Prisoner of the Iron Tower (37 page)

“I thought—I thought he meant to harm you.” The words had come out slowly, painfully, as he relived the moment. “How was I to know? I couldn’t take the risk.”

“Is Anisieli far?” Pavel asked suddenly.

Gavril started. He had been so absorbed in his memories, he had forgotten about their mission. “At the foot of the gorge. We should get there before sunset.”

Pavel Velemir took out a slender eyeglass and extended it, surveying the distant hills. “They won’t risk breaking cover in open country like this. They’ll have hidden themselves away.”

Gavril gazed at him guardedly. “That’s a useful little contrivance.”

“It was my Uncle Feodor’s,” Pavel said, offering it to Gavril. “It’s about all I inherited from him. Most of his possessions were looted when the rebels sacked the Winter Palace.”

Uncle Feodor’s.
Gavril took the cylindrical tube and raised it to one eye, handling it as if it were red-hot. There were workers toiling away, tending the vines on the sunny slopes higher up. But there was no sign of the Tielens.

He doesn’t know that I’m the one who killed his uncle.

“Excellent magnification,” he said curtly, handing it back. “But I’d be surprised if the Tielens have penetrated this far into Smarna in so short a time, unless they’ve developed wings.”

“At least up here we’re spared Field Marshal Iovan’s tetchy little tirades.” Pavel grinned at Gavril, another friendly, open grin.

That smile awoke something buried deep within Gavril’s damaged mind—the memory of what it felt like to have friends, to share a joke, to be easy in someone else’s company . . . But because of the terrible thing he had done, he could never be Pavel’s friend. He was Drakhaon. And since a Drakhaon was not as other men, he must live apart, gifted and cursed by his dragon-daemon.

Gavril turned Capriole’s head away from the vineyards with their neat rows of fresh green vines, and rode up toward the higher, rougher pasture land. It had not rained in many days and everything was powdered in a fine reddish dust from the rich earth.

He had not traveled this route in some years. When he was fourteen or fifteen years old, Elysia and Lukan had taken a house on a wine-growing estate. All that hot summer they had played at living the country life: He and Lukan had gone fishing in the weed-choked little river that irrigated the vineyards and Elysia had painted, wandering off through the fields with her sketchbook, easel, and parasol. The sound of the cicadas whirring noisily in the trees brought back something of those lazy, carefree days. He could feel the cool mud squelching between his toes as he waded barefoot through the stony river shallows. And he remembered the luscious taste of the new grapes, bursting juicily sweet and sharp in his mouth. . . .

Maybe out here he could find the solitude that would help him start to paint again.

As Capriole jogged on upward, he saw himself in the overgrown garden at the vineyard house, brush in hand and canvas in front of him, putting the finishing touches to a portrait whose subject sat in the shade of the old olive tree, smiling at him, her fair hair catching glints of amber and gold from the dappled sunlight. . . .

Kiukiu?

“
How
much farther to Anisieli?” asked Pavel.

“Not far.” Gavril, startled out of his daydream, answered him brusquely. “Two or three miles, no more.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The empty hillside shimmered in the heat of the late afternoon sun. Cicadas and birds chirped; flies droned. “Let’s give the horses a rest.”

On the brow of the hill, a clump of chestnuts promised some welcome shade. Gavril dismounted and tied Capriole on a long tether so that she could graze on the short grass beneath the trees. Then he walked to the farthest side of the hilltop and gazed out over the next valley, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

There was no denying it. He had caught himself daydreaming about Kiukiu. Painting Kiukiu, he corrected himself. And an aching feeling of longing swept over him like a drowning wave. As soon as they flushed out Eugene’s troops, he would leave the rebels to finish the job, and set off for Azhkendir.

Pavel offered him his flask. “Watered wine?”

Gavril’s head throbbed at the thought. “No. I have a headache from the sun.”

He sat down and took out his water bottle, drinking a long draft to relieve the dryness of his mouth and throat.

“She’s quite something, that Korneli girl,” Pavel said idly. “Worth a hundred of those insipid convent-educated girls in Mirom. I’d like to see some of them cut their hair and go riding bareback in their brother’s borrowed clothes!”

Gavril stared at him from under close-drawn brows. He had been so long in solitary confinement in the Iron Tower that he had almost forgotten how to participate in this kind of idle, companionable conversation.

“Of course, in Mirom, such bold behavior would ruin her chances in society. ‘By all means, make her your mistress,’ my mother would say, ‘but she’s utterly unsuitable as a bride.’ ”

“And do you intend to follow your mother’s advice?”

“I heard a rumor that she has eyes only for Rafael Lukan.”

“Lukan?”

“He’s old enough to be her father, but some girls prefer older men.” Pavel lay back on the dry grass, gazing up at the sky. “My Uncle Feodor could vouch for that. He was always having to extricate himself from some intrigue with the Grand Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting. Means you and I have to work twice as hard to impress—”

Gavril heard the distant crack and rattle of carbine fire, far-off but unmistakeable. He was on his feet in an instant, listening intently. “What’s that?”

“Gunfire.” Pavel leaped up.

“Sounds as if the Tielens have reached Anisieli before us.”

Had the Tielens been shadowing Iovan and his men all this time? Or had they just run into a raiding party by chance? Whatever the circumstances, Gavril didn’t rate the rebels’ chances too highly. And RaÏsa would be caught in the ambush.

“Come on.” Pavel hurried toward the horses.

Gavril hung back, torn. If he rode with Pavel, he would never reach the rebels in time to help.

“Ahh!” He clutched his head with both hands, half-acting, half in earnest. He dropped to his knees, doubling up as if in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Pavel was in the saddle already.

“You go ahead. I’ll—catch up.”

“You look dreadful.”

“Head wound. It’ll pass. Just go!”

The sound of shots came again, echoing through the green valley.

Pavel hesitated another second, then kicked his heels into his horse’s glossy flanks. Gavril opened one eye and saw him ride down the other side of the hill.

“Drakhaoul,” he muttered as he got to his feet, “can you hear me? They need us.”

Even now he might be too late to save them. He cast aside his water bottle and hat and ran toward the edge, leaping up into the air, arms spread wide.

“Khezef!” he cried.
“Now!”

The air whirled about him, dark as a tornado. He felt a tremor go twisting through his whole body.

“I hear you!”

Wings burst from his daemon-altered body, wrenching his shoulders and arms until he felt they would be torn from their sockets. Flight, as he powered upward, was utter agony, working every strained sinew and muscle till they burned.

And then it became sheer ecstasy as he forgot the physical pain and skimmed into the blue of the summer sky, riding the air currents, swooping down over the hill he and Capriole had toiled up in the heat, with the cool wind behind him.

The crack of carbines rose from far below. He spotted little puffs of white smoke first—and then a sight far worse. The rebel column was surrounded. He smelled blood, and the horribly familiar acrid stink of Linnaius’s alchymical gunpowder.

There were at least a hundred Tielens in the raiding party, and from the air, he knew instantly that they had sprung their ambush with military precision. He could see bodies on the road, horses and men. Some were trying to crawl away; others had adopted defensive positions in a ditch.

RaÏsa. Where was RaÏsa?

He circled high above, searching for a glimpse of her bright hair, dreading to see her slender body lying sprawled among the dead. Then he saw her. She was crouched behind an upturned munitions cart, frantically ramming shot into her pistols.

“Fire!” a Tielen voice yelled, and another round of mortar shells exploded among the fleeing rebels.

“Get down, RaÏsa!” he cried out. Buffeted by the rush of burning air as shrapnel burst in the air, he turned, readying himself to strike back.

Had she survived that last blast? Smoke billowed across the road. The upturned cart was on fire; it had taken a direct hit.

Rage burned through his whole body. If they had killed her—

His powers were still not fully restored after Vermeille Bay. But in the heat and smoke of the melee, no one had noticed him overhead. He had that advantage, at least.

The Tielens had positioned their mortars behind a dry stone wall, all that remained of a shepherd’s summer hut.

The Drakhaon narrowed his eyes.
Take out the artillery.

As he dove down, the air rushing past him, his Drakhaon-body snaking through the sky, he felt nothing but the fierce, exultant joy of battle.

Blue fire seared the row of mortars. Smoke filled the air.

Splinters of stone exploded as the wall collapsed. The blast blew him off course; he slewed around in midair, shadow-wings beating a hot, dry wind toward the fleeing Tielens.

From below he heard screams of fear.

A Tielen trumpeter blew a ragged retreat. A few soldiers, their uniforms besmirched and tattered, staggered away.

“Let them go.” Already he knew he had overstretched his resources; he felt weak and dizzy, his power spent. “Let them tell the Emperor what they saw. Much good it will do him . . .”

The wing-beats came more slowly now, each one a juddering effort that wracked his whole body. He began to spiral downward, searching for a place to land where no one would see him.

He alighted on a grassy hillside, screened from the road by tall hornbeams, thudding onto his knees and hands as the glamour faded from his body, leaving him a shuddering, defenseless man again, his clothes all torn to tatters.

“Why am I still so weak, Drakhaoul?” he whispered, toppling slowly forward onto his face in the coarse grass.

“You are weak because you refuse to replenish yourself,”
came back the hoarse, smoke-voiced reply.
“If you don’t find nourishment soon, you will lose the power to sustain me.”

“Must . . . be some other way.” Gavril dug his nails deep into the coarse grass as the first surge of nausea washed through his depleted body.

“You were dying when I rescued you. Even I cannot save you this time. You must feed—or die.”

“No . . .” Gavril mouthed the denial, his lips pressing into the grass.

“It’s a good thing you brought a change of clothes.”

Gavril opened his eyes and saw Pavel Velemir standing over him, holding his pack.

“Here.” Pavel threw the pack down beside him. “You’d better put these on.”

Damn. Pavel Velemir was the last person in all Smarna he wanted to find him in this condition. He tried to push himself up but fell down again.

“Water . . .”

“You’re in pretty poor shape, aren’t you?” Pavel squatted down beside him and held his water bottle to his lips. The acid taste of the watered wine made Gavril choke—but after he had swallowed a mouthful or two, his head felt less muzzy and he sat up, reaching for his clothes.

“So what happened?”

Was that an ironic question? Gavril, wearily trying to fasten his breeches, looked quizzically at Pavel.

“How about—I was caught in the blast of a Tielen mortar and my clothes were all blown to ribbons.”

“It might have to do,” Pavel said. “They’re in such confusion, they’ll probably believe you.”

“But you don’t.” Had Pavel guessed everything? How much had he seen? And what had he been told of his uncle’s death? The official version might be quite different from the facts; the Tielen clerks might have found it impossible to write that “Feodor Velemir was burned to death by a dragon-daemon.”

“I only know what I saw. Perhaps I’m suffering from heatstroke. Do you always lose your clothes when this happens? I see you haven’t brought a spare pair of boots.”

Now that Gavril had recovered a little, he realized Pavel must have gone back to fetch his horse.

“I’ll ride on to Anisieli. Someone will sell me a pair of boots there.” Bare feet were the least of his worries.

“What you did back there was pretty impressive.” Pavel grinned at him. “Those Tielens were obviously under orders to blast us off the road. They must have had quite a surprise when you came swooping down from the hillside!”

“And our side? Casualties?” Gavril forced himself to ask the question he had been dreading.

“More than a few.” Pavel’s pleasant expression grew grave.

“RaÏsa?”

“A nasty gash on the head. It’ll leave a scar. But she’s alive—and swearing at her brother. I take that as a good sign.”

RaÏsa was alive. Gavril felt the pain troubling his heart slowly melt away. He had saved her. So it had not been in vain, then, his reckless attack.

And then he remembered Pavel Velemir.

“Please, say nothing. If there are any questions to be answered, I’ll answer them my own way.”

“Don’t worry.” Pavel offered him his hand, pulling him to his feet and steadying him. “I value my life too much. I wouldn’t do anything to offend such a powerful dragon-lord.”

Dragon-lord.
In spite of his weariness, Gavril found himself grinning back at Pavel. It had such an absurdly chivalrous ring to it.

The ragged rebel column limped into Anisieli as the sun was setting. Dusklight, violet-hued, seeped down through the steep rocks of the gorge behind. The people of Anisieli cheered and waved the Smarnan flag from upstairs windows as they entered the town, but, as Pavel said to Gavril, there wasn’t much to cheer about.

They had left behind a scene of carnage. Predatory mountain crows were already circling above the broken bodies, even as they piled their own dead onto the one remaining cart.