by Sarah Ash
“Show me your face!” he cried aloud.
It turned its head, fixing him with a flame-blue stare that seared through him like a firebolt. Drakhaon eyes stared down at him, bright as cobalt.
And then it loosed a wave of fire. Fire crackled from its flared nostrils, flowed from its claws, rippling down from the darkened sky in a dazzle of glittering light.
For a moment everything—troops, cannon, kastel—was silhouetted starkly black against the white glare.
And then came the roar of the heat, the searing, scorching burn of the incandescent wave flowing over the hillside.
Blinded, Eugene flung himself to the ground, hands clutched to his burning face. He began to crawl up the hillside, squirming on his belly like a serpent. And then he felt the wave of heat ripple over him.
He was drowning in a sea of blue fire.
The rolling fire-swell crests, breaks over his head. Caught in the undertow, Eugene sees the Tielen standard fluttering over the broken walls of Khitari’s citadel, Karila playing with her ball on Swanholm’s green lawns, Jaromir, Margret, his father Karl turning to greet him with dark, dead eyes. . . .
Drowning men see their lives flash through their minds before they die. . . .
Gasping for air, Eugene broke from the ebbing sea of fire.
All around him a terrible sound dinned in his ears, the shriek of hundreds of men and horses dying in an agony of flames.
The smell of charring human flesh choked his nostrils, mingled with the chymical stink of molten metals.
Inching slowly forward, he began to drag himself from the inferno.
The Drakhaon hovered on darkly glittering wings above the scorched hillside. Not much that was recognizably human remained of Eugene’s army. Twisted, melted knots of metal, still glowing hot, were all that remained of the cannons. Blackened piles of bone ash blew where men had crouched behind the great guns.
Glittering particles drifted in the slowly rising smoke, smoke that reeked of bitter chymicals.
The part of him that had been human gazed down in silent, wordless horror.
Such devastation. Such destruction.
What have I done?
And then the Drakhaoul whispered, dark as smoke, in his head, “Elysia. Mother.”
CHAPTER 40
“Would you like to go for a ride in a sleigh, Karila?” Astasia asked. “It’s a beautiful, crisp day. I’d love you to show me your father’s estates.”
“A ride in a sleigh? Oh yes, yes!” the little girl cried. And then the eagerness faded from her voice. “But Marta will never agree. She’ll say the cold wind will make me cough.”
“I’m sure if you’re wrapped up warmly in furs, Marta will agree. After all, she is only a servant and you are a princess.”
Elysia had listened to the exchange from her hiding place in the princess’ schoolroom, which opened off her bedchamber. She rose as Astasia came in, carefully shutting the door behind her.
“You heard?”
“Yes,” Elysia said. “But is it right to use the child? Her health is weak. I wouldn’t want her to fall sick on my account—”
“I can see no other way for us to escape,” Astasia said. “Besides, they won’t dare fire on us with Eugene’s daughter in the sleigh.” Her dark eyes glittered with determination; Elysia glimpsed something of her brother Andrei’s devil-may-care attitude.
“Kidnap the princess?”
“Look. Here’s Marta’s cloak.” Astasia took the dark blue cloak from where it hung on a hook on the schoolroom door and draped it around Elysia, pulling the voluminous hood well over her head. “Now, Nurse Marta, no one will even give you a second glance.”
“Very well,” Elysia said unhappily.
The sleigh was brought to the inner courtyard, the runners clattering over the icy flagstones.
The coachman lifted Karila up into the sleigh so that the child should not have to strain her twisted leg climbing in. Elysia, the capuchin hood pulled down to conceal her face, followed. She kept her head low as she tucked the little girl into the soft furs. Astasia came last, glancing swiftly around the courtyard to see if anyone had remarked on the little excursion.
“A tour of the palace gardens in the snow!” she cried merrily, settling herself next to Karila. “What fun!”
The coachman whistled to the horses, and the sleigh rattled off underneath the archway toward the formal gardens.
She can be a consummate actress when she wants to, Elysia thought, watching as Astasia chattered merrily away to Karila. She gives no hint of the nerves she must be feeling. She settled back in the sleigh, trying to ignore the churning in her own stomach.
The blue morning air sparkled, brittle with frost. Fresh snow had fallen in the night on the lawns and parterres. The horses trotted over the snow, following the carriage road, moving steadily away from the palace.
“Coachman,” Astasia called, “the view of the palace must be superb from the brow of the hill. Take us up there!”
“Beyond the grounds, highness?” The coachman sounded uncertain. “I haven’t his highness’ authorization to take the princess outside the palace ward.”
“Just for a few minutes,” coaxed Astasia. “It’s such a beautiful morning.”
The coachman nodded, directing the horses’ heads toward the incline. At the brow of the hill stood a lodge and a great gate manned by the soldiers of Eugene’s household guard.
Elysia held her breath as they approached and the two guardsmen on duty lowered their carbines.
“Halt!”
The coachman slowed the horses to a standstill as the guardsmen approached the sleigh. On recognizing Karila, they both saluted.
“Highness!”
“We’re on an outing,” Karila told them happily. “Astasia says we’re going to have a snowball fight.”
“And your official authorization?” said the older of the two guardsmen.
“Surely we don’t need authorization for a little pleasure trip?” Astasia said. Elysia heard her force laughter into her voice.
“And then we’re going to have hot chocolate when we get back,” continued Karila, “with sponge fingers!”
The two guardsmen glanced at each other.
“Very well.” They opened the gate and waved them through.
Astasia sat back among the furs and let out pent-up breath. “Oof. I thought they’d never let us through.”
“I’d like some hot chocolate now,” Karila said.
“Would you?” Astasia glanced at Elysia over the little girl’s head. “Maybe there’s a village nearby. Coachman,” she said, and leaned forward in the sleigh, “take us to the next village. Her highness wants hot chocolate.”
“Better to go back to Swanholm, it’s far closer than—” the coachman began.
“You heard my order,” Astasia said, suddenly sounding as imperious as her mother Sofia. “Now obey!”
Bells jingling, the coachman touched the horses with his whip, and they sped off along the snowy track.
“Wheee!” cried Karila, clutching the rail.
They were out of the palace grounds, but there was still a long, long way to go. Elysia remembered she had no money, no belongings, only the clothes she was wearing. One woman alone in a foreign country would have to use all her wits to escape.
Yet anything was preferable to being a prisoner. She would think of something. As soon as she reached a port, she would talk her way onto a ship, any ship headed far from Tielen.
Astasia smiled, and Elysia saw for a moment a reflection of drowned Andrei’s carefree grin.
“Thank you, altessa,” she said, pressing Astasia’s hand.
“Don’t thank me! I do believe I’m enjoying this.”
The trail had been winding upward through bare birch coppices noisy with crows; now they came out onto flatter, more gently sloping ground, where plowed ruts could just be seen beneath the covering of snow. Farmland, Elysia thought, glimpsing a wooden farmhouse in the distance. How reassurin
gly normal—a world away from the bizarre mask of court politics in which she had been trapped.
And then she heard the sound of hoofbeats.
Turning around, she saw a troop of horsemen galloping up the hill toward them. And leading them, one who rode far ahead of the rest, forcing his horse to catch up with them.
“Slow down, coachman!” he cried.
“Oh no,” whispered Astasia, anguished, glancing at Elysia over Karila’s golden head.
“It’s Papa’s household cavalry,” said Karila, kneeling up. “They’ve come to escort us home!”
Troopers encircled the sleigh, forcing it to a standstill. How immaculate they looked, Elysia thought irrelevantly, with their white gloves and glossy boots.
“You’re under arrest, coachman,” said the officer in charge.
“Spare me, excellencies!” The coachman threw himself to his knees in the snow, hands clasped in supplication. “I was only following orders, I had no idea—”
“Altessa.” The foremost of the riders wheeled his horse around and swung down from the saddle, walking toward the sleigh.
Elysia recognized—with a sinking of the heart—Feodor Velemir.
“Count Velemir.” Astasia glared at him coldly. “What does this mean?”
“I have good reason to believe you are assisting the escape of an enemy of Tielen.”
“What?” Astasia cried.
“Madame Nagarian,” Velemir said. His face looked gray and pinched in the clear daylight. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. He spoke in an odd, clipped way, quite unlike his usual relaxed tones. “I regret to inform you that Prince Eugene has given orders for your arrest. You are accused of high treason.”
The Drakhaon flew on through the dark toward the brilliant glitter of the winter stars.
Night air rushed past him, but its icy chill could no longer harm him. A dark, sinister fire burned deep inside, fueling the anger that drove him onward.
Elysia. Mother.
Instinct—and the memory of Volkh’s carefully drafted maps—directed him toward Tielen. Northward, then west across the frozen sea.
Beneath him, snow-covered mountains shimmered blue in the waning light of the setting moon. Peaks jagged as broken teeth loomed up out of the night, the coastal range, a fastness of rock and ice.
And then he was high above the gray wastes of the frozen sea. And a sliver of light appeared on the eastern horizon, tinging the clouds an ominous red, as the sun rose. Dawn. He had flown all night.
“High treason?” Elysia echoed, staring at Velemir in disbelief.
“There must be some mistake, Velemir.” Astasia’s words rang out clear and defiant on the morning air. “Madame Nagarian is my dear friend and companion. I will not allow you to take her from me.”
“This really doesn’t concern you, altessa.” Velemir’s voice was cold and dismissive.
“At least tell me the reason for my arrest!” Elysia was genuinely frightened now—but equally determined not to give Velemir the satisfaction of seeing her distress.
“Your son, madame, has viciously attacked the prince and the Tielen army in Azhkendir. We are at war.”
“Gavril attacked?” Elysia gripped the side of the sleigh, her own plight forgotten. “How? What do you mean?”
Karila suddenly let out a shrill, toneless scream.
“Highness?” Elysia turned back and saw that the child was staring up into the cloudless sky, one finger pointing.
“It’s coming,” Karila whispered. “Can’t you hear its wings?”
“There, there.” Elysia put her arms around her, hugging her close. The child had gone rigid with fear and did not respond, did not even seem to feel her touch.
“Get out of the sleigh, madame,” said the officer curtly, “and move away from the princess.”
Elysia let go of Karila, who still sat staring at the sky, oblivious to what was going on around her.
“You can take Princess Karila back to Swanholm,” Astasia began, trying to clamber out of the sleigh, “but I will not leave Madame Nagarian’s side until I am assured—”
Velemir nodded to the coach driver, and the sleigh pulled away with a jolt, throwing Astasia back amid the furs.
“Stop!” she screamed out, but the sleigh did not slow its hectic pace.
“It is my regrettable duty to inform you, madame,” said the officer to Elysia, “that the prince has authorized your execution.”
“My execution?” she repeated in disbelief.
He unrolled a paper and read in clipped tones:
If any act of hostility is directed against the Tielen army, all Azhkendi hostages are to be executed.
Eugene.
“Feodor?” Elysia stared at him, aghast. “Will you just stand by and let them execute me?”
“I’m sorry, Elysia.” Velemir did not meet her eyes. “It’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do.” He swung back up into the saddle and rode off after the sleigh.
Was this all their friendship had meant to him? All those professed confidences, those shared moments of intimate conversation, and he could do nothing to help her?
“‘Sorry’!” she called after Velemir, her voice dry with contempt. “Spare me your apologies, Feodor!”
“Come, madame.” The officer put his hand on Elysia’s shoulder.
Velemir kicked his heels hard into his horse’s flanks and drove it across the frozen snow after the sleigh.
The icy wind numbed his face, but not the turmoil of his thoughts.
“Count Velemir.” Astasia appealed to him as he drew level with the sleigh. “You can’t allow this to happen! You know she’s innocent.”
Velemir did not reply, but her words seared his conscience.
He had accustomed himself to living with the knowledge that he was a traitor to his own country. He had reasoned with himself that the only way to bring lasting peace to Muscobar was to depose the ineffectual Orlovs and substitute Eugene as emperor, ruler of the whole continent.
But Elysia Nagarian was another matter. He had never intended that she should be harmed. He had not foreseen that Eugene would use her quite so ruthlessly in his power game.
From the first moment they had met, he had felt an undeniable attraction—although he had determined not to let himself be seduced into any kind of liaison or intrigue until Eugene was crowned emperor.
And now he—who had prided himself on his detachment—could not think of anything but how he had deceived her, brought her here to die among strangers in this gray, chill country so far from the warmth of her native Smarna.
“Hiii!” Karila screamed again, pointing up at the empty sky. She fell back among the furs, eyes staring, fixed on some invisible terror.
“Look to the princess, altessa,” he said curtly, and spurred his horse ahead of the sleigh.
There must be something he could do to prevent it, to stall the brutal efficiency of Eugene’s military machine.
The Tielen sky was blue and cloudless, but an intense cold still shimmered in the clear air. Gavril could see his winged shadow, darker than a cloud, scudding over the snowy fields and hills below. He was tiring now, exhausted by the long flight, yet he knew he could not stop until he had found her.
Mother, where are you? He sought to sense her presence, his Drakhaoul-infected mind drawing on new, unfamiliar skills. Let me not be too late. Please.
They led Elysia out into the bare barracks courtyard and tied her hands behind her back. A Tielen priest, austere in robes of dark gray, mumbled words from a prayer book.
Were these meant to be her last rites?
The plain back walls of the palace stared back at her, with blank, empty windows. She was utterly alone now. Not even Astasia could save her.
Numb with shock, she could not believe this was happening. And happening so fast.
“I demand to see a lawyer!” she cried. “I have rights. I am a citizen of Smarna!”
But instead, a column of soldiers was being march
ed smartly in, carbine rifles on shoulders. At a gruffly barked order from an officer, they halted and faced her.
A firing squad.
Astasia ran through the palace in a last, desperate search for anyone with any authority who might help, rapping furiously on shut doors. She was met with surprise and polite indifference from the palace staff. They seemed not to understand her requests. There was, she was informed by the prince’s personal secretary, no one who could help her at Swanholm. Chancellor Maltheus was the only man who could revoke the execution order—and he was far away in a parliament session in the city of Tielborg.
And then the sky suddenly darkened.
Marta, Karila’s nurse, burst into the secretary’s office.
“She’s gone! The princess is missing!”
The officer came up to Elysia, a blindfold in his hands. He fumbled as he tried to tie it around her eyes, catching a strand of hair, mumbling an apology for his clumsiness. She caught a little of the telltale odor, sweat and soap mingled, that told her he was young, maybe as young as Gavril, and flustered, plunged into matters of state way over his head.
This isn’t the end of it all, she kept telling herself. It can’t be.
“Firing squad,” barked the officer, “present arms!”
She heard the unmistakable click of the carbine rifles.
“Take aim!”
“Gavril?” she whispered. “Gavril, where are you?”
A great building lay far below, a graceful curve of pale stone and gray slates powdered in snow.
Eugene’s palace?
He circled lower, in slow, wide circles, letting the Drakhaoul control his descent.
He was dropping faster now. He could see landscaped groves of trees looming up to his right, a formal lake straight ahead. The lake was a smooth sheen of green ice, covered with a crystalline frosting of frozen snow. Now he could see terraces, columns, carved balustrades.
