Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  Elysia had been nodding off to sleep, lulled by the jogging of the carriage, but when Velemir gently touched her shoulder, pulling up the blind to show her the sight, she stared in wonder.

  The still, black lake waters were streaked with the fiery reflections of the flambeaux. And behind the lake, the palace stood, the flames warming its cool stone with gentle fire.

  “It seems to . . . glow,” she said.

  “In spite of what Astasia may have told you,” Velemir said wryly, “you will find the prince a most cultured and enlightened man.”

  The carriages followed a long, winding drive down behind the hills so that the palace was hidden from sight. But, Elysia noted with surprise, the glow in the sky lingered.

  “Welcome, Madame Andar,” said Prince Eugene.

  Elysia sank into a low curtsy. “I am not dressed for a formal presentation, your highness.”

  Prince Eugene took her hand and raised her to her feet.

  “You have just had a long journey,” he said in the common tongue. “You must be tired. Tomorrow morning—when you have rested—you can present me with the portrait.”

  He was broad-shouldered and tall, at least a head taller than Velemir. Astasia had been unjust in her description: he was not handsome, Elysia allowed, but neither was he ill-favored, with a strong chin and jutting nose, his fair-brown hair cut short in military fashion. But although his lips were smiling as he greeted her, she caught a chill from shrewd, sad gray eyes that reminded her of bleak winter skies.

  Plainly and unostentatiously dressed in a dark gray uniform coat, the prince’s only concession to decoration was a golden medal, shaped like a sunburst, on his left breast.

  “Count.” He turned to greet Velemir, who bowed, hand on his heart. “We are so very sorry to hear about the loss of the Sirin. I have ordered my men to search Tielen’s beaches in case anyone—or any debris—is washed ashore. But in the meantime, please convey our deepest condolences to the Grand Duke and Duchess.”

  The next morning, Elysia was woken early by the tap and ring of hammers. Looking out of her window, she saw workmen busy on the opposite wing of the palace; the night had hidden their scaffolding and ladders.

  After a light breakfast of rolls, fruit, and coffee, she sat to await the summons to attend the prince, trying to order her thoughts.

  A light tap at her door announced that her wait was over.

  “His highness is awaiting you, madame.” A white-wigged servant, in a yellow and white striped coat, ushered her out of her room.

  The palace smelled of fresh plaster and paint. And as she followed the servant along the corridors, she looked with admiration at the way the architects had used pale woods, mirrors, and glass to enhance the effects of light in the palace; it was almost like walking through the facets of a crystal.

  And then in the distance she thought she heard a child’s carefree laughter echoing down one of the corridors.

  “There are children in the palace?” she asked in surprise.

  “His highness’ daughter, Princess Karila, madame,” the servant replied.

  So Astasia—hardly more than a child herself—would find herself cast in the delicate and difficult role of stepmother.

  “And will we meet the princess?”

  “She is only seven, madame. The prince does not judge her yet ready for social occasions.”

  The portrait stood on an easel, the cool light of late autumn falling on Astasia’s delicate features. And the prince was standing looking at it, pensively stroking his chin.

  Hearing her enter, he turned around to greet her.

  “It’s a very fine piece of portraiture, madame. I must congratulate you.”

  “Mostly my son Gavril’s work, highness,” she said.

  “So natural. And . . . lifelike?”

  Elysia detected a slight hesitation, as if the prince thought it indelicate to ask the artist outright if the portrait were idealized or true to life.

  “There is no flattery here,” she said bluntly. “Astasia is a sweet-natured and attractive young woman.”

  Gavril, I’m so sorry to do this to you, she said in her heart. But Astasia was never destined to be your bride. . . .

  “She likes balls, music, dancing, yes? Will she not find Swanholm rather quiet after life in Mirom?” A slight frown darkened his gray eyes. “Dull?”

  At that moment, Count Velemir came in with Altan Kazimir. Elysia was glad not to have to answer the prince’s question. The doctor’s injuries had been tended to and he had been fitted out in clean clothes. Only his spectacles had not been mended.

  “Highness, may I present one of Mirom’s most eminent scientists?”

  “Doctor Kazimir!” Eugene cried, going to shake Kazimir’s hand. “What an honor to meet you.”

  “The . . . the honor is mine,” murmured Kazimir dazedly.

  “The count has told me a little about your work; I should like to hear more.” Eugene was suddenly animated, enthusiastic, in sharp contrast to his earlier mood. “But there’ll be time for that later. We have more pressing matters to deal with. Your son, Madame Andar.”

  “Yes?” she said uneasily.

  “Come, look at the route I have planned for you.” He spread out a map on the desk. “We will travel to the northern coast and the isthmus. The snows have not reached Swanholm yet. But you will need to be warmly dressed; the inland sea is quite frozen over. I will arrange for fur-lined cloaks, gloves, and hats to be delivered to your chambers.”

  “Is it safe to travel across the ice?” Elysia said, looking down at the map. Even though the Saltyk Sea narrowed to a channel at the point Eugene was indicating, where a strip of land jutted out from the Tielen coast, the distance between the two countries looked—she judged—at least twenty leagues.

  “Quite safe, I assure you, madame. And you, Doctor, you have agreed to cure Madame Andar’s son of this distressing affliction?” Eugene turned to Kazimir. “To that end, Magus Linnaius has agreed to let you use whatever supplies you require from his laboratories.”

  “Magus?” said Kazimir in tones of distrust. “But surely these are alchymical laboratories? I employ properly tested scientific methods and materials, not magical mumbo jumbo.”

  Elysia gazed at him, aghast. How could he speak so insultingly to the prince, his host?

  But Eugene threw back his head and laughed. “I can see the sparks will fly when you and Linnaius meet. Wonderful! Two opposing intellects arguing the relative merits of their disciplines.”

  “And I must also point out,” Kazimir said stiffly, “that for the elixir to work, I will need to take fresh samples of blood from the Drakhaon. That means returning to Kastel Drakhaon. And as I have repeatedly reminded the count, I am a wanted man in Azhkendir. If I am caught, the druzhina will hack me to pieces first and ask questions later.”

  “Perhaps if Madame Andar were to write some kind of letter of safe-conduct, signing herself as Drakhys Elysia?” said Velemir.

  Elysia shot him a frowning look, unhappy at the idea of being forced to use her title. “But as I shall be with him, I can vouch for him—”

  “And if you are separated?” added Velemir.

  “Do any of those Azhkendi brutes know how to read?” muttered Kazimir.

  “I make the suggestion merely to allay your anxieties, Doctor,” Velemir said amiably.

  “Well, Velemir?” Eugene said as soon as they were alone, trying to hide the tension in his voice. “Do you have it?”

  Velemir drew a little velvet bag from his inner breast pocket and handed it to the prince.

  With careful fingers, Eugene drew the stone from the velvet and held it up to the light. Still warm with the heat of Velemir’s body, the heart of the ruby seemed to glow, transmuting the wintry daylight to a bloodred flame.

  “It is the Tear of Azhkendir, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” Eugene murmured, turning the jewel in his fingers. “And Madame Nagarian was unaware of its value?”

  “Ut
terly unaware. She described it as a gift from Lord Volkh. I believe she intended to sell or pawn it to buy passage to Azhkendir.”

  “And she accepted the substitute without dispute?”

  “She believes the necklace she is wearing to have been made from Lord Volkh’s ruby. Why should she be dissuaded? Ignorance is bliss. This way, we are all content.”

  Eugene looked round and caught a hint of a little smile of self-satisfaction on the count’s face.

  “You are an artist in dissimulation, Velemir,” he said.

  Velemir bowed, as if acknowledging a compliment.

  “And now . . . there is only one Tear left to win.”

  Elysia sat at a little escritoire, pen poised above a sheet of smooth cream paper, staring out across the park. She had already written a short formal introduction for Kazimir, signing her Azhkendi title with reluctance:

  To whom it may concern: the bearer of this urgent letter is my special envoy. I have satisfied myself that he was in no way involved in the assassination of my late husband, and he must be given safe conduct to my son, Gavril Nagarian.

  Elysia Nagarian, Drakhys.

  The letter to Gavril was far harder to write.

  Dearest Gavril,

  We have so much to talk about. I cannot wait to see you. I have missed you so much! Please, please find it in your heart to forgive me for withholding the facts about your inheritance from you. It was wrong of me, I see now. You needed to know about your father. Now all we have to do is to hope and pray that Doctor Kazimir can cure the condition you have inherited from your father, and enable you to lead a happy and normal life again.

  Your loving mother,

  Elysia

  There came a rap at the door and Velemir entered, dressed in his travel clothes.

  “For your letters.” He laid a small folder of soft, dark leather on the desk.

  “What’s this?” She turned it over, revealing two white and gold sea-eagles emblazoned on the leather.

  “A diplomatic bag bearing the Orlov crest. I felt the Tielen arms would be inappropriate in the circumstances—the doctor might find it a little difficult to explain.”

  Elysia shook on a little sand to dry the ink and gently blew it off the paper. Then she folded the letters and slid them inside the soft leather, tying the folder with a blue ribbon.

  “You must give them to Kazimir yourself.”

  “Are you not coming with us, then?” she said, surprised.

  “I have just received an urgent communication from the fleet. It seems some more wreck debris from the Sirin has been washed ashore in southern Tielen. Bodies. They need me to go . . . to identify, if necessary . . .”

  “Oh.” Elysia placed her hand on his. “Such a sad task.”

  “And such a fine young man. Headstrong, yes, but full of promise.”

  Elysia nodded. The news only served to lower her mood, increasing her apprehensions about the journey she was about to undertake.

  “So I must abandon you for a little while,” he said. He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “It is a brave thing you are doing, returning to Kastel Drakhaon when you have such unhappy memories of the place.”

  “I would do anything to ensure Gavril is safe,” she said fervently.

  “I know.” He released her hands and withdrew.

  When he had gone, she wondered why she felt so strangely bereft. Now that she was so close to seeing Gavril again, she had no real need of the count’s aid anymore.

  So why these confused feelings? Had she—in spite of all her misgivings—developed some kind of attachment to Feodor Velemir?

  Altan Kazimir was escorted by the prince’s guard to the Magus’ rooms. A heavy carved door confronted him, decorated with a grotesque brass door knocker molded as a head of one of the Four Winds, cheeks puffed out, eyes crossed, hair wildly blown.

  He lifted the knocker and rapped. The heavy knocker caught his finger on the rebound. Silently cursing, he lifted his hand to his mouth, sucking it to ease the pain.

  The door swung silently open—and Kaspar Linnaius appeared in the doorway.

  “Come in, Doctor Kazimir.”

  A slight, stooped elderly man in scholar’s robes stood before him, looking on him with pale, mild eyes. Could this be the infamous Magus Linnaius whose controversial experiments had provoked such a violent reaction in Francia that his college had been razed to the ground and all his colleagues executed?

  “I realize that as a doctor of natural sciences, you may not recognize the methods I practice.”

  “Indeed I do not,” Kazimir said stiffly.

  “And yet we might have much to learn from each other.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Perhaps you would like to see my laboratory?” The Magus raised his left hand—and an open doorway appeared behind him.

  Altan Kazimir gazed around the Magus’ laboratory—and caught himself staring in astonishment and envy. The most sophisticated chymical scientific apparatus lined the shelves. There were filtration devices far more complex than those he used in the University of Mirom. And yet all this sophisticated equipment was being put to a quite different use—a use of which he not only disapproved, but did not begin to understand.

  “His highness has spared no expense in the creation of this laboratory,” Linnaius said, a little smile playing around his lips.

  “So I see.” This made Kazimir even more uneasy; was it merely a smile of condescension, or did it conceal some more sinister intent?

  “We have a little task for you, Doctor.”

  “T-task?”

  “I owe his highness an infinite debt of gratitude. His father saved me from persecution—and death—in Francia. You will understand, Doctor, that I wish to do everything in my power to preserve his highness’ life—especially from the threat of attack by the Drakhaon.”

  “You mean the elixir?”

  “But the elixir takes some weeks to work effectively, yes? That is what our agent in Azhkendir reported. We do not have weeks. That is why I have prepared this.” Linnaius went to a little cabinet and removed a slender phial whose contents exuded a slight phosphorescent glimmer. “You will proceed exactly as if you were preparing the elixir, Doctor. You will take samples of the Drakhaon’s blood and be seen to be using them in your experiments. But instead you will administer, drop by drop, this tincture I have prepared.”

  “You mean me to poison him?” Kazimir said, aghast.

  “This will merely subdue the daemon-creature that inhabits his body.”

  Kostya’s stern face flashed before Kazimir’s eyes. “If they suspect, they’ll rip me to pieces!”

  “I had not yet finished,” Linnaius said, mildly reproving. “You will then escape the kastel, bringing with you the phials of the Drakhaon’s blood you have drawn, so that the prince and his men may be protected from Drakhaon’s Fire.”

  Kazimir’s palms were damp with perspiration.

  “I—c-cannot do it—”

  “Oh, you’ll do it, Doctor,” Linnaius said smoothly. “For if you do not make the rendezvous with his highness’ messenger, you will not receive the antidote to the slow-acting alchymical poison that is even now infecting your blood.”

  “P-poison?” Kazimir clutched at his collar, which suddenly seemed too tight, tugging it loose. A collar button pinged onto the floor. “But—how?”

  “When you trapped your finger in the door knocker, I believe you sucked it to relieve the pain? The substance was transferred from the metal to your finger, and thus to your mouth.”

  Kazimir stared dumbfounded at his bruised finger. He felt cold all over.

  “I’m dying,” he whispered.

  “You will only die,” Linnaius said, still smiling, “if you fail to comply with our instructions.”

  The great horse-drawn sleds sped over the sunlit snow, bells jangling. Elysia, well-muffled in a soft, fur-lined, gray woolen cloak, gazed out from under the hood at the winter landscape glittering white under a pale blue
sky.

  At last, she thought, at last the endless waiting is nearly over.

  Her heart beat in rhythm with the horses’ galloping hooves. The ice-cold wind took away her breath, leaving her feeling faint yet exhilarated with anticipation. She willed the horses to go faster, faster.

  At last she was nearing her goal. Soon she would see Gavril again.

  Let it not be too late, she prayed, to save him.

  They stopped in a little town at midday to change the horses, and warmed their hands in the local tavern on mugs of hot rowanberry cordial. To eat, there was smoked fish and smoked cheese on rye bread with large slices of pickled cucumbers. Elysia found the strong, coarse flavors rather unpalatable, but she chewed the tough bread dutifully.

  Kazimir eyed her warily over the top of his steaming mug, as if wanting to talk. She glanced around the tavern room; Prince Eugene’s guards were joking and laughing together. She moved closer to Altan Kazimir.

  “Your spectacles have been mended,” she said.

  He pulled a wry face. “Is there nothing Prince Eugene can’t fix? Yes—he had the lens replaced for me and I swear now I can see more clearly than before. Too clearly, perhaps.”

  “How so?” Elysia said.

  “Well, where is the count, for a start? How convenient that he was suddenly obliged to attend to urgent diplomatic matters. And then there’s the Magus Linnaius.”

  “You still don’t trust him?”

  Elysia saw a strange look pass across Kazimir’s face, like clouds scudding across the sun.

  “He’s been most generous. He’s given me all the equipment I could ask for: phials, pipettes, measuring flasks.” His tone had altered and his gaze kept flicking above her head, as though fearing they would be overheard. “He’s even given me chymical powders and elemental compounds—” He broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed, staring at the doorway.

  Elysia, puzzled, followed his gaze, wondering what could have caused him to react so dramatically.

  An elderly man had appeared in the doorway; he nodded amiably to the guards, exchanging a word or two with them.