Lord of Snow and Shadows (44 page)

“Till it’s safe,” Michailo said, scowling.

Artamon started to fret. Lilias promptly handed him over to Dysis, who tried to distract him, jiggling him up and down on her shoulder.

“You need to talk terms with Kastel Drakhaon,” she said, impatient. She had misjudged him. He had seemed so full of potential, but now she was beginning to think he had not a single cunning thought in his head; he was all muscle and ill temper. She would have to do the thinking for all of them.

“What? And give away our whereabouts? I think not. Where’s Grisha got to? He’s been gone too long.”

“And there are bugs in our bedding,” she said, willing herself not to scratch. There were angry red bites on her arms and legs. “I need clean clothes. For the baby.”

“You could have had clean clothes if you’d stayed,” he said sullenly.

At first she had found this habitual sullenness attractive, the way his fair brows knotted over light blue eyes, cold as winter skies. Now it only irritated her. He might be ambitious, but he lacked the imagination to bring his plans to fruition.

The door to the hut scraped open. Michailo was on his feet in an instant, axe in hand, but it was only one of his men, Grisha Bearclaws.

“Grisha.” Michailo slowly lowered the axe. “I could have split your head in two—”

“Soldiers,” Grisha babbled. “A whole army. Coming this way.”

“What kind of soldiers?”

“Not our own. Foreigners. Gray and blue uniforms. Very neat, very orderly. All carrying muskets. Column after column.”

Lilias had not missed a word. “In gray and blue?” she said. “That sounds like the Tielens.” She glanced at Dysis. “Has Velemir sent a rescue party at last?”

“Too many just to rescue us,” Dysis said, now jiggling Artamon on her knee.

“But they’ll give us protection. We must make contact with them.”

“Are you mad, woman?” cried Michailo. “They’re not interested in us; they’re off to war. And if we contact them, we risk making our position known to the Drakhaon’s
druzhina
.”

She went over to Michailo. “Don’t you see, Michailo? They’re our only hope of safe passage out of here.” If only she had had time to bring the Vox Aethyria with her, she could have contacted Velemir and the Tielen commanders, arranged a rendezvous. . . .

“Let me go talk to them, then. You can hide in the bushes if you’re so scared you’ll be seen.”

“No, and that’s an end to it.”

She clenched her fists in vexation, fingernails biting into her palms. She must talk Michailo around. Not such an easy task, as he was so jumpy and bad-tempered, almost as if he regretted what he had done—although it was too late now for regrets.

“Michailo,” she said in her softest, sweetest voice. “You have risked everything for my sake. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made. But I have friends, influential friends, at the court of Tielen. It would be foolish not to ask for their help. Just imagine . . . our own escort of armed soldiers, safe passage beyond the reach of Lord Gavril. A new life . . .”

“I’ll think about it.”

Volkh’s study in the Kalika Tower glittered with phials, alembics, and tubes, a brittle edifice of glistening glass. As Gavril entered, he saw Kazimir, intent on connecting another slender tube to the precarious construction.

“How soon will the elixir be ready?”

Kazimir turned to Gavril, his eyes narrowed in his bruised face. “My lord, this process cannot be rushed or you may die.”

“Look at me.” Gavril thrust his hands before Kazimir’s face. “It has begun again. Soon I may not be able to control my actions.”

Kazimir took his hands in his, examining the claw nails and the glittering scales of blue skin with intense concentration. “Fascinating,” he muttered. “You are remarkable beings, you Nagarians. It seems a crime to suppress what is happening to you. You are unique. Your gift makes you more than human. We scientists should learn from you, not destroy.”

“You call this curse a gift?” Gavril withdrew his hands. “I just want to be rid of it. Do what you have to do, Doctor—and be quick about it.”

Kazimir reached into his bag and withdrew a glass phial with a long needle protruding from the end. He uncorked a bottle of clear spirit and swiftly cleansed the needle.

“I will need to take samples of blood, my lord.”

Gavril made a grimace. “Of course.” He rolled up his sleeve. “What is
that
?”

“A syringe. For the drawing out of fluids. Magus Linnaius gave it to me.”

Gavril held out his bare arm. Kazimir came toward him, and then hesitated.

Gavril looked at him, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ve treated me well, Lord Gavril,” Kazimir said, “and in return, I feel it only right and fair that I should warn you, as I warned your mother. This ‘cure’ is highly risky. What worked for your father may not work for you. It will prove debilitating; it might prove fatal.”

“Just do it,” Gavril said, averting his eyes as Kazimir pressed with his thumb for the vein in the soft crease of his elbow. The Magus’ needle pierced his skin, and his life’s blood began to flow into the glass tube, blue as indigo.

CHAPTER 36

Elysia sat in the window seat, gazing out through the bars over Swanholm’s bleak snow-covered hills and woods. All day she had sat there as she had sat the days before, staring out at the winter’s gloom and the black crows in the bare branches of the parkland trees. The dull, cold weather mirrored her despairing mood all too well.

Prisoner. And all because of my own gullibility, allowing myself to be flattered and fooled!

But now she saw a sleigh speeding down the snowy road toward Swanholm, escorted by uniformed outriders.

She sat up, wondering who the new arrival might be.

The horses drew the sleigh into the courtyard below, and one of the outriders jumped down to help the passengers out. First was a young woman, well-wrapped against the cold in a cape and hat of silver fur. She stood as though amazed, gazing up at the wide sweep of the palace buildings. Elysia leaned closer against the bars, her breath misting the cold panes. There was something familiar about the lithe and graceful way the young woman moved. . . .

Wigged servants appeared on the steps, raising lanterns high to brighten her way through the dwindling daylight.

As the young woman came forward into the lanterns’ soft gleam to enter the palace, Elysia gave a little cry of recognition.

It was Astasia.

Astasia untied her cloak and peeled off her fur gloves. A servant silently spirited her snow-damp outer clothes away; another servant ushered her into a salon hung with yellow silks where she was served with almond biscuits and hot tea laced with aquavit. And all the time she was staring around her, astonished at the austere splendor of Eugene’s palace.

“Altessa. I trust your journey was not too cold?”

She looked up and saw Count Velemir in the doorway.

“I came as soon as I received your message, count.” She rushed over to him, pulling him into the salon. “But why the secrecy? Surely if it’s news about Andrei, my mother and father should be the first to know.”

“Your father is in a—” he hesitated, “—fragile state of mind. And your mother has never been robust. I thought it better to bring you here to your fiancé’s home, where you will be safe.”

“Safe?” She did not understand.

“Sit down, child.”

He had never dared to call her “child” before; it was oddly affectionate—yet overfamiliar. Surprised, she sat down and he sat beside her, taking her hands in his.

“It’s bad news, then.” A dull feeling of dread overwhelmed her. Had they found Andrei’s body?

“The world has begun to change, altessa. It was best that you were as far from Mirom as possible.”

“Mirom? I thought this was about Andrei—”

“Prince Eugene is at this moment crossing the ice into Azhkendir with his armies. From Azhkendir, he will enter Muscobar. At the same time, his fleet will sail up the Nieva to Mirom.”

She snatched her hands from his, rising to her feet.

“What are you telling me? What’s happening?”

“There will be some resistance in Mirom, but Eugene’s armies will easily subdue the city.”

“He’s invading Mirom? My home?”

“Altessa, the days of the House of Orlov are over. Your father is a broken man. He has lost the confidence of the people. And you—with all greatest respect—are too young, too inexperienced, to rule.”

Astasia stared at him in disbelief.

“But we have allies. Azhkendir. There was an agreement—”

“Altessa,” he said gently, “you are a very fortunate young woman. You are betrothed to marry the most powerful man in the whole continent. The man who will soon be crowned emperor. You will be empress at his side.”

“But I don’t want to be empress!” she cried. “And you, Velemir, I thought you were my father’s trusted servant, his ambassador; what are
you
doing here? What of the vows you made to the House of Orlov?”

“Your father asked me to arrange this marriage; I am acting on his instructions.”

“I’m not staying here a moment longer. I’m going back to Mama in Mirom. She’ll need me.”

Astasia began to walk quickly toward the door. Velemir was quicker; he barred her way.

“Return is not only inadvisable, it is impossible.”

“What? You mean to hold me here—a prisoner?”

A gold and marble horologe struck the hour in a tinkling chime of bells.

“A guest in your future home, altessa. It is no longer safe to make the sea crossing; at any moment now, the Tielen fleet will start to sail up the Nieva. Doubtless the Muscobar fleet will retaliate. I anticipate a ferocious and decisive sea battle.”

She looked at him with loathing. She had never trusted him—and now, too late, she knew her instincts had been right.

“But just imagine how your people will welcome you back when the wedding is celebrated in Saint Simeon’s. Their own altessa marrying Eugene of Tielen.”

“How does it feel, count,” she said coldly, “to betray your country?” She no longer cared if she offended him. He was beneath contempt. “Are you utterly lacking in any sense of loyalty?”

“Indeed, altessa, I have always regarded myself as a patriot,” Velemir said smoothly. “I have only acted in Muscobar’s best interests. Your father is a weak and ineffectual ruler. The people detest him.”

She let out a little cry of outrage.

“What would you rather—to see Mirom torn apart by revolution, the Winter Palace burned, and you and your family executed? Or peaceful rule restored and a new empire forged, with you and Eugene at its head?”

“If my brother were here—” she began, tears pricking her eyes.

“Andrei is dead. Drowned,” Velemir said with brutal candor.

“Where is Madame Andar?” Astasia turned from him, hoping he had not seen her tears, determined not to cry in front of him. “No, don’t tell me. She has already left for Azhkendir.”

He said nothing.

“So I am trapped. Alone. Except for my maid.”

“You will want for nothing here, altessa. Swanholm is a marvel. Your future husband is a man of taste and refinement, and he has provided for your every need.”

This time it was she who did not reply, staring out over the formal gardens and icebound lake already shrouded in twilight mists. She heard the door click discreetly open and the sound of his footsteps receding down the corridor.

“Andrei,” she whispered to the gray gardens. “Oh, Andrei . . .”

Eugene raised the telescope and scanned the landscape. The moorlands of Azhkendir stretched away to all sides, stained the cinder colors of winter: white, gray, and brown. Jaro had told him of the wasteland Volkh Nagarian had created when he scorched the Arkhel lands to ashes—but he had not imagined the desolation could stretch so far. Even now, years after the attack, little grew here, only knotted grasses and stunted thornbushes, crushed by the weight of successive snowfalls.

Now the snowy wastes were filled with marching Tielen men; horse-drawn carts lumbered behind, drawing cannons. There was no sign of the Drakhaon or his
druzhina
—and nowhere for them to hide on this bleak plain.

And then through the telescope lens he spotted movement. A man, far off, ragged as a peasant, dragging himself through the snow. One of Gavril Nagarian’s spies, sent to track their progress?

“There’s a man following us. Over there.” He gestured with the telescope to two of his aides. “Bring him to me.”

He heard distant shouts as his aides caught hold of the spy and brought him to his knees. Strange. The few words he caught seemed to be in their own language, Tielen.

He climbed back onto Cinnamor and rode toward them.

“Highness! Highness!” cried the prisoner, hands outstretched. “Tell them who I am!”

One of the aides struck him. “Wait for his highness to speak to you.”

Eugene gazed down at the man. He was in poor shape. His face was smeared with sweat and blood; his uniform was charred and filthy; and yet his eyes, pale and defiant, were familiar.

“Oskar Alvborg,” Eugene said.

The man sagged in his captors’ grip. “Yes,” he whispered.

“He’s one of ours. Bring him to the camp and get him cleaned up.”

Oskar Alvborg sat hunched in a corner of a hospital wagon. He was wrapped in blankets, but his teeth still chattered.

“Can’t get much from him, highness,” murmured the surgeon. “Seems to be in shock. He’s been quite badly burned. Lost most of his hair.”

Burned. Uneasy now, Eugene approached the patient. “What happened, Alvborg?” he asked. “And where are your men?”

“Dead,” muttered Alvborg, staring into nothingness. “Dying. Don’t know.”

“And who attacked you?”

Alvborg’s shoulders began to shake. Eugene thought at first that he was weeping—and then he heard low, dry laughter. Pale eyes glinted at him, bright with malicious amusement.

“Can’t you guess, highness?”

“The Drakhaon?” Eugene had risked everything on the success of this campaign. He had to know his adversary.

The laughter died away. There was anger in Alvborg’s pale gaze now—and something else that Eugene could not yet define.

“We did exactly as you ordered, highness. We played the decoys. We led the Drakhaon and his men away from the invasion force. And what did we get for our pains?”

“Who fired first?”

“They were too close. We had to defend ourselves.”

“
You
fired on the Drakhaon?” He had taken a calculated risk in choosing Alvborg for this mission, and Alvborg had failed him. “You fool. Your orders were to distract him, not attack.”

“He looked just like a man, an ordinary man.” Alvborg seemed to be talking to himself now, forgetting Eugene was there. “But what ordinary man can make fire bloom from his fingertips? Fire, blue as burning brandy . . .”

The surgeon looked at Eugene over Alvborg’s bandaged head. “He’s feverish, rambling,” he said. “He should rest, highness—”

“I need to know.” Eugene gripped Alvborg by the shoulders, forcing him to look into his face. “So even the Magus’ inventions were no match for his powers?”

Alvborg flinched. “My men were burned to charred bone with one flick of his fingers.”

Eugene let go of Alvborg. His mind was buzzing. The success of his Azhkendi strategy now hinged on one man: Altan Kazimir. He knew now for sure the armies would never reach Mirom unless Gavril Nagarian was crushed.

“You have sorely disappointed me, Lieutenant Alvborg,” he said, rising to his feet. “I expected more from you. When you are recovered from your injuries, you will have to answer to a military court.”

Alvborg said nothing. But from under swollen lids whose lashes had been singed away, he shot Eugene a look of virulent resentment.

“And you—” Eugene turned on the surgeon. “All you heard here today was the incoherent ravings of a sick man. Nothing is to be repeated, understand?”

The man nodded, eyes lowered.

Eugene pushed open the canvas flap of the wagon and jumped down to the ground.

Morale was high among the troops. They were days away from a great victory. They knew they were rewriting the history of the whole continent. He would let nothing tarnish their hopes now.

“Poison . . .”

Gavril stared blindly into darkness, sweat chill on his skin.

“I’m dying. Poisoned. Want . . . to . . . live . . .”

He felt sick and faint. Voices welled up in his mind, insidious fever voices. Screaming, shouting—

He clutched his hands to his head, trying to shut the voices out.

“It’s too late to divide us . . .”

Not voices now, but one voice alone. One voice that spoke out of his nightmares, so clearly that he was sure someone else must be in the room.

“Kill me, and you kill part of yourself.”

He had been dreaming again. The dream images, vivid, violent, still veered before his eyes in a lurid procession.

Eyes, slanted, alien—yet somehow familiar—gaze curiously into his, dazzling him with their glittering stare.

Creatures of colored light and shadow swoop and dart about him on wide translucent wings.

The air shimmers with the heat from their flared nostrils as they hover closer.

“What are you?” he whispers.

“Save. Preserve. Protect.”

The words whirl around his mind as the sky lights up with slashes of fire. Tall bronze-clad warriors, their faces too bright, too vengeful to look upon, stand below. And from the tips of their fingers shiver bolts of flame.

Too late the winged creatures spin around in the air. Too late blue fire shoots from their flared nostrils toward the golden-eyed warriors.

The flame bolts sizzle—and catch alight. In a wild whirling of wings, the burning creatures begin to thrash, to flail about—to crash to the earth. Viscous liquid sprays onto him where he stands; viscous, thick, and sticky as blood—yet blue as the phosphorescent gleam of their eyes. The air is rent with their cries, terrible howling cries of agony—

“Protect.”

The elixir must be working. It was giving him these nightmares, making him hear voices. It was purging his system of all the toxins that enabled the being he called Drakhaoul to inhabit his body. He lay back, unable to control the shaking in his limbs.