Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  “Who are we to search for, Lord Drakhaon?”

  “For the serving girl Kiukiu. She went toward Klim.”

  He saw the warriors exchanging glances.

  A tow-haired stableboy tried to sidle past. Gavril recognized Ivar and caught hold of him by the shoulder.

  “Saddle me a horse. I’m going too.”

  He saw Michailo mutter something to his men.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Michailo?”

  “With respect, Lord Drakhaon,” said Michailo, looking him straight in the eye, “there must be other more important matters than searching the moors for one insignificant servant girl.”

  “No one in my household,” Gavril said, returning the stare until Michailo sullenly looked away, “is insignificant, Michailo.”

  The stableboy led out a black gelding. Gavril, eyes still fixed on Michailo, swung up into the saddle.

  “Lead the way, Michailo.”

  Gavril’s horse labored to the brow of the hill, snorting out steam from his nostrils. Below them the moors stretched away into the misted distance, a glistening sheen of white snow, white as far as Gavril could see.

  “How far to the village?” he asked Michailo.

  Michailo shrugged. “In good weather, an hour or so on horseback.”

  “But Kiukiu was on foot.”

  Michailo shrugged again and clicked his tongue to his horse. Down the stony trail they went, down toward the endless expanse of whiteness. There was not a stir among the windless branches, not even the bark of a distant rowan deer or the flutter of a bird’s wings.

  So quiet. And so very cold. The lonely prospect crushed Gavril’s hopes. Had Kiukiu made it to the village before the blizzard swept across the moors? There was no shelter here, just an endless expanse of windblown snow.

  They rode on, the horses stepping up to their fetlocks through the snow. The wind, sharp as a saw’s blade, whined across the moorlands. The six druzhina put their heads down, uncomplaining. Gavril felt unrepentant for bringing them out in such weather. They were pledged to serve him. But Michailo’s blatant show of arrogance had unsettled him; the intimate looks passing between the young man and Lilias had not escaped him. What had they been planning?

  At last Gavril thought he could just make out a faint dark smudge rising above the skyline against the dazzle of the snow. Shading his eyes, he realized that the smudge was smoke rising from hidden chimneys.

  They came to the brow of a slope and there, below them, lay a little compound of wooden houses nestling around a chapel. Tiny figures moved to and fro through the snowbound lanes. As they approached he could hear voices: children screaming and shouting as they played—and the lowing of cattle, herded into the barns for shelter.

  “Druzhina!” One child spotted the riders and ran down the little street, calling out. “Druzhina!” Other children gathered in a doorway, peering warily out at the riders from beneath shawls and close-wound woolen scarfs.

  “Minushka! Danilo! Come in at once.” A woman appeared and snatched two of the children up, dragging them into the house. Gavril did not miss the look she gave them; at once fearful and resentful. The druzhina inspired awe, but not affection, in their neighbors.

  Michailo dismounted and flung the reins of his horse to his companion.

  “Landlord! Piotr!” he shouted.

  The door of the nearest wooden house opened and a thickset, bearded man appeared, bowing.

  “Welcome, my lords.”

  Gavril caught a waft of warmth from a fire within. He longed to dismount and go inside to thaw his cold hands and feet.

  “We’re looking for Sosia’s niece. Kiukirilya.”

  The landlord looked blankly at them.

  “I haven’t seen our little Kiukiu in over a year. Why, my lord?”

  “Are you certain?” Gavril urged his horse forward.

  “Would I lie to you, my lord?” Piotr stared up at him and Gavril saw a sudden look of fear shiver across his face. “You are Lord Volkh’s son,” he whispered and dropped to his knees.

  “Get up, Piotr,” Michailo said irritably.

  “If I’d known you were coming, Lord Drakhaon—” Piotr babbled.

  “Kiukiu is missing,” Gavril cut in. “She set out to come here a day and a night ago, and you say she never arrived?”

  “Never, my lord.”

  “Where else could she be?”

  “There is nowhere else. Nowhere between here and Azhgorod.”

  “A farm, a homestead on the moors that might have given her shelter?”

  Piotr shook his head.

  “I’ll get a search party together,” he said. “Come in, my lords. You must be frozen to the bone. Dmitri!” Piotr whistled and a lanky, rawboned youth appeared. “Hot caraway ale for my lord and his men.”

  Inside the tavern a log fire was blazing in a bright-tiled stove. Two old men were huddled close to the stove, but they hurriedly shuffled away as the warriors came in. Dmitri ladled out mugs of steaming ale from a pot on the stove for Gavril and the druzhina.

  “All this for one foolish girl,” muttered Michailo, blowing the steam from the top of his mug. But before Gavril could remonstrate with him, a group of men came tramping in, stamping the snow off their boots. All were wrapped in furs and animal-skin cloaks, and carried sticks, axes, and clubs. To Gavril they looked more like brigands armed to go raiding than a rescue party.

  “Wolves,” one of them said. “Steppe wolves from Tielen. Broke into my neighbor’s yard last night, killed half of his sheep. They haven’t ventured this far since Drakhys Marya’s time.”

  “I’ve never seen snow like this,” Piotr said, blowing on his fingers. “This is the worst I can remember.”

  “Steppe wolves here?” Gavril saw again the twisted, torn bodies of the women and children of Ilmin, scattered in the bloodstained snow.

  “We have our own wolves up in the mountains, silver-haired snow wolves. But these vicious brutes come from the steppes of Tielen. Over the ice. Yellow-fanged, yellow-haired, they’ll tear a man to pieces if they’re hungry enough.”

  Kiukiu, struggling through the snows alone . . .

  “Let’s go,” Gavril said, making for the door.

  Michailo gulped down the last of his ale and waved the druzhina to follow him.

  “My lord,” Piotr said quietly to Gavril as he reached the horses, “things don’t look too good. Steppe wolves, blizzards . . . don’t raise your hopes.”

  As they rode out of the village, some of the children ran alongside, waving to the search party as they trudged along behind the druzhina’s horses.

  “Go back!” Piotr shouted to them. “Stay in the village. Stay where it’s safe!”

  On the brow of the hill, the wind scythed in again, cold enough to take the breath away. Gavril gazed about him at the glittering snowfields. He wondered how anyone would know how to find their way to Klim when all landmarks except the distant jagged range of mountains were covered in snow.

  “Is there anywhere she could have found shelter between Klim and the mountains?” Gavril asked, shading his eyes.

  “Only the old witch’s place,” Piotr said. One of the men made a sign with his fingers and spat in the snow.

  “Witch?” Gavril echoed.

  “Wisewoman. Mad as a bat. Lives on her own on the edge of the Arkhel waste.”

  “But still—”

  “Here. Here!” shouted out one of the search party.

  Gavril jumped down from his horse and went running over to look. The man was digging in the snow. Under the light surface powder, Gavril saw the sodden folds of a piece of material appear. He knelt down to help dig, all the time fearing that beneath the drift a frozen human face would appear.

  But all that lay beneath the drift was a crumpled square of material, an old threadbare sheet, that spilled a few objects as they pulled it out, brushing away the snow.

  Gavril picked up the contents. And as he touched them, a sick, desolate feeling numbed him. So few po
ssessions. So little to leave behind. Thick socks darned and redarned with gypsy-bright wools, an ivory comb with broken teeth, the remains of a half-chewed piece of black bread, blue ribbons . . .

  Blue, her favorite color. Gavril began to dig in the snow with gloved hands.

  “These are her things. Where is she?” he said between gritted teeth.

  “This looks bad,” Piotr said.

  “Help me dig!” Gavril cried. The men from the search party looked down at their feet, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  “There’s no point, my lord,” Piotr said bluntly.

  “But there’s no body. Without a body, how can we be sure?” insisted Gavril.

  “You heard what was said, my lord. Steppe wolves.”

  “But there’s no remains.” Gavril had begun to sense an unfamiliar pulsing in his temples, dull as the thud of a heartbeat but faster, more insistent. “We should search for evidence.” Irritated by their complacency, he went farther away, scuffing up the snow, forcing himself to look for what he most dreaded to find: bloodstained scraps of clothing, a hank of fair hair, fragments of bone. . . .

  “We’re wasting our time,” broke in Michailo. “She’d never have survived this long out here in the snows.”

  “Michailo’s right, my lord,” broke in Piotr. “The sun’ll set soon. We should turn back now.”

  The dull pulsing intensified. “But if Michailo had waited for my return,” Gavril said in a low voice, “this would never have happened.”

  “I was placed in command,” Michailo said self-righteously.

  “You know how treacherous the weather is in winter. You sent her to her death.” A voice at the back of his mind was urging self-control—and yet the bitter grief that had come rolling up like a dark fog almost obliterated it.

  “My lord, look at the sky. We can’t stay out here—or we’ll risk the same fate.”

  Gavril glanced up. The clouds fast-scudding from the mountains had an eerie yellow cast to them. A distant, low moan shivered across the snowflats—and was answered by another closer by. The sound, eerily inhuman, made Gavril’s flesh crawl. Wolf howl.

  “That wasn’t the wind.” His horse gave a nervous whinny and tossed its head, pawing restlessly at the snow. “Was it?”

  “Your horse can scent them,” Piotr said uneasily.

  “We’re more than a match for any wolf pack,” one of the younger druzhina boasted. “Our horses can easily outrun them.”

  “Oh, yes?” Piotr said. “So you’d ride off and leave us to fend for ourselves?”

  “Give me her things,” Gavril said. He crammed Kiukiu’s few possessions into his saddle bag. “Now let’s be on our way.”

  As he remounted, another howl quivered through the air. The men on foot shouldered their weapons and stolidly began to trudge back, following their footprints in the thick snow.

  One lone girl, stumbling exhaustedly through the snow, had proved easy prey for a pack of marauding wolves. But a band of armed men . . . Gavril put the thought from his mind. He could only think of Kiukiu. He gazed out over the bleak landscape as he rode. He could not forget what Michailo had done. Michailo would pay.

  He looked up at Michailo, riding ahead, nonchalant and relaxed in the saddle. His eyes narrowed against the glare of the snow. He hated the man. Hated his arrogant manner, his sullen comments, the way he tossed his flax-fair braids . . .

  The pulsing in his temples had begun again. The more he thought how much he hated Michailo, the more the blood burned in his head.

  He could not remember ever hating anyone so vehemently before. Disliking, maybe, the odd difference of opinions, but hate?

  A lurid snowlight suddenly lit the far-distant mountain peaks, briefly gilding them a sulfurous yellow. Flakes of snow began to drift down, a few chill white petals from the ash-gray sky. The last sunlight suddenly disappeared, and the moors were swathed in gloom.

  A long, low howl trembled through the air. Other voices answered, eerily close.

  “The village!” cried Piotr, his voice sharp with alarm. He began to run. Michailo and the others kicked their heels into their horses’ sides, urging them back. “The children!”

  Gavril followed.

  The druzhina reached the ridge above the village, reining in their horses, hooves scuffing up showers of powder snow.

  The little gaggle of children were still playing, engrossed in a game of catch. They glanced up as the men came riding back.

  “What are you doing out here?” shouted Piotr. “The wolves are coming! Go in, go in!”

  The children spilled down the ridge toward the village, shrieking in fear.

  “Go get torches!” Michailo ordered, following them.

  Gavril heard a shrill little scream. One of the children, the little boy Danilo, had gone sprawling headlong in the snow.

  A dark, snarling creature leapt out of the shadows, teeth bared, right in front of the child.

  Gavril spurred his horse down the hill toward Danilo, intending to scoop him up onto his saddle. But the horse shied, rearing up into the air. Gavril lost his grip on the reins and fell off into the snow.

  Winded by the fall, he struggled to his feet. He could hear the child whimpering.

  “Danilo!” he cried. “Get behind me!” But Danilo just lay where he had fallen, paralyzed with fear.

  A wolf crouched, yellow teeth bared, poised to attack.

  Eyes gleamed in the twilight, orange, feral eyes. Wolf voices bayed and yelped. Not one wolf—but a whole pack of them.

  This is how she died. The wolves killed her, tore her apart. . . .

  Gavril flung himself in front of Danilo.

  The young girl stumbles in the snow. The beasts encircle her, leap on her, pull her down. And then there is nothing but the sound of screaming and the gobbling, growling sounds of the beasts as they ravage her living flesh, slobbering over the fresh carcass.

  Now Gavril no longer felt afraid. He felt himself possessed by a terrible, burning anger. Anger for Kiukiu, his Kiukiu, dying alone and in such terror. The anger caught fire in his mind. Flames flickered across his sight: red, orange, white. Blue.

  Blue, phosphorescent blue of starfire on freezing winter nights, starblaze of burning, brilliant blue . . .

  Through the shimmering blur of fire, he saw the creature gather itself to spring.

  The wolf leapt into the air. Instinctively, Gavril raised his arm to protect himself.

  He heard the snap of ragged fangs, sharp as daggers, smelled the hot, rank stink of its carnivore’s breath.

  Flames shot from his outstretched fingers, glittering blue as cobalt.

  The twilight exploded into a dazzle of shattered stars.

  The wolf’s shaggy coat caught fire.

  Blinding blueflare, brighter than lightning.

  Burning, the wolf dropped into the snow, writhing and making horrible whining sounds. And in the flames, Gavril saw for a moment—but how could it be?—the black shadow of a burning man, clawing and twisting in agony. Then the dazzle of the flames dimmed. Slowly the blackened paws moved aimlessly . . . and stilled.

  Now there was only choking smoke and a vile smell of burning fur.

  What had he done? For a moment his whole body had convulsed in that one cataclysmic burst of power. Now he felt utterly drained. His knees buckled.

  “My lord, my lord—” Voices were calling his name.

  He toppled forward into the snow, and the last sparks of Drakhaon’s Fire were extinguished in a black tide that overwhelmed him, dragging him down to oblivion in its lightless depths.

  CHAPTER 20

  Kiukiu woke with a start.

  A cold snowlight filtered in from slit windows set high in the rough walls of the hut.

  At first she had no idea where she was—and then, seeing Malusha stooped over the fire, stoking it with fresh wood, she began to remember.

  “Snow’s stopped for a while,” Malusha said without turning around. “I’ve made porridge. Want some, child?”
/>   Porridge. Kiukiu’s empty stomach rumbled; embarrassed, she pressed her hands on it to silence it.

  “Yes, please. I’m starving.”

  Malusha brought over a bowl filled with steaming barley porridge and a spoon.

  “Eat it from the outside in or you’ll burn your tongue. I’ve stirred in a spoonful of heather honey to give you strength.”

  Kiukiu breathed in the honey-scented steam hungrily. She was so ravenous she didn’t care if she burned her tongue to swallow down some of the delicious porridge.

  She looked up into Malusha’s face—and her dream came back to her so vividly it seemed as if it had been more than a dream. She set down the porridge bowl and reached out for the old woman’s hand.

  “I—I had a dream last night,” she said.

  “Ah.” Malusha sat down beside her. She did not withdraw her hand.

  “You were in my dream. You asked me who my parents were. You said—you said Malkh, my father, was your son.”

  The old woman’s bright eyes clouded suddenly with tears.

  “You remember the dream,” she said, squeezing Kiukiu’s hand. “You remember!”

  “Are you my grandmother?” Kiukiu stammered.

  “If Malkh was your father, then I am, child.”

  “How can it be?” Kiukiu was wary now. “They told us all the Arkhel household were killed.”

  “All but me, Kiukiu, all but me.” Kiukiu saw the shadow of the bleak years of solitude and suffering darkening her grandmother’s eyes. “All but me and my lords and ladies. Someone had to care for them.”

  “The owls.”

  “When I first saw you, there was something familiar about you, child.” Malusha gently stroked Kiukiu’s cheek, gazing at her face as if she could not stop looking at her. “Now, in the daylight, I can see it. You have your father’s eyes . . . and something of his chin, his cheekbones. Strong features, strong personality.”