by Sarah Ash
“Kiukiu, you disrupted the ceremony.” He knelt beside her. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“Because there was an intruder.” She gripped the sides of the chair. “He was in the summerhouse. With Lilias.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because she mustn’t know I overheard.”
He could see now she was shaking. He went to the table where Sosia had left his breakfast tray and poured her some ale. She took the mug with trembling hands and drank a little in short, shuddering sips.
“What did you overhear?”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear.
“Lilias. Telling him to come here by the secret passageway—and kill you.”
“Kill me?” The news confounded him; he didn’t know what to say. “Who was this man?”
“I—I don’t know for sure. She called him Jaro.”
“Jaromir.” All Gavril’s elation vanished, as if stormclouds had come scudding up again to blot out the pale sun. “Jaromir Arkhel here.”
“Arkhel?” Kiukiu repeated in a hushed voice.
Dark eyes, staring at him from a pale face, staring with a singularly intense, unreadable expression.
“I don’t think he planned to kill you,” Kiukiu’s words broke in on the darkness of his thoughts. “He said he had only come back because he wanted to see her again.”
Lilias: the assassin’s unseen accomplice, the low voice calling from the secret panel in the Great Hall . . .
“I think he’s in love with her, my lord.”
“And so you came up here to try to stop him.” Gavril looked at Kiukiu with new respect. “That was a brave thing to do.”
“I had to hide from the druzhina.” Kiukiu took another shaky sip from the mug. Her voice was stronger now. “Besides, I wasn’t certain he would come.”
Gavril sat back on his heels, trying to make sense of Kiukiu’s information. So Lilias and Jaromir were lovers. What had they hoped to achieve from the assassination? To be joint rulers of Azhkendir? And what child was she carrying—Arkhel or Nagarian?
“Lilias,” he muttered, “always Lilias.” His past conversations with Lilias flashed through his mind; he saw again the delicate cups of scented tea, the perfumed flavor so strong it could easily have concealed the bitter taste of poison. To know that she wanted him dead clarified matters. But how could he prove her guilt? Or that of Doctor Kazimir?
“We need evidence,” he said to Kiukiu. “If you accuse her, she’ll just laugh in your face and call you a liar. And after that your life won’t be worth a fig.”
“Evidence?” she said, crestfallen. “What kind of evidence?”
“Kiukiu,” he said. “I have to go away for a day or two. With Lord Stoyan.”
He saw her eyes widen with alarm.
“But suppose Jaromir Arkhel is in hiding out there, lying in wait for you?”
He found her concern for his safety touching. He put one hand on hers.
“I want you to be my eyes and ears while I’m away. Don’t endanger yourself needlessly, but listen out for anything unusual.”
“You can count on me, my lord.” She smiled up at him bravely, her gray-blue eyes warm, almost . . . adoring.
“What’s happened to Snowcloud?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“He’s not flown yet.” She got up from the chair to place the empty mug back on the tray. “I was going to feed him when I—when I heard the voices.”
She seemed to have no concerns about her own safety.
“You must be careful, Kiukiu,” he said. “While I’m away, there’ll be nobody to protect you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
A flake or two of snow still spiraled down from the lowering sky as they set out along the forest trail.
Gavril rode with Lord Stoyan and Kostya; the boyar’s retainers and ten druzhina completed the party. Kostya had left Michailo in command of the kastel, bringing his older, more experienced warriors to protect his master.
Branches gray with hoarfrost brushed their heads; Gavril leaned low in the saddle to avoid them. Beyond the lane that skirted the kastel there seemed to be a pale haze, lying low like driftfog over the moors.
The trail slowly wound upward through the last, sparse pines straggling along the rim of Kerjhenezh.
The moorlands were blank with snow. Where there had been purple heathers and coppery bracken, there was nothing but whiteness.
There was a kind of an irony, Gavril thought bitterly, that the first time he escaped the confines of Kastel Drakhaon, Azhkendir was choked with snow, the ways barely passable. There seemed little hope now of making a bid for freedom over the mountains. His father’s spirit-wraith had seen to that.
He was trapped in winter’s prison.
They weathered the night in Lord Stoyan’s kastel while fresh blizzards battered the walls.
In the morning, Lord Stoyan led them to a frozen lake where the green-gray ice was so thick, the horses walked across as safely as if it were firm ground.
On the far side of Lake Ilmin, Gavril saw wisps of smoke rising into the still air. As they rode nearer, he saw a little fishing village of wooden huts behind beds of frozen reeds.
“No one to greet us?” Kostya said, rising in the saddle to scan the shore. “Hello, there!” he cried. His voice echoed across the desolate landscape. A few birds flew squawking from the reed beds, the flap of their wings sharp as gunshots on the chill air, but no one called back.
“Is this Kharsk?” Gavril asked.
“Another few leagues eastward to the stronghold at Kharsk, my lord. This is Ilmin. And something’s not right here, not right at all. . . .”
Wooden boats lay abandoned on the shore, draped with nets and floats. Only the wind sighed through the reeds, rattling the ice-dry stems.
“Hello!” cried Kostya again. He turned to the druzhina. “Search the huts.”
The whine of the wind chilled Gavril to the bone; he pulled his coat closer, gazing uneasily at the empty village.
“Here! Over here!” The shout came from behind the huts.
Kostya swung down from his horse and, drawn saber in hand, hurried away. Gavril followed.
He was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes. Bodies. Women and children, little children, lying sprawled and still in frozen snow stained rust-red with blood.
And as he drew reluctantly closer, he could see that they bore terrible wounds, bloody, ragged wounds to the limbs and throat . . . almost as if their attackers had savaged them.
He wanted to turn away from the horrible sight but could not.
“What in God’s name happened here?” he said in a whisper.
“Assassins that maul innocent women and children, that kill for pleasure but steal nothing . . .” Kostya’s strident voice was muted. He was bending over the torn body of a little child, and Gavril saw with sudden anguish the pale hair spilling onto the bloodied snow as Kostya, with gentle hands, tried to straighten the twisted limbs. “What’s the sense in that?”
“Kostya—” he began and then fell silent, remembering that Kostya had no idea that he knew what the Arkhels had done to his little son Kostyusha. Sickened by the carnage, he turned away, taking a swig from his flask of aquavit to try to steady his stomach.
“This looks like wolves’ work, my lord.” Lord Stoyan, grim-faced, came to stand at Gavril’s side.
A shout came from one of the huts.
“Survivors, Bogatyr!” called Askold, one of Kostya’s lieutenants.
They crowded into the little hut, stooping to enter by the low doorway. It was dark inside, the air pungent with the smell of dried fish. As Gavril’s eyes became accustomed to the dingy light, he saw a wizened old woman cowering in the corner, clutching a young girl-child to her.
“She says it was wolves, Bogatyr,” said Askold.
“What kind of wolves?” Gavril demanded. “How many?”
The old woman was muttering to herself in some kind of Azhkendi dialect
; Gavril could hardly make out what she said.
“She says ‘their eyes burned like marshfire,’ Lord Drakhaon. They came by night over the ice. Too many to count.”
“We need more details!” Kostya struck his fist against his palm.
The old woman stared imploringly at Gavril above the child’s lolling head.
“Aquavit?” Gavril said, handing her his flask. She seized the flask and gulped down the fiery liquid as if it were water.
“Where are your menfolk?” Kostya asked.
The old woman shook her head and mumbled a half-coherent reply.
“Seems some went to market in Azhgorod. She thinks they were caught in the blizzard. They should have been back by nightfall. The women were out with torches looking for them when the wolves struck.”
“And which way did they go, these wolves?” Kostya asked.
She shrugged and began to rock the limp child against her shriveled breast again, crooning a tuneless lullaby. Only now did Gavril realize with horror that the child was dead.
He beckoned Kostya outside. The druzhina were moving the bodies, covering them with sheets from the huts. He could not look. His eyes filled with useless tears. Blinking them away, he said, “These wolves are wanton, vicious killers. We must go after them. We must destroy them.”
“We must be on our guard, my lord,” Kostya said. “Snow wolves kill for food, not for sport. They rarely leave the mountains. Whatever these may be, they’re not normal wolves. I smell Arkhel sorcery here.”
“You told me all the Arkhels were dead.”
“Kharsk is Nagarian. All the strongholds on the southern side of the moors are Nagarian. But to the north . . .”
Gavril fell silent, staring out across the frozen lake. He had not mentioned to Kostya anything of what Kiukiu had overheard. Now he began to wonder if Jaromir Arkhel had been raising a band of supporters to strike back at the Nagarians.
Was this the beginning of another clan war?
CHAPTER 15
“This is the last food I can bring you, Snowcloud.”
With a shudder of wings, the owl dropped down to perch on Kiukiu’s arm and pecked the tidbits from her palm.
“It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. You’ve got to go.”
In the fading light she noticed little pellets on the floor of the summerhouse. Regurgitated, compressed remains of indigestible bone. Owl pellets.
“So you’ve learned to hunt for yourself! Clever boy!” She tickled the soft feathers around his ear tufts. “Now all you’ve got to do is fly.”
He was a wild creature, for all that he had learned to come when she called, and he needed his freedom.
She set him down and took out Sosia’s best vegetable knife, which she had smuggled out of the kitchen. “Now hold still, Snowcloud.” The little splint Lord Gavril had made had worked loose; it took only two swift cuts to remove it. Snowcloud shook his feathers, ruffling them up into a snowy froth. Another cut and the tether was off.
“You’re free,” she said, straightening up. The owl made no move. “Come on, Snowcloud, fly away.” She clapped her hands. The owl blinked but did not stir. She offered her arm and he hopped up, clinging on with wiry claws that pierced the thick cloth of her sleeve. She moved slowly to the door, the owl balancing on her wrist.
“It’s dark now; owl time,” she told him. “Time for you to go home.”
She tried to lift her arm in one sweeping movement to encourage him to lift off, but he still held on, his claws gripping deeper into her flesh.
“Come on, you silly owl,” she urged. “If you stay here, you’ll be caught and killed. And I couldn’t bear that.”
Almost as if in reply, the owl turned his head right around and nibbled with his beak at her neck in a friendly, familiar way.
“One more night, then,” she whispered reluctantly, ruffling the downy feathers with her finger. “But tomorrow you must go. No more tidbits. You’ve got to fend for yourself.”
Kiukiu yawned as she huddled in front of the kitchen range, knuckling the sleep from her eyes.
“What’s this? You’re sitting here idle?” Sosia demanded as she bustled past.
“Lord Gavril’s away so I . . .” mumbled Kiukiu.
“Then you’ll have to do Lady Lilias’ fires today.”
“Lady Lilias? No. Oh, no.” Alarmed, Kiukiu shook her head. “She hates me. She won’t want me anywhere near her.”
“We’re short-staffed. Ninusha’s in her bed with the stomach gripes again. I need Ilsi with me in the kitchens. It’ll have to be you.”
“Why can’t Dysis do it?”
“Dysis is a lady’s maid. Apparently lady’s maids in Muscobar don’t dirty their hands with fire making,” Sosia said acidly.
A little while later, Kiukiu ventured along the corridor to Lilias’ rooms and tapped tentatively at the door.
“Hello. Hello! Can you hear me? This is Dysis. Please respond!”
Kiukiu could hear Dysis’ voice, but whom was she speaking to? She tapped again, louder this time. There was silence, and then Dysis snapped, “Come in.”
Kiukiu went in, glancing nervously around; to her relief, Lilias was not in her sitting room. Dysis was standing by the mantelpiece, dusting one of Lilias’ ornaments: a delicate crystal sculpture that was usually encased in a domed glass cover.
“Come to do the fires,” Kiukiu mumbled.
“Well, you’d better get on with it, then,” Dysis said crisply, replacing the glass cover. “Start in here. My lady is still in bed.” She went over to the window seat and took up her embroidery.
Kiukiu had never looked out from Lilias’ rooms onto the gardens before. But as she knelt down, she noticed that now that the leaves had fallen, the Elysia Summerhouse was just visible. Had she been seen, creeping out at twilight, to feed Snowcloud?
The thought was so alarming that she forgot what she was doing, losing her grip on the dustpan, dropping it with a clatter in the fireplace.
“Who’s making all that racket, Dysis?” complained a woman’s voice from the bedchamber. “I’m trying to rest in here.”
“Sorry,” Kiukiu whispered.
Dysis said nothing but narrowed her eyes at her above her embroidery.
“It’s no good, Dysis, I can’t sleep.”
Kiukiu glanced up to see Lilias standing in the doorway of her bedchamber.
“What is she doing in here?” The petulantly weary tones hardened as Lilias saw her. “Looking for intruders? Haven’t you disturbed my sleep enough this week, Kiukirilya?”
Does she know? Kiukiu cowered on her knees in the cinders. Has she guessed?
“Why is she here and not Ninusha?”
“Ninusha’s sick.”
“More’s the pity. Ah!” Lilias stopped, clutching at her belly. Kiukiu saw her face contort in an expression of disbelief. “My waters,” she whispered. “My waters have broken.”
“What?” Kiukiu said dumbly. Her brain refused to work; the sight of Lilias doubled up with pain terrified her. She didn’t know what to do.
Dysis dropped her embroidery and hurried forward to help her mistress.
“Why are you still standing there?” she hissed, supporting Lilias. “Get help!”
Help? Kiukiu, flustered, began to back toward the door. What kind of help did Lilias want? A mop to wipe up the waters?
“Hurry!” cried Lilias and then let out a cry of agony so piercing that Kiukiu fled into the corridor, leaving the door wide open behind her.
“Help, help, Lilias is ill!” she cried.
“The baby!” Lilias’ voice carried after, a banshee wail, echoing high into the stairwell. “The baby’s coming!”
“Sosia! Sosia!”
As Kiukiu went running down the stairs, she saw that more snow had begun to fall in silent spirals, dusting the frost-blackened garden with white.
“What’s the matter this time, girl?” Sosia appeared in the hallway, drying her hands on her apron.
“The b-baby,
” Kiukiu stammered, waving her hand toward Lilias’ rooms. Another bloodcurdling shriek came from above.
“By all the saints,” Sosia said, starting toward the stairs, “she’s in labor!”
The cursing and shrieking went on from behind Lilias’ apartment door well into the night. Ilsi had control of the kitchens and, in Sosia’s absence, made Kiukiu’s life miserable, ordering her to draw bucket after bucket of water from the well to heat on the range.
As Kiukiu was struggling back with the third bucketful, she caught sight of Ilsi gossiping with Michailo.
“Listen to her yell!” Ilsi said scornfully as another distant shriek penetrated the house. “You’d think no woman on earth had ever had a baby before.”
“They say Nagarian babies are harder to deliver. They say they fight their way out.”
“Who says this one’s a Nagarian?” said Ilsi with a sly smile.
At about one in the morning, the shrieking stopped. A while later a weary Sosia came out onto the balcony, carrying a tightly swaddled bundle.
Kiukiu and the other servants gathered in the hall below with a few of the druzhina.
“Michailo,” she called down, “send a messenger to Lord Gavril that Lilias has had a son, a fine son. She’s calling him Artamon.”
She raised the bundle high—and from inside came the unmistakably powerful yell of a newborn baby. Kiukiu craned her neck to see the baby, but he was too well wrapped to see. All around her she could hear muttered comments from the other servants as they strained to get a glimpse of little Artamon.
“Artamon,” grunted old Guaram. “Does she think he’s going to be emperor?”
“Is he dark?”
“Is he fair?”
“Is he a Nagarian?”
“How can you tell? Tell for sure?”
Four, five, today made six days Lord Gavril had been gone. Kiukiu counted under her breath as she hefted a heavy coal bucket up the stairs to Lilias’ rooms. Kostya had sent word to the kastel that they were hunting a vicious pack of snow wolves.
She scratched on the door and, when there was no reply, let herself in.
A white-painted cradle had been placed near the dying embers in the grate.
