Prisoner of the Iron Tower Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  “Would your imperial highness care to take a look?” The tailor wheeled the full-length mirror across the dressing room.

  Eugene had permitted himself this one luxury: new clothes for the coronation, though he had stipulated—to the master tailor’s profound disappointment—that they must not be in any way ornate or extravagant. He steeled himself and glanced at his reflection. He had chosen the uniform of the Colonel-in-Chief of his Household Cavalry for his wedding outfit: the gold-frogged jacket cut of the finest, softest pale grey wool, subtly decorated with braid. On his breast he would wear the Order of the Swan, suspended from a pale blue ribbon.

  “If your imperial highness could raise your right arm so—” his tailor muttered through a mouthful of pins, making little marks with chalk.

  Eugene had not believed himself to be vain; he had thought himself above such worldly conceits. But now, as he caught sight of his damaged face in the mirror, he knew he was as susceptible as any man. It was a face ghoulish enough to scare children on the Night of the Dead, one half still angrily red beneath the glistening film of new skin.

  “Does the braid on the cuff please your highness?”

  “The braid?” Eugene forced himself to concentrate on the details of the tailoring. “Why, yes. It’s not too ostentatious.”

  There had been so many calls on his time, so many ministers and ambassadors to entertain from the world beyond the empire, that Eugene realized he had hardly spent more than five minutes alone with Astasia since the betrothal.

  This was not the best way to start a relationship with the woman he had chosen to be his empress. He had sensed Astasia stiffen as he embraced her, as his burned cheek brushed against hers. He could understand her revulsion; he felt much the same every morning as he faced his own reflection in the shaving mirror.

  He must make time to pay her a visit; she would be chaperoned, of course, but it would still afford an opportunity for conversation.

  In the meantime, he would send another betrothal gift. Amethysts would enhance the creamy pallor of her skin. He would ask Paer Paersson to select something rare and exquisite that would please her. He would have selected the gift himself, but he was due to attend a crucial meeting with Kyrill Vassian.

  Eugene seated himself at a great gilt and marble-topped desk that had been rescued from the flames to sign and seal the documents presented to him by First Minister Vassian. Gustave hovered behind him, darting forward from time to time to shake sand to set wet ink, or melt a fresh stick of wax.

  “So,” Eugene said as he set his seal in the final blob of scarlet wax, “this concludes my part, I believe?” He stared down with a swelling sense of satisfaction at the written confirmation of his victory: Muscobar was truly his at last.

  “Yes, highness.” Vassian stiffly bowed his silvered head. “The lawyers have been awaiting these final documents. There will be plenty to occupy them, now that Muscobar has been swallowed up by New Rossiya.” Still bowing, he left the study. Was that last comment a faint flash of defiance? The First Minister had seemed detached, coldly yet politely aloof, during the signing ceremony. Eugene could not help wondering if Chancellor Maltheus would have shown such detachment if the situation were reversed.

  “Stand clear!” From outside came the shouts of workmen, and then a crash of falling masonry, followed by a rising cloud of dust: mortar and crushed plaster. Work on reconstructing the gutted wing had already begun, generously funded by the Tielen treasury.

  “And the plans for the coronation, Gustave?”

  “Are well in hand, highness. All the invitations have been issued, even to Enguerrand of Francia.”

  Eugene rose and shook his burned hand, which was stiff and sore from signing. The sudden flash of agonizing pain made him wince, but he turned hastily away, pretending to gaze out of the window so that Gustave should not notice. The pain slowly subsided.

  “I want representatives from all five princedoms to attend—and be seen to attend. We will show the world—and Francia, in particular—how well New Rossiya’s enlightened ideals can work for the good of the people.”

  “I can’t marry him.” Astasia sat frozen in front of the mirror. She could still feel Prince Eugene’s lips on her own. Kissing her. And every time she remembered, she felt a shudder of revulsion. She despised herself for it. But she kept seeing again the unnatural red sheen of his burned face, the glisten of the fragile, new-formed skin that looked as if it would peel and flake away at the slightest touch, leaving a horrible oozing mess of raw flesh beneath—

  She shuddered again. “I can’t even bear to think of it.”

  There came a discreet tap at the door and, as it opened, she saw in the mirror the round, plump face of Eupraxia beaming at her.

  “Praxia!” Astasia sprang up and, forgetting all rules of propriety, ran to fling her arms around Eupraxia’s generous girth. “Dear Praxia, how I’ve missed you.”

  “Altessa.” Eupraxia hugged her to her broad, lace-covered bosom. “Let me look at you.” She gazed into her charge’s face and Astasia saw tears glistening in her governess’s warm brown eyes. “How pale you look. Where are those pretty roses?” And she gently pinched Astasia’s cheek.

  “I’m so much happier for seeing you and knowing you’re safe, Praxia.” Astasia caught hold of Eupraxia’s plump hand and pulled her to sit on the little Tielen-blue sofa beside her. “I was afraid you’d been caught up in the riots.”

  “And if I hadn’t been called away to the country to nurse my sister, I dread to think . . .” Eupraxia shook her head, making her little grey curls tremble like catkins. “But let’s talk of happier matters, my dear. The wedding!”

  Astasia forced a smile.

  “What’s this? You’ve snared the most eligible bridegroom in the whole continent and—oh no. You’re not still pining for that unsuitable young Smarnan portrait painter, are you?”

  “Certainly not,” Astasia said vehemently.

  “Then why the doleful eyes?”

  “Because—oh, Praxia, I’m so ashamed to say it, but I can’t bear for him to touch me. Am I so shallow that I can only see his disfigurement?”

  “There, there.” Eupraxia stroked her hair, just as she used to when Astasia was a little girl and had broken her favorite doll. “Your feelings are quite understandable. You’ve led a sheltered life. You’ve never had to tend to soldiers wounded in battle or look on such terrible injuries till now.”

  “It’s true.” Astasia had seen so little of the world until the last weeks of insurrection, fire, and bloodshed.

  “What matters is what’s inside, not outside. If the prince is a warmhearted man, a good man, you will come to ignore his outward appearance.” As Eupraxia continued in this vein, Astasia nodded from time to time as though agreeing. But none of Eupraxia’s words comforted her in the least. “Give it time, my child.”

  Astasia was infinitely grateful that Eupraxia had not chosen this moment to lecture her on her duty as sole Orlov heir. Her governess had neither been outraged by her confession, nor had she reacted hysterically as her mother Sofia would undoubtedly have done. Now, as Astasia rang for Nadezhda to bring tea, she felt more than a little guilty, remembering the many times she had defied her governess or had driven her to distraction with her whims and headstrong moods. In the last turbulent weeks she had begun to wonder whom she could still trust, and Eupraxia had proved herself a true and loyal ally.

  She sat and sipped strong, sweet tea and offered Eupraxia some of the little sugared vanilla biscuits she had brought from Swanholm. It delighted her to see her governess smile appreciatively as she sampled the Tielen sweetmeats; she had always enjoyed such treats. Eupraxia inquired after her parents’ health and Astasia inquired about Eupraxia’s sister. But all the while, Astasia’s mind kept wandering. Is it so hard a thing, after all? To let him touch me, kiss me? To just close my eyes and pretend . . .

  But what kind of a marriage is built on pretense?

  “Time, im
perial highness,” said Doctor Arensky, washing his hands in the basin provided and drying them on a linen towel proffered by his assistant. “Time is a great healer.”

  Eugene heard the doctor’s words and understood only too well what lay behind them. He said nothing at first, but the breath he let out sounded like a sigh, ragged with despair.

  “You were recommended to me as the most eminent physician in your field,” he said. “Are you saying that there’s nothing you—even you—can do for me?”

  “Quite frankly, highness, you are most fortunate that the skin tissue has not become corrupted and there is no sign of necrosis. That would have led to a hideous and agonizing death.”

  “I’ve seen men die of gangrene.” Eugene needed no reminding of the putrefying stench of a gangrenous wound. “And I have funded research at the University of Tielen into finding a remedy.”

  “Indeed, your highness’s patronage is much appreciated in medical circles,” Doctor Arensky said with a little bow.

  Eugene, irritated beyond patience by Arensky’s evasive manner, got to his feet and faced him. “I am in constant pain, Doctor. Whenever I talk, smile, eat—even when I kiss my little daughter. Every single facial movement a man can make, causes me pain. It is the same with the hand. Tell me the truth. Will the pain ever grow less?”

  The expression of professional detachment faded and the doctor’s eyes registered genuine surprise at the bluntness of his question.

  “I wish I could offer your highness a miracle cure. But, apart from opiates or soothing unguents to dull the pain—”

  Eugene made a dismissive gesture.

  “Once the skin has been damaged by a fire of such intensity, it never repairs itself properly.”

  It was stark confirmation of what he had already suspected. “So this is the face that I must show to the world for the rest of my life.” He stiffened his shoulders, straightening his back as if he were a soldier on parade, standing to attention before his commanding officer. “Nevertheless, I have decided to endow another post at the university in Mirom so that research may be pursued into afflictions of the skin and their possible cures.”

  “Your imperial highness is very generous,” murmured Doctor Arensky, bowing low this time.

  So that some other poor wretch may one day be spared the suffering Gavril Nagarian has forced me to endure.

  But once Arensky had bowed his way from the room, Eugene sagged, gripping the desk to support himself. He realized he had been sustaining himself with the hope that there might yet be some cure. Now he knew the truth: He must live with this burned face until the end of his days.

  Yet in a few minutes he must attend an important meeting. He made a supreme effort to compose himself, to hide the crushing disappointment that had overwhelmed him. Soon he would be crowned Emperor—and the Great Artamon’s successor could not allow himself to show the slightest sign of vulnerability.

  As Eugene took his place at the head of the table, he scanned the faces of the dignitaries he had summoned to discuss the final plans for the coronation. Count Igor Golitsyn, a flamboyant dandy of the Orlov’s court, had been appointed Grand Master of Ceremonies. Chancellor Maltheus was there, next to the ancient Patriarch Ilarion of Mirom who was attended by two of his long-bearded archimandrites. Their robes exuded a faint but distinct smell of bitter incense. Opposite them stood two envoys from Khitari; their beards were as long as the priests’, but as fine as wisps of silk, reaching almost to the hems of their black-and-jade brocade jackets.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen.” As Eugene sat down, he saw that one chair was still empty. “But where is the Smarnan ambassador?”

  The representatives from the Muscobite Senate glanced uncertainly at one another.

  “I will look into the matter straightaway,” said Gustave, hastily making for the door.

  “Remind me of the name of the Smarnan ambassador, First Minister,” said Eugene, trying to hide his irritation.

  “Garsevani,” said Vassian. Silence followed. Eugene was in no mood to exchange pleasantries; he was still brooding on Doctor Arensky’s bleak prognosis.

  “While we wait for news of Ambassador Garsevani,” Maltheus said tactfully, “perhaps we might call upon the Master of Ceremonies, Count Golitsyn, to talk us through the rehearsal plans for tomorrow?”

  The count rose, bowed to Eugene, and began to read from a leather-bound notebook.

  “At nine o’clock, the carriages will set off from the Winter Palace . . .”

  Golitsyn, although renowned for having penned several successful comedies for the Mirom stage, spoke with a singularly flat and uninteresting drawl. Eugene half-listened, trying to keep his mind from wandering; he could not help noticing that the elderly Patriarch was nodding off, lulled by the count’s dreary tones.

  “And then, at midday,” droned Golitsyn, “a twenty-gun salute will be fired from the Water Gate—”

  The door opened and Gustave came back into the room. He had been absent for almost half an hour. The Patriarch started and opened his watery eyes, blinking.

  “Forgive me, highness.” Gustave was breathless, as if he had been running.

  “Well, where is he?” Eugene demanded.

  “It seems that Ambassador Garsevani has been recalled to Smarna.”

  “Recalled?” said Maltheus, one bristling eyebrow quirked.

  Eugene said nothing. There could, of course, be a pressing personal reason for Garsevani’s sudden departure.

  “It would have been courteous to send word,” said Golitsyn, “but then, the Smarnans . . .”

  Maltheus pounced on this seemingly innocuous aside. “What gives the Smarnans the right to behave so discourteously to his imperial highness?”

  Count Golitsyn turned slowly to him with a knowing smile and a shrug. “I’ve a little villa down there, on the coast. Always take my own staff with me; the locals are bone-lazy. Too hot, you see; they spend most of their time idling in the shade, drinking and arguing.”

  “So are no Smarnan dignitaries to attend the ceremony?” said Eugene, unwilling to let the matter rest.

  Golitsyn clicked his fingers and his secretary handed him the ledger containing the list of guests. The count ran his finger down page after page, concluding his search with a little shrug.

  “Not one?” Eugene insisted. “Not even one of the ministers?”

  “Well, there is the Countess Tamara, but she is a Muscobite by birth.”

  Eugene glanced at Maltheus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. This sudden disappearance of Ambassador Garsevani could be interpreted as a snub. He hoped it was not an ill omen. He turned to the Patriarch, forcing the matter from his mind.

  “And now, your holiness, to the seating plan in the cathedral . . .”

  “You delivered my gift to the altessa?” Eugene emerged from the meeting well over an hour later than he had planned.

  “Just as you instructed, highness,” said Gustave. “And I sent your apologies with it.”

  “My apologies?” And then Eugene remembered. “Tea.” He struck his forehead with his hand in frustration. “Tea with the Grand Duchess. And if Garsevani hadn’t played us all for fools—” He started out down the corridor with Gustave following after.

  “And now the altessa is at a fitting for her wedding dress,” panted Gustave.

  Eugene stopped. “So when will she be free?”

  “Not until you’ve left for the dinner at the Admiralty, highness.”

  And so another day would have passed without spending any time with her.

  “What did she say to the gift?”

  “She said it was very pretty.” Gustave’s tone was guarded.

  “But did she try it on?”

  “Not in my presence.”

  “Ah.” Eugene turned and began to walk slowly back toward his apartments. Perhaps Astasia was not impressed or excited by jewels. He wanted to send something to apologize for his lack of attention. Something more personal than jewels.

  “
Violets,” he said. “To match her eyes. Gustave, can you find a little bunch of violets, no matter what the cost, and deliver them to the altessa? I’ll write a card to accompany them.”

  “Violets in winter?” The secretary shook his head in bewilderment.

  “I place great faith in your ingenuity, Gustave,” Eugene said with a smile.

  “He may be a Tielen, but he has exquisite taste, Astasia.” The Grand Duchess exclaimed in delight over the betrothal gifts that had been accumulating on Astasia’s dressing table. Eugene had sent a new treasure every day: a diamond-and-sapphire necklace yesterday with matching drop earrings; today a string of amethysts fashioned like violets. Earlier presents included black pearls, a gold-and-amber jewelry casket, and crystal bottles of attar from rare black desert roses. “You’re such a lucky girl.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Astasia listlessly. The gifts were expensive, true, and each piece of jewelry beautifully crafted. Yet her mother was far more excited about them than she; she found it difficult to show much enthusiasm about cold stones, even if they were worth a small fortune. Yet, if nothing else, they had brought a flush to her mother’s wan cheeks and a brief sparkle to her eyes. Sofia still woke at night, breathless and terrified, shrieking for the guard to come to her rescue. And though Astasia had found her mother’s moods overbearing at times in the past, she was secretly relieved to see glimpses of the haughty Grand Duchess returning again.

  But these gifts . . . she picked up one after another and then set them down again on the marble-inlaid table. They told her nothing of the man she was to marry except that he was very wealthy. He had probably not even chosen the gifts himself, but ordered one of his imperial staff to select them.

  How little I really know about you, Eugene.

  “Tasia, if there’s anything you need to ask me about your wedding night, now’s the time, while we’re alone,” said Sofia suddenly.

  Astasia felt her face flame with embarrassment.