Lord of Snow and Shadows (13 page)

It was a slender glass phial, barely the length of her little finger.

“For perfume?” she said. “Or one of the essences Sosia uses to flavor puddings: vanilla, almond, rose?”

“But why here? And look, there’s some residue.” He sniffed the phial, pulling a sour face. “It smells acrid. Not the least like perfume . . .”

“Poison . . .”

Kiukiu felt herself wracked by a sudden bitter chill; glancing up, she saw—behind Lord Gavril—a man, standing watching them, a shadow dimly etched against the pale shaft of frosted daylight.

Lord Gavril whipped around.

“Father! Wait!” he cried. His voice came echoing back in shivers of sound.

But even as Kiukiu forced herself to look again, she saw that the revenant had gone.

“Must have been a . . . a trick of the light,” she said.

He said nothing. When she dared to look up at his face she saw that his eyes were set, staring grimly into the empty passageway.

“
You
saw him too.” She felt cold and sick. The air, when she tried to take in a breath, tasted bitter as winter frost.

He weighed the little glass tube in his palm. “Of course. There must be another passageway that leads from here to the Great Hall.” He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “A whole network of passages—even one that leads out into the grounds, outside the kastel walls . . . Kiukiu!”

“Yes, my lord?” She gazed up into his eyes. So blue, she could drown in them. The fear and the cold receded.

“I want you to give me your word. That you’ll say nothing of what has happened here today. My life—and yours—may depend on it.”

The earnestness of his voice, the intensity of his blue gaze, mesmerized her. She looked down and saw that his hands were on her shoulders.

“I give you my word,” she said.

His hands—touching her! As she led the way back down the grimy passageway away from the door, she felt so light, so airy, she could have danced.

You didn’t have to ask me to swear secrecy, my lord. Can’t you see that I am utterly devoted to you?

CHAPTER 10

On the fifth evening the Orlov carriages rattled across a broad, fertile river plain toward the setting sun and the distant shimmering mirage that was Mirom, capital city of Muscobar.

As they drew near, the mirage became stone, and the light of the setting sun gilded the spires and painted onion domes of Mirom’s monasteries and cathedrals. Elysia leaned close to the dusty window to gaze out. She had never visited Mirom in her life, and she wanted to see if the city lived up to the many reports of its wealth and splendor.

Centuries ago, Mirom had been the capital of the powerful empire of Rossiya. Once, before the downfall of the imperial family, the emperors had held court here. On the death of the last emperor, Artamon, his sons had scrapped like dogs for the throne—and eventually the empire had been divided up among their warring families: Muscobar; Smarna to the south; and Tielen, Azhkendir, and Khitari to the far north. The Grand Dukes of Mirom still claimed blood descent from the Great Artamon, though genealogists disputed the claim.

Stiff though she was and weary from the rigors of the overland journey, Elysia was enchanted with her first view of the city of Mirom. The cathedral domes were bright with colored swirls of mosaic tiles in rich reds, purples, and blues, and bristled with golden spires.

The great gateway under which they passed bore the Orlov crest: two proud sea-eagles, wings outstretched, emblazoned in blue, white, and gold.

And then they were in the city, clattering over cobbles as, flanked by the White Guard, the carriages rolled toward a broad tree-lined boulevard.

“Home at last,” cried Astasia. And then she let out another piercing sigh.

“And not before time,” said Eupraxia. “How wearisome this journey has been. The sea route is much more pleasant.”

“Praxia, you know Mama was seasick last time we came by sea. Perhaps Prince Eugene has unwittingly spared her.”

Elysia was still looking out of the window. In the mellow dusk, lamplighters were lighting the street lamps that glowed along each side of the wide avenue. The carriage wheels ran more smoothly now, as if rolling on soft-milled gravel. Ahead lay high walls interspersed with ornately spiked ironwork railings; in the center were gilded iron gates that also bore the Orlov crest finely worked in metal.

In the wide avenues Elysia saw people stopping beneath the trees and staring. But she had heard no cheers of welcome, only the incessant clatter of the horses’ hooves and the jingle of the harnesses. Perhaps the comings and goings of the ruling family were a commonplace event to the people of Mirom. . . .

Then the carriages wheeled through the gates and into the vast courtyard, making straight for the central building. It was not until they drew close that Elysia saw a second archway constructed in the palace itself and realized they were about to drive through into an inner courtyard.

“Home at last,” Astasia said again as the carriage shuddered to a halt. She flung open the door and leapt nimbly down before one of the liveried servants could hurry forward to help her. “Eupraxia, make sure Madame Andar is made comfortable. See she has rooms in the West Wing near to your own. I have things to do.” And she went running off before Eupraxia could stop her.

Eupraxia shook her head, tutting fondly. “Still rushing round like a giddy schoolgirl. What will Prince Eugene think? What kind of a bride will she make?”

Elysia was staring up at the painted stucco facades of the Winter Palace: walls of gray and blue; pillars and carvings highlighted in cold, winter white. Inside the tall windows she caught the glitter of glass crystals in chandeliers and polished mirrors.
A palace of ice and snow,
she thought.
I only hope its inhabitants haven’t hearts of ice as well.

“A word of advice, Madame Andar,” Eupraxia whispered in her ear. “When you are preparing for your audience with His Grace the Grand Duke, make sure you wear appropriate court dress. It would be deemed an impropriety to appear inappropriately dressed.”

Court dress? Elysia took out the few clothes she had brought with her, shaking her head over each as she laid them on the bed. There was nothing remotely grand here. Her life in Vermeille had not included balls or imperial receptions. Vermeille was a republic; a revolution long before she was born had ousted the ruling family and established a democratically elected council.

Perhaps she could borrow a court gown? She had no wish to offend the Grand Duke by dressing inappropriately and thereby prejudicing Gavril’s cause. . . .

“How ridiculous!” she whispered, furiously casting down the last gown on the bed. “My son’s future is at stake, and here I am having to worry about
dresses
?”

There was a discreet tap at the door and Eupraxia appeared, bearing a little tray. A delicious smell wafted from a porcelain bowl on the tray as Eupraxia set it down.

“Astasia thought you might need some refreshment, madame, so I’ve brought you some bouillon to restore you after the journey.”

“How thoughtful,” Elysia said distractedly. “But right now, Eupraxia, what I most need is some advice. Which of these gowns is closest to court dress?”

Eupraxia looked down at the dresses and Elysia saw a little frown furrow her plump, pleasant face.

“Oh dear.”

“None of these?”

“Well, perhaps this one, the russet velvet. But it is considered a discourtesy to his grace to appear in his presence plainly dressed. One must look as if one has spent the greatest time and trouble to look one’s best. But as long as you wear your jewels with it . . .”

“Jewels?” Elysia stared at Eupraxia. What would they think of her? She had no jewels; she had sold the sapphires Volkh had given her on their wedding day to pay for their passage back to Vermeille. All she had kept was a single ruby, Volkh’s first gift to her, dark as blood. She had not worn it in over fifteen years but somehow had found herself unable to part with it, even when times were hard. Now she took it out and strung it around her neck. Against her creamy skin it looked like a crimson teardrop.

The marble floor was so highly polished that Elysia could see her reflection in it. Gold-swagged mirrors and varnished maps painted in rich colors adorned the paneled walls, and at the center of the room stood a wide desk fashioned out of walnut, each leg carved as a gilded sea-eagle.

A white-haired man sat writing at the desk; he was in plain court dress with a blue ribbon bearing an order of gold about his neck. He looked up as she entered, frowning a little.

“Drakhys,” he said, rising.

Elysia winced. “I do not choose to be called by that name,” she said coldly.

“Madame Andar, then.” Although his cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard were white, the gray eyes observing her gleamed with a keen, youthful intelligence. She felt uncomfortably as if she were being assessed. “Let me welcome you on behalf of His Imperial Grace the Grand Duke to the Winter Palace.”

“I was told I was to be granted an audience with his imperial grace.”

“And indeed, Madame Andar, you are, you are. Let me introduce myself: Vassian, First Minister of Muscobar.”

Flustered, Elysia dropped into a curtsy, one hand to her breast.

“I beg your pardon, your excellency, I misunderstood.”

He gestured with one hand for her to rise.

“My dear madame, you have been through a difficult time. I am here to listen to your tale and to discuss in what ways we might be able to help you. But first . . .” With another curt gesture he signed to the hovering servants to leave the antechamber. “Now we are alone. You can say what you will without fear of being overheard. Please be seated.”

Elysia sat down on the gilt-framed chair on the other side of the ornate marquetry desk.

Vassian listened to her account without comment, his hands folded on the desktop.

“And when I went into his room next morning, he was . . . gone.”

“And you believe your late husband’s bodyguard have kidnapped Gavril?”

Elysia nodded. She could feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes, yet her pride would not allow her to weep in front of Vassian. She sensed he would take it as a sign of weakness.

“There is another, darker possibility for which you must steel yourself, madame. Your husband made many enemies within his own country—and without as well. Someone might have taken this opportunity to rid Azhkendir of the Nagarians for good.”

Elysia took in a breath to try to steady her voice. “I am all too aware of that possibility. That was one of the reasons I took Gavril away from Azhkendir.”

“And all youthful japes and misdemeanors have been discounted? There is no woman involved?”

“None, I assure you,” Elysia said, rather more sharply than she had intended, and saw the ghost of a fleeting smile pass over the First Minister’s impassive face. “I’m not saying Gavril has been a saint, your excellency. But all his usual haunts have been checked and double-checked. None of his friends or drinking companions have seen him.”

Vassian leaned forward across the desk.

“Let’s assume he has been taken to Azhkendir. Had you considered the possibility that—knowing all too well your feelings toward your late husband—your son is afraid of telling you he wishes to be made Drakhaon?”

“Gavril left all his paints and sketchbooks behind. He never goes anywhere without them,” Elysia insisted.

“Are you aware that Lord Volkh came here to Mirom about eighteen months ago to discuss a treaty of mutual benefit to our countries?”

“I told you, your excellency, we did not communicate.”

“It was a little diplomatic coup for which I take full credit.” Vassian examined his nails as he spoke. “The Treaty of Accord. For years we had been trying to establish relations with Azhkendir, remote and inaccessible as it is. In the light of our present”—he hesitated as though searching for the right word—“difficulties with Eugene of Tielen, I can assure you we are still most interested in maintaining good relations with Azhkendir.”

“I don’t see how this helps my son,” Elysia burst out.

“You may recall, madame, that the southern mountains of Azhkendir form a natural barrier between our two countries. Look.”

He smoothed out a map on the desk, pointing out the long southern range of mountains that separated Azhkendir from Muscobar.

“The White Sea to the east of Azhkendir is already filled with ice. And now we hear that the Saltyk Sea on the western shores has frozen over too.”

“You’re saying that he is a prisoner?”

“A prisoner of the elements, madame. The Grand Duke has much influence in this hemisphere—but even he, I fear, cannot command the snows to thaw or the ice to melt.”

Elysia stared at the crude, jagged lines of the mountain peaks. The cartographer had evidently not been able to gather enough information about Azhkendir to map the contours accurately.

“So what am I to do?”

“Azhkendir is, as I said, of great significance to us,” Vassian continued, rolling up the map. “Our relations with Eugene of Tielen of late have not been as cordial as we would wish. He has amassed a vast fleet in the Straits. Azhkendir is all that stands between Eugene’s armies and Muscobar. We can only hope that this forthcoming wedding proposal will serve to—”

There came a discreet tap at the door.

“Yes,” rasped Vassian.

“His excellency, Count Velemir,” announced a liveried servant.

Elysia turned around in her seat to see the newcomer. The count was wearing a fur-trimmed coat of black velvet cut like a military greatcoat. He walked with the aid of a gold-topped ebony cane, yet Elysia saw with a portrait painter’s astute eye that he was only in early middle years. He was clean-shaven, with his brown hair combed severely back, military fashion, from a weather-tanned face. He smiled as Vassian introduced them, kissing her hand, and she noticed that his eyes were a warm tortoiseshell brown.

“You have news for Madame Andar, Velemir?” Vassian said.

“Indeed I have.” Velemir sat on another of the gilt chairs opposite Elysia. “News that will serve to reassure her, I trust.”

“News of Gavril?” Elysia was all attention now.

“Your son is, as you guessed, in Azhkendir. He disembarked at Arkhelskoye, where he was welcomed by the townspeople. He then set out for Kastel Drakhaon, where your late husband’s will was due to be read.”

“But how can you be sure?” Elysia cried, not certain whether she felt relief or dismay that her fears had been confirmed.

“It is my business to know these things,” the count said calmly. “I am on my way now to relay the information to the Grand Duke. If you would care to accompany me, Madame Andar, I will present you to his grace.” He rose and offered her his arm; after a moment’s hesitation, Elysia rose too, placing her hand on his arm.

“We will talk again soon, madame,” Vassian said, picking up his pen. It seemed as if he had already turned his mind to other matters.

“So you have recently returned from Azhkendir, count?” Elysia asked boldly.

“Indeed no, madame, but I have been on official business to Tielen.” He stopped. They had reached a long, mirror-lined gallery whose tall windows looked out onto a formal garden where fountains spouted among clipped hedges of box and yew. “I must congratulate you, Madame Andar.”