Prisoner of the Iron Tower (18 page)

They stood in a formal garden with knots and winding paths and intricately cut topiary. The sound of running water came from fountains playfully carved to resemble whiskered carp, which sprayed crystal jets into the air from their pursed mouths. Kiukiu recognized herbs growing in the beds as they walked past and heard the summery droning of bees among the cloudy banks of lavender.

“It’s just like the monastery gardens back home,” she said, surprised.

“Where else do you think a monk would want to be?” Malusha strode on, plunging into a dark maze of high yew hedges, with Kiukiu still lagging behind. “And keep up! I don’t want to have to search for you too.”

At the heart of the maze, they came into a round garden with a sundial at its center.

“Here it is always summer,” said a gentle voice. Kiukiu saw a grey-robed man rise from a garden seat and come slowly toward them. She did not need to shield her eyes when she looked at him, although no matter how hard she blinked, she did not quite seem able to focus on his features.

So this is our patron saint, Serzhei.
Awed, Kiukiu found she had lost her voice. He seemed so mild-mannered for a vanquisher of daemons.

“We have come to ask for your guidance, Serzhei,” said Malusha. Her tone was much more respectful now than when she had answered the warriors at the gates. “How did you banish the daemons from the world of the living?”

For a while, Serzhei did not answer, nodding his head as if lost in contemplation. All Kiukiu could hear was the splash of the fountains and the droning of the bees.

“I could not have banished them had I not called upon the Heavenly Guardians to help me. And even then, the one you name Drakhaoul burned me with his cold fire and I died, my task incomplete. But there is more. Let me show you.”

He beckoned them toward the sundial. As they drew near, he placed both hands, palms down, on the ancient stone. Kiukiu blinked again as the center of the dial melted away. Tiny, jewel-bright figures, like the illuminations drawn by the monks in the library at Saint Sergius, moved across a painted landscape, complete with a tiny range of mountains and barques bobbing on a choppy sea.

“You must understand that the danger was too great to ignore. Artamon’s sons were tempted in their arrogance to summon daemons to settle their bitter rivalry. It had to be stopped or all Rossiya would have been seared to an arid wasteland.”

Kiukiu was staring at one of the figures; there was a dark glitter about it that she recognized only too well.

“Drakhaoul,” she said softly.

“That is the name it devised for itself in Azhkendir, but it has an older, more ancient name. Once it was kin to the guardians you saw at the gateway.”

“The ones with the golden armor?” Kiukiu found the idea almost impossible to conceive. “But they’re
angels
—”

“Even angels can be tempted to fall from grace. The Drakhaoul and its kin were banished to the Realm of Shadows. But there was a gateway to that realm from your world, which powerful and arrogant magi breached using a ruby imbued with the blood of children.”

“Child sacrifice,” Malusha murmured. “The daemon’s craving for innocent blood . . .”

“The Drakhaoul was once an angel?” persisted Kiukiu. “And priests killed children to make it serve them? That’s horrible.”

“It must be sent back the way it came,” Malusha said slowly, as though reasoning out loud, “by opening this gateway, wherever it may be. But not by killing children, surely?”

“And where is this gateway?” asked Kiukiu. “Is it in Azhkendir?”

“How can I be sure, if I tell you, that you will use this information for the good of the living?” There was a darker hint of warning in Serzhei’s voice now. “Or that others will not force it out of you and use it to fulfill their own selfish desires? For that is how it was with the sons of Artamon. You have seen the terrible damage that one Drakhaoul-daemon can wreak; imagine the devastation if more were let loose.”

The drowsy air grew warmer, releasing wafts of scent from the herbs. And the buzzing of the bees among the blue lavender spikes grew louder. The hazy sky filled with the sound of beating wings.

“Oh no,” whispered Kiukiu. “They’ve found us.”

“Only the emperor’s tears,” Serzhei said, “will unlock the gate. But take great care. For others of its daemon-kin may seize their chance to escape and—”

“Enough!” The two guardian warriors from the gate alighted, one on either side of Serzhei. And now others appeared, hovering overhead, golden hair and wings flickering like flames. Alarmed, Kiukiu shrank back toward her grandmother. “You were ordered to leave.”

“Forgive us.” Kiukiu held her hands out imploringly to Serzhei. “We didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

One guardian took hold of Kiukiu, the other, Malusha. At their touch, Kiukiu felt her scars begin to burn. “Why can’t
you
help us?” she cried to them, filled with frustration that so few of their questions had been answered.

“Only one pure of heart may call upon the Heavenly Warriors to defeat the Drakhaoul.” The guardian warrior’s voice was stern.

“And you have defied us once already,” said the other. “You must go now, and never return.”

Kiukiu let out a little cry as she was lifted high into the air and the guardians bore them upward through the gilded sky on fiery wings.

Kiukiu opened her eyes.

She was sitting by the fire in her grandmother’s cottage. The gusly lay silent on her lap. The fingers of one hand were deeply scored with the marks of the gusly strings. The other hand clutched protectively at the base of her throat where her scarred skin still burned.

“Marked by the daemon,” she whispered, overcome with shame. “Tainted.”

Beside her, Malusha stirred.

“I’m getting too old for this.” She laid her gusly down. “Put the kettle on the fire, Kiukiu. Let’s have some tea.”

A man rose from the seat on the other side of the fire; Kiukiu jumped. She had forgotten that the Magus was still there, waiting for them.

“Well?” he said. “What did you learn?”

Kiukiu lowered her eyes, too ashamed to say.

“Make the tea, Kiukiu,” ordered Malusha. “I can’t abide talking with a dry throat.”

Kiukiu busied herself at the range, putting in a blend of healing herbs for her fingers and restorative herbs to revive them after their journey in the Ways Beyond. She could sense the Magus’s growing impatience; she knew Malusha would take a malign pleasure in making him wait.

And indeed, not until she had taken several long sips of her favorite herbal tea, sweetened with honey, did Malusha deign to answer his question.

“We’ve heard tales of an ages-old war between the Drakhaoul’s daemon-kin and the Heavenly Guardians,” she said, setting her mug down. “And unless you can find someone as pure of heart as Archimandrite Serzhei to summon them, no Heavenly Guardians are ever going to come to our aid.”

“I’d guessed that much from the manuscript at the monastery,” Linnaius said.

There was something odd about his lack of reaction, Kiukiu thought as she drank her tea, balancing the mug carefully in her sore fingers. Had this just been some kind of test? No matter what it was, she wished that her grandmother would not provoke him with her sly little digs and send him away, his promise to her unfulfilled.

“There was one other thing Serzhei told us,” continued Malusha, almost teasingly. “Just as we were thrown out for our pains . . .”

“And that was?”

“ ‘Only the Emperor’s tears will unlock the gate,’ ”
said Kiukiu. “But we never heard where the gate was. They wanted to keep it secret.”

“Ah.” This obviously meant something to the Magus.

“So?” Malusha said, her eyes bright in the firelight. “We risked much for you and your little Tielen princess, Linnaius. The least you could do is to tell us what it means.”

“ ‘The emperor’ most probably means Artamon,” Linnaius said obliquely.

“It doesn’t take a scholar to figure that one out! And what about this ruby? Imbued with the blood of children?” Malusha was no longer teasing, Kiukiu saw; she was in deadly earnest. “I’ll not be party to any practice involving the killing of children, and neither will my Kiukiu.”

“I’ll have to pursue my researches further.” Linnaius began to walk toward the door.

“You seem very keen to be on your way, wind-mage.” Malusha eased herself up out of her chair. “There’s more to this than you’re telling, isn’t there? And what about that visit you promised my Kiukiu? Have you seen the state of her fingers? She’s ruined them—and all on your Emperor’s behalf! Show him.”

Kiukiu reluctantly raised her hand, showing her sore, swollen fingertips.

“You understand, I’m sure, that there are orders to be filled out and signed by the Emperor himself. Gavril Nagarian is a very dangerous man and he is confined in a place of the utmost security. But I will set the process in motion. I will return when I have more news.” He turned on his heel to leave.

“The Emperor’s daughter,” Kiukiu said. “She’s only little. She could be the one pure of heart.”

“An innocent child?” Linnaius stopped as though this had not occurred to him before. Then he nodded and, opening the door, disappeared into the courtyard.

CHAPTER
14

Gulls drifted lazily overhead on the warm breeze. Elysia stood in the middle of the quay at Vermeille and closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath of Smarnan air. Oblivious of the noisy bustle around her—the unloading of bundles of furs from the merchant ship that had brought her from Arkhelskoye, and the loading up of barrels of Smarnan wine for the return journey—she just stood there, letting the familiar smells and traders’ cries wash over her. Even the pungent reek from the fish market was all the more welcome for its familiarity.

Home. I’m home.
She gazed around her, blinking a film of tears from her eyes. There was a richness to the light here, a warmth that gilded the red tiles on the cafes and taverns lining the quay, that enhanced the vibrant colors of their painted walls: deep sea-blue, pepper scarlet, and rich earthy ochre. No one paid any attention to the shabbily dressed, middle-aged woman who stood enraptured by a scene of such unsurprising ordinariness.

Finally she picked up her bag and set off along the quay. It was a walk of some two miles to the Villa Andara along the upper cliff road, but she had no money for a carriage and, after the long voyage, she was glad of the exercise.

And then she saw the soldiers. Tielen soldiers. They had set up a barrier at the end of the quay and were checking everyone in and out. Even though she knew she carried a pass stamped with the Emperor’s official seal and signature, she still felt a shiver at the sight of those blue and grey uniforms. Even here in Smarna, the power of the new empire was making itself felt.

“In line, lady, like the rest,” ordered a soldier, officiously waving her into a long queue waiting inside a roped-off area.

Elysia glared at him but did as she was told.

“Bloody Tielens. Think they own the earth,” muttered a balding merchant in front of her. He was sweating in the morning sun and mopping at his shiny forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve got business in the citadel. And now I’m late.”

“How long has this been going on?” Elysia asked quietly.

“Since Tielen annexed Smarna. Isn’t it the same elsewhere? Passes to come in, permissions to leave, extra taxes to pay—”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, “I’ve just arrived from Azhkendir.”

“Papers,” demanded the officer on duty, waving his hand in her face. “Papers!”

She handed over her safe-conduct letter without a word and saw, with some satisfaction, how he stared at the Emperor’s signature.

“Madame Andar. You may go.” He folded up the paper and presented it to her with a crisp salute.

As she passed through the barrier, she could not help but notice that he had made a note of her name and had whispered it to one of his men, who went hurrying away toward the customs house.

So even here I am to be watched.
The brightness of the Smarnan sunlight seemed to dim a little as she watched the Tielen vanish inside, doubtless to send a message to Eugene’s agents that she had arrived in Vermeille.

And then she shrugged. What could she do about it? She turned her back on the Tielen soldiers and began to walk along the winding cobbled lane that led upward out of the harbor toward the cliffs.

Palmyre was pegging out a line of washing in the gardens of the Villa Andara. A good breeze was blowing off the sea and the wet sheets would soon be dry. She bent to pick up another handful of pegs from her basket, stuck one between her teeth, then saw two feet placed opposite hers on the other side of the half-dangling sheet.

“Shall I hold that for you?” inquired a familiar voice.

“Elysia?”

“The very same.”

The pegs fell into the grass. Palmyre gave a little shriek of joy and tried to embrace Elysia across the clothesline.

“Why didn’t you send word?” Palmyre ducked under the line of sheets and hugged Elysia properly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I’d known, I’d have—”

“Gone to a lot of unnecessary fuss and trouble on my account,” said Elysia, laughing and weeping at the same time, “when all I want is a good cup of tea, Palmyre, and to sleep in my own bed, with the sound of the sea outside my window.”

“Tea it shall be,” Palmyre said, drying her eyes on her apron, “and anything else you desire.”

Elysia sat on the terrace, Palmyre beside her, and lifted her face to the afternoon sun.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to be back,” she said. “And I can’t quite believe it to be true. Pinch me, Palmyre.”

“Oh you’re back all right,” Palmyre said fondly.

“I’m still not sure why Eugene let me go.” Elysia’s smile faded. “I wonder whether Astasia had some influence.”

“The Empress Astasia?” Palmyre said in impressed tones.

“And he has Gavril.” Elysia had made a pact with herself that she would not even allow herself to think of Gavril’s plight until she was in a position to start petitioning for his release.

“So the stories in the papers are true?” Palmyre ventured. “He’s been imprisoned?”

“For life. Yes.” Elysia stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace. She leaned on the balustrade, gazing out at the blue of the bay, feeling the sea breeze stirring in her hair. The last of the white lilacs were in bloom and their sweet scent drifted to her from the wild garden below. “The first snowdrops were just opening, Palmyre,” she said softly, “when they came and took him away. I haven’t seen him since that day.”

Palmyre said nothing. Elysia guessed from her silence that she was upset as well. Palmyre had been a second mother to Gavril—sometimes more of a mother, Elysia thought, remembering all the times when she had been away from home on a commission and Palmyre had made his supper, tucked him up in bed, and told him stories of sea monsters and mermaids that she had learned from her seafaring father.

“So how’s Lukan?” Elysia asked, turning away from the bay.

“Lukan?” Palmyre lowered her voice. “Something’s brewing at the university, Elysia, and he’s right in the thick of it.”

“Oh?” Palmyre’s words suddenly made Elysia deeply uneasy. Lukan had always been a passionate believer in democracy. He would not have taken kindly to the imposition of imperial rule.

Palmyre glanced around, checking to ensure there was no one else within earshot. “The Tielens are not popular. There’ve been . . . rumblings.”

“I hope Lukan knows what he’s doing; he has no idea how powerful the Tielens have become. They’ll crush anyone who dares to oppose them.” Then Elysia shook her head, forcing laughter into her voice. “Listen to me! And when did my views become so reactionary?”

Palmyre was looking at her with an awed expression. “You must have been through some terrible times in the last months.”

Elysia swallowed. Yes, she had seen things she could still not bring herself to talk about.

“Well, there’s no point dwelling on what can’t be undone,” she said briskly. “I must look forward now.” Resolute of purpose, she set off across the terrace steps that led down to the shore.

“Where are you going?” Palmyre called after her, dismayed.

“Oh, Palmyre. Haven’t you guessed? To see my old, dear friend Professor Rafael Lukan. We have much to talk about.”

In the heart of the Old Citadel of Colchise was a little tavern, much frequented by students and artists. Like many of the dwellings in Colchise, Vardo’s Tavern had been hewn right into the side of the cliff on which the citadel stood; the doorway was surrounded by an exuberantly climbing rose, already blooming with a profusion of scented yellow flowers. The courtyard garden was strung with paper lanterns, whose soft, flickering lights had already attracted hovering moths in the warm dusk. Wonderful spicy smells of cooking wafted up from the tavern’s kitchen: garlic, rosemary, and tomatoes stewed with chopped onions and bay leaves . . .

Elysia felt a sudden stab of anguish as she stood looking down at the crowd of students gathered below, drinking Vardo’s cheap red wine, talking and laughing together. This had been a favorite haunt of Gavril’s. How was it that she stood here tonight and he was so far away, locked up for life in some remote Tielen prison with madmen and murderers?

For life? Not if I have anything to do with it!

She tucked a wandering strand of hair back in place and went down the winding rocky steps into the throng of drinkers.

She heard Lukan’s deep, resonant voice long before she located him. Even now, its distinctive timbre sent a little shiver through her. She and Lukan had been lovers for many years after she left Volkh Nagarian, and even though their passion had cooled with the passing of time, they had remained good friends.

“And now this Tielen self-appointed governor, Armfeld, has the nerve to ban public meetings in the university. Without any process of consultation with the faculty board.”

A roar of disapproval rose from the other drinkers. She had arrived at an opportune moment. Anti-Tielen feelings were obviously running high.

“What can we do?” called out a girl’s voice. “Can we allow them to silence us?”

“They have no rights—constitutional or otherwise—to overrule the faculty,” Lukan said. “Not even the Smarnan council can intervene in university matters.”

Elysia pushed closer to the alcove where Lukan was holding forth.

“They have no rights in Smarna, anyway!” yelled out a man’s voice, young and impassioned. “Did we ask to be annexed?”

“No!”
shouted the students.

“Did Smarna ask to be swallowed up by this imperialist dictator?”

“No!”

“So what are we going to do about it?”

Heavens,
Elysia thought, still resolutely pushing forward to get closer to Lukan.
This sounds like a full-blown revolt. Do they have any idea what they are up against?

She emerged right at the front of the gathering. There was Lukan, his craggily handsome face crowned by an untidy tumble of silvered black hair.

He looked up, about to speak again, and saw her.

“Elysia!” He leaped to his feet, knocking over glasses, and came straight toward her, seizing her in his arms and hugging her close.

She had forgotten how strong he was. Breathless, she looked up into his warm, dark eyes and felt, for the first time in so many weeks, a glimmer of hope.

“Look who it is!” he cried to the whole tavern, his arm around her shoulders. “Elysia Andar. Returned to us from the jaws of hell, isn’t that right, Elysia?”

As Lukan steered her to a seat beside his, she was aware that everyone was staring at her now.

“Returned from Azhkendir,” she said, “to fight for my son’s release.”

“So it’s true?” Lukan said, his voice somber. “Gavril is in prison in Tielen?”

“And sentenced to life imprisonment.”

“What’s that got to do with us?” shouted out a student.

“More than you might imagine,” she answered calmly, resolving not to lose her temper with hecklers. “I’m not only here to fight for Gavril. I’m here to fight for Smarna too, if need be.”

To her surprise, a cheer arose at these last words.
What am I doing?
she wondered, panicking.
If Eugene’s spies are here tonight, I’ll be branded a troublemaker—and then what use will I be to Gavril?

“Welcome back, Elysia!” cried Lukan, kissing her heartily on the mouth.

She gazed up into his eyes, glad for once to have a strong arm to lean against. For the first time in a long while, she knew she was not alone.

Elysia stood beside Lukan and the other members of the newly formed Republican Alliance beneath the citadel. Behind them were ranged hundreds of students. The morning was bright and a crisp breeze blew off the bay, fluttering the many Tielen and New Rossiyan standards that had been hoisted on every flagpole and turret of the Old Citadel. Of the crimson and gold flag of the Smarnan Republic, there was no sign.

Governor Armfeld had taken up residence in the Smarnan council chambers, high in the ancient citadel itself, overlooking Vermeille Bay. From the large numbers of troops he had deployed about the citadel, it looked as if he was making ready to defend his base in case of trouble.

A woman, grey-haired and smartly dressed, came briskly up to Lukan. Elysia recognized Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice, and First Minister of the Smarnan council.

“Is this wise, Lukan? To confront the Tielens head-on? If they feel threatened, they may retaliate.”

“Haven’t you tried to negotiate? And how has Armfeld answered our requests? With bluster and prevarication.”

“It’s true that the man is no diplomat,” Nina Vashteli said sourly.

“First he tries to impose these ludicrous taxes, now he has the gall to close the university. We won’t be treated like this!”

Elysia had noticed a stir of movement up on the ramparts.

“Look.” She pointed. “Here comes Armfeld’s response.”

Shadowed against the brightness of the morning sun, a line of soldiers had appeared on the upper battlements. Sun glinted on the metal of their carbines.

“This doesn’t bode well,” murmured Lukan. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight, gazing upward as he assessed the opposition.