Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  Lantern held low to illuminate the tiles, he began to follow the trail of blood.

  Beneath the stairs there were other doorways, boarded up, gray with dust-clogged cobwebs. One door alone was slightly ajar. Gavril gave it a little push; his hand came away powdered with grime, but the door creaked inward.

  The passageway beyond was blind, with no windows or vents to give light or fresh air.

  If the ceiling caves in, I shall be crushed . . . and no one will reach me in time to pull me out.

  He was beginning to sweat; the palms of his hands were damp and clammy. The lantern candle was burning dangerously low, the wick puddled in a pool of hot wax.

  And then by the failing candlelight he saw an iron ladder.

  Freedom.

  Craning his neck, he saw a trapdoor above him. Setting the lantern down on the earthen floor, he climbed up the ladder and pushed the heavy trapdoor with both hands until it began to open.

  Fresh night air flooded into the stale atmosphere of the tunnel. Gavril pushed back the door further until he could look out.

  Two golden eyes blazed into his and he almost fell back down into the tunnel.

  A low, curling hoot greeted him.

  “Snowcloud?” he whispered, grasping the rim of the trapdoor to support himself. By the waning moonlight he saw that he was in the Elysia Summerhouse.

  He had struggled for so long through the clammy, claustrophobic darkness of the tunnel that he was certain he would emerge on the other side of the kastel walls.

  Snowcloud gave another soft, hooting cry and began to move jerkily across the boards toward him.

  Gavril put out one hand to stroke the owl’s soft white plumage, and then hesitated.

  Snow owls, Arkhel’s Owls. A man with golden glimmering eyes, cruel and unseeing . . .

  “But you’re just a little one, Snowcloud, you haven’t been trained to maim and kill.”

  Only now did he recall the full horror of the Arkhel raid on the kastel.

  The little child lying so still, the blood trickling through his fair hair. Kostyushka. Kostya’s only son.

  The waste and the pity of it overwhelmed him. He put his head in his hands and wept.

  A while later, maybe a long while, he raised his head and saw that the night sky was slowly lightening along the eastern rim. In the tunnel below, his candle guttered a thin trail of smoke and went out.

  He must find a way to end his father’s torment, to stop him reliving the horrors that had scarred his life—and now threatened to scar his own.

  Exorcism. Surely there must be some holy ritual that would bring peace to a troubled spirit?

  Abstractedly he ran his fingertips over Snowcloud’s ghost-white plumage. After a while, to his surprise, the owl suddenly hopped onto his wrist, balancing there as if it had been born to it. The thin talons bit like wire through his jacket cuff into his skin . . . but the wonder of holding the wild creature, of sensing its trust in him, made the discomfort easy to ignore.

  There seemed a peculiar irony in the situation: the heir to the Clan Drakhaon adopted by one of Arkhel’s Owls.

  “You and I, Snowcloud,” he whispered, “if we’re to survive, we have to find a way to escape from Kastel Drakhaon.”

  Dawn mists were already rising from the ruins of the neglected gardens, tinged with the musty smell of mold and fungi. Rose briars, red with late rosehips, choked the crumbling stone arches and arbors, their thorns tearing at Gavril’s clothes as he made his way down the overgrown path toward the stables.

  He would just take a horse and ride out across the moors toward Azhgorod. Let them try to stop him! He was Drakhaon, his word was law.

  A blackbird flew up out of the brambles, shrieking a warning cry.

  The rising mists had begun to swirl more thickly. Gavril felt an intense chill seeping into his bones, a black, aching chill that invaded his mind as well as his body.

  Someone was coming toward him through the mists. A tall figure that seemed to drift rather than walk. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Gavril recognized who—or what—it was.

  “A harsh winter is coming . . .” The voice that breathed from the tall figure barring his way was brittle with black ice.

  A hand stretched out toward him, insubstantial as a skeletal leaf, and the chill increased, numbing his whole body.

  “No!” Gavril cried, twisting away. “Let me be, Father! Leave me alone!”

  He put his head down and ran.

  Where the shadowy figure had passed, he saw as he ran that the wet grass was white, rimed with bitter frost. And all the rich red rosehips had turned black, withering on the briar.

  “You’re out early this morning, my lord.” Kostya stood at the entrance to the stables, arms folded, breath clouding in the frosty air. “So early that your bodyguard don’t seem to recall you leaving your room.”

  Had the spirit-wraith woken Kostya, sent him to prevent his escape?

  “Didn’t you see him?” Gavril’s teeth had begun to chatter. “My f-father? In the garden?”

  “I saw nothing.”

  “Look, Kostya.” Gavril stabbed one finger back toward the frost-blackened garden. “Can’t you see? The frost seemed to . . . to seep from him like poisonous breath. Even the trace of his footprints: frost-burned into the grass.”

  Kostya frowned. “As I feared,” he said, taking hold of Gavril’s arm, leading him toward the side door into the kastel.

  “Feared what?” Gavril let himself be led. He was so cold now that he could hardly feel Kostya’s fingers gripping his arm. “What does it mean?”

  Kostya pushed him inside, stamping the hoarfrost from his boots on the flagstones. “You, boy!” He whistled to one of the scullions who was scurrying down the corridor. “Fetch us some hot spiced ale. And be quick about it!”

  The fire was lit in the grate in the dining hall; Kostya brought Gavril close to the sizzling pine logs. As Gavril stood over the blaze he felt his numbed fingers and toes slowly begin to thaw.

  The boy came in with mugs of steaming ale and Kostya handed one to Gavril.

  “Get some of that into you, lad. You look frozen.”

  Gavril took mouth-searing sips of the mulled ale until the warm spices burned their heat into his chilled body.

  Kostya stretched his scarred, knotted hands out over the flames to warm them.

  “Your father’s spirit-wraith is trapped here and rages against its imprisonment. Now its rage has turned against the land that holds it prisoner. I warned you, my lord. Now crops will fail, winters never end.”

  Gavril gazed out beyond Kostya through the window at the black shimmer of frost enveloping the kastel, filtering out the morning sunlight. Only a few days ago he would never have believed what Kostya was telling him. The rational Gavril would have dismissed it as superstitious folklore.

  “You say someone brought my father’s ghost through. There must be some way to send it back. Some form of exorcism.”

  “Exorcism?” repeated Kostya in tones of horror.

  “Surely you have priests here in Azhkendir who would perform such a ceremony?”

  “But you are talking of your own father—”

  “Yes. My father.”

  “And I have told you, my lord, that here in Azhkendir, it is the custom for the firstborn son to avenge his father’s death. That is the only way to lay a restless ghost.”

  Kostya’s attitude grated on Gavril’s nerves. The sleepless night, the frustrations of the long and hazardous crawl through the secret passageways, the horrors of the massacre, all had eroded what little patience he had left.

  “And in Smarna we have a priest say prayers for the souls of the dead and sprinkle holy water to cleanse the place.”

  “It is not our way,” grumbled Kostya.

  Black, cold anger gripped Gavril.

  “Who is Drakhaon, Kostya?”

  “You are, lord.”

  “So you keep telling me. Then why,” and Gavril went up close to Kostya,
almost spitting the words in his face, “don’t you obey my orders, Bogatyr?”

  Kostya did not reply; Gavril saw for a moment the stubborn resistance fade and a look of uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

  “You spoke of a monastery in the forest. Would the monks perform the ceremony for my father?”

  “I could speak with Abbot Yephimy,” Kostya said grudgingly. “He might be persuaded to come here. But I tell you, Lord Gavril, no form of exorcism will work. Your father’s spirit-wraith is too strong, too full of anger. Nothing will appease it—nothing but the blood of his murderer.”

  “Must I repeat myself?” Gavril said, his voice cold and hard. “Send word to the abbot. Straightaway.”

  “I’ll send one of the druzhina.” Kostya walked away, muttering under his breath. At the doorway, he turned and said accusingly, “What use is a gaggle of white-bearded priests? A warlord should be honored in blood.”

  CHAPTER 12

  There was still no news from Azhkendir.

  Eugene woke to a gray dawn and the realization that he could delay his invasion plans no longer.

  He went to the Hall of Arms before breakfast. Saber practice every morning was regarded as an anachronism by many of the younger officers. His troops were equipped with the most advanced of alchymical weapons—why did they still need to learn to wield a sword?

  But Eugene, trained by his father Karl, still delighted in the art of the saber, relished the discipline it instilled where mind and body worked as one. To encourage the dissenters, he established contests with generous prizes and golden trophies for the most skilled swordsmen—and now even the most skeptical competed every season with enthusiasm to win the top awards.

  There was always something strangely calming in practicing the routines and rituals of the blade. No time to brood over the progress of his troops, feverish Karila, or lost Jaromir, only the cut and thrust of the steel. And when he entered into a bout with the maître d’armes, cadets and officers alike gathered to watch them.

  He had spent hours here with Jaromir, trying to draw the deep-buried anger out of the boy, to train him to hone and use it like a well-tempered blade. But every time Jaro took a sword in his hand, he began to battle daemons, the shadows that haunted his dreams. He became wild, vengeful, erratic. Many times Eugene walked away from the hall, despairing of ever making a swordsman of his protégé. But as Jaromir came to trust him, he had seen the boy develop a kind of grim pleasure in the rituals of the saber contest.

  Yet this morning as Eugene reached the Hall of Arms, he sensed a dangerous sizzle of tension in the air.

  A bout was in progress between two of his household cavalry, and as he drew near to the watching cadets and officers, he saw instantly that what had begun as a friendly contest had turned sour.

  He recognized the more aggressive of the two combatants from his untidy shock of pale hair, so blond it was almost white: Lieutenant Oskar Alvborg, an able bladesman whose promise was marred by a tendency toward recklessness. He already sported saber scars across his forehead and left cheek, trophies of honor from illicit barracks duels.

  Now Alvborg drove his opponent across the floor with a merciless determination, each saber stroke striking silver sparks that glinted in his pale eyes.

  The other, Eugene saw now, was Nils Lindgren, a stolid officer from a humble background who, lacking Alvborg’s noble blood, had worked his way up through the ranks. It took merely a few seconds for Eugene to see that Lindgren was in trouble. Losing ground, step by step, to Alvborg’s lightning slashes, he was putting all his remaining strength into defending himself.

  Some other matter must lie beneath this, money lost at cards, or rivalry over a woman. . . .

  The breathing of the two men rasped hard and fast in the cold hall. Lindgren slipped—and Alvborg’s saber whistled within a hair’s-breadth of his chin.

  Lindgren righted himself with a grunt. Sweat glistened on his forehead, dripped down his nose and chin. His eyes were narrowed in a look of puzzled outrage.

  Eugene glanced at the maître d’armes, who gave a quick, terse nod. The maître stepped forward, baton raised.

  “Alvborg, Lindgren, put up your swords!”

  Alvborg seemed not to hear him. His saber flashed in a wide scything arc. The maître ducked out of the way just as the blade keened through the air and nicked Lindgren on the side of the chin. Blood spotted the floor.

  Eugene had seen enough. Saber in hand, he moved swiftly out, placing himself in front of Lindgren, facing Alvborg. A rash move for a less gifted swordsman—but a calculated risk for one of his experience.

  Alvborg was so caught up in his blood frenzy that his saber had struck and sheared off Eugene’s blade before he saw who stood in his way.

  “Highness,” he said, slowly lowering his saber.

  “I will not have dueling in my palace, lieutenant,” Eugene said coldly.

  Alvborg’s pale, proud eyes stared back unrepentantly.

  “A few days in confinement will cool your hot blood. Take him away.”

  For one moment Eugene glimpsed in Alvborg’s pale eyes the impulse to evade arrest, to attack the one man who stood between him and his quarry. Slowly, he extended his hand.

  The hall fell silent. Everyone was watching.

  A convulsive little flicker of rage twisted Alvborg’s face—and then, as quickly, changed to an arrogant grin as he lowered his blade. Wiping the bloodied tip on his sleeve, he presented his saber, hilt first, to Eugene.

  Two of the household bodyguard came forward to escort Alvborg from the hall.

  Eugene turned to Lindgren. The young man had pressed a handkerchief to the gash in his chin and a bright stain of blood was leaking through.

  “And you, Lindgren, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “I am as culpable as the lieutenant, highness,” Lindgren said, eyes lowered. Beneath the brown of his tanned skin, he had turned milky pale. “I deserve to be punished too.”

  “This is your first offense, hm?” Behind Lindgren’s back, Eugene saw the maître nod in confirmation.

  “Then take this as a warning. If you’re ever caught dueling again, you’ll be demoted to the ranks. If you want to put your blade skills to better use, Tielen has enemies in plenty to defeat. Now go get that wound cleaned up.”

  “Thank you, highness.” Relief infused the young man’s pale face with a healthier color.

  A junior officer came hurrying up, smartly clicking his heels together as he saluted and presented Eugene with a folded paper.

  “A message from the field marshal for your highness.”

  Eugene took the letter, handed his saber to his valet, and retired to the side of the hall where Anckstrom was presiding over a lively bout.

  Snowed in by blizzards of unusual ferocity. Unable to comply with your orders until the weather breaks. Await further instructions.

  Karonen, Field Marshal.

  Frustrated, Eugene crushed the paper in his fist and lobbed it into a nearby brazier.

  “Azhkendir,” said Anckstrom with a shrug. “What did I tell you? We’re wasting valuable resources—and valuable men.”

  “And if we delay much longer, we will have a full-grown Drakhaon to deal with. We must move now, Anckstrom, or risk losing everything.”

  “Well, Magus?” Eugene could no longer disguise his impatience. “What’s happening on the Saltyk Sea?”

  “Patience, patience, highness . . .”

  On the table stood a plain silver bowl of clear liquid. Linnaius passed his long, slender fingers over the bowl several times. Eugene blinked—and found he was gazing down onto a rocky shore. This trick of Linnaius’ never ceased to astonish him. But instead of the rise and fall of the waves, there was nothing but ice, translucent gray, green, and white crests and sheets of ice. A frozen sea, frozen beneath a cloudmist of falling snow. Just to gaze on its bleakness made him feel cold, achingly cold.

  “And inland?” he said.

  Linnaius’ fingers moved again a
cross the skin of the water. The image shivered and broke into shifting fragments, re-forming into a mist of cloud and snow. The bowl shimmered with drifting wisps of gray. Behind the mists a smudge of darkness hovered, ominous as a thundercloud. Intermittent glitters of lightning, white-blue, lit the darkness.

  And then—unmistakably—lightning eyes flickered suddenly from the turbulent snowclouds, chill and foreboding as winter.

  “What is that?” Eugene whispered.

  The Magus snatched his fingers away as if they had been singed.

  “A powerful spirit-wraith is abroad, freezing the seas and wreathing the country with impenetrable snowstorms.”

  “A spirit-wraith?” Eugene could not hide the skepticism in his voice. “Surely this is nothing but a freak winter storm.”

  “The Azhkendi shamans use the crudest and most dangerous methods—they summon the spirits of the dead from the Ways Beyond to do their bidding. And the spirits of the dead are not always as biddable as they would wish.”

  “Spirit-wraith or not, I have sent word to the troops to stand ready. There’s never been a better time to take Muscobar. But I cannot invade with the navy alone. I need Azhkendir! And I need Jaromir in Azhgorod, at the head of the council. Magus—” Eugene hesitated. Kaspar Linnaius was the only man in all Tielen who intimidated him. In his presence he felt like a stuttering schoolboy; even in conversation he could sense the elderly scholar’s immense powers. “Can you subdue this spirit-wraith?”

  “No, highness,” replied Linnaius, giving him the mildest of smiles. “The magical sciences I practice are refined, sophisticated. I hesitate to include the dark forces abroad in Azhkendir in the same category.”

  “Then we must devise an alternative strategy.” Eugene fought back the growing sense of frustration. He was not used to feeling so powerless.

  “Are you truly determined to pursue this course of action, highness?” asked Linnaius, suddenly fixing him with his clear, unsettling stare. “Will nothing dissuade you?”

  “Jaromir needs my help. If we strike now, we can draw the young serpent’s fangs.”