by Sarah Ash
As Astasia came closer, she could hear the dry, insistent sound of a child coughing. “What’s wrong?” she asked, peering into the lanternlight. The coughing went on, rasping and painful.
“I said we should have stayed in Tielen,” fretted an elderly voice, “but she was so insistent.”
“Kari?” Astasia asked anxiously. The huddle of maidservants parted to let her through. She saw the elderly Dowager Duchess Greta supporting a hunched little form that shuddered and strained to draw breath.
“Ta— sia—” The child tried to say her name, but only began to cough again.
“We must get her indoors at once.” Astasia went to pick up the little girl herself, but the young lieutenant gallantly stepped in and swung the princess up into his arms.
“I said the weather was too foggy, but she was so eager to come.” The dowager duchess sounded as if she was at her wit’s end as she followed the lieutenant to the River Gate where a carriage was waiting to drive them into the palace.
“When did this sickness begin?” Astasia offered her arm to the dowager duchess, who leaned on her heavily as they crossed the quay.
“Well, my dear, it’s always a little difficult to tell with Karila; you know she’s a sickly child. But this latest ailment has the royal physicians baffled.”
Eugene looked down at his daughter as the Orlov’s physician examined her. He tried not to breathe in a halting, sympathetic rhythm; he tried not to wince as the physician’s sharp fingers tapped at the thin, misshapen back. Karila endured it all without complaint. Perhaps she was too tired to complain, or perhaps this had just become a normal part of her life.
“Papa,” croaked Karila at last. Her hand rose, seeking his.
“Here I am.” He took her hand and sat on the bed beside her.
“I can still be Tasia’s bridesmaid tomorrow, can’t I?” Blue eyes looked imploringly into his. He glanced up at the physician and saw him gravely shake his head.
“We’ll see how you are in the morning, Kari.” He kissed her flushed cheek. “Now you must rest.”
Outside in the dressing room, he faced the Orlov’s physician. He had heard plenty of Tielen doctors prognosticate gloomily since Karila’s birth nearly eight years ago. He was hoping that a fresh opinion might offer hope of different treatments, different cures.
“Well?” he said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
The Orlov’s physician took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily. He seemed to be searching for the right words.
“Imperial highness,” he said eventually, “your daughter is very sick.”
“Karila has never been well.” Eugene tried to keep his temper in check.
“The malformation of her spine has compressed her rib cage, making it difficult for the lungs to expand—”
“Yes, yes. All this is well-documented.”
“But her present malady is unusual, highness. It has all the signs of a kind of wasting sickness. But a wasting sickness unlike any other I have encountered in Mirom.”
“Unusual?” The word carried a weight of warning. “How so?”
The court physician hesitated again. “Your highness will forgive me, but the reputation of the alchymical weapons employed by your army has reached to all parts of your empire. Is there any way the princess might have inhaled some noxious fumes?”
“Certainly not!” The answer was out of Eugene’s mouth before he had stopped to think if the physician’s suggestion could be in any way possible. Karila was fascinated by Kaspar Linnaius, but the Magus would never have allowed her anywhere near his laboratory when he was experimenting. No, there had to be some other explanation. “So what can you do for her?” he asked curtly.
“I can burn soothing vapors near her pillow to loosen the tightness in her breathing. And I shall prescribe some nourishing oils to build up her strength.”
“But the prognosis—”
“Is not good.”
“Papa . . .” The hoarse little voice called from the bedchamber.
Eugene hurried back to her bedside to see her sitting up, clutching the sheets to her.
“You must lie down, Kari. Try to sleep.”
“They said it was fireworks, Papa, but it wasn’t fireworks.” She sank back on the pillows. “It was a dragon-path. Through the sky.”
He felt a sudden chill. Karila and her dragons. At first he had thought she would grow out of her obsessive interest. But when the Drakhaon had invaded Swanholm, she had fearlessly confronted it. She had spoken with it. There was—though he had no idea why—a connection between them.
“A dragon-path, Kari?” he asked.
“To show . . . the way home.” Her lids slowly closed; her voice faded.
He stood staring at her as she drifted into sleep, desperate to question her. Was it just some fancy of her fever, this dragon-path? Or was there some deeper revelation concealed in her drowsy words?
As he walked away from her bedchamber, he heard the dull strokes of the great bells at Saint Simeon’s Cathedral striking midnight. The coronation would take place in twelve hours.
He must force his worries from his mind; his love for Karila made him vulnerable. Prince Eugene could afford to be indulgent toward his only child. Emperor Eugene of New Rossiya could not.
CHAPTER 4
The day of the coronation-wedding dawned bitterly cold and grey. But Astasia had been up long before dawn, submitting herself to the ministrations of her attendants, while ladies of the Mirom and Tielen courts gossiped and preened in the anteroom. Eupraxia was supervising her toilette, aided by Nadezhda and Astasia’s maid of honor, Lady Varvara Ilyanova, the dowager countess’s granddaughter and Astasia’s closest friend since childhood. Varvara had recently returned to Mirom from the city of Bel’Esstar, bringing exquisite ivory lace for the wedding gown.
“You look so pale, Tasia,” she said as Nadezhda laced Astasia into the gown. She leaned forward and playfully pinched her cheeks.
“Ow!” Astasia slapped at Varvara’s fingers. “What’s that for?”
“To give you some natural color. Eupraxia won’t allow rouge, will you, Praxia?”
“Certainly not,” Eupraxia said through a mouthful of hairpins. “Rouge is for ladies of easy virtue—and actresses.” Her governess’s cheeks were flushed already, Astasia noticed, and little pearls of perspiration dewed her cheeks and upper lip. Poor Praxia. All this was too much for her.
“All the ladies at Ilsevir’s court are using it in Bel’Esstar,” Varvara continued, her brown eyes glinting mischievously. “I have a pot or two here in my reticule. See? This one is called ‘Pouting Pomegranate’ . . . and this, ‘Carnal Caress’—”
Eupraxia choked and spat out the hairpins onto her palm. “Enough, Varvara!”
In spite of herself, Astasia felt a smile begin to break through.
“That’s better,” cried Varvara gaily.
“Such a pity the little princess is not well enough to attend the ceremony,” said Eupraxia, fixing the pearl-and-diamond wedding tiara in place in Astasia’s dark curls.
“She’ll be so disappointed.” Astasia had been to check on Karila’s progress and had been told the princess was sleeping. Poor little Kari, brought all the way across the Straits, only to fall ill on the eve of the festivities.
Astasia rode to the cathedral with her father, Grand Duke Aleksei, in the ceremonial Orlov carriage. The old carriage had escaped the rioters’ wrath, and the proud sea eagles that perched on each of the four corners of the roof had been regilded to glitter in the foggy morning.
The great square around Saint Simeon’s Cathedral was filled with row upon row of uniformed soldiers. Behind the ranks of grey-clad Tielen troops and White Guards of Muscobar, Astasia saw the people of Mirom, her people, silently huddled together, muffled up in greatcoats and fur hats against the cold. No one cheered. They just stared. Astasia pulled her white velvet cloak closer. Their silence was frightening.
They still hate us. They will always hate us.<
br />
Candles burned in every niche of the cathedral. The dull gold of the screen of icons around the altar gleamed like a winter sunset, sun sinking beneath lowering clouds.
Astasia was hastily ushered into a side chapel, away from the echoing murmur of the eminent wedding guests thronging the aisles. Dark-painted icons of haloed saints stared down at her, their faces emaciated, their eyes wild with holy revelations. The richly dressed courtiers of the new empire seemed small and unimportant beneath their stern gaze.
A glowing coal brazier gave off thin blue smoke, a welcome heat in the chilly cathedral. Astasia held her numb fingers to the glow to try to restore some feeling, as her bridesmaids crowded around, fastening then straightening the gold and lace train of her gown.
“Ready, my dear?” inquired the Grand Duke.
A last, wild desire to fling down her bouquet and run from the cathedral overwhelmed her. And then she looked into her father’s eyes and saw a look she had never seen before: a look of pride, mingled with bitter resignation. He was a broken man, crushed by this double defeat. She could not run away now. She could not let him down.
“You are the last of the Orlovs,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. She smelled spirit on his breath; he had needed courage to appear in public today and hand his daughter and country over to this foreign invader.
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
A choir began to sing as Astasia appeared. Boys’ voices soared into the echoing dome like a flight of white doves.
Flowers spilled from urns and gilded baskets: hothouse roses in white and gold, myrtles and lilies with their orange-stamened hearts. But the sweet scent of the flowers was swamped by the overpowering bitterness of incense billowing from swinging censers. Venerable, bearded priests, white-garbed for the wedding, mumbled prayers in every side chapel Astasia and her entourage passed.
He looks utterly confident, Astasia thought as Prince Eugene took his place before the altar, beside her. But then, this is not the first time he has been married. . . .
The choir finished their anthem. In the silence, the guests coughed and shuffled their feet.
The elderly Patriarch Ilarion, who had been standing near the altar, tottered forward to greet the bride and her father. A group of young girls standing by with baskets of rose petals ready to scatter, hurried to their places. The choir began the epithalamium and, before Astasia knew what was happening, Patriarch Ilarion had placed her hand in Eugene’s and was pronouncing the words that made them man and wife before God. She could not even remember whispering, “I take thee, Eugene . . .” She could only remember gazing, mesmerized, into his grey-blue eyes.
And now he was leaning forward to kiss her. She could not, dared not, flinch away this time. She steeled herself. His hands were warm and firm on her shoulders as he drew her toward him. How strong he was. She shivered and closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers.
After, she found herself looking up into Eugene’s eyes and saw that they burned with emotion. The intensity of his gaze made her forget the red, scarred skin that marred his face. No one had looked at her in that way before.
“Now you are mine, Astasia. You need never fear for your safety again,” he said softly, each word charged with the same intensity of feeling that she saw in his eyes. “I will protect you.”
And then he turned to present her to the congregation. She glimpsed her mother and Eupraxia sobbing into their lace handkerchiefs. Even Varvara was wiping away a tear.
I am his wife. Soon we shall have to do more than kiss. . . .
The thought sent a shiver through her whole body. How could she think of such a thing in the cathedral!
Eugene led her to the ceremonial throne beside his and, as her maids rearranged her heavy train, she sat down. Then he took the imperial crown from the shaking hands of the Patriarch and raised it high over his own head, then slowly lowered it until it rested on his burned scalp.
Trumpets blazed triumphant fanfares from all corners of the cathedral.
And as Astasia watched, she thought she saw a faint glow of fire radiating from the Emperor. Though it might have been caused by a sudden ray of sunlight penetrating the gloomy cathedral, catching light in the crimson depths of the five Tears of Artamon. . . .
Great tiered chandeliers—hastily imported from Tielen—lit the Hall of Black Marble with waterfalls of crystal light. Eugene had ordered an army of craftsmen to restore this room in the Winter Palace first so that he might officially receive the overtures of goodwill from the many foreign ambassadors and politicians who had attended his wedding and coronation.
Lavish refreshments had been provided: silver trays of glossy caviar piled on sparkling crushed ice were being carried around to the eminent guests. Eugene had decreed that the food and wines should represent the best each of the five princedoms could produce. All kinds of smoked and pickled fish delicacies represented Tielen: from pike and sturgeon to eel and river trout, all served on little squares of rich black bread with sour cream. Muscobar provided the finest vodka to drink with the caviar. Rich Smarnan wines were offered with rolled slices of dried beef, olives marinated in fiery oil, or little cakes of honey and nuts. But Khitari had supplied the most exotic selection; Khan Khalien had sent five of his most skilled cooks to prepare the dishes and, in their emerald brocade jackets and tasseled hats, they were exciting as much comment from the guests as the delicious spicy parcels and crisp crackers they had cooked. Only Azhkendir was poorly represented: All that could be found in the food halls of the Muscobar merchants were a few barrels of salted herrings and some jars of cloudberries and lingonberries from the moors. Eugene’s chefs had avoided the herrings and, displaying considerable culinary imagination, had popped the berries into tiny shells of almond tuile, subtly adding florets of liqueur-flavored cream.
“It’s hard to imagine any dish less representative of that harsh, barbaric country,” Eugene heard Chancellor Maltheus declare as he crunched one of the dainty tartlets.
“May I offer my congratulations, imperial highness?” A tall man of distinguished bearing placed one hand on his heart and inclined his head in a brief bow.
“His excellency, Fabien d’Abrissard, the Francian ambassador,” Chancellor Maltheus said, shooting Eugene a significant look from beneath his bushy brows. Relations between Francia and Tielen had been chilly since Eugene’s father Karl had defeated a Francian invasion fleet some twenty-five years before.
“Let us hope,” Eugene said smoothly, “that this heralds a new relationship between Francia and New Rossiya.”
“Indeed,” said Abrissard, equally smoothly, “Francia is most eager to place our relationship on a different—”
“Imperial highness!” A veiled woman suddenly pushed through the throng. “I come to beg for your protection, imperial highness!”
Instantly Eugene’s bodyguard surrounded her.
She was dressed in widow’s black, her rich chestnut hair bound back in a severe chignon. In her arms she carried a baby, an infant of no more than four or five months old.
Eugene saw—to his acute embarrassment—Fabien d’Abrissard raise one elegant eyebrow at this intrusion. Did the ambassador think the child was his?
“Protection for my son, whose father was killed in the recent war in Azhkendir.” The woman’s voice throbbed with emotion; he saw courtiers standing close by glance uneasily at one another.
“Lilias Arbelian,” Chancellor Maltheus murmured in his ear. “One of Velemir’s agents.”
Eugene frowned. How had she gained admission to this prestigious reception without an invitation? And was the child another of Velemir’s bastards?
“Award her an army widow’s pension, Maltheus. The usual arrangement.” He made to move on.
“Only now, imperial highness, can I tell the truth.” She lifted her child, drawing back the delicate lace shawl from his little face. “This is Artamon Arkhel—Lord Jaromir’s son.”
A lightning flash of memory fl
ung Eugene back to a bare wintry hillside in Azhkendir. Jaromir Arkhel gazed at him, asking eagerly, “Lilias? And the child? Are they safe?”
Blinking back sudden, unbidden tears, he put out his undamaged hand to touch the soft cheek of the little child.
“His son?” The baby’s fine wisps of hair glinted gold, dark Arkhel gold in the candlelight.
He became vaguely aware that Maltheus was whispering, “She’s an adventuress, highness. She was Velemir’s mistress, then Volkh’s. Don’t trust her. . . .”
He did not trust her word—but he trusted Jaromir’s. In all the bitter ashes of loss, one faint hope suddenly glimmered. He could not bring his dearest Jaromir back to life—but he could care for his son, and ensure that the boy’s rightful inheritance was restored.
A plan began to form in his mind. Now that he was crowned Emperor, it was time to bring Azhkendir to heel.
“You presume much, Madame Arbelian, in giving your son an imperial name. Choose him an Arkhel name instead, and I will see you both want for nothing.”
“Then let him be called Stavyomir,” she answered, unabashed, “after his grandfather, Stavyor.”
Eugene laid his hand on the baby’s golden head. “I rename you Stavyomir Arkhel.” The child did not whimper or flinch at his touch, but stared back at him with wide, wondering blue eyes. Your father should be here at my side, little one, to share in the victory celebrations. His death will not go unavenged.
“I must confess myself a little surprised not to encounter any delegation from Azhkendir at the celebrations,” said Fabien d’Abrissard. “Until now,” he added, gazing after Lilias Arbelian as she was ushered away by red-faced palace officials. He turned back to Eugene. “Indeed, rumor has it, imperial highness, that the Drakhaon and his household are still defying your claim to his kingdom.”
How like a Francian to make such a malicious—yet apt—little dig in front of so many illustrious guests. Eugene stared levelly back at Fabien d’Abrissard, refusing to allow his indignation at the ambassador’s insolent observation to show.
