by Sarah Ash
“A journey? Where do you want to go?”
When it speaks again, its voice is deep-hued with longing. “I want to find a way home.”
Gavril wandered around his room, picking up his possessions and putting them down again. Here were his poetry books and the abstruse volumes of philosophy Lukan had given him when he was a student. And here were his paints and pastels, all neatly tidied away. Next to them lay his brushes, from the slender squirrel hair he used for picking out the finest details to the big, rough-bristled ones used for applying large quantities of oil paint for the background of a portrait. Each brush had been carefully cleaned and wrapped in cloth. Elysia had obviously been busy since she returned from Azhkendir.
Azhkendir. He sat down on the bed. All this time he had been so obsessed with his own struggle to survive that he had put Azhkendir out of his mind. He had even chosen to revert to using his Smarnan name: Andar.
Soon he would have to face his responsibilities. But it was one thing to help liberate Smarna, and quite another to try to put things to rights in Azhkendir. Would his druzhina even want him back? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had denied them the chance to die gloriously, defending their lord.
He needed time to come to terms with what had been done to him. Healing time. He knew that somewhere, deep inside, he was still damaged. The Drakhaoul had mended the wounds inflicted by Director Baltzar—had even miraculously repaired most of the botched surgery done to his brain. But he still felt wrong.
His easel stood in a corner, an empty canvas propped on it, already prepared for use. He walked past it a number of times. The blank canvas mocked him. Could he still paint? Or had Baltzar’s scalpel destroyed his gift?
“Gavril!”
He heard Elysia calling his name from the hall. Reluctantly, he opened his bedroom door.
“Minister Vashteli is here to see you.”
“Palmyre has just made some barley water . . .”
“Nothing for me, thank you, Elysia,” Nina Vashteli said as Gavril entered the salon. She looked directly at him. “There have been reports coming in since yesterday of large numbers of dead fish washed up on the shore. Dead gulls too.”
He saw Elysia’s hands tremble violently, spilling the barley water she had been pouring for herself.
“Can you explain this, Gavril Andar?”
He could remember little of the attack now, save the utter exhilaration as the power tore from his body in one terrifying burst of brilliant light. There had been smoke afterward . . . yet as far as he could recall, the sea breeze had gusted it away from land, toward the Tielen fleet and beyond.
“Gavril?” said Elysia. He could hear consternation in her voice. He had not thought of the damage it could do to the very people he was trying to save. And no one in Smarna, except Elysia, was protected against the deadly aftereffects of Drakhaon’s Fire.
“Well?” Nina Vashteli said, her voice stern. “Is this your doing? Is this anything to do with the weapon you used to defeat the Tielens?”
For a moment Gavril could only stand there dumbly, his mind whirling with unspeakable possibilities.
“Gavril?” said Elysia again, more gently this time.
“The beach could be polluted,” he said at last. “Let no one go there until I can be sure it is safe.”
“Polluted with what, precisely?”
“Minister.” Gavril moved closer to her. “Have there been any reports of sickness among those who were on the citadel ramparts yesterday?”
Nina Vashteli gave him a searching look. But all she said was, “I take it you have seen these aftereffects before?”
Gavril lowered his eyes.
“And I also take it that you know how to treat them?”
How could he reply to that? The only protection against Drakhaon’s Fire that he knew of was the ritual bloodbond. Was it possible it could also work as a remedy?
“Well, Gavril Andar?”
“I might. But I can’t guarantee it will work.”
Gavril hurried out into the villa gardens and followed the winding path down to the beach. Now the soft scents of pink tamarisk and lilac were nothing but a torment, reminding him of what he had done. The last part of the path was rocky, overgrown by burgeoning weeds and mean-toothed brambles that caught and clawed at his legs as he ran. He reached the sands and stared out to sea, shading his eyes as he scanned for fishing boats in the bay. But even as he looked at the glittering blue water and the pale gold of the sands, another landscape kept superimposing itself: a stark, empty, grey desolation. The Arkhel Waste in Azhkendir, blasted with Drakhaon’s Fire by his father Volkh.
He set out across the damp sands, making toward the citadel. Here, not far from the path that led up to the Villa Orlova, was where he had swooped down on the Tielen troops and seared them all to oblivion in his fury. And in spite of the lapping tide that had risen and fallen several times since his attack, he could plainly see the ash clogging the sands, the residue of charred bone and melted metal, the last remains of Eugene’s invasion force. The cinders would have washed into the bay, polluting the waters for miles around.
He sank slowly to his knees in the sand.
“Damn you, Eugene,” he said, his voice choked with bitterness. “Look what you’ve driven me to now.”
CHAPTER 25
Eugene shut the door to his study and leaned his back against the paneled wood as if to keep the disorder that reigned outside from bursting in.
“Never again,” he muttered. “Never again.”
The corridors were filled with servants, all running to and fro in confusion. Hammering and sawing could be heard in every room. It was as noisy as if they were rebuilding the whole palace. There was nowhere to hide from the din.
“All this for one Dievona’s Night Ball? Why did I ever agree? . . .”
He had ridden back to Swanholm from Artamon’s Mausoleum, buzzing with plans for a journey to find Ty Nagar. And in his excitement, he had forgotten all about the ball.
On his desk lay a letter; it was from Malherbe, the celebrated landscape gardener from Allegonde, who had been working on a special commission in the grounds.
. . . and I most humbly invite your imperial highness to inspect the works, now at last complete . . .
Anything was preferable to enduring this cacophony. Eugene went to the stables and was soon on horseback again.
Outside on the lawns, the Imperial Household Cavalry had been pressed into helping erect the giant marquees. At least their campaign experience means the job will be done efficiently, Eugene reflected, watching the guardsmen—uniform jackets discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up—pulling and tugging at ropes in the warmth of the spring sun.
Sunlight glittered on the green waters of the lake. Eugene turned Cinnamor’s head toward the deer park and rode off along the gravel path to inspect the new works.
He had learned that to preserve his sanity there were times when it was necessary to put the worries of state aside. And he had built Swanholm as a retreat for just such occasions.
Soon Eugene heard the gentle sound of wind chimes borne on the breeze. Dismounting, he led Cinnamor down into a little grassy dell, sheltered from view.
As a birthday surprise for Karila, he had commissioned a Khitari dragon pavilion from Malherbe. He had imported stone dragons, one for each of the four corners, and another smaller one to top the roof. Inside the pavilion, the walls were hung with green and blue Khitari silks to complement the glossy black lacquer furniture exquisitely painted in gold and scarlet. He hoped it would provide the princess with her own private retreat from the rigors of court life in the palace.
As an extra delight, he had created a private menagerie for her. Fluting birds with colorful feathers and bright golden eyes hopped about a gilded aviary built in the same exotic style as the pavilion. Little bells hung from every corner and chimed sweetly in the breeze. A pair of tiny deer, no higher than his knee, came to nuzzle against his leg, gazing expectantly at him w
ith their mild, dark eyes. He reached into his pocket and held out some oats garnered from the stables on the palm of his hand for them to nibble, feeling the brush of their quick, rough tongues on his skin.
Karila would fall in love with this secret little kingdom he had created for her. He couldn’t wait for her to recover her strength so he could bring her here and watch the expression on her face as the dell revealed its treasures.
Why did the sweet air and green valley of Swanholm always put him into a good humor, whereas the Winter Palace in Mirom induced nothing but feelings of tension?
Grooms came running out to greet him as he rode back into the stables. Eugene jumped down from Cinnamor’s back and patted her flank affectionately before handing over the reins. He was exhilarated by the fine weather and by the sheer pleasure of riding. He walked away from the stables, pulling off his riding gloves, finger by finger. He was planning on taking a bath—a good hot steam—followed by an invigorating plunge into the ice-cold pool. But he had not even reached the main stair before Gustave appeared. He seemed uncharacteristically agitated.
“You have a visitor, highness.”
“The visitor can wait, Gustave.” Damn it, what was the point in being Emperor of all New Rossiya, if he couldn’t take a bath when he wished?
“It’s the Francian ambassador, highness. He says it’s extremely urgent.”
Eugene let out a snort of exasperation. “Well, if it’s that urgent, damn protocol! He’ll have to put up with me as I am: hot, sweaty, and in need of a bath!”
“I took the precaution of showing him into the Willow Room, highness,” Gustave said in a low voice, “rather than the Malachite Room with your father’s favorite painting.”
“ ‘The Defeat of the Francian Fleet’?” Eugene said loudly. “Why so sensitive, Gustave? Our nations are on the best of terms now. I’m sure the ambassador won’t be offended by a reminder of his country’s past disappointments.”
Gustave, wincing at Eugene’s deliberate jibe, opened the door to the Willow Room and announced, “His Imperial Highness.”
The Willow Room was one of Eugene’s favorite rooms in the whole palace; the walls were hung with Khitari brocades woven with a pattern of willow leaves in the subtlest shades of silver-grey and green. The willow green had been picked up in the buttoned silk upholstery of the chairs and the elegant fringes of the swagged curtains.
Fabien d’Abrissard stood gazing out of the window at the newly planted Water Garden.
“Ah, Ambassador.” Eugene strode in briskly. “The matter is urgent, I understand?”
Abrissard turned and bowed formally but with no great reverence. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored black coat with a dazzlingly white starched shirt beneath; his sole concession to ornamentation was the dark blue ribbon and medallion of the Francian Order of the Golden Salamander. His impeccable appearance only served to remind Eugene how hot and disheveled he was.
“There is, I understand, one named Kaspar Linnaius here at Swanholm?”
“Magus Linnaius is one of the most respected members of my household, Ambassador.” All Eugene’s instincts warned him that Abrissard’s seemingly innocuous question was the prelude to some far more complicated negotiation.
“Are you aware that he is a wanted man in Francia, highness? I have here a warrant for his extradition.”
Eugene had taken a dislike to Abrissard at their very first meeting in Mirom, and now the ambassador’s haughty tone irritated him even more. “I regret to inform you that your journey here has been in vain. Kaspar Linnaius is away from Swanholm at present. And I have no idea when he will return.”
“You’re protecting a dangerous man, highness. Are you aware that he is accused of the most heinous of crimes—heresy and soul-stealing?”
“I’m aware that he is one of the most brilliant scientific minds of our age.” Eugene could feel his sense of irritation growing. “Your religious courts sought to stifle that genius, Abrissard. I like to think that Tielen is more enlightened. We encourage our scientists to develop their ideas.”
“Perhaps I have not spoken plainly enough in this matter,” Abrissard said stiffly. “King Enguerrand does not request Linnaius’s extradition; he demands it on behalf of the Holy Commanderie.”
“Demands?” Eugene was not accustomed to being spoken to so bluntly.
“The king suspects you have never been fully furnished with details of the heretical crimes Linnaius committed in Francia.” Abrissard drew a folded paper from his jacket and handed it to Eugene.
Eugene’s first instinct was to tear the paper to pieces in front of the ambassador and let them drop to the fine parquet floor. But he resisted the temptation, glancing briefly at the long list of indictments. Then he looked again at Abrissard and smiled.
“Linnaius’s researches have taken him far from Tielen and I have not the slightest idea when he will return. Ask anyone from my household here and they will confirm what I have told you.”
Fabien d’Abrissard stared at him, his face a mask of disdain. “The king will not be pleased to hear this news. He had hoped that Tielen and Francia might achieve a better understanding by cooperating in this endeavor. But if Tielen continues to protect this criminal, Francia will be obliged to take matters into its own hands.”
So this is the crux of the matter, thought Eugene. A threat.
“Let me remind you, Ambassador,” he said in his softest, most silken tones, “that Tielen has always replied in the strongest possible terms to interventions from Francia—and will do so again, if need be. Good-day.”
Abrissard stood speechless a moment. Then he gave a curt little bow and withdrew.
Eugene waited until the doors to the Willow Room had closed, then looked down again at the list of crimes attributed to Kaspar Linnaius:
Heresy. Necromancy. Pyromancy. Alchymy . . .
He must warn the Magus to be on his guard. But he had no idea why Enguerrand of Francia had chosen this moment to demand his extradition.
“Gustave!” he called.
“Ambassador d’Abrissard has just left, highness,” Gustave said as he appeared. “He declined any offers of refreshment. He seemed in quite a hurry.”
“Get me our embassy in Francia,” Eugene said, making for his study.
“But your bath, highness—”
“I need to know what’s going on at the court of King Enguerrand. Something has changed, Gustave, and we were not made fully aware of it. No matter how insignificant it might seem, I want to be kept informed. Day or night.”
“Right away!” Gustave hurried away down the corridor.
Still smarting from Fabien d’Abrissard’s insolent manner, Eugene stopped at a window and gazed out into the park. He could just see the ambassador’s coach and horses as they climbed the winding road, making toward the gilded gates.
What did Enguerrand of Francia really want with Kaspar Linnaius? Was all this talk of heresy just a front? Had word of Linnaius’s genius with weaponry spread beyond the borders of New Rossiya?
And . . . most strange of all, why had Abrissard not once mentioned Smarna?
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Eugene murmured to the absent Magus, “I won’t let them have you.”
Karila held out her hands, palms full of little seeds for her tiny golden-eyed finches to feed upon. Eugene watched her rapt face, eyes wide with surprise and delight as the little birds came hopping down from their perches in the aviary and alighted on her hands, pecking with rapid darting movements.
She began to giggle. “Their beaks tickle!” Others fluttered over her head, their wings whirring softly.
Her delight was infectious. He had come down to the menagerie in a stormy mood, still smarting from his latest defeats in Smarna. The sound of her laughter had driven away the clouds of ill temper. She was so happy in this garden paradise he had created for her.
She gazed up at him, still smiling.
“I can imagine I’ve traveled all the way to Khitari here. You
’re a magician, Papa!”
He smiled back. “One day you shall travel to Khitari with me. When you’re stronger.”
“Is it true, Papa? That the children make kites out of paper, in the shape of dragons? And they fly them on a special dragon day?”
“All true. And if you would like to fly a dragon kite, I can send to Khitari for one, especially for you.” But he would have to fly it for her, he thought sadly, looking at the thinness of her arms. With her crooked little body, she would not have the strength to control one of the magnificent scarlet and gold kites.
“I’d like to play with some Khitari children. I’d like them to teach me how to fly a kite. And to tell me all about dragons . . .” She gave a little sigh. Her face was suddenly blank and sad.
“What is it, Kari?”
“Best of all I’d like a friend, Papa. Someone to talk to, to play with. Someone eight years old too.”
“I shall have Lovisa arrange it. There must be many noble children your age—”
She put one hand on his. “A real friend, Papa. Not someone who has been told to be nice to me because I am your daughter.”
He felt a pang of sympathy. It was a hard fact to come to terms with, one he had been forced to learn very early in childhood: Royal children were different. He went down on one knee, still holding her hand, and looked directly into her eyes. “Kari, real friendship is very hard to find when you are born a princess. Or a prince. But one day you will find a companion, someone who values you for your true worth and not your title or your riches. I promise you that.”
He felt something nudge his leg; surprised, he turned and saw one of the little Khitari deer staring at him with liquid brown eyes.
Karila started to giggle again. “Look, Papa, it wants you to stroke it!”
He let his hand run over the softness of its smooth spotted flank and it nuzzled its head up against his arm. It seemed utterly unafraid.
