Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “Let me look at you, child.” Malusha leaned forward and tilted Kiukiu’s chin to one side.

  Kiukiu instinctively raised a hand to cover her throat as her grandmother’s gnarled fingertips touched the ragged scars left by the Drakhaoul.

  “Why are you still here, Kiukiu? How can you bear to stay under the same roof as the man that mauled you?”

  “You know very well,” Kiukiu said defensively, “that the Drakhaoul drove him to it. It was the only way to save him. I wanted to save him.” Why didn’t her grandmother understand? “It was my choice.”

  Malusha shook her head. “And what do you think he thinks every time he sees you? Your scars remind him of a deed he’d far prefer to forget.”

  Then that’s why he’s been avoiding me. He’s ashamed of what he did. Kiukiu’s hand closed on the scars, pressing into them as if her touch could somehow erase them from her body. She wished Malusha had not put into words the fear that had been haunting her for days.

  Malusha gave a disdainful sniff. “I thought you said it was warm in here. I’m chilled to the bone.”

  The fire in the little brazier that dried the linen had burned down to glowing embers.

  “I’ll go fetch fresh kindling.” Kiukiu fled, glad to have an excuse to escape. As she hurried down the passageway she could still hear her grandmother muttering virulent little curses against the House of Nagarian under her breath.

  Dusk had fallen. As she crossed the yard, she heard a soft, hooting call. Out of the shadows Lady Iceflower came swooping down in a shiver of snowy wings to land on her shoulder. She had waited for dark, to follow her mistress from the monastery.

  “You can’t stay here, my lady,” Kiukiu said, glancing uneasily around for fear someone had seen her. Old feuds died hard and she knew the druzhina’s instinctive reaction at the sight of an Arkhel Owl would be to kill it. “It’s the summerhouse for you.”

  She set out across the darkening gardens. Lady Iceflower seemed to understand for she took off from her shoulder, circling above her head.

  “Plenty of mice to eat,” Kiukiu said, ducking under the broken doorframe to enter. The owl alighted on a rafter above her. The summerhouse smelled of mouse droppings and rotting wood. This was where she and Lord Gavril had hidden Snowcloud, tending to his injured leg. The summerhouse had become their secret retreat.

  So why did her heart pain her so when she remembered those first stolen meetings?

  “You must stay here,” Kiukiu told Lady Iceflower, “until Malusha is well enough to go home.”

  Even as she spoke the words aloud, she remembered how heavily her grandmother had leaned on her arm.

  She will need someone to care for her, and I am the only family she has left. But that will mean leaving Kastel Drakhaon . . . and Lord Gavril.

  “A toast, boyars!” roared Lord Stoyan, raising his goblet high. “To Lord Gavril of Azhkendir, who drove the Tielen invaders from our land.”

  “To Lord Gavril!” roared back the guests.

  Gavril bowed his head to acknowledge the honor. The hall in Boris Stoyan’s house was filled with the wealthy boyars of Azhgorod and their retainers; the firelit room was hot and filled with a fug of steaming mulled wine and the damp fur of their cloaks and coats. He raised one hand for silence and as glowing-cheeked faces turned to him, said, “And a toast to my loyal druzhina, who valiantly defended Kastel Drakhaon against Prince Eugene’s armies.”

  He saw Askold’s eyes gleam in the firelight as the boyars repeated the toast, cheering and stamping until his ears rang with the sound. The other druzhina nodded their approval and held out their goblets as serving girls came around to refill them. Dunai, Askold’s son, seized hold of one of the girls and kissed her, only to receive a loud slap. This caused great amusement among the other druzhina.

  “A ladies’ man, just like his father!” crowed Barsuk, flinging his arm about the young man’s shoulders.

  Gavril stole a glance at Askold to see how he was reacting and saw, at last, the hint of a smile curling the Bogatyr’s lips. “Young fool,” he said, not without pride. “Deserves all he gets.”

  “A word with you, Lord Drakhaon.”

  Gavril turned around to see Lord Stoyan beckoning him to one side. Even though the boyar’s face was flushed with heat, his eyes were still clear and shrewd.

  “Any news from beyond the borders?” Gavril asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Nothing, if you mean any sign of Tielen troops returning. But a caravan of merchants came over the pass from Muscobar on their way back to Khitari a week ago.” Lord Stoyan drew him farther away from the noisy throng. “Their command of the common tongue was poor, but they said there had been rioting in Mirom. Half the city, even the Winter Palace, was set afire. It seems the Tielen armies arrived just in time to put down the rebellion.”

  “So Eugene’s men have taken Muscobar.” Suddenly Gavril sensed they were celebrating their victory far too soon. “Where is Eugene?”

  Lord Stoyan gave an expansive shrug. “You and your men have dealt him a harsh blow. He’s busy in Mirom, playing at emperor. He won’t be back in a hurry.”

  The heat in the hall and spicy mulled wine had made Gavril’s head muzzy. He went out into the night to take a few breaths of crisp, cold air.

  Bright torches burned outside Lord Stoyan’s mansion. Across the square he could see the shadowy outline of the Cathedral of Saint Sergius looming high above the wooden houses of the city, its spires blacker than the night sky. The muddy slush underfoot, churned up by sledges and horses, had frozen into hard ruts with the night frost. It was difficult to walk without slipping.

  Gavril stopped a little way from the mansion. Roars of men’s laughter and gusts of rowdy song carried from the shuttered windows. He was in no mood to join in the revelry tonight. Boris Stoyan’s news should have reassured him. The Tielens were far too busy securing their valuable prize, Muscobar, to bother about an impoverished little kingdom like Azhkendir. But there was this nagging feeling of unease: Were they celebrating too soon?

  Why am I worrying? Eugene has seen the Drakhaoul’s power firsthand. And he can have no idea that I have cast the Drakhaoul out.

  He turned to walk back to the mansion and heard soft laughter close by. In the yellow lanternlight he caught sight of a man and a girl, arms wound tight around each other. He recognized young Dunai by his fair braids, and the girl looked remarkably like the serving maid who had slapped him so loudly in the hall.

  He walked on, but in his heart he felt a sudden emptiness, as if he had lost a vital part of himself.

  Kiukiu.

  How had it taken all this time for him to see how much he needed her? What must she think of him, always too busy, inventing excuses not to be alone with her?

  The Drakhaoul was gone. He could not harm her, he knew it now, and he must do all he could to make it up to her.

  He’d buy her a present. Nothing ostentatious—some blue ribbons, maybe, or some soft kid gloves to protect her fingers. And then he’d ride back ahead of his men; after tonight’s celebrations they’d probably make a slow start in the morning.

  The invasion was over and the Tielens were gone. It was time to start living again.

  “I’ve brought you some porridge, Grandma.”

  But Malusha’s chair was empty, the rugs cast onto the floor. Kiukiu set the bowl down and stared around, perplexed. Surely she hadn’t gone to the stables? Her grandmother had seemed so frail, so tired, hardly capable of walking to the courtyard, let alone attempting a journey by sleigh.

  Yet once Malusha had an idea in her head, she was stubborn enough to see it through, no matter what the physical cost.

  Kiukiu hurried down the narrow passageway and went out into the stable courtyard. Sure enough, there was Malusha in Harim’s stall, patting Harim’s shaggy coat and whispering in his thick-furred ear. He was already harnessed, ready to be strapped to the sleigh.

  Kiukiu found herself almost speechless with exasperation.

&nb
sp; “Grandma, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home, child. I don’t belong here and you know it.”

  “But you’re not well enough—”

  “Harim knows the way; all I have to do is sit in the sleigh and he’ll do the rest.”

  “Home to a cold cottage, all on your own?”

  “All on my own? Have you forgotten my lords and ladies? They’ll be waiting for me. I’ve already sent Lady Iceflower on ahead. I’ve neglected them long enough.” Malusha’s eyes glittered rheumily in the gloom of the stall. “I can’t stay here. Here, where the Nagarians tortured my son.”

  “And I can’t let you go alone.” If Malusha refused to stay in Kastel Drakhaon, then she had no choice but to see her safely back to her cottage.

  “But your heart is here, Kiukiu.”

  Kiukiu felt her face go warm with a sudden, uncontrollable blush. Were her feelings so easy to read?

  “Y-yes, but he won’t begrudge me a few days. Just a few days to make sure you’re all right. . . .” She let out a little sigh. “I’ll go ask Sosia for some provisions.”

  “We’ve precious little to go around as it is, Kiukiu.” Sosia was rummaging through her remaining stone crocks. “Heaven knows, this is a lean month at the best of times and those Tielens ruined half my stores. Nobody wants to eat burned buckwheat or rye. . . . Here.” She emerged from the pantry carrying two loaves of dark rye and some strips of dried meat. “That’ll have to do. Take a stoppered jug and fill it from the ale barrel in the laundry; that one’s not been spoiled.”

  “Thank you, Auntie Sosia.” Kiukiu came forward to take the provisions and, to her surprise, found herself squeezed in a hard, swift embrace.

  “You’re a good girl, looking after that tetchy old woman with never a complaint.”

  Kiukiu nodded and backed hastily out of the pantry, unused to such a show of effusiveness from her aunt.

  She drew the ale and went back to the stable courtyard to find Malusha already sitting in the sleigh, bundled up in old blankets and furs. Harim’s oat-sweet breath steamed the air. Behind them, the druzhina’s steeds stamped and snorted in their stalls, impatient for exercise. One stall was still empty, she noticed, the stall of Lord Gavril’s favorite horse, jet-black Merani.

  “Ivar?” she called. The lanky stableboy came out from one of the nearby stalls, trailing his wooden rake behind him. “Did the Drakhaon leave no word of when he would return?”

  “He’s the Drakhaon; he does as he pleases.” Ivar gave a shrug and turned away to continue raking out the stalls.

  “Hurry up, child. The sun’s already climbing high in the sky and the dark comes on soon enough!”

  So there was not even the chance to say good-bye.

  Kiukiu took Harim by the bridle. She led him out, the sleigh runners bumping over the muddy cobblestones, trying to ignore the dark ache in her heart. Perhaps it was for the best . . .

  Good-bye? What am I saying? Am I leaving Lord Gavril forever?

  “My poor bones!” Malusha complained, grabbing hold of the side of the juddering sleigh.

  “We’ll be on compacted snow soon. Hold tight.”

  Kiukiu led Harim the long way around, away from the burned, scorched ridge where so many Tielens had died. No one from the kastel chose to use the old road anymore; the scarred earth exuded a tainted air of desolation and death. The road wound upward above the kastel, past a ruined watchtower where a gang of druzhina whistled and chanted as they labored to repair the damage.

  As the moorlands opened out before them, Malusha began to sniff the air.

  “Best hurry. Thaw’s coming fast.”

  And as if to confirm her words, a skein of grey geese appeared high overhead, their wild cries carrying on the wind.

  Kiukiu squeezed in beside her grandmother and gave two sharp tugs on the reins. Harim put his shaggy head down and slowly set off across the snow.

  The wind blew keenly across the moorlands and though there was no longer a bitter taste of winter to it, it still stung Kiukiu’s eyes to watering. Yes, it was the wind, she told herself angrily as she stared out at the blear of cloudy sky through tear-blurred eyes.

  Beside her, her grandmother said nothing, lulled into a doze by the movement of the sleigh.

  Soon they would reach the wide tarn and the icebound beck that flowed into it from the distant Kharzhgylls. Harim would pull the sleigh so much more swiftly along the frozen watercourse.

  Far ahead, something moved, a black speck against the blur of white. Kiukiu sat up, straining to see. Renegade druzhina—or Tielen deserters? Two defenseless women alone on the moors stood little chance, although they had nothing worth stealing except a loaf of bread and a jug of ale. Malusha had fallen asleep before she could weave a cloak of mist around the sleigh, and she had not yet taught Kiukiu that useful trick.

  Kiukiu sat upright and clutched the reins tight, her palms sticky with sweat against the worn leather.

  A lone horseman was speeding toward them. She felt her thudding heart trip a beat or two. The horse was black, jet-black. Could it—could it be?

  “Kiukiu!” His voice carried to her on the keen wind.

  Harim’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice and his steady trot faltered. It was almost as if he were expecting her to halt him.

  “Lord Gavril,” she whispered. Her heartbeat thrummed in rhythm with the approaching hooves. There was no avoiding this encounter.

  “Where are you going?” he cried as he drew near.

  “I’m taking Malusha home.” She steeled herself not to look at him, concentrating on the snowy track ahead.

  “Why now?” There was bewilderment in his voice. “I—I thought—”

  “Thaw’s coming. We’ll travel much faster before the ice melts.” Kiukiu swallowed back any suggestion of emotion.

  Lord Gavril pulled Merani around, forcing him to match Harim’s pace beside the sleigh. Harim slowed to a stop.

  “And you were just going to slip away unnoticed? Without even saying good-bye?” Lord Gavril swung down from Merani’s glossy back and approached the sleigh.

  Kiukiu’s heart thudded faster, but she glared resolutely ahead, willing herself not to look him directly in the eyes for fear she would lose all resolve.

  “There’s been so much to see to . . .” Lord Gavril made an awkward, self-deprecatory gesture.

  “You’re the Lord Drakhaon,” she said with a little sniff.

  “I had to be sure,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself.

  “Sure?”

  “Kiukiu—”

  “Yes?” It was the way he pronounced her name. She found herself helplessly, recklessly, gazing into his eyes. Say what’s in your heart. Say it!

  Gavril gazed into Kiukiu’s eyes and felt his courage fail him.

  He had ridden ahead of his bodyguard to try to make sense of his feelings. He had chosen to go on alone, against Askold’s advice, because he needed time to think. All the way back from Azhgorod he had been rehearsing what he would say to Kiukiu. And now—before he had fully worked it out—here she was and he was tongue-tied.

  There was only one way to put it to the test.

  He reached out and, taking her hand in his, drew her from the sleigh until she was standing close to him in the snow.

  “My lord?” she said in a whisper. The icy wind whined about them and he saw that she was shivering.

  “You’re trembling, Kiukiu.” Was she afraid of him?

  “J-just cold.”

  He had to be sure that—in spite of her protestations—she would not flinch from him. And he had to be sure of himself, sure that the lust for innocent blood was finally purged from his system.

  He drew her closer until he held her pressed against him, his arms tight around her. Slowly he felt the trembling cease.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She raised her head and looked steadily at him.

  His hands moved to cup her face, tilting her mouth to meet his. Still she did no
t flinch away as his lips touched hers.

  Astasia’s kiss had been sweet, her lips cool as the delicate sheen of hyacinth petals. But to kiss Kiukiu was to taste the rich earth of Azhkendir; her mouth was warm and she kissed him back with a passion and intensity that surprised him.

  “Are you going to leave me to freeze to death here?” inquired a testy voice from the sleigh.

  “I have to go,” Kiukiu said softly.

  “I know.” Still he held her close, reluctant to let go of her now that he knew how much she mattered to him. “Is there any hope for us, do you think?” he said at last, his voice unsteady.

  “Arkhel and Nagarian? No good’ll come of it,” Malusha muttered to herself.

  “Take no notice,” Kiukiu said in a whisper, blushing beneath her freckles.

  The blush charmed him. “When we’ve finished the work on the Kalika Tower, then I will come for you. Whether your grandmother likes it or not,” he added.

  A smile lit Kiukiu’s face, sun piercing winter clouds.

  “I’ll wait for you,” she said. “Gavril.”

  He found himself smiling too, happy to hear her say his name without any trappings of rank or class. Not Lord Drakhaon, just plain Gavril. What better confirmation that he was truly himself again?

  “Kiukiu!” Malusha was fully awake now and glaring at them from her cocoon of furs.

  “I must go.” Kiukiu drew away from him, turning back toward the sleigh. Still he kept hold of her hand.

  “Shall I ride with you?”

  “No need. Harim will take good care of us.”

  “Travel safely, then.” He let go of her hand at last and she climbed back into the sleigh. “We’ll be together again soon.”

  She gave the reins a little tug, clicking her tongue. Harim raised his shaggy head and obediently lumbered off.

  Gavril stood in the snow, watching the sleigh until he could see it no longer. The wind off the mountains still whined across the moorlands, but he no longer noticed its keen edge.