Prisoner of the Iron Tower (35 page)

Astasia watched from the doorway, wondering what bizarre ritual Karila was enacting. And then she saw Kari take a silver fruit knife and attack the raven-haired doll, stabbing it again and again, making little cries and screams as she did so, until the stuffing began to come out and the porcelain head was nearly severed. Then the child daubed red paint over the doll’s broken body.

Appalled, Astasia could watch no longer. “Whatever are you doing, Kari?”

Karila looked up at her and said matter-of-factly, “It’s not real blood. Tilua bled real blood till she died. This is only paint.”

Astasia knelt down beside her and picked up the broken doll, shuddering as she did so. She had heard of dark witchcraft rites that involved such acts. Surely Karila had no malicious intent?

“Why did you hurt your doll, Kari?”

“It’s only a doll; it can’t be hurt,” Karila said, taking it back.

“What’s her name?”

“Tilua.” Karila absently stroked the dark hair on the broken doll’s head.

“That’s a pretty name.” Astasia cast around in her memory, wondering if there could be a Tilua in Karila’s life who had wronged her so cruelly as to provoke this violent revenge.

Marta came in, carrying a tray with a cup of warm cinnamon milk and a plate of biscuits. When she saw what Karila had done, she set the tray down with a bang.

“You’ll have no dolls left if you carry on like this, Princess. And no one will buy you new ones, just for you to break them.”

Karila appeared not to hear what Marta had said.

“Would you like me to read you a story, Karila?” Astasia reached for the gold-tooled book, searching for a calming, reassuring tale with a happy ending.

“More stories, highness? Is that wise?” said Marta. “Exciting an overactive imagination just before bedtime? I think we’ve had quite enough, thank you.”

Astasia closed the book with a snap. Another snub from Marta. Though she had to admit that Marta looked harassed and tired, with dark circles under her eyes.

“Has the princess been suffering from restless nights?” she asked in what she hoped would sound like a sympathetic tone.

Marta raised her eyes heavenward. “We haven’t had an unbroken night in weeks! I’ve told Doctor Amandel, but he just dismisses it. I’ve asked him for a sleep draft to calm her down. He says it’s unnecessary.”

“Would you like me to stay with her tonight?” Astasia offered. “So that you can get some rest?”

Marta glanced at her suspiciously.

“I’d be happy to. She is my stepdaughter, after all.”

“I’d like that, Tasia,” said Karila, letting the broken doll drop.

“I’ll be in the chamber next door if you need me,” said Marta. But something in her manner had altered; Astasia even detected a softening of the sharp, defensive tone she usually adopted in their exchanges.

As Karila snuggled under the sheets, she suddenly looked at Astasia and said, “I feel safe with you here, Tasia.”

“No stories, Marta said,” Astasia whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “but shall I tell you about some of the games I used to play with my brother Andrei when we were your age?”

“A brother,” Karila said with a wistful sigh. “I’d like a brother to play with.”

“Oh brothers can be very annoying! Once Andrei tied my hair to the back of the chair when I wasn’t paying attention, so that when I tried to get up, the chair came too.”

Karila let out a little giggle, which she smothered with her hand. “We mustn’t disturb Marta!” she whispered. “What did you do?”

“I waited to pay him back,” said Astasia. “I sewed up the bottoms of his cadet uniform’s breeches and the cuffs of his shirt, just before he had to go to the Military Academy for the first time. He was furious! And late.”

“I’d like to have seen him hopping about, trying to put his foot through,” said Karila, breaking into laughter. Her laughter was infectious and Astasia found herself joining in, glad to see Karila looking less anxious.

“Tell me more about you and Andrei!” demanded Karila.

“Not tonight, Kari.” Astasia bent forward and kissed her. “But I will place my own special ward around your bed so that you can sleep soundly.” She twitched her fingers twice at each corner of the swan bed. “There,” she said, settling herself in the chair beside the fire. “Now you’re safe.”

Astasia had almost dozed off in front of the dying fire when she thought she heard a door click open. Taking up the lamp, she went over to the swan bed, only to see it was empty, the covers thrown back. Yet the bedchamber door was shut.

Karila must have left by the secret passage.

Where can she have gone all alone at this late hour?

Astasia felt along the wall until she found the catch in the paneling that Karila had shown her once before. The concealed door slid open, letting a draft into the bedchamber that set the lamp flame flickering.

Astasia was not as adept at navigating the secret passages in the palace as Karila. She gathered her skirts in one hand and squeezed through the little doorway. But her only consolation was that Karila would make slow progress because of her twisted body.

Soon she spotted a pale little figure in the drafty darkness ahead. Astasia hastened onward just as Karila opened another doorway and disappeared from her view.

“Wait for me, Kari!” she called. The doorway opened into an inner courtyard lit by lanterns; Astasia emerged into the starry night to see Karila limping away from her. “No wonder the child is always ill, if she’s wandering outside late at night,” she muttered as she hurried after her. “Is she going to her menagerie, to feed her little deer?” And then she stopped abruptly, seeing where Karila was going. “Or to the Magus? Is he working some spell on her?”

“Halt! Who goes there!”

Astasia heard a sentry bark out a warning. Karila had turned left, before the archway that led to the Magus’s laboratory. Catching up at last, she came upon an extraordinary sight. Karila stood, blinking confusedly in the torchlight, on the steps that led down to the Palace Treasury. Massive doors of timber and iron were guarded day and night by four sentries. And there was Karila, confronted by these tall, broad-shouldered soldiers.

“Kari!” Astasia reached her and knelt to put her arms around her. “What are you doing here?” Karila looked at her blankly from eyes that were opaque as shadow in the torchlight. She must have been walking in her sleep.

“Imperial highness!” The sentries saluted her.

“Where am I?” Karila seemed to be still half-asleep.

“Outside, catching your death of cold. Come with me.” Astasia took hold of her hand firmly and led her back toward the nearest entrance to the palace.

“Your daughter has been sleepwalking, Eugene.” Astasia sat down opposite Eugene at the little table in their private morning room. “Our daughter,” she corrected herself.

“What’s that?” Eugene was drinking coffee as he read the morning’s dispatches; he seemed preoccupied and was obviously not listening to what she said.

“I’m worried about her,” said Astasia. “She’s been having nightmares. She’s playing violent, horrible games with her dolls. And the servants have heard her talking to an imaginary friend. I think she’s lonely; she needs friends.”

“Children play strange games,” said Eugene, glancing up a moment as he turned over a page. “And it’s hard to choose friends for her. She can’t join in their games and it makes her sad.”

“Even so, there must be some nice, quiet little girls among the courtiers’ children,” persisted Astasia.

Eugene set down his coffee cup and picked up his papers. He looked as if he was mulling over important matters of state and her interruption was disturbing his train of thought. “How long have these episodes been going on now?”

“Marta thinks they began the night before the coronation. Just after—”

“The night of the beacon.” Now she had caught his attention. “She had just disembarked.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, almost absentmindedly. “I’ll consult the Magus. He must know some way to put a stop to bad dreams.”

“Kiukirilya,” said the Magus.

“Surely a Spirit Singer can only work with the spirits of the dead?” Eugene stared down at Kiukiu’s body, fascinated that, while her breast rose and fell gently as though she were asleep, there was no other sign of life.

“Precisely so,” said Linnaius. “Your daughter may be possessed. And until the spirit that has possessed her is exorcised, the princess will continue to wander the night like a revenant, endangering her health.”

“You know I do not hold with any of this talk of spirits.” Eugene clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the Magus’s room. It went against everything he believed in. After what had occurred in Artamon’s Mausoleum, he had vowed there would be no more summonings. And now, Linnaius was suggesting Karila should be subjected to some barbaric Azhkendi rite . . . But if Kiukirilya’s arts could ease Astasia’s mind and stop Karila from wandering the palace at night, then perhaps spirit-singing might work where Doctor Amandel’s physic had failed.

“Shall I restore her soul to her body?” asked Linnaius, carefully lifting the soul-glass on its chain from around his neck.

“Yes,” said Eugene, curious to watch this forbidden procedure. “Do it, Linnaius.”

The Magus unstoppered the crystal phial and set it against the girl’s lips. He breathed words in a tongue Eugene had never heard before.

And as Eugene watched, the translucent shimmer in the phial slowly poured out, melting into Kiukirilya’s mouth until the phial was empty.

“And now?” Eugene whispered, bending close, searching for signs of life.

Linnaius brushed the girl’s closed lids once, twice, thrice with his index finger.

Gold-lashed lids fluttered a little. Kiukirilya muttered, shifted a little on the couch, but did not wake.

“Has it worked?” Eugene did not want to find they had a living corpse to dispose of.

“It may take some while for her to wake. I shall keep watch and inform you of any progress.”

The girl was courageous; she had extraordinary talents and she had served him well.

He did not want her damaged by Linnaius’s dark arts.

CHAPTER
27

Fire cones simmer in the ash-grey sky. A distant ominous rumble trembles through the air. The burning sands shift beneath Gavril’s bare feet and the dark sea sizzles with heat.

He senses he is not alone. He turns and sees a tall winged figure, wild-haired, clothed in shadow, hovering behind him. Eyes glitter in the smoky air, lightning-blue.

It is like looking in a mirror at his own reflection.

“Drakhaoul.”

“I have another name, Gavril. A secret name that must not be spoken aloud on earth—except by the one closest to my soul.” The dry voice, so familiar now, has taken on a new, more intimate tone. “Maybe the time has come to tell you my true name.”

“Then tell me.”

“My name is Khezef.”

“Khezef,” repeats Gavril. The name has an ancient, forbidden ring to it; it is resonant with hidden meanings. This is a kind of ritual, he understands now, the exchanging of names. “Why have you brought me back here? Why is it always here?”

“Because this is the Serpent Gate. The gateway between this world and the Ways Beyond.”

Gavril raises his eyes and sees in the lurid glare that they are standing beneath the stone arch carved with twisting serpents—the one he has painted in Arnskammar. The daemon gateway that has haunted his dreams.

“And because you are the one, Gavril Nagarian, who will release me and my kin from this world.”

“Is that really what you want?” Gavril is not certain he has understood the daemon completely.

“Look carefully at the Serpent Gate. What do you see?”

Now that Gavril stands so close to the great gate, he sees that the coils of the twisting serpents are wrapped around broken bodies, taut, distorted with agony, faces frozen in screams of perpetual anguish. Torn wing-shafts protrude from dislocated shoulders. Whoever sculpted the images must have worked from life to achieve such a realistic depiction of the tortured souls—

“No,” whispers Khezef, “look again.”

“They look just like you.” Gavril’s voice fades as he realizes the full horror of what he is looking at. “They are just like you!”

“When Serzhei called upon the Heavenly Guardians to destroy us, this is where he bound my kindred in stone.” A look of fierce sorrow gleams in the Drakhaoul’s star-blue eyes. “So that they might forever gaze upon the gateway to our home, yet never pass through and know again the joy of freedom.”

Another rumble shakes the ground beneath Gavril’s feet.

“If the volcano erupts once more, the gate will fall and we will be trapped here for all eternity.”

Gavril sees a strange look soften the fierce gleam of his daemon’s eyes. He remembers he has glimpsed that look once before when he lay helpless in Arnskammar, dying, and the one called Khezef came to his aid.

“How? How can I release you?”

“Nagar’s Eye. The ruby your ancestor Volkhar stole from Ty Nagar. Only that ruby will open the gate. Find the Eye and open the gate, Gavril. Then, I promise you, you will be free. . . .”

Gavril opened his eyes. It was dawn and a blackbird in the villa gardens was fluting outside his window. The fiery volcanic light still bathed his vision. Even his crisp white linen sheets seemed tinged with that baleful glow. And the Drakhaoul’s promises wreathed around his mind, as softly insistent as the blackbird’s song.

“Find my ancestor’s ruby? But where do I start? My father left no jewels to me.”

And then he remembered his mother’s portrait of Lord Volkh, painted here in the Villa Andara. In that portrait his father was wearing a magnificent ruby, crimson as vintage wine, about his neck. Where was that ruby now? Hadn’t she mentioned something about leaving it at Swanholm?

He found Elysia drinking her morning tea on the sunny balcony, cupping the delicate tea bowl in both hands. She smiled at him.

“What a beautiful morning,” she said, taking in a deep breath of air. “Can you smell my white lilacs? I look forward to that scent every year.”

“That ruby in the portrait, Mother,” he said. “You said you left it behind at Swanholm?”

She started, spilling a little of her tea. “Oh, Gavril. Whatever made you think of the ruby now? Is it really so important?”

“Was it at Swanholm? Think, Mother!”

She glanced up at him and he saw that she was blushing.

“It was made into a necklace, Gavril. And earrings. Count Velemir asked his jeweler to do it for me. Why do you ask?”

Earrings. And a necklace. It could take weeks, maybe months to track them down. He needed the rubies now.

Pavel walked out onto the balcony of the Villa Sapara. The morning sky was the intense blue that promises great heat at midday. He stretched and gazed up at the cloudless sky, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin. It felt good to be alive.

Yesterday he had come close to death, far too close. He could not afford to be so careless again.

He sniffed, smelling the steam from hot, fresh-brewed coffee as Mama Chadi appeared, carrying a laden tray.

“Here’s your breakfast, Master Pavel.” She set the tray down and beamed at him.

“Thank you.” He smiled back. He sat down at the little ironwork table and poured coffee, strong and black, into one of his mother’s gilded porcelain cups. He was just stirring in a second spoonful of sugar when he heard voices.

“He’s at breakfast.” Mama Chadi sounded flustered. “If you’d be so good as to wait till he’s finished—”

“Good morning!”

He looked around and saw RaÏsa Korneli. Dressed in a simple white linen shirt and riding breeches, with the morning sun glinting in her short-cropped auburn hair, she looked deliciously ambivalent, neither girl nor boy.

“I’m so sorry, Master Pavel, but this young person insisted,” puffed Mama Chadi.

“It’s all right,” he said, rising. “Good morning, RaÏsa. Would you care for some coffee?”

“I’ll fetch another cup.” Mama Chadi shuffled back indoors.

“What a wonderful view!” RaÏsa went to the balcony balustrade and leaned over, gazing at the bay far below, the sea breeze ruffling her hair. “When all this is over, would you let me come up here and make some sketches? The quality of the light is remarkable.”

“So you’re an artist?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t make that claim. I’m studying philosophy at the university with Professor Lukan. Painting is only a hobby.”

Mama Chadi shuffled back with a second porcelain cup and saucer.

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, pouring coffee.

“Lots—of both!” She stirred the sugared coffee vigorously and drank it down in two gulps.

Pavel watched her, captivated. She was refreshingly different from the well-bred young Francian women he had been obliged to associate with in the last year—a free spirit, unfettered by the constraints of polite society.

“I owe you my life,” he said. “If you hadn’t spoken up for me, I’d be dead.”

She shrugged his thanks aside. “My brother shoots first and asks questions after. I try to reason with him. What’s the point in destroying our allies as well as our enemies? Besides . . .” All the vivacity faded from her eyes. “Our younger brother Miran is still fighting for his life in Colchise. The Tielens shot him outside the citadel. He’s a boy, only seventeen years old.”

He wanted to say something to console her. But looking into her stricken face, he saw that she was fighting back tears, and an ill-timed sympathetic word might break her courage.

“Better to keep busy!” she said, forcing a laugh. “There’s plenty to be done.”

“If there’s any way I can help—”

“You didn’t think this was merely a social call, did you?” She laughed again, more easily this time. “I’ve come to bring you to the university. We’ve had news. A Tielen raiding party’s sneaked in over the border from Muscobar.”

“Ah.” Pavel rose. “So our morning idyll is over.”

“I’d love to see the rest of the villa some time,” RaÏsa said as he led her inside under the wisteria-laden arch framing the door, sniffing in its sweet, mauve-pea perfume appreciatively.

“It needs love and attention,” said Pavel, saddened to see how the sunlight revealed the threadbare patches in the heavy brocades of lilac and rose, and the spots of mold darkening the rose-leaf cornices. “My mother has neglected it since my father’s death. Lack of funds, I’m afraid.”

“I love this salon.” RaÏsa spun around, arms outstretched. “You could hold dances in here.”

Was she as free with all the men she encountered? In truth, he couldn’t tell if she was openly flirting with him. All he knew was that he was enjoying this encounter, wondering where it might lead . . .

“Where’s Pavel Velemir?” demanded a loud voice in the hallway. “Take me to him.”

RaÏsa winced. “Iovan,” she mouthed at Pavel.

“You can’t just barge your way in uninvited,” they heard Mama Chadi protest. “You wait out here till I see if the master is free to receive you.”

Pavel threw open the double doors to see Mama Chadi jabbing a broom, bristles to the fore, in Iovan’s face.

“It’s all right, Mama Chadi,” Pavel said. “You can let him in.”

“Not till he mends his manners,” muttered Mama Chadi, lowering the broom.

Iovan pushed past her, face red with annoyance. “And what are you doing here, RaÏsa?”

“Waiting for you,” she replied coolly. “So, what’s the latest news from Ormalo?”

“An incursion. Over the border with Muscobar.”

“How many?” Pavel asked.

Iovan swore. “We don’t know. They’ve taken Ormalo. And now there are reports from Koshara. Looks like the Tielens are coming at us from all sides.”

“Eugene doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘defeat,’ ” Pavel said with a wry grimace.

“No one said it would be easy.” Iovan scowled at him. “But we know the terrain. Up in the foothills, we can pick ’em off a few at a time.”

“Listen to you, city boy!” RaÏsa let out a derisive whistle. “Since when have you become such an expert on the northern strongholds? You’ve never been farther than Colchise in your entire life.”

Iovan ignored the taunt. “So, are you with us, Pavel Velemir? Let’s see where your allegiances really lie.”

Iovan’s unrelenting hostility was beginning to grate on Pavel’s nerves.

“Give me five minutes to saddle my horse. Meet me outside in the drive.”

“Wait.” RaÏsa caught hold of Pavel’s arm. He felt the warmth of her fingers through his shirt. “Why don’t we go fetch Gavril Andar too?”

The name sent a little shiver of anticipation through Pavel’s body. Eugene’s nemesis, the deposed Drakhaon of Azhkendir. He could not believe his luck.

“That one’s trouble,” grumbled Iovan. “He goes missing for months on end, then shows up with some mystery weapon and wipes out the opposition.”

“I wasn’t asking your opinion, Iovan,” RaÏsa said sharply. “I don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done. I only know he saved us.”

“Given the alchymical firepower of Eugene’s forces, we need all the help we can get,” said Pavel, and was rewarded with another scowl from Iovan.

“The meeting place is outside the Ormalo Gate in Colchise. One hour’s time. Bring your own water and rations.” Iovan opened the front door. “But travel light. We intend to move fast. Come on, RaÏsa.”

RaÏsa paused, gazing questioningly at Pavel.

“I’ll see you at the Ormalo Gate, then,” he said. “In an hour.”

He watched them untie their horses from the rail at the front of the house and ride down the lime-lined drive toward the upper cliff road and the Villa Andara.

All he had to do to fulfill his mission for Eugene was to make some excuse to use the Vox Aethyria and whisper the rebels’ plans to Gustave. Then he would take the first ship out of Vermeille and . . . disappear.

The sun caught burnished lights in her hair as she parted from her brother. Suddenly she looked back over her shoulder and waved to him.

And all of a sudden he knew with terrible, ironic certainty that he cared for her. There was something about her carefree manner that had caught his heart. If he betrayed Gavril Andar, he would also betray RaÏsa Korneli. It must be possible to stay with the rebels, yet keep Eugene’s agents satisfied with little hints that promised more than they delivered.

He caught himself smiling. Uncle Feodor would have been proud of him.

RaÏsa had heard Lukan talk of Elysia’s famous soirées at the Villa Andara. She had glimpsed it from the sands far below—another white stucco seaside villa, half-hidden by maritime pines. But now she felt suddenly nervous as she knocked at the door.

A smiling housekeeper showed her into the salon.

“Please excuse the disarray, Miss Korneli,” she said, “but we were searched by the Tielens and we’re still repairing the damage.”

RaÏsa gazed around. This salon had none of the faded grandeur of the Villa Sapara; the walls were painted in shades of linen and raw silk. But the paintings that hung on this plain backdrop were filled with color and light. Landscapes, imbued with the rich earthy hues of the Smarnan countryside; and blue seascapes, so watery you could almost dip your finger in them . . . She knew Elysia Andar was famed for her portraiture, yet these canvases showed another less well-known side of her gift.