Lord of Snow and Shadows (8 page)

“Lord Volkh has bequeathed you a very generous legacy, madame,” Avorian said coldly. “I beg you not to excite yourself in your condition. Think of your child.”

“I won’t let this matter rest,” Lilias said. “I shall inform my lawyers in Mirom. I shall contest the will. Come, Dysis.” And Lilias gathered up her somber skirts and swept from the hall, Dysis pattering along behind.

The instant the doors had banged shut behind them, a frantic gabble of conversation broke out, everyone talking at once.

“That woman’s nothing but trouble,” Kostya said. “Pack her off to Azhgorod, Lord Gavril, before she causes any more mischief.”

“Why was she so convinced my father had changed his will in her favor?” Lilias’ behavior perplexed him: at one moment, she was all charm and Mirom refinement, the next, a grasping, calculating schemer. “Is it possible she’s right and there is another will?”

“All things are possible,” Kostya said morosely.

The reading of the will was followed by another dinner of interminable length. Gavril had little appetite for the rich food Sosia had prepared and sat crumbling a bread roll with his fingers, waving aside dishes of wild cherry soup, venison, and jellied carp as he kept wondering what secrets his father had concealed in the wooden casket.

At last the lawyers retired to their guest rooms. Gavril rose, one hand on the wooden box, hoping at last to escape to his room and discover what his father had concealed inside. But Kostya gripped him by the arm so firmly that he could not pull away.

“The will has been read, Lord Gavril,” he said sternly. “There is one duty still to be performed.”

One more duty. Was there no end to this day?

Torchflames lit the Great Hall and flickered across the tattooed and battle-scarred faces of the massed ranks of the
druzhina
.

“There is a debt of honor to be paid,” Kostya said. “By the ancient laws of our clan, you must now track down your father’s murderer, and exact vengeance.” He took up Volkh’s gleaming battle saber and presented it, hilt first, to Gavril. “Blood for blood.”

“Blood for blood,” came an answering murmur from the warriors.

Gavril took the saber, bracing himself to sustain the weight of the heavy curved blade. “I’m no fighting man,” he said defiantly, “I’m an artist. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” And he dropped the saber back down with a clang on the table.

The murmuring began to grow louder.

“You dare disgrace your father’s memory here, in the very place where he died?” cried one of the warriors. Gavril recognized the flax-fair hair of the guard Michailo, who had been in the hall when his father’s ghost appeared.

“Silence!” Kostya turned on the young man. “Is it Lord Gavril’s fault he has not been trained as a warrior? His father’s blood runs in his veins—is that not enough?”

“Prove it,” shouted out another warrior.

“Give us proof!” shouted Michailo. “Drakhaon!
Drakhaon!
”

One by one, the
druzhina
took up the chant until the whole hall echoed to their stamping and shouting, to the metallic din of sabers banged against shields and boots.

“I will help bring my father’s murderer to justice and a fair trial,” Gavril cried. “But I will not perpetuate this ancient bloodfeud—”

His last words were drowned in a storm of jeering.

“Enough!”
Kostya placed a hand on Gavril’s shoulder. At first Gavril sensed reassurance in the grip of iron—and then he realized Kostya was also restraining him. Had he tried to run, he could not have moved.

“Drakhaon!” chanted the
druzhina
.

“Proof of blood, my lord.” Kostya turned back to the
druzhina
. “A chair for our Lord Drakhaon!”

As Gavril was forced to sit in his father’s great carved chair, Kostya drew out his knife. Gavril tried to struggle up but Kostya pressed him down again.

“What are you going to do?” Gavril hissed.

“A few drops of blood to gain their lifelong loyalty—is it so much to ask?”

“It’s barbaric!”

“Blood for blood,” Kostya said. “The ancient contract between Drakhaon and
druzhina
. A time will come, my lord, when you will be glad you went through with this ceremony.”

As if in a confused and dark dream, Gavril saw him bring the glinting blade across his wrist, saw the dark blood began to drip out. And through the strange, thin, pulsing pain in his wrist, he saw a thin, blue vapor arising from the dark blood, as though it burned with a heat of its own.

Michailo dropped to his knees before him and pressed the oozing wound to his lips.

Gavril, stunned into silence, could only stare at the young warrior as he drew back, lips moistly stained with his blood, one hand pressed to his heart in sign of fealty.

One after another, the
druzhina
knelt before him and kissed the bleeding wound on his wrist. And with each warrior’s bloodkiss, a distant murmur at the back of his mind grew until it surged like the roaring of an autumn stormtide on the Vermeille shore.

Suddenly hot and faint from loss of blood, Gavril felt as if he were falling deep into drowning waters. The red torchlight flickered and grew dim. . . .

Were they going to let him bleed to death?

Kostya pressed a pad onto the edges of the cut, swiftly and skillfully binding it firmly in place.

“I can hear voices . . .” Gavril murmured, “in my mind. . . .”

“The ritual bloodbond between Drakhaon and
druzhina
. Sealed in your blood.” Kostya took up a ring of ancient keys, rusty and intricately forged, from his belt. “These are the keys to Kastel Drakhaon. Take them; they are yours. Now you are free to go wherever you will.”

CHAPTER 6

“There’s nothing to discuss, Madame Andar,” said the Grand Duchess Sofia. “Your son Gavril was employed to paint a portrait of my daughter, not to attempt to seduce her.” She fanned herself lethargically with a lace and ivory fan. Even though all the balcony doors were open, a hot, dry breeze stirred the muslin blinds, and the once- famed beauty was wilting in the last warmth of the Vermeille summer. “I’m surprised you have the audacity to come here to plead his case!”

“Your grace.” Elysia Andar stared glazedly at the Grand Duchess. She had hardly slept since Gavril’s disappearance, and she found it difficult to think with any clarity. “My son has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” the Grand Duchess said with a frown. “What precisely do you mean?”

“My son has never gone away from home before without telling me where he is going.” Elysia struggled to keep her voice steady. “I—I fear he has been kidnapped.”

“Your son kidnapped?” The Grand Duchess fanned herself with a little more vigor. “Has there been a ransom note?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be sure?”

Elysia sighed. It was such a long and complicated story she was certain the Grand Duchess would never have the patience to hear her out.

“Your grace,” she said, “let me complete the portrait of your daughter. I have never yet let a patron down. It is a matter of professional pride.”

“I don’t want this portrait to be a slipshod piece of work,” the Grand Duchess said petulantly. “It is to impress her future husband.”

“Have I ever disappointed your grace in the past?”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting your money now so you can pay off these kidnappers?”

Elysia felt herself flush; the Grand Duchess seemed to take pleasure in reminding her of her lowly status. Years of accommodating to the demands of difficult patrons had still not taught her to shrug aside the humiliation.

“I wish to request a different form of payment.”

“Oh?” said the Grand Duchess suspiciously.

“I wish to petition the Grand Duke about my son.”

“The Grand Duke does not concern himself with such matters. Surely it is a matter for the local militia.”

The heat was beginning to affect Elysia too. She steeled herself. She was going to have to reveal the truth.

“But when the Grand Duke learns who my son is—”

“A young painter, madame! Who has probably gone off to indulge a young man’s appetites with women of questionable virtue.”

“Women of questionable virtue?” A dark-haired young man burst in from the balcony. “Quite my favorite kind!”

“Andrei.” The Grand Duchess snapped her fan shut and shook it at him, tutting. “Must you be so coarse?”

The rising sense of despair was almost more than Elysia could bear. For the past week she and Palmyre had fruitlessly searched the taverns and ateliers of Vermeille. No one knew where Gavril was. The only possible explanation was the sudden disappearance of Kostya, the
druzhina,
and the Azhkendi barque.

“Besides,” the Grand Duchess said, “we sail for Mirom at the end of the week. As I told you, there is the matter of Astasia’s betrothal to be arranged. And this heat has become too oppressive to bear. . . .”

“Poor Mama.” Andrei seized the fan and began fanning his mother.

“Then let me come with you,” Elysia said impulsively.

“Why? I tell you, madame, that my husband will not be interested.”

“My son,” Elysia said, “is heir to Azhkendir.”

“Azhkendir?” Andrei repeated. Elysia saw mother and son exchange glances. “But what has become of Lord Volkh?”

“Has the news not reached Muscobar? Lord Volkh is dead.”

“And how, madame,” said the Grand Duchess, “are you so well informed of affairs in that backward and barbaric country? When we received Lord Volkh at court last year, he made no mention of a wife or a son.”

“I was his wife,” Elysia said, refusing to be put off by the Grand Duchess’ imperious manner. “We separated when Gavril was a little boy. I have been living quietly here in Vermeille ever since.”

“Gavril the painter?” Andrei began to laugh. “Wait till I tell Tasia. Her artist with the soulful sea-blue eyes—the one who was thrown out by the White Guard the night of the ball—is a lord!”

“Even if your extravagant claim is true, I still don’t understand how the Grand Duke can assist you,” complained the Grand Duchess.

“Don’t be so unimaginative, Mama,” said Andrei. “If I were to go missing, what would you do?”

“My dear, I’d leave it to your father to sort out.”

“Just when we had established the Treaty of Accord with Azhkendir?” The laughter had gone from Andrei Orlov’s voice; suddenly he was serious, incisive. “Azhkendir is all that stands between us and Tielen. If Madame Andar’s son has been kidnapped by political extremists—or Prince Eugene’s agents—Muscobar could find itself in a tricky situation.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Andrei,” said the Grand Duchess in tones of bewilderment.

Andrei strode across the salon and seized Elysia’s hands.

“Come with us to Mirom, Madame Andar. I will send word ahead to Papa, advising him of the situation.”

Elysia stood staring at Gavril’s portrait of Astasia. Even though half-finished, she could see it was the best piece of work he had ever achieved. Technically it was superb—but it was the way he had gone beyond technique to capture an elusive, wistful quality in the young girl’s face that impressed her so forcibly. Her eyes blurred with tears until she could no longer see the portrait clearly.

All the last week she had not allowed herself the luxury of tears; she had kept herself busy with ceaseless searching, ceaseless questioning. She had not slept much, either, sitting on the balcony, staring out hour after hour at the starlit waters of the bay, worrying and conjecturing.

It was totally out of character for Gavril to go away without leaving her a message. He had left Vermeille countless times, on solitary fishing trips or coastal treks with his student friends. She had never feared for his safety till now.

Staring blindly through her tears at Astasia’s portrait, she realized she was not certain what frightened her most: the thought that Volkh’s enemies might have kidnapped him, or the prospect that the
druzhina
wanted to make him Drakhaon—to change her charming, loving boy into a ruthless tyrant like his dead father.

“Madame?”

Elysia hastily wiped the tears from her eyes and looked around. A dark-haired girl stood in the doorway.

“You must be Altessa Astasia,” Elysia said.

“I—I am so sorry to hear about your son,” the girl said haltingly. “Andrei has just told me.”

Elysia nodded. She might have been deceived, but she was certain from the pallor of Astasia’s face that she also had been crying. Was this the reason for Gavril’s inspired portrayal? Was the Grand Duchess right? Had the relationship between painter and sitter deepened into something far more intimate?

“I will complete the portrait,” she said. “Her grace tells me it is to be a betrothal gift to your fiancé.”

Astasia said nothing, but a bitter little sigh escaped her lips.

“Well,” Elysia said, opening her box of paints. “Shall we start?”

“Madame is leaving so soon?” Palmyre cried. “And traveling alone?”

“Dear Palmyre.” Elysia looked up from her packing. “I don’t think you could describe accompanying the ruling family of Muscobar as traveling alone.”

“But you’ll be all on your own in that great cold, drafty city.” Palmyre had found the last days as taxing as her mistress; her ready, kindly smile had faded, and she looked tired and careworn.

“I need you to stay and take care of the villa.” Elysia clasped Palmyre’s hands. “Just in case
he
returns. It could happen. I want someone to be here for him while I’m away.”

“Oh, madame. You’ve been so brave.” Palmyre squeezed her hands warmly in return. “You can count on me. I’ll keep the place in good order. You mustn’t worry about things here. Now, have you packed that shawl, the lacy wool one? The nights are cold in Mirom.”

“Yes, yes.” Elysia turned back to her trunk. “Where did I put that hairbrush . . . ?”

There was still an hour or so before the barouche Elysia had ordered was due to take her to the Villa Orlova. She entered Gavril’s room. Everything was just as he had left it, clothes flung down carelessly on the floor, the covers on his bed rumpled. Unfinished sketches littered his desk along with stubs of pencils, charcoal, and pastels.

He would never have gone away without his sketchbook and pencils. Since boyhood he had always taken a sketchbook with him; he had been a compulsive sketcher, always with a stub of pencil in his hand, always doodling on any available scrap of paper.

She knelt down and began to pick up the discarded clothes. Until now she had not wanted to touch anything, to maintain the illusion that Gavril had only just left the room and would—at any moment—return.

Now, without thinking, she found herself stroking a crumpled shirt against her cheek.

The collar betrayed a rim of grime, and the cuffs were frayed.

“Where are you, Gavril?” she whispered.

As her barouche swept into the grounds of the Villa Orlova, Elysia found herself surrounded by chaos and confusion; servants and guards swarmed to and fro, carrying luggage in and out of carriages.

Elysia climbed out onto the gravel drive and stared about her, perplexed.

“Madame Andar!” A young officer in a dazzling white uniform came hurrying up. Not till he had reached her did she recognize Andrei Orlov, his wild dark curls slicked down with pomade, plumed helmet tucked under one arm.

“What is going on, altesse?”

“I am afraid you find us in some disarray, Madame Andar. We have had to alter our travel plans. We shall be returning to Muscobar overland.”

“Oh?” Elysia said, unsure if this were good news or not.

“You may have heard that Prince Eugene’s fleet has been on maneuvers in the Straits? There’s been a little misunderstanding over the matter of the herring grounds.” How reassuringly he spoke, Elysia thought, already well-trained in the use of the gilded lies of diplomacy. “A disputed treaty. I’m sure it will all be settled soon.”

Elysia nodded. Somewhere out in the Straits, the navies of Tielen and Muscobar were blasting each other to matchwood with cannon.

“Such a silly business.” The Grand Duchess appeared on the steps, leaning on Astasia’s arm. “And for this we have to bundle ourselves into carriages. In this heat!”

“Never mind, Mama, you know how you hate the sea,” said Astasia.

“But it’s so humiliating,” complained the duchess, “to be obliged to alter one’s plans all because of
herring
. And you, Andrei, now you tell me you’re going to join the fleet? How could you upset your poor mother so?”

“I must do my duty, Mama!” Andrei said gaily.

“But this isn’t a game. You could get killed.” The Grand Duchess dabbed at her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief.

“There’s always been an Orlov in the navy, Mama. Besides, the uniform of rear admiral impresses all the girls!” And, flashing his mother a wicked grin, Andrei swung nimbly up into the saddle.

“If only we could arrange a match for you with Prince Eugene, Astasia,” murmured the Grand Duchess, “and bring all this unpleasantness to an end.”

Astasia pulled a face behind her mother’s back.

Gilded carriages, drawn by teams of six white-plumed horses, clattered along the stony roads through the fields and olive trees, escorted by a troop of the White Guard, harnesses jingling, their helmets and breastplates dazzling in the sun.

It was hot, dusty, and very dry. Elysia gazed listlessly through the window of the carriage and saw the farmworkers in the fields sweating to bring in the last of the harvest. As the road climbed slowly into the foothills, the charred cornfields and olive groves gave way to vineyards. But the dust still blew into the carriage, drying her mouth and throat, making her eyes sting.

There had been some confusion in etiquette as to where to place Elysia in the ducal party. As portrait painter, her place was with the servants—yet as wife to the late Drakhaon, she was only a little lower in rank to the Grand Duchess herself. Eventually they had put her in the second carriage with Astasia, her governess Eupraxia, and the ancient Countess Ilyanova who was deaf as a post.

“Look, Tasia, there goes your brother,” Eupraxia exclaimed for the third time, pointing out of the window and waving. “Yoo-hoo, Andrei! Now he’s saluting us. How handsome he looks in his uniform.”

“I don’t see why he should be allowed to ride and not me,” complained Astasia.

“My dear, it is not seemly.” Eupraxia began to dab at her temples and neck with a handkerchief impregnated with a sickly sweet floral water.

“
Seemly,
” repeated Astasia in disgusted tones. “A word I place in the same category as
obligation
and
filial duty
.”

Elysia turned her head to look out of the window, hoping Eupraxia would not attempt to bring her into the conversation.