Prisoner of the Iron Tower (29 page)

“Necromancy,” muttered Emperor Eugene. “Or some outrageous piece of fairground trickery. Whichever, it’s damnably convincing.”

“Why have you summoned me? You cannot hold me long against my will, Guslyar.”

“Forgive me,” Kiukiu whispered again. She could feel the strength of the spirit struggling to be free. She must hold it bound in the chains of her Summoning Song and not let it loose. But it would take all her strength and skill to do it.

“Speak to it, highness,” urged Linnaius.

Eugene squared his shoulders. He addressed the apparition.

“Are you Artamon the Great?”

“That was my name when I was alive.”

“You had a son, Prince Volkhar. He gave you a ruby.”

“That ruby was cursed.”
Artamon’s deep voice reverberated through the vault, heavy with grief and sorrow.
“It was a daemon-stone. It brought strife and ruin to my empire. It was used to unleash terrible daemons into the world, daemon-warriors that possessed my beloved sons and turned them against one another.”

“A daemon-stone?” repeated Eugene.

“It contained powers, powers strong enough to open a gate between the worlds. When I held the gem in my hands, I could feel the power burning in its bloodred heart. It was the most beautiful jewel I had ever possessed.”
Artamon’s strong voice began to falter.
“But I vowed that it should never be used to cause such devastation again. And so I had my jewelers divide it. Three craftsmen died, burned by its fire, until my mages laid such strong wards upon it that the division was achieved.”

“So you—not your sons—ordered the stone to be divided?”

“My sons?”
Artamon’s voice echoed.
“They were no longer my sons. They looked like daemon-lords; they fought like daemon-lords. In their madness, they were too powerful for me to control. Only Serzhei of Azhkendir had the courage to confront them. And he died, battling my youngest boy. So Volkhar was lost to me forever.”

Kiukiu was concentrating hard on keeping Artamon bound by the droning notes of the Summoning Song, within the drifting mists where the world and that of the Ways Beyond mingled. She glanced up and saw Eugene move closer to the tomb and the tall spirit. Had he forgotten her warning?

“But how did it happen? How were your sons—all your sons—possessed by daemons?”

She could tell from the urgency of Eugene’s voice that he burned to know the answer.

“And who are you that you dare ask me, Emperor of all Rossiya, such a question?”

Eugene smiled. “I am Eugene, Emperor of New Rossiya.”

Artamon fell silent. His spirit-form wavered. The temperature was dropping fast and Kiukiu’s fingertips ached with cold.

“We’re losing him, Kiukirilya.” Linnaius’s voice muttered warningly.

“They took the ruby from me. Their intent was to unlock the ancient gateway to the realm of daemons and send the spirit that possessed Volkhar back. But the temptation to seek power of their own was too strong, and when the gate was opened, they too were possessed.”

“And where is this gateway?” Eugene’s voice trembled now with excitement.

“Far from here, on an island sacred to the Serpent God, Nagar. My boy, my Volkhar, forswore his faith in the One God and became one of the priests of Nagar. Such was the strength of his new faith that he even took the Serpent God’s name, calling himself Nagarian.”

Nagarian? Kiukiu forced herself to keep playing, though her arms and back were stiff from holding the heavy gusly. Did that mean Lord Gavril was descended from the Great Artamon?

“Come closer, Eugene. There are other secrets still I could impart. But they are not for the ears of common servants. Let me whisper them to you, alone.”

The chill in the tomb had begun to numb Kiukiu’s mind as well as her fingers. She heard the spirit’s seductive offer but did not at once realize what it intended. She looked up and saw Eugene walking into the swirling mists, directly toward Artamon. She saw the spirit lean forward, arms opening as though to embrace him.

And she had warned him!

“No!”
she cried, breaking off in midpattern. The broken notes hung as if frozen on the cold air, jagged as icicles.

The spirit froze too, arms raised to draw Eugene close.

“Don’t look into his eyes!”

Artamon turned toward her. Cold fire blazed from his eyes, a fury of rage and blatant desire. She dug her heels into the floor, determined not to give way.

“He is mine. I shall be Emperor again. I shall take back my empire.”

She faced the spirit, eyes still downcast, avoiding the silver fire of his gaze.

“Your time in this world is past, Lord Artamon. Let him go. I command you—
let him go!
”

“You dare to cross me, Guslyar? Look in my eyes, if you dare. You are not strong enough to withstand my will.”

“Magus!” Kiukiu cried out, forcing all her strength into her voice. “Burn the hair!”

Linnaius snatched up the ancient lock of hair. The spirit turned toward him, its face twisted with hatred. The Magus’s little golden flame bloomed in the darkness, flaring blue as the hair sizzled to ashes and a foul smell of burning tainted the vault.

The spirit let out a rasping shriek that seared Kiukiu’s ears. It wavered to and fro, as though the Magus’s flame was fast consuming its energy. It dwindled, shrinking until—with one last gasping shudder—it faded into the tomb. The golden mage-light went out and there was only darkness.

The Magus relit the torches.

Eugene still stood as though rooted to the ground. Kiukiu’s heart was pounding as she set down the gusly.

“Is—is he—”

And then the Emperor let out a shout of triumph.

“Extraordinary!” He punched the air with his fist. “Quite extraordinary.”

So he was unharmed. Kiukiu slithered slowly down the side of the tomb, huddling at the foot of the sarcophagus. She was shivering with relief, her strength utterly spent.

“Lieutenant Vassian. In here,” called the Emperor.

Guardsmen came down the stairs into the vault. She heard the Emperor instructing them to replace the stone lid on the sarcophagus. She was so weary she could not move.

“Thank you, Kiukirilya.”

She looked up dazedly and saw the Emperor standing over her, his eyes bright with exhilaration.

“Lieutenant Vassian, have you a flask of aquavit?”

“Here.”

The lieutenant knelt beside her and put a small silver flask into her hands. Slowly she raised it to her lips and took a mouthful, coughing as the strong spirits stung the back of her throat.

“Let the vault be sealed. I shall send antiquaries from the university to restore the tomb.” Eugene’s voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther off. “Until then, let no one else disturb the first Emperor’s rest.”

Had they forgotten her? Did they mean to seal her in the vault as well? She tried to get to her feet to follow, but sank back, exhausted.

Don’t leave me here in the dark with the dead.

“Come, miss. It’s time to go.”

Kiukiu felt a strong arm around her shoulders, raising her to her feet. She looked up into the face of Lieutenant Vassian. It was a good-hearted face, she thought, an honest face.

“My gusly,” she said. She bent to pick it up. It seemed to weigh as much as an anvil.

“Let me carry that for you,” he said.

She placed it in his arms and followed him, one dragging step after another, out of the unwholesome air of the burial vault, up toward the fresh night air and the light of the spring stars.

“You will awake now.”

Kiukiu opened her eyes. She had been so deeply asleep that she did not know where she was for a moment. But when she saw Kaspar Linnaius, when she felt the swift onrushing throb of the sky craft, she remembered.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep—”

“We are approaching Arnskammar.”

So they were close. She was choked with excitement. She would see Lord Gavril at last, after all these long months apart. Only now did she begin to feel apprehensive. He would be changed; that was for certain. No one could live a prisoner’s life and not be. But she was strong; she was prepared. She loved him. Surely love would be enough to see them through the difficulties that lay ahead?

On the distant horizon she saw high cliffs, craggy and sharp. Rocks protruded out of the heaving sea. The waters had turned a dark, metallic color except where they foamed white as they smashed against the iron-brown stone of the cliffs.

“The prison? Where is the prison?” She gazed out, shading her eyes.

They were scudding faster now, rainclouds close behind them.

“There.” Linnaius pointed toward the farthest cliff. He brought them low over the water so that the prison’s looming towers, rising up out of the cliff itself, were silhouetted against the pale, rain-filled sky.

She let out a little cry. The tower on the farthest, most precipitate edge of the cliffs was half-blown away, a jagged shell surrounded by shattered debris.

“What is it?”

“Look!” She stabbed her finger at the prison. “What’s happened here? That tower is in ruins!”

“Let’s take a closer look.” Linnaius guided the craft closer, speeding past the formidable walls of the prison.

She was kneeling up now, frowning intently at the brown, sea-stained walls towering above them. Spray fountained into the air from the wild waves below. Cormorants, black-winged and predatory, hunched on the lower rocks, oblivious of the sea’s assault on their perch.

“Has the prison been attacked?” Her voice was hardly audible above the roar of the waves. “Has there been a battle?”

Linnaius brought the craft about, scanning the ground below for a suitable landing place. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“What do you mean?”

But the Magus did not answer. All his attention was focused on landing the sky craft.

“This is most—ahem—awkward.” The director of the prison seemed embarrassed by their arrival. “I sent a full report to the Emperor about the unfortunate affair involving Twenty-One.”

“Twenty-One?” Kiukiu echoed angrily. “Do you mean Lord Gavril? Doesn’t he have a name anymore?”

“I’ve been abroad, Director Baltzar,” Linnaius said. “It may be that your communication has not been forwarded to me.”

“Then”—the director kept rubbing his palms together nervously—”I’m afraid your journey has been a wasted one. There was a storm, you see, and the tower in which Twenty-One was confined was struck by lightning. We searched the rubble—but—”

“Oh no,” Kiukiu said softly. “It can’t be.”

“The top of the tower disintegrated. Part fell into the sea below, the rest landed in the courtyard. It was completely destroyed.”

Kiukiu stared at him. She had heard the words but was not sure she understood them. “Completely destroyed?”

“No trace has been found of a body.”

Struck by lightning? Kiukiu could not even bear to think of it. And yet her mind began to produce images, horrible images of raging fire and crumbling stone.

“You’re saying the prisoner is dead?” Linnaius persisted.

Director Baltzar gave a little, helpless shrug of the shoulders. “No one could have survived a fall from such a height into the sea. The rocks . . .”

Linnaius turned to Kiukiu. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had not anticipated such an outcome to our journey. Shall we go?”

All she could see was the Magus’s pale eyes; everything else around her had dwindled to shadows. She felt cold now, and numb.

“Wait.” She could hardly speak. “Let me at least see the place where he—where—”

“Family?” Director Baltzar mouthed the word and Linnaius nodded. At once the director’s manner altered; his tone of voice became unctuous in its solicitude. “But of course. And I would have handed over the deceased’s personal effects to you, only everything was destroyed in the storm.”

What did she care about personal effects? She could only think of Lord Gavril.

“Just take me there.”

Director Baltzar led them out into the inner courtyard. A dank passageway led to a locked grille and then another gloomy courtyard hemmed in by grim, water-stained walls. Warders with clanking keys unlocked gate after gate to let them pass along a dark tunnel into the heart of the asylum.

And then they came out on the edge of the cliff, wind-buffeted, with the broken walls the only barrier between them and the raging sea beneath.

Kiukiu gazed at the piles of rubble lying at the base of the ruined tower.

“How?” she cried over the roar of the wind. “How can you be dead, Gavril, and I not know?”

Linnaius saw Kiukiu suddenly start out toward the rubble, moving with swift determination. For a second he feared she was about to throw herself over the edge of the cliff. But she just stood there, her back to him, gazing down at the pounding sea.

“Well?” he said, trying to sound kindly.

He saw her draw her sleeve over her face, as though dashing away tears. There was something in the way she wept for her dead lord, silently and with her face averted, that touched even his cold heart. Rain began to fall—a light patter at first, and then, as darker clouds swept in swiftly over the headland, the drops spattered down in earnest.

“Kiukirilya,” he said. “You’ll catch cold out here. Let’s take shelter.”

“Very well.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.

Director Baltzar took them back to his office. Linnaius watched Kiukiu all the way. At one time, hearing a distant voice crying out from one of the high tower cells, she stopped in the rain-swept courtyard, raising her head to listen. “Poor wretches,” she said in the same emotionless tone. “Better to be dead than imprisoned here for life.”

The sky above Arnskammar had darkened to the color of lead. Kiukiu trailed slowly after the Magus through the falling rain, one dragging step after another. She was soaked to the skin and she didn’t care.

Gavril was dead.

She had touched the lightning-blasted stones. She had stood on the edge of the cliff where the tower had crumbled into the sea. So why didn’t she believe what they told her? Why, in her heart, did she feel he was still alive?