Prisoner of the Iron Tower (6 page)

Why am I worrying? Eugene has seen the Drakhaoul’s power firsthand. And he can have no idea that I have cast the Drakhaoul out.

He turned to walk back to the mansion and heard soft laughter close by. In the yellow lanternlight he caught sight of a man and a girl, arms wound tight around each other. He recognized young Dunai by his fair braids, and the girl looked remarkably like the serving maid who had slapped him so loudly in the hall.

He walked on, but in his heart he felt a sudden emptiness, as if he had lost a vital part of himself.

Kiukiu.

How had it taken all this time for him to see how much he needed her? What must she think of him, always too busy, inventing excuses not to be alone with her?

The Drakhaoul was gone. He could not harm her, he knew it now, and he must do all he could to make it up to her.

He’d buy her a present. Nothing ostentatious—some blue ribbons, maybe, or some soft kid gloves to protect her fingers. And then he’d ride back ahead of his men; after tonight’s celebrations they’d probably make a slow start in the morning.

The invasion was over and the Tielens were gone. It was time to start living again.

“I’ve brought you some porridge, Grandma.”

But Malusha’s chair was empty, the rugs cast onto the floor. Kiukiu set the bowl down and stared around, perplexed. Surely she hadn’t gone to the stables? Her grandmother had seemed so frail, so tired, hardly capable of walking to the courtyard, let alone attempting a journey by sleigh.

Yet once Malusha had an idea in her head, she was stubborn enough to see it through, no matter what the physical cost.

Kiukiu hurried down the narrow passageway and went out into the stable courtyard. Sure enough, there was Malusha in Harim’s stall, patting Harim’s shaggy coat and whispering in his thick-furred ear. He was already harnessed, ready to be strapped to the sleigh.

Kiukiu found herself almost speechless with exasperation.

“Grandma, where
do
you think you’re going?”

“Home, child. I don’t belong here and you know it.”

“But you’re not well enough—”

“Harim knows the way; all I have to do is sit in the sleigh and he’ll do the rest.”

“Home to a cold cottage, all on your own?”

“All on my own? Have you forgotten my lords and ladies? They’ll be waiting for me. I’ve already sent Lady Iceflower on ahead. I’ve neglected them long enough.” Malusha’s eyes glittered rheumily in the gloom of the stall. “I can’t stay here. Here, where the Nagarians tortured my son.”

“And I can’t let you go alone.” If Malusha refused to stay in Kastel Drakhaon, then she had no choice but to see her safely back to her cottage.

“But your heart is here, Kiukiu.”

Kiukiu felt her face go warm with a sudden, uncontrollable blush. Were her feelings so easy to read?

“Y-yes, but he won’t begrudge me a few days. Just a few days to make sure you’re all right. . . .” She let out a little sigh. “I’ll go ask Sosia for some provisions.”

“We’ve precious little to go around as it is, Kiukiu.” Sosia was rummaging through her remaining stone crocks. “Heaven knows, this is a lean month at the best of times and those Tielens ruined half my stores. Nobody wants to eat burned buckwheat or rye. . . . Here.” She emerged from the pantry carrying two loaves of dark rye and some strips of dried meat. “That’ll have to do. Take a stoppered jug and fill it from the ale barrel in the laundry; that one’s not been spoiled.”

“Thank you, Auntie Sosia.” Kiukiu came forward to take the provisions and, to her surprise, found herself squeezed in a hard, swift embrace.

“You’re a good girl, looking after that tetchy old woman with never a complaint.”

Kiukiu nodded and backed hastily out of the pantry, unused to such a show of effusiveness from her aunt.

She drew the ale and went back to the stable courtyard to find Malusha already sitting in the sleigh, bundled up in old blankets and furs. Harim’s oat-sweet breath steamed the air. Behind them, the
druzhina
’s steeds stamped and snorted in their stalls, impatient for exercise. One stall was still empty, she noticed, the stall of Lord Gavril’s favorite horse, jet-black Merani.

“Ivar?” she called. The lanky stableboy came out from one of the nearby stalls, trailing his wooden rake behind him. “Did the Drakhaon leave no word of when he would return?”

“He’s the Drakhaon; he does as he pleases.” Ivar gave a shrug and turned away to continue raking out the stalls.

“Hurry up, child. The sun’s already climbing high in the sky and the dark comes on soon enough!”

So there was not even the chance to say good-bye.

Kiukiu took Harim by the bridle. She led him out, the sleigh runners bumping over the muddy cobblestones, trying to ignore the dark ache in her heart. Perhaps it was for the best . . .

Good-bye? What am I saying? Am I leaving Lord Gavril forever?

“My poor bones!” Malusha complained, grabbing hold of the side of the juddering sleigh.

“We’ll be on compacted snow soon. Hold tight.”

Kiukiu led Harim the long way around, away from the burned, scorched ridge where so many Tielens had died. No one from the kastel chose to use the old road anymore; the scarred earth exuded a tainted air of desolation and death. The road wound upward above the kastel, past a ruined watchtower where a gang of
druzhina
whistled and chanted as they labored to repair the damage.

As the moorlands opened out before them, Malusha began to sniff the air.

“Best hurry. Thaw’s coming fast.”

And as if to confirm her words, a skein of grey geese appeared high overhead, their wild cries carrying on the wind.

Kiukiu squeezed in beside her grandmother and gave two sharp tugs on the reins. Harim put his shaggy head down and slowly set off across the snow.

The wind blew keenly across the moorlands and though there was no longer a bitter taste of winter to it, it still stung Kiukiu’s eyes to watering. Yes, it was the wind, she told herself angrily as she stared out at the blear of cloudy sky through tear-blurred eyes.

Beside her, her grandmother said nothing, lulled into a doze by the movement of the sleigh.

Soon they would reach the wide tarn and the icebound beck that flowed into it from the distant Kharzhgylls. Harim would pull the sleigh so much more swiftly along the frozen watercourse.

Far ahead, something moved, a black speck against the blur of white. Kiukiu sat up, straining to see. Renegade
druzhina
—or Tielen deserters? Two defenseless women alone on the moors stood little chance, although they had nothing worth stealing except a loaf of bread and a jug of ale. Malusha had fallen asleep before she could weave a cloak of mist around the sleigh, and she had not yet taught Kiukiu that useful trick.

Kiukiu sat upright and clutched the reins tight, her palms sticky with sweat against the worn leather.

A lone horseman was speeding toward them. She felt her thudding heart trip a beat or two. The horse was black, jet-black. Could it—could it be?

“Kiukiu!” His voice carried to her on the keen wind.

Harim’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice and his steady trot faltered. It was almost as if he were expecting her to halt him.

“Lord Gavril,” she whispered. Her heartbeat thrummed in rhythm with the approaching hooves. There was no avoiding this encounter.

“Where are you going?” he cried as he drew near.

“I’m taking Malusha home.” She steeled herself not to look at him, concentrating on the snowy track ahead.

“Why now?” There was bewilderment in his voice. “I—I thought—”

“Thaw’s coming. We’ll travel much faster before the ice melts.” Kiukiu swallowed back any suggestion of emotion.

Lord Gavril pulled Merani around, forcing him to match Harim’s pace beside the sleigh. Harim slowed to a stop.

“And you were just going to slip away unnoticed? Without even saying good-bye?” Lord Gavril swung down from Merani’s glossy back and approached the sleigh.

Kiukiu’s heart thudded faster, but she glared resolutely ahead, willing herself not to look him directly in the eyes for fear she would lose all resolve.

“There’s been so much to see to . . .” Lord Gavril made an awkward, self-deprecatory gesture.

“You’re the Lord Drakhaon,” she said with a little sniff.

“I had to be sure,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself.

“Sure?”

“Kiukiu—”

“Yes?” It was the way he pronounced her name. She found herself helplessly, recklessly, gazing into his eyes.
Say what’s in your heart. Say it!

Gavril gazed into Kiukiu’s eyes and felt his courage fail him.

He had ridden ahead of his bodyguard to try to make sense of his feelings. He had chosen to go on alone, against Askold’s advice, because he needed time to think. All the way back from Azhgorod he had been rehearsing what he would say to Kiukiu. And now—before he had fully worked it out—here she was and he was tongue-tied.

There was only one way to put it to the test.

He reached out and, taking her hand in his, drew her from the sleigh until she was standing close to him in the snow.

“My lord?” she said in a whisper. The icy wind whined about them and he saw that she was shivering.

“You’re trembling, Kiukiu.” Was she afraid of him?

“J-just cold.”

He had to be sure that—in spite of her protestations—she would not flinch from him. And he had to be sure of himself, sure that the lust for innocent blood was finally purged from his system.

He drew her closer until he held her pressed against him, his arms tight around her. Slowly he felt the trembling cease.

“Look at me,” he said.

She raised her head and looked steadily at him.

His hands moved to cup her face, tilting her mouth to meet his. Still she did not flinch away as his lips touched hers.

Astasia’s kiss had been sweet, her lips cool as the delicate sheen of hyacinth petals. But to kiss Kiukiu was to taste the rich earth of Azhkendir; her mouth was warm and she kissed him back with a passion and intensity that surprised him.

“Are you going to leave me to freeze to death here?” inquired a testy voice from the sleigh.

“I have to go,” Kiukiu said softly.

“I know.” Still he held her close, reluctant to let go of her now that he knew how much she mattered to him. “Is there any hope for us, do you think?” he said at last, his voice unsteady.

“Arkhel and Nagarian? No good’ll come of it,” Malusha muttered to herself.

“Take no notice,” Kiukiu said in a whisper, blushing beneath her freckles.

The blush charmed him. “When we’ve finished the work on the Kalika Tower, then I will come for you. Whether your grandmother likes it or not,” he added.

A smile lit Kiukiu’s face, sun piercing winter clouds.

“I’ll wait for you,” she said. “Gavril.”

He found himself smiling too, happy to hear her say his name without any trappings of rank or class. Not Lord Drakhaon, just plain Gavril. What better confirmation that he was truly himself again?

“Kiukiu!”
Malusha was fully awake now and glaring at them from her cocoon of furs.

“I must go.” Kiukiu drew away from him, turning back toward the sleigh. Still he kept hold of her hand.

“Shall I ride with you?”

“No need. Harim will take good care of us.”

“Travel safely, then.” He let go of her hand at last and she climbed back into the sleigh. “We’ll be together again soon.”

She gave the reins a little tug, clicking her tongue. Harim raised his shaggy head and obediently lumbered off.

Gavril stood in the snow, watching the sleigh until he could see it no longer. The wind off the mountains still whined across the moorlands, but he no longer noticed its keen edge.

Merani gave an impatient whinny and nudged his shoulder. It was only then that he remembered the gift he had brought for her: a pair of soft-fringed gloves of brown kidskin that he had carefully placed inside his saddlebags, ready to give to her.

He smiled again. Now he had the ideal excuse to pay her a visit.

“I’ll wait for you . . . Gavril.”
Each word glowed, as though etched in gold on his heart. She would help him forget the darkness that flooded into his dreams at night. She would show him the way to live a simple life again, free from the shadows.

CHAPTER
6

The hours of daylight grew longer. Wooden struts and props shored up bulging walls, ladders blocked the passageways, and the kastel echoed to the ring of hammers and chisels.

Gavril and Askold were at work repairing the wing that overlooked the gardens. And all the time Gavril was busy shoveling sand for mortar or carrying out buckets of broken plaster, his mind was free of the horrors that haunted his dreams. Besides, he felt a kind of companionship working side by side with his household, sharing the common aim of the restoration of their home. They were still in awe of him, but not in the way they had been when the Drakhaoul gifted him with its daemonic powers. There was still a bond between them, but it was a bond of shared adversity, strengthened and enriched by mutual respect.

Askold straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. “Look, my lord,” he said, jabbing a grimy finger down the garden. “There’s someone down by the old summerhouse. A woman.”

“A woman?” Gavril glanced around, hoping that it might be Kiukiu.

“Looks like your mother.”

This was not the first time Gavril had glimpsed Elysia wandering alone in the neglected gardens. He sensed that the hint of thaw in the air had made her restless.

He wiped his hands clean of mortar and went out into the overgrown rose garden that had once been her delight. She was kneeling in the last of the snow near the ruined summerhouse.

“Look,” she said in tones of delight. “Snowdrops.”

Gavril helped her to her feet. “Shall I pick some for you?”

“No. They look so pretty here in their natural setting. Yesterday I found yellow aconites behind the summerhouse. Spring will soon be here—and the thaw.” Then she placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes. “I want to go home, Gavril. I want to be in my own house, with my own things about me again. I want to see the white lilacs in bloom in my gardens. And think of our poor Palmyre! She must be wondering if I’ve sailed off the edge of the world by now.”

“All the way back to Smarna? It’s so far to go alone.”

A smile appeared, both sad and wry at the same time. “I fled Azhkendir once before, remember? With you just a little child.”

“But what about the Tielens? It’s been weeks now, and there’s been no news from beyond the borders—”

She took his hand and pressed it firmly between her own.

“Smarna will be safe. From what I heard at Swanholm, Eugene was intent on conquering Muscobar. Why would he bother with an insignificant little republic like Smarna?”

Every time she said the name, memories came surging back—memories of the warm, wine-gold Smarnan sunshine.

“Lord Drakhaon!” Ivar the stableboy came hurtling toward Gavril and Elysia as if propelled from a mortar. “Oleg’s found something in the cellar!”

“Oleg?” Elysia said with a knowing little smile at Gavril. “So the wine fumes have given him visions again?”

Gavril hurried on ahead and arrived just as Oleg emerged from the darkness of the wine cellar carrying a great canvas almost as tall as himself. He propped it up against the wall and began to brush away the thick veil of dust and cobwebs that covered it.

Gavril stared as the portrait of a young man was revealed. A young man who, except for the coal-black of his glossy hair, resembled him so closely he might have been gazing at his own reflection.

“My
father
?” he whispered.

The only portrait he had seen of Lord Volkh was the brooding, grim-browed painting that hung in the Great Hall, executed by some unknown artist of the old formal school. But the young man in this picture had been portrayed with a skillful, naturalistic touch. The artist had caught an expression at once charming, idealistic, and proud in the dark blue eyes.

His father stood on a white balcony overlooking a sun-bright bay, his black hair tousled by the breeze off the sea. He was informally dressed, his white linen shirt open at the neck. The only sign of his status was the golden chain around his neck from which a magnificent ruby pendant hung, crimson as vintage wine.

From the way the artist had captured the subject’s smile, Gavril had no doubt that it was his mother’s work. Wasn’t this how they had met, the young Drakhaon commissioning his first portrait—and falling in love with the painter?

Volkh’s eyes seemed so full of hope and optimism, unclouded by any premonition of what was to come. . . .

The portrait blurred as tears trickled down Gavril’s cheeks. He let them flow, unashamed to be seen to weep for the father he had never known.

“I thought it was burned.” He had not noticed old Guaram, who had been Lord Volkh’s valet, till then; now the old man shuffled forward to inspect the canvas more closely. “That’s what my lord ordered: ‘Burn it. I can’t bear to look on it anymore,’ he said.” He turned on Oleg, wagging an arthritic finger. “So what was it doing in the cellar?”

Oleg shrugged. “No idea. Someone must have hidden it.”

“My portrait?”

Gavril heard the mingled emotions in his mother’s voice: surprise and regret. He hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve.

Elysia had arrived, closely followed by Sosia and the serving maids.

“Mother?” Gavril said.

She stood utterly still, gazing at her work. By now word had spread, and the echoing din of hammers and saws ceased as the
druzhina
working in the Hall laid down their tools and came out to gaze at the portrait. Lord Volkh’s name was whispered as they respectfully removed their fur caps before the image of their dead master.

“I was good then, wasn’t I?” Elysia said at last, half-jesting. But Gavril could hear the profound sadness that lay beneath her words. He put his arm around her shoulders.

“There was no one to touch you, Mother.”

“Flatterer!” She kept her tone light, but she would not meet his eyes, gazing steadfastly at Volkh. She went up to the canvas to examine it. “There’s some damage here—and here on the corners. Probably mice, but it could easily be restored.”

By now a little crowd had gathered in the hallway. It soon became obvious to Gavril from their murmured comments that the younger members of the
druzhina
had never seen the portrait before either.

“That splendid ruby,” he said. “Didn’t you wear a stone like that sometimes, Mother?”

Her hand crept to her neck, as though unconsciously feeling for the jewel. A deep blush colored her cheeks. “It was a wedding gift from your father. It should have gone to you, Gavril. And now . . .” Her voice dropped. “My jewelry is at the Palace of Swanholm with my paints and the rest of my luggage. I doubt I’ll ever see it again.”

“No matter,” Gavril said, wanting to spare her embarrassment. “I’ll commission a new frame for the portrait. It will hang in the Great Hall again.”

The murmurs changed to nods and mutters of approval.

“And there won’t be a Hall for it to hang in if you layabouts don’t get back to mending the roof!” Askold’s voice cut through the gossip like a whip-crack.

The servants scattered; the
druzhina
trooped back to work until only Gavril and Elysia remained.

“Smarnan light.” Gavril still stared at the painting, recognizing the balcony on which Volkh stood and the view of Vermeille Bay beyond. He had been mired so long in the darkness of the Azhkendi winter, he had almost forgotten the intensity and clarity of the summer sun. Suddenly he found himself yearning to paint again—a yearning so strong it was like a physical ache.

But painting was a luxury he could only afford when the repairs to the kastel were finished. There would be views of the moorlands and the distant mountains in spring to capture, and the clear, cold Azhkendi light would be both inspiration and challenge to a painter who had not lifted a brush in many months. . . .

“It’s time for me to go home,” Elysia said softly.

A gateway gapes open, darker than a thunder-wracked sky. Little crackles of energy fizzle across the opening. And now he sees the bolts of energy are forked tongues, flickering from the carven mouths of great winged serpents whose coils tower above him, forming an archway leading into darkness. And high above, a serpent-eye, bloodred, transfixes him in its burning gaze—

Lying there in the darkness, Gavril tried to reason what the dreams might mean. Did they presage some cruel punishment to be inflicted upon him by the Tielens? His mother had told him the little she knew of Magus Kaspar Linnaius, Eugene’s court alchymist, who had tried to kill him with subtle poisons. She was certain he possessed occult powers and had seen him control the wind with a twist of his fingers. If the scarlet thread of light that had caused such chaos in his brain emanated from Linnaius—

Except that the vivid dream-images had a tinge of Drakhaoul glamor about them.

It’s . . . as if it has left its memories in my brain.

He could not sleep. He lay staring at the lime-washed walls, still half-wandering in the fire-riven dreamworld.

If only Kiukiu were here. She would hold him in her arms and stroke his hair and he could lose himself in her embrace. . . . But she was far away in Arkhel country, the other side of the moors, caring for her grandmother.

“You think you can live without me, but without me you will go mad. . . .”

“Two ice-breaking vessels sailed out of Arkhelskoye yesterday, my lord.” The messenger was a sailor, rough-bearded and smelling strongly of tobacco. “The port master sends his compliments and invites my lady to make her way to the port in readiness for her passage to Smarna.”

“So the thaw has really begun at last?” Gavril asked. The news was not entirely welcome. Not just because it meant Elysia would leave him and the parting would prove difficult for them both, but also because, if ice-breakers could sail out of Arkhelskoye, other ships—Tielen men-o’-war—could sail in. He must summon the boyars to discuss ways of protecting the harbors from unfriendly foreign powers.

“The thaw is well under way, my lord.”

“I’ll go and tell my mother.”

Gavril came upon Elysia at work on the portrait of his father, painstakingly cleaning away the dust and grime, watched by old Guaram.

“The port’s open,” he said.

“Mmm. Good . . .” She seemed to only half-hear him, concentrating all her attention on the painting.

“You can go home, Mother.”

“Then all the more reason I should finish this.” She smiled at him and continued with her work.

One fact about the canvas had been bothering Gavril. Now that it had been cleaned of its shroud of dust and cobwebs, it was even more obvious.

“My father was Drakhaon, wasn’t he, when he came to Smarna?”

“He was,” said Elysia distractedly, picking at a loose chip of oil paint with a fingernail.

“Then why is there no sign of it?”

She turned to face him, her auburn brows drawn together in a frown.

“The Drakhaoul only leaves the Drakhaon’s body at the moment of death to seek out his heir. Isn’t that right?”

“I painted him as I saw him,” Elysia said, gazing at the portrait. Her voice softened, her hand, still holding the fine brush, moved almost caressingly over the dark, painted locks of hair.

“But look. His eyes, his hair, his skin—all normal. Not even a glint of Drakhaoul blue—”

She sighed. “Volkh told me that in his case, it was different. The
druzhina
made him Drakhaon when his father, Zakhar, disappeared.”

“My grandfather disappeared?” This was new territory. But then, there was so much about the Nagarians she had kept from him.

“Lord Zakhar set out on a voyage.” Old Guaram now spoke up. “My father went with him. They never returned.” The old man’s voice quavered. “But years later, a black thundercloud came speeding over the mountains, swift as an eagle, seeking out Lord Volkh. It was the Drakhaoul. We knew then that Lord Zakhar was dead, and my own father with him.”

“But why? Why did my grandfather leave Azhkendir?”

Guaram gave a rheumatic little shrug. “That question always haunted your father, my lord. He spent hours in the Kalika Tower going through Lord Zakhar’s books, searching for clues.”

“The books belonged to Lord Zakhar?” Gavril had puzzled over the books left open in his father’s study at the time of his murder. The turbulent events of the past weeks had pushed them out of his mind.

Now he knew he must find them and examine again the cryptic scribblings in the margins.

“Mother, don’t forget to pack,” he called back over his shoulder as he hurried away.

“What is there to pack?” Her voice was dry. “I only have the clothes I’m wearing, remember? We left Swanholm in quite a hurry.”

“Good morning, Lord Gavril!” A cheerful voice hailed him from high above. He looked up to see Semyon’s freckled face grinning down from a rickety platform.

“Morning, Semyon.” Gavril continued on beneath the scaffolding toward the doorway to the Kalika Tower.

“Drakhaon! The repairs aren’t finished. . . .” Semyon came sliding down the ladder at breakneck speed.

“I’ll be careful.” The lower door had been blown off its hinges so Gavril had to clamber over shattered timbers to reach the spiral stair. A cold blast of air reminded him that one ragged hole in the tower wall still gaped open to the elements. He made his way slowly up the ruined stair, testing one step at a time.