Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “Excuse me, ladies.” He went out onto the terrace toward the wide steps to meet her.

  Astasia waited until the last glow of the fireworks died. From the path, she could see Eugene’s tall figure on the terrace, Celestine at his side in her identical blue costume, Karila between them.

  How odd, she thought. It’s like looking at myself from outside. . . .

  And then she halted. Karila was sure to sense it wasn’t her!

  She hurried on through the darkness, darting between the strolling guests, desperate now to reach the terrace before Karila blurted out the truth. She could just imagine that clear voice declaring, “You’re not my stepmama. Who are you and what have you done with her?”

  And now Eugene was coming down the steps, making straight toward her! Had he seen her? Would he grab hold of her and demand an explanation in front of all the guests? She shrank behind a pilaster bearing a stone basket overspilling with ivies and crimson peonies, praying her deception had not been discovered.

  Eugene was halfway down the steps when someone coughed politely behind him.

  “What now?” Eugene cried. Gustave stood there, as plain in his sober secretary’s jacket as a sparrow among Karila’s exotic birds, holding out a silver tray on which lay a folded paper.

  “News from Azhkendir,” he said in his most formal voice.

  Eugene faltered, torn between Lovisa’s frantic signaling and reading the contents of the letter. He snatched up the letter and started toward her, stopping under the light of a flambeau to read what was written:

  Lord Gavril has returned.

  Nils Lindgren, Captain.

  “Ah!” said Eugene aloud. He held the paper to the torchflame until it flared up, then collapsed to ash.

  Astasia tapped Celestine lightly on the shoulder. In a matter of seconds, the switch was effected and Astasia, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird in her breast, took her place again beside Karila. The little girl was happily licking the icing off a marchpane swan. Astasia smiled and nodded at her stepdaughter.

  Please don’t blurt anything out, Kari.

  But when the swan was half-nibbled away, Karila lost interest and the swan dropped from her sticky fingers. Astasia had never been so glad to see Marta appear to take the child away to bed.

  Karila began to protest. “But I want to see the bonfires, Marta.”

  “You need your sleep,” said Marta severely. “You can see them from your bedroom window. Say good-night to the Empress.”

  “ ’Night, Tasia . . .”

  A little string orchestra struck up on the terrace; to Astasia’s dismay, she recognized the yearning strains of “White Nights,” her favorite waltz. The violins soared, the melody throbbing out across the dark gardens, high and intense.

  Homesickness suddenly flooded through her. She had been so happy to see Andrei. But now that he was gone, she felt even more bereft, knowing that her marriage had divided them, sending him far away to Francia.

  And where was Eugene? It was most uncivil of him to leave his empress standing on her own, without an escort, among all these strangers.

  Through her tears, she stared down into the darkening gardens. Bright flames sprang up as the servants lit the first Dievona Bonfire, illuminating the parterres. There was Eugene—and he was deep in intimate conversation with a tall, elegant woman.

  “Lovisa!” she muttered, clenching her fists till her nails dug into her palms.

  “I haven’t time for this now, Lovisa,” Eugene said quietly. “You should be protecting my wife.” He looked up to the terrace and saw Astasia standing on her own. A little pang of guilt—an unfamiliar sensation—unsettled him. “Why is no one with her? I want her guarded at all times, especially in this crowd.”

  “Can you be sure that woman is your wife?” Lovisa asked coolly. “I tell you, I saw two identical shepherdesses in blue on the terrace a moment ago. I signaled to you, but you were distracted by Gustave.”

  “And for all I know, there are three milkmaids dressed as you are here tonight, maybe four.” Eugene was impatient to escape the festivities. This was no time for dancing or singing.

  Lord Gavril has returned.

  For all he knew, Gavril Nagarian was already winging his way here to Swanholm to take his final revenge. The security of New Rossiya was at stake—and he must act quickly or lose his hold over the empire.

  The guests had grabbed torches and were gathering around the bonfires for the ancient ceremony. Florets of flame flickered and danced in the dark gardens, like fireflies. Servants moved among the guests, offering steaming glasses of hot punch to keep out the night’s chill. A lone singer burst into the time-old Dievona Night chant and soon many voices joined in, raising a raucous, full-throated paean to the ancient gods of spring. As the flames died down to smoldering ashes, the boldest (or most inebriated) of the youngsters would leap the bonfire, hand-in-hand, to ensure fertility and good fortune in the coming year.

  He realized that Lovisa had been talking to him while his thoughts raced to Vermeille and far beyond.

  “All I’m saying is, I lost sight of her for some minutes.”

  “Yes, yes.” Eugene had no more time for the countess’s excuses and vague insinuations. He had to find Linnaius.

  “And then I glimpsed them together. In the Orangery. He was kissing her.”

  “Saw whom?” Eugene had only half-heard what she said.

  “The Empress. Or a woman who was wearing the same costume. With a man.”

  Now he heard her clearly. She was insinuating that she had seen Astasia in a compromising situation in the Orangery. His heart went cold. But all he said was, “Can you be sure, Lovisa?”

  “Well, no, Eugene, but—”

  “Watch her. And report to me again only when you have firm evidence.” He strode briskly away before she could say any more. He did not have time to deal with this now.

  The strength of the singing startled Astasia. She leaned on the balustrade, listening to the voices singing in some old Tielen dialect she couldn’t understand. The bonfire chant had a raw, pagan quality, as if it had been sung under the bright spring stars for years without number since the dawn of the world.

  A sweet, alcoholic smell, flavored with cinnamon and cloves, wafted under her nose. One of the servants was offering her a silver-handled glass of some steaming beverage.

  “Hot Dievona punch, imperial highness?”

  Hastily, she waved him away. The smell made her dizzy and nauseous and she grasped at the smooth-polished stone of the balustrade for support.

  Why do I weep one moment and feel faint the next? I was never that kind of silly moping girl! And then she remembered. Her hands instinctively crept to cover her stomach.

  His child. Our child.

  Great cheers arose from the onlookers around the bonfire. They were jumping over the dampened flames, young men and their girls, hand-in-hand, shouting with exhilaration as they leaped into the spark-dusted air.

  I’d like to run, to leap high over the bonfire . . . but whose hand would be clasped around mine? Eugene’s?

  She saw him now, striding purposefully up the gardens from his rendezvous with Lovisa.

  Is it true, Eugene? Did you order Linnaius to sink my brother’s ship, and all of Muscobar’s hopes with it?

  He took the steps two at a time, as vigorously as a young man.

  “I’m going hunting, Astasia.”

  “Very well.” She looked back at him coldly through the eyeholes of her mask. If hunting was his alibi for spending time with his mistress, then she must play along with his little game for the sake of propriety.

  I’m carrying his heir and he doesn’t even know it. Nor shall he! It’s obvious that his secret affairs are of far greater importance.

  “Come,” Celestine whispered in Andrei’s ear, “now’s our moment; everyone’s busy around the bonfires.”

  But Andrei stood staring at the flames. He did not want to leave his sister all alone in this foreign court. His
heart, so light and happy at the start of the ball at the thought of seeing her, now ached with despair.

  “What pressures did they put on you to marry him, Tasia?” he murmured. “What happened in those long months when I was dead?”

  As in a dream, he saw men and women catch hands and leap the bonfires, transient as flickering shadows against the fiery brightness.

  “Come on!” Celestine tapped his shoulder. “It’s too dangerous to stay. Someone might start asking questions. . . .”

  “What would be the harm?” he said slowly, still staring into the flames, mesmerized by their brilliance. “Tasia needs me, Celestine. If all you’ve told me is true about Eugene—”

  “Oh no,” said Celestine firmly. “No! Imagine what a difficult situation that would be. It’s not yet time for you to come out of the shadows. Though that time will come, Andrei. Have faith in me.”

  She spoke with such authority that he gazed at her in astonishment.

  “Who are you, Celestine?”

  “One who has your best interests at heart,” she said lightly. “And now we really must be on our way.”

  They reached the gravel drive where the coaches were drawn up, waiting; little stableboys ran to and fro collecting the fresh manure left by the horses. Celestine moved swiftly, searching in the darkness for their coach. But in the darkness, they all looked very much alike, the family crests painted on the doors difficult to distinguish on the ill-lit drive. Andrei followed slowly, unable to disguise his limp any longer; he had stood too long and was badly in need of a rest.

  “Can I help you?”

  Andrei hung back; he recognized the voice too well. It was Valery Vassian; ever the gentleman, he had approached Celestine, lantern in hand.

  “I seem to have mislaid my coach and driver, Lieutenant.”

  Andrei heard Celestine, adept at charming anyone she met, working her magic on Valery. He lingered in the shadows, listening, longing to speak to his old friend, yet not daring to reveal his identity. In a few minutes, the coach was found.

  “Lieutenant, how can I thank you? I could have been searching till dawn and not found my driver in this crowd. . . .”

  “My pleasure, demoiselle. I’m honored to have been of service.”

  Andrei smiled, hearing Valery’s gallant reply; it seemed that Vassian had not lost any of his old-fashioned courtesy in the Emperor’s service.

  He started out toward the coach. The ache in his legs made him clumsy. He reached for the door to pull himself up onto the first step, and his left leg buckled beneath him. To his embarrassment, he fell back onto the gravel. His wig came off, and the mask slipped awry. Before he could right himself, someone caught hold of him and steadied him.

  He knew, without looking, that it was Valery. Eyes lowered, cheeks smarting with shame, he tried to avert his face.

  “Andrei?” Valery whispered his name. “Andrei—is it you?”

  Andrei turned, Valery’s arm still supporting him. “Don’t give me away, Valery, I beg you. For Astasia’s sake.”

  “But—they said you were dead!” Valery’s dark eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Valery, I am dead.” Andrei gripped Valery’s arm tightly. “Do you understand?”

  Vassian nodded. He seemed stunned.

  “Listen,” Andrei said, aware that other guests were approaching, “I want you to do something for me.” He leaned forward, his head close to Valery’s. “Look out for my sister. She’s so alone here in Tielen. And vulnerable.”

  Vassian nodded again. “Count on me. But what—”

  “Time to leave,” Celestine called warningly from the coach.

  Andrei squeezed Valery’s arm gratefully. “Later.” He turned and hoisted himself up into the coach.

  Vassian closed the door and saluted them. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening,” he called loudly. “I wish you a safe journey.”

  As the coach driver guided the horses away from the palace, Andrei saw Valery still standing to attention, watching them.

  “That was unfortunate. Can he be trusted?” Celestine said. There was a hard, merciless gleam in her eyes that Andrei had never seen before. “If not, an accident could be arranged . . .”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He spoke with equal conviction. “I’d trust Valery with my life.”

  “Very well. I need a sound alibi. And Lieutenant Vassian has just seen me leave the palace in my coach.” Celestine rapped on the coach roof with her fan. “Stop a moment, driver!” She opened the door and climbed lightly down onto the gravel drive.

  “Where are you going?” Andrei asked, bemused. “I thought—”

  “There’s one more thing I must attend to. Wait for me at the lodge gate. Drive on, coachman!”

  Astasia raised her mask to wipe the tears from her eyes. She was vexed with herself for crying, even more vexed for caring enough about her husband’s indifference to cry at all.

  “Imperial highness.”

  She turned and saw Valery Vassian. There he stood in his New Rossiyan uniform, his brown eyes filled with kindly concern, the sole familiar face in this crowd of strangers.

  “Speak to me in our home tongue, Valery,” she said.

  He bowed. “Your highness looks tired. Your highness’s brother has asked me to look after you in his absence.”

  Startled, she gazed up at him.

  “Don’t worry; I am sworn to secrecy,” he said gallantly.

  All of a sudden she felt exhausted. She was not sure if she had the strength to cross the terrace and reenter the palace. A strong arm to lean on was all she wished for.

  “I am tired,” she said. He offered her his arm and gratefully she slipped her hand through. As they walked slowly away from the lantern-lit gardens, she said, “Thank you, Valery.”

  She felt ashamed now when she remembered how she used to tease him for his clumsiness, how his face had turned a deep red at her unkind words.

  “You know,” he said fervently, “I would do anything for you. You have only to ask.”

  “Anything, Valery?” The Melusine, Andrei had said, in the harbor at Haeven. “Even if it meant deserting your duty here at the palace?”

  A gaudily dressed pantaloon was bending over a bay tree, being noisily sick into its white-painted wooden tub. Kaspar Linnaius passed hastily by. These Tielens were too fond of their alcohol. They drank to excess, as if they might never see wine or aquavit again. Before the night was over, many of the guests would have to be carried to their carriages, insensible with drink. But long before then, he and Eugene would be far from Swanholm.

  “Good evening, Magus.”

  Linnaius started. A masked, snow-wigged young woman in a pale blue shepherdess’s costume had appeared out of the darkness. She was standing in the archway that led into his courtyard. Could it be the Empress? Astasia had been wearing a costume very like this one. And the woman’s voice, though light and young, was tinged with a foreign accent.

  “I have been waiting for you, Magus.”

  He slowed, wondering what possible reason the Empress could have for coming to see him here, alone, so late at night. Faint strains of dance music still drifted from the gardens, mingled with raucous bursts of cheering.

  She lifted one hand to her gilded mask and untied the ribbons. Eyes of an angelic blue gazed at him; he recognized the young singer with the glorious voice he had seen earlier with the Empress Astasia.

  “You have me at a disadvantage—” he began, stuttering a little.

  “Let me introduce myself.” She peeled off the white wig, shaking loose her golden hair. “My professional name is Celestine de Joyeuse. But Joyeuse is the name of my singing-master, the man who adopted me, a poor orphan in a convent school.”

  “This is all very interesting, demoiselle, but—”

  “My real name is Celestine de Maunoir.”

  Linnaius felt a dull shudder of pain in his breast at the sound of that name. “Maunoir’s child?” he repeated. “Impossible. You are too young.”


  “I was just five years old when the Commanderie took my father. That was twenty-one years ago.”

  Linnaius twitched his finger and thumb, making the lanternlight brighter so that he could see her face more clearly.

  “But—my dear child—”

  “I am no child, Kaspar Linnaius. After they burned my father at the stake for heresy, I was forced to grow up all too fast.”

  Had she come for money? Or revenge? How much did she know? He could not tell from looking into her clear blue eyes. All he knew was that this conversation was wasting valuable time and that Eugene was waiting for him. And it was not prudent to keep an emperor waiting.

  “This is fascinating, my dear. Let us arrange a tête-à-tête for tomorrow and I will tell you everything I know about your father.”

  “I sail for Allegonde tomorrow.”

  She seemed determined to speak to him. Which was unfortunate, as he would now be obliged to work some glamour upon her. It was difficult enough trying to keep Kiukirilya hidden without having to deal with this spectre from his past.

  He moved closer, gazing deep into her eyes.

  “Yes, I see the likeness now; your eyes are the same color as his,” he murmured. Her will was strong, and he could sense considerable resistance to his attempt to enthrall her mind. He slid his hand into the deep inner pocket of his robe, where he kept a few granules of sleepdust.

  “And don’t try your mage trickery on me,” she said. “I took precautions to protect myself. . . .” Her voice began to trail away as the little shimmering cloud drifted down around her and she slowly sank to the ground, insensible.

  Linnaius went for help and almost bumped into a tall young lieutenant striding purposefully back toward the palace.

  “There’s a young woman lying in my courtyard; I think she may have taken a little too much punch tonight.”

  The lieutenant followed him.

  “Why, it’s Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “I’ll take her back to her coach; the queue to the gate is moving very slowly.”