Prisoner of the Iron Tower (28 page)

He drank, water streaming down his chin, soaking into his tattered shirt. He didn’t care. Yet the more water he gulped down, the more his body craved. “More.” This burning thirst seemed unquenchable. She refilled his cup.

“The citadel is crawling with Eugene’s spies,” Iovan was saying loudly. “Put them all up against the wall and shoot them. That’s the only form of negotiation Eugene understands.”

“Minister Vashteli is ready to interrogate the prisoners,” announced one of the militia.

“The one who says he’s Smarnan first.” Iovan came and stood over Gavril. “Unshackle him.”

The militiaman knelt to unlock the shackles around Gavril’s wrists, leaving his ankles chained together.

“You. On your feet.”

Still dripping, Gavril got unsteadily to his feet.

“Look at him! He’s too weak to plead his case,” RaÏsa hissed to Iovan.

Iovan shrugged.

“At least give him something to restore his strength.”

“And then you’ll stop nagging me?” Iovan pulled a metal flask from inside his jacket. “Here. Smarnan brandy.”

Gavril took a quick swig from the flask and winced as the brandy scorched his parched throat. His senses sharpened a little. “My name,” he said slowly, “is Gavril Andar. Rafael Lukan will vouch for me.” There was no point complicating matters further by giving his Azhkendi name and title.

“Andar?” RaÏsa echoed. “But Gavril Andar disappeared last year.”

“I told you not to trust him,” Iovan muttered.

“Lukan’s with the Minister now.” RaÏsa turned to her brother. “Let Lukan decide the matter, Iovan.”

“Bring him to the council chamber, then.” Iovan kicked out at the water pitcher, sending it rolling into a corner.

The council chamber, high in the Old Citadel, had been hit in the bombardment. Tarpaulins had been draped to cover a gaping hole in the roof, and piles of debris, tile shards, shattered beams, and plaster had been swept to the side of the chamber.

A tall man and a woman were talking together in low voices; they turned as, ankle-chains chinking, Gavril shuffled into the chamber.

“Lukan!” whispered Gavril, unable to restrain his emotion at the sight of a familiar face after so long in prison. “Lukan, it’s me.”

Lukan stared at him, a frown of puzzlement creasing his face. “Gavril?” he said. He came closer.
“Gavril?”
Then he gave a shout that echoed around the broken rafters and hurried up to Gavril, flinging his arms about him and hugging him. “Welcome home!” He held him at arm’s length. “But—dear God, what have they done to you?” Gavril saw concern in Lukan’s dark eyes. “I hardly recognized you at first, with your head shaved—”

This was in no way the happy homecoming he had dreamed of so often in the bitter cold of Azhkendir. He was too aware of Iovan standing close by, stroking the barrel of his pistol.

“How shall we tell your mother?” Lukan was saying. “We don’t want it to come as too much of a shock—”

“My mother?”

“Yes, she’s up at the villa right now.”

Elysia was here, in Smarna? A red haze swirled before Gavril’s eyes. He swayed on his feet. Pride alone had kept him standing to face his captors, and he was not sure how long he could sustain the effort.

Lukan caught hold of him and steadied him, both hands resting on his shoulders.

“So who is this young man, Lukan?” asked the woman, coming forward.

“You know his mother well, Minister. This is Elysia Andar’s son, Gavril.”

“Then why is he chained like a prisoner?”

“Iovan?” Lukan turned to Iovan Korneli, smiling. “Would you like to explain to Minister Vashteli why Gavril is in chains?”

“Because,” Iovan said, scowling, “we were ordered to round up anyone found on the beaches. And we found him—his clothes wringing wet—as if he’d just swam ashore from one of the sinking ships.”

“I see.” Minister Vashteli gazed searchingly at Gavril. “Gavril Andar, can you explain why you were found in such suspicious circumstances?”

It was time for the truth. “I came to help you.”

One of the minister’s elegantly plucked brows quirked in a look of surprise. “To help us?”

“You?” burst out Iovan, his voice hot with scorn.

“I have a . . . weapon,” Gavril said, choosing his words with care. “A lethal weapon. Yesterday I unleashed it on the Tielens in the bay. But in using it, I almost drowned. If RaÏsa had not found me . . .”

“Tell us about this weapon,” said Minister Vashteli, her eyes fixed on his. “Is it some kind of explosive device? Those who watched from the citadel were half-blinded by the brightness.”

“And what of this dark-winged creature?” said Iovan. “Many witnesses insist they saw a winged creature sweep across the bay just before the attack on the Tielen fleet. How do you explain that?”

Gavril closed his eyes a moment. He was still so depleted by the effects of Baltzar’s clumsy surgery that he feared he might blab too much and give himself away. Even the use of the word “weapon” now seemed ill-judged; Iovan, for one, would not let the matter rest.

“Why did you not confer with us first?” said Minister Vashteli. “We could have stood together as allies against the Tielens.”

“And from where exactly did you launch this weapon?” broke in Iovan. “From the sea or the land? Is it some kind of fire-rocket?”

Gavril was losing patience with Iovan’s constant goading. “Isn’t it enough that I came to your aid? Does it matter where I launched the attack? The Tielens are gone!”

Minister Vashteli exchanged a long look with Lukan. Then she nodded. “You are free to go home, Gavril Andar. Please send my regards to your mother; she has supported us wholeheartedly throughout this ordeal.”

“You’d better call in at my house first,” Lukan said, flashing Gavril a conspiratorial smile. “For a bath and a change of clothes.”

Free to go home.
Those four simple words meant so much. Not home to an empty villa, but home to his mother, his paints, and his own bed. And was it too much to hope that Kiukiu might have accompanied Elysia to Smarna and was waiting for him even now?

As he turned to follow Lukan from the council chamber, the minister came up to him, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “And thank you. On behalf of us all. You saved us.”

“This time, maybe,” Gavril said, managing a wry smile.

Elysia looked down in puzzlement at the note that had just been delivered into her hands. It read:

I’ve found him and he will be with you very soon. But this is to warn you, dear Elysia, to be prepared for what you will see. He has suffered much at the hands of his captors. Try not to be too upset, for his sake.

Your loving friend, R.L.

Elysia clutched the letter tightly.

“Thank you, dear friend, for the warning,” she whispered. Then she hurried back inside the house, calling out, “Palmyre! Gavril’s coming!”

Suddenly she was all in a tizzy, ideas skittering through her head like windblown petals. What should she do first? Check that there was clean, lavender-scented linen on his bed and that the room was well-aired, with garden flowers spilling from a bowl on the windowsill? Or should she lay out some clothes for him—for all his clothes were still here, freshly laundered and pressed, waiting, against all hope, for his return.

“Is the kettle on? He may want tea.” She almost collided with Palmyre in the hall; she seemed to be on a similar route. “Or maybe he may just want to be alone for a while, to rest—”

“Elysia,” Palmyre said, patting her hand reassuringly, “it will be all right.”

“And I won’t weep when I see him; I mustn’t weep. It won’t do any good to either of us if I do—” Elysia broke off, hearing the sound of hooves and carriage wheels on the gravel drive. She clutched at Palmyre’s hand. “Is that—?”

Palmyre seemed speechless with excitement.

“Look at us,” Elysia said, breaking into laughter. “A couple of silly women, too flustered to go to the door to greet him! What will he think?” And she ran to fling open the front door, hurrying out into the drive, just as the door of the barouche opened and Gavril stepped down.

She stared a moment, shocked to see his shaven head, his gaunt face, and sunken eyes. Then, joy and relief overwhelmed all other feelings and she rushed to embrace him. But although he hugged her back, she could sense a change in him, a wariness, and something else that she could not yet define—something darker, more ominous.

What have they done to you in that terrible prison, child?
her heart cried out. But all she did was wind her arm around him and lead him toward the open door where Palmyre stood, so overcome with emotion that she could only nod speechlessly and smile.

As they reached the doorway, Elysia glanced back over her shoulder to see Lukan waiting, watching from inside the barouche.

Thank you.
Her lips framed the words as she inclined her head gratefully to him.
Thank you, dear friend.

Footsteps on the landing. Keys jangling in the lock of his cell. Skar’s lean face in the lanternlight, eyes chill in their lack of expression, as he bent over him—

Gavril woke with a start. He was breathing fast, pulse racing, terrified that Skar had come to take him back to Director Baltzar and his razor-sharp scalpels. And then he heard it. The sound of the sea, but not the crash of the storm tides raging against the rocks below Arnskammar. This was the gentle, reassuring wash of summer tides lapping against the pale sands of Vermeille Bay. The sound that had lulled him to sleep in childhood and whispered through his dreams.

He lay back, staring at the half-open window, the gauze curtains drifting a little with the night breeze off the bay. The faint scent of jasmine wafted in from the terrace below.

No, he was not dreaming. He was here in his own bed, in the Villa Andara. After months of enduring the deprivations of Baltzar’s asylum, he was no longer a number to be maltreated and experimented upon. He was Gavril again.

He let his fingers run over the clean linen of the sheets. Crisp, clean sheets, scented with lavender from the villa gardens. He had forgotten how good it was to enjoy this simple comfort.

At peace, he drifted off to sleep, and did not wake again until morning.

Elysia tapped on Gavril’s bedroom door and went in, carrying a cup of chamomile tea, a plate with fresh-baked rolls, and Palmyre’s apricot and almond conserve. The windows were wide-open and the curtains billowed and flapped in the morning breeze. Her son stood on the balcony, gazing out across the blue bay.

“Breakfast, Gavril,” she called.

He looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

She set down the cup and plate and went out to join him. For a while they stood side by side in silence. Then he said, still gazing out to sea, “Don’t be surprised if there are strands of blue in my hair when it regrows.”

She nodded. So it was true.

“I guessed as much.” She wanted to ask him so many questions: What really happened to you? Who inflicted these terrible injuries? Yet she knew she must let him tell her in his own time, in his own way.

“If it hadn’t come back to me when it did, I would have died.” His voice was distant, his eyes still rested on the misty horizon. “Its first act of compassion. Who would have thought it possible?”

“It rescued you?”

He turned to face her. The sight of his scarred head still made her stomach lurch, but she must not let him see her distress, for fear it might break his courage.

“I still don’t know how it knew. But it came back and healed me. Now I begin to wonder. Are we destined to be one until I die?”

She saw the shadow-glitter in his eyes, as she had seen it in Volkh’s eyes too. And she felt bleak despair chill her heart. He had come back to her. But he was no longer her son; he was Drakhaoul. And she, better than anyone, knew that doomed his chances for any hope of true happiness.

Then, smitten with guilt at such thoughts, she reached out and folded her arms around her daemon-possessed son, hugging him tight.

“Drink your tea before it goes cold,” she whispered.

CHAPTER
23

Kiukiu rubbed her eyes. She was standing beside the Magus, high up on the windswept top of a steep, rocky hill. Far below, a broad green river wound through the center of a great city: a city full of spires and towers and the rising smoke from innumerable chimneys. She had never seen so many houses crammed together before—or so many ships crowding the river.

“Where are we?” she asked in amazement.

“That is Tielborg, capital city of Tielen,” said Linnaius.

“But why have you brought me here?” She was still sleepy, her mind not yet fully awake.

“Look behind you.”

She turned and saw a ruin dominating the crown of the hill. A great hall of ancient stone, its broken walls towered above them, guarded by weatherworn statues of tall warriors, helmed for battle. The Magus beckoned her toward it. The sun was sinking westward, gilding the ancient stones with a rich, warm light. But as she came closer, she saw only the lengthening shadows cast by the giant warriors.

Gazing up as they passed underneath the arched gateway, she noticed that the worn stone had once been painted, and that little traces of blue and ochre still remained. Now she saw the stern-faced warriors were winged, each wing-feather carved with exquisite artistry.

“Heavenly Guardians?” she murmured. And then she found herself in a courtyard, where another unexpected sight awaited. Tielen soldiers lounged around, their horses cropping the grass growing up between the cracked flagstones. On seeing the Magus, the soldiers straightened up and a young officer came to meet them, saluting with alacrity.

“Lieutenant Vassian at your service, Magus. His imperial highness awaits you in the inner court. I am under orders to conduct you to him straightaway.”

“Where
are
we?” whispered Kiukiu as the lieutenant led them farther into the ruin. The daylight was dimming and she felt a sudden chill envelop her. “It feels like a tomb.” She hugged her gusly tightly to her, as if it could ward off evil spirits.

Lieutenant Vassian brought them into a vaulted inner chamber as high as the nave of the monastery church in Kerjhenezh. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the gloom. Torches had been lit and placed in links around the walls, and by their flickering light she caught glimpses of worn carvings and warlike friezes that depicted battles from long ago. Armed horsemen trampled the broken bodies of their enemies underfoot, hacking and stabbing in a frenzy of slaughter. Kiukiu averted her eyes. The place reeked of spilled blood and carnage.

“Magus Linnaius is here,” announced the lieutenant, standing to attention so stiffly Kiukiu feared the shining buttons on his uniform would pop off.

A tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward them out of the shadows. The instant she glimpsed his burned face, she knew him.

“P-Prince Eugene?” she stammered.

“Emperor Eugene,” prompted Linnaius, “and you must not speak unless spoken to. When you reply, you must call the Emperor ‘your imperial highness.’ ”

So you’re the one who’s caused us so much heartache.
She fumbled a curtsy.
You’re the one who took Lord Gavril from us and made the
druzhina
your slaves
. Yet when she looked into his eyes, she could not help but feel sorry for him. His features, once handsome, had been ruined by the extensive scarring where he had been seared by Drakhaon’s Fire. And she glimpsed what he strove to hide from others, the shadow of the constant pain, darkening his clear, incisive gaze.

“So you’re Kiukirilya, the Spirit Singer,” the Emperor said.

Suddenly she realized she was standing before the Emperor of all New Rossiya with her hair mussed, wearing her old, creased washday dress. Embarrassment overwhelmed her. What must he think?

“I’d like you to help me find the answer to a question.” He was still speaking to her and she was now in such a muddle she could hardly hear the words. Should she reply? What was it she was supposed to call him, ‘your high imperialness?’ No, no, that couldn’t be right. . . .

“Well, Kiukirilya?” The Magus was prompting her again. “Can you do it?”

“Do what?” she said helplessly. She had spent her life in service, always doing as she was bidden and being beaten if she made a mistake. She was not yet used to being asked.

“Summon the spirit of the Emperor Artamon, to answer his highness’s question.”

She stared at the Magus, dumbstruck.

“We are standing in his mausoleum now. His sarcophagus lies in the chamber below.”

Kiukiu felt her skin crawl. Had they any idea of the risks of such a venture? This was not just any spirit; it was powerful and ancient.

“Remember our arrangement,” Linnaius said quietly. She hated him in that moment for reminding her. They held Gavril, and they knew she would do anything to see him again.

“Don’t keep his imperial highness waiting,” Linnaius whispered.

Had they no idea of the careful preparation required for such a summoning? Did they expect her just to wave her hands and conjure a spirit out of the air?

“I’ll need something that belonged to the Emperor. A lock of hair, or nail parings would work even better.”

Eugene glanced at the Magus. “What do we have, Linnaius?”

“Let’s go down into the burial chamber.”

Lieutenant Vassian clicked his fingers and two of the guardsmen took the torches from the wall to light their way.

The Emperor set off at a brisk pace, but Kiukiu hung back, reluctant to descend into the subterranean darkness of the burial chamber. Back home with Malusha, her spirit-summonings had been simple affairs: Piotr from the village inn wanting to ask his grandmother her secret ingredient when brewing
kvass,
or poor Yelena needing to say a second farewell to her littlest daughter, dead at only five years from the winter sickness. They had been affecting ceremonies, with many tears shed, but they were healing tears, and the relatives had gone away at peace with themselves afterward. And the spirits were gentle and benevolent, though more than a little confused at finding themselves in a cottage filled with roosting snow owls.

As she crept down the dusty stone stairs, she felt the air get colder and mustier. It smelled old, stale, and unwholesome.

In the center of the chamber stood a stone plinth; on the plinth was a massive stone sarcophagus, sculpted to represent the Emperor’s body lying in state. At his feet lay curled a hound. Once, like the warrior guardians outside, the likeness had been covered in bright paint and gold leaf. Now only the faintest traces remained, outlining a stern carved face with long, curling stone locks and beard.

Kiukiu looked on the rigid face and shivered, feeling again that dark dread.

“Open the tomb,” said Emperor Eugene.

The guardsmen took a crowbar and began to lever the heavy stone lid off the base. The yellow torchflames flickered in a sudden draft. One guardsman paused, glancing around uneasily.

Is there something else in here? A sentinel, set here by Artamon’s magi to guard his body?

Kiukiu took out her gusly and began to tune it. The flames flickered again and almost went out. One of the guardsmen swore under his breath.

“Linnaius, we haven’t come here to listen to a recital of folk music,” she heard the Emperor say impatiently. “Are you sure this is the right girl?”

The guardsmen were grunting and sweating with their efforts. Then suddenly the sarcophagus lid slid open.

The torches went out as if someone had doused them with water. Kiukiu heard the guardsmen fumbling with tinders and cursing in the dark. She struck a first flurry of notes and the echoing sound of the gusly strings filled the burial chamber.

She could sense the sentinel now, close at hand. She struck another flurry of notes to force it to reveal itself.

She finally saw it, limned in pale ghoulfire, crouched at the foot of the sarcophagus like the faithful hound ready to spring. Malusha had told her of tomb sentinels, but this was the first she had ever seen. And now it knew she could see it, for it turned its face toward her, snarling.

“There you are!” she breathed. She had trapped it just in time. And she knew now exactly what it was. A bodyguard, slain in the Emperor’s tomb to guard his master’s body. His bones must lie somewhere in this vault: unburied, unmourned. The trapped spirit had forgotten all but its eternal mission: to protect the tomb. But the snarling skull of a face, the clutching, clawing fingers, still held the power to instill paralyzing fear—and maybe much worse.

Her fingers were shaking as she began to play the Sending Song, so much so that she missed a note, marring the perfection of the ancient ritual.

The sentinel snatched its chance. Freed from the gusly’s hold, it let out a shriek and sprang straight toward the Emperor, hooked nails clawing, jaws opened wide to breathe a pestilential miasma in his face.

“Stop!” Kiukiu struck the holding chord again, with as much force as she could muster.

The sentinel froze in midleap.

This time she knew the others could see it. The Emperor stood his ground, staring with extraordinary sangfroid at the decayed ghoul-face so close to his own.

Her fingers found the deep, slow notes of the Sending Song and the taut form slowly relaxed.

“Go,” she whispered. “Your task is done. You are free.”

The sentinel’s pale form shimmered, then swiftly began to fade until, like wisping candlesmoke, it drifted away.

Linnaius clicked his fingers and a little flame blossomed like a golden rose in the darkness. By its light, Kiukiu saw the guardsmen—white-faced and evidently shaken by what they had glimpsed.

“Man the entrance to the chamber,” the Emperor ordered. “No one is to disturb us. Understood?”

They seemed only too glad to be given the excuse to leave, almost tripping over each other in their haste to reach the stairway.

“Now, Kiukirilya,” the Emperor said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Let’s get this over with.” He behaved so calmly, but now she could see he was as rattled as his men. And, in truth, if she dared to admit it to herself, she was too. But this had to be done.

She forced herself to approach the dais and climbed up beside the gaping stone tomb. She peered inside, half-fearing that a second sentinel-ghoul would come shrieking out and breathe its mephitic grave-stench in her face.

In the uncertain mage-light, she saw a mummified corpse, partially fallen to dust, the withered skin like parchment, with the bones protruding through. The grave clothes, once fine linens embroidered with purple and gold thread, had all but rotted away. She could smell a faint odor of old tomb-spices, bitter salts, and resins. And—oh horror—there was what she had foolishly asked for, the last long grey strands of dry hair clinging to the skull.

Closing her eyes and wincing with revulsion, she reached in and with shaking fingers pulled out a lock of the dead Emperor’s hair.

“Forgive me,”
she said. Grave robbery was not her usual practice. Already she could hear Malusha scolding her for breaking the ages-old code of the Guslyars. She sat down at the foot of the sarcophagus, her gusly across her knees. She was trembling. She prayed the fragile strands of hair would not crumble to dust before she could call their owner back to the vault.

Just this one summoning, she told herself, and then they will be satisfied.

“You must not look into the spirit’s eyes,” she said, staring directly at the Emperor. “Whatever the spirit may say, no matter how persuasive it may be, never look into its eyes.”

“Why?” asked the Emperor bluntly.

Kiukiu answered, equally bluntly, “Spirits cannot resist the desire to become flesh again. It will try to possess you.”

“How could we prevent such a thing, were it to try?” asked the Magus.

“You must burn the hair. The spirit will be forced to return to the Ways Beyond.”

“I doubt such a precaution will be necessary,” said Eugene. He sounded so confident. Had he no idea of the seductive power of summoned spirits? Or the weakness of mere mortals in the face of such persuasions?

She placed the lock of hair before her on the dusty flagstones and sat back to begin the Summoning Song.

Kiukiu closed her eyes as she played the long, slow notes, sending her consciousness far out from the burial vault into the burnished gold of the sunset. As she played, she made herself repeat aloud the names of the note patterns, a repetitive litany:

“Twilight. Starlight. Midnight. Memory.”

Each resonant pitch carried her farther onward, drifting from the pale light of dusk toward the starless darkness . . . and beyond.

And then she saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered as Eugene himself, he was gliding toward her through the eternal dusk as though pulled by an irresistible force. It had to be Artamon.

“Come with me, Lord Artamon,” she said.

“Memory. Midnight. Starlight . . .”
She must keep playing, each note in its right place or the pattern binding the spirit would fail and it would break free.

She opened her eyes. Mist was rising from the ground of the vault.

A man appeared, half-hidden in the fog—a tall, hawk-nosed man with a thick mane of oak-brown hair. She caught a glimpse of dark, troubled eyes staring at her, but hastily averted her gaze.