Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “He is alive,” said the old man, as though he had read her thoughts, “but he is confined in an asylum.”

  “ ‘An asylum’? Isn’t that where they send people who are mad?” Tears of distress filled Kiukiu’s eyes. And then she felt anger welling up from deep inside her. She knew only too well what the druzhina did to their prisoners. “Mad, or driven mad? Has he been tortured?”

  “As to the cause of his madness, we hoped you could enlighten us, Kiukiu.” The old man gazed at her with his cold, pale eyes. For a moment she felt dizzy, whirled high into a spiral of cloud and wind. Then she blinked—and found she was sitting down opposite the old man. How long had she been absent? And what had he done to her in that time?

  “Who are you?” she whispered, gazing warily at him.

  “My name is Kaspar Linnaius.”

  “Is it my fault, Kaspar Linnaius, that Gavril is . . .” She could not say the word “mad.” “Is it because he drove out that daemon-creature to save me?”

  “How did he drive it out, Kiukiu?”

  “My grandmother Malusha helped him.”

  “Malusha,” repeated Linnaius pensively.

  Kiukiu had the horrible feeling that, in merely naming her grandmother, she had in some obscure way betrayed her.

  “And what skills did your grandmother use to do what countless mages and doctors of science had failed to achieve?”

  “How is this to help Gavril?” burst out Kiukiu.

  “I have it on the authority of the Emperor himself,” Linnaius said, suddenly formal, “that if you answer my questions honestly and truthfully, you will be granted a visit.”

  Kiukiu’s mouth dropped open. Her heart began to flutter. All she could think was that she would see him again, after all these long months—

  “So how did your grandmother cast out the daemon?”

  “She is a Spirit Singer. A Guslyar, like me.” Now she could not stop herself from answering his questions. A visit, her heart sang, a visit . . .

  “And Guslyars cast out daemons?” The quiet, insistent questions kept coming.

  “Guslyars can travel between this life and the Ways Beyond.”

  “So you are shamans?”

  “I don’t know that word.”

  “You talk to the dead?”

  Kiukiu gave a shiver. “Sometimes they talk to us. They ask us to bring them across, back into life.”

  “I would like to meet your grandmother.”

  Kiukiu, the trance shattered, looked up at Kaspar Linnaius in alarm. What secrets had she blabbed out to this stranger? Malusha would be so angry with her.

  “Gavril Nagarian needs your help, Kiukiu.”

  Kiukiu nodded slowly. “I’ll take you to her.”

  Forgive me, Grandma, she begged silently. It’s just that I can’t stop loving Gavril, no matter how hard I try. Can you remember what it was like to love someone like that?

  The cloudy waters of the monastery fishpond gave little hint as to what stirred beneath the lily pads; only the occasional telltale bubble burst on the surface.

  Abbot Yephimy had been sitting patiently in the sunshine, waiting for a tug on his line for over an hour. He was in no hurry. The fishponds were at the farthest end of the monastery gardens and the abbot was relishing the solitude, listening to the twittering of the little birds fluttering to and fro in the nearest forest trees, the hum of the bees busy collecting pollen from the meadow flowers . . .

  “Two pilgrims are here, asking to speak with you, Abbot,” announced a voice suddenly.

  Abbot Yephimy started and saw young Brother Timofei on the other side of the pond.

  “Ssh! You’ll frighten the fish.”

  “Sorry, Abbot.” Timofei went bright red.

  Yephimy sighed and laid down his fishing rod. His peaceful moment was at an end. In truth he knew he was fortunate to have snatched so long in the sunshine undisturbed.

  Brother Timofei led the way back through the kitchen gardens; Yephimy cast a knowledgeable eye over the progress of their vegetables as he walked.

  “Those early onions need thinning out, Brother Timofei. And the first crop of radishes are ready.”

  Spring radishes for supper with fresh bread, butter, and salt, Yephimy thought with pleasure as they approached the main courtyard.

  “Who are these pilgrims and what do they want?” he asked.

  “They say they wish to pray in Saint Sergius’s shrine. But they’re not Azhkendi.”

  Yephimy saw the visitors waiting at the door to the shrine. They wore black robes and their heads were cowled; it was not the habit of any religious order he recognized. The taller of the two leaned on a metal staff.

  “Welcome to Saint Sergius, my brothers,” he said warmly, opening his arms wide to greet them. They turned, and he saw with surprise that one was a woman.

  “We are members of the Francian Commanderie, Abbot,” said the man. He spoke the common tongue with an unfamiliar accent, which made him slightly difficult to understand. “Is there anywhere more private where we could talk?”

  Yephimy took them to his study.

  “Now, what is this really about?” he asked. Pilgrims did not usually request private audiences; they preferred to spend their time praying in the shrine.

  “The leader of our order has been monitoring the disquieting growth of daemonic activity in this part of the world. We have been sent to investigate.”

  “Ah,” said Yephimy, folding his hands together. “The Drakhaoul.”

  “Is that its Azhkendi name?” said the woman.

  Yephimy frowned at her. “It has never revealed its true name. And your leader will be pleased to learn that the daemon has been cast out.”

  “Cast out, maybe, but not destroyed,” said the man. “Members of our order tracked it along the Straits. We believe it may have gone to ground in Muscobar.”

  “What?” This was news to Yephimy. Disturbing news. “It’s still at large?” And he had been so certain Malusha had banished it; he had witnessed its last desperate flight from the shrine.

  “We believe so. And that is why the Grand Master of our order has commissioned the reforging of Sergius’s Staff.”

  “Sergius’s Staff?” Yephimy repeated, bemused. “You have Sergius’s Staff? But how? The Chronicles state that it was shattered in Sergius’s last battle with the Drakhaoul.” He rose, staring at them with suspicion. “Exactly who are you—and what is this Commanderie?”

  “We are Companions of the Order of Saint Sergius, Abbot,” said the man. “Our order is dedicated to the destruction of all daemonic influences in the world. As for the staff, well, legend has it that the founder of our order, Argantel, fled Azhkendir with the shattered pieces and had it repaired in Francia. All the pieces—save one: the crook, which we understand you keep here, in the shrine.”

  “Lord Argantel was Sergius’s friend,” said Yephimy slowly. “But the Chronicles do not record what became of him.” He did not know whether to believe these two strangers who spoke so knowledgeably of secret matters known only to the monks at the monastery. “So. Show me this relic.”

  The man placed his metal staff on Yephimy’s desk and unscrewed the top. He tipped the shaft gently and out slid an ancient, charred length of wood, fragments bound into a whole with bands of golden wire.

  Yephimy put out one hand and touched it. He felt a slight tingle in his fingers as though the ancient wood still vibrated with a vestige of the saint’s power. He stared at it, overcome by awe . . . and a distinct pang of envy.

  “This should be kept here, with Serzhei’s bones.” Yephimy looked at the two visitors hopefully. “Have you come to return it to the shrine?”

  “You misunderstand our intentions, Abbot.” The man’s eyes hardened. “We are on the trail of this daemon. We intend to use the staff to destroy it.”

  “But there are others on its trail too,” said the woman, “and what they intend endangers us all. Have you had any visitors here at the shrine, claiming to be scholars re
searching the Sergius archive?”

  “Why, yes. One called Kaspar Linnaius was here recently, on the Emperor’s business.”

  “Kaspar Linnaius?” The woman exchanged a glance with the man. They seemed concerned—and also excited.

  “Were you aware, Abbot,” said the man, his lean face drawn, “that some of the manuscripts here contain hidden texts? Texts that only the most skilled adepts can unlock? Texts that hide secrets better left unrevealed?”

  “Of course I am.” Yephimy felt as if he were being reprimanded for some ecclesiastical misdemeanor.

  “And that one of your manuscripts may hide the location of the other four daemon-warriors that Sergius defeated and turned to stone?”

  This was news to Yephimy. He felt humiliated that he had been revealed to know nothing of these treasures; first the staff, and now a secret map . . .

  “Will you give us Sergius’s golden crook?” said the woman. “So that we can defeat the daemon and send it back to the Realm of Shadows?”

  Yephimy sighed. If he refused, they might suspect him of harboring some secret sympathy with the Drakhaoul. And yet, to hand over one of the shrine’s most sacred treasures to these strangers . . .

  “I cannot answer for my brothers without consulting them,” he said. “But I offer you the hospitality of the monastery while we discuss your proposition.”

  The man leaned forward and placed his hand on the abbot’s arm, staring intently into his face. “This matter is urgent. I beg you, Abbot, do not discuss too long.”

  “What have you done, Kiukiu? Why have you brought him here?”

  Malusha stood in the doorway of her cottage as if trying to prevent them from entering. Her eyes were dark, narrowed in an expression of bitter hatred and distrust.

  “Him?” Kiukiu rubbed her eyes. She had the oddest feeling that she had just flown across the moors from Kastel Drakhaon, skimming high like a grey-winged goose returning to its spring breeding grounds. “H-how did I get here?”

  “What have you done to my grandchild?” Malusha hurried across the courtyard, scattering hens in front of her, and put her arm around Kiukiu. “What spell have you laid on her?”

  Kiukiu slowly realized that Malusha was not talking to her anymore, but to Kaspar Linnaius, who stood silently beside her.

  “This is Kasp—” she began.

  “I know who he is,” Malusha said, still staring frostily at Linnaius. “And what he is. But I don’t know what brings him here when he’s quite aware he’s not welcome.”

  “I come on the Emperor Eugene’s business,” said Linnaius. “The same Eugene who was patron to Jaromir Arkhel while he lived, and is now godfather to his son, Stavyomir.”

  “His son?” Malusha seemed utterly confounded. “An heir?”

  “The Emperor has named young Stavyomir the next Arkhaon of Azhkendir. I thought you might be aware of the fact, as you served the Arkhel family for so many years.”

  Malusha was silent a moment. Then she said, “I think you’d better come in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Kiukiu?” Malusha whispered angrily as Linnaius walked past them and into the cottage. “About the Arkhel child?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Kiukiu whispered back, cowed by her grandmother’s wrath.

  “And now you’ve brought that cursed wind-mage here.”

  “I didn’t bring him! He brought me.”

  “Don’t argue, child. What does he want?”

  “Information for the good of the empire,” said Linnaius. In spite of his great age, his hearing was obviously still extremely acute, thought Kiukiu resentfully.

  “It’d better be for the good,” Malusha said, shutting the door hastily as one of the hens attempted to follow them inside, “seeing as how you had the ill manners to break through my veil of concealment.”

  The instant the Magus entered the cottage, there had been a stirring and a shuffling among the roosting snow owls perched high above their heads. Linnaius glanced up and Kiukiu saw him blink in astonishment.

  “And now you’ve disturbed my lords and ladies,” complained Malusha. “They’re very suspicious of strangers and they get very moody at this time of year. You don’t want to go startling them; they can be vicious when they’ve got a clutch of eggs to protect.”

  “Believe me, I have no intention of harming them,” Linnaius said, fastidiously drawing his gown up to avoid a pile of owl droppings. “Or their chicks.”

  “So what is the information your Emperor wants from me?”

  “You cast out the daemon-spirit, the one that calls itself Drakhaoul?”

  “I did,” said Malusha stiffly.

  “That was a considerable achievement.”

  “I could not have done it if Lord Gavril had not wished it so,” Malusha said, still coldly formal.

  “But you did not send it back to the Ways Beyond?”

  “And where would I have taken it in the Ways Beyond?”

  Kiukiu sensed a growing tension between the two. A glowing stick on the fire suddenly snapped, sending a hiss of sparks up the chimney, and she jumped.

  “It was not a dead soul, Kaspar Linnaius, seeking expiation for its sins.” Malusha’s voice grew softer. “Even that dread place of dust and despair that we dare not name is not its true home.”

  “Then”—Linnaius drew closer to her—”what is it?”

  “Why do you need to know?” Malusha asked slyly.

  “There seems to be a connection between the daemon and the Emperor’s young daughter.” For the first and only time, Kiukiu heard Linnaius falter. Was it possible that this cold, calculating old man still nourished a little warmth in his heart?

  Malusha shrugged. “What’s that to us?”

  “She insists the daemon is still at large somewhere in our world. And now that there is an Arkhel heir for you to protect—”

  “I cast the daemon out from Gavril Nagarian, but it was too strong for me. It fled before I could destroy it.”

  “Then this will interest you. I have learned from my researches that only one man was ever strong enough to imprison such aethyric daemons: Serzhei of Kerjhenezh.”

  “Your point, wind-mage?”

  “I have not the skills to talk to the dead, but you and your granddaughter—”

  “Have you any idea of the risk in such a venture?” Malusha shook her grey head. “Serzhei is long dead. He has traveled far, deep into the Ways Beyond—”

  “I’ll do it,” said Kiukiu suddenly, impulsively.

  “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “I’ll do it if you let me visit him,” Kiukiu said to Linnaius.

  “Him? Oh no. You’re not still hankering after the Nagarian boy?” Malusha turned on the Magus. “What nonsense have you filled her head with?”

  “A visit can be arranged.” The Magus’s pale eyes rested on Kiukiu.

  Malusha seized hold of Kiukiu’s hand and pressed, none too gently, on each of her fingertips in turn.

  “Ow!” Kiukiu snatched her hand away.

  “Soft as butter,” her grandmother said disapprovingly. “When was the last time you did any practice, hm? As I thought.”

  “I couldn’t play the gusly in the kastel,” Kiukiu protested. “Not with all those Tielen soldiers around.”

  “I would prefer to interrogate Serzhei myself,” said the Magus.

  “And well you might, but what you’re asking is not only dangerous, it’s very difficult.”

  “So you’re saying such a meeting is beyond your abilities?”

  Kiukiu heard the challenge and knew that her grandmother would be unable to resist.

  Malusha glared at the Magus. “Do you know nothing of our craft? I can only bring a dead spirit back to this world with a lock of hair, a bone, or some such thing to anchor it here. Unless you’re willing to offer your body for it to inhabit? I thought not. And I’m not in the business of creating spirit-wraiths, so don’t even ask.” She glanced accusingly at Kiukiu, who felt her cheeks burning at th
e memory of what she had once unwittingly done.

  Malusha had worked steadily since winter to repair her broken gusly; now she took it down from the shelf and unwrapped it from its brightly colored wool blanket. Kiukiu found a layer of fine dust had settled on her instrument; she gave a surreptitious puff to blow the dust away.

  “Ha!” Malusha said, missing nothing. “So now we shall have to waste valuable time tuning this neglected instrument.” She handed Kiukiu the little iron key she used to tighten slack strings. “And you’d better use a plectrum or you’ll cut your fingers.”

  It felt odd to Kiukiu to sit and hold the gusly again after so many long weeks of housework at the kastel. Just to pluck the strings and feel the resonances reverberate through her body reminded her of what she had been forced to bury deep within her. Now she felt a sense of liberation. Here she had no need to pretend; she could be who she truly was: a Spirit Singer.

  When the tuning was finally done to her satisfaction, she looked up from the gusly and saw her grandmother gazing at her intently, the firelight glinting in her eyes.

  “We’re going together, child. You’ve never had to travel so deep into the Ways before. There are dangers you’ve never even imagined in your darkest dreams.”

  Kiukiu nodded, secretly relieved not to have to go alone.

  “And while we’re gone,” Malusha said, turning to Linnaius, “you can make sure the fire doesn’t go out. And no mage-mischief while we’re away, or my lords and ladies will peck your eyes out.” She picked up the gusly and struck a slow succession of notes. “Kiukiu, copy me. This is the Golden Scale. We’ll need it where we’re going.”

  “The Golden Scale?” Kiukiu had forgotten until now that she still had much to learn. And she needed all her concentration to copy the unfamiliar sequence of pitches that Malusha was plucking. Yet she did discern a golden quality to the music they were creating. The air seemed to glow with the richness of the sound. A gilded mist filled the little room and the firelight grew dim, receding until there was only the throb of each note, as warm as rays of evening sunlight, and she was rising through sunset clouds in a glory of bronze and gold.