Prisoner of the Iron Tower Read online

  PRISONER

  of the

  IRON

  TOWER

  Book Two of the Tears of Artamon

  Sarah Ash

  BANTAM BOOKS

  Table Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map of The New Rossiyan Empire

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Also by Sarah Ash

  Copyright Page

  For Christopher

  (who knows all too well what a deadline is!)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prisoner of the Iron Tower would never have made it without:

  The two best (and most rigorous!) editors an author could hope for: Anne Groell at Bantam US and Simon Taylor at Transworld UK and their respective teams.

  My agents, Merrilee Heifetz of Writer’s House and John Parker of MBA, for making it all possible.

  Steve Youll for stunning cover art.

  The talented Neil Gower for deciphering my scrawl and transforming it into such a wonderful map of New Rossiya.

  My brilliant webmaster, Ariel, editor of The Alien Online (who would be better described as a web-magician for his skills in setting up sarah-ash.com).

  My headmaster, Mike Totterdell, and colleagues at Oak Lodge School, for their support and encouragement.

  And my husband, Michael, for being there (and all those cups of tea).

  Thanks, everyone, you’ve been great!

  PROLOGUE

  Gavril Nagarian, Lord Drakhaon of Azhkendir, opened the door to Saint Sergius’s shrine. Candleflames from ochre beeswax candles shimmered in the gloom. The air smelled of bitter incense and honeyed candlesmoke.

  The radiant figure of the Blessed Sergius dominated the ancient mural, staff upraised to defend his flock from the dark Drakhaon. Even the saint’s face had been covered with gold leaf by the artist. In contrast, only the Drakhaon’s eyes glinted in the candlelight, jeweled with chips of blue glass. The rest of his winged daemon-form had been painted black as shadow.

  “Now it is finally gone, and I am alone.” Gavril’s words went echoing up into the shadows of the vaulted roof, where the angelic hosts stared down at him with their painted eyes. The strength suddenly drained out of him and he sank to his knees before the saint’s stone tomb.

  The heavy nail-studded door to the shrine was flung open with such force that it crashed into the stone wall. Candleflames wavered in the fierce draft and some blew out, guttering trails of smoke.

  Warriors of his druzhina stood in the doorway. Foremost among them was Bogatyr Askold, first officer and commander of his bodyguard, who came striding down the aisle toward him.

  “What have you done to yourself, my lord?” Askold’s voice was harsh with grief and accusation. “What have you done?”

  The others crowded around, so close he could smell the pungent damp of their fur cloaks and the sweat of their bodies.

  Askold seized hold of Gavril.

  Gavril tried to wrench himself free but, his strength exhausted, he could not break away.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but it’s the only way to be certain,” muttered Askold, twisting one arm behind his back. Gavril heard the whisper of steel against leather as Askold drew a knife from his boot.

  A flash of fear flickered through his mind. Did they mean to kill him? In this dangerous mood, his own men could turn against him. And then he winced as Askold drew the knifeblade across his wrist in one small, expert stroke.

  The warriors crowded closer, staring as blood began to well up from the shallow incision and drip onto the flagstones.

  Gavril stared too.

  Red blood. Crimson-red. Human-red. Without a trace of daemon-purple.

  A shuddering sigh echoed around the shrine.

  Askold let go of him. “So the Drakhaoul is gone. And with it, all your powers.”

  “You broke the bond! You broke the bloodbond that binds us to you!” cried out scarred Gorian.

  “You betrayed us!”

  “I did what I had to,” Gavril said wearily. “I did what should have been done centuries ago.”

  “Azhkendir was safe,” said Barsuk Badger-Beard, his gruff voice unsteady. “No one dared attack us. But now that it’s gone, who knows what will happen?”

  “You call yourselves my druzhina?” Gavril raised his head and stared at them, challenging. “Then act like warriors!”

  Eyes stared back at him, dark with hostility. He could see the glint of their unsheathed sabres in the guttering candlelight. If he did not win back their allegiance now, he was as good as dead.

  “We’ve driven Eugene of Tielen out of Azhkendir. Now we must learn to fight without daemonic powers to protect us. To fight like men.”

  “Didn’t you hear what Lord Gavril said?” A younger voice rang out, passionate with anger. Gavril saw Semyon, the newest member of the druzhina, his freckled face flushed red. “I swore to defend you, my lord. I haven’t forgotten how you saved my life in the siege. My oath still holds.”

  “Aye, and mine too,” said Askold. He knelt at Gavril’s feet. “Forgive us, my lord.”

  Gavril knelt down too and placed his hands on Askold’s shoulders, raising him to his feet. “We’ve much to do,” he said. “Kastel Drakhaon is in ruins. Will you work with me to rebuild it?”

  It was not until he left the shrine to walk across the monastery courtyard with Semyon and Askold at his side that he heard again the far-distant echo of the Drakhaoul’s dying voice, each word etched in fire on his mind:

  “Why do you betray me? Divide us and you’ll go insane. . . .”

  The old fisherman Kuzko and his wife found him lying on the seashore, so battered by the waves and the rocks that his clothes were torn to shreds. For days he wandered between life and death—and when he returned to himself, he no longer knew who he was. The sea had stolen his memories from him. The only distinguishing feature was a signet ring on his broken right hand . . . but the device had been worn so smooth by the sea and the rocks that it was impossible to tell with any certainty what it had been.

  So they called him Tikhon after their own lost son, drowned years before in another night of terrible storms, and they nursed him slowly back to health. Many weeks later, when he could walk again, he began to help with a task or two: mending nets, carrying wood for the fire.

  Everything had to be relearned, even speech; he was like a great child, limping slowly after Kuzko, speaking awkwardly, as if his tongue would not obey his brain. Yet he seemed cheerful enough in spite of his deficiencies—although sometimes he was suddenly overcome with a terrible wordless raging that could not be assuaged.

  Tikhon was helping old Kuzko mend the boat, caulking a leak in the storm-batt
ered hull with a stinking mess of oakum and pitch that Kuzko had boiled up over a driftwood fire. The wind blew keen and raw across the bleak island shore. There was nothing to be seen here for miles but sea and rocks. The sky was pale with scudding clouds. Until Kuzko noticed one cloud blowing toward them, darker than the rest, moving faster than the others.

  “Storm coming,” he shouted to Tikhon. “Best find shelter till it passes.” He gazed up into the sky. This was no ordinary stormcloud; it was moving too fast, its course erratic and unpredictable. And as it tumbled nearer, the light began to fade from the sky and the shoreline turned black as night.

  Tikhon stumbled after his adoptive father—but his damaged body betrayed him and, with a gargling cry, he fell on his face on the pebbled beach.

  The old fisherman started back toward him. “Come on, lad!”

  The dark cloud hovered overhead. Lightning crackled—and Kuzko dropped back, covering his eyes.

  Tikhon let out another cry of terror as he cowered in the lightning’s beam.

  Kuzko watched, helpless, as with a sudden, sinuous movement, the cloud wrapped itself like a dark shroud around Tikhon. The lad convulsed, his body wracked by violent shudders, twisting this way and that as though struggling with some invisible shadow-creature.

  And then the struggle ceased. The darkness had disappeared—and the sun’s pale winter light pierced the scudding clouds.

  Kuzko slowly picked himself up. “T-Tikhon,” he stammered. The lad lay unmoving. Tears welled in his eyes. He had seen his son taken from him once—was he to have to endure it all again?

  “Tikhon?” he said, extending a shaking hand to touch the boy’s shoulder.

  Tikhon’s eyes opened. He sat up. Each movement was lithe, precise, controlled. He looked at Kuzko and said, “Where am I?” His voice was no longer slurred.

  “Are you all right?” quavered Kuzko.

  The young man looked down at himself, frowning. “I think so.”

  “You’re cured. It’s a m-miracle.” Kuzko felt weak now. “Come, Tikhon, let’s go tell Mother—”

  “Tikhon?” The young man slowly shook his head. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Andrei.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Astasia Orlova leaned on the rail of the Tielen ship that was carrying her back home to Muscobar across the Straits. Cold seaspray blew into her face, her hair, but she did not care.

  She was bearing Count Velemir’s ashes back to Mirom. It was Feodor Velemir who had brought her to Tielen on the pretense that wreckage from her brother Andrei’s command, the Sirin, had been washed up on the shore. She had gone, eager that there might be the faintest glimmer of hope that Andrei was not drowned but lying injured in some remote fisherman’s hut, only to find that it had all been a ruse to display her charms to the Tielen court and council, to persuade them that she would make a suitable bride for Prince Eugene.

  Well, Count, she thought, gazing into the rolling sea mist that hid the coastline of Muscobar from view, you have paid the ultimate price for your treachery. You used me heartlessly. You lied, you twisted the truth to further your own ends, and now you are dead.

  But even now she was not sure she believed the evidence of her own eyes. What she had witnessed in the snowy palace yard had shaken her to the very core.

  There crouched a dark-winged creature, veiled in a blue shimmer of heat. And—most horrible of all—the burning remains of something that had once been Feodor Velemir, Muscobar’s ambassador to Tielen, lay in a charred, smoking heap at its feet.

  Drakhaon.

  In that one moment all certainties had been seared away.

  “Altessa!” Nadezhda, her maid, came up to her, carrying a wool shawl. “You’ll catch a chill up here in this bitter wind.”

  “Don’t fuss, Nadezhda. I’m fine.”

  Nadezhda took no notice and draped the shawl over Astasia’s shoulders. “Please come below and warm yourself.”

  “Not yet,” Astasia said distantly. “In a while . . .”

  The cloudy sky and the choppy sea mirrored her mood. She felt numbed. Whenever she tried to sleep, she saw the Drakhaon of Azhkendir rear up out of the darkness and then, oh then—

  The one moment she could not forget, the moment when the dragon-winged daemon had turned its piercing blue gaze on her and she had recognized Gavril Andar.

  Elysia Andar had tried to warn her, but she had refused to listen. Yet now she knew it to be true. Gavril, the one man she had ever allowed to hold her, to kiss her, was possessed by a dragon-daemon—

  “Altessa.”

  She turned to see that one of the Tielen officers had come up on deck.

  “We have received an urgent message from Mirom, altessa, that concerns you. Will you please come below?”

  Reluctantly, Astasia followed him belowdecks to the captain’s anteroom. Chancellor Maltheus had sent an escort of the household guard to protect her . . . or to prevent her from running away?

  A group of officers were gathered around the table; they bowed as she entered.

  “Is there a storm coming?” she asked, taking off the shawl. The fine mist of seaspray still clung to her hair. “Should we seek harbor and sit it out?”

  “The message comes from Field Marshal Karonen, altessa. He reports there is rioting in Mirom. It seems that your parents have been trapped in the Winter Palace by a mob of dissidents who are threatening to torch the palace and all inside.”

  Astasia gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. “Dissidents?” she repeated.

  “Your father has requested our help. It seems the situation is quite desperate.”

  “My father is asking for help?” Astasia said. If nothing else, this brought home the severity of the situation. Her father never asked for help.

  “The Field Marshal is ready to lead a rescue force into the city, altessa. Just give the word and he will liberate the palace.”

  Astasia gazed warily around at all the Tielen officers. She could not help noticing the detailed map of Mirom that lay outspread on the table. They seemed so well-prepared. . . .

  “We understand there has been unrest in the city for some months,” said one.

  “Well, yes—” she began, then broke off. How could she have been so blind? Maltheus had sent the soldiers with her as part of the invasion force. What better way to infiltrate Tielen soldiers into the heart of the city? Dissidents or no, Muscobar was about to be swallowed up into the growing Tielen empire.

  “Prince Eugene is determined to quell any last stirrings of rebellion before your wedding takes place.”

  “Of course,” she said coldly. They were still looking at her expectantly, and she realized that they were waiting for her command.

  “Tell the Field Marshal,” she said, knowing she had no choice, “to put down the rebellion—and with my blessing.”

  Astasia struggled up on deck against the prevailing wind, into a raw, red dawn. As the ship sailed up the broad Nieva, she noticed that the gilded dome of the Senate House had been reduced to a smoldering shell. And while at first she had believed the red glare in the sky to be the rising sun, surely no dawn could glow that brightly?

  No, the West Wing of the palace was on fire.

  She heard the crackle of the flames, the tinkle of breaking glass as panes burst in the heat; she saw the haze of smoke sullying the freshness of the dawn.

  They were burning her home.

  “No!” she cried aloud, gripping the rail to steady herself.

  Now she could hear shouts from the shore; a confusion of people was swarming over the neatly clipped boxes and yews. Guards leaned from the windows, aiming muskets at the rabble, firing. A ragged rat-a-tat of fusillades answered.

  “You must go belowdecks, altessa!” One of the Tielen officers came toward her, pistol in hand. “It’s not safe up here!”

  Screams carried on the wind, shrill above the rattle of gunfire. There were running silhouettes at the West Wing windows, dark against the blaze of the
flames. Where were Mama and Papa? Where was her governess, poor, dear Eupraxia? She would be so flustered by the panic and the fire—

  “There are people trapped in there!” she said to the officer, grabbing his arm and stabbing her finger at the burning building. “We must get them out!”

  A musket ball whizzed over their heads, grazing the nearest mast, showering them with sharp splinters of wood.

  “We’re doing all we can,” he said, hurrying her toward the hatch.

  The battle for the Winter Palace lasted little more than an hour. Astasia crept back up on deck and watched as more and more Tielen soldiers swarmed into the gardens, driving the rebels before them, rounding them up at musket-point.

  By now the West Wing was well-alight, and she saw looters risking the Tielen guns to carry away brocade curtains, pictures, fine porcelain . . . Too late, some servants formed a bucket-chain while others scooped water from the river. Flames burst through the roof. Rafters cracked and the whole structure collapsed inward with a crash like rolling thunder.

  Shocked beyond speech, she stood with her hands clutched to her mouth. The clouds of acrid smoke carried the vile smell of burning: timber, molten glass, and, worst of all, human flesh.

  “I’ve made some tea, altessa.” She had not noticed that Nadezhda had emerged from belowdecks. “You’ve eaten nothing for hours. You need to keep up your strength.”

  “Mama,” Astasia whispered into the billowing smoke. “Papa . . .”

  “Tea with a drop of brandy, that’ll warm you up.” Nadezhda took her by the arm and steered her back below.

  At about four in the afternoon, a party of Muscobar officers came on board and asked to speak with her. Sick with worry, she hurried to meet them.

  “Colonel Roskovski!” she cried, so glad to see a familiar face that she wanted to run up and hug him.

  “Altessa,” he said, clicking his heels and saluting her. He looked haggard; he was unshaven and his immaculate white uniform jacket was covered in smears of soot. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  “Is there . . . is there any news of my parents?”