by Sarah Ash
“Oh you’re back all right,” Palmyre said fondly.
“I’m still not sure why Eugene let me go.” Elysia’s smile faded. “I wonder whether Astasia had some influence.”
“The Empress Astasia?” Palmyre said in impressed tones.
“And he has Gavril.” Elysia had made a pact with herself that she would not even allow herself to think of Gavril’s plight until she was in a position to start petitioning for his release.
“So the stories in the papers are true?” Palmyre ventured. “He’s been imprisoned?”
“For life. Yes.” Elysia stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace. She leaned on the balustrade, gazing out at the blue of the bay, feeling the sea breeze stirring in her hair. The last of the white lilacs were in bloom and their sweet scent drifted to her from the wild garden below. “The first snowdrops were just opening, Palmyre,” she said softly, “when they came and took him away. I haven’t seen him since that day.”
Palmyre said nothing. Elysia guessed from her silence that she was upset as well. Palmyre had been a second mother to Gavril—sometimes more of a mother, Elysia thought, remembering all the times when she had been away from home on a commission and Palmyre had made his supper, tucked him up in bed, and told him stories of sea monsters and mermaids that she had learned from her seafaring father.
“So how’s Lukan?” Elysia asked, turning away from the bay.
“Lukan?” Palmyre lowered her voice. “Something’s brewing at the university, Elysia, and he’s right in the thick of it.”
“Oh?” Palmyre’s words suddenly made Elysia deeply uneasy. Lukan had always been a passionate believer in democracy. He would not have taken kindly to the imposition of imperial rule.
Palmyre glanced around, checking to ensure there was no one else within earshot. “The Tielens are not popular. There’ve been . . . rumblings.”
“I hope Lukan knows what he’s doing; he has no idea how powerful the Tielens have become. They’ll crush anyone who dares to oppose them.” Then Elysia shook her head, forcing laughter into her voice. “Listen to me! And when did my views become so reactionary?”
Palmyre was looking at her with an awed expression. “You must have been through some terrible times in the last months.”
Elysia swallowed. Yes, she had seen things she could still not bring herself to talk about.
“Well, there’s no point dwelling on what can’t be undone,” she said briskly. “I must look forward now.” Resolute of purpose, she set off across the terrace steps that led down to the shore.
“Where are you going?” Palmyre called after her, dismayed.
“Oh, Palmyre. Haven’t you guessed? To see my old, dear friend Professor Rafael Lukan. We have much to talk about.”
In the heart of the Old Citadel of Colchise was a little tavern, much frequented by students and artists. Like many of the dwellings in Colchise, Vardo’s Tavern had been hewn right into the side of the cliff on which the citadel stood; the doorway was surrounded by an exuberantly climbing rose, already blooming with a profusion of scented yellow flowers. The courtyard garden was strung with paper lanterns, whose soft, flickering lights had already attracted hovering moths in the warm dusk. Wonderful spicy smells of cooking wafted up from the tavern’s kitchen: garlic, rosemary, and tomatoes stewed with chopped onions and bay leaves . . .
Elysia felt a sudden stab of anguish as she stood looking down at the crowd of students gathered below, drinking Vardo’s cheap red wine, talking and laughing together. This had been a favorite haunt of Gavril’s. How was it that she stood here tonight and he was so far away, locked up for life in some remote Tielen prison with madmen and murderers?
For life? Not if I have anything to do with it!
She tucked a wandering strand of hair back in place and went down the winding rocky steps into the throng of drinkers.
She heard Lukan’s deep, resonant voice long before she located him. Even now, its distinctive timbre sent a little shiver through her. She and Lukan had been lovers for many years after she left Volkh Nagarian, and even though their passion had cooled with the passing of time, they had remained good friends.
“And now this Tielen self-appointed governor, Armfeld, has the nerve to ban public meetings in the university. Without any process of consultation with the faculty board.”
A roar of disapproval rose from the other drinkers. She had arrived at an opportune moment. Anti-Tielen feelings were obviously running high.
“What can we do?” called out a girl’s voice. “Can we allow them to silence us?”
“They have no rights—constitutional or otherwise—to overrule the faculty,” Lukan said. “Not even the Smarnan council can intervene in university matters.”
Elysia pushed closer to the alcove where Lukan was holding forth.
“They have no rights in Smarna, anyway!” yelled out a man’s voice, young and impassioned. “Did we ask to be annexed?”
“No!” shouted the students.
“Did Smarna ask to be swallowed up by this imperialist dictator?”
“No!”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
Heavens, Elysia thought, still resolutely pushing forward to get closer to Lukan. This sounds like a full-blown revolt. Do they have any idea what they are up against?
She emerged right at the front of the gathering. There was Lukan, his craggily handsome face crowned by an untidy tumble of silvered black hair.
He looked up, about to speak again, and saw her.
“Elysia!” He leaped to his feet, knocking over glasses, and came straight toward her, seizing her in his arms and hugging her close.
She had forgotten how strong he was. Breathless, she looked up into his warm, dark eyes and felt, for the first time in so many weeks, a glimmer of hope.
“Look who it is!” he cried to the whole tavern, his arm around her shoulders. “Elysia Andar. Returned to us from the jaws of hell, isn’t that right, Elysia?”
As Lukan steered her to a seat beside his, she was aware that everyone was staring at her now.
“Returned from Azhkendir,” she said, “to fight for my son’s release.”
“So it’s true?” Lukan said, his voice somber. “Gavril is in prison in Tielen?”
“And sentenced to life imprisonment.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” shouted out a student.
“More than you might imagine,” she answered calmly, resolving not to lose her temper with hecklers. “I’m not only here to fight for Gavril. I’m here to fight for Smarna too, if need be.”
To her surprise, a cheer arose at these last words. What am I doing? she wondered, panicking. If Eugene’s spies are here tonight, I’ll be branded a troublemaker—and then what use will I be to Gavril?
“Welcome back, Elysia!” cried Lukan, kissing her heartily on the mouth.
She gazed up into his eyes, glad for once to have a strong arm to lean against. For the first time in a long while, she knew she was not alone.
Elysia stood beside Lukan and the other members of the newly formed Republican Alliance beneath the citadel. Behind them were ranged hundreds of students. The morning was bright and a crisp breeze blew off the bay, fluttering the many Tielen and New Rossiyan standards that had been hoisted on every flagpole and turret of the Old Citadel. Of the crimson and gold flag of the Smarnan Republic, there was no sign.
Governor Armfeld had taken up residence in the Smarnan council chambers, high in the ancient citadel itself, overlooking Vermeille Bay. From the large numbers of troops he had deployed about the citadel, it looked as if he was making ready to defend his base in case of trouble.
A woman, grey-haired and smartly dressed, came briskly up to Lukan. Elysia recognized Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice, and First Minister of the Smarnan council.
“Is this wise, Lukan? To confront the Tielens head-on? If they feel threatened, they may retaliate.”
“Haven’t you tried to negotiate? And how has Ar
mfeld answered our requests? With bluster and prevarication.”
“It’s true that the man is no diplomat,” Nina Vashteli said sourly.
“First he tries to impose these ludicrous taxes, now he has the gall to close the university. We won’t be treated like this!”
Elysia had noticed a stir of movement up on the ramparts.
“Look.” She pointed. “Here comes Armfeld’s response.”
Shadowed against the brightness of the morning sun, a line of soldiers had appeared on the upper battlements. Sun glinted on the metal of their carbines.
“This doesn’t bode well,” murmured Lukan. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight, gazing upward as he assessed the opposition.
“Your gathering is unlawful!” shouted down one of the soldiers in the common tongue. “Governor Armfeld orders you all to go home.”
This was met with jeering from many of the students.
“Let him tell us so himself!” one yelled.
Elysia glanced uneasily at Lukan.
“I am Professor Rafael Lukan,” he called out. “Tell your governor that since he has closed down our university, I am obliged to lecture to my students out here instead.”
A great raucous cheer arose at his words, sending the grey and white gulls lining the rooftops flapping and screeching into the air.
“And today’s lecture will be on the virtues of democracy and republicanism,” Lukan said, balancing himself on the rim of an old well to address his audience, “compared to the evils of autocratic rule and dictatorship.”
“Stop!”
Lukan turned slowly around. Elysia looked up to see where the voice was coming from. A florid-complexioned man had appeared on the ramparts. He seemed agitated.
“You have no right, Professor Lukan, to openly incite these young people to rebellion. I must caution you that you are committing an offense of the highest treason against the New Rossiyan Empire.”
“I am merely continuing with my classes, Governor. Order your men to reopen our university and we will clear the streets and trouble you no longer.”
“But your lectures are seditious, Professor Lukan. I cannot allow you to preach revolution here in the streets—or in the university.”
“Then at least let them discuss their differences with you, Governor,” said Nina Vashteli.
“I had hoped better of you, Minister,” Armfeld said. “Why do you ally yourself with these troublemakers? There is no place for discussion here. Go home. All of you!”
Elysia heard a disturbance in the crowd of students behind her. A young man, bespectacled and earnest, pushed his way through to Lukan’s side.
“Look, Professor.” He pulled a folded cloth from inside his jacket and shook it out. “The flag! Our flag!”
Crimson and gilded chevrons unfurled and glinted in the sun. In the center of the cloth, a gold-embroidered merman with a scaly tail held aloft a trident.
“Well done, Miran.” Lukan clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Now we have our standard again.”
Another of the students came running up, holding a broom handle. With a little improvisation, the standard was soon lashed to the broom. Miran climbed up beside Lukan and brandished it in the air. Another deafening cheer went echoing around the citadel walls.
“I’m warning you, Professor!” spluttered Armfeld from the ramparts. “Send these young people home, or I will be obliged to take action.”
“Lukan.” Elysia was growing increasingly apprehensive. She touched his arm. “The Tielen military is ruthless. They don’t think as we do.”
“They wouldn’t dare fire on us,” Lukan said, arrogantly confident. “We outnumber them, five to one.”
“They have alchymical weapons. They don’t need to outnumber us.”
She saw him hesitate for the first time.
“Alchymical weapons?” He glanced down at her, his dark brows drawn close in a frown. “No. He wouldn’t dare. There are women and children here.”
“Governor Armfeld!” Nina Vashteli called up to the ramparts, her voice stern. “Can’t we come together and discuss these matters in a more civilized way?”
“Tell your mob to disperse!” shouted back the governor. He pulled out a white handkerchief and began to mop his face.
“What is there left to discuss?” yelled a light, passionate voice. Elysia saw that another student, face concealed under a broad-brimmed hat, had leaped up beside the standard-bearer. “What do we want? Tielens out! Tielens out!”
“Tie-lens out!” Other students nearby took up the cry, thumping on doors to emphasize the rhythm. “Tiel-ens out!”
“N-now look here!” Armfeld tried to raise his voice, but it was drowned in the angry chanting.
Elysia saw how red the governor’s face had become. The hand that held the white kerchief suddenly waved in one decisive, furious gesture. Shots rang out and little puffs of white smoke could be seen issuing from the barrels of the left-hand row of carbines.
The Smarnan standard wavered—and the young man holding it fell to the cobbles.
Suddenly the shouting died as Lukan caught Miran in his arms and lowered him gently to the ground. The other student jumped down to help support him. There was no sound in the citadel now but the distant crying of gulls.
“Oh no, no,” Elysia heard herself murmuring. The bespectacled student lay pale and limp; blood gushed from a wound at the base of his throat. Without even thinking, she had taken out her handkerchief and pressed it hard to the wound in a pad. If it’s an artery that’s been damaged, she thought, remembering her anatomy classes, strong pressure must be applied or he will bleed to death.
“A doctor. Get a doctor!” cried out the other student, pillowing the boy’s head against his knee.
Elysia’s white handkerchief had already turned red with blood. Lukan handed her another, already folded.
Miran tried to murmur something.
“Hold on, Miran,” urged the student. “Don’t try to talk. Just hold on.”
“We need to get him out of the street,” Elysia said. Hold on, she echoed silently to the injured boy, trying not to remind herself that he was not so much younger than her own son; it could have been Gavril who lay here, bleeding his life out on the cobbles, felled by a Tielen bullet. . . .
A stretcher was improvised from a ladder draped with coats, and Miran was hurried into a nearby doctor’s surgery. Elysia followed after, aware that the students were massing outside. The silence that had followed the shooting of Miran was now replaced by an angry buzz that grew steadily louder.
She remembered the crowd that had raged for vengeance outside the Winter Palace in Mirom. Innocent blood had been shed then too. There would be a riot now; she recognized the signs. And nothing Governor Armfeld could do would stop it.
“My brother has been shot. And why? Because he dared to hold up our Smarnan flag!”
Elysia peered out through the little window and saw it was the other student who had seized the standard and was standing at Lukan’s side on the top of the well. The broad-brimmed hat she had been wearing lay on the ground, and dark auburn hair streamed unbound about her shoulders. Her voice throbbed with bitter emotion.
The citadel square had filled with protestors. And now Elysia saw weapons: axes, pitchforks, sabres, pistols. The Smarnans were by nature easygoing—but when they cared about a cause, they would fight to the death.
“Take care, dear Lukan,” she murmured. “Oh please take care.”
The spring sun shone on the imperial dockyards, but the brisk wind off the Nieva stung like a whip. Eugene, well-protected by his greatcoat, hardly noticed the cold. He was inspecting the warships of the Southern Fleet, which had put into Mirom after a refit in Tielen. And he smiled as he surveyed the new pride of his fleet, the iron-prowed Rogned. The fierce figurehead portrayed the fearless warriorprincess of ancient Tielen legend, gilded braids streaming behind her as she thrust her spear toward the waves.
“What do you think of her, highness?”
asked Admiral Janssen, who had been accompanying him on his tour from the hold to the upper decks.
“She looks superb,” said Eugene. “But how does she handle under sail?”
“Oh she’s fast. She completed her trials with flying colors. Sturdily built—but with a good wind, she can outrun all the others.”
“We may need her,” Eugene said, nodding, “and sooner than we anticipated.”
“Smarna?” Janssen’s jovial expression became grave.
Smarna. Just the sound of the name was beginning to irritate Eugene. It seemed to represent all that frustrated him in his efforts to unite the empire.
“The negotiations have broken down. Armfeld’s latest report is frustratingly vague, but he may well need backup.”
“Just give the word, highness,” Janssen said loyally. “We’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 15
Gavril stumbles on across a hot, dark shore. Stars gleam red overhead, unfamiliar constellations half-obscured by poisonous fogs.
“I’ve been here before . . . but when?”
Every step burns the soles of his bare feet. The air stinks of sulphur; every breath he draws sears his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
Yet even as he wipes the sweat from his brow, he is aware that he has never visited such an inhospitable, desolate place.
This dream from which he cannot awake must be woven from someone else’s memories.
“It’s through here. It must be.” He hacks his way through the dense vegetation with an axe, chopping at great creepers that snap and sting his skin like whips. He has no idea what he is searching for, only that some desperate obsession forces him onward.
In the distance, a cone of fire simmers; choking fumes and vapors drift past. The sulphurous air is becoming hard to breathe.
Suddenly he trips over a tree root and topples forward onto his knees. He raises his head. He is kneeling at the foot of a great overgrown archway, its ancient grey stones smothered in mosses and clinging lianas.
