Prisoner of the Iron Tower Page 8

  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 y
earning 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.

  As he opened the door to his father’s study, a rush of memories overwhelmed him. He saw it glittering with Doctor Kazimir’s tubes and alembics, transformed into a chemical laboratory as the scientist worked on the elixir to reverse the Drakhaoul’s influence on his mind and body. And then the Tielens had come . . .

  The druzhina had nailed up sheets of vellum to cover the broken windows so that the room was infused with a turgid sepia light, even at midday. At least the books and maps were protected now from weather damage—although it was necessary to light a lantern to read or write in the gloom.

  There were still fragments of glass everywhere: colored shards from the shattered windows and fine, clear splinters from Kazimir’s broken phials. Before the repairs, wind, sleet, and smoke had blown in, causing yet more damage to his father’s maps and books; some lay open, sodden pages a mush of paper pulp.

  “They must still be here,” he muttered. “They must be.”

  The first time he had come to the Kalika Tower with Kostya, he had noticed the books lying on his father’s desk. At the time he had wondered why Volkh had been so interested in titles such as Through Uncharted Seas: A Sailor’s Account of a Perilous Voyage of Exploration. Now he wondered if his father and grandfather had also been cursed with the Drakhaoul’s dreams and had been searching for clues as to their origins in these ancient volumes.

  The top of the desk was covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and broken glass. Gavril began to brush the debris away. Beneath, he could just make out two or three volumes. The first was Travels in the Westward Isles, but as soon as he picked it up, he could see that a corrosive chemical of Kazimir’s had leaked onto it, burning a great, brown-edged hole into the heart of the book:

  The tempest had blown our vessel so far from its course that we found ourselves far beyond the bounds of our maps and charts,

  the page that lay open read.

  Almost dead for lack of fresh water, we sighted land toward nightfall of the third day and anchored in the bay of an uncharted island,
lush with green vegetation and fresh springs of clear water.

  Having slaked our thirst and refilled our water casks, we made camp on the shore. In the dark of night, we were awakened by a terrible sound, like groaning or roaring. Some of the more superstitious men called on the names of the holy saints to protect them—

  The rest was illegible. Gavril put the book down and picked up another, trying to suppress the growing feeling of frustration. As he brushed the dust from the cover, the title glinted dully in faded gold: Ty Nagar: Legends of the Lost Land of the Serpent God.

  “Ty Nagar,” Gavril whispered and felt a shiver, as though saying the name aloud invoked some latent enchantment long dormant in the dusty pages. He opened the book gingerly and, flicking through the first few pages, saw with a growing sense of excitement that most of the text was intact:

  The fabled land of Ty Nagar cannot be found on any chart or map. Although mentioned in the ancient chronicles of the Rossiyan Empire, scholars have long dismissed its existence as mere fable. However, as this account by Captain Hernin records, there may be some truth in the old chronicles after all. When his ship was blown off course by a tempest, he and his crew found themselves sailing in uncharted waters far to the west. . . .

  Gavril leafed on through the rough-edged pages until he spotted some paragraphs marked in red:

  There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors. They will not go there, as they maintain that the island is haunted by hungry ghosts and ghouls who suck the blood of unwary travelers.

  Another legend tells how the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they conjured powerful daemon-spirits to do their bidding—until Nagar himself, furious at such sacrilege, caused fire to reign down upon the temple—

  Gavril turned the damaged page with great care.

  —and its priests, slaying them all.