Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “They are under the protection of Field Marshal Karonen,” he said stiffly.

  “But they’re alive?”

  “I believe so. Altessa—” he hesitated. “I have been obliged to surrender control of the city to the Field Marshal.” She saw now that not only was he exhausted, but there were tears in his smoke-reddened eyes—tears of humiliation and defeat. “I am dishonored. I have failed your father.”

  “Not surrender, Colonel,” she said, dismayed that such a proud and experienced soldier should openly weep with shame in front of her. “I’m sure you and your men did everything you could to save the city. But the odds were overwhelming. Without Tielen’s help—”

  “Altessa Astasia!” One of the Tielen officers came running up. “The Field Marshal requests a meeting.”

  Her heart began to beat overfast, a butterfly trapped in her breast. This was to do with her parents, she was sure of it. How would she find them? Even if they were physically unharmed, the last few days would have taken a terrible toll on Mama’s nerves. And Papa . . .

  “Colonel,” she said, “please accompany me.”

  It seemed that there were Tielen soldiers everywhere: lining the quay as Astasia disembarked, guarding the Water Gate, and patrolling the outer walls where the rebels had smashed down the iron railings as they stormed the palace.

  Even though the officers steered a carefully chosen path, Astasia saw soldiers carrying out bodies from the courtyards and piling them onto carts. Through an archway she glimpsed some of Roskovski’s men cutting down a palace guard who was hanging from a lamppost, his white uniform red with his own blood.

  “Were many killed?” she asked, determined that she should not be treated like a child.

  “Enough,” Roskovski said tersely.

  She wanted to avert her gaze from the bodies, but found she could not look away. One bright head of hair, as fiery as a fox’s pelt, caught her eye. One of her mother’s maids, Biata, had hair of just that unusual shade. . . .

  The woman’s head lolled at an unnatural angle over the edge of the cart, eyes fixed, staring out from a wax-pale face. A trickle of blood from both nostrils darkened her lips, her chin.

  “Biata?” But what point was there in calling her name when she was beyond hearing? And even as Astasia watched, the Tielens unceremoniously flung another body onto the cart, right on top of her. They were not distinguishing rioters from palace servants, they were just clearing away corpses.

  Astasia started forward, outraged, and felt a firm touch on her shoulder.

  “These men mean no disrespect,” said Roskovski. “They’re merely following orders.”

  “But it’s Biata!” Astasia was ashamed to hear how high and tremulous her own voice sounded. She was trying to behave as the heir to the Orlov dynasty should. And yet all she felt was a cold, sick sense of dread. They had wanted to kill anyone who was associated with her family. It could have been her own body slung like an animal carcass into that cart.

  “I would have preferred to spare you such sights.” Roskovski shot a disapproving glance at the Tielen officer leading them.

  The city now lay muffled in the winter dusk, eerily quiet after the din of the riot. Smoke still rose from the ruins of the West Wing; the choking smell of ash and cinders singed the evening air.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked the Tielen officer as they passed through the inner courtyard and entered the palace by an obscure door. A stone stair led into a dank subterranean passageway, lit by links set in the wall.

  “This is no place to bring the altessa,” protested Roskovski.

  A smell of mold pervaded the air and the floor was puddled with water; Astasia lifted her skirts high, wondering uneasily whether she had walked into some Tielen trap.

  “Is this part of the servants’ quarters?” she asked, glancing at Roskovski for reassurance. “I don’t remember ever coming here before.”

  Roskovski cleared his throat awkwardly. “This leads to the rooms used by your father’s agents to detain and question those suspected of crimes against the state.”

  Astasia stopped. “The old dungeons from my great-grandfather’s time? But my father had them converted to wine cellars. He wouldn’t condone the use of such ancient, unsanitary conditions for—” She stopped. How naÏve she sounded. There was so much she did not know about her father’s rule as Grand Duke. Now she began to wonder what cruel tortures had been inflicted down here in the interests of the state, while, unknowing, she had danced at her first ball in the palace above. There was so much she had been shielded from. Had the rioters imprisoned her parents down here? Had they put them to the question? The sick feeling in her stomach grew stronger, as did the unwholesome smell. It was as if the dank water glistening on the walls and pooling on the floor were oozing in from the Nieva, bringing with it the city’s stinking effluent.

  At the end of the tunnel they came out into a small room. At a desk sat a tall, broad-shouldered man in Tielen uniform, poring over dispatches by lanternlight. When he stood up to greet her, he had to stoop, the ceiling was so low.

  “Karonen at your service, altessa.”

  “My parents,” Astasia burst out. “Where are they?”

  Field Marshal Karonen cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable. “That is why I requested your presence in this wretched place, altessa. This is where the insurgents imprisoned them. Now they are reluctant to come out, fearing further ill-treatment. I am hoping you might persuade them that the insurrection is at an end.”

  They sat side by side on a wooden bench, blinking in the lanternlight of a cramped, windowless cell. There was an unmistakably fetid odor of stale urine and unwashed flesh. How long had they been imprisoned here? At first Astasia did not even recognize her mother in the lank-haired, listless woman who stared blankly at her.

  “Mama, Papa,” she said, her voice trembling, her arms outstretched.

  The Grand Duke half-rose from the bench.

  “Tasia? Little Tasia?” he said, his voice trembling too.

  “Yes, Papa, it’s really me.” Astasia flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  “Look, Sofie, it’s Tasia,” the Grand Duke said.

  The Grand Duchess gazed at her, her face still expressionless.

  “Mama,” Astasia said, kneeling beside her mother, “we’re all safe now.”

  “Safe?” the Grand Duchess said with a little shiver. “Did they molest you, Tasia? Did they lay hands on you?”

  “No, Mama. I’m fine. But you’re not. You must come out of this cold, damp place and warm yourself.”

  The Grand Duchess shrank back, cowering behind her husband. “No, no, it’s not safe. They’re in the palace. They’re everywhere. They want to kill us.”

  “Mama, look who’s with me.” Astasia took her mother’s chill hand and pressed it between her own. “It’s Field Marshal Karonen of Tielen. He has taken the city from the rebels. He has rescued us all.”

  “Tielen?” said the Grand Duchess distantly. “Now I remember. You were betrothed to Eugene of Tielen, weren’t you, child?”

  “Come, Mama,” coaxed Astasia. “Come with me. Wouldn’t you like some hot bouillon? And clean clothes?”

  The Grand Duchess glanced nervously at the officers standing in the doorway to the cell. Then she clasped Astasia’s hand. “All right, my dear,” she said in a wavering voice, “but only if you’re certain it’s safe.”

  Safe? Astasia thought as her mother ventured out of the cell, leaning heavily on her arm. Poor, foolish Mama. If I’ve learned one thing in the past weeks, it’s that nowhere is safe anymore.

  Astasia stood in an anteroom in the East Wing, gazing around her. Slander—hateful, obscene slander—had been daubed in red paint across the pale blue and white walls. The windowpanes had been smashed. And she did not want to look too closely at what had been smeared over the polished floors. The rioters had slashed or defaced everything in their path that they had been unable to carry away; everywhere she saw the
evidence of their hatred. But at least the East Wing was intact and her parents were being warmed, cossetted, and fed by the few faithful servants who had not fled.

  She was not in any mood to be comforted. Her home had been violated. She hugged her arms around herself, chilled by an all-pervading feeling of desolation.

  Feodor Velemir had foreseen all this. Had she judged him too harshly? Had he anticipated the coming storm and sought to prevent it?

  “Altessa.”

  She swung around to see the broad-shouldered bulk of Field Marshal Karonen filling the doorway.

  “I have news of his highness for you, from Azhkendir.” He came in, followed by several of his senior officers. The winter-grey and blue colors of the Tielen army filled the antechamber.

  “News?”

  “Prince Eugene has been gravely wounded,” said Karonen brusquely, “in a battle with the Drakhaon.”

  The daemon-shadow of the Drakhaon suddenly billowed up, dark as smoke, in her mind.

  “Ah,” she said carefully, aware they were all watching for her reaction. “Wounded—but not killed?”

  “We’ve lost many men, but the prince is alive. Magus Linnaius is tending to his injuries. The prince was most anxious to ensure that you were unharmed. He would like to speak with you.”

  “With me?” Astasia looked at him, uncomprehending. “But how?”

  “It is called a Vox Aethyria.”

  When he showed her, she wondered if the Field Marshal had taken leave of his senses. She saw only an exquisite crystal flower—a rose, perhaps—encased in an elaborate tracery of precious metals and glass.

  “It’s very pretty, Field Marshal, but—”

  “You must approach the device and speak very slowly and clearly. The crystal array will transmit your voice through the air to his highness.”

  “What should I say?”

  “I believe his highness has a question he is most eager to ask you.”

  “Altessa Astasia.”

  Astasia, startled, took a step back from the crystal. A man’s voice had addressed her from the heart of the rose. “What kind of trickery is this?”

  “No trickery, altessa, I assure you,” said Karonen, his dour expression relaxing into a smile. He turned the Vox toward him and spoke into it. “The altesssa is unused to our Tielen scientific artistry, highness. She is recovering from her surprise at hearing your voice from so far away.” He beckoned Astasia to his side.

  Astasia felt her cheeks tingle with indignation. She was not going to be shown up as an unsophisticated schoolgirl. She was an Orlov. What would her father have done on such an occasion? She approached the Vox Aethyria with determination and said loudly and clearly, “I must thank your highness, on behalf of our city, for sending your men to quell the riots and rescue my family. I—I trust you are making a good recovery from your injuries?”

  Field Marshal Karonen nodded his approval and adjusted the Vox so that she could hear Prince Eugene’s reply.

  It was faint at first, so that she had to bend closer to the crystal to hear.

  “Indeed; and I am in much better spirits already for hearing your voice, and knowing you are safe.” Formal as his words were, she thought she detected—to her surprise—an undertone of genuine concern. Does he care about me a little, then? “I had fully intended to lead my men to free the city myself, but fate decreed otherwise. Now I want nothing more than to meet you. I’ve had to wait far too long and, charming though your portrait is, it’s a poor substitute.”

  Astasia’s throat had gone dry. She could sense what was coming next. Am I ready for this?

  “We must meet, altessa, and soon. I have plans—great plans—for our two countries, but unless you are at my side, they will all be meaningless. Will you marry me, Astasia?”

  “The altessa will not be disappointed, highness.” The valet straightened the blue ribbon of the Order of the Swan on Eugene’s breast, gave one final tweak to the fine linen collar, a last spray of cologne, and withdrew from the prince’s bedchamber, bowing.

  Eugene of Tielen forced himself to confront his reflection in the cheval mirror.

  At first he had ordered all mirrors in the palace at Swanholm to be covered, unable to bear the ravages that his encounter with the Drakhaon had wrought. Now that he was almost recovered, he forced himself to look every day. After all, he reasoned, his courtiers were obliged to put up with the sight of his disfigurement, so why shouldn’t he?

  He had never been vain. He had known himself to be strong-featured—certainly no handsome fairy-tale prince from one of Karila’s stories. But it still pained him to see the ravages of the Drakhaon’s Fire: the scarred and reddened skin that pitted one hand and one whole side of his face and head. And his hair had not yet grown back as he had hoped, though there were signs of a soft, pale ashen fuzz, the rich golden hues bleached away.

  How would Astasia react? Would she shrink from him, forced by court protocol to make a public show of tolerating what, in her heart, she looked on with revulsion? Or was she made of stronger stuff, prepared to search deeper than superficial appearances?

  He squared his shoulders, bracing himself. He had conquered a whole continent; what had he to fear from one young woman?

  He pushed open the double doors and went to meet his betrothed for the first time.

  The East Wing music room had escaped the worst of the attack. Built for intimate concerts and recitals, it was crammed to overflowing with the military dignitaries of the Tielen royal household, leaving little room for the Orlov family and their court.

  Astasia sat on a dais between her parents; a fourth gilt chair stood empty beside hers. First Minister Vassian stood silently behind her. Still in mourning for her drowned brother Andrei, her family and the court were somberly dressed in black and violet. A tense silence filled the room; the Mirom courtiers seemed too bewildered by the rapid succession of events that had led to the annexation of Muscobar even to whisper behind their black-gloved hands.

  A blaze of military trumpets shattered the air.

  “His imperial highness, Eugene of Tielen!” announced a martial voice.

  The Tielen household guard came marching in, spurs clanking. Astasia felt her mother shrink in her seat.

  “It’s all right, Mama,” she whispered, patting her hand, trying to suppress her own nervousness. Then she saw all the heads in the room bowing, the women sinking into low curtsies.

  He was here.

  She rose to her feet, pressing her hands together to stop them from shaking.

  Prince Eugene came in, accompanied by Field Marshal Karonen. She noted that he too wore a black velvet mourning band. Was it as a sign of respect for their loss, or had he too lost someone dear to him in the fighting?

  They had warned her about his injuries. She did not think herself squeamish, but she steeled herself nevertheless, hoping she would not let anything of what she might feel show on her face.

  He stood before her, but still she stared at the golden Order of the Swan glittering on his breast, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  “Welcome, your highness,” she said, dropping into a full court curtsy, one hand extended in formal greeting.

  She sensed a slight hesitation, then a gloved hand took hers in a firm grip, raising her to her feet. Still she did not dare to look at him, even as she felt him lift her hand to his lips.

  Look, you must look, she willed herself, aware that everyone in the room was watching them with bated breath.

  “You are every bit as beautiful as your portrait, altessa.” His voice was strong, confident, colored by a slight Tielen accent. He still held her hand in his.

  She could no longer keep her gaze lowered. She looked at him then, forcing herself to concentrate on his eyes. Blue-grey eyes, clear and cold as a winter’s morning, gazed steadily back. But all the skin around them was red, blistered, and damaged. She was looking into the ruin of a face.

  Gavril did this. She was so shocked she could not speak for a moment. How cruel.<
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  “You flatter me, your highness,” she answered, forcing firmness into her voice. She must not forget that this was also the man who had ruthlessly ordered Elysia’s execution. “Please . . .” She gestured to the gilt chair that had been set for him beside hers.

  He stepped up onto the dais, towering above her. He bowed to the Grand Duke and Duchess, to Vassian, and then sat down.

  Astasia cleared her throat. This was the part of the ceremony she had been dreading the most—because it signaled to the world the end of the Orlov dynasty.

  Her father rose from his chair and took her hand in his.

  “My—my daughter has a gift for you, your highness,” he said. His voice faltered. “A gift from the heart of Muscobar. Accept it—and with it, her hand in marriage, freely given, so that our two countries may be united as one.”

  Astasia took the jeweled casket her father was holding toward her and knelt before Prince Eugene, offering it with both hands raised.

  The prince opened the casket. The Mirom Ruby glowed in his fingers like a flame as he held it aloft: a victory trophy.

  “The last of Artamon’s Tears!” His voice throbbed now with an intensity of emotion that startled Astasia. “Now the imperial crown is complete.” He helped her to rise and took her hand, closing it over the ancient ruby clutched in his fingers.

  “Today a new empire rises from the ashes of Artamon’s dreams. Altessa, from the day we are married in the Cathedral of Saint Simeon, you will be known as Astasia, Empress of New Rossiya.”

  He drew her close and she felt—as if in a waking dream—the pressure of his burned lips, hot and dry, on her forehead, and then her mouth.

  Field Marshal Karonen turned to the astonished court.

  “Long live the Emperor Eugene—and Empress Astasia!”

  After a short, startled silence, the cheers began. Astasia, her hand still in Eugene’s, glanced at her father—and saw the Grand Duke surreptitiously wiping away a tear.