by Sarah Ash
“Thank you, Abbot.” Linnaius took the thin, white silk gloves and eased them onto his gnarled fingers. “The Emperor was confident that you would help in our researches.”
“Please follow me.”
Yephimy led Linnaius into the monastery library. It had a deep barrel-vaulted roof, with a gallery beneath lined with bound volumes. On the ground floor several of the monks were busy copying manuscripts, sitting at high, sloping desks surrounded by pots of ink and pens. Each desk was placed in a window embrasure to take advantage of the natural light of day, which was filtered by diamond-paned glass. Some of the copyists glanced up as they walked quietly past, and nodded to the abbot. The only sound was the scratching of nibs and the occasional dry cough.
At the farthest end of the library was a little nail-studded door; unlocking it, the abbot showed Linnaius into a room so small it was scarcely bigger than a monk’s cell. No windows let in the daylight here; Yephimy used a taper to light the lanterns.
Every book on the dark-stained shelves was chained. And every book was an ancient volume, the leather bindings faded and stained. Yephimy selected one bound in dark leather, red as dried blood, and laid it on the desk with a clinking of the chain that secured it.
“I think this is what you’re looking for, Magus,” he said. “I believe this volume is unique. The only surviving copy, and we hold it here at Saint Sergius.”
Linnaius waited until the abbot had withdrawn and closed the door before lifting his white-gloved hands to the precious book.
This hand-scribed copy of the Rossiyan Chronicles, entitled The Glorious Life and Martyr’s Death of the Blessed Serzhei of Kerjhenezh was quite unlike any of the others he had researched so far. For one, it was written in the obscure Old Church Azhkendi, not the common tongue, and it would take all his considerable philological skills to make sense of the ancient language:
And so it came to pass in the eleventh year of the glorious reign of Artamon the Great that Volkhar, the fifth and youngest son of the Emperor, was shipwrecked off the southern coast of Djihan-Djihar and thought to have drowned. The Emperor and all his court mourned the young prince for three months, and none were seen to grieve more than his elder brothers—although it had been whispered by malicious tongues that, being jealous of Artamon’s fondness for Volkhar, they had caused his ship to founder.
But a year almost to the day that the prince’s ship went down, a merchantman put into port at Mirom and among its passengers was none other than Prince Volkhar. The Great Artamon ordered a week of celebrations to be held throughout his empire in honor of the prince’s return. And he was even more delighted when Volkhar presented his father with a magnificent ruby as large as a goose egg, which he had discovered during his travels.
The Emperor showered the young prince with so many favors that his brothers looked on him with suspicion, fearing he would supplant them in their father’s affections.
Such was the envy of the older princes that they fell to bitter feuding among themselves. In his despair and fury, Emperor Artamon declared the ruby must be accursed and bade Prince Volkhar return it whence he had found it.
The prince set out to do his father’s bidding. But his jealous brothers waylaid him and took the stone from him by force . . .
Linnaius read on, turning the leathery pages with care. Thus far he had not seen any great variation from the other versions of the Rossiyan Chronicles he had consulted. The warlike exploits of Artamon were enumerated. The violent feuding between the princes was described in stilted archaic terms. And then the text reverted to the life of Saint Sergius, which the title had promised. After pages of pious deeds, Linnaius began to wonder if this manuscript would offer any new insights after all.
Then the history of Archimandrite Sergius seemed to leap forward suddenly:
And so the Blessed Serzhei wrestled with the daemons all that night and day. At last, feeling his strength waning, he called in his mortal agony upon the heavenly warriors whose names must not be uttered except by the pure of heart. Armed with the might of the Righteous Ones, Serzhei banished the daemons from Rossiya, and bound them in a place of torment for all eternity. Yet there was one who still defied him and all the hosts of heaven.
Linnaius leaned closer. “Ah,” he said softly. “Just as I suspected.”
A secret text had been hidden behind the intricately hand-scribed words. He was well-practiced in prizing ancient scholars’ secrets from arcane manuscripts, but it gave him a special satisfaction to unravel this one, which had been so cunningly concealed.
Some hidden texts could only be read by moonlight, others were revealed by a sudden shaft of lightning. Others still required the concocting of alchymical solutions that, when applied with the greatest care to the vellum, would force them to disclose their secrets—although one had to be careful that they did not also release a breath of lethal poison at the same time, to ensure that their innermost treasures were never revealed.
Yet this incunabulum was different. It was embedded within the words themselves, like a cypher. Linnaius had only to apply a sprinkling of mirror-dust (an old mages’ trick) and the hidden text appeared, glimmering in the lamplight.
And as Linnaius leaned closer, he thought he heard a far-distant murmur of deep voices that sent a shiver through his body. It was a curse and a very powerful one too; centuries after it had been pronounced, the resonances still lingered, a warning to the unwary:
“Seven. They were Seven, the Dark Angels of Destruction.
“Accursed be the barbarous priests of Ty Nagar who first summoned these dread warriors to do their bidding. And thrice accursed be the sons of Artamon who sought the powers of the Seven for their own selfish ends and brought down their father’s mighty empire.
“And blessed be Serzhei of Kerjhenezh, who called upon the Heavenly Guardians to help defeat the evil ones. With his holy staff, he bound them until the very end of time.
“Accursed be he who seeks to release them from their eternal imprisonment.”
But now, to Linnaius’s surprise—and he had thought that nothing could surprise him still—what looked unmistakably like the contours of a map, glowed faintly beneath the text.
Little phosphorescent stars appeared as the map slowly revealed itself. And brighter than the rest glimmered six stars of cobalt-blue.
Linnaius, entranced by the sorcerous artistry of the device, realized that he was looking at a chart of the heavens.
He began to sketch furiously, trying to set down as accurately as he could the position of each star. But fast as he worked, the map faded faster, almost as if it had guessed his intent.
Soon, to his frustration, it vanished, hidden once again behind the chronicles of Serzhei’s life. And even though he sprinkled more precious mirror-dust onto the manuscript, nothing happened.
He looked at his hasty sketch. The chart he had copied had been drawn centuries ago; there was little to suggest any familiar constellations. Except that the six blue stars looked remarkably similar to the Silver Sickle.
He leafed on through the manuscript, doubly wary now, in case it concealed some powerful ward to protect its contents. But there was no further hint of thaumaturgy until he came to the final page. Here a laconic motto concluded the life of the saint:
Though death stills my earthly voice, through her songs will I tell my tale to those yet unborn.
The first letter of the motto was illuminated with the most exquisite draftsmanship. It showed a woman seated, playing a many-stringed zither. A dark doorway yawned behind her, and emanating from the doorway the illuminator had drawn insubstantial shapes, some with human faces and weirdly beautiful, others grotesque and frightening: death-daemons whose hollow eyes and mouths were contorted into writhing grimaces of pain and terror.
“A Spirit Singer,” Linnaius murmured.
Kaspar Linnaius scudded on in his sky craft above the moorlands of Azhkendir. Where there had been nothing but the bleak whiteness of snow, he now saw a vivid blur of diffe
rent greens; reeds and rushes hemmed the boggy pools, and great banks of gorse were about to burst into fountains of yellow blooms.
All the moor beneath him was fresh green until he spotted the dark scar of the burned escarpment, the charred bank of earth where hundreds of Tielen soldiers had perished, incinerated by Drakhaon’s Fire. Even if he had not known that this was the place of such terrible carnage, he would have sensed the grim aura emanating from it, the lingering taint of daemonic breath. Nothing would grow there for years.
Circling lower, he identified the pale blue and grey of the many New Rossiyan flags fluttering from the towers of Kastel Drakhaon and caught the sound of picks and shovels.
“Ahh,” muttered Linnaius. “Lindgren’s mine.”
Captain Nils Lindgren had written to the Emperor, sending samples of minerals and salts he had discovered while exploring the Drakhaon’s confiscated estates. The Emperor had passed the samples to his Royal Artificier for analysis, and Linnaius had been pleased to report the results of his findings: Azhkendir was rich in untapped mineral resources. The Emperor had then given the order to open up mines to exploit this new discovery to the fullest.
Far below, men were excavating, digging a tunnel deep into the hillside. A cart appeared, laden with stones and earth. Workers heaved on ropes, putting all their strength to shifting the cart. Even from this height he could see that their ankles and wrists were shackled together. Armed Tielen soldiers stood around, directing the work. These prisoners, he guessed, must be the surviving members of Gavril Nagarian’s bodyguard, the barbarous druzhina, condemned to hard labor for their part in the recent troubles.
The wind carrying his craft whined and squalled above the earthworks. One of the druzhina glanced up, eyes squinting against the light. All he would have glimpsed was a cloud, scudding low across the sky. But Linnaius, reluctant to risk being seen, began a slow descent at the edge of the forest, beyond the mine-workings.
He concealed the craft in a shroud of shadowsilk, making sure it blended into the background of rough bark and damp moss. Then he followed a winding path down toward the kastel. It was not long before he was challenged by Tielen sentries. Lindgren had the grounds well-guarded, Linnaius reflected, as one of the soldiers led him to find the captain.
Nils Lindgren was in the Great Hall with one of his subordinates, correcting plans with rule and pencils. “Magus,” he said, straightening up as Linnaius appeared, “you honor us.” He laid down his tools and, clicking his heels together, saluted smartly. “Have you come to check on our progress?” He gestured to the plans laid out on the table. “As you can see, my engineers have been busy. This first seam is already yielding good results. We’re going to blast a second tunnel later this week. I could give you a tour later, when you’ve rested from your journey. And I think you might be intrigued by these samples I’ve taken from the escarpment. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.” He held out a small stoppered phial containing a dark, crumbling substance that emitted a faint phosphorescent glow.
“Thank you,” said Linnaius, giving the phial a cursory glance before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll submit the contents to a full alchymical analysis.” The young man’s eagerness to develop the mining project showed in his eyes and the healthy, wind-burned glow of his complexion. And these resources could certainly be used to increase the new empire’s military resources. “But that is not the prime reason for my visit. I’ve come to ask you if there is a certain young Azhkendi woman working in the kastel. She goes by the name of Kiukiu.”
He saw a look of puzzlement cross Lindgren’s face; the young captain had evidently not yet learned to conceal his feelings very successfully.
“I would like to speak with this young woman alone, you understand?”
Lindgren found his tongue. “But she’s a scullery maid, just a peasant girl—”
“She is the one,” Linnaius insisted calmly. “Bring her to me.”
CHAPTER 13
“If I never see another turnip again, it’ll be too soon,” sighed Ninusha, scraping away one by one at an earthy pile of root vegetables.
“What rubbish you talk sometimes, Ninny.” Ilsi flounced past and slammed down a pile of greasy pots in front of Kiukiu without a word. “ ‘Never see another turnip again,’ ” she mimicked in a singsong voice. “You should listen to yourself!”
“Look at my hands. My nails are always chipped and dirty. Why can’t those Tielens give us some decent food to cook?”
Kiukiu glanced at her hands as she plunged the pots into the water. Her nails, so carefully hardened for playing the gusly, had become soft with all this washing and scrubbing.
“You’re lucky there’s any food to eat at all,” came Sosia’s reply from the pantry. “If it weren’t for the Tielens bringing their army supplies, we’d have starved by now.”
“But Tielen army rations—” Ninusha pulled a face. “Pigs eat better.”
“Not Kastel Drakhaon pigs.” Sosia came out and pulled up a handful of peelings from the floor and examined them critically. “You’re wasting too much, Ninusha. Cut finer, girl.”
“I am—ow!” Ninusha dropped the knife and sucked her finger. “Now see what you’ve made me do, Sosia. I’m bleeding!”
“Go find a cobweb to put on it.” Sosia took up the paring knife and began scraping away at the half-peeled turnip Ninusha had abandoned.
It’s as if nothing has changed, Kiukiu thought, scrubbing at a hard rim of dried soup-scum. It’s as if Lord Gavril had never come back. Did I dream it all?
And then she felt a strange, unsettling sensation, as though a gust of cold, elemental wind had blown through the kitchen. The little hairs stood up on her arms.
A Tielen soldier appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Which one of you is Kiukiu?” he asked.
Kiukiu sensed the others were staring at her. “I am,” she said, letting the pot sink back into the dirty water.
“You are to come with me. Now.”
Kiukiu hesitated a moment, wondering what this meant. She was sure it could not be good, whatever it was. She dried her hands on her apron and followed the soldier from the kitchen.
“What has my niece done?” cried Sosia. “Let me accompany her—”
The soldier put out one arm as if to prevent her. “She is to come alone.”
They passed Ninusha on her way back from binding her finger.
“Been a naughty girl, have you, Kiukiu?” whispered Ninusha. “Is the captain going to punish you?”
Kiukiu paid no attention; she felt again that unsettling sensation, as if every room of the kastel had been infiltrated by eddies of moorland wind. And as they approached the door to the Kalika Tower, the sensation grew stronger.
“In here.” The soldier held the door open. “Up the stairs.”
“In Lord Gavril’s study?” She hung back, the sense of apprehension increasing. “Why?”
“Go on up,” he ordered, giving her a little push.
Reluctantly, she began to climb the spiral stair.
Kaspar Linnaius opened the door to the Drakhaon’s study. A little sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips.
Books. Maps. Star charts.
Even though the tower had been damaged in the bombardment, he saw that the empty windowframes had been patched with parchment and the holes in the wall filled. That alone told him that the contents of this room were of considerable importance to Gavril Nagarian.
“So this is where the great warlords of Azhkendir planned their campaigns.”
He could not resist rubbing his hands together at the sight of so many books. And here, on the desk, left open as though the Drakhaon had been interrupted in the midst of his researches, lay several ancient volumes with underlinings and footnotes scribbled in red ink.
“Ahh,” he said aloud, picking up the uppermost book and murmuring the words under his breath as he read:
“ ‘There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak,
said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors.’ ”
A little stain of reddish-brown, darker than the crimson ink, spotted the margin; it looked like human blood. Linnaius read on:
“ ‘. . . the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows.’ ”
“Nagar!” he murmured triumphantly. The same name that he had read in the concealed text at the monastery. This could be no coincidence. The House of Nagarian could well be named after this ancient Serpent God.
“ ‘From this gateway they conjured powerful daemon-spirits to do their bidding—’ ”
The door opened and a young woman appeared. He looked at her, sensing in spite of her drab servant’s clothes a distinctive and radiant aura.
Could she be one of the Azhkendi Spirit Singers?
But all he said was, “Come in, Kiukiu. I have been waiting for you.”
Kiukiu stared at the man. She had thought doddery Guaram was the most ancient person she had known, but this wispy-haired stranger looked so frail he must be even older than Guaram.
“Sit down.” His voice, though quiet, was authoritative. Appearances could be deceptive. Here was the source of that glamorous power she had sensed. Who was he—and what did he want with her?
“I bring you news of Gavril Nagarian.”
“Gavril!” She cried his name aloud before she could stop herself; too late she clapped both hands over her mouth. But there had been no news in such a long time—
“Please sit down.”
“Is it bad news?” People told you to sit down before breaking ill tidings: sickness, disaster, death . . . Let him still be alive, she prayed silently.
