Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “There are so few of us,” she said haltingly, “and so many of them. We need your help.”

  He did not reply. Instead he walked slowly to the windows and gazed down at the bay. “Were you there?” he asked. “When I attacked the Tielen fleet? Were you in the citadel?”

  “Yes,” she said, not understanding where this was leading. “I was on the ramparts. I saw the flash of light; I saw the ships explode.”

  He turned around, staring at her with feverish intensity. “And have you, or any of those who fought beside you, fallen sick?”

  “No, not as far as I—”

  “You didn’t breathe in any of the smoke that drifted inshore?”

  “Why? Is it harmful?”

  Again, no reply. Instead he drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ll come with you to reconnoiter, not to fight. I think I understand Eugene’s tactics. And I think I know what game he’s playing. He’s trying to lure me out into the open.”

  “Why you? Because of your secret weapon?”

  “I’ll need a horse. My Merani is—” he stopped, checking himself, “is not in Smarna.”

  She looked at him, overwhelmed with curiosity. Everything he said, these little slips and half-finished sentences, only added to the enigma.

  “Meet me at the Ormalo Gate, then. In half an hour. I’ll have a horse for you. You can take my brother Miran’s.”

  He accompanied her out into the hall. A painting hung near the front door, a double portrait, very naturally posed, of a man and a woman. The woman was sitting on a daisy-filled lawn, reading, and the man was leaning over her shoulder. It was an intimate portrayal, simply yet masterfully done. She had not noticed it before, but now she saw with a little shock that the man was Rafael Lukan and the woman he was leaning so affectionately close to was Elysia Andar.

  “Oh!” she said. She knew—of course, who didn’t?—that Lukan and Elysia had been lovers. But this painting offered proof of the strength of their relationship. Her cheeks flaming, she tried to cover her reaction with a question. “Who painted this?”

  “I did.” Gavril Andar was frowning at the picture as if he was not at all pleased with it. “I don’t know why my mother has hung it in the hall. It’s an early piece, done for my first year examination.”

  “I think it’s charming.” RaÏsa spoke from the heart. Subject matter aside, the painting was very accomplished for an early piece. “It’s so fresh, so full of spring air and light—” She broke off. “You’re as talented as your mother. You should be painting, not fighting.”

  And then, seeing the desolation in his eyes, she realized she had touched on a sensitive issue. “Listen to me, babbling on without thinking. I didn’t mean—”

  “No,” he said. “You’re right. I should be painting.”

  When she went to untether Luciole, she found that someone, perhaps the housekeeper, had thoughtfully provided a trough of water. As she rode away, she caught herself glancing back at the Villa Andara, shivering in spite of the day’s warmth. There were mysteries there—and they were all hidden in the darkness haunting Gavril Andar’s fever-bright eyes.

  Gavril stood at an upstairs window and watched RaÏsa Korneli ride off toward Colchise.

  Had he given anything away? His shoulders were stiff with tension, his fingers were still clenched tight with the effort of controlling himself. And when, without thinking, he had said Merani’s name, he had seen a sudden, vivid image of Kastel Drakhaon and the stables: young Ivar and Movsar playing each other at knuckle stones in an empty stall, jumping up with red faces when he appeared, running to saddle up coal-black Merani . . .

  My druzhina.

  Elysia had told him a little of the indignities the druzhina had been forced to undergo, chained together like slaves, made to labor long hours on meager rations, excavating deep underground for minerals to feed the Emperor’s munitions factories.

  My faithful bodyguard—and I’ve abandoned you. The ache was almost too hard to bear.

  “Who was that, Gavril?” Elysia appeared in deshabille, wet hair wound up in a towel, Djihari-fashion.

  “RaÏsa Korneli. The Tielens have come back—over the northern border this time.”

  He saw her face fall. “And they want you to go fight them? Gavril, no. You’ve done enough. You’ve exhausted yourself. Let the militia handle this one.”

  “Mother, you know the militia is no match for the Tielens.”

  She caught hold of his hand and turned it over, looking at the nails.

  “Look,” she said, raising them to the light. A faint taint of blue had already begun to show. “Think of what you’ve done to the bay. Think of—”

  “I know!” Angrily he drew his hand away. He didn’t want a lecture; he was only too aware of the risks of using his powers again. “I’m going anyway,” he said.

  “Well, then. You have to do what you feel is right,” she said. Yet there was no criticism in her voice, only regret. “But take care, Gavril.” She reached out and briefly stroked his forehead; there was not enough hair yet to smooth back into place.

  He flinched at her touch.

  Don’t treat me as a child, Mother. I’ve done things you can’t begin to imagine—even in your worst nightmares.

  It was already hot and Gavril was glad he had worn his old, broad-brimmed straw hat to shade his head. As he walked up over the brow of the hill, he saw the Smarnan forces massing outside the Ormalo Gate. Forces? Ninety or so of the Colchise militia on foot, another hundred or so of the national guard—and a ragbag assortment of eager students, volunteers, and other hangers-on, all ill-equipped with ancient muskets and hunting pistols. Three hundred at best, he reckoned. More than his druzhina, and armed with some basic firepower, but still no match for Eugene’s troops.

  He spotted RaÏsa toward the front of the motley column, her rich auburn hair catching the light of the midday sun. She was in conversation with a tall, fair-haired young man. One of the students? he wondered.

  She caught sight of him and beckoned him to join her. As he approached, the young man turned, shading his eyes against the midday sun.

  “Gavril, this is Pavel Velemir; you remember I told you about him.”

  Feodor Velemir spins around to face him, his eyes wide, crazed with wonder and fear. And then . . .

  Gavril blinked. This Velemir was young, about his own age. The name could just be a coincidence. Maybe Velemir is a common surname in Muscobar. . . .

  On the third day out from Colchise, the northern road began to climb, and the coastal plain gave way to the foothills of the far-distant ridge of mountains, the Larani Range, which acted as a natural border between Smarna and southern Muscobar.

  They were called mountains, but to Gavril they were nothing compared to the terrifying splendors of the snow-capped Kharzhgylls in Azhkendir, looming up out of the Arkhel Waste. At this time of year there was only the slightest dusting of snow on the highest peak, Mount Diktra.

  There had been little intelligence as to the movements of the Tielen invaders; there were rumors, odd sightings, but no verifiable evidence. Gavril had even begun to wonder if the earlier reports were nothing but Tielen propaganda, designed to lure them away from Colchise in order to retake the citadel.

  These thoughts troubled him the most. Because that was what he would have attempted in Eugene’s place. And he knew that Eugene had worked that plan on him before, at Narvazh in Azhkendir.

  Gavril rode alongside RaÏsa near the head of the column, with Pavel on her other side. The young Muscobite had engaged RaÏsa in conversation and was telling her entertaining anecdotes about life in the embassy in Francia. Gavril half-heard snippets about the ambassador’s lapdog—an overindulged pug who was apt to disgrace himself at soirées—and the ambassador’s younger daughter and her ill-advised affair with her music-master. He heard RaÏsa laughing, both delighted and shocked by Pavel’s tales of embassy indiscretions. And he found himself wishing he could chatter away so lightheartedly. He was poor company, he knew it.
And this morning, as the heat increased, so did the black ache in his head—the last lingering legacy of Baltzar’s operation. Had he expected too much of himself too soon? Perhaps he should have allowed himself several days’ rest at the Villa Andara to recuperate. . . .

  “Are you all right, Gavril?”

  He glanced up, grimacing as the sunlight sent a stab of pain through his head. RaÏsa was regarding him with concern.

  “There’s an inn up ahead. You could stop and rest.”

  “Do I look that bad?” he said, forcing a smile.

  “You’re not fully recovered from your wounds. I saw the scars, remember? I’ve brought powdered willow bark and feverfew. I could mix you a draft to ease the pain.”

  Her concern for his well-being took him by surprise. He was just about to reply when he spotted a small whirl of dust on the horizon, coming toward them.

  “Riders!” yelled Iovan. “Take cover!”

  The Smarnans rode around in confusion; one or two of the horses reared and threw their riders to the ground.

  “Far too late,” Gavril heard Pavel Velemir murmur.

  “Where are our scouts?” Gavril scanned the road ahead. “Is no one up ahead?” Bogatyr Askold would have bawled Iovan out for such negligence, he thought wryly.

  “Amateurs,” Pavel Velemir said with a little confidential smile.

  “It’s all right,” Iovan shouted, “they’re friends.”

  “Just as well,” Pavel said, “for we’d all be shot to pieces by now if they were Tielens.”

  Gavril nodded. He had no reason to trust Pavel Velemir and yet he couldn’t help feeling a certain affinity with the young Muscobite. “So you’re a soldier?” he asked.

  “Seven long years in the Muscobar Military Academy.” A lock of fair hair flopped into his eyes and he flicked it away carelessly. “I escaped into the diplomatic service. But you never forget what they drill into you.”

  Iovan was conferring with the riders up ahead. Gavril uncorked his water bottle and took a mouthful, swilling it around before swallowing. All his instincts told him that he was the only effective defense the little column had against the Tielens.

  He saw RaÏsa ride up to her brother, her face flushed with excitement as she joined in the council of war. To her, this rebellion was an act of desperate heroism—a glorious stand against the tyranny of a foreign despot. She was fighting for her wounded brother, fighting for her country—

  She saw the glory. She did not see her own death—or that of her fellow students.

  “The Tielens have taken Koshara,” Iovan said. “And now they’ve fanned out into the foothills.”

  “What about the Larani Gorge?” one of the students asked. “We could lie in wait for them up there.”

  “Who knows if they’ll come that way?”

  “If we split up, we stand a better chance of taking them by surprise,” said Pavel.

  Iovan frowned at him.

  “Pavel’s right,” RaÏsa said.

  “What do you think, Gavril Andar?” Iovan said bullishly.

  “I agree with Pavel.” Gavril stared Iovan straight in the eyes, challenging him to counter the suggestion. “We need intelligence out in the villages, outriders to keep us informed of the Tielens’ movements.”

  “As you’re so keen on scouting ahead, perhaps you’d care to go reconnoiter?” Iovan’s voice rang with scorn and resentment.

  It was the chance Gavril had been hoping for, the excuse to separate himself from the others and assess the situation from the air.

  “And you, Pavel Velemir, why don’t you keep him company? Rejoin us at Anisieli by nightfall.”

  Gavril only just restrained himself from swearing aloud.

  Pavel Velemir smiled in reply—a disarming smile, open and friendly. But Gavril could not bring himself to smile back.

  They rode along without speaking, Gavril leading the way. He was following a stony track that, if his memory served him, wound past remote farms and hamlets, well away from the road.

  Anger still simmered deep inside and he knew he must use all his self-control to contain it. Iovan had come close to goading him too far—and he was not sure how much self-control he had left in his current condition. And why, of all the rebels, had Iovan singled out Pavel Velemir to go along with him? He narrowed his eyes at the sun-baked countryside, seeing shadows from the past. He could hear Elysia’s voice, telling him about her doomed visit to Swanholm.

  “Feodor Velemir duped me, Gavril. He was so charming and so earnest that I truly believed he had your best interests at heart. But to die such a horrible death—” She had covered her eyes with her fingers, as though trying to blot out the memory of what she had seen.

  “I thought—I thought he meant to harm you.” The words had come out slowly, painfully, as he relived the moment. “How was I to know? I couldn’t take the risk.”

  “Is Anisieli far?” Pavel asked suddenly.

  Gavril started. He had been so absorbed in his memories, he had forgotten about their mission. “At the foot of the gorge. We should get there before sunset.”

  Pavel Velemir took out a slender eyeglass and extended it, surveying the distant hills. “They won’t risk breaking cover in open country like this. They’ll have hidden themselves away.”

  Gavril gazed at him guardedly. “That’s a useful little contrivance.”

  “It was my Uncle Feodor’s,” Pavel said, offering it to Gavril. “It’s about all I inherited from him. Most of his possessions were looted when the rebels sacked the Winter Palace.”

  Uncle Feodor’s. Gavril took the cylindrical tube and raised it to one eye, handling it as if it were red-hot. There were workers toiling away, tending the vines on the sunny slopes higher up. But there was no sign of the Tielens.

  He doesn’t know that I’m the one who killed his uncle.

  “Excellent magnification,” he said curtly, handing it back. “But I’d be surprised if the Tielens have penetrated this far into Smarna in so short a time, unless they’ve developed wings.”

  “At least up here we’re spared Field Marshal Iovan’s tetchy little tirades.” Pavel grinned at Gavril, another friendly, open grin.

  That smile awoke something buried deep within Gavril’s damaged mind—the memory of what it felt like to have friends, to share a joke, to be easy in someone else’s company . . . But because of the terrible thing he had done, he could never be Pavel’s friend. He was Drakhaon. And since a Drakhaon was not as other men, he must live apart, gifted and cursed by his dragon-daemon.

  Gavril turned Capriole’s head away from the vineyards with their neat rows of fresh green vines, and rode up toward the higher, rougher pasture land. It had not rained in many days and everything was powdered in a fine reddish dust from the rich earth.

  He had not traveled this route in some years. When he was fourteen or fifteen years old, Elysia and Lukan had taken a house on a wine-growing estate. All that hot summer they had played at living the country life: He and Lukan had gone fishing in the weed-choked little river that irrigated the vineyards and Elysia had painted, wandering off through the fields with her sketchbook, easel, and parasol. The sound of the cicadas whirring noisily in the trees brought back something of those lazy, carefree days. He could feel the cool mud squelching between his toes as he waded barefoot through the stony river shallows. And he remembered the luscious taste of the new grapes, bursting juicily sweet and sharp in his mouth. . . .

  Maybe out here he could find the solitude that would help him start to paint again.

  As Capriole jogged on upward, he saw himself in the overgrown garden at the vineyard house, brush in hand and canvas in front of him, putting the finishing touches to a portrait whose subject sat in the shade of the old olive tree, smiling at him, her fair hair catching glints of amber and gold from the dappled sunlight. . . .

  Kiukiu?

  “How much farther to Anisieli?” asked Pavel.

  “Not far.” Gavril, startled out of his daydream, answered
him brusquely. “Two or three miles, no more.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The empty hillside shimmered in the heat of the late afternoon sun. Cicadas and birds chirped; flies droned. “Let’s give the horses a rest.”

  On the brow of the hill, a clump of chestnuts promised some welcome shade. Gavril dismounted and tied Capriole on a long tether so that she could graze on the short grass beneath the trees. Then he walked to the farthest side of the hilltop and gazed out over the next valley, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

  There was no denying it. He had caught himself daydreaming about Kiukiu. Painting Kiukiu, he corrected himself. And an aching feeling of longing swept over him like a drowning wave. As soon as they flushed out Eugene’s troops, he would leave the rebels to finish the job, and set off for Azhkendir.

  Pavel offered him his flask. “Watered wine?”

  Gavril’s head throbbed at the thought. “No. I have a headache from the sun.”

  He sat down and took out his water bottle, drinking a long draft to relieve the dryness of his mouth and throat.

  “She’s quite something, that Korneli girl,” Pavel said idly. “Worth a hundred of those insipid convent-educated girls in Mirom. I’d like to see some of them cut their hair and go riding bareback in their brother’s borrowed clothes!”

  Gavril stared at him from under close-drawn brows. He had been so long in solitary confinement in the Iron Tower that he had almost forgotten how to participate in this kind of idle, companionable conversation.

  “Of course, in Mirom, such bold behavior would ruin her chances in society. ‘By all means, make her your mistress,’ my mother would say, ‘but she’s utterly unsuitable as a bride.’ ”

  “And do you intend to follow your mother’s advice?”

  “I heard a rumor that she has eyes only for Rafael Lukan.”

  “Lukan?”

  “He’s old enough to be her father, but some girls prefer older men.” Pavel lay back on the dry grass, gazing up at the sky. “My Uncle Feodor could vouch for that. He was always having to extricate himself from some intrigue with the Grand Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting. Means you and I have to work twice as hard to impress—”