Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “It was destroying me!”

  “Surely there was some way you could have come to control the creature?” Eugene leaned closer. “Impose your will on it? Subdue it?”

  “You’re implying that I was not strong enough to master it?” Gavril said slowly. “And that another, less weak-willed, could have forced it to obey him?” He began to shake his head. “You have no idea what you are saying. It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control!”

  “Tell me where it has gone, and I will see your sentence is greatly reduced. A year in confinement, little more.”

  “Why?” Gavril stared up at the Emperor. “Why is it so important for you to know? Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Sooner or later, it destroys you. It refashions its host, body and mind, to resemble the being it once was.”

  “I see little evidence of that refashioning in you now.” Eugene held the lantern close to Gavril’s face, gazing searchingly into his eyes.

  “There are still traces.” Gavril held up his shackled hands. “Look at my nails. See those streaks of blue? And my hair—though your doctors have shorn most of it away”—he ran one hand ruefully over the short prison crop they had given him after clipping his cobalt-streaked locks—”for reasons of hygiene. But the signs are fading fast.”

  In a distant part of his mind he found himself wondering why he was talking to Eugene, revealing what little was left of his mystery. Had he said too much? Or had he said just enough to condemn himself to the asylum for life?

  “You still have not answered my question.” Eugene’s eyes probed his, grey steel now, hard and determined. “Where did the creature go? I have evidence it passed east over Swanholm. But after that, its trail went cold.”

  “I severed the link between us. Don’t you understand? I don’t know where it went.” Gavril forced himself to control the desperation in his voice. “It told me it would die without a Nagarian host to sustain it. For all I know, it’s already dead.”

  Eugene stepped back from him.

  “You fool,” he said, his voice quiet, expressionless.

  Suddenly Gavril’s confused mind made a connection. He understood why Eugene had come in secret to interrogate him.

  “So you want to become Drakhaoul,” he said, bitterness darkening his voice. “You have the whole continent of New Rossiya in your power; you have Astasia Orlova as your bride, and it’s still not enough for you! Be thankful that the creature is dead. Be thankful that you don’t have to endure the unnatural lusts and desires the creature imposes on its host—”

  “I,” Eugene said coldly, “have had greater men than you silenced for such insolence. I have stripped their families of everything—even their name.”

  Gavril felt a sudden fear chill his heart. For one moment he had forgotten that this man was Emperor and could destroy the people he loved with a single word. He had endangered his mother, his household, his bodyguard . . . and his faithful Kiukiu. They might be far away from this dismal prison, but none would escape the Emperor’s wrath.

  He swallowed. “Forgive me, your highness. I forgot myself.”

  “Well. It’s gone . . . and there’s an end to it.”

  But Gavril heard no hint of resignation in Eugene’s voice. He did not doubt that Eugene, no matter what he had said to him, would send his agents to all corners of his empire and beyond to trace the Drakhaoul.

  Nothing would be left to chance.

  Somewhere nearby water dripped, a monotonous, repetitive sound, regular as the ticking of an ancient clock. For some time now, Gavril had felt as if there were a great weight pressing on his chest, a jacket of iron slowly tightening, stifling his breathing.

  The weight, he had begun to realize, was the burden of his own fear—fear for the future and the life he would not be allowed to live. Instead, an eternity of imprisonment stretched ahead, a living death. Slowly he closed his eyes . . . and found he was flying.

  In the weeks of confinement he had almost forgotten what it was like to fly. Chill, pure air streamed past him, through him—cleansing all the petty concerns of the world far below.

  A dark ocean, cold and black as ink, stretched beneath him now. He hurtled aimlessly onward, borne on a tumultuous stormwind of despair.

  And now he felt a rawness at the core of his being, as if he had been wrenched in two and lost a vital part of himself. And this soul-wound was bleeding his life away.

  Somewhere far off, a distant voice howled its grief aloud.

  “I am weary of this world.”

  And something awoke within his brain. Livid spatters of light exploded across his vision. A horrible twisting, shuddering feeling gripped his whole body. He fell to the floor, limbs contorting.

  “I want to go back to my own kind.”

  “H-help—”

  Little slivers of light pulsed through his mind, and with each new pulse his body convulsed again.

  “Prisoner’s fitting!”

  Men’s voices began to shout close by. The cell door was flung open. Vaguely, through the electrical storm ravaging his brain, he saw boots, heard commands.

  “Get restraints! Hurry!”

  “He could bite his tongue off. Put this stick in his mouth.”

  Hands grabbed hold of him, clamping hold of his head, wrenching his jaws open, forcing in a wooden rule till he began to gag.

  “Hold his arms.”

  “No, don’t touch him yet. Not till he’s calmed down—”

  There’s something in my head! He tried to tell them what was wrong, but the wooden rule pressed down on his tongue and only inarticulate, gargling sounds came out.

  And just as suddenly as it had burst into life, the kernel of brightness in his mind died down. He went limp, unresisting.

  “The fit’s passing. Now’s the moment, quick—”

  The guards pinioned his arms behind his back, trussing him so that he could not move.

  “Send for a strong sedative. We can’t have him throwing a fit like this in the carriage.”

  One of the men went hurrying away. Another bent down and—none too gently—prised the wooden rule from Gavril’s mouth.

  “Not mad—” Gavril said in a gasp. “Tell the Emperor—it’s still alive. I can hear it—in my head.”

  He saw the soldiers glance at one another.

  “Humor him,” whispered one.

  “Of course we’ll tell the Emperor.”

  “He’ll—reward you—”

  “Here’s the sedative.” One of the guards knelt beside Gavril. “Now then, Nagarian, this’ll calm you down.”

  “No, no drugs!” Gavril twisted his head away. He must stay conscious. Once they sedated him, he would be unable to tell Eugene what he had experienced—and his last hope of reprieve would be gone. “I’m perfectly sane—”

  “Get his mouth open. Hurry.”

  They thrust the rule back between his gritted teeth. The pain was almost unbearable, but still he fought them. One fetched a funnel and forced it into his mouth, pouring the sedative in till it trickled, cold and bitter as poison, down the back of his throat. Coughing, he tried to spit it out.

  “This one’s a fighter. Hold him down. It’ll start to work soon.”

  They tugged out the funnel from between Gavril’s clenched teeth.

  “I’m not mad!” he cried with all the force of his lungs. “I’m—not—”

  Already his tongue felt swollen, sluggish. The words sounded slurred. And the brightness of the lights was dimming as if a fine veil of mist were drifting through the cell. His limbs felt heavy, unwieldy. The faces of his guards seemed to be slowly floating away from him, their staring eyes like lanterns glimpsed through mist.

  “See? I told you. Gave him enough to fell a horse. He’ll be out of it for hours. By that time he’ll be on his way to the asylum. . . .”

  “Don’t lock me away. Please don’t lock me away. . . .” The words formed in his dulling brain like soap bubbles—and popped before
he could speak them.

  He was falling back now, falling slowly back into soft clouds.

  Not mad . . .

  Arnskammar Asylum for the Insane was armored to withstand the storm winds that frequently pounded the remote cliffs on which it stood. The local inhabitants nicknamed it the Iron Tower, for the stone from which it was built was veined with ore. When wet with rain or tidespray, its massive walls glistened with the dour, brown sheen of newly forged iron. It had originally been a fortress, one of two built by the Tielen princes to defend Arnskammar Point, the most southern promontory of Tielen.

  In these more stable and enlightened times, the Tielen council had converted one of the fortresses into a secure hospital in which to house those distressing cases whose insanity could not be cured by conventional treatment. Also, wealthy and titled families had been known to pay for the confinement of difficult relatives whose scandalous behavior had proved an embarrassment. The government was rumored to house dangerous prisoners of state there too, those whose anarchic ideas would make them a danger to society.

  It was to Arnskammar Asylum that the Emperor Eugene had sent a prisoner in a locked, barred carriage. The patient’s identity was to be kept secret; he was referred to only as Number Twenty-One. All that was known about him was that he was not a Tielen by birth and that he had—in his madness—committed a terrible crime against the New Rossiyan Empire.

  “The late Count Velemir once hinted to me, Eupraxia,” said Eugene as he and Astasia’s governess stood gazing at the betrothal portrait, “that the relationship between my wife and Gavril Nagarian was considerably more than that of patron and artist. . . .”

  Eupraxia’s eyes widened; he saw a deep flush spread across her face and throat.

  “There was never any evidence of impropriety, your imperial highness,” she said staunchly.

  “I am not seeking to smear my wife’s reputation. My sources, however, tell me that Gavril Nagarian was once thrown out of a court reception for attempting to kiss Astasia.”

  Little pearls of perspiration glistened on Eupraxia’s brow; she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.

  “Yes, but my Tasia was blameless in the affair. The young man’s behavior was unpardonable—”

  “Thank you, Eupraxia. You may go.”

  When the flustered Eupraxia had withdrawn, Eugene sat back, mesmerized by Gavril Nagarian’s portrait of his wife. Young though the painter was, he had managed to capture her elusive air of wistfulness. This was no mere formal likeness; it communicated something more profound, hinting at a greater intimacy than was normal between sitter and painter.

  The girl in the portrait stared past Eugene, her dark eyes wistfully fixed on some distant, unattainable desire. Such freshness, such a sweet simplicity of nature shone through . . . and yet there was also an undeniable melancholy, doubly poignant in one so young.

  She seemed so distant. He had put it down to a natural shyness at first and found it not unappealing. Now he sensed it had become a barrier to keep him at a distance. When he had consummated the marriage, he had tried to murmur words of tenderness to assure her of his good faith and appreciation. But she seemed not to hear, turning away from him and pretending to sleep.

  Perhaps she harbored feelings for someone else.

  Eugene frowned at the portrait. Even now he could not rid himself of Gavril Nagarian. His presence still lingered, tormenting him with doubts and unanswered questions.

  The young man had shown great promise as a painter. Some said the line between artistic talent and madness was a slender one. But it was not the brief flowering of Gavril’s talent that concerned him now, it was the unspoken text behind the portrait. A text that spoke of a relationship between sitter and artist that transcended the bounds of propriety.

  What’s this? Am I jealous of a wretched lunatic? I am ruler of five countries, Emperor of New Rossiya; I have no need to envy any man alive.

  And yet, and yet . . .

  Astasia has never once looked at me like that. Her eyes have never once gazed into mine with that soft, yearning sweetness. . . .

  She doesn’t love me. I had hoped that she might grow to love me when she knew me better. . . .

  There was a discreet tap at his study door and Gustave appeared with a dispatch on a silver tray.

  “This has just arrived, imperial highness.”

  Eugene broke the seal and swiftly scanned the contents of the neatly written report.

  . . . to inform you that the patient has arrived at Arnskammar. His guards were obliged to administer heavy sedatives before transporting the patient as he was suddenly gripped by a fit of such extreme violence that it seemed almost as if he were wrestling with some invisible force.

  Some invisible force . . . The dispatch dropped from Eugene’s hand. An uneasy feeling gripped him. Was it possible that Gavril had lied to him about the Drakhaoul?

  He locked the doors of his study. Then he uncovered the glittering crystal voice-transference device, the Vox Aethyria that communicated directly with Magus Kaspar Linnaius far away in his laboratory at Swanholm.

  “Is Gavril Nagarian still possessed by the Drakhaoul? Is it in any way possible?”

  The device crackled into life and the Magus’s voice, calm and distant, replied.

  “We are still ignorant of the true nature and provenance of this Drakhaoul-creature, highness. It is an aethyric being, incapable of existing long in this world without a corporeal host. But your daughter Karila appears to have communicated with the Drakhaoul the night it passed over Swanholm.”

  “Karila?” echoed Eugene. Suddenly he felt chill sweat dampen his forehead and palms. His beloved little Karila, in contact with this dangerous spirit? “Why was I not told of this before?”

  “She only confided in me a day or two ago when she returned to the palace. She came to beg me to take her as a pupil.”

  “The child is seven years old!”

  “Your daughter is gifted. Such unique gifts often reveal themselves at an early age. But I will do whatever your highness commands in this matter.”

  Karila, gifted in the magic arts? This was not at all what Eugene had expected.

  “The frustrations of her considerable physical handicaps may have significantly enhanced her mental powers. . . .”

  “You’re saying she can communicate with these aethyric beings?”

  “It appears so.”

  For a moment the absurd idea entered Eugene’s mind that if he were to bring Karila to Gavril Nagarian, she could tell him if he were still possessed. . . .

  And then the preposterousness of such a suggestion made him dismiss it. What kind of a father would take his little daughter to a mental asylum where the criminally insane were confined? The shock of the experience could damage her for life. No, there would have to be another way.

  “Have you ever been to Arnskammar, Magus?”

  Gavril listened to the wind buffeting the tower. Far below he could hear the smash of seawater against rocks. It was an oddly comforting sound, reminding him of those rare stormy days in Smarna when the cloud-churned sky would turn the blue waters of Vermeille Bay to choppy grey and wind would whip the tops of the darkening waves into a frenzy of white foam.

  Vermeille . . . the Villa Andara, his childhood home. Would he ever see it again?

  He rose from the bed and went toward the high, barred window, standing on tiptoe, straining to look out. All he could see was a grey, endless expanse of sea and cloudy sky.

  His cell must be at the very top of the asylum tower. Another precaution to ensure escape was impossible. And now he would stay locked away here till the end of his days, never to see his mother again, never to stroke Kiukiu’s soft hair or gaze into her eyes . . .

  From now on he was just a number.

  Number Twenty-One.

  CHAPTER 10

  Astasia awoke with the first light of dawn. She was alone in the great velvet-swagged bed.

  “Eugene?” she said sleepily. When there was no
reply, she left the warmth of the bed and, wrapping a brocade gown around her, padded in bare feet to tap on Eugene’s dressing-room door. Still no reply.

  The Emperor must have risen early again. He had no taste, it seemed, for lingering in bed, but preferred to keep to his strict military regime.

  She opened the door to his dressing room and found herself staring into her own face.

  The betrothal portrait.

  When had Eugene ordered it to be moved here, to his dressing room? It had been on public display in the Hall of Black Marble, garlanded each day with fresh flowers. What did it mean? Did he wish to have it closer to him, in a more private place? Was it some sign of deeper affection? Or did he have it removed from public display for some less personal motive, such as the artist’s disgrace?

  She looked at it again and felt a sharp pang of guilt. It was Nadezhda who had first told her the outcome of Gavril Nagarian’s trial and sentence. The next day the verdict was widely reported in the daily journals. The journalists had made much of the Emperor’s magnanimity in sparing the life of the lawless young warlord whose barbarous attack on the Imperial Palace of Swanholm had nearly killed little Princess Karila.

  Gavril was beyond her help; he had committed a terrible crime and must pay the price. But there might be something she could do for Elysia. She still felt a warm affection for the portrait painter who had been as cruelly duped as she by Count Velemir’s political machinations. The very least she could do was to request a safe conduct home to Smarna for Elysia. An imperial pardon would be even better. Surely Eugene could not wish to avenge himself on her; her son was no longer a threat to him, locked away for life in his distant prison-asylum.

  Another pang of guilt assailed her. She remembered a sunlit summer room, her hair stirred by a warm sea breeze. She remembered talking to a young man more easily, more frankly, than she had ever talked to anyone else. And she remembered his eyes, blue as the summer sea, smiling at her over the rim of the canvas as his brush dabbed skillfully at his palette. . . .