by Sarah Ash
“Awaiting your highness’ instructions.”
“Bring him to me.”
A few minutes later the aide returned followed by Kazimir, whey-faced and breathless.
“How do I know this doesn’t contain poison?” Eugene said curtly.
“I—I would never presume to—” stuttered Kazimir.
“Take some yourself.” Eugene thrust the phial into Kazimir’s hands.
“A few drops on the tongue, that’s all you need to protect yourself, highness, from the Drakhaon’s poisonous breath.” Kazimir did as he was bid, pulling a grimace at the taste.
Eugene watched. Kazimir had not hesitated. He took back the phial and tipped some of the contents into his mouth.
A shimmer of thunder, black and electric blue, shuddered through his mind.
He blinked. For a moment he had glimpsed something quite alien to his own experience. A touch of darkness that left his skin crawling.
He had tasted the blood of the creature that had killed Jaromir.
He felt tainted. Polluted.
He looked at Kazimir. “You have done well, Doctor. But there is one thing more you will do for me. There is an urgent dispatch to be delivered to the Drakhaon.”
The doctor’s face crumpled like old parchment.
“No, highness. Don’t make me go back. I beg you. Please don’t make me.”
Eugene turned away. He found the doctor’s pleading embarrassing.
“Do you wish to live?”
“B-but they’ll kill me if they find out I’ve—”
“That is a risk you will have to take.”
Elysia dried her eyes. What was the use of weeping? She was cross with herself now to have shown such weakness, and all over a little cut. She examined her finger and saw that the bleeding had stopped.
She would just have to start again with her fourth hairpin.
She went to the washbowl and with her left hand poured cold water into the bowl, dabbing some around her eyes to reduce the redness.
“Madame Andar?”
Someone had called her name.
“Elysia?”
She picked up a candle and hurried into her bedchamber to see Astasia standing there, holding a fair-haired little girl by the hand.
“How did you—” she began, but before she could finish, Astasia threw herself into her arms, hugging her tight.
“Oh, Madame Andar, I’m so pleased to see you. Velemir told me you had gone to Azhkendir. If it were not for Kari, I would have gone on believing it.”
“But how did you get past the guards?”
“I know all the secret passages,” said a small, clear voice proudly.
“Princess Karila?” Elysia curtsied to the child.
“Now can we have a story?” Karila said, yawning. “I’m tired.”
“Take us back to your rooms, Kari,” Astasia coaxed, “and I’ll tell you a story from Muscobar.”
“But not a sad story. I don’t want to have bad dreams.”
“This one will have a blissfully happy ending,” Astasia said, smiling at Elysia over Karila’s head.
Elysia watched in astonishment as Karila walked over to the marble mantelpiece and touched one of the carved acanthus leaves. A panel slid to one side, just wide enough for a child to walk through without bumping her head.
“Follow us,” said Astasia, beckoning.
Elysia tucked Princess Karila into her gilded bed, and Astasia began to tell Karila the tale of the young prince and his mother washed up on the shores of a magical island. Elysia observed Astasia’s mobile face, her dark eyes bewitchingly alight with every nuance of the story, and wondered if she should pinch herself to make certain she was not dreaming.
By the time Astasia reached the musical squirrel and the bumblebee, Karila was yawning, and long before the swan princess made her appearance, the little girl had fallen asleep.
The two women retreated into the princess’ dressing room and talked in whispers so as not to wake Karila.
“Velemir has treated us both shamefully,” Astasia said when Elysia had finished her tale. “Your life is in danger, Madame Andar. We have to get you away from here.”
“The palace is surrounded by an invisible protective ward,” Elysia said, shaking her head. “I fear we would not get far.”
“You speak as if we were on that magical island in the story!”
“Eugene employs a Magus to protect him. He is a man of considerable powers. We must not underestimate what he can do.”
Astasia gave an impatient little shrug. “Then we must play Velemir at his own game—”
“Aiii!” The child’s scream pierced their whispering. They hurried back into Karila’s bedchamber to see the little girl sitting upright in her bed, staring fixedly into the dim light.
Elysia put her arms around her, hugging her close.
“It’s all right, Kari, it was only a dream.”
Karila’s body was hot, soaked with sweat. She clutched Elysia tightly.
“It flew right over the palace,” she said in a small, toneless voice. “I saw its eyes. Blue. Like the blue at the heart of a flame. Dragon eyes.”
Dragon eyes . . .
Gouts of red spattered Gavril’s dreams. He woke with the taste and stink of spilled blood rank in his throat and nostrils. He woke knowing something had gone wrong. He had no idea what hour of the night it was, only that he could smell death.
“My lord!” The door to his chamber burst open and Juri staggered in, collapsing to his knees. His scalp was glazed with half-dried blood. “Forgive us. We’ve failed you.”
“What’s happened?” Gavril struggled to get up. His head spun; his limbs felt weak and sinewless.
“Tielens have taken Jushko. We’d got Michailo cornered. A neat little ambush. But the Tielens were below in the gorge, and when they heard the noise, they returned fire. Michailo fell, Grisha—”
“Michailo was shot?”
“Didn’t stand a chance. Came to . . . saw them taking away Jushko. Tielens were bayoneting anyone on the ground . . . dragged myself into the gorse . . . or I’d be lying up there with the rest, food for kites—”
“But Lilias!” Gavril cried. “Did they find Lilias?”
“It looks bad, my lord. Very bad—”
A sudden clanging drowned out his voice. A warning bell frantically dinning from one of the watchtowers.
“Now what?” Gavril pulled a morning robe over his nightshirt and hurried out onto the landing to find the kastel filled with running men.
“They’re coming this way!” someone shouted from the hall below.
Gavril caught hold of one of the druzhina. “Who’s coming?”
“The Tielen army, my lord.” It was young Semyon; his eyes were wide with fear.
“It can’t be!” Gavril gripped at the balcony rail to steady himself.
He had fulfilled Eugene’s conditions. Why had the Tielens broken their bond?
CHAPTER 38
Gavril wavered in the keen wind as he clambered out onto the Kalika Tower roof. His father’s telescopes were still there. If only he didn’t feel so weak, weak enough for a strong gust of wind to blow him right off the roof. . . .
He staggered as he caught hold of the larger telescope and struggled to take the lens cover off; it seemed to be rusted on.
In the courtyard far below, Askold was mustering the kastel druzhina, ordering them to defend the outer walls and the watchtowers.
“Up—about forty-five degrees to the left,” Gavril muttered, squinting down the lens, trying to focus the great telescope on the white blur of moorlands.
And then he saw them.
Line upon line of uniformed soldiers were marching over the moorlands toward the kastel, led by officers on horseback. There were cannons, drawn by horses; blue and gray standards rippled in the wind.
The Tielen army.
“Save us, Lord Drakhaon.” Ninusha clutched at Gavril’s sleeve, her eyes filled with tears. “Please save us.”
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Gavril looked around at his assembled household: the women, children, and elderly men who had served him and his father so faithfully. They looked back at him, their eyes wide with fear, hope—and trust. They were counting on him to protect them. And he knew in that moment that he could not sacrifice them to Eugene’s troops.
“You must go into the East Wing and hide in the tunnels,” he said, forcing confidence into his voice. “Stay underground until it’s all over.”
“There’s ghosts in the East Wing,” cried one of the children, bursting into terrified sobs.
Bugle fanfares, militarily dry and precise, rang out in the distance.
“Go,” Gavril said. “Go now.”
“This way! Follow me.” Sosia began to lead the way toward the boarded-up door.
“I’m s-so frightened.” Ninusha stood trembling, rooted to the spot. Ilsi grabbed hold of Ninusha’s hand and dragged her away.
“Where’s Kostya?” Sosia cried, turning back. “We can’t leave Kostya!”
The fanfares rang out again.
“Leave Kostya to me,” Gavril said, pushing her gently toward the others. “Ilsi, take care of Sosia.”
He set out toward Kostya’s rooms.
A deafening explosion rocked the whole building. Gavril swayed, clutching at a doorframe to right himself. He heard the crash of falling masonry.
They were bombarding the kastel.
Kostya, moustaches bristling, was trying to pull on his old leather campaign jacket over his nightshirt.
“Kostya, you must come with me. Down to the East Wing. You can’t stay here.”
Kostya swore. “If you think I’m going to hide with the women and children, you’re mistaken. My place is with my men.”
“And I’m not leaving you here to be killed in your bed.”
“In my bed?” Kostya let out a withering stream of curses and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Hand me my crossbow. I may not be much use, but I’ll be damned if I don’t take a few of these Tielens with me to the Ways Beyond.” He stood up unsteadily, only to sink down again.
Gavril went to help him up but Kostya glared at him, shaking the proffered hand away.
“And if you were your father’s son, you’d use your powers and fry the Tielen army to a crisp! Just pass me my bow.”
Gavril went from room to room, searching in vain for Altan Kazimir.
There must be something the doctor could do to restore his powers. At the least, some of his waning strength . . .
He flung open his bedchamber door. Jaromir Arkhel stood there, holding a blade to Altan Kazimir’s throat.
“Jaro, what’s going on?”
“The good doctor here has some explaining to do. Ask him where he’s been,” said Jaromir, stern-voiced. His hair glinted darkly golden in the winter morning light. “I found him sneaking back in through the summerhouse tunnel.”
Kazimir began to babble a stream of half-coherent words.
“F-forgive me, Lord Gavril. I—I didn’t have any choice. Linnaius—p-poisoned me—”
“Calm yourself, Doctor,” Gavril said, “you’re making no sense at all.”
Jaromir lowered his blade.
“Th-they made me agree to a rendezvous. With one of the prince’s aides. I w-was to give him samples of your blood. In exchange, Magus Linnaius would give me the antidote. But they forced me to come back. With this dispatch.” With shaking hands he fumbled in his jacket and drew out a sealed parchment, handing it to Gavril.
Gavril opened the dispatch. It was written in a bold, official hand in the common script:
Know this, Gavril Nagarian, that you have failed to fulfill the last of our conditions, namely the restoration of Lord Jaromir Arkhel to his rightful place as ruler of Azhkendir—but instead are commonly reported to have murdered the same Lord Arkhel and usurped his title. As a consequence, we require you to surrender yourself and your kastel to us. Any resistance will be met with merciless retribution.
Eugene of Tielen.
“All this because Eugene believes I’m dead?” Jaromir turned to Gavril, eyes blank with bewilderment.
“One of my druzhina must have told him so.” Gavril stared at the blunt wording of the dispatch. Merciless retribution. His lie, told with the best of intentions to preserve a forbidden friendship, had rebounded with disastrous consequences.
“And that’s not all,” Jaromir said. “Show us the other phial you have hidden in your jacket. The one that stinks of Magus Linnaius’ sorceries.”
“There is no other phial—”
Jaromir pushed him back against the wall. “Do I have to strip the jacket from your back?”
Kazimir glared balefully at Jaromir. With one hand he delved into the lining of his jacket and brought out a little phial. Jaromir took it from him and held it to the light. It glimmered faintly with a pale, gray luminescence.
“What does this contain?”
“You’re not scientists,” Kazimir said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“The truth, Kazimir. Or it will go ill with you.”
“A—a sedative. To enable the effects of the elixir.”
“To disable Lord Gavril. To poison him!”
“To subdue the creature that lives inside him, that feeds off his life- force,” snapped Kazimir. “The thing your father called Drakhaoul.”
“Only in destroying the Drakhaoul,” Gavril said slowly, “you’re also poisoning me.”
A cannonball came whizzing high over the outer walls and smashed with a dull thud into the kastel. Kazimir flinched.
“And is there any antidote to this mage-poison you’ve been feeding me?” Gavril demanded.
Kazimir shook his head. “Only to wait for its effects to be fully excreted from the system.”
“You call yourself a scientist.” He had trusted this man to help him and he had betrayed him, as he had betrayed his father. “Is it beyond your abilities to find one?”
“I—I—”
“Then go back to your laboratory and get working!”
A fresh barrage of cannonballs thudded into the kastel. The building shook and a fine plaster dust showered down from the ceiling. Kazimir whimpered with fear.
“Up in the T-Tower?”
“Where else?”
“I must go to Eugene and make him stop the bombardment,” Jaromir said, brushing the dust from his coat.
“How?” Gavril turned on Jaromir. “You’ll be blown to bits before you get anywhere near him! Your mentor seems determined to raze this kastel to the ground.”
“Let me use the Vox Aethyria.”
“You said it could only be tuned to one other glass. And this one is tuned to Count Velemir’s.”
“Then let me speak to Velemir.”
“Fire.” Eugene stood above the cannons and watched with grim satisfaction as the next round of cannonades ripped into the outer bastion walls of the Drakhaon’s stronghold.
He had stationed cannons and mortars around the whole perimeter. They had been met with crossbow fire from the walls, and several of his less vigilant troopers had fallen, pierced by crossbow bolts and barbed arrows from longbows. Crude, unsophisticated weapons, but effective enough to kill.
For that insolence, he had blasted one of the watchtowers and seen it crumble, the men inside blown to bloody fragments by the destructive power of Linnaius’ munitions.
Now they were loading the mortars, ramming the charges into the metal tubes, aiming them at the living quarters of the kastel.
Eugene folded his arms, narrowing his eyes against the white glare of the snows. He felt nothing but the wintercold of loss numbing his heart.
Jaromir was dead. And Azhkendir would pay dearly for his death. Gavril Nagarian would see his druzhina die, one by one—
“Ready, highness.”
He slowly raised one white-gloved hand.
“Fire.”
“Keep back, or I’ll shoot,” growled a hoarse voice.
Oleg, a bottle in each hand,
wavered on the threshold of the Bogatyr’s room as Kostya leveled a crossbow at his chest.
Oleg took a wobbling step backward, one bottle raised to fend off any attack. “It’sh me, Koshtya. Old Oleg. You don’t want to kill old Oleg, do you?”
The crossbow slowly lowered. “You’re drunk,” Kostya said in tones of withering disapproval. “Drunk on duty.”
“And it’s the besht in the cellar!” Oleg thrust the bottle under Kostya’s nose. “Go on. Try. You—won’t regret it. Got to finish it, you see,” he confided, “before those Tielen bastards steal it.”
Kostya said nothing.
“Come on, Koshtya.” Oleg took a swig from his bottle of vintage Smarnan brandy. “You’re to come with me. Drakhaon says. Down . . . down . . . to . . . the . . .” He searched for the word, couldn’t find it, and took another swig of the brandy to see if that would jog his memory.
“If you think I’m going to go hide in the cellar with the women—”
A mortar screamed overhead. Plaster thudded down from the ceiling, great chunks, leaving bare rafters and lathes exposed. The explosion threw Oleg off balance, and the brandy bottle fell from his hands and shattered on the floor. He dropped to his knees and tried to salvage the broken pieces, wet and slippery with the spilled brandy.
“Volkh’s best. Too good for those Tielen swine. Damn you all to hell!” he bawled, shaking his fist at the gaping window. “C’mon now, Koshtya.” He swung around—only to see that Kostya lay prone on the bed, the crossbow beside him. A large chunk of plaster had fallen on his head. “Koshtya!” he repeated, panicking. The Bogatyr did not move.
A cannonball crashed into the outer wall. Oleg clapped his hands to his ears. Cries and screams came from outside. Kostya was dead. And he would be dead if he stayed here any longer.
“Dead. Koshtya’s dead!” Weeping noisily, Oleg stumbled from the Bogatyr’s rooms toward the East Wing.
As Gavril and Jaromir ran into Lilias’ rooms, another cannon blast rocked the kastel, followed by the crash of shattered roof tiles and beams.
The crystal trembled in its case on the mantelpiece.
“That was too close,” Jaromir said, lifting the delicate device down and putting it on the floor.
