Lord of Snow and Shadows (7 page)

“Who gave permission for
you
to be admitted?” Kostya said gruffly.

All Gavril saw at first was green eyes, green as forest glades, and the sheen of glossy chestnut hair. Then the woman moved slowly toward him through the shaft of bright daylight and he saw that she was pregnant, heavily pregnant.

“Aren’t you going to present me, Kostya?” the woman said, smiling.

Kostya cleared his throat.

“Lord Gavril, this is Madame Lilias Arbelian.”

Gavril came down from the dais, his hand extended. To his surprise, Lilias dropped to one knee and instead of shaking his hand, kissed it, the pressure of her lips warm on his skin.

“Please. There’s no need . . .” Embarrassed, Gavril leaned forward and raised her to her feet.

“So you’re his son,” Lilias said, gazing intently into his face. “Elysia’s boy.” Although she still smiled, Gavril saw that her bewitching green eyes had filled with tears. As she straightened up, he noticed she wore a black mourning ribbon about the pale porcelain column of her neck. Who was she, what was her place in the household? Gavril glanced at Kostya for help but Kostya had turned away, his back stiff with disdain.

“You—you have the advantage over me, madame,” Gavril stammered.

“Oh, Kostya,” said Lilias, her tone sweetly chiding, “did you forget to tell Lord Gavril about me? I was your father’s mistress, Gavril.”

“Whore,” Kostya muttered through his moustache.

Gavril stared at her, tongue-tied. He should have known there would be other women in his father’s life; who could expect a Clan Lord to stay celibate for so many years? If only Kostya had warned him.

“Your journey must have been tiring, Lord Gavril,” Lilias said. “When I first came to Azhkendir from Mirom, the voyage took eight days. Such terrible storms! I was utterly exhausted—”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Kostya interrupted.

“Such concern over my welfare! I’m touched, Bogatyr,” said Lilias in her sweetly honeyed voice. “I merely came to invite Lord Gavril to take a dish of tea with me. I thought we should get to know each other better, my lord. There is so much to talk about.”

“Thank you,” Gavril said warily.

“Tomorrow afternoon, then? About four?”

“Four.” Gavril heard himself accepting her invitation even though Kostya was frowning at him and shaking his head.

“I look forward to our meeting, my lord. I want to get to know all about you.” Lilias gathered her full skirts and curtsied to him before turning to leave.

“So you’ve seen nothing unusual, Lilias?” Kostya said.

She stopped. “What should I have seen?”

“Lord Volkh.”

Lilias’ serene smile faded. “Don’t play word games with me, Kostya. Say what you mean.”

“My meaning is,” Kostya said with some savagery, “that his ghost appeared here in this hall today. In the very place where he died. A foot or so from where you are standing.”

Gavril saw Lilias delicately flick the hem of her gown away from the place which Kostya was pointing at.

“Why should that concern me?” She looked up at Kostya, staring at him as though challenging him to answer her question directly. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

She turned away and went sweeping from the Great Hall.

Kostya muttered something under his breath.

“Kostya,” Gavril said. “Why didn’t you tell me? She’s carrying my father’s child, isn’t she?”

Kostya muttered again, inaudibly.

“Kostya! Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Kostya shook his battle-scarred head. “When it comes to my lady Lilias, no one knows the truth. But I ask you, Lord Gavril, does she look like a woman in mourning? Oh, she made a fine fuss the night of your father’s murder, shrieking and wailing like a madwoman. But she’ll put off her mourning clothes soon enough.”

“And if her child is a son? Won’t he be a rival claimant?”

“Son, daughter, it doesn’t matter; your father made you his heir. And he never married Lilias, no matter what she might claim. By the ancient laws of Azhkendir, you are his only son. He never divorced your mother.”

Gavril’s head had begun to ache. So many threads left untied at his father’s death.

“I’ll send your apologies later this afternoon,” Kostya said.

“Surely that would be discourteous?”

“There’s more pressing matters to attend to! She’s only a woman. She should know her place.”

“Lord Gavril.” Sosia came hurrying in. “The lawyers have arrived from Azhgorod.”

Was it just a dream?
Kiukiu kept asking herself as she raked the embers of Lord Gavril’s fire into her dustpan. The new Drakhaon was downstairs, reopening the Great Hall. She must work fast to prepare a new fire in readiness for his return.

She had slept badly, tossing and turning on her little bed all night. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw again the desolate plain and the pitiful lost souls crawling aimlessly through an eternity of swirling, stinging dust. Her head was still sore to the touch, but Sosia’s witch hazel had soothed the bruise. Yet how could a mere blow to the head produce such terrifying visions?

She took up her little brush and began to sweep the grate clean of cinders. The ash drifted into the pan, gray as the bitter dustclouds of that windswept plain.

He said I have a gift. The gift to hear the voices of the dead?
She dropped her brush with a clatter and looked round guiltily, hoping no one had heard her. The thought was not a comforting one.

If I have this gift, then why haven’t I ever seen any ghosts before?

She stood up, her pan full of ashes. She would have to go fetch fresh coals and kindling to lay a new fire.

And then she noticed the door to the dressing room was slightly ajar.

And if I did bring Lord Volkh’s ghost through, why has no one else seen it?

She hesitated. The temptation to check the dressing room was overwhelming. It would only take a minute or so: all she needed was to convince herself that it had been a trick of the mind.

She tiptoed across to the dressing room. As she entered she noticed Lord Gavril’s traveling clothes, washed, ironed, and folded by Sosia. The smell of Sosia’s best soap perfumed the air. Already the room felt completely different from yesterday.

Pensively she fingered the frame of the broken mirror. Yesterday it had become a doorway to another world, and now it was just a piece of wood.

If she had really brought a ghost through from the Ways Beyond, it was no longer confined here in this room. And, with the mirror portal shattered, how was she to send it back?

The servants were in a huddle as she came into the kitchen, all talking in hushed voices. Half-rolled pastry lay abandoned on the pastry slab; peeled apples for a pie were turning brown. No one was working.

“Michailo saw Lord Volkh?”

Kiukiu froze in the doorway.

“Where? Where did he see him?”

“In the hall. In the shadows. Where Lord Volkh—
you know
—”

“And how can we be sure Michailo hadn’t been at the aquavit?”

“Because the Bogatyr has seen it too.”

Kiukiu felt faint and cold. So it hadn’t been a dream. She had brought Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith back from the Ways Beyond.

“But why does the Bogatyr think one of us summoned it?” Ilsi’s voice, sharp even when whispering, rose above the others. “No one knows how to do such a thing.”

If she tiptoed through very softly, maybe no one would notice her—

“Kiukiu!”
Sosia had spotted her. She stopped, not daring to look around.

“Yes, Auntie?” she said in a small voice.

“The Bogatyr wants a word with you.”

“Me?” She tried to shrink into the corner. “Why me?”

“You haven’t been a bad girl, have you, Kiukiu?” said Ilsi in a silly, singsong voice. Ninusha began to giggle. “If you’ve been a bad girl, the Bogatyr will have to punish you.”

Kiukiu began to shiver. She was afraid of the Bogatyr. She remembered the screams and agonized cries of the men he had had put to the question. The
druzhina
could inflict pain in any number of cruel and ingenious ways.

“Come with me, my girl.” Sosia seized hold of her wrist and began to pull her. “And put that coal bucket down.”

“I don’t want to come.” Kiukiu tried to pull away, but Sosia’s grip was as tight as pincers. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Sosia half-led, half-dragged her toward Bogatyr Kostya’s quarters.

The Bogatyr was waiting for them. When the guards at the door let them in, he said brusquely, “Let no one else in. We are not to be disturbed.”

A little whimper of fear came out of Kiukiu’s lips. He looked so fierce, so unforgiving. She had never been brought before him like this; Sosia usually dealt with all matters of discipline belowstairs.

“Someone has summoned up Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith,” he said. “Was it you?”

“Me?” Kiukiu’s legs were trembling. “Why me?”

Instead of answering, he looked accusingly at Sosia.

“Does she know?”

“How could she?” Sosia said scornfully. “She knows nothing. I’ve kept my counsel all these years, just as you made me swear to.”

Kiukiu stared from one to the other, confused. What was she supposed not to know?

“Look at the girl, she’s simple; she has no idea what you’re talking about.” Sosia smiled at Kiukiu but Kiukiu could sense the tension behind the smile. “Simple but loyal-hearted, isn’t that right, Kiukiu?”

“Well, Kiukiu?” His eyes burned into hers.

Fear locked her tongue.

“A straight answer, girl,” he barked.

“I’d never do anything to hurt Lord Gavril,” she burst out. “Never!”

There was a silence. She could feel sobs welling up inside her but she fought to hold them back; if she wept now, he might take it as an admission of guilt.

“Very well,” he said. “But if I find you have been lying to me, things will go ill with you. Understand me, girl?”

She nodded.

“Now get out of my sight.”

Outside his room, the tears began: helpless, stupid tears. She stuffed her apron in her mouth to stifle them, angry with herself for being so weak and frightened.

“Dry your eyes.” Sosia bustled up beside her. “There’s work to be done.”

Kiukiu nodded, wiping the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“What did he mean, Auntie,” she asked, hurrying to keep up with Sosia’s brisk pace. “When he asked, ‘Does she know?’ Know what?”

“Nothing that need concern you.”

“And why is it so bad that the ghost is here? Perhaps all it wants is to bring the murderer to justice. Perhaps—”

Sosia stopped suddenly, spinning around and wagging her finger in Kiukiu’s face.

“Now listen to me, Kiukiu. There’s been a lot of foolish talk in the kitchens since Lord Volkh’s death. If you want to keep your place in this household, you’d do best to stop asking silly questions.”

Oris Avorian, Lord Volkh’s chief lawyer, rose to his feet, raised the rolled document so that all could see, and broke the great seal of black wax.

The Great Hall was filled with people: grim-faced
druzhina,
servants and serving maids, all waiting silently to hear their dead lord’s will.

Gavril sat in the center of the dais, flanked by Kostya and Lilias, who had put on a somber black gown for the occasion. Lilias’ maid Dysis stood behind her mistress’ chair, eyes demurely lowered.

Now that it had come to the moment, Gavril felt numb. He just wanted the ceremony to be over.

“‘The last will and testament of Volkh Nagarian, Drakhaon and rightful Lord of the Land of Azhkendir. I, Volkh Nagarian, being of sound mind and body . . .’”

Gavril let his gaze wander over the silent assembly, watching the sea of faces of his father’s household.

“‘My lands, my monies, and all my estates pass by right of birth to my only son and heir, Gavril Andar.’”

Not even the faintest murmur of dissent greeted the announcement, and yet Gavril sensed a growing tension within the hall.

“‘To Bogatyr Kostya, my faithful lieutenant, counselor, and friend, I bequeath my battle saber . . .’”

Gavril heard a muffled snort; glancing uneasily to his side he saw that Kostya had drawn out a handkerchief and had noisily blown his nose.

“‘Every man in the
druzhina,
from the humblest keep boy to the master of horse, is to be paid a deathgift in gold coins, one for every year he has been in my service in recognition of his loyalty and valor. . . .’”

Now the murmuring began; Gavril saw the men turn to each other, nodding and counting on their fingers.

“‘. . . and to my only son and heir Gavril Andar, I also bequeath a casket. This casket must be opened by Gavril and Gavril alone, and the contents of this casket are never to be revealed to another living soul.’”

The small casket stood in the center of the table. It was a singularly plain piece of workmanship, fashioned out of dull-sheened wood, reinforced with tooled iron at the corners. If it held treasure, its outward appearance gave no hint of its contents. And yet Gavril could not keep his eyes off it. As the lawyer droned on, he found he kept staring at it, wondering what lay within that was so secret, so personal that no one else should see it.

“‘. . . and to my charming companion Madame Lilias Arbelian, I leave a pension of five hundred gold coins a year until her death. If she chooses, she may continue to live in the West Wing—or if she prefers, she may ask my son Gavril to establish her in my mansion in the city of Azhgorod.’”

“Well?” a voice demanded tensely in the silence. “Is that all?”

Gavril, jarred from his reverie, glanced up to see Lilias staring at the lawyer, her face white.

“That concludes the reading of the will,” the lawyer said in measured tones, ignoring her.

“Is there no codicil? No later additions?” She leaned forward on the table toward him, her eyes narrowed. “Are you
sure
?”

“Perfectly sure,” the lawyer said coldly, rolling up the parchment.

“Then I challenge the validity of this document.” She turned to the household, one hand raised imperiously. “He told me he had changed the will. When he knew I was carrying his child. He told me!” Her voice began to crack.