you and your son had been living in Vermeille for so many years.”
“Even when I accepted the commission to paint Altessa Astasia?”
He laughed softly, patting her hand. His laugh was smooth and dark like strong, sweet coffee. “Ah, then, then we began to make connections. Shall we take a turn about the Rusalki Garden?”
The Rusalki Garden was filled with the sound of splashing waters; formal beds of topiaried box and yew surrounded a great fountain. As they walked along the alleyways Elysia saw a fine mist shimmering in the cold, dull air above the fountain from which carved river-nymphs arose, water spouting from their cupped hands, making green copper streaks on their bare marble breasts.
“Tell me about your son, Gavril. Will he make a good Drakhaon?”
Elysia stopped, swinging around to face the count.
“Can there be such a thing as a good Drakhaon, count?”
“We know so little about the House of Nagarian,” the count said with a shrug. “We understood that Lord Volkh had developed powerful weapons to defend his lands . . . yet when he and his entourage arrived in Mirom, his bodyguard was only armed with axes and sabers!”
Elysia glanced at the count, wondering why he was pursuing this line of conversation. What did he aim to learn from her?
“Count Velemir,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, “I left Azhkendir just before my husband destroyed the Arkhels. He revealed nothing of his military secrets to me.”
“But young Gavril—he has had no military training, has he?”
“My husband wanted him to attend the academy in Mirom, but I refused to let him go.”
“You think for yourself, madame,” the count said. “A quality I much admire in a woman.”
Elysia—to her chagrin—found that she was blushing. What business had she, blushing at an idle compliment like a schoolgirl?
They stopped beside the central fountain, the splashing waters almost obscuring his voice.
“Elysia,” he said suddenly, catching hold of her hands. “We may talk freely here; no one can overhear us. I have some information for you. Your husband came to Mirom for a secret purpose. We are still not entirely sure what that purpose was, only that a doctor of science from the University of Mirom accompanied him back to Azhkendir.”
“A doctor of science?”
“One Altan Kazimir. Now I have it on good authority that the doctor has recently arrived back in Mirom. I can only suppose that his employment came to an end when Lord Volkh was murdered.”
A lead at last! Elysia was so excited that she began to babble questions.
“Has this Doctor Kazimir resumed his work at the university? Can I go find him there?”
“My dear lady, I beg you to proceed with a little caution. Altan Kazimir has so far resisted all attempts to reinstate him. In fact, it seems as if his experiences in Azhkendir may have disturbed his reason. He refuses to talk to his old colleagues and keeps himself barricaded in his apartment. However, another fugitive from Azhkendir may fare better. . . .”
“You think he might listen to me?”
“If you can convince him that you understand what he has been through . . .” He pressed her hands warmly between his own. “But take care, Elysia. He is in a volatile, unpredictable state.”
“Volatile or no, I must speak with him,” Elysia said.
“If you are determined to take the risk, I can provide a plainclothes escort. But remember, he will not even listen to you if he thinks you are not alone. He trusts no one!”
“I think I know how to be discreet, count.”
“Still so formal!” he said teasingly.
“So, when can I go?”
“And so eager!”
“Gavril is my only child.” To her annoyance tears had begun to blur her eyes again. And she had wanted to show Velemir how strong she was.
“Here in Mirom one never puts one’s own desires before the imperatives of duty,” he said sternly. “In simpler terms: you must be presented to the Grand Duke.”
“Oh!” Elysia’s hand flew to her mouth. Another gaffe in court etiquette. “I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you did not,” Velemir said smoothly, “and you must think me a boor. There is a pattern to court life not unlike that of a formal dance; once you have learned the steps it all becomes intelligible.”
“Then please, dear count, teach me the steps.”
“That is a singularly fine ruby you are wearing.”
Elysia’s fingers flew to her throat, instinctively covering the jewel. “A gift from my late husband.”
“You will forgive me, but . . .”
“I feared as much. It’s too unsubtle.” Elysia let out a sigh of vexation. He must think her so provincial. “I only brought it in the hope I could sell it to raise money for Gavril. Then Eupraxia insisted I should wear jewelry for the audience, and this is all I have.”
“I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me, but I know the court jeweler Maximov very well. He could be persuaded to transform this rather . . . rough-cut stone into something in gold and tiny rubies, perhaps with earrings to match? The Grand Duchess favors a six-petal rose design this year.”
“You’re very kind, count, but—”
A little clock on a nearby tower struck the hour in a pretty tinkle of chimes. Church and monastery bells echoed without in a darker resonant clamor.
“Come with me; it’s time for today’s audience.”
As they approached the audience chamber, Elysia heard a great murmur of voices and the sound of a string quartet. Servants flung open double doors of white and gilt, announcing loudly above the music, “The Drakhys of Azhkendir with his excellency, Count Velemir.”
The murmur of voices stilled as everyone turned to stare. Elysia quite forgot her anger at being announced as Drakhys as Count Velemir led her into the chamber. Everyone was staring at her in her simple velvet gown; staring and—she was certain—whispering behind gloved hands and fans. Even the vast portraits of Orlovs dead and gone seemed to glare disapprovingly at her from the brocade-hung walls.
The audience chamber glittered with gold; from the painted ceilings to the plaster moldings, every surface looked as if it had been inlaid with gilt. And the Duke’s courtiers glittered too; Elysia was dazzled by the sparkle of jewels. Every woman present seemed to be wearing diamond chokers and tiaras, sapphire earrings, and emerald rings. She felt as if she were a sparrow sneaking into an aviary of bright-plumaged exotic birds.
As Velemir led Elysia into the chamber, the courtiers drew back to let them pass, and ahead she saw two gilt chairs set on a blue-carpeted dais, guarded by two of the White Guard. Draped across the less ornate of the two chairs she recognized the indolent figure of Sofia, the Grand Duchess. Beside her a broad-shouldered man, resplendent in a blue uniform glittering with medals, sat glowering at the chamber.
“Your grace.” Elysia sank into a curtsy.
“Who’s this, Sofia?” Grand Duke Aleksei grunted. Elysia noticed the lines of worry creasing the Duke’s face and the artful way strands of graying hair had been combed to conceal his baldness.
The Grand Duchess gestured vaguely in Elysia’s direction.
“Elysia Nagarian. Th
e portrait painter.”
“Please rise, madame.” The Grand Duke waved one white-gloved hand. “Welcome to our court. I’m glad to see that the count has been looking after you.”
As Elysia rose, she noticed that First Minister Vassian had appeared on the dais and was whispering to the Grand Duke. She risked a quick, interrogatory glance at Count Velemir, but he was watching the Grand Duke.
“Vassian has just told me that your son is to be made ruler of Azhkendir.”
“Made, your grace? Forced,” Elysia said sharply. “My son was taken from our home against his will.”
There was a little stir among the nearest courtiers. She could not be certain whether they were shocked that she had spoken so boldly to the Duke or shocked at what had happened to Gavril.
“The news of Lord Volkh’s assassination was most disconcerting—especially so soon after the signing of the Treaty of Accord. Mirom has no wish in these uncertain times to see its allies overthrown. However,” and the Grand Duke seemed to be looking directly at Count Velemir as he spoke, “until we ascertain that the assassination was an internal matter, Mirom must rest neutral, madame. If there is proof that external factors were involved—say, one of Eugene’s agents—then we will unite forces with your son and retaliate.”
This was not at all what Elysia had expected to hear. Military action, involving Gavril? All she had wanted was help to extricate him from Kostya’s clutches. For a moment the glittering room dimmed about her. She faltered and felt Count Velemir’s arm supporting her.
“But I only meant—” she began.
A crash of broken glass interrupted her. The music stopped jaggedly in mid-phrase. Instantly the White Guard went running to the windows; the Grand Duke rose to his feet.
“Keep down, your grace!” Velemir leapt onto the dais to protect the Grand Duke and Duchess, a flintlock pistol in his hand.
“Down with the Orlovs!” a muffled voice shouted. “Free Muscobar from tyranny!”
“What in the devil’s name—” bellowed the Grand Duke.
There seemed to be a scuffle taking place. Elysia, too surprised to think of her own safety, stared as the White Guard hauled a shabbily dressed man up into the audience chamber through the smashed window and flung him on the floor before the dais.
Velemir lowered his flintlock until the muzzle rested on the man’s forehead.
“Identify yourself,” he said in a quiet voice.
The man shook his head. One of the White Guard kicked him in the side.
Elysia winced.
“Your name,” Velemir said again. There was a small but audible click as he cocked back the hammer, readying the weapon to fire.
“Stepan,” the man muttered.
“Search him,” Velemir said.
More of the White Guard came running in. They held the man down and in spite of his struggles, roughly searched his clothing.
“What’s this?” one of the guards demanded. He brandished a knife in front of the man’s face.
“I’m . . . a cobbler. . . .” The man spoke thickly, half-choked by the stream of blood pouring from his nostrils. “It’s a . . . leather knife. . . .”
“Cobbler! An assassin, more likely.”
“Take him away,” Velemir said impassively. “Question him. But go easy. I want names this time. And double the guard. I want to know how this self-styled cobbler got inside the gates.”
The guards hauled the man to his feet and dragged him away. Elysia could not help but notice the trail of blood spots left in his wake on the marble—and the speed with which the liveried servants swiftly polished them away. She felt shaken, unsettled by the whole incident.
“Today’s audience is at an end,” announced the majordomo.
“But wait—I haven’t—” Elysia spun around to see the Grand Duke escorting the Duchess from the room. “Count Velemir. What did the Duke mean about retaliation? I must speak with him again.”
“Tomorrow, my dear Madame Andar,” the count said, smiling. He seemed utterly unruffled. Behind him, repair work was already taking place, broken glass being swept up, carpenters and glaziers taking measurements of the shattered panes.
Elysia stood watching them, confused and angry. What had she stumbled into? What was happening in Mirom? No one seemed to understand her concerns. No one understood—let alone cared about—the danger Gavril was in.
CHAPTER 11
A shaft of dazzling morning sunlight pierced the brocade curtains of Gavril’s bed.
Gavril instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. His nails bit into his skin. With a yelp he lowered his hands and saw that his jagged fingernails had a dark glitter to them, as if dusted with spangles. And they were indigo now, right down to the quicks. More like talons than human nails . . .
He stared down at them, revulsed yet fascinated. Why had the discoloration progressed so rapidly? Were other changes taking place, subtler changes of which he was not yet aware? This odd feeling brought memories of childhood illnesses, of waking to find his throat sore, his body covered in a rash of red spots.
Suddenly he was gripped with a compulsion to look at himself.
“Ready for your morning ablutions, my lord?” inquired a quavering voice. Gavril flung open the curtains, wincing at the brightness of the light. Old Guaram stood there, towel draped over his shoulder, a razor in one hand and a bowl of soapy water in the other. Every morning he had brought hot water and shaved Gavril—another ritual that Gavril had inherited from Volkh.
“I’ll shave myself today, Guaram,” Gavril said curtly.
“But how, my lord?” The old servant looked bewildered. “How will you see what you are doing?”
“You will bring me a mirror.”
“A mirror?” Guaram shook his head vehemently. “I always performed these services for your father. It would not be right for my lord—”
“I want a mirror, Guaram. You can shave me if you wish, but I want a mirror.”
“The water will be cold, my lord—”
“Now, Guaram!”
“Very well, my lord.” Guaram shambled away, muttering to himself and still shaking his head. He did not reappear for a good quarter hour, but when he returned he was carrying a small hand mirror.
“At last.” Gavril snatched it from him and gazed down at his reflection. The face he saw frowning back at him was still recognizably his own—even if the brows seemed darker and the narrowed eyes more hooded, more wary. But he was not in the least reassured by what he saw. He might still look like Gavril Andar outside, but he did not feel the same inside. He felt restless and off-color.
As if he no longer belonged in his own skin.
“Tell me about my father, Guaram.”
“I attended Lord Volkh for over forty years, my lord.”
“And is it true? That his hair was more blue than black? That the pupils of his eyes became like snakes’ eyes, just slits? That—”
“My lord was Drakhaon,” Guaram said with a shrug.
“But how did he look at my age?”
“That is too long ago for old Guaram to remember clearly.” Guaram gave him a wide, toothless grin. “I am eighty this year, my lord. And I am becoming forgetful. Now as this second bowl of water is getting cold . . .”
Gavril resignedly let Guaram shave him, inwardly fretting through the procedure, wanting the old man to be done and leave him in peace. At last Guaram gathered up his barber’s tools and shuffled away, leaving Gavril staring at his smooth-shaven reflection in the hand mirror.
What is happening to me?
He stuck out his tongue. It looked dark, slightly furred, as though after a night or two of drink and dissipation. But there was nothing to explain this inexplicable sensation of . . . wrongness.
Gavril flung on his clothes and, taking the mirror with him, hurried over to the Kalika Tower, where he had hidden Kazimir’s ledger and the little phial the night before.
No one challenged him—but he had the distinct impression that the ser
vants and druzhina he encountered in the passageways were all staring at him and whispering to each other after he had passed. He took the precaution of locking and bolting the door after him.
Then he took out some clean sheets of paper from his father’s desk and propped up the mirror on some books. He inscribed the date at the top of the first sheet and the words “Self-Portrait 1.” Then, with feverish penstrokes, he began to sketch his reflection in ink. When he had finished, he set the portrait to dry.
As he looked down at what he had drawn, he could not remember ever having produced such somber work before, full of shadows and jagged penstrokes.
Every day he would come here and sketch another self-portrait. And if there were any gradual process of degeneration or change taking place, the portraits would provide a tangible record.
“What shall I call this? ‘Transformation’?” he muttered. “‘Disintegration’? Or ‘Birth of a Monster’?”
Late afternoon light from the moorlands, filtered by the colored lozenges of glass in the windows, tinged the study walls with wine-rich stains. Gavril still sat at his father’s desk, poring over the pages of Doctor Kazimir’s ledger. And the more pages he turned, the more his desperation grew.
Some of the symbols here he recognized—for sulfur, for volatile alkaline salts—but others were as unfamiliar as the curling, intricate script of the Djihari. Page after page of incomprehensible formulae, many dashed out with only the occasional irritated comment scribbled in the margin, betraying Kazimir’s frustration. Many of the later pages were almost indecipherable, as if some caustic substance had splashed onto the ledger, eating away both ink and paper. In other places, the black of the ink had discolored and run, creating strange blotches of sepia brown, blue, and purple.
What had been in the little phial? Poison—or traces of Kazimir’s elixir that could halt the physical and mental degeneration?
Gavril held the phial up to the light, squinting into the glass tube at the dried blue stains, cautiously sniffing.
