Prisoner of the Iron Tower Page 6

  “I can assure you, ambassador,” he said, “that the Drakhaon no longer presents any threat to the stability of the empire.”

  “And the atrocious weather conditions in Azhkendir have prevented Lord Stoyan from attending the ceremony,” Chancellor Maltheus put in hastily. “Let me introduce you, ambassador, to . . .”

  As Maltheus led the ambassador away, Eugene beckoned to Lieutenant Petter, his newly appointed aide. “Ask Field Marshal Karonen to attend me in my study,” he said softly. “I have urgent instructions for the Northern Army.”

  “Return to Kastel Drakhaon, imperial highness?” Field Marshal Karonen looked at Eugene, his pepper-and-salt brows raised in an expression of incredulity.

  “I learned some weeks ago from a secret source,” Eugene said, rather relishing the dour Karonen’s reaction, “that Gavril Nagarian has lost that certain advantage he held over us. I’ve been biding my time, Karonen, waiting for the right moment to crush that rebellious little country. And now that moment has come. The heir to the Arkhel lands was here, in the palace, tonight. Lord Jaromir’s son.”

  Karonen’s brows shot up again. “He sired a son?”

  “His mother managed to smuggle him safely out of Azhkendir. She brought him here.” That wispy hair of dark gold, those wide blue eyes, were all that he had left to remind him of slain Jaromir, who had been dearer to him than any brother. “It’s time the Arkhels were restored as the rulers of Azhkendir and Clan Nagarian toppled from power.” As he spoke, Eugene realized that he had been waiting for this opportunity a long time. “How soon can you mobilize your men?”

  “The Northern Army is stationed on the border between Muscobar and Azhkendir.” Karonen pointed to the map spread out over Eugene’s desk. “The weather’s still pretty chilly up there. No sign of a thaw yet.”

  “Issue extra winter rations, new boots, and gloves—and firesticks.” Eugene felt the same glow of power and confidence he had experienced in the cathedral earlier that day. “This mission takes priority.”

  “And my orders?”

  “Arrest Gavril Nagarian. I want him alive, Karonen. I want him to stand trial here in Muscobar so that the whole world can hear of his crimes against us and our empire.”

  Varvara and Nadezhda set to work to release Astasia from the tight lacing of her wedding dress. In the anteroom, the flower girls—the daughters of the noble houses of Tielen and Muscobar—chattered and giggled together, eating little quince jellies flavored with rose or lavender, and sipping sparkling wine. They were waiting for the next part of the ceremony, the singing of the traditional bridal song as the Emperor was brought to the Empress in the bridal chamber.

  Eupraxia and Grand Duchess Sofia, exhausted by the long day’s excitements, both reclined on velvet chaise longues, resting their swollen feet. Sofia’s maid had brought a silver tray of little delicacies from the reception, as well as a crystal bowl of fruit punch, and the elder ladies were sampling the sweetmeats with enthusiasm.

  Astasia let out a slow sigh of relief as the lacing was undone and layer after layer of frothy lace and sleek satin slid down about her ankles.

  “My ribs ache from all that whalebone,” she said, drawing in a deep breath without constraint for the first time since dawn.

  “But you looked exquisite,” said Varvara, stroking her cheek.

  “These little almond biscuits are delicious,” said Sofia, reaching for another.

  “How clever of the pastrycooks to shape them into the emblems of the five princedoms,” said Eupraxia, nibbling the sugared head of a swan.

  “Eugene has such excellent taste,” Sofia said, dipping her biscuit in her glass of punch. “Didn’t he choose my lovely daughter as his bride?”

  “Oh, Mama.” Astasia hoped her mother was not going to start weeping again. She was apprehensive enough about her bridal night without having to deal with Sofia’s emotions as well.

  “Come and give your mother a kiss.”

  Astasia dutifully bent down to be smothered in her mother’s perfume-scented embrace.

  “I promised I’d pay a call on Karila, to see how she’s faring,” she said, extricating herself from her mother’s arms.

  “That poor, sickly little mite,” said Sofia, dabbing at her eyes. “You’ll give the Emperor strong children, healthy children, my dear. A son!”

  Astasia fled, making toward the suite of rooms where Karila and her entourage had been installed.

  Guards of the new Imperial Household Cavalry were posted at every door, staircase, and corridor. Eugene had decreed that the safety of the imperial family was of paramount importance, so she made slow progress, as every guard saluted her.

  “Don’t announce me,” she whispered to the guard at Karila’s door. “The princess may be asleep and I don’t want to disturb her.”

  He nodded and quietly opened the door for her. In the anteroom, the Dowager Duchess Greta dozed in a chair beside the crackling fire. The bedroom door was ajar and, as Astasia tiptoed closer, she heard a man’s voice.

  “. . . and then the Swan Maiden flew down to the prince’s side. Spreading her snow-white wings, she spun around—and he saw she was no longer a swan, but a beautiful princess . . .”

  The Emperor was reading his daughter a story. She could just see his burned head leaning close to Kari’s golden curls as she snuggled up to him, gazing at the pictures in the book of fairy tales.

  A feeling of shame overcame her. Karila didn’t notice her father’s disfigurement—or if she did, it was irrelevant to her. She saw only the father who loved her enough to find time to read a bedtime story on the day of his coronation. Yet she, his bride-to-be, had almost pulled away the first time he kissed her, partly out of fear that she might cause him hurt, partly out of an instinctive revulsion she could not repress. And she knew he had sensed her hesitation.

  Now she felt as if she were intruding on a rare snatched moment of intimacy between father and child and was just about to creep away when Karila said drowsily, “You like that story too, don’t you, Tasia?”

  Eugene looked up and saw her. He looked surprised.

  “I just came to see how Karila is—” she began.

  “The doctors say she needs her rest,” said Eugene, smiling at Astasia over Karila’s head.

  “I’m not at all sleepy, Papa.”

  “Sleepy or not, no more stories tonight.”

  With a sigh, Karila let herself be tucked in and kissed good-night.

  “You kiss me too, Tasia,” she commanded in a croaky voice.

  Astasia kissed her cheek and felt the heat emanating from the little body. The fever had not yet broken.

  “Must be up early,” murmured the child into her pillow, “to get ready . . . for the wedding. . . .”

  Astasia met Eugene’s gaze as she rose from the bedside. She saw him silently shake his head.

  They went out into the anteroom where the dowager duchess still slept, her mouth slightly open, emitting the gentlest of snores.

  “You saw how she didn’t protest once?” Eugene said, keeping his voice low. “If she were well, she’d have demanded another story, and then another.”

  “I know,” she said, remembering Karila’s eager appetite at Swanholm. His concern for Karila touched her heart and she found she had drawn a little closer to him.

  “Astasia!” The dowager duchess was awake. “Eugene! Do you young people have no respect for the old customs?” Astasia hastily moved away. “The bridegroom must be brought to his bride in the bridal chamber. And the flower girls must sing the wedding song; they’ve been practicing it for days.”

  Astasia knew she was blushing and was annoyed with herself. Yet when she glanced sideways at Eugene, she saw he looked as discomfited as she, almost like an overgrown schoolboy caught in midprank.

  The sweet voices of the flower girls faded as they went singing down the echoing corridor, leaving Astasia and Eugene alone together for the first time. Astasia knelt down on the flower-strewn carpet and let some of the wh
ite petals drift through her fingers.

  “Orange blossoms at the end of winter,” she said wonderingly. “Even my father’s gardeners have not achieved such a thing in the hothouse at Erinaskoe.”

  Eugene smiled, glad that his little surprise had pleased her. He excused himself and went into his dressing room to change out of his wedding clothes. When he came out again, he saw Astasia gulping down a glass of sweet musk wine.

  Is she so terrified of what is to come that she has to fortify herself with wine?

  With her dark hair unbound about her shoulders and her dark eyes gazing uncertainly at him, she could not have looked more different from golden-haired Margret. And the scent of her skin was different, exuding a cool, clear perfume that reminded him of bluebell woods in spring. Then he checked himself. What was he doing? He had vowed he would not let himself think of Margret tonight.

  Astasia silently offered him a glass of wine. He drank it straight down. When he looked at her again, he saw she was shivering in her thin silk-and-lace nightgown.

  “Come closer to the fire,” he said, reaching out to her. “You’re cold as ice.” He took both her hands in his own and rubbed them to warm them, as he would have done for Karila.

  “It always feels damp on this side of the palace, even in summer,” she said. He could hear her teeth chattering. “I th-think it’s the river.”

  “I will have my craftsmen take a look.” Gently, he pulled her closer to him in the fire’s flickering shadows. “Drafts and damp can be fixed.” She did not resist, but rested against him so that he could feel her slender body shaking with cold . . . and apprehension. “They drained marshlands to build Swanholm, so they are skilled in these matters.” He talked on about Swanholm, saying nothing of great importance, just talking until he sensed her begin to relax a little in his arms. She could not know that he was as apprehensive as she—maybe more so. It was not that she did not excite him; now that he held her close, it was that no matter how hard he tried, he could not keep the images of another bridal night, nearly nine years ago, from returning to haunt him.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said into the softness of her dark hair.

  “I’m not,” she said a little indignantly.

  Margret had gently teased him until the awkwardness of their first night together had melted into laughter. But Astasia still seemed in awe of him, reluctant to respond to his caresses. Had some malicious Tielen courtier insinuated that he pined for Margret, that she could never replace her in his heart?

  Or was she repelled by his injuries?

  He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the great swagged bed, with its garlands of flowers. He would prove to her that he had banished the ghosts of his past.

  He would prove it to himself.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gavril stumbles on across a hot, dark shore. Stars gleam red overhead, unfamiliar constellations, half-obscured by poisonous fogs.

  Every step burns the soles of his bare feet. The air stinks of sulphur; every breath he draws in sears his mouth, his throat, his lungs. In the distance, a cone of fire simmers; choking fumes and vapors drift past. Glossy foliage drips moisture onto the grey, glittering volcanic sand.

  The ground shudders beneath his burned feet, pitching him forward into the sand. The sea is sucked back from the shore. He can see it, boiling and churning, building high into one vast tidal wave that will sweep in with the next tremor and drown him—

  Gavril woke with a start. But all he could see were the lime-washed walls of his bedchamber, white in the first light of dawn. He was soaked in sweat as if he really had been trapped on a burning shore by a volcanic eruption.

  Since the night of the column of fire, the dreams had begun. They were always the same, always leaving him with the same sick, despairing feeling that tainted his waking hours.

  Drakhaoul . . .

  They had been one. They had thought and acted as one to defend Azhkendir. But at such a terrible cost to his own humanity that he had torn the dragon-daemon from deep within him and cast it out. Was this sultry volcanic shore the place it had ended its whirlwind flight? Was this the last it had seen of this world as it slowly, painfully, faded from existence?

  “Ahh, Gavril . . .”

  He could still hear its last harrowing cry.

  It was the last of its kind. And I destroyed it.

  Ever since the horrors of the Tielen invasion, Gavril had slept badly. During the day he worked alongside his men to repair the kastel, hauling stone, timber, and slate, laboring hard to repair the damage inflicted by Eugene’s army. He pushed himself to the limits of his physical resources, scraping the skin from his knuckles, straining muscles till they ached.

  He told himself that he was doing it to help his people—but in the darkest depths of his heart he knew he worked himself to the point of exhaustion day after day to try to forget the terrible things he had done when the Drakhaoul possessed him.

  Only one of the kastel staff eluded him: Kiukiu.

  Did she feel ill at ease in the Nagarian household now that she knew she was of Arkhel kin? Or did she—at some deep, wordless level—fear him for the injuries he had inflicted upon her?

  There was a connection between them, a connection forged in blood. But he could not forget that he had hurt her, had nearly killed her. Whenever they passed in the kastel and their eyes met, he saw only forgiveness and love in her shy gaze—and found himself looking away.

  He knew he loved her—but could he ever trust himself not to hurt her again?

  “I should tell him.” Days had passed since the night of the crimson light, but still Kiukiu had not brought herself to tell anyone of her vision. The shadow-creature had been so like the Drakhaoul . . . and yet how could it be? Lord Gavril had destroyed it.

  Kiukiu set down the empty water buckets and rubbed her aching arms.

  All water for the household had to be lugged from the old well in the stableyard, as the kitchen well was clogged with rubble.

  She had hoped Lord Gavril might be back from Azhgorod today; he had ridden there with Bogatyr Askold and some of the druzhina, in search of materials that could not be found on the estate: lead, putty, and window glass. And as Azhgorod was a long day’s ride from the kastel . . .

  She began to wind the first bucket down into the well, hearing it clank hollowly against the dank, mossy sides until it hit the water far below. She leaned out over the ragged rim of the well to check that the bucket was full. The water was alive with ripples and her reflection broke up into spinning circles. All those poor, dead children. She shuddered as she strained to wind the heavy bucket up again. The Drakhaons of old had committed terrible atrocities as the Drakhaoul drove them to seek out innocent blood to feed their cravings. Like as not, the ghost-children were victims of the Nagarians’ uncontrollable lusts. The rebuilding work in the disused East Wing must have disturbed the place where their bones had been buried. Except . . .

  She heaved the bucket up onto the top of the well, cold water sloshing over the top and splashing her dress. She yelped and hastily pinched the water out of the thick folds of cloth.

  Except for that endless span of blue. She had never in her life visited the sea, but she had seen it in Lady Elysia’s portrait of Lord Gavril, the portrait that had caused her to fall in love with him long before she had ever met him.

  “Kiukiu!” called Sosia from the kitchens.

  She divided the well water between her buckets.

  “Kiukiu, where’s that water for the soup?” called Sosia again.

  A small wisp of a sigh escaped. She wished she could stop herself thinking about Lord Gavril. Was he deliberately avoiding her? They had barely exchanged more than the briefest greetings in the past few days. But then, he had been so busy organizing the rebuilding work.

  If he truly loves me, he’ll speak when he’s ready, she told herself as she braced her legs to pick up the buckets again. Or was that just the kind of foolish self-delusion that servant girls indulge in when
telling love-tales around the kitchen fire?

  “Why have you brought me here? Can’t you hear my boy’s blood crying out for vengeance?”

  “Grandma?” Kiukiu recognized her grandmother’s voice, shrill with fury and hatred. What was she doing here? She had left her in the care of the monks at Saint Sergius’s monastery; the damaged kastel was far too drafty and damp for an elderly woman.

  “And where’s my granddaughter? Tell her I want to leave tonight.”

  She hurried to the courtyard to see two of the monks helping Malusha down from their cart. Brother Cosmas, from the Infirmary, looked utterly bewildered by her vehement protests.

  “There you are, Kiukirilya,” he said, his worried frown melting into a smile of relief. “Your grandmother insists she wants to go home. But Brother Hospitaler says she’s not strong enough to make the journey alone.”

  “Nonsense!” insisted Malusha. “Kiukiu, go and get the sleigh ready.”

  “It’s too late to set out now, Grandma,” Kiukiu said. She would have to use her strongest powers of persuasion. “Come inside and I’ll make you some tea. Tomorrow we’ll plan the journey together.”

  The monks nodded gratefully at Kiukiu.

  “Stay here?” Malusha cried. “I’d rather you turned me out on the moors.”

  “Just one night,” Kiukiu pleaded.

  “Then put me in the stables with Harim. I won’t cross that bloodstained threshold.” Malusha spat on the flagstones.

  “There’s a little drying room in the laundry. Warm. Near the stables.”

  “Near the stables? Well, I suppose it’ll have to do. . . .”

  Kiukiu realized from the heavy way Malusha leaned against her that, in spite of her show of defiance, her grandmother was utterly spent.

  Kiukiu settled Malusha underneath the hanging sheets in a chair in the drying room and knelt down to tuck her blanket around her.