by Sarah Ash
Kiukiu peeped over the rim of the cradle. The baby stared up at her from his warm cocoon of blankets. His little fingers curled and uncurled as if they wanted something to grasp hold of.
Her heart melted. He might be Lilias’ son, but was that his fault? With his wild wisps of red-bronze hair and his stubborn little nose, he was already his own person.
“Hello, Artamon,” she whispered. The little fist waved back in response to her voice. Tentatively she put out a finger—and felt tiny fingers close about it, stickily warm and astonishingly strong for one so small.
“I’ve got to get going, little one,” she said regretfully, withdrawing her finger and stroking his down-soft cheek. “You need a good fire to keep you nice and warm.”
She went over to the grate and, kneeling down, was soon busy scraping out the cinders.
A choking, gurgling sound came from the crib. Not the contented noise of a well-fed baby, but something more ominous. Alarmed, Kiukiu dropped her dustpan and shovel and, wiping her hands on her skirt, hurried over to the crib.
The baby had been sick. She could smell the sweet, fetid smell of the milky vomit before she reached him. But he had wriggled himself into an awkward position, one where he was inhaling the regurgitated milk—and choking.
Kiukiu plunged her hands into the crib and swiftly lifted him up, patting him hard to clear his airways, feeling his little body convulse with the effort to breathe again—
“What are you doing!”
Lilias stood on the threshold, her face distorted.
“Put him down! At once!”
“But he—” Kiukiu began. At last the baby managed to gasp a gargling yell.
Lilias rushed across and snatched him from her.
“What were you doing! Smothering my son—the Drakhaon’s son!”
“I tried to save him,” Kiukiu cried, almost speechless.
“Save him?” Lilias clutched the baby to her so tightly that he began to wail. “You tried to kill him! I saw you!”
Ilsi and Ninusha appeared in the doorway, curious to see what the noise was about.
“He was choking, look, there’s vomit on his sheet, I was only—”
“Choking? What kind of feeble excuse is that? You were shaking him.” The louder Lilias’ voice became, the louder little Artamon wailed. “The girl’s not only weak-brained, she’s malicious, too. Malicious enough to want to harm my child. Unless, of course,” and her voice dropped as she rocked the baby up and down on her shoulder, “someone put her up to it.”
“Why won’t you listen?” Kiukiu began to cry too. “I love babies. I don’t care who his mother is, I’d never want to harm him, I swear it—”
“I caught her leaning too close over the baby’s crib once before,” said Ilsi. “When she saw me, she leapt back. I thought it was suspicious.”
“Yes,” said Ninusha, backing Ilsi up as usual, “I saw her too.”
“You never—” gasped Kiukiu.
“Deny it,” Ilsi said with a cold little smile.
“I do deny it!”
Now there came the sound of footsteps hastening down the corridor, voices shouting out.
“Where is she? Where’s Afimia’s girl?”
Oleg burst in, closely followed by Sosia with several of the druzhina, Michailo at the front. Oleg threw a handful of white feathers on the floor. Kiukiu let out a soft little cry. There was blood on the feathers.
“Snowcloud,” she whispered.
“She’s been rearing one of those cursed creatures in the summerhouse. One of Arkhel’s Owls!” Oleg shook his fist at her.
“And she told us she was seeing a boy!” Ilsi said, her voice dry with scorn.
“Bad blood will always out in the end.” Oleg spat on the floor. “Arkhel blood.” Lilias glared at him, drawing the hem of her robe closer to herself.
“It was only a baby owl,” Kiukiu said, dropping to her knees to touch the blood-smeared feathers, letting them drift through her fingers. “It hadn’t harmed anyone—and now you’ve killed it.”
“We should have known no boy would want to have frumpy, dumpy Kiukiu,” Ninusha said spitefully. “We should have guessed she was up to something.”
“Did you have to kill him?” Kiukiu cried.
“Kiukiu,” Sosia said in a hard, flat voice, “you’re in terrible trouble. Why did you lie to me?”
Kiukiu stared at Sosia through her tears. Lord Gavril had gone to Kharsk. Who would speak up for her in his absence?
“I didn’t exactly lie, Auntie.”
“First the baby, now this.”
“And who knows what else was going on in the summerhouse,” Lilias said in tones of ice.
“No one rears Arkhel’s Owls as pets. They’re hunting birds—and we all know what Arkhels use them for,” Oleg said in a growl.
“But Lord Gavril helped me rescue Snowcloud. Ask Oleg. He was there!” Kiukiu protested. “We were going to let him go when his leg was better.”
“And what would Lord Gavril want with an Arkhel’s Owl?” Oleg spat again. “She’s lying. She’s in league with someone. Someone from outside.”
“My niece has always been a little . . . simple-minded,” Sosia intervened. “She meant no harm—”
“No harm? Have you forgotten what happened in the East Wing, woman?” Oleg grunted.
“Kiukiu must go,” Lilias said. “Michailo?”
Michailo had been watching, contributing nothing, arms folded across his chest.
“Kostya left you in charge of the kastel,” said Lilias. Suddenly her green eyes brimmed with tears and her voice began to tremble. “Send her away. I’m afraid for my son.”
“But the winter snows have started—” said Kiukiu.
“I don’t care where she goes, I won’t have her near my baby.”
Kiukiu saw Michailo glance at Lilias, who melted into tears as she cradled her child. She saw him swallow hard.
“Kiukiu,” he said.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“You must leave the kastel.”
“But I tried to save the baby—”
“I am commander here in the Bogatyr’s absence.” Michailo’s face was expressionless. “You are dismissed from the Drakhaon’s service.”
“Think yourself lucky.” Lilias stared at her over her baby’s head, her green eyes narrowed, sharp shards of river jade. “In Mirom, wicked servant girls like you are sentenced to years of picking oakum. Their heads are shaved. Most die of dysentery before their sentences are up.”
“In Mirom I’d get a proper hearing,” Kiukiu burst out.
“You have half an hour to collect your belongings,” Michailo said. He moved now, going to Lilias’ side. “Please don’t distress yourself so, lady,” he said in a softer voice.
Kiukiu turned to Sosia. “Auntie—”
Sosia looked down at the floor.
“I can’t help you this time, Kiukiu.”
“But where can I go? Can’t I shelter in the barn till the snows stop?”
“You will be escorted out of the kastel grounds. Do not return on pain of death. Remember,” Michailo said in a low voice, “and remember well, Kiukirilya. In Lord Gavril’s absence, I have charge of Kastel Drakhaon. Now go, collect your possessions—before I change my mind.”
Kiukiu clapped one hand to her mouth to try to stifle her sobs and ran out of the room. As she passed them, she could sense Ilsi and Ninusha watching her in silent, gloating triumph.
Her mind was all of a panic. If Lord Gavril were here—
But what was the point? He was miles away. There was only Sosia—and Sosia had washed her hands of her. She had spoken up for her so many times, but against Lilias, she was powerless.
Kiukiu passed a window and saw the distant gleam of the snows blanketing the moors. The sky was gray, promising more snow. Where could she go? She had spent all her life at the kastel. She had no family but Sosia.
She hurried down the stairs to her little room and tore the worn blanket and sheet o
ff the bed. The blanket would have to serve as a cloak. She began to throw her few possessions into the sheet: her comb, blue hair ribbons, thick darned socks . . .
“Kiukiu.” Sosia stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, her lips paler still. She looked old and ill. “Why did you do it? Why?”
“I was saving the baby; he was choking on his vomit,” Kiukiu said. “But she hates me, she used it against me—”
“The owl, Kiukiu. Have you no sense? In the massacre those cursed creatures attacked our men, women, and children. They are not ordinary owls.”
The thought of Snowcloud lying dead, bleeding in the snow, made Kiukiu begin to sob again. “Lord Gavril helped me rescue him. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“Go to the village,” Sosia said briefly. “Ask at the inn for Piotr. He’ll give you work. Mention my name.”
“But it’s a day’s walk on foot to Klim.”
“Then you’d better hurry. Here’s bread and cheese for your journey.”
Kiukiu tied the blanket about her neck and waist and slung her knotted sheet over one shoulder.
“Wait.” Sosia untied her woolen kerchief and wrapped it around Kiukiu’s head. “To keep you warm.”
“Sosia!” bellowed Oleg. “Where’s that good-for-nothing niece of yours?”
Kiukiu shuddered. “Don’t let him near me. Please, Sosia. He—he’ll interfere with me. You know what I mean.”
Sosia gave her a nod. Then she hugged her swiftly, pushing her away as Oleg and two of the druzhina loomed in the doorway.
“Take care,” she whispered to Kiukiu.
“Come on, girl.” Oleg grabbed hold of Kiukiu by the arm, dragging her to the door.
“Where d’you think you’re going, Oleg?” Sosia, arms folded, blocked his way.
“Seeing this girl off the property.” Oleg was breathing heavily in a way that made Kiukiu’s flesh crawl; his body stank of sweat and stale beer. She had no doubt that he intended to do her harm.
“You were supposed to have moved ten kegs of ale for me yesterday. And those flagons of cider . . .”
“Can’t they wait?”
“You dare ask me to wait?” Sosia demanded tartly.
Kiukiu felt the grip on her arm relax. She pulled free and darted out into the passageway. The two druzhina were after her in a moment, and she felt their hands clamp on her shoulders. She twisted but they held firm, almost dragging her along.
To her shame, she saw that the whole of the kitchen staff, right down to the lowliest scullion, was standing, watching her humiliating departure from the kastel, Ilsi and Ninusha at the front. No one spoke, but Kiukiu was certain she saw Ninusha smirking. Ilsi’s eyes burned brightest, sharp with malicious triumph.
Who would make Lord Gavril’s fires when she was gone? Who else knew how to smooth down the clean sheets and plump the feather pillows just so? Tears threatened to flow again, bitter tears—but she blinked them away, refusing to let Ilsi and Ninusha relish their victory.
As the two druzhina marched her past the stables, she couldn’t help looking with a shiver at the marauding crows and kites that had been killed and nailed up to rot, moldering trophies of tattered feathers and curled claws. Snowcloud would soon join them, his once beautiful white down stained with brown blood. . . .
Kiukiu stood forlornly in the trampled snow, gazing back at the dark towers of the only home she had ever known.
And now she was an outcast.
“Lord Volkh,” she called softly. “Can’t you help me? There’s no one else. I helped you, I stopped the exorcism. . . .”
She listened intently. But the only sound was the soft, sad whine of the wind.
Even Lord Volkh had abandoned her.
CHAPTER 16
Kiukiu shouldered her bundle of possessions and set off down the road without another backward glance. Here, at least, the snow was well-trodden by the druzhina’s horses—but at the end of the road, at the edge of the kastel grounds, lay open moorland.
A little trail wound across the moors to the distant village of Klim. The pines were thinning out now, and the protection that the forest trees had given her from the keen wind would soon be behind her.
She came down the lane and stopped. An icy-breathed wind sighed through the pine needles, rattling the leafless branches of the last remaining trees.
A white desolation stretched ahead as far as she could see. The dark green gorse, the bronzed fronds of bracken, all had disappeared beneath the snow. There was no sound except the incessant sighing of the wind, a desolate, lonely whine. And there was no break in the gray canopy of cloud overhead, no hint of sun or thaw. Even the trail was difficult to make out now that it was covered with drifts of snow.
Must keep moving, Kiukiu told herself. She put her head down and trudged out into the powdery snow. The wind whined about her ears; she was glad of the warmth of Sosia’s scarf.
After a while, she stopped, breathless and weary. Her feet were beginning to feel wet; the snow had worked its way into all the cracks in her old boots and melted, seeping up into the soles.
Am I going the right way? She shaded her eyes against the snowlight; even though there was no visible sun, the whiteness was dazzling, making her eyes ache. All the usual landmarks looked different— or had vanished, blended into the monotonous snowscape. The Kharzhgylls should be on her right side, with the biggest peak, Arkhel’s Fang, in the center.
But as she peered across the snowfields, all she could see was a dull mist where the mountains should be. And if she were on the right path, shouldn’t she have come to the shepherd’s hut by now?
She felt a sudden pang of apprehension. If she had lost her way, she could wander into one of the moorland quagmires and never be found again. Or freeze to death—
“Stop scaring yourself!” she told herself fiercely. “Just keep walking. You’ll come to Klim soon enough.” She wrapped the old blanket more closely about her. After a while, she began to mutter rhythmically to keep her feet moving. “Lord Gavril will save me, Lord Gavril will save me. . . .”
As she tramped doggedly onward, it began to seem as if the light were slowly fading and the snowmist was rolling closer, blotting out everything but the immediate surroundings. She had no idea how long she had been walking now, only that her bundle seemed to weigh more than when she had set out . . . and her feet were not only wet, but sore.
Up ahead she saw a standing stone looming out of the mist.
Eat something, she decided. A lighter bundle would help. She rested her back against the lichened boulder and untied her bundle, pulling out the bread and cheese Sosia had given her. It was not until she began to eat that she realized how hungry she was; she tore into the rye bread, relishing the taste, the chewy crust. Even the cheese—the hard, pungent ewe’s milk kind, usually used for toasting—tasted delicious. Better save some just in case . . . She looked down regretfully at the last of the loaf and a corner of cheese, and then stuffed them back in the bundle.
Just in case I don’t reach the village? She pushed the thought away. Must keep going.
She slung the bundle over her shoulder and forced herself to start out again, away from the shelter of the boulder.
The mists seemed to have rolled in more thickly, and even the trail was becoming difficult to make out. Sometimes she found herself blundering into snow-covered bracken. Her legs were aching now . . . and her feet were numb with cold.
Reach the village soon. She kept the picture of the village in her mind, imagining arriving at the inn, knocking the snow from her boots, opening the door and feeling the glorious warmth from the fire enveloping her, seeping right down into her frozen toes . . .
Was it growing darker? There would be lights in the village, lamps lit in the little houses, she would soon see them glowing in the mist . . .
Kiukiu stumbled on a stone, righting herself. Her stubbed toes hurt in spite of the numbness, bruised and sore. She was tired now, tired enough not to walk with a regular gait anymore. Bone ti
red. And cold. She shivered in the intense, aching cold.
Keep on walking—it can’t be far now. Stubbornly she kept on even though it was fast growing too dark to see. Only the white shadow of the snowfields still glimmered, stretching away into the moonless dark, endless and empty as the White Sea.
The little whispers of doubt that she had tried to ignore began to clamor in her mind.
Lost. She was lost on the moors. She would never reach the village; the snow and the intense cold would gradually freeze the last of her strength. She would sink down into the drifts, dying here alone. They would never find her body until the spring thaws, if the wolves didn’t find it first. . . .
Stop thinking like that! She must find shelter, huddle up for the night in her blanket, and wait till dawn.
Shelter. She could hardly see more than a yard or so in front of her. There was no shelter, only bracken and stone outcrops and the slow-rolling snowmist.
Something cold and feather-light brushed her cheek. First one soft, chill kiss, and then another and another. . . .
It had begun to snow.
Kiukiu stumbled blindly on, head down, through the softly falling snow. Just putting one foot in front of another took all her energy now. She no longer knew which way she was going. Sometimes she thought she saw figures in the swirling white flakes, and then the wind would whip them away. Snow mirages, white on the blackness of night.
Can’t . . . keep . . . going. Must . . . rest.
But where could she find shelter, out here on the bleak moorlands? There was not even a dry stone wall to act as a windbreak.
“Ghost Singer . . .”
She heard voices in the wind, soft as the whispering snow.
“Who’s there?” she called hesitantly.
“Guslyar . . .”
Was she imagining the voices? Little eddies of snow, whipped up by the wind, whirled about her and were blown away into the darkness.
“Is there anyone there?” Snow blew into her mouth, melting to icewater, sending shivers through her aching body. “Please? Anyone?”
Now she could hear faint singing, an eerie sighing, desolate music, cold as the drifting flakes.
