Prisoner of the Iron Tower (2 page)

They sat side by side on a wooden bench, blinking in the lanternlight of a cramped, windowless cell. There was an unmistakably fetid odor of stale urine and unwashed flesh. How long had they been imprisoned here? At first Astasia did not even recognize her mother in the lank-haired, listless woman who stared blankly at her.

“Mama, Papa,” she said, her voice trembling, her arms outstretched.

The Grand Duke half-rose from the bench.

“Tasia? Little Tasia?” he said, his voice trembling too.

“Yes, Papa, it’s really me.” Astasia flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

“Look, Sofie, it’s Tasia,” the Grand Duke said.

The Grand Duchess gazed at her, her face still expressionless.

“Mama,” Astasia said, kneeling beside her mother, “we’re all safe now.”

“Safe?” the Grand Duchess said with a little shiver. “Did they molest you, Tasia? Did they lay hands on you?”

“No, Mama. I’m fine. But you’re not. You must come out of this cold, damp place and warm yourself.”

The Grand Duchess shrank back, cowering behind her husband. “No, no, it’s not safe. They’re in the palace. They’re everywhere. They want to kill us.”

“Mama, look who’s with me.” Astasia took her mother’s chill hand and pressed it between her own. “It’s Field Marshal Karonen of Tielen. He has taken the city from the rebels. He has rescued us all.”

“Tielen?” said the Grand Duchess distantly. “Now I remember. You were betrothed to Eugene of Tielen, weren’t you, child?”

“Come, Mama,” coaxed Astasia. “Come with me. Wouldn’t you like some hot bouillon? And clean clothes?”

The Grand Duchess glanced nervously at the officers standing in the doorway to the cell. Then she clasped Astasia’s hand. “All right, my dear,” she said in a wavering voice, “but only if you’re certain it’s safe.”

Safe?
Astasia thought as her mother ventured out of the cell, leaning heavily on her arm.
Poor, foolish Mama. If I’ve learned one thing in the past weeks, it’s that nowhere is safe anymore.

Astasia stood in an anteroom in the East Wing, gazing around her. Slander—hateful, obscene slander—had been daubed in red paint across the pale blue and white walls. The windowpanes had been smashed. And she did not want to look too closely at what had been smeared over the polished floors. The rioters had slashed or defaced everything in their path that they had been unable to carry away; everywhere she saw the evidence of their hatred. But at least the East Wing was intact and her parents were being warmed, cossetted, and fed by the few faithful servants who had not fled.

She was not in any mood to be comforted. Her home had been violated. She hugged her arms around herself, chilled by an all-pervading feeling of desolation.

Feodor Velemir had foreseen all this. Had she judged him too harshly? Had he anticipated the coming storm and sought to prevent it?

“Altessa.”

She swung around to see the broad-shouldered bulk of Field Marshal Karonen filling the doorway.

“I have news of his highness for you, from Azhkendir.” He came in, followed by several of his senior officers. The winter-grey and blue colors of the Tielen army filled the antechamber.

“News?”

“Prince Eugene has been gravely wounded,” said Karonen brusquely, “in a battle with the Drakhaon.”

The daemon-shadow of the Drakhaon suddenly billowed up, dark as smoke, in her mind.

“Ah,” she said carefully, aware they were all watching for her reaction. “Wounded—but not killed?”

“We’ve lost many men, but the prince is alive. Magus Linnaius is tending to his injuries. The prince was most anxious to ensure that you were unharmed. He would like to speak with you.”

“With me?” Astasia looked at him, uncomprehending. “But how?”

“It is called a Vox Aethyria.”

When he showed her, she wondered if the Field Marshal had taken leave of his senses. She saw only an exquisite crystal flower—a rose, perhaps—encased in an elaborate tracery of precious metals and glass.

“It’s very pretty, Field Marshal, but—”

“You must approach the device and speak very slowly and clearly. The crystal array will transmit your voice through the air to his highness.”

“What should I say?”

“I believe his highness has a question he is most eager to ask you.”

“Altessa Astasia.”

Astasia, startled, took a step back from the crystal. A man’s voice had addressed her from the heart of the rose. “What kind of trickery is this?”

“No trickery, altessa, I assure you,” said Karonen, his dour expression relaxing into a smile. He turned the Vox toward him and spoke into it. “The altesssa is unused to our Tielen scientific artistry, highness. She is recovering from her surprise at hearing your voice from so far away.” He beckoned Astasia to his side.

Astasia felt her cheeks tingle with indignation. She was not going to be shown up as an unsophisticated schoolgirl. She was an Orlov. What would her father have done on such an occasion? She approached the Vox Aethyria with determination and said loudly and clearly, “I must thank your highness, on behalf of our city, for sending your men to quell the riots and rescue my family. I—I trust you are making a good recovery from your injuries?”

Field Marshal Karonen nodded his approval and adjusted the Vox so that she could hear Prince Eugene’s reply.

It was faint at first, so that she had to bend closer to the crystal to hear.

“Indeed; and I am in much better spirits already for hearing your voice, and knowing you are safe.”
Formal as his words were, she thought she detected—to her surprise—an undertone of genuine concern.
Does he care about me a little, then? “I had fully intended to lead my men to free the city myself, but fate decreed otherwise. Now I want nothing more than to meet you. I’ve had to wait far too long and, charming though your portrait is, it’s a poor substitute.”

Astasia’s throat had gone dry. She could sense what was coming next.
Am I ready for this?

“We must meet, altessa, and soon. I have plans—great plans—for our two countries, but unless you are at my side, they will all be meaningless. Will you marry me, Astasia?”

“The altessa will not be disappointed, highness.” The valet straightened the blue ribbon of the Order of the Swan on Eugene’s breast, gave one final tweak to the fine linen collar, a last spray of cologne, and withdrew from the prince’s bedchamber, bowing.

Eugene of Tielen forced himself to confront his reflection in the cheval mirror.

At first he had ordered all mirrors in the palace at Swanholm to be covered, unable to bear the ravages that his encounter with the Drakhaon had wrought. Now that he was almost recovered, he forced himself to look every day. After all, he reasoned, his courtiers were obliged to put up with the sight of his disfigurement, so why shouldn’t he?

He had never been vain. He had known himself to be strong-featured—certainly no handsome fairy-tale prince from one of Karila’s stories. But it still pained him to see the ravages of the Drakhaon’s Fire: the scarred and reddened skin that pitted one hand and one whole side of his face and head. And his hair had not yet grown back as he had hoped, though there were signs of a soft, pale ashen fuzz, the rich golden hues bleached away.

How would Astasia react? Would she shrink from him, forced by court protocol to make a public show of tolerating what, in her heart, she looked on with revulsion? Or was she made of stronger stuff, prepared to search deeper than superficial appearances?

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself. He had conquered a whole continent; what had he to fear from one young woman?

He pushed open the double doors and went to meet his betrothed for the first time.

The East Wing music room had escaped the worst of the attack. Built for intimate concerts and recitals, it was crammed to overflowing with the military dignitaries of the Tielen royal household, leaving little room for the Orlov family and their court.

Astasia sat on a dais between her parents; a fourth gilt chair stood empty beside hers. First Minister Vassian stood silently behind her. Still in mourning for her drowned brother Andrei, her family and the court were somberly dressed in black and violet. A tense silence filled the room; the Mirom courtiers seemed too bewildered by the rapid succession of events that had led to the annexation of Muscobar even to whisper behind their black-gloved hands.

A blaze of military trumpets shattered the air.

“His imperial highness, Eugene of Tielen!” announced a martial voice.

The Tielen household guard came marching in, spurs clanking. Astasia felt her mother shrink in her seat.

“It’s all right, Mama,” she whispered, patting her hand, trying to suppress her own nervousness. Then she saw all the heads in the room bowing, the women sinking into low curtsies.

He
was here.

She rose to her feet, pressing her hands together to stop them from shaking.

Prince Eugene came in, accompanied by Field Marshal Karonen. She noted that he too wore a black velvet mourning band. Was it as a sign of respect for their loss, or had he too lost someone dear to him in the fighting?

They had warned her about his injuries. She did not think herself squeamish, but she steeled herself nevertheless, hoping she would not let anything of what she might feel show on her face.

He stood before her, but still she stared at the golden Order of the Swan glittering on his breast, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Welcome, your highness,” she said, dropping into a full court curtsy, one hand extended in formal greeting.

She sensed a slight hesitation, then a gloved hand took hers in a firm grip, raising her to her feet. Still she did not dare to look at him, even as she felt him lift her hand to his lips.

Look, you must look,
she willed herself, aware that everyone in the room was watching them with bated breath.

“You are every bit as beautiful as your portrait, altessa.” His voice was strong, confident, colored by a slight Tielen accent. He still held her hand in his.

She could no longer keep her gaze lowered. She looked at him then, forcing herself to concentrate on his eyes. Blue-grey eyes, clear and cold as a winter’s morning, gazed steadily back. But all the skin around them was red, blistered, and damaged. She was looking into the ruin of a face.

Gavril did this.
She was so shocked she could not speak for a moment.
How cruel.

“You flatter me, your highness,” she answered, forcing firmness into her voice. She must not forget that this was also the man who had ruthlessly ordered Elysia’s execution. “Please . . .” She gestured to the gilt chair that had been set for him beside hers.

He stepped up onto the dais, towering above her. He bowed to the Grand Duke and Duchess, to Vassian, and then sat down.

Astasia cleared her throat. This was the part of the ceremony she had been dreading the most—because it signaled to the world the end of the Orlov dynasty.

Her father rose from his chair and took her hand in his.

“My—my daughter has a gift for you, your highness,” he said. His voice faltered. “A gift from the heart of Muscobar. Accept it—and with it, her hand in marriage, freely given, so that our two countries may be united as one.”

Astasia took the jeweled casket her father was holding toward her and knelt before Prince Eugene, offering it with both hands raised.

The prince opened the casket. The Mirom Ruby glowed in his fingers like a flame as he held it aloft: a victory trophy.

“The last of Artamon’s Tears!” His voice throbbed now with an intensity of emotion that startled Astasia. “Now the imperial crown is complete.” He helped her to rise and took her hand, closing it over the ancient ruby clutched in his fingers.

“Today a new empire rises from the ashes of Artamon’s dreams. Altessa, from the day we are married in the Cathedral of Saint Simeon, you will be known as Astasia, Empress of New Rossiya.”

He drew her close and she felt—as if in a waking dream—the pressure of his burned lips, hot and dry, on her forehead, and then her mouth.

Field Marshal Karonen turned to the astonished court.

“Long live the Emperor Eugene—and Empress Astasia!”

After a short, startled silence, the cheers began. Astasia, her hand still in Eugene’s, glanced at her father—and saw the Grand Duke surreptitiously wiping away a tear.

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, imperial 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.