by Sarah Ash
“It’s Lord Volkh,” she said.
Thunder crashed again overhead. Dazed, ears ringing, Gavril heard a sudden rending sound. Looking up, he saw that a gaping hole had appeared in the roof.
“We must get out!” he cried.
Lightning almost blinded him. Silver fire crackled in the wooden roof as the turfs caught alight. The hut was ablaze.
“Run!” he cried.
The snow outside glittered with hailstones. They ran, sliding and slipping over the carpet of crushed ice, as lightning bolts sizzled around them and the turbulent wind roared on, tearing at their clothes and their hair. Behind them the hut flamed like a pitch torch.
Lady Iceflower fluttered above them, battered by the violence of the wind, blown helplessly hither and thither. Torn feathers fluttered down, white amid the lacerating blast of the hail.
Jaromir suddenly stopped, flinging his arms wide, gazing up at the cloud-wracked sky. “Here I am, Volkh! Why don’t you strike me dead? Finish what you started!”
Gavril turned. The rain of hail shards grazed his skin, cold as frozen steel. The mountainside trembled with lightning and glistening hailstones.
And then he glimpsed in the lightning’s shadow a tall figure, dark as a thundercloud, towering above Jaromir.
“Father!” Gavril yelled with all the force of his lungs. He started back toward Jaromir. “If you kill him, you must kill me too!”
“Leave me!” Jaromir cried. “Let it end here!”
A spiral of cloudshadows spun up about them. His father’s wraith, eyes cold as lightning-silver, loomed above them.
“Then you both will die.” A voice of thunder made the rocks tremble.
Gavril steeled himself, eyes squeezed tight shut, waiting for the final blinding bolt of power.
And then another sound ripped through the roll and rumble of thunder, sharp as the shattering of glass, a tumbling cascade of plucked notes.
“Volkh!” A girl’s voice rang out, clear and challenging. “You made me bring you through into this world. Now I have come to send you back.”
Another cascade of notes followed, ending in one long, low pitch so deep it was darker than a moonless sky.
“No!” The spirit-wraith’s cry echoed around the mountains like a thunderclap.
Gavril dared to look up.
Kiukiu sat on a rock, amid the turbulence of the swirling snow, eyes closed in calm concentration, hands slowly moving across the strings of the gusly.
White lightning crackled about her head—a lethally dazzling corona—but it did not burn her.
And from her still figure, a low, deep humming sound emanated, serene as the summer drone of wild bees.
Slowly the savage fury of the storm began to die down. Thunder rumbled fitfully in the distance. And from the gray sky, snowflakes fell softly instead of vicious hail.
The flames in the hut were smothered in billowing smoke, gradually fizzling out, extinguished by the wetness of softly falling snow. Now all that could be heard was Kiukiu’s voice, spinning out each dark thread of sound into the snow-chilled air until the ancient stones of the mountain resonated with her singing.
Gavril crouched in the snow beside Jaromir.
“What’s happening?” he murmured under his breath.
“She’s making a Sending Song for your father.”
“He’ll fight her.”
“She’s strong. She can do it. Can’t you feel it in the air?”
Gavril glanced up at the sky. Jaromir was right. There was a subtle change, as if the harsh, bitter-cold of the past weeks was slowly melting away. The snow had stopped. Even the clouds seemed higher, whiter. And as Kiukiu’s measured chanting continued, the fogs began to lift from the valley below, evaporating as they watched. A faint, pale brightness lit the clouds overhead.
“The sun?” Gavril said in disbelief.
Kiukiu’s voice was becoming quieter, more drowsy, trailing off into long silences. Eventually there was nothing but silence.
“Kiukiu?” Gavril said.
Still she sat there, motionless, eyes closed, head drooping, her hands on the strings, just as they had found her the night before.
“Kiukiu.”
He hurried over to her and gently touched her shoulder. Slowly she slumped forward—and if he had not caught her, she would have toppled onto the snow.
“Help me!” he cried. Between them they held her, he and Jaromir. Her head lolled forward. Overhead the clouds thinned, parted, and a thin wash of blue sky appeared.
“What’s the matter with her?” Gavril said in anguish as the sunlight glimmered gold in her hair. “Why doesn’t she answer?”
“Malusha once told me,” Jaromir said, grim-faced, “that it is always dangerous for a Guslyar to venture into the Ways Beyond. Sometimes it is too difficult to find the way back.”
Gavril looked down at Kiukiu’s golden head lying against his shoulder. He saw the little spots of scarlet staining the white snow, and the blood staining the strings. “No, Kiukiu,” he whispered into her soft hair, “you must come back. Come back to me. Please come back.”
CHAPTER 31
All night long, lights burned in the Winter Palace as couriers, sailors, and ambassadors came and went. Before dawn, the Grand Duke set off on the royal barque to lead the search for his missing son.
Elysia found it impossible to sleep. It wasn’t just the constant commotion, the rattle of carriages and horses’ hooves over the cobbled courtyards; it was the thought of the foundering ship and the drowned men that kept her awake. She had lived most of her life by the sea and knew all too well its treacherous nature. One of her earliest memories was of hearing the wailing and keening of women in the harbor as the drowned bodies of a fishing-boat crew were brought ashore. The memory chilled her still as it had terrified her then, seeing a limp, dangling arm swing loose from under the wet sail-shroud draped across it. Her first encounter with death . . .
At dawn she rose, splashed some water on her face, and forced herself to pack the last of her belongings.
There came a little tap at the door and Astasia appeared.
“What are you doing?” she cried. Her face was wan; the fresh rose tint Gavril and Elysia had striven so hard to capture in paint had vanished. “You’re not leaving?”
“I have been invited to Tielen,” Elysia said, “to present your portrait to Prince Eugene.”
“But you’re my last link with Gavril—”
“Dear altessa,” Elysia said, closing her valise, “have you considered your position? If your brother is not found—though I pray he yet may be—as your father’s only surviving child, you are heir to all Muscobar. You have more pressing affairs to consider than my son.”
“I know, I know.” Astasia pressed her fingertips to her forehead as if it were aching. “Already Vassian has been to see me, talking of duty and obligation. He says there’s nothing I can do to save Andrei. But if I marry Prince Eugene, I will save my country from all-out war. Isn’t that a kind of blackmail?”
“Yes,” said Elysia. “I suppose it is.”
“Though if I were to marry Gavril . . .”
“Muscobar would still have to answer to Prince Eugene. And Azhkendir would be dragged into the conflict too.”
Astasia let a choked little sigh escape her lips.
“Why does it all have to depend on me?”
On the quay, Elysia and Count Velemir watched as Astasia’s gilt-framed portrait, well-wrapped in cloth, was carried on board the barquentine, the Alkonost, that was to carry them to Tielen. A fresh breeze was blowing off the Nieva, and Elysia pulled her cloak closer to her, shivering.
She noticed a dark plume of smoke rising above the rooftops.
“Is that a house on fire?” she asked Count Velemir, who stood silently beside her, leaning on his cane.
“I fear it is the Senate House,” he said.
“But I thought that the Senate was the one place where the people could express their views—”
&n
bsp; “Apparently Matyev’s supporters think firing the Senate a suitable way to express their anger at the arrests. They say that free speech has been stifled, so what is the point of a Senate House?”
At that moment, Elysia noticed the arrival of a small carriage with barred windows. She caught a glimpse of the pale face of Altan Kazimir peering out. The instant he saw her, he turned his head away. Guilt washed over her. He had seen her with Count Velemir. He knew.
“You saved his life,” Velemir said in her ear. “He should thank you. On his knees.”
“How long did you say the voyage would take to Tielen?” Elysia asked, wanting to change the subject.
“With a fair wind behind us, two days at most.”
As the Nieva broadened out into a wide estuary, the fresh breeze became a gusting wind and the calm river waters became choppy, crested with churning foam.
Elysia stood on deck grasping the rail, relishing the wild breath of the wind. She did not care that her hair was whipped free of its confining pins. She could see warships ahead guarding the entrance to the river, their white sails billowing full, their Muscobar flags blue against the gray of the sky. Ahead lay the open waters of the Straits . . . and Tielen.
“You’re not affected by the motion of the waves, then?” Velemir joined her, clapping one hand to his fur-rimmed tricorn to stop it blowing away, the other to the rail.
“I was born and raised by the sea,” she said, having to shout above the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the roar of the wind in the sails.
“Not far from here is where the Sirin went down,” he said. “Several leagues to windward there’s a treacherous reef where the currents flow strongly. We think her captain lost control of the ship in the storm and she was blown onto the rocks.”
“A terrible business,” she said, sobered. “And is there still no news?”
“One or two bodies have been washed ashore along the coast. Some wreckage as well. But the storm was so violent, so sudden, the Sirin was smashed like matchwood and its contents spread over a great distance.”
“What are those ships on the far horizon?” she asked, shading her eyes against the fierce-gusting wind.
“The Tielen fleet,” Velemir said with the glimmer of an ironic smile. “We are about to cross the contested fishing grounds.”
“Will they fire on us?” she said, alarmed.
“We are flying the flag of diplomatic immunity. After all, we are harbingers of a new peace.”
The ship pitched and a spurt of freezing-cold spray showered them; she stepped back, pulling her cloak closer.
“You will catch cold, Elysia,” he said. “Come below. I’ve set my valet to make us some tea.”
Elysia had to duck her head low to enter the cramped cabin the captain had allocated to his passengers. In a corner Yashvil, Velemir’s valet, had been brewing up tea in a little samovar.
“Drink it and enjoy it while it’s hot,” Velemir said, passing her a steaming cup. “If the sea gets any rougher, Yashvil will have to douse the fire.”
There was plum jam to sweeten the strong black tea.
“Or a dash of vodka?” Velemir said, offering her a little silver flask. She shook her head.
The cabin door opened, and two of Velemir’s men led in Doctor Kazimir. He walked with a strange, shuffling gait—and Elysia saw to her chagrin that his ankles were shackled as if he were a convicted criminal.
“And tea for the doctor too, Yashvil.” Velemir handed his servant the flask. “He might appreciate a drop of this to keep out the cold. I’m off to see the captain.”
Altan Kazimir moved slowly, as though barely awake, mechanically spooning jam into his tea and stirring, staring at the dark liquid. His lip was badly swollen, and when he raised the cup, she saw him wince as he tried to drink, some of the tea dribbling down one side of his mouth. In the half-light it was difficult to see clearly, but his face seemed to be marked with dark stains of bruising. They had mended his spectacles after a fashion, but they sat awry on his nose, one lens marred with a spider’s web tracery of cracks.
“Doctor, I hope you understand this was not my idea,” she said. “I would never have sought to compel you—”
He stared down at his tea, eyes half-closed, as if the thin daylight in the cabin were too bright.
“Do your injuries still pain you? Shall I ask for some witch hazel? I have arnica in my traveling case.”
“Is he gone?” he said in a dry whisper.
Yashvil had followed his master, so they were alone in the little cabin. She could hear voices above on deck.
“He’s out of earshot.”
He opened his eyes again, staring at her through his twisted, cracked spectacles.
“Be careful of Velemir. Very careful.” He spoke in a rapid undertone. “He knows far more of Azhkendir than he has told you. When I was at Kastel Drakhaon, she was still in regular communication with him.”
“Lilias? But how?”
“A remarkable device. To the uninitiated eye, it appeared an exquisite ornament—like a clock—and indeed, she often referred to it as her Mirom chronometer.”
“Like a clock?” Elysia repeated, remembering the elegant glass-cased timepiece she had seen gracing Count Velemir’s mantelpiece.
“But she couldn’t fool me. I’ve seen plenty of chronometers in my time; I’ve taken them apart and reassembled them. But this was a device so advanced, so sophisticated, it was beyond my comprehension. It had a smell of alchymy about it.”
The cabin door opened again and Velemir came in.
“I thought you might want a change of clothes, Doctor, so I had my agents collect your valise from your lodgings.”
“How kind,” Kazimir said with a grimace, “and I suppose you had your agents rifle through it at the same time, searching for incriminating evidence?”
“But of course,” said Velemir.
Elysia slept badly. She tossed and turned on the tiny bunk, alternately too hot and too cold. The mattress was flat and lumpy, and she had a horrid suspicion that there were small, biting creatures lurking in the horsehair stuffing. There were drafts, and the windowpanes rattled in their frames as the ship groaned and creaked.
She kept seeing Kazimir’s damaged face, hearing his weeping. If he knew she had seen him humiliated and broken, she feared he would never trust her again. Worst of all was the feeling that she was in some obscure way responsible for his arrest and maltreatment, guilty by association with Velemir and his spies.
Yet surely Kazimir’s politics were the sole cause of his present misfortune. . . .
What’s the matter with me? She sat upright in the bunk, clutching the covers to her. Am I beginning to think like Feodor Velemir?
She lay back, trying to empty her mind of thoughts, trying to picture the soft indigo of the bay waters at midnight, trying to breathe slowly and rhythmically with the remembered rhythm of tidefall. . . .
She is walking beside the bay in the moonlight, her feet scuffing through the soft, moonwhite sand. The sky glitters with stars, brilliant white, ocher, and blue, diamond facets against the velvet dark.
“Mother! Mother!”
She starts, hearing Gavril’s voice calling her name. She forgets he is a grown man; she hears only the child, frightened and helpless, calling for her.
A tower blocks her way, a tall tower, black against the stars.
“Mother—help me!”
High above her she sees a boy imprisoned, clutching at the bars of a window.
“Gavril?” she says, not understanding.
“Don’t come too close. Don’t look at me. Please.” He flings up one arm to cover his face, turning from her, as though in shame.
“But how can I help you?”
“Set me free. Make me human again.”
The moonlight shines out from behind a cloud, bright as a beaconflare, illuming the face at the barred window.
Dazzling reptilian eyes gleam like starfire, slanted and inhuman, from a head covered in
scales of glittering malachite. Nostrils flared. Wild locks of windblown hair, a shock of blue and jet . . .
A monstrous face. An inhuman face. She can only stare and stare, horrified.
“My son. What have you done with my son, you monster?” she stammers out at last.
“Mother,” the monster cries, stretching out cruel, clawed hands to her in anguish, “don’t you recognize me? I am Gavril.”
CHAPTER 32
The Alkonost made landfall at the port of Haeven at dawn on the third day out from Mirom. Carriages were waiting to take the party from Mirom to Prince Eugene’s palace at Swanholm—with an escort of immaculately uniformed soldiers, their tricorns decorated with cockades of pale blue.
They passed through forests of silver-barked birch trees and skirted the edge of still, blue-watered lakes. Every time they clattered past a farm or through a village, Elysia noticed that the people would leave their tasks and stand silently, respectfully, by the side of the road. Were they cowed by the presence of Eugene’s cavalry, she wondered, or was this the local custom?
As the light faded from the distant misted hills, the escort lit torches and placed lanterns on the carriages to illuminate their progress.
“We are not far now from Swanholm,” Velemir said.
Elysia nodded. She had been thinking of Gavril. Flashes from her dream kept intruding on her thoughts. Where had such grotesque images come from? She had only once glimpsed Volkh in his altered form—for he had gone to great pains to conceal that aspect of himself from her. And at too great a cost. When she had learned what he had done to keep his human form, she had run from him and barred her door. Even now, so many years later, the memory of his bitter confession made her feel ill with revulsion.
She prayed that it was not too late to start to administer Kazimir’s elixir. She prayed that Gavril had not already committed some terrible atrocity that would haunt him for the rest of his life. That would poison any chance of future happiness, as it had with Volkh.
The gracious sweep of the curving wings of colonnades of the Palace of Swanholm was lit with bright flambeaux.
