Lord of Snow and Shadows (46 page)

Careful now . . .

It was at this moment that the last two hairpins had broken. Gingerly, she applied a little more force . . . and then something . . . a lever? . . . began to give.

Just a little more pressure . . .

Her teeth bit into her lower lip as she concentrated all her efforts into this delicate
maneuver. . . .

Too hard. Suddenly the pin shaft snapped and her fingers were gashed by the sudden movement against the edge of the keyhole, slicing a little of the flesh away. Blood dripped onto the polished boards.

All those hours of work for nothing. Elysia wrapped her handkerchief around her cut finger to try to stanch the bleeding.

Suddenly she found she was weeping. Tears of anger and frustration trickled down her cheeks.

I never cry! Not over something so trivial as a cut finger.

Yet still the tears kept coming. She could not stop them. She flung herself down on the boards and wept like a child.

CHAPTER 37

“One of the prisoners keeps asking to see you, highness. Says she has news of Lord Jaromir.”

The dispatches dropped from Eugene’s hands. “Bring her to me.”

When his aide had gone, he rose and paced about the cramped tent, repeatedly striking his fist against his palm, trying to diffuse the growing sense of frustration.

The tent flap was raised and a woman was led in. To his surprise, she sank into a full court curtsy, head bowed.

“Your highness,” she said in stumbling Tielen.

“Rise, madame,” he said in the common tongue, “and tell me who you are.”

“My name is Lilias Arbelian. I once had the honor to be presented to your highness by Feodor Velemir.”

Arbelian? Her face was dirt-streaked, her clothes were torn and filthy, her red hair disheveled—and yet there was something in her bearing and voice that signified she was no common camp follower.

“Velemir has an agent called Arbelian,” he said, placing the name at last. “How can I be certain you are she and not an Azhkendi impostor, sent to spy?”

“You can let me speak with Feodor using your Vox Aethyria.” She nodded her head wearily in the direction of the device. “I lost mine when I was forced to flee Kastel Drakhaon.”

So she knew of the Vox Aethyria—and had used its correct name. He would have to risk trusting her.

“You have news of Lord Jaromir,” he said, trying to keep any hint of emotion from his voice. “When did you last see him?”

“At Kastel Drakhaon.”

“He is a prisoner?” Dear God, if Jaro had fallen into the
druzhina
’s clutches, what atrocities had they committed? Was that why his life flame burned so faintly? “Tell me everything you know!”

“He came to rescue me from the
druzhina,
” she said, “but we were caught escaping. Michailo managed to save me, but Jaromir . . .” Her voice faltered and she swayed on her feet, one hand fluttering to her forehead.

Eugene lunged forward and caught her as she fell.

“Aquavit for Madame Arbelian,” he called. “And be quick!” He eased her down into one of the folding camp chairs, propping a velvet cushion behind her drooping head.

“Forgive me, highness,” she whispered.

The aide came in with a little crystal glass of aquavit and Eugene knelt, holding it to Lilias Arbelian’s lips, tipping the clear liquid into her mouth. She swallowed a few drops, then nodded her head weakly, waving the glass away.

“You must be hungry,” Eugene said. “Bring some broth for madame.”

He waited in an agony of apprehension as she drank some hot broth and ate a little bread. Her skin, beneath the film of dirt, seemed a little less pale, her eyes less dull.

“Now, madame,” he said, sitting opposite her. “Tell me everything you know.”

As he listened to her account, he felt himself growing more and more agitated. It seemed that the last she had seen of Jaromir was two of the Drakhaon’s
druzhina
dragging him away. And Jaromir had not caught up with them in their flight from the Drakhaon. Lord Gavril had already used his powers to destroy a wolf horde, burning them to ashes. She feared . . .

Anckstrom came in toward the end of her tale and listened, arms folded across his broad chest, saying nothing. When she had finished, he leaned forward and whispered in Eugene’s ear.

“It accords—roughly—with what we’ve been able to get from the other prisoners.”

Eugene rose and beckoned Anckstrom outside the tent.

“Come. Walk with me.”

Watch fires glimmered along the borders of the camp. The night air was bitterly cold.

“‘Accords roughly’? Explain.”

“Seems we’ve run into two feuding factions within the
druzhina
. Your Madame Arbelian was being pursued by the Drakhaon’s men. Would you care to interrogate one of them yourself?”

The prisoner was shackled to an interrogation post, hands high above his head. He was a tall, gaunt man, with a shaven head. His skin, where it was not covered with the blue and purple whorls of tattooed clanmarks, was rutted with old scars.
What barbarians,
Eugene thought with distaste.

When one of Eugene’s interrogators tugged on the chains, forcing the prisoner to raise his head, Eugene saw that he had lost an eye. The lids had been sewn tightly together across the empty socket, giving his expression a perpetually ironic cast.

“Do what you will,” the prisoner said, voice faint yet defiant, “I’ll never betray my lord Drakhaon.” Fresh wounds to his forehead and side had been bandaged, but a stain of scarlet was already leaking through the bindings.

“You Azhkendis may employ barbaric methods of torture to extract information,” Eugene said, “but we are more civilized in Tielen. Have you administered the truth tincture, sergeant?” he asked the interrogator.

“It should be taking effect now, highness.”

“What . . . have you done . . . to me?” As Linnaius’ drug took effect, the prisoner began to slur his words, and what had started as a protest subsided into a confused mumble.

“Now you will tell us everything we wish to know,” Eugene said, signing to his clerk to start recording the prisoner’s testimony. “What is your name and rank?”

“Jushko. Acting commander . . . of the
druzhina.
” The prisoner sounded like a man murmuring in his sleep.

Anckstrom and Eugene exchanged a look.

“And what, Commander Jushko, was your mission?”

“To capture . . . Lilias . . . and the rebels . . . Bring her back . . . alive . . .”

Anckstrom nodded to Eugene.

“And where is Lord Jaromir Arkhel?”

There was a pause.

“Dead.”

“Dead!”
Eugene’s heart seemed to have stopped beating. He could see only the prisoner’s ravaged face, and his dull, drugged eye. “How can he be dead! He was taken prisoner at the kastel. Madame Arbelian saw him—”

“Escaped,” Jushko said thickly. “Lord Gavril . . . went after him. Shot him. How else . . . lay Lord Volkh’s ghost?”

“The man’s babbling nonsense!” Eugene cried. “You’ve given him too much of the tincture.”

“Easy, Eugene.” Anckstrom laid one hand on his arm.

“He says Jaro is dead. How can he be dead?” Eugene turned on Anckstrom. “The life flame still burns. You’ve seen it, Anckstrom—”

“I’m sure there is a logical explanation here,” Anckstrom said calmly.

“Proof. I need proof.” Eugene pulled away from Anckstrom and went up to the prisoner, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Did you see the body? Answer me! Did anyone see the body!”

“Up . . . in . . . mountains.” Jushko’s head slumped drunkenly forward. “Fell . . . down crevasse . . .”

“If this is true,” said Eugene, his mind whirling with the implications of Jushko’s statement, “then the Andar woman dies.”

“We don’t know it to be true,” said Anckstrom guardedly. “And she is our best negotiating ploy.”

It seemed to Eugene that all the colors had leached from the tent, the warm gold from the lamplight, the scarlet from the glow of the brazier. Everything had become gray.

“Revive him,” he said, pointing to Jushko. “He’s going to lead us to Kastel Drakhaon. We’re going to find out the truth.”

“But what about Muscobar?” said Anckstrom in an undertone. “The fleet’s awaiting your orders. We mustn’t lose our advantage. All your work, highness, your plans, your men—”

“Muscobar,” Eugene said curtly, “can wait.”

“Who are you?” The voice was high and clear, a child’s voice.

Startled, Astasia whirled around and saw a young girl. The child, no more than six or seven years of age, was standing staring at her with probing curiosity. There was something odd about the way she stood, one shoulder hunched higher than the other.

“You startled me. How did you get in?”

“Are you going to be my new mama?” the child asked with utter directness.

Astasia did not know how to reply. She went over to the girl, kneeling down beside her. Close to, she could see that her nightgown was made of the finest cream silk, trimmed with ivory lace. With her golden curls, she was as pale and pretty as a porcelain doll—but a doll that has been violently thrown down, its limbs twisted grotesquely out of shape.

“Are you Prince Eugene’s daughter?”

“My name is Karila. But you may call me Kari, if you like.”

“Does anyone know you’re here, Kari? Is your governess looking for you? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I had bad dreams. And when I called out, no one came.”

“Let me take you back to bed.”

Kari shook her head vehemently. “Don’t want any more bad dreams.”

“I know how to banish bad dreams. You show me the way.”

The child took Astasia’s hand and led her out into the candlelit corridors.

“The dragon came again in my dream. Its breath burned me.” Her grip was hot and sticky, as if she were feverish. No wonder, Astasia thought, she had been dreaming of burning.

Suddenly Karila stopped, her hand squeezing Astasia’s.

“Why is that lady crying?”

Astasia listened. Now she could hear the faint sound of someone weeping.

“It must be one of the servants, Kari.”

“No. It’s the foreign painter lady. They put bars on her windows. I think she is sad because she wants to go home and Papa won’t let her.”

“Bars? She’s a prisoner?” So Elysia was still here! What other lies had Velemir told her? “Show me.”

“Doctor Kazimir has made his delivery, as promised, highness.” Eugene’s aide reined in his horse to fall into step with Cinnamor.

Eugene pulled Cinnamor aside from the head of the column of men.

“Let me see it.”

The aide withdrew a little glass phial from his uniform jacket.

“This is all?” Eugene held the phial up to the pale winter sunlight, tipping it so that the viscous liquid slid to one end and then the other. In the light it glowed a dull blue, more like ink than blood. Drakhaon’s blood.

“All that he could extract before administering the . . . other substance.”

“Where is the doctor now?”

“Awaiting your highness’ instructions.”

“Bring him to me.”

A few minutes later the aide returned followed by Kazimir, whey-faced and breathless.

“How do I know this doesn’t contain poison?” Eugene said curtly.

“I—I would never presume to—” stuttered Kazimir.

“Take some yourself.” Eugene thrust the phial into Kazimir’s hands.

“A few drops on the tongue, that’s all you need to protect yourself, highness, from the Drakhaon’s poisonous breath.” Kazimir did as he was bid, pulling a grimace at the taste.

Eugene watched. Kazimir had not hesitated. He took back the phial and tipped some of the contents into his mouth.

A shimmer of thunder, black and electric blue, shuddered through his mind.

He blinked. For a moment he had glimpsed something quite alien to his own experience. A touch of darkness that left his skin crawling.

He had tasted the blood of the creature that had killed Jaromir.

He felt tainted. Polluted.

He looked at Kazimir. “You have done well, Doctor. But there is one thing more you will do for me. There is an urgent dispatch to be delivered to the Drakhaon.”

The doctor’s face crumpled like old parchment.

“No, highness. Don’t make me go back. I beg you. Please don’t make me.”

Eugene turned away. He found the doctor’s pleading embarrassing.

“Do you wish to live?”

“B-but they’ll kill me if they find out I’ve—”

“That is a risk you will have to take.”

Elysia dried her eyes. What was the use of weeping? She was cross with herself now to have shown such weakness, and all over a little cut. She examined her finger and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

She would just have to start again with her fourth hairpin.

She went to the washbowl and with her left hand poured cold water into the bowl, dabbing some around her eyes to reduce the redness.

“Madame Andar?”

Someone had called her name.

“Elysia?”

She picked up a candle and hurried into her bedchamber to see Astasia standing there, holding a fair-haired little girl by the hand.

“How did you—” she began, but before she could finish, Astasia threw herself into her arms, hugging her tight.

“Oh, Madame Andar, I’m so pleased to see you. Velemir told me you had gone to Azhkendir. If it were not for Kari, I would have gone on believing it.”

“But how did you get past the guards?”

“I know all the secret passages,” said a small, clear voice proudly.

“Princess Karila?” Elysia curtsied to the child.

“Now can we have a story?” Karila said, yawning. “I’m tired.”

“Take us back to your rooms, Kari,” Astasia coaxed, “and I’ll tell you a story from Muscobar.”

“But not a sad story. I don’t want to have bad dreams.”

“This one will have a blissfully happy ending,” Astasia said, smiling at Elysia over Karila’s head.

Elysia watched in astonishment as Karila walked over to the marble mantelpiece and touched one of the carved acanthus leaves. A panel slid to one side, just wide enough for a child to walk through without bumping her head.