by Sarah Ash
“Grandma!” she cried in panic, but her voice made no sound—and there was no one to hear her.
Then she was blinking in the light of an unknown sun that filtered down through the whispering silver leaves of tall birch trees. She turned round and round, her feet moving on the soft carpet of fallen leaves.
Ah, yes, I have been here before.
Such a consoling place, hushed, muted, peaceful. The softsilver light lulled her, quelled her fears.
“This way, child. We must not linger.”
Her grandmother had appeared beside her, but she was no longer gray-haired and stooped. She was a tall, young woman, with thick brown hair braided with ribbons and feathers falling down her back.
“Grandma? You’re—young!”
“My spirit is young,” Malusha said.
Yet when Kiukiu tried to look into her grandmother’s face, her features seemed to alter, just as if she was seeing child, girl, and older woman all mingled into one.
“Follow me.” Malusha set off at such a vigorous stride that Kiukiu had to hurry to keep up. But even though she knew she was walking, she had the oddest sensation that she was traveling at a far greater pace, floating above the fallen leaves until the birch trunks blurred into a tapestry of silver and gray.
Ahead Kiukiu saw the dim outline of a great gateway appear, gleaming golden through the mists. And beyond the gateway she saw a hall, thronging with warriors in burnished bronzed armor: men, women, fierce-eyed like birds of prey, beautiful and cruel.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“This is the Hall of Arkhel,” Malusha answered. Her eyes were bright with a fierce pride. “Here are the true heroes of Azhkendir, Kiukiu.”
The air dazzled with a light like the fire of the setting sun. And yet Kiukiu sensed a darker taint to the golden glory, the crimson of human blood, blood shed in battle. A distant roar echoed in her ears, a roar of fighting, the anguished cries of the fallen and dying. These hero warriors of the House of Arkhel had lived by the sword, and now they were bound for eternity to wait here until their deeds of blood were expiated.
“Do you see him? There?”
Kiukiu saw a tall man with hair of dark gold standing apart from the rest of the company. And as she looked, she felt bleak despair and loneliness overwhelm her, cold and dark as moorland mist.
“Lord Stavyor. Last Lord of Arkhel.”
“Why is he so sad?” Kiukiu whispered. Even looking at him made her shiver.
“Because he could not save his people from Lord Volkh. Because the Arkhel lands are laid to waste.”
“Malusha.” The voice was stern, piercing as gray steel. Lord Stavyor stood before them, lean and austere. Kiukiu dared to glance up into his eyes. . . .
A wave of blue flame, cold and glittering like starfire, rips through the air, searing flesh, blood, bone in its pure, devastating power.
“Kiukiu!” Malusha said sharply. She snapped her fingers in front of Kiukiu’s nose.
Kiukiu jerked awake. She had seen Lord Stavyor’s death, the moment of his annihilation.
“Forgive her, my lord,” Malusha said, “she is a novice. This is Kiukirilya, my granddaughter.” Kiukiu noticed a little tremor in her grandmother’s voice. Was Malusha proud to have a grandchild to present to her dead lord? “Bow, child,” Malusha whispered, “but don’t look at his eyes. Never look in their eyes.”
Kiukiu hastily obeyed.
“So,” Lord Stavyor said dully. “The House of Arkhel has a new Praise Singer. But what is there to sing of? All my children are dead. My house lies in ruins. . . .”
“She brings news from the land of the living, my lord. News of your son.”
“Your son Jaromir is alive,” said Kiukiu.
“Alive?” Stavyor’s voice quivered with sudden emotion. “How can that be?”
“I don’t know how,” Kiukiu said, “I only know that he is alive.”
“Didn’t I tell you, my lord, that there was reason for hope?”
“Jaromir alive,” Stavyor repeated, “and a young Guslyar here to serve him. Kiukirilya.”
“My lord?” Kiukiu shivered. The last spirit-wraith to call her by her full name was Lord Volkh. Why did she feel she was betraying him? Wasn’t she of the Arkhel clan by birth? All her life she had been treated like dirt because of the Arkhel blood in her veins. . . .
“You must find Jaromir, Kiukirilya. You must help him raise an army.” Lord Stavyor’s voice dinned in her mind, harsh as the brazen clash of saber blades. “You must help him take back Azhkendir and crush the House of the Serpent.”
“Me?” said Kiukiu weakly.
“The House of Arkhel waits for you to summon them.” One lean hand swept across the hall and the fierce-eyed warriors who all had fallen silent, watching, listening. “With you to help him, who can stand against us?”
Suddenly he reached out and—before she could stop him—drew her to him and kissed her forehead.
The kiss burned into her mind like a brand of gold.
Jangled clash of swords, shards of gilded light shattering the air. A host of dead warriors rise from the dust, hovering about her. Eyes gleam in the shadows, unnatural eyes, cruel and bright, predatory, unblinking.
Owls’ eyes.
“Now you are mine,” he said. “Now you belong to the House of Arkhel.”
But I am pledged to help Lord Gavril—
The shimmer of the armor, the blood fire radiating from the fierce faces of the warriors, all had begun to dazzle Kiukiu’s senses. And worst of all, the nagging suspicion that—in accepting Lord Stavyor’s kiss of initiation—she had betrayed Gavril Nagarian. She had taken the first step on a path that would lead her further and further from him, making them enemies. A step that would only perpetuate the ancient feud between the two Houses.
“Malusha,” she murmured, slowly sinking back. She was falling, falling back into darkness. “Help me . . .”
“Catch hold of my hand.” She heard Malusha’s voice as if from very far away.
Rushing darkness enveloped her, and her last memory was of a strong grip seizing her wrist, tugging her back toward a distant glimmer of light.
Kiukiu squinted at her reflection in the polished bronze plate that served Malusha as a mirror. She was certain there must be some mark on her—she could still feel the imprint of Lord Stavyor’s lips, a burning, tingling heat. But all she could see was her forehead, smooth and unmarked, tickled by tendrils of wheat-gold hair escaping from her thick plaits. . . .
The bronze reflection shivered, like still water rippling, stirred by a sudden breeze—and another face stared at her from burnished shadows, a proud, stern face whose cold, golden eyes seared into hers.
“Take me to my son, Kiukirilya, let me see him. . . .”
“M-my lord Stavyor?”
“Bring me through, Kiukirilya.”
She gasped aloud—and tried to drop the mirror. But her fingers seemed welded to the metal. She could not move or look away from the staring eyes.
“Take me to Jaromir.”
“No—I cannot—I haven’t the skill yet.” She tried to squeeze her own eyes shut, but a will stronger than her own compelled her to keep them open. “Grandma—” Kiukiu croaked. But Malusha had dozed off in her chair by the hearth and seemed utterly oblivious to the danger.
From the rafters high above there came a sudden inquiring hoot. Snowcloud came flapping down from his perch and settled on her shoulder, his claws clamping like iron wire into her flesh.
“Your spirit-familiar awaits me.” Golden eyes in the mirror, golden owl eyes beside her. Too late she understood what he intended.
“Snowcloud—oh, no—”
And then her mind was wrenched open and darkness flowed through.
CHAPTER 25
The servants were snuffing out the candles in the Palace of Swanholm. A restless wind shook the last dry leaves from the birches in the darkened parklands outside. It moaned around the chimneys, sending drafts whistling along th
e corridors.
Karila lay sleepless in her golden swan-headed bed, tightly clutching the covers to herself. Voices. There were voices in the wind, she was sure of it, wild voices that whispered of mischief and destruction.
The little flame of her night-light wavered in the cold draft. Suddenly it went out.
Karila gave a faint cry and huddled down under the soft wool blankets. Doors rattled. Her shutters burst their latch and banged open. How could she sleep with all this noise?
She threw off the covers and trailed over to the window.
Rain and sleet spattered her windowpanes. Gazing out at the stormy sky, she saw lightning crack open the clouds, illumining the darkened palace with dazzling white.
Black against the lightning’s silver flash, she saw a figure of a man standing below in the courtyard, oblivious to the wind and rain, one arm upraised, fingertip pointing to the turbulent sky.
Thunder rolled, far away. And the wind came rushing across the parklands, straight toward the solitary figure.
“Who are you?” Karila murmured. “And what are you doing?”
The temperature plummeted; the windowpane steamed over with her breath. Shivering, Karila rubbed a peephole with the hem of her nightgown. Her skin was chill with goose bumps, but she could not tear herself away.
The wind whirled around the rooftops. The man below stood his ground, his gown, his white wisps of hair, blown hither and thither. She saw him describe a single circle in the air with his finger and then extend his arm, pointing far away from the palace.
And at once the wind tore away across the parklands. She could see the trees bending and swaying drunkenly in its path, stormclouds scudding away toward the distant coast.
The man stood a while longer, watching its progress. Overhead a paring of crescent moon appeared, shedding a meager light on the courtyard below.
Karila knuckled her eyes. No, she was still awake and what she had witnessed astounded her. Someone in the palace had the power to summon up the wind and send it to do his bidding. Such terrible power . . .
The man slowly lowered his arm and turned away, merging into the shadows. But not before Karila had seen quite clearly who it was.
“Magus Linnaius,” she whispered.
Eugene set down the morning’s dispatches. His armies were prepared for the invasion, and now the news from the Northern Front had—for the first time in many years—made him doubt his tactics.
He went over to his study window and stood frowning out over the parterres and parklands of Swanholm. Fallen leaves lay everywhere, blown down by the night’s storm.
Two gardeners walked slowly out to rake the leaves from the gravel paths. One, carrying a little pair of shears, trimmed a wayward twig or two from the neat box trees as he walked.
Eugene felt a sudden pang of envy. How satisfying to be a gardener with one’s whole world bounded by ironwork fences and ditches, measured by the rhythm of the passing seasons, no longer burdened by the cares of statesmanship. . . .
The morning’s dispatch only confirmed the messages received earlier by Vox Aethyria.
The eastern skies over Azhkendir had turned black, and lightning streaks of white and blue fire had sizzled and rippled like the northern lights.
There was a soft tap at the door, and Kaspar Linnaius came in.
“That was quite a storm last night, Magus,” said Eugene, gesturing to the leaf-strewn lawns. “It must have caused havoc in the Straits.”
“I trust all our ships were safely in harbor, highness?”
“I have word from Admiral Janssen to that effect, yes. But I imagine,” and Eugene could not resist giving the Magus a sidelong glance, “that the Muscobar fleet may not have fared so well. However, it was not the storm that made me send for you. What do you make of this?” He handed Linnaius the dispatch. “Not only has Gavril Nagarian inherited his father’s dark powers, he has learned how to use them.”
“So it appears,” said Linnaius, scanning the dispatch.
“And your Marauders—”
“My Marauders are dead. Destroyed.”
Eugene glimpsed a cold shadow pass across Linnaius’ mild gaze. And he felt a surge of hope: the Magus would not let this slight on his professional skills go unpunished.
“The fault is partly mine. I underestimated Gavril Nagarian. But I need a diversion, Linnaius, something to keep him distracted for the time it takes to move the Northern Armies into Azhkendir.”
Linnaius nodded. “So you are still convinced that this is the strategy most likely to succeed, highness?” The simple question, asked in such a seemingly casual manner, only reinforced Eugene’s sudden crisis of self-doubt.
“We’ve given the Muscobites every reason to believe we’re about to invade by sea. The last thing they expect is an overland invasion from the north.” Eugene looked the Magus directly in the eyes. “I’ve ventured everything on this, Linnaius. I can’t afford to fail.”
“Eugene of Tielen.” Eugene signed his name with a flourish on the officer’s commission. He never objected to carrying out the regular duties incumbent upon a military commander, yet today his restless mind kept wandering from the task in hand. Since the news from Azhkendir, he had not slept well.
He was damned if he would let all his dreams of empire be frustrated by one man.
The next document bore the name Count Oskar Alvborg: the charges included dueling, gambling, and insubordination.
“What’s this, Gustave? A court-martial?”
“Count Alvborg is awaiting sentence in the barracks prison, highness.” Gustave handed Eugene the official seal of the commander in chief of the household cavalry.
“Oskar Alvborg,” murmured Eugene, remembering.
The spectators in the Hall of Arms fall silent. The duelist removes his mask. Pale, proud eyes stare back at him unrepentantly.
One such as Alvborg might be persuaded to risk his life for a second chance.
Eugene rose, letting the seal drop onto the desk.
“Hold that order, Gustave.”
The unannounced arrival of the prince at the barracks prison caused a flurry of panic among the guards and jailers. His highness was promptly conducted to visit Lieutenant Alvborg.
The bare brick walls of the cell were dimly lit by daylight from a high open grille.
“Surely officers usually buy themselves a few comforts: fire, candles, a book or two?” Eugene asked, surprised at the starkness of the conditions Alvborg had been enduring.
“Aye, highness, but it seems this one has gambled the last of his money away.”
Eugene nodded. This information only served to confirm he had chosen the right man for the mission he was planning.
The jailer opened the heavy door and barked out, “His highness the prince!”
The prisoner, who had been sprawled on his wooden bed, glanced up, eyes squinting into the sudden stark daylight.
“Welcome, highness, to my humble lodgings. If I’d known I was expecting such an august visitor—”
“Show some respect to his highness!” The jailer grabbed hold of Alvborg and hauled him to his feet.
“Leave us,” said Eugene. “We are not to be disturbed.”
“I’ll be outside if you need me, highness.” The jailer retreated, grumbling under his breath.
“D’you know what this is?” Eugene thrust the court-martial order before Alvborg’s face.
“My reward for five years’ service to Tielen?”
Eugene ignored the jibe. “Gambling debts, dueling. Frankly, Alvborg, you’ve set a bad example to the younger soldiers, and you deserve this court-martial. You’ve abused your position.”
“I don’t deny it,” Alvborg said. He shook a wayward lock of pale hair out of his eyes. He seemed unrepentant.
“And yet in action you’re a damned good soldier.” Eugene threw down a handful of dispatches on the narrow bed. “I’ve read the reports.”
“So?” Alvborg said with a careless shrug.
“I
’m offering you the chance to redeem yourself. To escape the court-martial, the disgrace, the debtor’s prison. . . .”
He sensed he had Alvborg’s attention now.
“I’m sending an advance party into Azhkendir.”
“And the assignment is?”
“To distract the Drakhaon and his druzhina.”
“A suicide mission, then,” Alvborg said drily.
Eugene forced a smile. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. You’ll need it.”
“So—apart from certain death, what’s in it for me?”
“Complete this mission successfully and I’ll pay off all your debts.”
For a brief moment the mask of indifference slipped.
“And get me back my mother’s estates?”
The crack of a lash and muffled cries came from the prison yard outside; punishment was being administered to a malefactor. And Eugene thought he glimpsed Alvborg wince.
He nodded.
“What if I refuse?”
“Your court-martial is still scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Alvborg was silent a moment, arms defensively crossed across his chest.
“What’s to stop me absconding?”
Eugene did not dignify the question with a reply, merely turning to call back the jailer.
“Wait.”
“You dare tell me to wait?” Eugene fixed the young man with a look of chill disdain.
“I’ll do it,” said Alvborg. “Your highness,” he added.
“Decoys,” Alvborg said. The firelight glinted in narrowed eyes as he studied the map spread out on Eugene’s desk. “Or easy targets, for the Azhkendi barbarians to pick off one by one.”
“On the contrary.” Eugene gazed back at him, still wondering if he had chosen the right man for the task. “Your mission, lieutenant, is to stay alive. You’re no use to Tielen if you get yourselves killed.”
“That is why,” said a disembodied voice, “his highness has asked me to entrust you with my latest invention.”
Alvborg jumped.
Linnaius emerged from the firelit shadows.
Alvborg swore under his breath. He seemed shaken.
