by Sarah Ash
If we don’t sail soon, we’ll be late for Kari’s birthday celebrations. But sending her birthday greetings through the Vox Aethyria would prove a poor substitute. What kind of father am I?
If only there was some news from Smarna. If only he had been able to take command of the whole operation himself. It was not that he didn’t trust Janssen; it was just that he preferred to be with his troops, in the heart of the action. And then there was this odd sense of foreboding that had troubled him all day. Premonition, or seasoned soldier’s intuition? Whichever, it had never deceived him in the past.
“Highness.”
Eugene did not even turn from the window; he recognized Gustave’s voice.
“Yes, yes, they’re waiting for me. I’m on my way.”
“There’s some new intelligence just arrived. From Arnskammar.”
“Arnskammar?” Eugene spun abruptly around. “Let me see.”
It was a letter, sealed with the official seal of the Asylum Director. Eugene cracked open the seal and hastily scanned Director Baltzar’s neat handwriting:
To his imperial highness, Eugene, Emperor of New Rossiya.
It is with the utmost regret that I write to inform you of the demise of the prisoner known as Twenty-One. A terrible storm hit the coast and lightning made a direct strike on the Iron Tower in which the prisoner was confined.
Eugene lowered the paper slowly, not bothering to read the rest.
“Gavril Nagarian, dead?” he said softly. “Can this be true? Or is this some new piece of Azhkendi spirit-mischief, designed to deceive us?” He looked at Gustave, who stood patiently waiting for instructions.
“No one must know of this,” he said, “not until I have had it verified by independent investigators. Send a letter to Baltzar informing him that no one in the prison is to breathe a word of this on pain of death.”
Gustave bowed and hurried away.
But if what Baltzar writes is true, then I have lost the last surviving link to the Drakhaoul and its arcane origins. . . .
“I need verification,” he said aloud. “Proof that Nagarian is truly dead. Proof, if need be, from the Ways Beyond.”
CHAPTER 19
Andrei stands on the observation deck of the Sirin, telescope in hand, scanning the calm, moonsilvered sea for enemy warships.
Out of nowhere, a wind comes spearing across the sea and smacks into the ship, setting the waves violently churning.
The night sky boils black with stormclouds.
“All hands on deck!” Andrei bellows, straining his voice to be heard above the roaring of the storm.
The warship bucks and rolls, caught in a maelstrom of wind and wild-whipped tide.
The deck fills with crewmen, hauling on ropes, shinning up masts, frantically trying to furl the sails.
Andrei fights his way toward the quartermaster at the wheel, pulling himself, hand over hand, up the tip-tilting deck.
“Hold her steady, man. Steady! Or we’ll hit the rocks.”
“It’s no use, Commander—”
The prow smashes into the rocks.
Timbers splinter, metal buckles. Ice-cold spray and fragments of shattered timbers rain down on the terrified crew.
“Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”
Scrambling across the deck toward the rail, Andrei is flung off balance. The ship heaves. Water gushes in.
“She’s going down!”
He’s sliding now, sliding helplessly down the slippery deck, down toward the icy sea.
“Must save my crew. Must make sure they’re safe.”
He makes a grab at the rail, clinging on with one hand.
“Commander! Jump! Jump!”
A groaning sound fills his ears, the groaning of the hull as it grinds against the rocks.
“She’s going down, Commander! Save yourself!”
She’s sinking fast, too fast for him to reach the boats.
The wind slams the sinking ship into the rocks again. Towering waves crash down, drenching him, cold and bitter with the taint of salt. Gasping at the chill of the water, he flings off his heavy uniform coat, sabre and belt, and pitches into the black vortex of water. . . .
“Andrei?”
“Drowning . . . I’m drowning!” He flailed wildly, fighting the deadly pull of the ravening sea.
A hand caught hold of his. “You’re safe now.” The calm voice penetrated the roar of the storm, the creaking of his shattered ship.
Andrei sat bolt upright and found he was staring into a pair of gold-lashed eyes. Soft daylight lit the little cabin and the simple bunk on which he had been sleeping.
“I—I’m so sorry. I was dreaming.”
“It must have been quite some dream,” his companion said, gently releasing his hand.
He nodded, still staring into her soft blue eyes. “I know you. You sang in Mirom last winter. Celestine—”
“De Joyeuse. I’m flattered you remember me.”
“Celestial in voice as well as in name,” he said. “How could I forget?”
“The daemon-creature that attacked you,” she said, ignoring the compliment. “That would be enough to give anyone nightmares.”
“That was not what I was dreaming about. My ship went down in the Straits some months ago. The old man, Kuzko, rescued me. And now—” Andrei choked at the memory. “Now he’s dead.”
“You don’t talk like a common sailor, Andrei.” She was looking at him curiously.
He felt himself suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to unburden himself and tell her everything.
“Where are you bound?” he asked.
“Why, to Swanholm, to sing for Princess Karila’s birthday at the request of the Emperor’s wife, Astasia.”
“Astasia,” he repeated. At last he saw a way to make himself known to his sister. And he felt dangerously close to tears. “Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he began in the Francian tongue, “may I confide in you?”
“The captain has just informed me we’ll reach Haeven by morning.” Jagu ducked down as he entered the little cabin to avoid hitting his head. He set down a bottle of red wine on the table and proceeded to pour with a steady hand. “So we’ve a day or two in hand before we’re expected at Swanholm.” He handed Celestine and Andrei a glass of wine and lifted his own in a toast. “To your miraculous survival, my Lord Andrei.”
“Miraculous?” Andrei took a sip of the wine and nodded his appreciation: It was dry, yet enriched with just enough musky sweetness to soften the back of the palate. “If you hadn’t sent out your men to the rescue—”
“I was thinking more of the creature that plucked the old man from the waves,” Jagu said.
Andrei set his glass down. “You saw it, then?”
“What was it, Andrei?” said Celestine, gazing earnestly at him.
“It healed me. Whether it was a spirit that haunted the place where I was shipwrecked, or it sought me out for some purpose of its own, I don’t know. All I know is it healed my body and restored my mind.”
“It healed you?” echoed Celestine, glancing at Jagu. “Did it ever reveal its purpose to you?”
“Not on Lapwing Spar, no. But in Mirom it spoke to me. It said, ‘You were born to rule. But it is too soon.’ ”
“Born to rule,” said Celestine thoughtfully. “And then it abandoned you?”
“I don’t know why. For a moment I thought I heard a distant voice crying out for help.” Andrei gulped down his wine, trying to block out the memory of those last chaotic moments when he thought he was drowning again. “But it might have been Kuzko.” His voice faltered and Jagu refilled his glass. “Where was Eugene’s war fleet going in such a hurry?”
“We asked ourselves the same question,” said Jagu, his pale face stern. “Who knows where Eugene’s ambitions will lead him next. . . .”
“Our countries have always been allies, Andrei,” Celestine said in Francian. “Your command of our language is excellent. We understand each other well, do we not? You have been deprived of your right
to rule Muscobar by this new regime. Yet your family also claims descent from the Emperor Artamon. Had matters gone otherwise, you could be emperor of all Rossiya.”
As soon as he had heard her speak the words aloud, Andrei knew they were true. The spirit that had healed him had also awoken that ambition simmering deep within him. He had as much a right to rule all five princedoms as Eugene of Tielen.
“I could be emperor,” he said slowly. “But how? I have no country, no name, no troops at my disposal. The Muscobite army and navy have been absorbed into Eugene’s forces.”
He saw Celestine and Jagu consult each other with another glance. Then Celestine turned to him and said, “We believe our master, King Enguerrand, would be very interested in meeting you.”
The old covered market in Colchise had become a temporary hospital for the casualties injured in the clash with the Tielen garrison.
Elysia returned to help bathe and bandage the walking wounded. Many were students, but there were older townspeople as well who had joined the fight.
“Would you like some tea?”
Elysia straightened up from the gashed temple she was bandaging and shook a stray lock from her eyes. It was the student girl with auburn hair. She smiled.
“Thank you, I’d love some. And so would my patient here.” He was the baker’s apprentice from Vine Alley, a good-hearted boy with unruly black curls. “What’s happening at the citadel?” Elysia took the mug of tea gratefully and drank. Her back was stiff with bending over her charges, and from the slight throbbing over one eye, she could sense a headache looming. “It’s gone very quiet out there.”
“Still a stalemate,” said the girl. “The Tielens have retreated and barricaded themselves in. They’re refusing to talk terms unless we surrender. They’re in for a long wait!”
“And your brother?” Elysia laid a hand on her shoulder. “How is he?”
“Miran?” The girl’s fierce expression faded and Elysia saw fear in her eyes. “Still fighting. I—I hope.”
“RaÏsa!” A man with hair the same rich red-brown as the girl’s came pushing through the throng toward them. “Miran’s asking for you.”
The girl gave Elysia a look that betrayed so much hope that her heart bled for her. She squeezed the girl’s hand. “It’ll be all right,” she said, praying that it would be.
“Coming, Iovan!” called RaÏsa, and hurried away.
“That young hothead Iovan Korneli is out for blood.”
Elysia turned to see Lukan behind her, slowly shaking his head. “How so?”
“He’s got a grudge against the Tielens. Seems some Tielen merchant cheated his father in a business venture some years ago. The old man lost all his money and had to sell the family home. Or that’s the way Iovan tells it. Now that Miran’s been shot, he’s out for revenge.”
“Lukan, is there any civilized way to stop this? Before Eugene loses all patience and sends his armies to crush us into submission?”
“Dear Elysia, such talk might be judged treasonable!” Even though he spoke lightly, she detected a grim note underlying his words. “Can you imagine Iovan Korneli and his friends agreeing to a civilized solution? It’s a stalemate.”
Andrei gazed out across the Straits from the long jetty at Haeven. The salty wind had dropped, but a fresh breeze still tousled his hair.
The sun was setting and had half-sunk beneath the low clouds, illuminating the western horizon with a vivid dazzle of stormy gold.
So much had happened, he could not yet take it all in. The Francians had treated him with kindness and understanding; they had even listened to his concerns about Irina and had made him a loan of money to send to her by a trusted courier. And what had surprised him the most was that they had accepted him without once questioning his story. He had no papers to prove his identity, not even an unusual birthmark. He could be an impostor, a pretender to the Orlov dynasty, plotting to dupe the Francian government.
“Andrei.”
He looked around and saw Celestine de Joyeuse approaching, a lavender gossamer shawl wrapped about her throat against the evening damp. The soft shade made her blue eyes appear even more luminous in the twilight. She smiled at him.
“What a dramatic sunset,” she said. “Does such a sky herald more stormy weather to come?”
Storms in the Straits. He remembered the terrible tempest that had sunk the Sirin. There had been no warning that night, not even a sunset such as this. “No,” he said. “The weather can prove fickle off these shores, even for the most experienced sailor.”
“I have news for you from King Enguerrand.” She handed him a sealed letter.
He broke the seal and stared at the strange dashes and symbols, perplexed. “Is this some new Francian alphabet? It means nothing to me.”
Celestine let out a soft laugh. “It is encrypted. Jagu has the codes to decipher the encryption at the tavern.” She slipped her hand beneath his arm. “Let’s go back now before I catch a chill out here and spoil my voice.”
To our royal cousin, Andrei Orlov of Muscobar, from Enguerrand of Francia:
We are most heartily relieved to hear of your miraculous rescue. Please rest assured that news of your survival will not be revealed until you judge the time is right to do so.
We extend the hand of friendship to you and assure you of a warm welcome at our royal court. We also have new intelligence of events that took place toward the end of last year, which will both disturb and intrigue you.
Our representative in New Rossiya, Ambassador d’Abrissard, will soon arrive in Haeven. He has some proposals to make, which we believe will be to our mutual benefit. . . .
Andrei was rowed out through a brisk dawn breeze to meet with Fabien d’Abrissard on board ship.
“Eugene’s agents are everywhere,” the ambassador said as he welcomed Andrei into his paneled stateroom in the stern. “Here, at least, we are on Francian territory. Coffee to warm you this chilly morning?”
“Thank you.” The square windowpanes afforded a view over the Straits: an expanse of rain-grey sea and pale clouds.
The ambassador clicked his fingers and his secretary poured Andrei coffee in a delicate white and gold cup. After living so long in a poor fisherman’s cottage, Andrei had grown unused to such refinements and he handled the flimsy china nervously.
“And our guest might appreciate a dash of brandy.” Had Abrissard seen his hands tremble? The ambassador’s expression gave nothing away; although his lips smiled at Andrei, his manner was cool and detached. The secretary added a measure of brandy to Andrei’s cup and discreetly withdrew, closing the door softly behind him. For a moment the only sound was the lapping of the water against the ship as it rocked gently at anchor.
“Were you aware that the power behind Eugene’s empire is one Kaspar Linnaius, a renegade scientist wanted for crimes in Francia?” Abrissard asked.
Andrei shook his head.
“We have reason to believe that this same Kaspar Linnaius was responsible for the sinking of your ship.”
“Sinking the Sirin? But how? She went down in a storm.”
“A storm that came out of nowhere on a calm night?”
“Why, yes—”
“A similar event occurred some years ago in the reign of Prince Karl, when the Francian fleet was wrecked by a disastrous storm.”
“But what possible proof could you have?” burst out Andrei.
“The testimonies furnished by two of Linnaius’s students,” said Abrissard smoothly. “They confirmed that this self-styled ‘Magus’ can command and control the winds.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“We have a witness. The night of the storm, one of the grooms at the Palace of Swanholm confirms that he saw Linnaius create a storm that brought down trees in the parkland. I should emphasize now that this intelligence is of the highest confidentiality.”
Andrei sat back, trying to grasp the full implications of what Abrissard was saying.
“This should not be so di
fficult for you to accept, Andrei Orlov,” said Abrissard in the softest, smoothest of voices. “You, who have been touched by a daemon.”
“You’re implying that Eugene ordered Linnaius to sink my ship? Doesn’t that count as assassination?” At first, the news had left him stunned; now anger began to burn through.
Abrissard shrugged eloquently. “In war, such terms do not apply.”
“And my sister has married this man!” Andrei could sit still no longer; he rose and strode to the window to gaze out at the sea. A watery sun had begun to show beneath the clouds, catching the tops of the waves with flecks of silvery gold.
“You’re ambitious, Andrei Orlov. Do you care about the future of Muscobar?”
“Of course I do!” Andrei said hotly.
“Then come to Francia. King Enguerrand assures you of the warmest welcome at his court. He has plans—great plans for the future. Those plans will include you, if you so wish.” Andrei turned and stared at Abrissard. He heard what the ambassador was saying—and yet not putting into words. Francia had old scores to settle with Tielen.
“You were born to rule, Andrei,” the daemon-spirit had whispered to him in Mirom. Now he began to see that that ambition might be fulfilled with such powerful allies at his side. If it were not for the fact that Astasia had married Eugene.
“And my sister?”
Abrissard’s proud gaze grew colder. “Your sister has committed herself to Eugene. It may be difficult to persuade her to change her allegiances.”
CHAPTER 20
Gavril felt warm sunlight on his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and saw a cloudless sky above him. He lay on grass, coarse and springy; as he turned his head, he saw little tufts of white clover and daisies in the grass, and smelled their faint honeyed scent.
“Where am I?”
