Lord of Snow and Shadows (38 page)

CHAPTER 32

The
Alkonost
made landfall at the port of Haeven at dawn on the third day out from Mirom. Carriages were waiting to take the party from Mirom to Prince Eugene’s palace at Swanholm—with an escort of immaculately uniformed soldiers, their tricorns decorated with cockades of pale blue.

They passed through forests of silver-barked birch trees and skirted the edge of still, blue-watered lakes. Every time they clattered past a farm or through a village, Elysia noticed that the people would leave their tasks and stand silently, respectfully, by the side of the road. Were they cowed by the presence of Eugene’s cavalry, she wondered, or was this the local custom?

As the light faded from the distant misted hills, the escort lit torches and placed lanterns on the carriages to illuminate their progress.

“We are not far now from Swanholm,” Velemir said.

Elysia nodded. She had been thinking of Gavril. Flashes from her dream kept intruding on her thoughts. Where had such grotesque images come from? She had only once glimpsed Volkh in his altered form—for he had gone to great pains to conceal that aspect of himself from her. And at too great a cost. When she had learned what he had done to keep his human form, she had run from him and barred her door. Even now, so many years later, the memory of his bitter confession made her feel ill with revulsion.

She prayed that it was not too late to start to administer Kazimir’s elixir. She prayed that Gavril had not already committed some terrible atrocity that would haunt him for the rest of his life. That would poison any chance of future happiness, as it had with Volkh.

The gracious sweep of the curving wings of colonnades of the Palace of Swanholm was lit with bright flambeaux.

Elysia had been nodding off to sleep, lulled by the jogging of the carriage, but when Velemir gently touched her shoulder, pulling up the blind to show her the sight, she stared in wonder.

The still, black lake waters were streaked with the fiery reflections of the flambeaux. And behind the lake, the palace stood, the flames warming its cool stone with gentle fire.

“It seems to . . . glow,” she said.

“In spite of what Astasia may have told you,” Velemir said wryly, “you will find the prince a most cultured and enlightened man.”

The carriages followed a long, winding drive down behind the hills so that the palace was hidden from sight. But, Elysia noted with surprise, the glow in the sky lingered.

“Welcome, Madame Andar,” said Prince Eugene.

Elysia sank into a low curtsy. “I am not dressed for a formal presentation, your highness.”

Prince Eugene took her hand and raised her to her feet.

“You have just had a long journey,” he said in the common tongue. “You must be tired. Tomorrow morning—when you have rested—you can present me with the portrait.”

He was broad-shouldered and tall, at least a head taller than Velemir. Astasia had been unjust in her description: he was not handsome, Elysia allowed, but neither was he ill-favored, with a strong chin and jutting nose, his fair-brown hair cut short in military fashion. But although his lips were smiling as he greeted her, she caught a chill from shrewd, sad gray eyes that reminded her of bleak winter skies.

Plainly and unostentatiously dressed in a dark gray uniform coat, the prince’s only concession to decoration was a golden medal, shaped like a sunburst, on his left breast.

“Count.” He turned to greet Velemir, who bowed, hand on his heart. “We are so very sorry to hear about the loss of the
Sirin
. I have ordered my men to search Tielen’s beaches in case anyone—or any debris—is washed ashore. But in the meantime, please convey our deepest condolences to the Grand Duke and Duchess.”

The next morning, Elysia was woken early by the tap and ring of hammers. Looking out of her window, she saw workmen busy on the opposite wing of the palace; the night had hidden their scaffolding and ladders.

After a light breakfast of rolls, fruit, and coffee, she sat to await the summons to attend the prince, trying to order her thoughts.

A light tap at her door announced that her wait was over.

“His highness is awaiting you, madame.” A white-wigged servant, in a yellow and white striped coat, ushered her out of her room.

The palace smelled of fresh plaster and paint. And as she followed the servant along the corridors, she looked with admiration at the way the architects had used pale woods, mirrors, and glass to enhance the effects of light in the palace; it was almost like walking through the facets of a crystal.

And then in the distance she thought she heard a child’s carefree laughter echoing down one of the corridors.

“There are children in the palace?” she asked in surprise.

“His highness’ daughter, Princess Karila, madame,” the servant replied.

So Astasia—hardly more than a child herself—would find herself cast in the delicate and difficult role of stepmother.

“And will we meet the princess?”

“She is only seven, madame. The prince does not judge her yet ready for social occasions.”

The portrait stood on an easel, the cool light of late autumn falling on Astasia’s delicate features. And the prince was standing looking at it, pensively stroking his chin.

Hearing her enter, he turned around to greet her.

“It’s a very fine piece of portraiture, madame. I must congratulate you.”

“Mostly my son Gavril’s work, highness,” she said.

“So natural. And . . . lifelike?”

Elysia detected a slight hesitation, as if the prince thought it indelicate to ask the artist outright if the portrait were idealized or true to life.

“There is no flattery here,” she said bluntly. “Astasia is a sweet-natured and attractive young woman.”

Gavril, I’m so sorry to do this to you,
she said in her heart.
But Astasia was never destined to be your bride. . . .

“She likes balls, music, dancing, yes? Will she not find Swanholm rather quiet after life in Mirom?” A slight frown darkened his gray eyes. “Dull?”

At that moment, Count Velemir came in with Altan Kazimir. Elysia was glad not to have to answer the prince’s question. The doctor’s injuries had been tended to and he had been fitted out in clean clothes. Only his spectacles had not been mended.

“Highness, may I present one of Mirom’s most eminent scientists?”

“Doctor Kazimir!” Eugene cried, going to shake Kazimir’s hand. “What an honor to meet you.”

“The . . . the honor is mine,” murmured Kazimir dazedly.

“The count has told me a little about your work; I should like to hear more.” Eugene was suddenly animated, enthusiastic, in sharp contrast to his earlier mood. “But there’ll be time for that later. We have more pressing matters to deal with. Your son, Madame Andar.”

“Yes?” she said uneasily.

“Come, look at the route I have planned for you.” He spread out a map on the desk. “We will travel to the northern coast and the isthmus. The snows have not reached Swanholm yet. But you will need to be warmly dressed; the inland sea is quite frozen over. I will arrange for fur-lined cloaks, gloves, and hats to be delivered to your chambers.”

“Is it safe to travel across the ice?” Elysia said, looking down at the map. Even though the Saltyk Sea narrowed to a channel at the point Eugene was indicating, where a strip of land jutted out from the Tielen coast, the distance between the two countries looked—she judged—at least twenty leagues.

“Quite safe, I assure you, madame. And you, Doctor, you have agreed to cure Madame Andar’s son of this distressing affliction?” Eugene turned to Kazimir. “To that end, Magus Linnaius has agreed to let you use whatever supplies you require from his laboratories.”

“Magus?” said Kazimir in tones of distrust. “But surely these are alchymical laboratories? I employ properly tested scientific methods and materials, not magical mumbo jumbo.”

Elysia gazed at him, aghast. How could he speak so insultingly to the prince, his host?

But Eugene threw back his head and laughed. “I can see the sparks will fly when you and Linnaius meet. Wonderful! Two opposing intellects arguing the relative merits of their disciplines.”

“And I must also point out,” Kazimir said stiffly, “that for the elixir to work, I will need to take fresh samples of blood from the Drakhaon. That means returning to Kastel Drakhaon. And as I have repeatedly reminded the count, I am a wanted man in Azhkendir. If I am caught, the
druzhina
will hack me to pieces first and ask questions later.”

“Perhaps if Madame Andar were to write some kind of letter of safe-conduct, signing herself as Drakhys Elysia?” said Velemir.

Elysia shot him a frowning look, unhappy at the idea of being forced to use her title. “But as I shall be with him, I can vouch for him—”

“And if you are separated?” added Velemir.

“Do any of those Azhkendi brutes know how to read?” muttered Kazimir.

“I make the suggestion merely to allay your anxieties, Doctor,” Velemir said amiably.

“Well, Velemir?” Eugene said as soon as they were alone, trying to hide the tension in his voice. “Do you have it?”

Velemir drew a little velvet bag from his inner breast pocket and handed it to the prince.

With careful fingers, Eugene drew the stone from the velvet and held it up to the light. Still warm with the heat of Velemir’s body, the heart of the ruby seemed to glow, transmuting the wintry daylight to a bloodred flame.

“It is the Tear of Azhkendir, isn’t it?”

“Yes, oh yes,” Eugene murmured, turning the jewel in his fingers. “And Madame Nagarian was unaware of its value?”

“Utterly unaware. She described it as a gift from Lord Volkh. I believe she intended to sell or pawn it to buy passage to Azhkendir.”

“And she accepted the substitute without dispute?”

“She believes the necklace she is wearing to have been made from Lord Volkh’s ruby. Why should she be dissuaded? Ignorance is bliss. This way, we are all content.”

Eugene looked round and caught a hint of a little smile of self-satisfaction on the count’s face.

“You are an artist in dissimulation, Velemir,” he said.

Velemir bowed, as if acknowledging a compliment.

“And now . . . there is only one Tear left to win.”

Elysia sat at a little escritoire, pen poised above a sheet of smooth cream paper, staring out across the park. She had already written a short formal introduction for Kazimir, signing her Azhkendi title with reluctance:

To whom it may concern: the bearer of this urgent letter is my special envoy. I have satisfied myself that he was in no way involved in the assassination of my late husband, and he must be given safe conduct to my son, Gavril Nagarian.

Elysia Nagarian, Drakhys.

The letter to Gavril was far harder to write.

Dearest Gavril,

We have so much to talk about. I cannot wait to see you. I have missed you so much! Please, please find it in your heart to forgive me for withholding the facts about your inheritance from you. It was wrong of me, I see now. You needed to know about your father. Now all we have to do is to hope and pray that Doctor Kazimir can cure the condition you have inherited from your father, and enable you to lead a happy and normal life again.

Your loving mother,

Elysia

There came a rap at the door and Velemir entered, dressed in his travel clothes.

“For your letters.” He laid a small folder of soft, dark leather on the desk.

“What’s this?” She turned it over, revealing two white and gold sea-eagles emblazoned on the leather.

“A diplomatic bag bearing the Orlov crest. I felt the Tielen arms would be inappropriate in the circumstances—the doctor might find it a little difficult to explain.”

Elysia shook on a little sand to dry the ink and gently blew it off the paper. Then she folded the letters and slid them inside the soft leather, tying the folder with a blue ribbon.

“You must give them to Kazimir yourself.”

“Are you not coming with us, then?” she said, surprised.

“I have just received an urgent communication from the fleet. It seems some more wreck debris from the
Sirin
has been washed ashore in southern Tielen. Bodies. They need me to go . . . to identify, if necessary . . .”

“Oh.” Elysia placed her hand on his. “Such a sad task.”

“And such a fine young man. Headstrong, yes, but full of promise.”

Elysia nodded. The news only served to lower her mood, increasing her apprehensions about the journey she was about to undertake.

“So I must abandon you for a little while,” he said. He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “It is a brave thing you are doing, returning to Kastel Drakhaon when you have such unhappy memories of the place.”

“I would do anything to ensure Gavril is safe,” she said fervently.

“I know.” He released her hands and withdrew.

When he had gone, she wondered why she felt so strangely bereft. Now that she was so close to seeing Gavril again, she had no real need of the count’s aid anymore.