Children of the Serpent Gate Read online

  Children of the Serpent Gate

  Sarah Ash

  * * *

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  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

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  About the Author

  Also by Sarah Ash

  Copyright Page

  For Catherine

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As the curtain comes down on the third and final act of the Tears of Artamon, the author expresses her heartfelt thanks to all those people who have stood in the wings and now deserve to take a bow.

  First, the highly talented directors and their teams: editors Anne Groell (Bantam US) and Simon Taylor (Transworld UK) who deserve big bouquets for their energy, endless patience, and perspicacity!

  And also the agents, Merrilee Heifetz of Writer’s House and John Richard Parker at MBA, for getting the whole project off the ground and into print.

  Then, the artists: Steve Youll for his brilliantly evocative covers and Jamie S. Warren Youll for the wonderful jacket designs.

  Not forgetting Neil Gower for bringing New Rossiya to cartographic life in his map, and Ariel, editor of The Alien Online, and also my webmaster, for designing and maintaining www.sarah-ash.com.

  Senior Management at Oak Lodge Primary School, especially Paul Guy, Mike Totterdell, and Elsa Thompson for giving me time when I most needed it! And not forgetting all my colleagues (past and present) for their support and encouragement.

  Last, and in no way least, my husband, Michael!

  PROLOGUE

  Red as heart’s blood, the five rubies glowed in the golden casket, as if a spark of light burned at their innermost core.

  Enguerrand, King of Francia, stared at his trophies. The fabled Tears of Artamon were his now, and in taking ownership of them, he had laid claim to the Empire of New Rossiya.

  He laid the casket on the little altar and knelt, head bowed in prayer.

  “I never asked for these earthly treasures,” he murmured. “But if it be Your will that I use them for the good of Your earthly empire, then Your will be done. Only show me what I must do.”

  A quiet knock at the cabin door interrupted his reverie. “Enter.”

  Ruaud de Lanvaux, Grand Maistre of the Francian Commanderie, came in, ducking beneath the low lintel to avoid hitting his head. Grizzled and lean-faced, the soldier-priest had been spiritual adviser and confessor to the young king since Enguerrand’s early years.

  “Disturbing portents, majesty. Look at the angelstone.”

  He drew a crystal pendant from around his neck and held it up for the king to see. Enguerrand adjusted his spectacles and peered at the pendant. The clear crystal was filled with swirls of darkness that pulsed and churned.

  “What does this mean?”

  “Daemonic activity. I’ve never seen anything like this in my whole life, sire. It’s almost as if someone has breached the gateway to the Realm of Shadows and let loose the fiends of hell.”

  Enguerrand peered more closely at the angelstone. Now he could see little traces of phosphorescent color glinting in the dark: blue, green, scarlet, violet, and gold . . .

  “And before there was only the one. Now there are five.”

  “Five daemon-warriors from the Realm of Shadows?”

  “I fear so.”

  Enguerrand clenched his fists. “Who summoned them? Who is so eager to bring about the end of the world? Haven’t they read the Book of Eliazar? Once they are loose, others will follow.”

  “If only the monks at Sergius’s Shrine had agreed to our request and given us their holy relic, we could have reforged Sergius’s Staff by now and armed ourselves against these daemons.”

  “If we can find someone as pure in heart as Sergius to wield the Staff.”

  The Grand Maistre’s lean face softened in a brief smile. “The Commanderie has always believed you to be Sergius’s heir, sire. You have led a blameless life and dedicated yourself selflessly to our cause.”

  Heir to Saint Sergius? A Holy Warrior battling on earth against the powers of evil? Enguerrand felt a blush of pleasure warming his face at the glorious images these words conjured up. But wasn’t it a sin of pride to feel so pleased? He willed the thought away, concentrating on other concerns.

  “We must impress on Abbot Yephimy the urgent need to hand over Sergius’s golden crook,” continued the Grand Maistre.

  “And if he and the brothers refuse?”

  “Then the Commanderie will employ more forceful means.” The Grand Maistre’s grim expression left Enguerrand in no doubt as to his intentions. “We can delay no longer.”

  “But we still know so little of the enemy. Could this be the work of the Nagarian clan?”

  “Lord Gavril Nagarian died in Arnskammar, sire. Our agents gleaned the intelligence from sources in Tielen. But his daemon is still abroad and—”

  A sudden sickening sensation swept through Enguerrand’s body. He swayed on his feet. At the same time, the cabin grew dark, as though stormclouds had blotted out the sun. And a shout of terror came from the deck above.

  The Grand Maistre grabbed hold of the young king, steadying him. “Sire! Are you all right?”

  In the murky darkness, the Tears of Artamon gave off a sudden flicker of crimson fire.

  “The—the Tears,” babbled Enguerrand, trying to form words. “L—look.”

  A shimmer of sapphire radiated through the inky black of the angelstone, pulsing in rhythm with the flickering of the rubies.

  Enguerrand pushed the Grand Maistre aside and staggered toward the cabin door. He felt impelled to go up on deck, to see what had caused the sudden darkness. But even as he clambered up the stair, the sky outside had cleared and was once again cloudless and blue.

  The Grand Maistre followed close behind him.

  “Captain Gilduin!” Enguerrand called. All the ship’s officers and men were gazing up into the heavens, shading their eyes against the glare of the sun. “What in the name of God was that?”

  On hearing the king’s voice, the sailors dropped back, bowing. But Enguerrand could not help noticing that they still kept stealing sidelong glances at the sky.

  “There it goes, sire.” The captain pointed out across the sea.

  Enguerrand lifted his hand to his brow, peering through the sun-dazzle reflected off the waves. There, in the far d
istance, he could just make out a dark, winged creature—too large, surely, for a bird—skimming away toward the horizon.

  Captain Gilduin handed him his own eyeglass and, in his haste, Enguerrand banged it against his spectacle lens as he put it to one eye. In the glass’s magnification, cloaked in a shimmer of dark smoke, he spied a creature plucked from the books of legends he had devoured as a child: a great hook-winged dragon, daemon-eyed and daemon-clawed.

  A foul fiend from the Realm of Shadows.

  “It’s not possible,” he whispered. A shiver of mortal terror ran through him, even though the sun was burning down. So this was the adversary. He felt his hands shaking as he lowered the eyeglass. Saint Sergius had died battling the Drakhaoul of Azhkendir. Even with the help of the Heavenly Warriors, he had died. And now that Enguerrand had seen one of these daemon-warriors, he knew from the churning in his bowels that it would take extraordinary courage and faith to challenge such an opponent. More courage, perhaps, than he could summon. He felt weak and demoralized, and all too aware of his own mortality.

  “Sire,” said a quiet voice behind him. He turned and saw Ruaud de Lanvaux holding out a paper. “I think this may interest you.”

  Enguerrand fiddled with his spectacles, trying to hide the tremor in his hands as he peered at the new dispatch.

  “We have intercepted intelligence within the Tielen network confirming that Gavril Nagarian, Drakhaon of Azhkendir, is not dead, as reported earlier, but alive and believed to be at large in Smarna.”

  “Alive?” His eyes met those of the Grand Maistre over the rim of the paper. “Was that—?” He gestured to the empty sky where, but a minute or so ago, he had seen the daemon-dragon overflying his fleet.

  “Very likely, sire.” The Grand Maistre’s expression was severe.

  “And yet he didn’t attack us.” Enguerrand leaned on the rail, gazing out over the waters.

  “Our duty, as devout believers, sire, is to cast the daemons from this world.”

  “And Gavril Nagarian?”

  Enguerrand suddenly saw himself standing alone and vulnerable, raising the Staff of the saint against a snarling dark-winged dragon that breathed searing fire to annihilate him. He swallowed hard. “What can we do? Suppose he attacks us before we’re properly armed?”

  “We need Sergius’s crook to reforge the Staff.”

  “Then we must send the Commanderie to Saint Sergius’s Monastery.” Enguerrand heard his own voice issuing the command in such a forthright tone that he surprised himself. “And if Abbot Yephimy refuses to comply, we’ll be obliged to seize the relic by force.” He saw the stern line of the Grand Maistre’s mouth relax as a look of approval warmed his eyes.

  Enguerrand could not sleep. Ever since the Drakhaon had flown overhead, he felt that his mind had been touched by darkness.

  “Polluted,” he murmured, filled with self-disgust. And although he had performed a rigorous cleansing ritual, beating his body with a flail until it bled, the daemonic taint still remained, like the hangover from a nightmare, tarnishing the cheerful promise of a new day.

  All he had read in the ancient scriptures warned of the coming of a time when the prince of darkness would burst from his prison in the Realm of Shadows and take dominion over the world of mortal men. In the ensuing battle, the world would be consumed in fire—and all those possessed by the daemons would be condemned to eternal torment.

  Enguerrand rose from the cramped bed and crossed the cabin to open the little window and gaze out at the limpid moonlit sea. Tomorrow they would land in Smarna. He had been promised a warm welcome by the Smarnans, who were overjoyed at being freed from the tyranny of the Emperor’s rule.

  The moonlight traced a gilded trail across the black waters.

  “Like an angel pathway to the heavens,” Enguerrand murmured, resting his head on his arms. A warm breeze still blew off the distant coast of Djihan-Djihar, dry as the burning sands of the desert. And the moon, a great burnished disc hanging low over the waves, looked as if it were forged from the beaten metal of Djihari prayer-gongs.

  Glimmer of golden wings across the face of the moon . . .

  Enguerrand stared. He rubbed his heavy eyes. He must have dozed off for a moment, lulled by the gentle onward motion of the ship. Then he stared again, for it seemed to him that a creature, golden-winged, was flying directly toward him along that angel pathway, the moonlight shimmering through its translucent form.

  He blinked, took off his spectacles, rubbed them on his nightshirt, replaced them, and looked again.

  It was gaining on them swiftly, its radiance brighter than the moonlight, so bright he could scarcely look at it.

  “Who are you?” he whispered. “And what do you want?”

  “Enguerrand . . .” The voice rang sweetly, softly, like a chime of sweet-tongued bells.

  “I am Enguerrand.”

  “You have been chosen, Enguerrand. Chosen to be a warrior in the wars to come . . .”

  “Me? A warrior?” Had his prayers been answered? Was this one of the Heavenly Warriors coming to his aid?

  “Join with me, Enguerrand.”

  “I will do all I can and more to defeat—”

  “What can you, a mortal man, hope to achieve alone against such forces?” The gold-winged spirit hovered over the waves; its light was so dazzling that Enguerrand had to look away. “Join with me and I will give you my powers.”

  “J—join?” Enguerrand did not understand what the Heavenly Warrior meant. But his heart thrummed with emotion. He had been chosen. It was just as he had always dreamed. “You know I am with you, heart and soul. My armies are at your disposal—”

  “Heart, soul—and body.”

  “Yes.” And almost before the reckless affirmation was spoken, the spirit rose above the waves, its wings beating so fast that Enguerrand found himself swept up in a glittering whirlwind. He tried to cry out—but his voice was smothered. He fell back, crashing to the floor of the cabin, as a spinning cloud of dazzling light enclosed him.

  Caught in a storm of whirling star-shards, Enguerrand sees a figure walking toward him, its arms outspread, as though to embrace him.

  “My angel. My guardian angel.” He runs to meet it gladly, arms wide-open. For one instant he glimpses a face, golden-eyed, framed by a lion’s mane of flaming hair—and then he is consumed in the bright one’s burning embrace. Shuddering, ecstatic, he cries out, certain he will be destroyed by its cleansing fire—

  “Majesty!”

  Enguerrand opened his eyes and saw his valet Fragan bending over him.

  “Thank God, majesty, you’re all right!”

  Enguerrand allowed Fragan to help him up into a sitting position. He blinked. The cabin was bright with early-morning sun. How long had he been unconscious?

  “Shall I call the physician?”

  “No.” Enguerrand raised his hand. “No. A glass of mineral water and I’ll be fine.”

  “But majesty, your mother insisted that if—”

  “I said no.” Enguerrand pulled himself to his feet, one hand gripping the side of his bunk.

  “Water, then.” Fragan scurried away, leaving behind the tray of shaving materials. Enguerrand picked up the shaving mirror and studied his reflection in it. He looked exactly the same as he had the night before, except for a dark morning shadow of stubble. One hand traced the contours of his face questioningly.

  “Was it only a dream?” he asked his reflection. It had all seemed so vivid, so viscerally real. And yet there was no difference in the outward appearance that peered shortsightedly back at him in the mirror. And how he wished that Fragan had not mentioned his mother Aliénor; ever since his brother Aubrey died, she had been insufferably overprotective, surrounding him with physicians, so alarmed at the slightest cough or sneeze that he lived in a constant state of dread.

  “No dream, my chosen one,” whispered a voice deep within him. “Soon we shall begin the glorious fight together.” And to Enguerrand’s astonishment, he saw in the
mirror a glint of angel-gold radiate from his dark brown eyes, flickering as the voice spoke.

  “Thank you,” Enguerrand said, falling on his knees at his prie-dieu, hands clasped together in fervent prayer. “Now I know what I must do. I must destroy Gavril Nagarian and the Drakhaoul that possesses him.”

  CHAPTER 1

  “I’m old.” Kiukiu stared in disbelief at her reflection. “I’m an old woman.” Her fingertips moved over her lined face, lifting her wild, dry locks of greying hair, searching in vain for a thread of gold. She was so shocked she could only stare at the aging stranger in the mirror glass. “How long was I gone?”

  “Many days, my dear.” Malusha had never called her “my dear” before. That in itself made Kiukiu fearful. “Too many days.”

  “There’s a remedy, isn’t there, Grandma?” She turned to Malusha. “Tell me what to do, I’ll do it. No matter what it is.”

  Malusha sat a moment, thinking. “I’ll go put the kettle on,” she said, easing herself up from Kiukiu’s side. Making tea was Malusha’s remedy for all ills, great and small.

  “Grandma, what do you know?” Kiukiu persisted.

  “I know that you wouldn’t be still in this world if Lord Gavril hadn’t flown to Swanholm to rescue you.”

  “Lord Gavril?” The glass dropped from her fingers. She looked up and found herself staring into the deep blue of Gavril’s eyes. “You’re alive?” She forgot her own distress and just gazed up at him. “But they said you were dead. They showed me the tower, they showed me where the lightning struck—”

  And then she realized that he must be able to see every wrinkle, each strand of dull grey hair. She covered her face with her hands, turning away from him, not wanting him to see her like this.

  “Kiukiu?” he said. He said her name so gently—and yet she could detect the bewilderment in his tone.

  “Don’t look at me. Please.” This was the reunion she had dreamed of for so long. But in her dreams, she had been unchanged by the Ways Beyond. She had run to greet him, her arms outstretched, her golden hair loose about her shoulders. “That evil old man,” she muttered. “He lied to me. He made me think you were dead, and all to trick me into his trap.”